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clothes on my back and the money we were going to use for spring supplies. Far as I know, it’s all still there gathering dust.”
    The judge leaned back in his chair and seemed to be thinking. Finally, he reached for pen and ink then opened his drawer to find paper.
    “What’re you doing, Caleb?” Josiah asked, his voice rising. “You’re not turning him in, are you? Micah Tate is a good man, and you know it. Why, just last night over supper my father declared him to be the only candidate to replace him in the pulpit.”
    “He’s likely to change his mind when he hears my story,” Micah said.
    Josiah stepped into Micah’s line of sight. “If you believe that, you don’t know Hezekiah Carter very well. He’d likely just tell you that to whom much is forgiven, much is expected.”
    The truth, and Micah knew it. Trouble was, he hadn’t quite decided what it was like to be forgiven.
    Caleb continued to write. When he finished, he set the pen aside. “I’ve written a letter of inquiry regarding one Micah Tate—that is your proper name, is it not?”
    “It is.”
    Nodding, Caleb continued. “I’ve written to ask of any charges against you, Micah, and to inquire as to whether I should send you back to the Austin Colony to face them. As for me and my jurisdiction, I’ve got no reason to hold you lest you’ve committed more crimes to which you’d like to confess.”
    Micah’s attention went to the page where the ink had all but dried on his future—and his past. “That’s fair, Caleb. More than fair, actually. And no, other than coveting Miss Ruby’s cooking, I’ve done a decent job of behaving myself since I landed here.”
    “This militia,” Caleb continued. “Did you join up formally, or did Mr. Austin take volunteers?”
    Micah swiped at his brow with the back of his sleeve. “We were volunteers, all of us who lived in the colony. Those who could fell in with Mr. Austin and the Mexicans when called. Those who couldn’t were free to stay behind.”
    “Free to stay behind?” Caleb looked as if he might be thinking hard on the topic; then he shook his head. “If only those went who could, then what of those who found their situations had changed? Would they not, then, be free to go and attend to whatever called them back?”
    A slight glimmer of something close to hope began to dawn on him. Micah looked over at Josiah then back at Caleb. “I suppose.”
    “What makes you so bent on punishing yourself for desertion when you just told me what you did, if it were done by anyone else, would be permissible?”
    “I, well. . .” His gut tightened even as something in his heart loosened. “I guess I didn’t think of it that way.”
    Again the judge seemed to be contemplating something. “Then here’s what I figure,” he said. “A man takes a commission—then he’s obligated. If he’s volunteering and it’s not wartime, that’s another matter altogether.”
    Slowly Micah managed a nod. “But the militia. I was obligated and I left.”
    “Let it go, Tate.” The judge shook his head. “You were called home by bereavement. That’s a different matter altogether.”
    Josiah clasped his hand onto Micah’s shoulder and gave him a firm shake. “You did what any of us would have done, Micah. You went home. There’s nothing dishonorable in that.”
    “You did not walk away from the battle,” Caleb added. “Though I warrant you must have felt you walked into one.”
    Micah recalled opening the door to his—their—home and feeling as if he’d been hit in the gut by grapeshot. Caleb Spencer spoke the truth. He lowered his gaze.
    Soon as he could manage it, Micah would find his escape. He had plenty to think about.
    “I appreciate your candor, Tate,” Caleb said. “Now if there’s nothing further you’d like to discuss, I would prefer to talk about that boat out at the dock and the job you’ll be doing for me.”
    Micah lifted his head and found Caleb staring, his expression almost