“Are you joking?” Jasper felt his lips stretch in a bitter smile. “I’ve wanted to hit the man since I first saw him.”
“I should have cut Clara’s hair,” Solomon muttered. “A beautiful sister is nothing but trouble. Fair enough, Perry—go fight. Your funeral.”
“Don’t ready my grave just yet.” Jasper smiled over at him. “You’ve never seen me box.” His blood was singing; this was the confrontation he had been craving for weeks. He rounded the corner of the house with his hands already balled into fists.
“You.” Cyrus was just reaching the top of the hill, his hair already plastered to his forehead, and his face was a mask of dislike. “So she was right: you are still here, leeching off the land.”
“Mister Dupont.” Jasper ducked his head in a mock bow. “You seem to be out of breath. Would you like to wait a few moments before we begin?”
“I’m not here for you.” Cyrus’s voice was low, ugly. “Where’s Solomon?”
So he knew.
“He’s not here.” Jasper hoped Solomon would have the good sense to stay hidden. “He went north.”
“Where? Washington? New York? When did he leave?” Cyrus stepped closer, his eyes bright with anger. “Tell me.”
“He left a week ago. He didn’t tell me where he was going.”
Jasper had never been good at lying, and Solomon had been entirely correct: the man’s right hook was extraordinary, cracking across Jasper’s jaw. He staggered, seeing stars, and it was only instinct and training that had him moving to get out of the way of the next punch. He drove forward, left arm swinging to block the swing of his opponent’s arm and his own fist driving for the man’s face. His blow landed, but a jab caught him in the face, and then another.
“Tell me the truth.”
“What’s it to you?” Jasper snarled, circling away.
“What’s it to me?” Cyrus’s fingers closed around Jasper’s sleeve and pulled him close for another blow. “You know what he did. He killed his own countrymen! He told me to protect his family and then he marched with their enemies! He let them wallow in grief for months, and then he came back to shame them! Don’t ask me what this is to me. I lost a friend. My bride lost her brother.”
His bride. Jasper gave a wild swing, and satisfaction flowed through him at the satisfying crunch of bone meeting bone. He dodged another punch neatly and directed a jab at the man’s nose.
“I brought him here,” Jasper panted. Fairness demanded that he not let Solomon be blamed for that. “He would have left them in peace for the rest of their lives.”
“That still leaves him a traitor!”
Jasper tried to dodge, but Cyrus was faster than he had anticipated—and not, he realized too late, trained in boxing at all. The man’s shoulder caught him low, across the hips, and Jasper hit the ground with a thud that drove the air from his lungs. He opened his eyes to the coldest gaze he had ever seen, and a knife at his throat.
“Tell me where he is,” Cyrus instructed.
Still struggling for breath, Jasper closed his eyes and clenched his hands. After all this, was he going to die for refusing to betray a traitor?
“I’m here.” The voice was weak, but clear.
Oh, no. The man had never had a lick of sense, charging to the defense of his comrades across open fields, challenging battle plans...and telling the truth.
“Solomon.” Cyrus stood, chest heaving, and Jasper pulled himself away with a wheeze.
“Cyrus.” Solomon stepped forward. “My friend, I am so sorry.”
“I am not your friend.” Cyrus’s face twisted. “I did as you asked, Solomon. I watched out for them. I comforted them. Did you give a single thoug
ht to what you were doing? You weren’t here to see them grieve, but I was. I wish to God you had died on that battlefield. That, Clara could remember in peace.”
“Clara...” Solomon closed his eyes. “How is she? And Cecelia?”
“You don’t have a right to know.” Cyrus shook his head. “They aren’t your family any longer. They’re your enemies.”
“He followed his conscience.” Jasper picked himself up off the ground at last, dragging air into his lungs.
“Conscience? Destroying the Union, turning his back on the slaves he helped?”