Nathaniel wakes in a cold sweat, heart racing and face slick with tears. That dream again—though calling it a dream would be far too kind. A nightmare, cruel and unrelenting, one he knows he will never escape. He can still feel the weight in his arms, the fragile, lifeless body of his beloved Elodie, still hear the splash of her sinking into the endless, uncaring ocean.

The first pale rays of dawn filter through the cracks in the wooden walls of his cabin, offering no comfort. The air inside is thick and cold, and Nathaniel sits up slowly, his hands trembling as they rise to cover his face. He flexes his fingers, trying desperately to rid them of the phantom sensation—the way her dress had clung to her, the way the stones pressed against his palms as he placed them around her to ensure the sea would take her forever.

He cannot escape it. Not in the light of day, and certainly not in his dreams.

This land was supposed to be a fresh start. A place where he and Elodie could build a new life, away from the crowded streets of England. Away from sickness and sorrow. Instead, it had taken her—ripped her from him in the cruelest way. And now her absence is a shadow that looms over him, heavier than the stones he'd placed on her body.

The settlement stirs to life outside. Voices, the clang of tools against wood, and the faint scent of smoke rise as the day begins. Nathaniel knows he should rise and help, do his part to bring the town to life. But instead, he sits there, hands falling to his lap as his head tilts back to rest against the wall, his chest tight with an ache that words cannot express.

There is only one place he can go, one person he can see who might ease this unbearable weight.

Her. The preacher's daughter, with her quiet demeanor and kind eyes. She had been the only one healthy enough to help him with the grim task at sea. If it could even be called a funeral, that is. Wrapping Elodie in her own clothes. Folding her hands around the wedding ring Nathaniel had slipped onto her finger with trembling hands on their wedding day. It was she who had laid the stones on Elodie's body, her small hands steady where his had failed. God forgive him, he hadn't been able to do it.

He rubs his face roughly, his calloused hands catching on the stubble he has yet to shave. How could he have done it? His wife. His Elodie. Dead because of him. Because he had wanted her to come with him, to share in his dream of the New World. A bitter laugh escapes his lips, low and hoarse, as he swings his legs over the side of the bed.

The thought of seeing her stirs something unfamiliar within him. Shame and guilt war with relief at the idea of her presence. She had been a balm to his broken soul in the dark days after Elodie's death, her soft words about faith and hope soothing him even when he had no interest in hearing them. But he hadn't sought her out since they landed.

It wasn't proper. A widower lingering around an unwed woman? The very thought would set tongues wagging.

And yet, as he pulls on his boots and rises, there is no question in his mind where he is headed.