The stables were locked when Kevin and Irene made it back. The owner and his wife watched with weapons propped on the balcony railing as the guards let them enter. Most of the other stalls were already emptied of people and horses and goods. Fast as they could, he and Irene lashed all their sacks onto the horses. Kevin stowed the militia’s items in a burlap sack he tied to his saddle horn. But the night and the market chaos were their friends. They joined the refugees and traders pushing out in every direction. Twice in the distance Kevin heard gunfire. But they were not challenged.
The farther they rode from Farmers Market, the quieter the night became. By the time they turned off onto the country trail leading back to where their team bivouacked, they had the route to themselves.
Irene maintained her normal silence, speaking only twice. The first time, she said no one seemed to be focused upon hunting them, or even searching in this general direction. Kevin started to ask how she knew, but then he left the question unspoken. Now that the danger was past, his body felt flooded with banked-up fatigue. His leg throbbed in the manner of a healing wound. His head thumped in time to his limb. His eyelids weighed a ton each.
The second time Irene spoke was to warn him they had just passed the farm’s turnoff. When they entered the main yard, Kevin slipped from the horse’s back, stumbled into the barn, found an empty horse stall, and was asleep before his head touched the straw.
It was early afternoon the next day before Kevin awoke. Someone had draped a horse blanket over him while he’d slept. He knew it was late because of how the sun shone through slats on the barn’s western side. Rich smells of wood smoke and cooking drifted through the barn’s open doors. He heard birdsong, then a young man’s laughter. When he stepped into the yard, Pablo greeted him with a bar of soap and a length of sacking. He directed Kevin to shower stalls used by farm workers during the harvest. Kevin reveled in the sensation of being clean, despite the water’s shocking cold. He remained there until the shivers forced him to retreat, then dressed in clean clothes from his pack.
When he emerged, Irene walked over bearing a mug. “Feel better?”
“Extremely.” He accepted the mug, took a grateful sip. The tea was just as he liked it, strong enough to melt the spoon, a lot of milk, a trace of sugar. “Perfect.”
“I know.” She smiled at him as Tula walked over with a thick farmer’s sandwich. “The wife came out this morning with two fresh loaves, butter, tin plates for us to eat from, and a wedge of cheese she’d made herself. And news the Atlanta garrison has been called north.”
Kevin felt a faint stirring of unease, one he could not identify. He surveyed the farmyard and his team as he ate but found no reason for his disquiet. The bread was excellent, the cheese even better.
“She also lent us a big pot,” Irene said. “We’re making stew with what you brought. It’s almost ready.”
He thanked her and realized all the others were watching them. Pablo waved to him from his guard position out by the rear well. Kevin lifted his mug in reply.
Tula asked, “More tea?”
“That would be great.”
“He likes it with too much milk and not enough sugar,” Irene said. When Tula moved off, Irene added, “They’re very grateful for what you did.”
“I imagine bringing you back safely means as much as having fresh food,” Kevin said.
“Taking our side in a fight means the most of all,” she replied. “They need a leader.”
There it was again. The label that left him staring at the gaping void ahead of them all. How could he be called that when he had no idea where they were going? He turned from that by asking, “Did you sleep okay?”
“Time and again I flashed awake over how close we came to not getting out.” She tilted her head, as though needing to inspect him from a different angle. “You weren’t scared last night, were you?”
“Absolutely. I was petrified.”
“No you weren’t.”
“Not like you mean. I can’t tell what people are thinking. But I get . . . impressions.”
“Like how a guy likes his tea.”
Irene offered him a full-lipped smile. “Now you’re making fun of me.”
“Only a little.”
Tula returned with a fresh mug and said, “John wants to have a word.”
“John?”
As if in reply, the farmer appeared around the barn’s corner and walked over with outstretched hand. “John Handy.”
“Kevin Ritter.”
“Want to thank you for bringing my horses back unharmed.”
Kevin waved for Pablo to join them. “They’re good animals.”
“That they are. Heard you had yourselves a ruckus in town.”
“Do you have any idea why the Charlotte militia would make a sweep?”
“Stirring up trouble, most like.” John gestured toward the truck hidden in his barn. “I expect you know more than you’d like to say about troublemakers from Charlotte.”
“I try to steer clear of them,” Kevin said.
The farmer wheezed a laugh. “Our closest neighbor was at market last night selling produce. Claimed some big fella knocked half a dozen militia boys for a loop, stole their weapons, got clean away. You know anything about that?”
“If he did,” Pablo said, “it would be foolish to discuss it.”
The farmer laughed again. “We’re all pals here, right?”
“Sure thing,” Kevin said. “And we’re grateful for your hospitality.”
“And the bread,” Irene said. “And cheese. And utensils.”
Kevin returned to the main point. “Did your neighbor say anything about why the Charlotte militia ventured this far south?”
“Not a thing worth repeating. Got our own troops swarming like angry hornets, I can tell you that much.”
Pablo asked, “Which direction?”
“North by east is what I heard.” The farmer avoided meeting their eyes by kicking at the dust. “When do you aim on heading out?”
“We had thought today,” Pablo replied.
“Tomorrow’s better. Big rain coming in this evening. First summer storm of the season.” As if in confirmation, there was a faint rumble against the clear blue sky. “There you go, now. Storm’s near ’bout close enough to touch. Plus our own patrols are out in force just now. You best wait for things to settle down.”
Kevin offered his hand and tried to put some feeling into his response. “Thank you very much, John.”
The farmer retreated, saying, “The wife’s making up a batch of crackling bread. It’ll go right nice with that stew of yours.”
Soon as the farmer moved off, Irene said, “What he said about the Atlanta militia. That was a lie.”
Carla offered, “Forrest says no one is coming our way. But there’s a lot of traffic out on the main roads. And guns.”
“Tell the team to pack their gear,” Kevin said. “We eat and we load and we drive.”