“I was a lieutenant,” said Arthur. “And if you must know, I don’t like it, but it’s far preferable to giving your father another chance to hurt you.”

Rory bit his lip. He looked out at the town street again, and then suddenly said, “Yeah. Yeah, okay. I’ll stay here.”

Arthur’s eyes widened. “You will?”

Rory shrugged. “Yeah, I mean, I don’t got a job, I’m relying on you—might as well milk the helpless schtick, right?”

He hoped he sounded steadier than he felt, but probably not, because Arthur’s eyes softened. “You can control the wind and once sent the man who tortured me into the fifteenth century,” he said wryly. “I don’t think you’re helpless. You’re actually a little bit terrifying.”

Rory couldn’t help grinning. Then, his grin became a shyer smile. “You’d really go see my dad so I don’t have to?”

Arthur nodded.

Rory let out a breath. “Then yeah. Save me, soldier.”

Arthur visibly shivered. “Don’t you dare start with that,” he warned, “or I’ll call the whole thing off so I can take you back up to my hotel room instead.”

That was all Rory wanted too. He pushed his desire down. “My own soldier, fighting my battles,” he muttered to himself. “Is this really my life?”

“It is,” Arthur said firmly. “And I hope you start to believe you deserve it.”

The words stayed with Rory as he watched Arthur get in the car and drive away.

Chapter Eight

It was less than an hour to the church, an imposing stone building with a tall steeple. It was set back from the road on a large plot of land next to a schoolhouse and a small square building that might have been where Rory once slept.

Arthur’s driver pulled the car over onto a gravel drive next to the church, where a handful of other cars were parked. “This shouldn’t take long,” Arthur told him.

The man simply nodded. Arthur had hired him for the day; he’d be waiting.

Inside the church it was dim but not dark, with stained glass windows glowing in the late afternoon light. Rows of pews framed the path to the altar, where a boy of maybe ten was dusting.

Arthur’s throat tightened.

A woman with gray hair approached. “May I help you?”

Rory had lived here only four years ago. Some of the staff might even remember him. Arthur pushed the emotions away and tried to smile. “Yes, actually. I’m Congressman Kenzie’s son, here on behalf of our family’s charity. We heard about your orphanage and might be interested in donating. May I speak with Pastor Westbrook?”

“Oh!” The woman’s hands fluttered. “That would be wonderful. Yes, of course, I’ll get him at once.”