A Lasting Impression

was.
    It was his fault his father hadn’t signed the Oath of Allegiance to the Union that day. Remembering his last conversation with his father in that regard, Sutton felt something inside him give way. He would have given anything to go back and have that conversation again.
    “One last thing, son. Decisions by the review board are final. No appeals will be heard. No matter who brings it. No matter how well written.”
    Sutton gripped the reins to his stallion and swung up into the saddle. Truxton snorted and pranced beneath him, eager to outrun the wind and be free. Desires Sutton understood. Only . . . what he yearned to be freed from was something he feared he might never be able to outrun.
    Bitterness curdled inside him. The injustice of it all. The North stood determined to rob him of everything. They’d already killed his father and burned the family home. Now they wanted to take his land, his heritage, and his future. He thought of his mother. In a way, they’d taken her from him too. She would never be the same. Not after what she’d witnessed.
    If only he’d been there the afternoon it happened . . .
    He briefly closed his eyes. His mother had recounted every excruciating detail. The Federal officer riding up to the house, escorted by full military detail. His father meeting the officer at the top of the porch steps, hand outstretched in greeting. His mother said accusations ensued, followed by threats—and a final ultimatum. Then the captain drew his gun and fired point-blank.
    Almost two years had passed, yet still it seemed surreal.
    And now the government was alleging that his father had been the first to draw a firearm. His father—a pacifist, a physician committed to saving lives. His father who had never owned a gun in his life, at least that Sutton could remember. As a boy, he’d learned to shoot from his grandfather because his father refused to teach him, something Sutton had never understood, and guessed he never would.
    If only he could speak with one of those board members. Make a personal appeal. Closing arguments were his greatest strength as an attorney, or so Mr. Holbrook had told him, time and time again.
    Forcing the last lingering image of his father from his thoughts, Sutton urged the stallion forward and fell into step beside Holbrook’s mare. Side by side, he and Holbrook rode in silence down the cedar-canopied drive to the main road, then on toward town.
    Church bells tolled some distance away, traveling over the rooftops and drawing Sutton’s attention to a much closer steeple, two streets over. Mademoiselle Claire Elise Laurent. A name, and woman, not easily forgotten. He welcomed the pleasant intrusion in his thoughts, especially one so captivating, but knew he probably shouldn’t in light of his relationship with Cara Netta.
    Still, he wished he’d had the time to spare earlier that morning. He’d wanted to help Miss Laurent more than he had. Then again, Reverend Bunting was the person the young woman had truly needed to see. For many reasons.
    He felt the tug of a smile. The look on her face as he’d turned to leave . . .
    Like she’d wanted to skin him alive.
    She was feisty, for sure. But he’d detected a shyness about her too. An almost frightened quality. Which was understandable if she’d arrived in town only to find herself with nowhere to go. No place to stay. But what lady traveled unescorted and with no confirmed destination?
    “Mildred received a letter from your mother yesterday.”
    Pulled from his reverie, Sutton glanced beside him, and tried to read Mr. Holbrook’s expression. His mother had written him too, three months earlier. He’d answered her letter promptly but hadn’t received a response. A wider gap than usual in their correspondence, but no cause for worry. At least he hadn’t thought so.
    His mother had always had spells, when she found it difficult to be at rest within herself and when she wrestled to get her thoughts onto the page, but those spells had worsened after his father’s death.
    “Mildred permitted me to read the letter, feeling certain it wouldn’t break a confidence. And it didn’t.” Holbrook seemed to choose his next words more carefully. “Your mother sounds . . . some better.”
    Sutton returned his attention to the road. “Which, when interpreted, means she still doesn’t appear to be well. At least not well enough to return.”
    Holbrook’s silence was answer enough. “She mentioned returning,