Remembering everything Tommy had taught her about horse riding, Claire guided the horse in a southern direction. She had to get to Aunt Becky’s house.

Aunt Becky was Grandpa’s brother’s wife. She owned a boarding house in Natchitoches. At least she had, before the war.

As far as Claire knew, Grandpa hadn’t heard anything from her in several years.

As she rode through the trees, the air was heavy with smoke. The Yankees were burning everything in their path.

She passed by a farm and saw a farmer setting fire to his own bales of cotton.

Claire knew exactly what he was doing. He was burning his cotton to keep the Yankees from getting it. The northerners needed their cotton. But they wouldn’t be getting any cotton if the southerners had anything to do with it.

She was far enough away that she could no longer hear the commotion from the fires.

But there were fires everywhere. She coughed and swept an ember from her sleeve. Were the Yankees burning the whole world?

This was most definitely a problem.

Claire, however, had a much bigger problem at the moment.

She was lost.

Now that some of her initial trepidation about managing the horse was subsiding, she looked around to try and get her bearings.

Claire had never been this far away from home alone. She had certainly never been off the road, except of course, to hunt in the area behind her house.

Something rustled in the leaves and she jerked the reins. The horse skittered to the side. Claire cooed to the horse, attempted to avoid being thrown.

This was a soldier’s horse, doubtless, nothing like the gentle creature Tommy had taught her to ride.

She took a deep, steadying breath.

I can do this. I can figure this out.

She considering approaching the farmer setting fire to his cotton, but she really wanted to stay as far away from that as possible.

She searched her mind for things Gramps had taught her about the outdoors.

Moss always grows on the north side of trees.

Maybe it was the east.

Glancing around, there was no moss to be seen.

Oh bother.

Claire was an indoor girl. Only outside when planting in her garden or watching the sunset. Not trying to find her way out of the forest.

She felt behind her. The soldier had left his saddle bags. Perhaps there was food. Eventually she would come to something.

A road. A house. A path.

The country was civilized, after all.

Picking her way through the brush, her optimism lagged.

Keeping the sun to her left, she traveled south.

Aunt Becky lived in Natchitoches which was south of Grand Ecore, at least what was left of it.

Besides, she wanted to keep the fighting and burning behind her.

The Yankee soldiers.

The very reason she was in this predicament.

Rogue Yankee soldiers.

She shuddered.

Yankees were bad enough without going rogue. Truly, the same could be said of Southern soldiers.

Claire grew tired as the sun reached midday. She chewed her bottom lip as she considered how she would get back on the horse if she got down to rest for a few minutes.

No matter, she thought, needing to relieve herself.

After gently urging the horse to stop, she slid off its back, landing heavily and unceremoniously on her feet.

Leading the horse to a low branch, she tied him up and, after taking care of her business, examined the Yankee’s belongings. He had a tent and a blanket. And a canteen full of water which she drank greedily. Then she dug into the soldier’s saddle bag. The northerners certainly had it better. He had salt pork, peas, and some dried fruit, along with a couple of biscuits. There was hardtack too, but Claire had a particular distaste for that. She sat on the ground and ate until she was full—which didn’t take long, considering her recent lack of food.

She gathered everything back up and wiped her hands on her skirts.

She heard voices. Men’s voices. Laughter? And singing. Actually more like chanting.

Her heart in her throat, she untied the horse, and led him behind a fallen tree. Crouching low, she watched for movement in the direction of the voices.

A sea of blue approached only a few yards away.

Had she been that close to the road, after all?

She held her breath as they passed. Please don’t let them see the horse. Please. Please. Please.

As they passed, she squeezed her eyes tightly closed and waited as the dust nearly made her cough.

Waited until she could hear them no more. And the dust settled.

Then waited some more.

When the birds began to sing again, she took a deep breath, and stood up.

Looked up at the horse’s saddle.

She put one foot in the stirrup and, grabbing the saddle horn with both hands, pulled herself up and sat astride the horse.

She heaved a sigh of relief and started to pick her way toward the road.

As she approached the road, she was confronted with a decision. A crossroads of sorts. To turn back towards Grand Ecore and look for Jeffrey or turn left and make her way to Aunt Becky’s house to wait for her grandfather.

Her heart yearned for Jeffrey, but she was no match for the soldiers that stood between them. The soldier who had given her his horse had known that doubtlessly better than she could begin to imagine.

She didn’t know his name and it was not likely that she would be able to return the horse which was the property, she supposed, of the U.S. Army. Unlike southern boys who brought their own horses to the war with them, northern boys had been issued their horses, much like one would issue a rifle and rations.

In that way, the war was much different for the two sides.

She wondered what Jeffrey thought about being in the south. Where he had come from. Where he was now.

Was he safe, at least?

Her heart ached to think that she might never see him again.

Her grandfather’s house had burned down and he didn’t know about Aunt Becky.

He would not know where to begin to look for her, nor she him.

Tears welled in her eyes at the overwhelming sense of loss. And it occurred to her that she had fallen in love with him.

She had fallen in love with the enemy. And now he was lost to her.

She swiped at her eyes with the back of her hands. She wasn’t sure which one was worse. It was quite a combination. Her enemy. Her lost love.

Reaching the edge of the road, she pulled on the reins. Listened to the silence and the stillness.

Then guided the horse to the south.

She would find Aunt Becky and wait there for her until Gramps found her.

The horses’s hooves striking the ground comforted her. Made her feel less alone.

The scent of smoke, again, became heavy on the air. Either the Yankees were setting fire to everything in their wake, or the southerners were doing it for them.

The destruction weighed heavy on her heart.

She passed by a plantation engulfed in flames. Holding the horse back, she watched the grand columns as they fell like broken kindling and were gobbled up by the fire.

She hoped the plantation was deserted. No one attempted to save it. Perhaps they had done as she and Gramps had done. Just let it be. They had had an excuse though with the Yankees all around them.

Claire traveled until her eyes grew heavy. The sun was setting and the night was growing chilly.

Guiding the horse far enough off the road so as to not be visible, she slid from its back. She tied the horse to a tree and it found some green grass to nibble on. Shivering, she pulled the blanket from the horse and, after finding enough to eat to quiet her rumbling stomach, wrapped the blanket around herself and lay down.

She thought about all the food she had carefully stored for them to eat—potatoes, flour, peas. All burned in the fire.

Her bed. She especially missed her bed at the moment. Claire had never slept outside in her whole life.

She should have been to Aunt Becky’s by now. She must be on the wrong road. She resolved to stop at the first house she came to tomorrow and ask for directions into Natchitoches.

A wolf howled in the not so far enough distance. She got up, pulled a pistol she had come in the saddlebags and lay back down. Stared at the ground.

Watched for slithery things and listened for wild animals until she couldn’t keep her eyes open another moment.

She woke with a start.

Where was she?

She had no pocket watch, so she could only guess that it was in the dead of night. And there were no stars out tonight.

Lying perfectly still, barely daring to breathe, she wrapped her fingers around the pistol.

Ever so slowly, she sat up and, reaching out her hand, touched the horse’s leg. The horse stepped away from her, but at least it offered some vague sense of companionship in this darkness.

Taking her blanket, she found a tree that she remembered being nearby and sat against it. Wrapped the blanket around herself and nodded back to sleep.

When she woke again to enough light to see, at least vague outlines, a raindrop splashed against her hand.

She groaned. And the splash of rain became a steady downpour.

She gathered up the blanket and pulled herself back onto the horse.

Better to be moving than sitting still.

By the time she made it back to the road, she was drenched. And could barely see through the torrents running down her face.

I wanted a bath, she thought wryly.

And… at least the road was deserted. Who wanted to get out and travel in this kind of weather when they didn’t have to? Probably not even soldiers.

The first house she passed was still in darkness so she didn’t disturb them. The second house, a few yards further, glowed with a light from the window. She guided the horse toward the house and, again, slipped from its back.

Shivering, she walked through mud puddles to the door.

She must look a sight. Bloody, soaked dress, muddy shoes. A person would have to be out of their mind to open their door to her, much less let her inside their house.

She turned, deciding at the last minute to let the people inside be.

The door opened and she turned back around, her feet frozen, whether from the mud or indecision, she didn’t know.

She squinted, but couldn’t tell who stood in the doorway. It, in fact, appeared to be two people, but she could barely see through the rain.

“Come in, out of the rain, child,” a kindly woman said.

Claire felt tears mingling with the rain at the kind invitation.

“Get out there and take her horse to the barn,” the woman said.

A child ran out into the rain and took the reins from her.

“Get in here,” the woman insisted, coming out on the porch.

Claire went up the stairs out of the rain.

“How in the world did you end up out here?” the elderly woman asked. “Never you mind. We’ll get you dried off and into some dry clothes.”

“I don’t want to track up your house,” Claire said, looking inside at the cozy, clean house.

“Don’t you mind that.”

Claire stepped inside the little house out of the rain, and if she hadn’t been soaked, would have hugged the woman. “Thank you so much for your kindness.”

The boy who had taken her horse came back into the house.

“Daniel, go to the well and bring in some water. We’re gonna fill up the tub.”

Daniel dashed back out. The woman stoked the fire and hung a large kettle over the fire.

“My name is Hazel Ketchins,” the woman told her. “What is your name, dear?”

“Claire Whitman.”

Hazel paused, turned, and studied Claire. “Let me get you a blanket while the water heat,” she said. “The house is small, but it has a good design. My husband, God rest his soul, knew how much I loved my bath and he had a real nice tub brought in for me. Even made room in the bedroom to keep it.” She talked as she opened a trunk and took out a large blanket and wrapped it around Claire.

Claire shivered as she buried herself in the warmth of the blanket. “You’re so very kind,” she said again.

Hazel chattered nonstop as the water was heated and poured into the claw-foot tub in the main bedroom.

Once she deemed the bath ready, though, she left Claire alone, and went back into the kitchen.

The rain had stopped and the sun was up enough now that Daniel was outside doing other chores. She heard Hazel moving about silently in the kitchen.

Claire lowered herself into the hot water and settled back into the tub. Sighed with bliss and closed her eyes. What must it be like to have a bathtub in the house all the time? What a luxury. Grandpa and Grandma had had a wooden tub that hung on the side of the house. It was something of an ordeal to get it down and bring it inside the house for a bath. Mostly, Claire just used a cloth to wipe herself clean. Although she did that every night before going to bed, nothing compared to a full bath.

Relaxed now, and warm, Claire opened her eyes and studied her surroundings. The house appeared to be of moderate size. The bedroom was at least twice the size of the bedrooms of her old house.

A long curtain created a private bathing area on one side of the bedroom. A chamber pot stood in the corner.

The house was clean and well-kept. There was no clutter and very little decorations. In times of war, this was not uncommon. Many people sold off luxury items to buy necessities. Claire had even read in one of the newspapers about a family melting down their silverware to make bullets.

“Knock, knock.”

Claire sat up, sloshing war over the edge. “I’m sorry. I’m still in the tub.”

“No need to rush. I just wanted to bring this dress in for you to wear. I’ll just put it on the bed and leave it there for you.”

“Thank you,” Claire said, and held her breath until she heard the door close and Hazel had left the room.

Ready to be dressed now in this stranger’s house, Claire toweled off, and ventured out to examine the dress she had left laid out on the bed.

It was a solid brown dress—not particularly fashionable, but tasteful nonetheless. It had a high neckline and long sleeves. But most of all, it was clean. No mud. No blood.

Claire slipped it on over her head and held the extra material at the waist in her hand. Perhaps her hostess had a belt she could wear around her waist.

“Mrs. Ketchens,” Claire said, opening the door a crack.

Hazel immediately appeared at the door. “Much better,” she said.

“Do you have a belt of some type?” Claire asked, indicating the overly large fit at the waist of the dress.

Seeming to consider, Hazel went into the bedroom and opened a trunk. She handed her a dark green sash which Claire tied around her waist to take up the extra material.

Feeling civilized again, Claire followed Hazel into the kitchen.

Hazel had made a breakfast of eggs and biscuits. The food was fresh and so much better than hardtack. She told her so.

“We’ve been fortunate,” Hazel told her. “The Yankees have gone south and mostly skirted around Natchitoches.”

“How far are we from Natchitoches?” Claire asked, finishing her breakfast.

“We’re right on the edge of town. Is that where you’re headed?”

“I’m headed to my aunt’s house. She lives in Natchitoches.”

“What’s your aunt’s name? Perhaps I know her.”

“Becky Whitman.”

Hazel’s eyes widened. “Oh dear. I do know her.”

Hope bloomed within Claire’s heart. She was so close to her aunt’s house which meant that her grandfather could find her. But the expression on Hazel’s face quickly faded her optimism.

“You haven’t heard?” she asked.

Claire shook her head slowly, pushed her plate back away from the edge of the table and braced herself.

“I’m afraid your Aunt Becky succumbed to illness last winter and passed into the next life.”

“What?” Claire swallowed the lump in her throat.

“She died.”

Claire shook her head. “How? Grandpa just got a letter from her a couple of months ago.”

“I’m not sure. She took ill. I don’t know the details. And you know how slow the mail is with the war.”

Claire couldn’t move. Her thoughts collided upon each other. Aunt Becky gone? How could that be?

“I’m sorry dear,” Hazel was saying.

“Thank you,” Claire said automatically. She was sorry for the loss of her aunt. Especially for Grandpa. Becky had been his last living child. He would be devastated.

“What about her home?”

“I heard tell it was taken over by a Yankee officer and his wife. You don’t want to go there.”

Daniel came to the door and called Hazel to come outside. Hazel left Claire to herself.

Claire washed her plate, dried it, and put it away.

Then she went into the sitting room and, perching on a chair, waited for her hostess to return.

What was she to do now? She was supposed to meet Grandpa at Aunt Becky’s. But Aunt Becky was dead and her house was occupied by the enemy. How would he find her?

She shouldn’t have left him in Grand Ecore. Something had to be done.

As she struggled to grasp a way out of her situation, Hazel returned from outside. She stood blocking the door, her hands on her hips.

“How did you come to be in possession of a Yankee horse?” she asked.

“A northern soldier gave it to me. He was trying to keep me safe.”

“Just gave you his horse. And his provisions. And his gun.” Hazel brought the gun out of her skirts, held it up.”

The hairs at the back of Claire’s neck bristled.

“Are you a horse thief or a traitor?” she asked.

“I’m neither. We were set up by Yankees in Grand Ecore. The soldier put me on the horse and told me to go. My grandfather told me to meet him at Aunt Becky’s house.”

“I sent Richard to town to fetch the marshal.”

“What? Why would you do that?”

“I find it difficult to trust a southerner who happens to be in possession of a horse that doesn’t belong to her. Especially a horse that belongs to the enemy.”

“I assure you it was happenstance. He was merely trying to defend my honor.”

“Is that so? It’s hard for me to imagine a Yankee defending anyone’s honor.”

“I’m sorry you don’t believe me, but that’s the way it happened.”

Claire bristled at the woman’s close-minded outlook on the Yankee soldier who had doubtlessly saved her life.

“We’ll see what the marshal says when he gets here. We can’t very well have a horse thief running around, now can we?”

“He gave it to me,” she said, keeping her voice steady.

“It’s out of my hands now.”

“I’ll just go,” Claire said, standing up. “I appreciate you letting me come in out of the rain, but I won’t impose on you anymore.”

“Oh, no, missy,” Hazel said, putting her hands on her ample hips. “You’re not going anywhere.”

Claire sank back into the chair. Her heart sank to her toes. She was a prisoner.

Again.