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Brigade Major Garrett Fairchild paced slowly through the next evening’s fading light. His face and uniform were grimy with sweat and smoke, his shoulder on fire from the flesh wound inflicted by a stray rifle bullet, but it wasn’t these familiar aggravations that hindered his steps or weighed down his heart.

How was he to tell Jenna her father was dead?

For a moment, rage overwhelmed the grief. It shouldn’t have happened. The bloody business of subduing the city done, Colonel Montague had been astride his horse supervising the orderly withdrawal of his troopers, some of them resentful at not being permitted to join the orgy of destruction now taking place within the walls. A bullet fired by one of the celebrating soldiers had ricocheted over the ramparts and pierced the colonel through the heart.

Less than an hour ago his commander had ridden beside Garrett, telling him he’d just sent Jenna word that all the “family” had come through the engagement safely. She and his batman, Evers, would be preparing dinner even now.

Having spent the day tending the awful carnage of the wounded, she would probably be offering a guilty thanks, as he was, that though so many had been stricken, God had spared those dear to her.

She would be totally unprepared for this.

But he’d have to tell her now. He’d ordered the men to delay for just an hour before they brought the colonel’s body back to his billet to be prepared for burial.

The colonel’s billet. Garrett stopped short, suddenly realizing another bitter truth. Jenna Montague had lost more than her father tonight - she’d lost her home and her way of life.

With her father dead and no other relative to care for her, she would have no choice but to return to England. She’d have to give up this arduous but adventurous life she’d often claimed to love, take up a vastly different one far from this fierce, beautiful land.

Far from him.

Another pang smote his heart, and though he could not begin to compare his loss to hers, he recognized how keenly he was going to miss her.

He forced his feet back into motion. No amount of delay would make this easier, so he’d best get it done.

Garrett slipped silently behind the stone building where, as he’d suspected, he found Jenna tending the cooking fire. Eyes bright, tendrils of soft brown hair escaping from beneath her muslin bonnet to frame her heat-flushed face, she hummed a soldier’s ditty while she stirred a pot of what smelled to be rabbit stew.

For a moment he simply watched her, his chest aching with regret and grief. Then he stepped into the firelight.

“Garrett!” she cried, smiling a welcome. An instant later her eyes widened, the smile fading. “But - you’re injured! Let me see!”

“It’s just a scratch,” he said, waving her off. “I’ve much worse news. Jenna, I…I have to tell you…”

While he struggled to complete the sentence, her dark eyes searched his. Then she gasped.

“Not…Papa,” she whispered, shaking her head in denial.

Grimly Garrett nodded. “Jenna, I’m so sorry.”

She uttered a small cry that might have been “no.” And in what seemed the most natural movement in the world, he stepped forward and gathered her into his arms.

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