It had been three days since he saw her. They were three of the most torturous days of his life, and he had actually been tortured. Repeatedly. There were more than 200 people at this camp, and if he didn't watch his step, the lovely Mrs. Locke would appear like a wisp of smoke or his own shadow. It was like she was trying to corner him. He toyed with the thought that she might be. It was clearly quite a shock to her to see him. Newly married, she probably feared he would reveal their relationship.

That doesn't make any type of sense, Gates' voice told him. She lied for you. She's probably just as surprised to see you as you are to her.

She had lied. Not well, but God bless the woman, one look from him and she had spat out a lie as best she could.

She was just covering for herself, the darker side of his mind creeped in, always there to remind him how things really work. It wouldn't do for her new husband to know she'd let a pirate put his hands on her. Serves her interest as much as it serves yours.

Even though their little mizzen rendezvous didn't go beyond kissing, it was a lot of kissing, enough to still keep him up at night years later. A proper lady could be ruined for less.

Like handing her diary over to the territorial courts, ensuring that her father was thoroughly implicated as complicit in the Siren's assault on Charles Town, after years of taking bribes from pirates, all because he didn't want to pay Flint Abigail's ransom.

Why yes, Abigail, after I took liberties with your body, I had a direct hand in getting your father executed and burning your reputation to the ground, knowing damn well a woman like you has only a reputation and nothing else with which to make her way in the world. Lovely to see you. She'd like that, he was sure.

He deserved this, every last back breaking, exhausting, humiliating moment. Silver might have called this a humbling experience. He slammed his shovel into the dirt and brush. The Carolina sun was beating down a punishing heat. They were nearly in fall, but apparently Abigail had brought the summer with her. Sweat dripped down his face, his back, even his hands. It was so hot, he almost forgot about the pain in his knee. A slow look to his left and right showed men all up and down the line clearing brush, all moving as slowly as he was. He wiped the sweat away with the back of his hand, smearing a layer of grime across his already filthy skin, and resumed tossing the brush into the nearest pile.

Movement at the end of the line caught his eye. Drab brown skirts and long brown hair, and a bloody bucket sloshing water. What the fuck.

Abigail was working her way down the line, refilling men's canteens before hobbling back to the water trough and resuming her distribution. He could actually feel the tension wrinkling his forehead. His eyes searched until he saw the foreman - a pale (though often lobster-red) man with a big mustache and bigger belly - was on his horse, smiling stupidly at Abigail and apparently engaged in a shouted conversation with her from his place midway between Billy and Abigail on the line.

How could the foreman allow this? She could hurt herself. One of these criminals could attack her. She could get sick, it was hot as Hell itself. Those water buckets were heavy. The men on the line could refill their canteens themselves at dinner, and it would take her that long at this rate to get to everyone. This was madness.

He rumbled an angry noise in his throat - probably a growl - and slammed his shovel back to work. This time he felt every splinter in the handle, every blister burning to life on his palms. He'd thought his hands were properly calloused to labor after at least a year, maybe two now, off a real crew. He'd let himself get soft, giving into the drink, wandering from the West Indies back to London for no reason at all. In the strangest way, out here, with criminals and slaves, facing the whip and English guns like he had as a boy, he found a strange sense of purpose. He ached all over, sometimes his knee throbbed like it was stabbed all over again, but his mind was clear, and he was so tired at the end of the day, he didn't have the energy to hate his English captors.

His back and shoulders flexed as he slung another pile of brush and dirt onto a bigger pile. Within the month, they'd have this land cleared, then tilled. He wondered what life on the colony would hold for him after that. The foreman and the Marine officers were relying on him more to act as a sort of non-commissioned officer of the prisoners. He wasn't surprised by it. People responded to him, they always had. He had ten years on his sentence, and that was a long time in a place like this. The English had big plans for this part of their territory, and considering the type of prisoners chosen to work the land and how they were treated, Billy assumed their placement here had more to do with settling there themselves, and a bit less to do with punishment. He snarled again, low in his throat, silencing the wanderings of his mind. He had retired from the business of plots and schemes. It was of no concern to him what anyone wanted to do with this bit of unruly land except clearing it.

"Ahem." The little cough shouldn't have surprised him, but it did. He slowly turned to look over his shoulder and there she was, prim as you please, clutching that damned bucket. Now that she was closer, he could see the sweat curling the soft hair around her temples, dampening the neck and shoulders of her plain, heavy dress. Her snowy white hands were wrapped in thin strips of cloth, and he could still see the redness of new use spreading across her palms. He scowled and snatched the heavy bucket from her.

Abigail flinched and her mouth formed a hard line to match his. He pulled his own canteen over his shoulders and set to filling it, tearing his eyes away from her. Even in his periphery, he could see those small, bandaged hands alternately fisting and flexing in frustration. "I just thought everyone could use more water before-"

"What are you doing here?" he mumbled the question, still focused on the stupid, ugly, decrepit, probably rotten, bucket.

As he stood, Abigail now cast her eyes to the dirt. He could see her chewing her lip and trying her best to hide it. "My husband-"

"The minister."

"Yes, he felt a calling to minister to the people who…" she trailed off, wiping a few beads of sweat from her forehead.

"Who have nowhere else to go?" He finally faced her fully, eyebrows raised in challenge.

Her brown eyes flared back at him, before the corners of her lips twitched and the anger faded into humor. She stifled a laugh and covered her mouth with her hand. "That's nearly exactly what I said!" She hid her words, but they were light and airy, with a happiness that reminded him so clearly of the Siren it was painful. But, almost of their own accord, his lips turned up to match her smile.

Billy shifted his canteen between his hands, uncertain. "I, um…thank you, for your discretion."

The humorous light left her eyes, but she no longer seemed actively angry with him. Billy couldn't decide if that was better or worse. "In my experience, they hang pirates. Since they didn't hang you, and you looked about ready to keel over when you saw me, I assumed."

"You read it right." Flickers of pride licked at his spine. He looked back down at the bucket, then down the other end of the line. "Are you really going to keep hauling water like a…?" He gestured broadly to the men remaining.

"Like a black?" She tipped her chin. "Or one of the native prisoners? Or you? What kind of minister's wife would I be if I didn't serve my husband's flock?"

Billy brought his hands to his hips and shook his head. "You could sew, like the women prisoners. We always need serviceable clothes."

"If you'd ever seen my needlework, you'd know what you're asking is probably a sin." They shared a small laugh before Abigail winced and brought a hand up to her forehead. She dropped it quickly and forced a smile. "I'm sorry. I must not be used to this heat. Do the headaches go away?"

"Headaches? Abi-Mrs. Locke, perhaps that's enough work for one day." He moved to take the bucket and escort her back to the tents, but she waved him off.

"I'm fine, I'm fine." She stooped and straightened with the bucket in hand. Before she set off, she spared him a thoughtful look. "What do they call you here?"

Still thinking like a pirate, he fought another swell of pride and affection. "Will James."

Abigail nodded smartly. "I think I can remember that. Have a good afternoon, Mr. James."

He watched her staggered step, hobbled by the heavy load in her hands, and still felt like a proper ass for not taking it from her. Not that she would ever allow it.

Billy returned to his work, less aware of the raw spots burning his palms or the sun blazing down his back. The nettles, mosquitoes, flies, and itchy leaves faded from sensation. They'd driven him nearly mad at first. All he could think about, even in his dreams, was the refreshing splash of cool ocean water on his face from the deck of a ship. Today though, his mind was on the small brunette in a heavy dress marching to and fro on the work line. Abigail went back and forth behind him at least four more times. He never turned to look at her, but he watched her comings and goings in his periphery, and he could feel her eyes on him.

It was sometime after her fourth trip past him that he heard faint shouts at the far end of the line. He dropped his shovel and brought his hand up over his eyes to block the sun. Squinting in the distance, he saw the men circling around something and waving for help. His chest constricted and he let out a sharp whistle for the foreman before launching into a dead sprint. He didn't have to see through the mass of sweaty prisoners and slaves to know who was at the center of their attention.

He was barking for them to move and physically shoving men out of his way without being fully conscious of anything except the wilted, pale woman lying in the dirt. One of the men held her head up while another slowly poured water down the top of her head. She was blinking slowly and her lips were moving but her voice was so soft she may as well have been silent.

Billy cupped her face, pushing her wet hair away from where it matted on her forehead. "What happened?" he shouted at the man kneeling behind her with her head on his legs. Later, Billy would feel guilty for his harsh treatment. The man - Marcus? He paid little attention to almost everyone at the colony - looked nearly as stricken as Billy felt.

"She came to give me water," Marcus explained. "She looked so pale, I tried to take the bucket from her. I told her it's too heavy, it's too hot. She talked some nonsense and then fainted. It's too hot for a lady, Boss."

Boss? That was new. Billy ground his teeth and shook his head. He scooped Abigail off the dirt as the actual boss rode up. The pudgy man squinted down from his horse and spat a wad of tobacco from the corner of his mouth. "Take her to my tent, I'll fetch her husband. You and you," he pointed the handle of his whip at two of the slaves, "get fresh water from the creek and bring it to James."

Billy was already striding toward the foreman's tent before he was done issuing his instructions. He winced when he realized the tiny fists clutching at his shirt were trying to push him away. Her mumblings had taken the form of denials, and a repeated insistence that she was fine. He had to forcibly shove down memories of the first time they'd been in this position, and her identical reaction.

Marcus was ahead of him, pushing the foreman's tent flap open and pulling out a wooden chair. Billy would remember his name now. Once he settled her in the chair, Billy knelt in front of Abigail, cupping her face between his palms again and searching for her heavy-lidded brown eyes to find him. "Abigail? C'mon, girl, I need you to say something."

Her face screwed up in effort and she forced out, "…Hot." Her hands came up to pull at the thick fabric covering her neckline.

Billy's eyes followed her hand and he reached for the material, then pulled his hands back and shot a look up to Marcus. "Get Lizzie." Marcus nodded, his bushy hair bouncing along after him. As soon as he was out the door, Billy returned his attention to Abigail. "I'm going to take this off of you so you can breathe better, yeah?"

Abigail's eyes were closed, but she tilted her chin one time in affirmation. His hands looked ridiculously large and filthy on the creamy material of whatever-the-hell she had tucked around her collar. What in the name of Christ was this? Sailcloth? In his haste, he accidentally tore off two buttons securing it. He took more care on the front, suddenly extremely aware of the soft curves the backs of his hands brushed against. Once it was free, he tossed the material aside, revealing the normal square neckline he saw on women's dresses.

She took a gasping breath at the freedom, but her face was still wrenched in discomfort. One of the prisoners bustled in, sloshing cool water across the floorboards. Billy snatched the neck piece he'd just discarded, soaked it in the water, and then pressed it against the back of Abigail's neck.

"You're over-hot, Abi-Mrs. Locke." Billy caught himself before calling her by her given name in front of others. Again. "Have you been drinking anything?" She shook her head. Billy dipped his head and his expression softened. He took the ladle and brought it to Abigail's lips. She leaned forward eagerly but he pulled back. "Ah, slowly, slowly."

Chastened, she took a small sip, then another, bringing her hands up lightly over his, as if he might snatch the water away. After a few sips she slumped back in the chair, pain wrought across her expression.

"What is it?" Billy returned the ladle to the bucket.

Abigail swallowed hard. "My head…and I'm still so hot." She started tugging at the collar of her dress. Billy shot a panicked look to the prisoner who only shrugged. Fortunately at that moment, Marcus returned with Lizzie, one of the more senior female prisoners.

Lizzie was waving the men out of the way to get a better assessment of her patient. "She fainted?" She directed her question to Billy, hands on her hips, a frown marring her usually pretty, angular face.

"She got sun-sick, hasn't been drinking water." His new distance from Abigail made his fingers itchy.

Lizzie made an unimpressed huff and moved behind Abigail's chair. "C'mon, stand her up." Billy took her by the waist and helped her stand. Lizzie went to work on the ties of her dress, loosening them enough to reach in and do the same to her stays. "Sorry, Ma'am, but you'll feel better if you can breathe." As Lizzie tugged and pulled at the mess of strings, she muttered a string of complaints about foolish ladies not having the good sense to dress proper and keep drinking in the heat.

His grip on her waist tightened ever so slightly when Abigail finally lifted her eyes to him. Her hands rested on his forearms and he was pleased to see clarity returning to her face. He almost, for a breath, forgot that they weren't alone.

"There," Lizzie broke his trance, "she'll start feeling better in no time. Keep her feet up and cool rags handy."

Billy eased Abigail back into her seat, but she needed less help this time. Their hands lingered on each other, pulling apart by minute increments. Billy told himself she was slow to break contact because she was dizzy and out of sorts. He had no excuse for himself.

"Thank you," Abigail croaked out.

Lizzie gave her a small acknowledgment then focused on Billy. "You want me to save you a plate for supper, Will?"

"Yeah, sure," he mumbled, his attention still locked on Abigail.

With a small huff, Lizzie left as brusquely as she had entered.

"You look terrible," Abigail whispered, studying the lines in his face. She held the ladle in her hands, still taking small sips on her own now.

Billy scoffed, momentarily knocked off balance by her scrutiny. "I look terrible?"

"You do." Abigail's lips turned up behind the ladle. Color was slowly returning to her cheeks. "What happened to you?"

Billy rocked back on his heels, then stood to pace the room. He rubbed his hand over his beard. "What can I say? The life of crime wasn't that great."

Abigail only tilted her head at him and frowned. "Really, though?"

"I don't know what you want me to say." Billy felt his hackles rising. He needed to stop pacing. He needed to walk out of this tent and wait by the flap with Marcus. He wanted to put his hands back on her and never answer any of these questions. "You know what I was. I should be dead. I'm one of the lucky ones."

Abigail sat up straighter, shaking her head. "I don't understand."

"No, you don't." Billy regretted his words and tone almost the moment they left his lips. He felt her recoil like a punch to his gut. There was no going back and it needed to be said. "You stay away from me, do you hear? You've got no business being seen around me, or I you. You want to serve your husband's flock? Minister to the women prisoners."

God help him, her eyes began to water. The delicate line of her jaw hardened and her entire body went stiff. His words hung in the air between them. She was in no condition to storm out, so he turned on his heel and left her there, hating himself a little more with each step. Marcus spared him a sidelong look, but didn't say anything. Fuck. He'd forgotten the man was there. He'd have to correct that later, not that the slaves or prisoners generally benefited from turning on each other.

In the distance, a flurry of bright red coats and Rev. Locke's customary black were hustling toward the tent.

Good, Billy thought. Her own people.

"Is there something you'd like to tell me?" Albert's voice was soft in the tent that had become theirs. Abigail's hands stilled on her notes. She had lessons to plan and supplies to organize if she was going to establish an informal school for the Jackson colony.

In the weeks since her mortifying fainting spell, she had honored Billy's command to stay away. He never spared her a glance and she returned the favor.

Capt. Jacobs decreed that she would do no more manual labor until he was confident that she was, in his words, "sufficiently hardy" to the conditions. Left to her own devices, she quickly identified that a large number of workers at Camp Jackson were illiterate. Albert happily agreed that all people benefit from being able to read God's word for themselves, and holding lessons in the chapel would be a worthy Christian endeavor.

Albert was quietly supportive of her ideas and watched over her health - from how much she was eating and sleeping to her pallor and even the condition of her hair - like a mother hen. It was sweet, if a little smothering. But now he asked the question that had been in his eyes since he came running into the foreman's tent to find her teary-eyed and angry.

"I know the conditions on this colony are…unsettling to you," Albert continued.

"Unsettling?" Abigail raised an eyebrow at him. The candle glow and canvas tents gave everything a soft orange glow. Even Albert looked warm "Slavery is so barbaric it's outlawed at home, yet we call it a divine right here. It doesn't make sense to me."

"It shouldn't." Albert settled on the bench next to her, taking her hand. The provisions in the tent were meager, but they had a small bed to share, and a private table with simple bench seats to share tea and write correspondence. "Unfortunately, there's nothing we can do about it here except treat everyone equally and perhaps set a good example."

Abigail made a dissatisfied sound in her throat and brought her quill back to her notes.

After a moment, Albert tried again. "Is that all that's been bothering you?"

Her hand paused on the paper long enough to leave a messy blot. She raised her guilty eyes up to her husband. "I know I'm supposed to tell you everything, but what if there is a secret that isn't mine to tell?"

Albert shrugged balefully. "I don't know if there's a clear answer. I would never force you to tell me anything, but I can see something pains you. If it could lighten you at all to tell me, I wish you would."

He was so genuine it almost hurt. Abigail set her quill aside and pulled her hands together in her lap, wringing them and chewing her lip. Where to start? As badly as he'd treated her, Abigail could no more betray the secret of Billy's identity than she could run through the encampment naked. "I, um," Abigail winced but Albert covered her hands in his, "I know one of the convicts."

"Mr. James." Abigail looked at him in askance, earning a pitying smile in return. "I assumed based on our first meeting with the man. And I've heard the Marines talking. They've said he's a pardoned pirate. I believe that is the only way you would know such a man."

"Of course!" Abigail shifted in her seat to face him. She dropped her voice low, aware as always that their privacy was limited to fabric walls. "I do know him, but no one here can know that. If they suspect for even a moment that he isn't who they think he is, he'll hang."

Albert brought her hand to his lips, brushing a light kiss across the back of her knuckles. "You can trust me, Abigail."

There was a damp chill in the air. Fall had come swiftly with winter hot on its heels. Abigail shivered and pulled her wrapper tighter, wondering exactly how warm these tents would remain when snow started to fall. "I know I can." She thought for a long moment, staring sightlessly at the lines in the smooth wooden table. "I don't know what became of him or why he's here, but he saved my life. I could never forgive myself if he lost his because of me."

"Then perhaps now is a good time…" Albert trailed off as he pushed from the bench and scurried as well as he could to one of the bookshelves. He returned with a rolled map, which he unveiled with what should have been flourish, but he paused to collect himself, shaking his head before laying out the paper. He'd been doing that more and more as the weather turned colder. He wouldn't complain, but Abigail observed his hardships as well as he observed hers. "Here!" He pointed at a relatively flat, featureless area just on the north and west edge of the colony. Abigail identified the symbols denoting tents and partitioned farm land. This little spot was free and buffeted by the rising Appalachian Mountains on two sides. "Lt. Swann and I walked this area today, and we agree it will make an excellent place for a chapel and a small house. What do you think?"

Abigail let her fingers trail over the map and searched for the right response to indicate she was as pleased as he was. "It's, well it looks like a nice spot. I'm sure it's lovely in person."

"Swann is going to present it to the commandant, and if he approves, we'll organize a crew and start building as early as tomorrow. If we can get it done before the snows come, it would be preferable."

Abigail hummed a happy approval. "So we could have a house and a chapel soon, then?"

"Ned, er, Lt. Swann, said so. On that note," Albert rolled the map up, "he did recommend that we put Mr. James in charge of the construction. He says the convicts and slaves respond well to him. He seems to know how to manage all manner of jobs here, and they don't want to spare the foreman from the line. Would you feel comfortable with that?"

This was something to seriously consider. Billy had been so angry with her the last time they spoke. But it wasn't like she was asking herself. Albert would be asking, and ultimately it would be at the Marines' discretion how they wanted to use the convict labor around the colony.

"I'm sure it will be fine."

Abigail squinted against the sunlight. Billy and a handful of convicts - only the most helpful sort, like the colony's carpenter, the blacksmith, and one of the others she'd noticed as another defacto leader among them - were milling around the proposed site doing all manner of official-looking things. Billy would point, make a comment, and one or all of the other men would reply. They would go back and forth before moving on to the next place where they'd stop and start the process all over again. It was all very official and strangely aggressive.

Although she hadn't the faintest what exactly they were doing, she could see that Albert was utterly useless to this process, smiling and agreeing with everything the men said. It only further endeared him to her.

She shifted the laundry basket on her hip and continued on her way to the creek. They were close to a place where it widened into a calm pool before narrowing again on a rocky passage westward from the mountains. She actually looked forward to laundry, despite the unfamiliar nature of the work. The green woods were turning all manner of orange and red, and she found the babbling clear water soothing.

More importantly, this was where the majority of the female convicts gathered once a week. She put on a happy face and hoped that today would be the day someone other than Henrietta spoke to her. At nearly 70, Henrietta held the dubious honor of being the oldest person in the colony. When they first met, she'd told Abigail through a nearly toothless grin, "I don't give two figs about your station or anybody else's in this backwoods prison. These girls'll get their knickers up about how you ain't one of us, but the way I see it, we're all stuck here together." After that, she'd shoved a laundry pail into Abigail's arms and gave her quick instruction on how to use the river rocks to clean fabric without destroying it.

It had been reassuring, even hopeful, that a woman who must hold some influence with the others had already embraced her, but after that she'd faced nothing but cold shoulders. None of her peers deigned to acknowledge her, and now none of the female convicts did the same.

Today, though, could be the day.

Voices trickled through the trees and brush. They sounded cheerful, teasing and laughing punctuated by splashes. A few voices quieted when Abigail appeared, but the others continued on uninterrupted.

Abigail found a spot near Lizzie and began to dig out the soiled clothes and sheets. Lizzie stoutly ignored her.

She slipped off her shoes and bunched up her skirts. Stepping into the water was always shockingly cold, but today there was more bite. Despite the brief spike of summery warmth, winter was well on its way. As she began the process of dipping and beating the sheet, she looked up under her lashes at Lizzie and quietly cleared her throat. Lizzie paused, but continued her work. "I wanted to thank you," Abigail spoke anyway, "for your assistance when I collapsed."

Lizzie's thick black hair hung loose around her shoulders. With bright golden eyes and full lips, she would have been the center of any ballroom or party in high society. Instead, they were side-by-side up to their calves in icy water in a penal colony at the edge of the known world. Lizzie didn't look up from her work, but the stiffening of her shoulders and a few unnecessarily aggressive whips of wet laundry told Abigail she was displeased.

"All I did was loosen your stays," Lizzie finally replied. Then, under her breath and with a lip curl, "Besides, looked like Will was about to do it himself." Lizzie snatched the rest of her work back into her basket and whirled away, stomping hard enough to send splashes clear up to Abigail's waist in her wake. She paused at the creek's edge and turned back to Abigail with a smile so snide Abigail was certain she would have fit right into the dame crowd. "He's quite skilled with unlacing dresses, just so you know, for next time."

She left Abigail staring after her.

Well, at least someone other than Henrietta finally spoke to her.

"I've seen this before, in my enlisted men." Swann sounded almost wistful.

"Boss, with all due respect," Billy struggled to rein his temper back, "it's not a matter of me wanting or not wanting to do this. I just don't understand how you expect me to be a foreman on anything. I'm a convict. It's one thing to take accountability, it's something else entirely to actually give me a billet."

Swann, younger, shorter and slimmer than Billy by half, had the audacity to smirk and chuckle. "Be brave, man. By the time this place is a real town, you'll own half of it."

"And if I don't want that?" This simply could not be happening. He was a convict, like almost everyone else here. No better, no worse. He was here to do labor until his sentence was up or he was pardoned. He could not do this again. He was no man's boatswain, a worse quartermaster, and the worst first officer.

Men who followed him died. He lead them to ruin, or he killed them himself. Men like Swann died allowing him into their command.

For his part, Swann was marginally less oblivious than the reverend. Billy had to give him credit, though. Rev. Locke was still all smiles and hopefulness, despite the hardships and skepticism of his new flock, and he managed to endear himself to all manner of people better qualified than he was.

He endeared himself to Abigail Ashe. If there was a woman of good character and breeding who could actually survive the bitter edges of the empire, it was Abigail Ashe. Locke had indeed found himself the perfect missionary bride. In Lt. Swann, Locke had found another eager, perennially chipper partner.

"Dear Christ, you look like I've just told you we're taking your legs." Swann was still talking. His scarlet coat and brass buttons shone brilliant in the midday sun. He was laughing at Billy. "Don't take it so hard, mate. The convicts, hell, some of my own men listen to you."

"Capt. Jacobs doesn't listen to me."

Swann snorted. "Jacobs doesn't listen to anyone."

They both watched in silence as Albert bustled to and fro, excitedly pointing out ideas and visions for his little house and chapel to the colony's carpenter. Almost every skilled job in the community was performed by a convict. It had surprised Billy at first, but the dangers of the wilds, the French, the Indians, and the noose were a better jail than any iron cage. The people here were here until an armed British escort took them out.

From the corner of his eye, Billy could see Swann watching Locke with a pleasant expression that fell somewhere between curiosity and fondness. It was an expression he knew well, for so many reasons, and for so many reasons, it made his blood run cold.

"Just let him have this. He likes you and he's dead set on keeping everyone here gainfully employed in something other than farm labor."

Billy studied Swann, searching for the chink in the armor or the tell, some hint that this was a bizarre game. "I'm a convict. You could just order me to do this."

Swann shrugged. "Some of my peers might take that approach, but I don't see why I should. If you're that committed to clearing brush, you can stay on the lines. But," Swann clapped him on the shoulder, just once, "I think you'd do well at this, and so does the reverend."

Saying "yes" to this inspired a dearth of confusing feelings and possible outcomes. The idea of building a house for Abigail appealed to some baser need to please her, while simultaneously raising his hackles at the fact that it was a home she'd be sharing with another man. Agreeing meant he'd be seeing more of her, as Locke would no doubt want her input throughout the process. Billy liked the idea of seeing more of her, almost as much as the idea horrified him. Seeing more of her was the absolute worst thing he could do.

"Fine."