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man she loved, for his many valiant qualities, and even for his faults. The way he could make her laugh on those few occasions when he managed to say that he was wrong, and apologize.His face… oh, God, just to see his face…
    She jumped up suddenly, staring down the roadway. A horseman appeared on the road. He was dressed in a gray wool frock coat, she could see that much, slouch hat pulled low over his features.
    For a moment, her heart soared.
    He had come. He had ridden through the forest to keep himself hidden, and he had taken one of the narrow trails known only to the men who came from these parts. He had appeared on the roadway just in front of the house, coming with the greatest secrecy. The captain, her captain…
    But it wasn’t the captain. Even at a distance, far before she could realize she wasn’t seeing his beloved features, she knew it wasn’t her husband. This man rode differently. He didn’t sit quite as tall, he didn’t stare straight and hard ahead. He rode nervously, anxiously looking behind himself time and time again.
    His horse suddenly broke into a canter, and he turned through the gateway of the picket fence leading to her cousin’s house.
    “Mrs. Captain!” She heard herself hailed in the way that his men had come to reverently address her.
    It was young Lawrence Boulet, she saw, a sergeant from her husband’s company. Beneath the Rebel-issue frock coat draped around his shoulders—probably taken from a fallen regular-armyman—he wore dark trousers and shirt, and well-worn boots. He rode hard to the very steps of the porch, then drew his mount to a sudden halt.
    And it was then that it seemed her heart ceased to beat. The captain hadn’t come.
    This boy had come.
    No
, something deep within her cried. If the captain had been killed, she would know, she would know deep down in her heart. He couldn’t have been killed; they wouldn’t be fighting major battles now in this kind of cold, in the winter, at Christmastime.…
    But the captain was one of Mosby’s Rangers. They fought skirmishes, they hounded the Yank army, they stole supplies, and they fought at any given time. But she would know! In her heart, she would know if he had been killed!
    “The captain?” she whispered. “Lawrence, where is the captain? He is all right?”
    “I’ve—I’ve come for you,” Lawrence stuttered. “There was a skirmish. The captain and his group managed to steal nearly a hundred Federal horses and a good stock of medical supplies. But when they were trying to escape… a group of Custer’s men came down on them. They were outnumbered ten to one. The boys have all told me that you can ride well and quickly—”
    “Lawrence, how is the captain? Damn you!” she swore, shocking the boy, though she wondered how anything could shock anyone after the years of war. “Lawrence, you tell me now, does the captain live?”
    Lawrence exhaled. “Yes, Mrs. Captain—” he began, and in her relief she stumbled to the porch post to hold on so that she wouldn’t fall. “But—”
    “Oh, my God, but what?”
    Lawrence blinked back tears. “He’s been sentenced to hang within the next few hours. He’s—”
    “Hang?” Oh, God, yes, she’d heard about Custer’s ultimatums regarding Mosby’s Men. But she’d never believed that the captain might be caught!
    “Mrs. Captain, we’ve got to ride fast if you’re to see him. I can only take you so far, then you’ll be on your own,” Lawrence whispered miserably. “Maybe—maybe you can find some way to stop them.”
    She stared at him for a split second, then ran down the steps. Lawrence offered her a hand and she leapt up on his mount behind him, her heart racing. “How far do we have to go?” she demanded, slipping her arms around him to hold on for the ride.
    He hesitated again, then turned his head slightly,angling his face toward her. “Oak River Plantation, Mrs. Captain. I’ve—I’ve just got to get you home.”
    She was twelve, nearly