Free Paxton's War by Kerry Newcomb Page A

a good man. Father thinks the world of him.” Knowing something was wrong, but not sure what, she hesitated before she went on. “Father knows you’re here,” she finally said. “It might be best if you saw him now. If you like,” she added as a measure of comfort, “I’ll go with you.”
    With no reason to refuse, Jason followed her back to the picnic through the crowd, which was busy quaffing tankards of ale and flying brightly colored kites while children chased after pet puppies and mothers chased after children. A merry confusion was the order of the day. The meadow in which the picnic was held was a huge circle, in the middle of which a section had been set aside for a horseshoe-throwing contest. Stakes had been hammered into the ground, shallow pits dug, and teams organized. Jason’s first view of Ethan Edward Paxton, his father, whom he hadn’t seen in four years, was of a man, his small teeth clenched and his dark eyes squinted, heaving a rusty horseshoe through the air. The pitch was magnificent. It cut a long, lovely arch and landed with a satisfying thump before neatly surrounding and clanging against the stake.
    â€œFifty points clean!” someone shouted as a cheer went up from the spectators.
    Money and goods changed hands as bets were paid off. Ethan’s teammates crowded around him and slapped his back, finally letting him go to retrieve his tankard of ale from a nearby table.
    â€œNow’s as good a time as any,” Joy suggested.
    Ethan Edward Paxton was one of those men who never seemed to age. At fifty, he looked fit and stronger than ever. His hair was thick and wavy and only slightly gray at the temples. His eyes were the same deep brown as Hope’s and they shone with the same determination Jason had seen in Allan’s. His rolled-up sleeves revealed great bulges of hardened muscle, and it was said he could still, when occasion demanded, fell a mule with one blow of his fist, an impressive feat for a man of any age. No matter how important his position as a landowner and merchant, it was obvious that he hadn’t forgotten that he came from a sturdy, stubborn stock of pirates and pioneers.
    It seemed an eternity, but no more than ten seconds passed as the two men looked at each other. “Good afternoon, Father,” Jason finally said in a measured voice.
    Ethan slapped the dust from his hands, then took a long drink of ale. Was there tenderness in his eyes as he gazed at his son? Was there a longing to embrace him? For a fleeting second, Jason thought his father would extend his hands, his arms, and that he might actually take him to his bosom. But he didn’t, and when he spoke, his voice was dry and harsh, and his words were free of sentiment. “Did you come back to fool with your music,” he asked, “or to fight for your land?”
    As he had been with Allan, and as he could see he would be more than once again before the afternoon was over, Jason was trapped. Unbidden, anger surged through him, and it was only with effort that he kept his voice neutral. “I came back because I missed my home,” he said noncommittally.
    Ethan peered at his son, then shifted his eyes toward Peter Tregoning. “A British officer.” He wiped the foam from his lips with his forearm. “A friend of yours?”
    Accused, tried, and hanged. No questions asked, no defense allowed. What has the war done? Is my own father, my own flesh and blood, as obdurate and quick to judge as Allan? Can he have so little faith in me? Can he truly think, even for a second, that I would sell out all I love so dearly? Father, Father …
    â€œYes,” Jason said stubbornly.
    Ethan’s eyes narrowed and his hand balled into a fist. “You’d best entertain him, then,” he finally said, getting control of himself. He drank, then spit a stream of ale into the dust. “I know you want to make him feel right at home,”