Chapter Two

“They are gone, sir,” James said.

Matthew tore his gaze from Abigail. “Are ye sure?”

Before James could reply, there was the sound of breaking glass and they all crouched down. Matthew stared toward the door of the bedroom where the sound had come from but, despite a few added odd sounds, there was no sign of an attack being set up. He was just standing up to go and look when there was another crash of glass breaking toward the back of the house and he went back down into a crouch.

“Thought you said they had left,” he muttered, glancing at James.

“Saw them all ride off. Didn’t see none turn back.”

“Yet some must have circled back.”

“Not sure we can be certain of that without getting our heads shot off,” said Dan.

“I smell smoke,” said Abigail as she began to stand up.

“Stay there and stay down,” Matthew ordered. “Skirts and fire dinnae mix well.” He stood up and headed for the bedroom door.

Abigail sat down and muttered, “I am not one of your damn soldiers.” She looked at Boyd when he laughed weakly. “What?”

“In times like these we are all soldiers. A war forces us into the job sometimes.”

“That is a very dark view of things.” She frowned when he shivered. “You are growing cold. You should have said that you were cold.”

She moved and grabbed the handle of a chest set at the foot of the bed holding the bodies of her parents. As she began to drag it over to where Boyd sat, one of the other men hurried over to help her. She looked at his roughly cut brown hair and blue-gray eyes and recalled that Matthew had called this man James.

“Thank you kindly, James,” she said. “It was a lot heavier than I remembered.” Matthew abruptly cursed in a loud startled voice and she looked at him. “What is wrong?”

“Handle is hot.” He touched the door. “So is the door.”

“The kitchen,” she said, and dropped the quilt she had been lifting out of the chest for Boyd then stood up.

“Stay there,” Matthew ordered again and strode toward the door leading to the kitchen. Even as he braced himself to touch another hot door handle, smoke began billowing out from beneath the door. “The fire is going weel in there, too.”

“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. Pendragon was 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.

“A bit of money and the papers that give us the right to this land. We kept things in this box since the day the war began because we could not be sure when we might have to flee. That is why the deeds for the land are here so the one or ones who survived would have something to come back to. I never thought I would be the only one who might use them,” she added in a soft, broken voice.

He watched her as she carefully put everything back in the box. Matthew did not think she was aware of it but she was a fine-looking young woman. Her hair was thick, a soft golden brown that looked as if it wanted to curl, held back only by the braid she had forced it into. She was small, but curved in all the right places. It was her storm gray eyes that were the most striking. Her face was pretty but it was her eyes that held a person’s attention. He had already noticed how they darkened with emotion and lightened if she was amused. Her mouth was full and looked temptingly soft so he quickly looked back at the horse. It had been far too long since he had even kissed a woman, and watching her too closely was just asking for trouble.

They were deep in the middle of a vicious war. It was a bad time to be eyeing any woman with interest, he told himself. He had to get her someplace safe and leave her there, then get back to what he had signed up to do until his time was up. After that his plan was to get home and back to something that was normal, something that did not involve constantly killing or running or burying compatriots.

“Will George allow us to hook him to the wagon?”

“He will. He likes me and he is more than ready to do something, I think. He is, after all, a working animal.” She walked up to the stall the horse was in, held herself steady when he nudged her, and patted his neck. “Now, my big boy, you are going to be put to use and you are to be polite to the gentlemen. You have been restless to do some work and now is your chance to show what you can do.”

Although he was made uneasy by the way the horse eyed him, Matthew helped her hitch the wagon to the animal. Once in the harness the animal did seem pleased. He watched as she went back in the stall after fetching a stick of charcoal. She was writing on the wall of the stall and he was wondering why when Abigail stepped out and put the charcoal back on a rough shelf. She then got up in the seat and drove the wagon out of the barn. Matthew resisted the urge to go and look at what she had written and slowly followed because he wanted to see the faces on his men when they caught sight of the wagon.

“Ah, good, we will need that for Boyd,” said James, whose eyes narrowed as he finally gave the wagon a good look. “What the devil is all over it?”

“Flowers,” replied Abigail as she hopped down. “I like flowers and they are easy to draw.”

“Why is it black?” asked Boyd.

“Because it now looks fresh and new and black paint was all I had. But the flowers dress it up nicely, don’t you think?” She turned and walked over to Boyd to push open the lid of the chest set beside him to search for a blanket.

James slapped his hand over Danny’s mouth when the man opened it to speak, turned him around, and shoved him toward the horses. “Very nicely done, miss,” James said, and followed Danny.

“They hate it,” Abigail said as she approached and paused to trail her hand along the side of the wagon. “I was much younger but, to be truthful, I still like it.” She put the quilt she had removed from the chest by Boyd and spread it on the bottom of the wagon. “We best get him inside, don’t you think?”

“Good idea.”

“Just make sure his arm does not bump into anything or allow him to put any weight on it.” She kept a close watch on Matthew as he helped Boyd climb into the wagon then hurried back to the box to close it and bring it back.

Abigail intended to slide it in next to Boyd. She felt it would keep him steady in the wagon bed. It was important to her that he did not do anything to or with that arm. His injury was one of the most serious she had ever worked on and she needed to know she had done it right. It was selfish; she knew her concern should all be for Boyd, but she could not help it. She wanted to know she had done right by the younger man and she would only be sure of that when he was healthy again.

She stood back and studied the wagon then sighed and grimaced. Although she still liked it, she could see how the men might find it a bit less than a joy to ride in. They were probably concerned that someone they knew would see them. At that thought, she smiled, and climbed into the back of the wagon.

“I assume one of you fellows knows how to drive a wagon,” she said and then busied herself fixing the quilts so that she and Boyd could ride comfortably.

“I can,” James said with a reluctance he could not hide and jumped onto the seat.

Matthew and the others mounted their horses after tying James’s up behind the wagon. When James started the wagon moving, Abigail settled back against the box, which she had covered with a blanket. She had no idea of where they were taking her and wondered if she should be concerned. The more she fretted over it the more concerned she became. Matthew moved to ride by her side of the wagon.

“Where are you taking me?” she finally asked.

“Bit late to ask, isnae it?” said Matthew and grinned when he heard her growl. “Back to the town we came from. There is someplace ye can stay there. There are a number of women there, ones, weel, who lost their place because of the war. Ye will do just fine there.”

“Whether I want to go or not,” she muttered softly.

Boyd chuckled. “It is a good place, a nice place. The women are nice.”

“Well, they probably are to you.”

“What does that mean? Why would you think they would be nice to me?”

“Because ye are a bonnie lad,” said Matthew, and laughed when he glanced back and caught Boyd blushing.

“But now I am broken so it will be different, I think.” He glanced at Abigail when she laughed. “What do you find funny?”

“Just trust me to know, the hurt arm will simply be used as an excuse to help you with everything. It is not your arm they think of as bonnie.”

The men laughed and Boyd gave them all a cross look before saying, “It is a good place, Abbie. There are about seven women there of all ages and a few children. You will not be alone, and from what little I know of them, they all seemed quite nice, friendly, and kind. Well, all except Mrs. Beaton who seems to rule the place.”

“Mrs. Beaton used to be the wealthy leader of society in the town,” said Matthew.

“Ah, I see. Is it her house?”

“It is. It used to be headquarters but once we had collected up several widows and a couple of children it was decided it would serve better as the house for the women and all. Fortunately she offered before someone had to demand it. We keep her supplied with what food we can.”

Abigail nodded, beginning to get a picture of the place. “So it is big enough for her to have her family and a lot of guests.”

“Her family was just her husband and he died so, yes, it is big enough.”

“Must be near as big as your place, sir,” said James.

“My place is not just mine. Whole family shares it. My brothers are thinking of adding on to it.”

“How many brothers do you have?” asked Abigail.

“Six.”

“Good Lord,” Abigail said, and James laughed. “That is an impressive family.”

“It is my brothers, my elder brother’s wife and daughter and his wife’s nephew Ned. We built a little cottage for Mrs. O’Neal and her kids, too. She is the one who helps around the house.”

Abigail could not picture it but she nodded and smiled. She would have loved such a large family. Instead, she had had a very small family and now she had none. Hastily correcting herself, she thought she only had one left because she did not want to send Reid any hint of an ill fate. She inwardly shook her head at her own superstitions and became determined not to feel sorry for herself. For most of her life her family had been small but happy and that was the memory she would hold fast to.

“What were ye writing on the stall?” he finally asked.

“A message for my brother if he returns here.”

She looked at the scenery passing her by and realized she had rarely left the cabin once they had moved in. Her mother had not liked it when she and Reid had wandered far. When their father took them for a walk he had always had a specific place and it was most often through the orchard to the creek. She frowned. Her parents had not been very adventurous despite their move to this new place. Then the troubles in the hills had begun, the harsh determination of some to make people pick a side in the coming war, and they had felt their caution had thus been thoroughly justified.

“You have a fine apple orchard, Miss Abigail,” said Boyd.

“Thank you. It produced well, too. Father would take the apples to market and make a decent living. Mother kept hoping he would return to being a doctor, but he had lost the heart for such work.”

“Your father was a doctor? Why did he never hang his shingle out here?”

“Well, Da had too much heart. He could not abide causing pain to anyone or anything, and when all his fine knowledge and skill failed, he grieved. But the biggest reason was the wrong person died under his surgeon’s knife.”

“What do you mean?”

“He had to operate on a rich young woman, one from a very high social station. Once he opened her up he realized what ailed her was nothing he could ever fix so he sewed her up again. He always knew she was going to die. What he did not understand was why her family blamed him. But they did and their talk eventually lost him his place and he decided to just leave them all behind.”

“What did she have?”

“Da called it a malignancy. He could never explain it well for me but he did say that it grows and it kills you. I gather it can grow anywhere in the body, even in blood and bone. Doctors can recognize it but cannot fix it. He suspects one day they may figure it out but not now.” She shrugged. “I decided it is probably what kills people and leaves everyone surprised.”

Boyd nodded and Abigail returned to looking at the scenery, leaning her head back and letting the sun warm her face. Soon, her eyes closed and she found herself thinking of her family, praying for her brother. She sighed and just let her thoughts roam through the memories.

* * *

Matthew peeked in the back and saw that both Abigail and Boyd were asleep. It was probably for the best as it would take a while to get back to their camp but a step or two outside of Missouri. He did not know how she had lasted as long as she had because there were a lot of men traveling through these hills with little concern about who lived here. There were small skirmishes all the time and few were noted. He would be surprised if he found more than half of the people who had called these hills home still lingering in the hills.

He sighed at his part in that even though he had only fought to defend. It was evident he was not a warrior, which had to be an embarrassment to his ancestors. What he ached for besides peace was home. He wanted to be in his workshop making something with wood that could be useful and beautiful. Shaking his head, he shoved those thoughts aside. They were driving a decorated wagon through woods that often served as hiding places for bands of Rebel marauders or soldiers and he could not let his mind wander.

Dan and Jed rode as if waiting for a battle. James drove with his rifle on the seat beside him. Matthew kept his weapon close but prayed they would meet no trouble. He just wanted to get Abigail and the wounded Boyd someplace safe.

“Think Miss Abigail will like the ladies’ house?” asked James.

“Why wouldn’t she? It is safer than where she was,” said Matthew.

“Don’t know except I get the feeling none of the ladies are particularly happy. Meet one from time to time and, no, don’t get the feeling they are happy.”

“Weel, they have all lost a lot and are probably just as weary of this war as we are.”

“True. Have you met Mrs. Beaton?”

“Nay, why?”

James shrugged. “I have and she is a sour, rigid woman who has some specific ideas of how things should be done and how people should act. Reminds me of a woman back home who many of the other women disliked. A rich woman who knew little about how regular folks lived and clearly had no interest in finding out. Could be all that there is and she would be a trying person to live with.”

“They dinnae have any other choice. It was Mrs. Beaton who opened her house to the women when she finally got it back. Very charitable of her.” When James laughed, Matthew looked at him in question.

“Just thinking that might be what is the problem. The charity of it, especially if one is reminded too often of that very kindness. And I am thinking Mrs. Beaton is a woman who will mention it as often as she can.”

Matthew chuckled. “True enough. Weel, as said, Abigail has no choice and I am sorry if it ends up grating on her heart but she cannae stay where she was.”

“Nope. That lack of choice is always hard to swallow, too.”

Nodding, Matthew hoped it would not be too hard on Abigail. He had a strong need to make sure she was somewhere safe, so there was no choice for him. He just promised himself he would keep a watch on her.

The rest of the way back to the little town they were headquartered in was peaceful. It was growing dark and the evening shadows grew. Pulling up in front of the house, Matthew got down from the wagon and went to the back only to find that the stop in motion was enough to rouse Abigail. Boyd slept on and she immediately checked his forehead for signs of fever.

“Ye can stay here,” Matthew said as he helped her down. “It will be safe for you.”

“Where?” Abigail looked around at the houses on both sides of the street.

“That house,” he said, and pointed to a large white house on her right. “Do ye nay recall? We told ye there are other women there and a few children as weel. All of them have lost their homes and families. We call it the Woman’s House.”

Abigail stared at the big three-story house and idly wondered why such a huge fancy building had even been built here. “How sad. I suppose we will at least have something in common.”

He nodded and walked her to the door as the men brought her chests. He knocked and Mrs. Beaton herself answered. At the door, he introduced her to Mrs. Beaton who directed the men to put the chests in the upstairs hall and then he left her there. He needed to get Boyd to the place where the infirmary had been set up so he shook aside his inexplicable guilt and hopped back up into the wagon seat.

When they carried Boyd into the infirmary the doctor quickly showed them to a bed. The man looked over Boyd’s wound then tied the restraint for his wounded arm back on. He straightened up and frowned.

“Who tended to this wound?”

“A woman we just brought in,” answered Matthew. “Her da was once a doctor and she appeared to ken what she was about.”

“Oh yes, she knew. That is what surprised me. I expected to find a still untended wound under the bandages. She did much the same as I would have done. Where is she?”

“At the Woman’s House. Mrs. Beaton’s?” The doctor nodded. “It was at her place where Boyd got wounded. Since she was alone when the fight ended we brought her here.”

“Good. I have to think on it but I might go speak with her. Help is always needed here but I rarely find anyone with any skill. That a woman may well be the one I need is a bit shocking. The boy is fine for now but I cannot say what the fate of that arm will be. May heal and still be useless.”

“That is what Abigail said.” Matthew shook his head. “I can only hope ye are both wrong.”

The doctor just smiled faintly when Matthew shook his head and left. It was not a look that gave Matthew any hope. It really looked as if Boyd’s soldiering days were over. Some might be delighted by that, but he knew Boyd would be deeply disappointed. The boy had seen little of the war so far and still held his dreams of glory in battle.

Then he and the men took the wagon to the stables. They all stood patiently as the man running the place laughed heartily over the wagon. Matthew decided it should have been expected especially after all the looks they had gotten as they had entered the town. Leaving it in the still chuckling man’s care, he joined his men as they all made their way back to the tedium interrupted with moments of terror that had become their lives.