A Lasting Impression

Laurent.” She leaned forward in the saddle, a fire in her eyes. “You said you knew how to ride. Prove it!”

24

    W inded from their ride, Sutton prodded Truxton up the last hill, appreciating the power and grace with which the thoroughbred ate up the ground, as if the ascent were nothing but flatland.
    Muscles aching, in a good way, Sutton reined in, then leaned down to stroke Truxton’s neck. “Good job, fella,” he whispered. He never tired of this, and he’d needed this ride after his lengthy meeting with Bartholomew Holbrook that morning.
    Holbrook seemed ten years younger these days, rattling off facts about dates and buyers of art pieces, how much was spent, which city a piece of art shipped from and to, and the name of the gallery. All part of reviewing the research the investigators had compiled thus far. The older man’s enthusiasm was contagious, and Sutton found himself optimistic about the progress they’d made.
    On the other hand, there’d been no word yet from the review board, and his hope was waning in that regard. The wheels of justice had been turning painfully slowly recently, and decidedly in the wrong direction. Daily, it seemed, both the Republican Banner and the Union and American newspapers reported verdicts in similar cases. And without exception, they all ruled in favor of the new Union.
    But there was one bit of information the older man had given him today. Not meaning to, Sutton felt certain. A name. Colonel Wilmington.
    Wilmington was the head of the review board, the man responsible for notifying Holbrook of the verdict. After leaving Mr. Holbrook, Sutton had headed straight to the government offices across town. He hadn’t known exactly what he was going to say to Wilmington when he’d found him, only that he wouldn’t reveal how he’d learned the man’s name or position.
    But Wilmington hadn’t been in, and Sutton had decided not to leave a message with the man’s secretary. He saw no point. The review board didn’t welcome further input from him. Surprise was his best tactic. Not that he wanted to ambush the man. He simply wanted a chance to tell the truth about what had happened to his father. Reading it on a piece of paper was one thing, staring into the eyes of the murdered man’s son was another.
    Sutton stretched and rubbed the back of his neck, determined to put the issue from his mind, at least for a while.
    He prodded Truxton closer to the point, willing the familiar view to lend him a slice of the peace it usually did. The vantage was one he’d appreciated since boyhood.
    The rolling hills, lush and green with cedar, pine, oak, and poplar, swelled and dipped in a seamless rhythm that was as soothing to the eye as it was the soul. Then the view of Nashville, much changed since he was a boy. He couldn’t imagine ever leaving Tennessee. Or ever wanting to.
    The roofline of the mansion rose from among the treetops, the statues along the parapet a brilliant white in the afternoon sun. Adelicia’s gardens boasted a riot of color, even at this distan—
    Movement in the meadow below drew his attention.
    He leaned forward in the saddle, squinting, unable to believe what he was seeing. It was both a premonition and nightmare—Adelicia and Claire bulleting across the meadow beneath him, their horses neck and neck, bodies angled forward, hair flying, stubborn wills on full display.
    He exhaled. “You two women . . .”
    Adelicia, he didn’t worry about. She was a skilled rider on a well-trained thoroughbred. But Claire . . .
    He wheeled Truxton around and barreled downhill, intending to meet them before they reached the mansion. He had no idea of Claire’s experience with horses. Obviously, the woman could ride. But racing across meadows where summer grasses disguised rocks and gopher holes was worlds different than trotting down a city street or through a field. What had Adelicia been thinking to allow such carelessness?
    He thought—and hoped—Claire was riding Athena, but he couldn’t be sure. Feisty and fearless, the intelligent little mare was fleet and surefooted, and handled herself about as well with a rider as without.
    Sutton reached the bottom of the hill and reined Truxton toward home. The stallion surged forward, responding to Sutton’s slightest command with enthusiastic obedience, his hooves pounding, yet seeming as if they barely touched the earth. Sutton couldn’t count the hours he’d spent training this animal. But every one of