“I know.”

  “You don’t have an obligation—”

  Theo poured wine and handed Jess a glass. “I know.” They sat on the sofa, regarding the freshly cleaned painting propped up on his desk. Jess leaned her head on Theo’s shoulder. Clancy turned three circles and then collapsed with a sigh across their feet.

  A very young Lexington—not even one year old—gazed from the canvas with a lustrous eye, scanning the landscape of the Meadows. “It’s such a lovely painting, now that you can see all of it.”

  “Yes, and it’s probably been years since anyone has seen it—properly.” He took another sip of wine. “There’s an energy to the brushstrokes that’s a bit unusual for the style of the era. You feel that the painter must’ve been having a good day, like he didn’t need to labor over this work.”

  “That’s why I don’t think you should give it back. She didn’t appreciate it.”

  Theo played idly with a strand of Jess’s hair. “She’s old, Jess. A widow. And poor, from the looks of it. She didn’t know how valuable it was. Fifteen thousand dollars is a lot of money to someone like that.”

  “Fifteen thousand dollars is a lot of money for a grad student too. You were the one who recognized that it might have value—you’re the one who found out that it did. You should be the one who benefits, not her.”

  He shrugged. “I got a thousand dollars for writing the Smithsonian piece. I think that’s a pretty good return on something I picked up off the curb. Plus it inspired my thesis topic. And I’ve been able to put a new work in Scott’s catalogue raisonné—that’s a big deal, you know, in art history circles. It’s the kind of thing that gets people like me up in the morning—adding our little dash of spice to the historical stew.” Theo had emailed the art historian who had compiled the catalogue of Scott’s known work, to tell her about his find and send her a high-resolution image. A week later, she’d called Theo with an offer for the painting from a buyer in Kentucky.

  “It’s tremendously exciting when we find a new work,” she’d said. “And especially one with such a sound authentication.” She said that Scott had become collectible ever since 2010, when she mounted the first one-man show of his work. Since then, his paintings had been selling over estimate. “If you send it to auction you might get even more—a new Lexington portrait might set a record,” she said. But Theo would need to pay the commission and hassle with insurance and transport, whereas in a private sale he’d get the full amount. “I’m not advising one way or the other. Let me know what you decide.”

  Theo had known, as soon as he heard the figure, that he would give the painting back. He ran his fingers through Jess’s hair. He liked the way every strand was a slightly different color, like grains of sand on a beach.

  “I’m not desperate for that money, Jess. I inherited some from my father. Not a lot, but more than some people have. More than she has.”

  “But you said she was a bigot.”

  “Jess.” He spoke more sharply. “Whatever she might be, it doesn’t mean that I won’t do what I know to be right.”

  Jess sighed, defeated, and smiled at him. “You’re just a better person than me, I guess. When are you going to take it over there?”

  “Maybe tomorrow morning? I was hoping you’d stay the night and come with me before you head to work. I think she’ll be more relaxed if there’s a White woman at her door, rather than just me.”

  “That’s awful.”

  He felt a flare of anger. “You think I don’t know that?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He took her face between his hands. He’d thought her eyes were green, but he’d come to realize that they were more than that. All the colors of the forest were there—flecks of umber, bronze, and gold. “It is what it is,” he said. “But I can’t let it change what I am. You do get that, right?”

  “Of course I do.” And that’s why I’m falling in love with you. She wanted to say it. But he was gently extricating himself.

  “I’m going for a quick run before dinner.”

  “But it’s still raining, and it’s getting dark,” she whined. “And the moussaka smells so good!”

  “It’ll be even better in an hour. It’s just a light drizzle now, and Clancy’s barely been out all day, have you, mate?” The dog looked up, tilting his head in agreement.

  “That’s true—I’ve been hogging you.”

  It had been a relaxing Sunday. They’d met Lior and his wife at an Ethiopian restaurant on U Street the evening before, and then gone club hopping, something neither of them had done since their undergrad days. They slept late and ambled out to Theo’s favorite local coffee shop. Then, when it started pouring, they’d run back to his apartment through the pelting rain. While her clothes dried, Theo had given her the Hoyas sweatshirt he usually ran in. It came down past her knees. He spent a few minutes rummaging in his drawer looking for the shirt before he realized she was still wearing it. A rain shell made more sense, anyway. He shrugged it on.

  “Can you take the moussaka out in fifteen minutes? It needs to rest, to let the flavors—”

  “I know, I know.” Jess rolled over on the sofa and picked up a New Yorker from a pile on the floor. “And I’ll set the table.”

  Theo laughed. “Don’t forget the candelabra.” There was no dining table in his tiny apartment. They’d be eating on their laps.

  He stepped out into the rain. The fine mist glistened in wide, arcing billows, like a wind-blown curtain. Clancy danced from paw to paw with anticipation. Theo looked down and smiled. He had the dog to thank for his running habit. He’d never been a runner before he brought Clancy home from that New Haven shelter, but the dog’s coiled energy had demanded a release, and once he started running, he realized that his athlete’s body had been craving it.

  They began slowly and picked up speed as they entered the park. He decided they’d take the valley trail that paralleled the creek along the park’s eastern edge. Over the traffic on Rock Creek Drive, he could hear the water, replenished by the day’s rainfall, tumbling over boulders. Theo felt his lungs fill and empty, the moist air as exhilarating as a cocktail. Before Jess, he’d never given much thought to his own anatomy. He’d always just expected his legs to do the motions that human legs always have done since they evolved to chase down prey and flee from predators. But she’d made him aware of the mechanics of his bones, the connections of each intricate set of tissues, the nerves traveling through vertebrae to fire along the clusters of muscle. He enjoyed thinking about that now as he lengthened his stride and increased his pace.

  The leaves were slippery underfoot and exhaled a fresh, woody aroma as he landed on them. His stride settled into a pleasing rhythm. He was aware of his heart rate, effortlessly increasing to push the blood to his muscles. Ahead of him, Clancy paused to shake off the wetness, flinging sparkles. Along the rim of the park, streetlights blinked on, and the night shimmered. Theo felt the edge of runner’s high begin to flood his body with well-being. He picked up speed, feeling his heart working harder as he sprinted up a slight rise of ground. The track narrowed as the rise became a hill, slanting along the creek where it cut deep into the rocks, forming a small ravine. He leaned into the incline until he reached the crest. Going downhill, Theo slowed his pace, watching for tree roots and loose stones. As the light faded, it was becoming hard to see. He realized he should head back soon. There was a bridge over the creek about a quarter of a mile ahead. That’s where he would turn for home.

  The path took a sharp curve right. Clancy dashed ahead out of sight. As Theo came around the turn, he almost stumbled over the dog, who was standing stock still in the middle of the path, staring down at something in the ravine.

  “What is it, Clance? Did a deer go by?”

  Clancy whined. Theo came up level and looked down toward the water. About fifteen feet down, a figure—a woman—lay prone against the rocks.

  “Ma’am? Are you okay?” he called. She didn’t answer. “Miss?” he said again. “Can you hear me?” There was a muddy scar down the bank, marking her skid. She’d either slipped taking the turn and hit her head or passed out in midstride and fallen. He fumbled for his phone to call 911. Then he cursed. No signal.

  Theo slid down the bank to her side. Her spare frame was clad in vividly colored technical fiber. She wore marathoner’s shoes—a serious runner. Tentatively, he reached for her wrist to check for a pulse. Her skin was cool to the touch—she must have been passed out for a while—but the beat, when he found it, was strong. He breathed out, relieved.

  He ransacked his memory for the little first aid he knew. He couldn’t see any obvious signs of injury. Her spandex leggings were streaked down one side, where she’d skidded down the bank, but he could see no blood. Her fair hair was cut very short and there was no obvious mark of injury on her head. He recalled something about trying to put an unconscious person into the rescue position—left side, knees bent, helps the blood flow. He hesitated, wondering if he should move her. Then he knelt down and bent over her still body. Gently, slowly, he eased her onto her side. As he tried to bend her legs, she gave a catlike wail. Theo reached for his phone, checking again for a signal. Her eyes fluttered open.

  “Ma’am, you fell,” said Theo. “Are you—”

  At that moment a blaze of white light flared from the bridge, illuminating Theo as he knelt over the woman. Theo looked up, blinded by the sudden brightness.

  “Police! Freeze!” bellowed a voice from the bridge.

  Theo lifted his cell phone to shade his eyes from the glare.

  And then Clancy’s thin howl, shearing the night.

  ALEXANDER’S JARRET

  Road to Midway

  Woodford County, Kentucky

  1865

  Jarret cantered Lexington through the gathering dark, staying at the barely audible edge of the hoofbeats ahead. The horse seemed energized by the high emotion of the evening’s events. Jarret had to hold him back from a full gallop that would overtake their quarry.

  The sky was cloudy, the rising gibbous moon offering only sporadic illumination. “We’re both blind, tonight,” Jarret murmured. Quantrill’s gang was keeping to the road, which was fortunate. Jarret was not sure he would have been able to guide Lexington had Quantrill led his men into the woods.

  He tried to divine their destination. He had come to know most of the nearby families. They were heading west, so he visualized the map of farms that lay in that direction. Was there a secesh sympathizer among them ardent enough to give sanctuary to men such as these? If so, he couldn’t think who that would be. Many families in the county supported the rebel cause; some even had sons fighting in the Confederate army farther south. But those men followed the rules of war. Quantrill’s gang were murderers. And Willa Viley was widely respected. Jarret could not think of a local family who would countenance an assault on the old man.

  Just then, the moon edged from behind a scallop of cloud and illuminated a pale, lumpen bundle on the road ahead. Lexington’s nostrils flared. Jarret eased him to a walk as they came up on it. At first, he thought the bushwhackers had jettisoned a bedroll or dropped a sack of some kind. Jarret peered down as the fabric fluttered.

  He slid from the horse. “Captain Viley, that you?”

  Viley groaned. He was lying facedown in the dust, just as he’d fallen. He tried to turn himself, but failed and flopped back, helpless.

  “Captain, it’s Jarret here. Can I help you up, sir?”

  Viley reached out weakly and Jarret took the arm over his shoulder, easing the old man into a sitting position. His flesh, where Jarret touched it, was on fire. His face registered the agony of every move.

  “Jarret?” he rasped. “How did you—boy, you shouldn’t have followed, they want you and that horse of yours. You’d best turn back.”

  “I know they want us. I heard them—that’s why I got Lexington out of there. But I need to help Mr. Scott, and rescue the horses. They made away with six or more of Lexington’s get, including Asteroid, and those horses are too good for the likes of them.”

  “I don’t see what you think you can do,” Viley rasped. “Where’s Alexander?”

  “Fighting the fires they lit, I guess. To be honest, I didn’t wait round to find out.”

  “You’re a foolish boy.”

  “I ain’t a boy. Sir.”

  Viley drew a painful breath. He looked at Jarret as if seeing him for the first time. Jarret’s eyes glinted in the dark, holding the gaze. Viley’s face collapsed and he nodded. “No, you are not. You’re . . .” He broke into a fit of coughing and doubled up. “I think I’ve broken some ribs,” he gasped. “I fell off the pony—my grandson’s pony—had no choice, only horse on our place saddled up when Quantrill’s pack of rats swarmed us. I’m a fool, like you, thinking I could give chase. And now look at me.” He coughed again, and blood ran darkly down his beard. “They just left me to die where I lay,” he wheezed. “Rode right on over me. Not a conscience left in a one of those devils.”

  “Do you know where they’re making for? Can you think of anyone who would take them in?”

  “Judge Sayers, my guess,” Viley wheezed. “His wife, Finetta, is old friends with those damnable James boys who ride with Quantrill. I heard one of them—Jesse, it was—speaking of her. Their place is on the road to Taylorsville, between Samuel’s Depot and Deatsville. You know the place?”

  “I think so—big brick house—the white one—is that it?”

  “Yes, that’s the one.”

  “But we have to get you situated first.”

  A violent cough wracked at Viley. Tears of pain rolled down his bloodied cheeks. “It’s no good. I can’t mount a horse.”

  “Don’t you say so. I think we’re close by the Kirklands’ Cane Spring farm. We can get you that far, at least, and the Kirklands can send word to your son.”

  Jarret asked Lexington to kneel. He lifted Viley and placed him in the saddle. “Just grab onto the mane. This horse won’t let you fall.” He clicked for the horse to stand. Jarret estimated it was less than a mile to the Kirklands, and when it proved to be just half that distance he was relieved, because by then Viley was slipping in and out of consciousness.

  The Kirklands came out armed but lowered their guns and rushed to help once they recognized Viley. As Jarret eased the broken old man off the horse, he grasped Jarret’s arm with a sudden burst of strength.

  “We shouldn’t have done what we did. This horse—it should have been yours. Richard and I—I put him up to it—I showed him the way to get around Warfield. It was wrong. I’m sorry we cheated Old Harry. We never ought to have done that.”

  Jarret let a tide of anger crest and pass before he spoke. “No good be done thinking on that now. Harry Lewis long past minding.” He stood by Lexington as they carried Viley indoors. He took the bread and the flask the Kirkland woman offered, and then he mounted up and rode off toward Taylorsville.

  He steered Lexington off the road before they reached the gates to the Sayers home. Traversing the paddock, he picked a careful way closer to the house. He could see lights flickering in one of the downstairs rooms. And in the woods behind, a small campfire. Perhaps Quantrill and the James brothers were with their friends in the main house while the rest of the band camped out.

  He resolved to find a safe hiding place for Lexington and to go forward on foot. He followed the fence line down a gentle hill toward the sounds of a brook. He let the horse drink and then tied him up loosely in a small copse of trees. Then he waited for the moon. When a luminous edge emerged from the clouds, he scanned the pasture, picking out his path. In a moment, it was dark again. That was when he sprinted for the trees.

  He melted from tree to tree until he had a vantage point on the campfire. From a distance, he watched the moving figures. He could count only four men. So they’d followed their usual tactics and split into small units to confound pursuit. It would be sheer luck if this was the group that had Scott.

  He would need to be patient. He could tell from the slurred voices that the whisky jar was out. As the intermittent moon climbed higher, the drunken utterances grew louder.

  An hour passed. Jarret felt his muscles cramping as he tried to remain still. As the air cooled, he felt a heavy dew misting his skin and clothing. Talk ebbed and became sporadic. Jarret risked creeping closer.

  He was behind the men now—only two still awake by the dying fire. Another snored. He strained for snatches of their conversation. The men were slurring; it was hard to make out words. It seemed like some long-winded reminiscence of a raid on a dry goods store. Then: “Don’t know why we didn’t kill this Federal right where he stood, like we did them damned Dutchmen shopkeepers.”

  “Quantrill say he want to trade him for the five got they selves captured over in Mercer County—Jim, Andy, and them others. Federals took ’em up the road to Louisville, fixin’ to hang ’em in a big show.”

  “Well, it don’t sit right with me, having to haul his sorry ass.”

  “Me neither.” He yawned, stretched, then struggled up from his squatting position. He staggered away from the fire. Jarret heard the thud of a boot landing in flesh, then a muffled groan.

  “You shut the hell up.”

  Another kick, another groan.

  A hissing sound. Jarret realized the secesh was pissing on Scott. The other one laughed at that, drunken guffaws. He struggled to get up, fiddling with his own fly. The two sleeping men did not stir.

  The secesh couldn’t seem to untie his pants. He was looking down, cursing, as he began to piss himself. Jarret only had to lean forward, grab a hank of his long hair, and pull his head back. He sank his knife into the side of his neck and drew it in a wide arc. The man pitched forward, gurgling. Jarret eased him back down to the ground.

  The man standing over Scott’s prone form turned. “Jimbo, ain’t you—”