The sun hung low upon the fields, bathing the crops in gold so thick you could wrap it around your shoulders like a warm embrace, when he finally returned holding her hand. Emma sat in the front room in her favorite high-backed chair, the mending in her lap and her eye on her brother as he clasped Jenny's hand in his own, tracing her cheek with slender fingertips. A burning knot in her throat urged Emma to look away, but then his mouth was on hers and her arms hung round his neck, and try as that horrible jade-eyed monster within her might, she couldn't help but smile at her brother's happiness. Maybe this would be enough to sustain him through the long nights to come; maybe this would be enough for them both.

Jenny climbed into her waiting car; Richard offered a stiff wave as she drove off before trudging up the walk. Emma stowed her work and rose to meet him on the porch. "Have a nice time?" she asked with crossed arms, surprised by the venom in her voice.

"We walked down to the pond." For once, he seemed reluctant to speak to her; she supposed she would want to keep her own goodbye sacred, as well, but his reticence stung nonetheless.

"Did she cry?"

"Of course. You'll cry."

"I will do no such thing." Emma took a seat on the bench, and her brother followed suit, her twin as always. "You're coming back."

"Emma—"

"You will. I won't hear anymore of it."

He took her hand, intertwining their fingers effortlessly. "I'll always come back for you."

She blushed in spite of herself and turned her gaze from his earnest face back to the trees in the distance. "Pa wanted to see you."

"About the shed?"

She shook her head. "Didn't say."

"Maybe tomorrow's not soon enough and he wants to take me to the train station already." This earned him a soft punch in the arm and a smirk from his sister.

"He'll miss you, you know. Probably more than any of us."

"More than you?" He looked at her with those eyes that took so much and gave so much, in return, and she longed to bury her face in his neck and beg him not to leave her, but she couldn't do that to him. Not now.

Samson bounded ahead of the Harrow men, yipping at the birds that flitted through the mounting twilight. Neither Richard nor his father uttered a word, a sea of unspoken sentiments hanging in the air around them. The young man couldn't even be sure where his elder was taking him, but the forest loomed ahead and he knew better than to ask.

Swallowed by the trees and thickening darkness, Pa finally spoke. "Battle of Fredericksburg," he said, his voice so low his words were nearly lost to the rustle of the leaves above.

"Sorry, Pa?"

"That's the battle that took my father. December 13, 1862. I was just a baby."

"I thought you were born in 1869."

"Don't tell your mother. She thinks there's only five years between us." They reached a clearing, and the whimpering of the poor beast within drew Richard's attention from the old man beside him. The elk was gravely wounded—wolves, no doubt—and his knobby limbs kicked against the soft earth in a desperate struggle to right himself. "Found him a few hours ago. Didn't think it right to leave him like this."

"Why didn't you take care of it then?"

"Thought you should have the honors." He passed the Springfield to his son, who took it in his nervous hands. The beast gazed up at him, dark eyes pleading for mercy. Richard grasped the firearm and took his aim, closing his eyes as the calm washed over him. He could feel his father watching him, waiting for some proof of his worth.

With a deep breath, he pulled the trigger.

The shot sliced through the muted woods, sending a ripple of startled activity beyond the circle of grass where the two men stood mere feet from the poor creature laying limp before them.

"I'm proud of you, son." Pa grasped the boy's shoulder reassuringly, his voice soft.

"It wouldn't have been right to let him suffer."

"No—" he turned to his progeny, dark eyes quivering. "I'm proud of you for going off to serve your county. You're a good son."

Richard was floored. "Pa, I—"

"You love that Hastings girl?"

"What?" The question startled him

"That girl you're always with. You love her?"

"I…don't know."

"You should marry her."

"Dad, I don't think I'll have much time for a wedding before tomorrow."

"I just don't want you to wait as long as I did. I was nearly forty when you kids were born. Didn't make much of a father by then."

"You made a fine a father."

"Now I'm not trying to make excuses, but I didn't have much to go by and I did the best I could. I'm an old man now and I don't know how much longer I'll be able to run this farm without you."

"You still have Emma."

Pa laughed. "I may not treat her much like a lady, but that doesn't mean she isn't one. She'll get married one of these days. You've got to come back and keep our homestead alive. Carry on the family name."

"I'll do my best, sir."

His father's meek smile was nearly swallowed by his beard as he gave his son's shoulder another strong squeeze and said, "Let's get this old buck packed up."

Emma couldn't be sure just how dinner had come together; she had spent the hours in a daze, preparing her brother's favorites by rote. She had brought her mother a warm cloth for her forehead and brushed off the meek assurances that she made a clumsy nurse. Mother's head wasn't right, she reminded herself. Not when the flashes of fever came. But lately she had seemed to say so many things she couldn't have meant. Biting things; terrible things.

If this was a preview of days to come, Emma wished for nothing more than to run off to war herself.

He waited for her in the darkness, his feet dangling over the edge of his child's bed. He had extended it with scraps of wood ages before his legs stretched once again, shooting his height just above his sister's. But then even she had to wrap her leg around him to keep her toes from inching out from below the blanket.

She shut the door gingerly behind her and climbed into the space left only for her and felt his pulse quicken as she laced her arms around him, her cheek resting gratefully upon his chest. His mind dueled over whether or not to tell her of his father's revelations in the forest, but the tremor in her chest drew his attention back to her. He needn't ask if she was all right; the answer clung to him as if they might otherwise be flung apart.

A part of him, deep inside and tucked away where he could almost ignore it, if he tried, urged him to bring her face to his; on any other night, he might have had the will to fight it off. But tonight his lips met hers, soft as a summer's breeze, then hungry with the relentless pull of hopes and fears that would have to go unsaid.

She whispered his name and pulled away, ever so slightly, breathing her words into his mouth. "If you don't come back—"

"Em, we've talked about this."

"No." Her eyes grabbed his in their razor-sharp gaze. "If you don't come back, I'll never forgive you."

Her words stung in his chest, but her eyes were a desperate plea. Mingled in with the dread of the battlefield was a stirring of excitement at the prospect of escape, from a life for which he had always felt ill-equipped. But he would come back to her—he would always come back to her—just as he pulled her back to him now. Tomorrow would bring their farewells, but whatever the cost, he wouldn't let it be goodbye.