Before the Scarlet Dawn by RITA GERLACH

light, slow and peaceful as she imagined it had for a thousand years. A warm breeze caressed her face, scented with the wet earth, forest, and field.
    Gladness filled her. Praise seized her heart. “I should kiss you well, Hayward, to show my gratitude.” She touched his cheek with her fingertips and guided his lips to hers. Gently and lovingly she kissed him, then moved her mouth away.
    “You are beautiful, Eliza.” He held her close and brought his lips near hers. But before another kiss could happen, a clamor at the door drew them apart.
    “Mr. Morgan, Eliza had a terrible fall. She needs to rest her ankle.” Fiona set the tray down and wrung her hands like a worried mother. She hurried to the bedside and propped pillows against the bolster. “Do you ail, my girl?”
    “I am fine, Fiona. The fall was not as terrible as you think.”
    Hayward carried her over to the bed and set her down. “Perhaps it is best you yield to Fiona’s intuition. Besides, we have had a long journey and you should rest. I have business to discuss with Addison.”
    He poured coffee into a cup and drank it down black. Then he stepped from the room and closed the door behind him. Eliza reached for Fiona’s hands. “I shall be happy here,” she said, squeezing them. “And see how attentive he is?”
    Fiona wiggled her mouth and tucked a pillow beneath Eliza’s swollen ankle. “Attentive as a husband should be, my girl. But I shall bless the day I see that loving glow in his eyes every time he looks at you.”

 
    11
     
     
    N ews came downriver of the Indian massacres along the Blue Ridge Mountains that spread as far north as the Hudson River Valley. Hayward assured Eliza the Indians would not come this far east of the enclaves. Nonetheless, he taught her how to prime and shoot a musket. She had become quite good at it, and it pleased her how impressed he looked each time she hit the target, even if it was not dead center.
    She worried those nights when she heard his horse and the hollow sound of hoofbeats fade as he rode off. The gentlemen in the area met in secret, and she prayed for his protection. The events that were unfolding in the Revolution occupied his mind and she felt ignored, but she understood. His life in England was over, and he considered himself to be American. Subjugation to his father had left a bitterness in his soul, a desire to live free. He had come home in the early hours of dawn, weary and spent, yet raging with patriotic zeal. She allowed him to rant, pacing like a restless panther, and then helped him off with his boots.
    Eliza shuddered at the thought of war and what kind of suffering it could bring, especially to the people in towns along the coast. Boston already greatly suffered under the tight fist of tyranny. Hayward and she had only been wed such a short time, and to be separated from him was too much to consider.
    One balmy night, she knelt before him, clasped her hands around one of his boots and pulled it off, then pulled off the other. “My love, you look troubled.”
    He leaned his head back against the chair. Beads of sweat glistened over his forehead, and a damp strand of hair clung to his throat. “I have not told you what the men in the region are discussing.” He drew loose his neckcloth. “But after our meeting tonight, it is important you know.”
    She sat back. “It sounds serious. Tell me, won’t you?”
    He leaned forward and looked down into her eyes. “I have made a decision. I will take an oath to fight.”
    A sharp chill rushed over Eliza. She stared back into his eyes and realized nothing would change his mind. She placed her hand on his knee. “I will go with you.”
    “No. It would be too dangerous.”
    “We would be together.”
    “You would see death, Eliza, and wounded men, some dying in pools of their own blood. No, I want you here. Do not ask me again.” He stood, stretched his hand down to her, and helped her to her feet.
    “Other women will follow their