A Lasting Impression

pointless, under the circumstances.
    Yet he also knew that Bartholomew Holbrook understood.
    Because Mr. Holbrook had lost his only son on a battlefield not fifteen miles south of town, just a handful of days after Dr. Stephen Monroe had been shot point-blank on his porch in front of his wife. Sutton had been the one to tell Holbrook about his son, because he’d cradled Mark Holbrook—his best friend since the age of six—as death snatched Mark’s life away mere seconds after the minié ball had blasted a hole in his chest.
    Sutton urged the stallion to a canter, then a gallop, then gave the thoroughbred his head. Vengeance belonged to the Lord—he knew that. But sometimes the Lord seemed slow in meting out justice.
    Too slow for the thirst that ached inside him.

8

    H ow much farther to Mrs. Acklen’s estate, Reverend?” Nerves edging out her eagerness, Claire leaned forward on the buggy seat and peered past Saint Chrissinda to Reverend Bunting, who gripped the reins.
    “The turnoff’s just ahead.” He tossed her a reticent smile. “I told you it was on the outskirts of town.”
    Two miles from Nashville proper, the Reverend had said, just before insisting that he and Mrs. Bunting accompany her. Claire was grateful for the companionship, and the ride.
    The farther they got from town, the more beautiful the views. Stalwart pines stood shoulder to shoulder with lush-leafed oaks and maples to flank the sunbaked dirt road. Every so often, the timber soldiers would break rank and part to reveal sweeping views of the rolling countryside. Even with the numerous stumps of mighty felled trees—a result of the war, no doubt—she would never have guessed the area surrounding Nashville to be so lovely. Especially after what she’d seen in town.
    She could have traveled the distance on foot—she was accustomed to walking much farther—but the afternoon heat and humidity were enough to bear, even riding in the buggy. And the dusty roads would have ruined the elegant emerald dress and matching jacket Mrs. Bunting had loaned her.
    She’d glimpsed the contents of Mrs. Bunting’s wardrobe, and while the rest of the woman’s dresses were certainly nice, this ensemble was without question her best. Claire hadn’t had the heart to remind Mrs. Bunting that she was still in mourning for her mother. And her father too.
    She silently recounted the couple’s kindness and the small miracles Mrs. Bunting had performed in so short a time. Who would have imagined a reverend’s wife could arrange hair so elaborately? She fingered a curl dangling at the nape of her neck.
    “I’m guessing that thick hair of yours isn’t completely dry just yet, dear.” Mrs. Bunting patted her arm. “But no one will notice—take my word. You look lovely.” She pursed her lips and eyed Claire’s hair. “What I wouldn’t do for those curls. Not to mention that color.”
    Recognizing the attempt to lessen her nerves, Claire smiled her appreciation. Her hair did feel wonderfully clean, like the rest of her, thanks to the luxurious lavender-scented bath Mrs. Bunting had poured. She could have soaked in that warm, sudsy water for days.
    Afterward, she’d told Mrs. Bunting everything she’d told the reverend, and she quickly discovered that Chrissinda Bunting was every bit the saint her husband claimed her to be.
    Reverend Bunting peered over at her. “When we arrive, Miss Laurent, I’ll accompany you inside and make the introductions. Then I’ll wait outside with Mrs. Bunting until you’re done.”
    “I’m going inside too!” Mrs. Bunting nudged him. “Don’t think for one minute, Robert Franklin Bunting, that I’ve come all this way only to sit and wait in this buggy.” She winked at Claire. “I never miss an opportunity to see Belmont.”
    Certain the estate and home were lovely, Claire also felt sure they would fall short of others she’d seen in Louisiana. Not that she would ever voice such an impertinent opinion.
    Remembering another rather blunt opinion she had given voice to—just that morning, in fact—she felt a sense of misgiving. Sutton Monroe. Little had the man known that his attempt to coerce a confession would result in such a boon to her! But despite his intentions, whatever they’d been, she wished he did know. She wished she could tell him. And thank him.
    She’d been tempted to ask the reverend about him, knowing they were acquaintances. But that might be construed as forward on her part, and she hated