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fighting, dying. Dying as her Johnnie had—her tall, beautiful son, who would never smile at her again, never sneak into the kitchen for an extra biscuit.
    As the sounds of battle echoed in the distance, Sarah forced back fear, forced herself to go on with the routine of stirring the stew she had simmering over the fire. And to remind herself that she had had Johnnie for eighteen wonderful years. No one could take her memories of him away. God had also given her two beautiful daughters, and that was a comfort.
    She worried about her husband. She knew he ached for their dead son every day, every night. The battle that had come so frighteningly close to home was only one more cruel reminder of what war cost.
    He was such a good man, she thought, wiping her hands on her apron. Her John was strong and kind, and her love for him was as full and rich as it had been twenty years before, when she took his ring and his name. And she never doubted his love for her.
    After all these years, her heart still leaped when he walked into the room, and her needs still jumpedwhenever he turned to her in the night. She knew all women weren’t as fortunate.
    But she worried about him. He didn’t laugh as freely since the terrible day they’d gotten word that Johnnie had been lost at Bull Run. There were lines around his eyes, and a bitterness in them that hadn’t been there before.
    Johnnie had gone for the South—rashly, idealistically—and his father had been so proud of him.
    It was true enough that in this border state of Maryland, there were Southern sympathizers, and families ripped in two as they chose sides. But there had been no sides in the MacKade family. Johnnie had made his choice with his father’s support. And the choice had killed him.
    It was that she feared most. That John blamed himself, as well as the Yankees. That he would never be able to forgive either one, and would never be truly at peace again.
    She knew that if it hadn’t been for her and the girls, he would have left the farm to fight. It frightened her that there was the need inside him to take up arms, to kill. It was the one thing in their lives they never discussed.
    She arched her back, placing the flat of her hand at the base of her spine to ease a dull ache. It reassured her to hear her daughters talking as they peeled potatoes and carrots for the stew. She understood that their incessant chatter was to help block the nerves that jumped at hearing mortar fire echo in the air.
    They’d lost half a cornfield this morning—the fighting had come that close. She thanked God it had veered off again and she wasn’t huddled in the root cellar with her children. That John was safe. She couldn’t bear to lose another she loved.
    When John came in, she poured him coffee. There was such weariness in his face, she set the cup aside and went over to wrap her arms around him instead. He smelled ofhay and animals and sweat, and his arms were strong as they returned the embrace.
    â€œIt’s moving off, Sarah.” His lips brushed her cheek. “I don’t want you fretting.”
    â€œI’m not fretting.” Then she smiled as he arched one silver-flecked black brow. “Only a little.”
    He brushed his thumb under her eye, over the shadows that haunted there. “More than a little. Damn war. Damn Yankees. What gives them the right to come on my land and do their killing? Bastards.” He turned away and picked up his coffee.
    Sarah sent her daughters a look that had them getting up quietly and leaving the room.
    â€œThey’re going now,” she murmured. “The firing is getting farther and farther away. It can’t last much longer.”
    He knew she wasn’t talking about this one battle, and shook his head. The bitterness was back in his eyes. “It’ll last as long as they want it to last. As long as men have sons to die. I need to go check things.” He set down the