He’d had nearly four hundred miles and three weeks of riding to make up his mind, and it wasn’t nearly long enough. Good thing I’ve got another four hundred miles to think, he thought, grimly dismounting and picking up the horse’s mud-clogged left fore. Betsy had pulled up lame, and William hoped it was just a stone, and not a strain or a hairline crack in the bone. The thought of having to shoot her and leave her for the wolves and foxes was worse than the thought of walking for another thirty miles through ice and mud—but not by much.

Betsy was an obliging horse and let William squeeze her leg, feel his way down the cannon bone, and gently work her pastern joint. So far, so good. His fingers burrowed through the frozen mud caked thick around the mare’s hoof, his thumbs working into the frog—and there it was. A sharp stone, wedged solid beneath the edge of his shoe.

“Good girl,” he said, relief puffing out with his breath. He got the stone out, eventually, and walked Betsy for a bit, but the mare seemed sound, and they resumed their usual pace, going as fast as the road allowed. Weary of thinking, and hungry, William shoved all concerns beyond reaching a village before nightfall out of his head.

He succeeded, and it wasn’t until he’d looked after Betsy, eaten a decent supper, and retired to a fireless room and a cold, damp bed with a mattress stuffed with moldy corn husks that he resumed his cogitations.

Who first?

Every day he’d gone back and forth, back and forth in his mind, until his head buzzed and the road blurred before his eyes.

He was going to have to talk to all of them, but whom should he tell first? By rights, it should be Uncle Hal. Benjamin was his son; he had to know. But the thought of telling his uncle, of seeing realization wash over his haggard face … William had heard more than one English father declare fiercely that he should rather his son be dead than a coward or a traitor. How many of them really meant that, he wondered—and was Uncle Hal one of those who would?

His strong urge was to go to his own father first. Tell Papa everything, seek his advice, and … he smacked his fist into the squashy mattress. Whom was he trying to fool? He wanted to hand the burden of his knowledge over to Papa and let him tell Uncle Hal.

“Coward,” he muttered, turning restlessly over. He’d gone to bed fully dressed and in his greatcoat, only removing his boots, and moving destroyed the fragile layer of warmth he’d managed to build up.

Coward.