“But why burn the house when they were retreating?” Abigail asked.
“Revenge for the dead and wounded,” said James. “Might be hoping it will kill a few of us as well.”
“Instead it will just leave nothing for my brother to come home to, if he can,” she said.
“Where is your brother?”
“No idea. The Rebs took him. They said they needed men and he was not allowed to say no.” She turned to look toward the wall between the kitchen and the front room where she stood. “I should move my parents. I think the fire has reached that wall.”
Abigail had barely finished speaking when a creaking groan echoed through the room. She stared at the wall and cried out when it abruptly began to collapse, smoke, ash, and a hint of flame swelling up behind it. Still smoldering, the wood fell on her parents’ bodies but when she moved to go toward it, two of the men grabbed her by the arms and held her back.
“They are burning up,” she cried out as she struggled to get free of their hold.
“I dinnae think they would wish ye to join them,” Matthew said as he took James’s place and got a firm grip on her arm.
She finally stopped fighting, tried to ignore the smell of the smoke coming off the bed, and felt tears dripping down her cheeks. “I was going to bury them. Together. Now there will be nothing to bury.”
“I suspicion there will be something left, but ye will be gone.” Matthew winced, thinking he had just been too hard, but there was no reaction from her on his words.
“Why?” She hated how her voice sounded when she cried but forced herself to ask. “Where am I going?”
Knowing they had to get out, Matthew used a few quick but clear signals to tell his men to check outside for the enemy. “Ye will come with us. Gather what ye can and need. Quickly, for the smoke is growing too thick and the fire will soon come for us.”
“That chest,” she said and pointed to the one she had pulled away from the bed as she fought to push her grief back.
Abigail pulled her arm away from his loosened grip and moved to a table set near the door. She collected up the photograph of her mother and father, one of them before they had left the city to come here. She wished she had made them get one of her brother, Reid, but all she had left of him was in the trunk she had saved. A drawing of the cabin done shortly before he had been taken away, his mouth organ, and his fancy boots were all that she had left of her brother. Glancing back at the burning bed, she shook her head and strode out the door. It was so little of a life Reid had only just begun to live.
Boyd sat outside, away from the cabin, in an attempt to escape any live sparks and the smoke, her chest beside him. He watched the men gather up the horses as she sat down on the chest and tried very hard not to think of anything. Watching her home burn down held all her attention until Matthew stepped between her and the sight.
“We cannae take the chest on the horses,” he said, and worried about the blank look on her face.
“Then we can use the cart,” she said in a disturbingly flat voice. “George is still in the stable and he can pull it.”
Matthew looked toward the barn. “Thought they took all your horses.”
“George is a big, old plow horse. He did not want to go.” She slowly stood up, moving like an old woman. “Da brought him all the way from Pennsylvania. I think the men tried, but it looked like one got bitten so they obviously decided to leave him. Didn’t have the time to coax him, I guess.” She started toward the barn and Matthew fell into step beside her. “He will pull the cart. It will carry Boyd, too.”
“Oh, aye.” He glanced back at the younger man. “He cannae ride weel with only one arm.”
At the door to the barn he glanced down at a flat stone set in the ground to the right of the door.Pendragonwas clearly painted on it, neatly but with a flourish. It was an odd thing to write on a stepping stone.
Abigail began to open the door, saw what had caught his attention, and sighed. “One of the Rebs shot my cat. It was a senseless thing to do. And mean. He was no threat.” She wiped away the few tears that slipped the leash she held on her grief, wondered who she cried for, and stepped into the barn.
“Aye, it was senseless and probably just mean, but a lot of that happens in a war.”
She just nodded, not in the mood to talk on men and their wars. “There is the wagon.” George neighed in welcome. “And there is George.”
Matthew looked at the horse and nearly smiled. He was a big animal obviously bred for strength. He had seen one from time to time when some farm boy joined them with his big farm horse, a mount that was soon changed. If the men she spoke of had tried to take George it was either to pull a wagon or a cannon or even to try and send it home to their farm. It was the type of horse old armored knights had ridden into battle.
He moved to the wagon first and Abigail followed him. He stared at the wagon. It was a good size and looked solid but it had been painted black, a shiny black decorated with a lot of painted flowers. Did Abigail really expect any self-respecting soldier to ride in or drive such a wagon? He also wondered why she had felt the need to do it as it must have taken her a lot of time.
She suddenly uttered a glad cry and scrambled into the back of the wagon. Matthew did his best not to look at her slim legs as her skirts rode up but failed. She moved toward the long metal box set behind the driver’s seat. He hoped whatever had been in it was still there as he studied the horse and plotted the best way to approach it.
“Ha! They did not take any interest in this.” Abigail pushed aside a few dresses and pulled out a small box. “They would have taken it if they had.”
“Why? What is in it?”
Abigail hesitated only a moment in answering. She had seen nothing to tell her these men could not be trusted. If she proved wrong in that judgment she would deal with the consequences later. Right now, they were allies.
