single shot being fired.
She’d never imagined that a gang of jayhawkers would come charging to the ‘rescue,’ indiscr iminately shooting and killing. Try as she might, she still couldn’t expunge the image of that bloodthirsty, white-haired man waving a cutlass over his head. She’d never seen such avid hatred as she’d seen in that man’s eyes.
Mercy slowly shook her head, willing herself to block out the horrific memory. Walking over to the well, she drew a bucket of water from which she filled a metal dipper.
“ Would you like some water?” she asked Prudence once the nausea had abated.
Her sister nodded shakily as she accepted the dipper.
“Perhaps you should go back inside. One of us ought to look after Mama.”
“She’s . . . she’s still sleeping,” Pru managed to say before greedily gulping several mouthfuls of water.
‘ Still sleeping.’ Thank God.
The last thing that Mercy wanted was for her mother to witness this atrocity. Last year, after the bushwhackers killed her husband, Temperance Hibbert had suffered a terrible physical malady that paralyzed the left side of her body and afflicted her speech. Overnight, her mother had become an old woman, her blond hair turning gray, all the vitality sapped from her body. With good reason, Mercy feared what would become of her mother this time around.
As she d ejectedly peered around the farmyard, Mercy took a deep breath, inwardly steeling herself. “Prudence, we must . . . we must harness Old Blue to the wagon so that we can . . . can remove these bodies to the lower field.”
Pru’s periwinkle blue eyes opened wide. “I don’t understand.”
“We must bury these men as soon as possible,” Mercy said gently, knowing that her sister had yet to consider the unpleasant ramification of having seven dead corpses in the yard. “If we do not, we’ll have to contend with the vultures and such.” Mercy directed her gaze to the feathered carrion circling overhead. Quite intentionally, she failed to mention that the stench from putrefying flesh would soon be unbearable.
“Why do you wish to bury them in the lower field? Wouldn’t it be easier to bury them next to Papa?”
“No! I will not have our father’s grave desecrated by these fiends.”
Mercy swiped at several angry tears. Turning away from her sister, she strode toward the barn, trying her best to ignore the shocking sight of so many dead, motionless bodies. It was a n impossible feat as she suddenly glimpsed a stiffened arm raised in the air.
As she neared the barn, Mercy caught sight of something glinting in the sun light. Bending at the waist, she retrieved the two framed daguerreotypes that she’d tossed aside the previous evening in her haste to arm herself with the pitchfork.
“Why, it’s Papa’s picture,” Pru exclaimed, reaching for one of the frames. “And Benjamin and Ethan’s, as well. Whatever are these doing here?”
Mercy saw the puzzled look on her sister’s face.
“Spencer McCabe gave them to me last night just before the shooting began,” she said flatly, humiliated to recall the way in which she’d writhed in his arms and begged for his kisses. She’d behaved like a harlot. If the jayhawkers hadn’t attacked when they did, there’s no telling how far she would have let her passions take her.
“I told you that he wasn’t a bad man,” Pru said as she deposited both pictures into her skirt pocket.
“Humph!” Mercy lifted her skirts and continued to the barn door. She didn’t wish to unduly alarm her sister by mentioning Spencer’s threatening farewell.
When , a few moments later, they stepped inside the barn, the two of them stopped in their tracks. Riddled with bullet holes, the barn was illuminated with multiple beams of dust-laden sunlight. As they took stock of the damage, they both noticed the same thing at the same time – their plow horse, Old Blue, was nowhere to be seen. Running to the back of the barn, Mercy shoved the doors wide
She’d never imagined that a gang of jayhawkers would come charging to the ‘rescue,’ indiscr iminately shooting and killing. Try as she might, she still couldn’t expunge the image of that bloodthirsty, white-haired man waving a cutlass over his head. She’d never seen such avid hatred as she’d seen in that man’s eyes.
Mercy slowly shook her head, willing herself to block out the horrific memory. Walking over to the well, she drew a bucket of water from which she filled a metal dipper.
“ Would you like some water?” she asked Prudence once the nausea had abated.
Her sister nodded shakily as she accepted the dipper.
“Perhaps you should go back inside. One of us ought to look after Mama.”
“She’s . . . she’s still sleeping,” Pru managed to say before greedily gulping several mouthfuls of water.
‘ Still sleeping.’ Thank God.
The last thing that Mercy wanted was for her mother to witness this atrocity. Last year, after the bushwhackers killed her husband, Temperance Hibbert had suffered a terrible physical malady that paralyzed the left side of her body and afflicted her speech. Overnight, her mother had become an old woman, her blond hair turning gray, all the vitality sapped from her body. With good reason, Mercy feared what would become of her mother this time around.
As she d ejectedly peered around the farmyard, Mercy took a deep breath, inwardly steeling herself. “Prudence, we must . . . we must harness Old Blue to the wagon so that we can . . . can remove these bodies to the lower field.”
Pru’s periwinkle blue eyes opened wide. “I don’t understand.”
“We must bury these men as soon as possible,” Mercy said gently, knowing that her sister had yet to consider the unpleasant ramification of having seven dead corpses in the yard. “If we do not, we’ll have to contend with the vultures and such.” Mercy directed her gaze to the feathered carrion circling overhead. Quite intentionally, she failed to mention that the stench from putrefying flesh would soon be unbearable.
“Why do you wish to bury them in the lower field? Wouldn’t it be easier to bury them next to Papa?”
“No! I will not have our father’s grave desecrated by these fiends.”
Mercy swiped at several angry tears. Turning away from her sister, she strode toward the barn, trying her best to ignore the shocking sight of so many dead, motionless bodies. It was a n impossible feat as she suddenly glimpsed a stiffened arm raised in the air.
As she neared the barn, Mercy caught sight of something glinting in the sun light. Bending at the waist, she retrieved the two framed daguerreotypes that she’d tossed aside the previous evening in her haste to arm herself with the pitchfork.
“Why, it’s Papa’s picture,” Pru exclaimed, reaching for one of the frames. “And Benjamin and Ethan’s, as well. Whatever are these doing here?”
Mercy saw the puzzled look on her sister’s face.
“Spencer McCabe gave them to me last night just before the shooting began,” she said flatly, humiliated to recall the way in which she’d writhed in his arms and begged for his kisses. She’d behaved like a harlot. If the jayhawkers hadn’t attacked when they did, there’s no telling how far she would have let her passions take her.
“I told you that he wasn’t a bad man,” Pru said as she deposited both pictures into her skirt pocket.
“Humph!” Mercy lifted her skirts and continued to the barn door. She didn’t wish to unduly alarm her sister by mentioning Spencer’s threatening farewell.
When , a few moments later, they stepped inside the barn, the two of them stopped in their tracks. Riddled with bullet holes, the barn was illuminated with multiple beams of dust-laden sunlight. As they took stock of the damage, they both noticed the same thing at the same time – their plow horse, Old Blue, was nowhere to be seen. Running to the back of the barn, Mercy shoved the doors wide
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