A Lasting Impression

laughter—spontaneous and rich—had the power to draw him in like no other.
    Moments earlier, he’d come close to kissing one luscious-looking little place on her neck but knew she would’ve knocked him off the horse if he did. And rightly so. But looking at her now, at her shapely little derrière stuck up in the air—he shook his head—it would’ve been worth the fall.
    His humor faded as he realized she’d done it again—lifted his spirits, without even knowing it.
    Colonel Wilmington had been compassionately direct in delivering the review board’s verdict, which they’d arrived at late last evening. And in the course of five minutes, the man had not only stripped him of the land he should have inherited—land his grandfather had purchased and deeded to his father, and that his father would have deeded to him—but had forever tarnished the honor of his family name.
    The official record of the incident, as submitted by the Federal captain and purportedly substantiated by soldiers with him that day, indicted his father as a traitor to his country. Sutton bowed his head. His father, one of the gentlest, kindest, most godly men he’d ever known. And all because his father had refused to sign a piece of paper.
    And as Holbrook had informed early on, just or not, what the review board decided stood as law.
    Sutton thought again of what Claire had said when he’d ridden up earlier. “ The prodigal has returned . . . .” He guessed that was fitting, in a way. Because like the son in Scripture who returned home broken and empty-handed, so had he returned to Belmont. Only, his father hadn’t been waiting to greet him.
    But Claire had.
    She sighed, drawing his attention back. She was still intent on her task.
    “Drop something, Claire?”
    She scrambled to her feet, her eyes wide. “How long have you been standing there?”
    He managed a smile. “Not terribly long.” Aware of her frown, he crossed to a workbench and retrieved a crowbar.
    “Oh! We’re going to open it tonight?” Her expression brightened, then just as quickly clouded. “But shouldn’t we wait for Mrs. Acklen?”
    Sutton fit the flat end of the crowbar beneath a board. “I always inspect the statues before she sees them. And usually before the freighters leave. But this one”—he applied pressure, and the board loosened with a crack—“is very special. Plus”—he repositioned the crowbar—“you’re here.”
    She smiled, and Sutton felt an odd little tug in his chest.
    The next few slats came off the top of the crate with little complaint. One by one, he removed them, then set the crowbar aside. They knelt and together began removing the straw and other packing materials that encased the statue. When he felt the cool of the smooth marble, he quietly held back and let her finish the job.
    She was like a child at Christmas—a very reverent child—and the joy he received from watching her face was gift enough for him. She removed the last layer of straw and went perfectly still. He remembered well what he’d felt the first time he saw the statue of the two children. He was more interested in watching Claire see the statue for the first time.
    Her lower lip trembled, and she put a hand to her mouth—exactly as Adelicia had done when she’d first seen it.
    “It’s entitled Sleeping Children, ” he said softly, on his knees beside her. “By William Rinehart. Adelicia purchased it in Rome, in memory of her daughters.”
    Claire reached out her hand, then paused and looked over at him, as if asking for his permission. He nodded, and she cradled the smooth stone cheek of one of the children’s faces.
    She let out a breath. “It’s one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. They’re so . . . lifelike.”
    Sculpted of white marble, the statue portrayed two children lying in sweet repose— asleep in death, Sutton remembered Rinehart telling them—and was so realistic in its detail. One of the infant’s chubby little arms was lovingly draped across the other’s chest, and their heads were propped on a pillow that—even chiseled from stone—bore the soft folds and texture of a pillow fashioned from satin. Same as the blanket covering the infants.
    Claire covered the child’s little hand that lay on the other one’s chest. “Just today, Mrs. Acklen told me about Victoria, Adelicia, and Emma. And about the son she lost too.” She sniffed. “Four children.” She exhaled. “I can’t imagine what that feels