“We were all thinking of you, and of that specific story; it’s the one with the illustration of a blue pictsie. And … then we were lying on the ground, almost literally in pieces, but … alive. In the right time. And together.”
Jamie made a small sound in his throat—the only inarticulate Scottish noise I’d ever heard from him. I looked away and saw that Jem was awake; he hadn’t moved but his eyes were open. He sat up slowly and leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
“It’s okay, Grandda,” he said, his voice froggy with sleep. “Don’t cry. Ye got us here safe.”
Part Two
* * *
NO LAW EAST OF THE PECOS
11
Lightning
ROGER STEPPED INTO THE clearing and stopped so abruptly that Bree nearly crashed into him, and saved herself only by gripping his shoulder.
“Bloody hell,” she said softly, looking past him at the ruin that confronted them.
“That’s … putting it mildly.” He’d been told, of course—everyone from Jamie to Rodney Beardsley, aged five, had told him—that the cabin that had served the Ridge as church, schoolhouse, and Masonic Lodge had been struck by lightning and burned down a year ago, during Jamie and Claire’s absence. Seeing it, though, was an unexpected shock.
The timbers of the doorframe had burned but still stood, a fragile black welcome to the charred emptiness on the other side.
“They took away most of the burnt wood.” Brianna took a deep breath, walked up to the empty doorway, and looked around. “Probably charcoal for smoking meat or making gunpowder. I wonder how hard it is to get sulfur these days.”
He glanced at her, not sure whether she was serious or just trying to keep the conversation light until the shock of seeing his first—his only—church destroyed had passed. The only place he’d been—for a little while—a real minister. His chest felt tight and so did his throat—but he put aside his sense of disquiet for the moment and coughed.
“You’re intending to make gunpowder? After what happened with the matches?”
She narrowed her eyes at him, but he could tell now that she was deliberately making light of things.
“You know that wasn’t my fault. And I could. I know the formula for gunpowder, and we could dig saltpeter out of people’s old privies.”
“Well, you can, if digging up ancient privies is your notion of fun,” he said, smiling despite himself. “Did your researches tell you how not to blow yourself up while making gunpowder?”
“No, but I know who to ask,” she said, complacent. “Mary Patton.”
Whether she’d intended it or not, the distraction of her conversation was working. The feeling of having been gut-punched had passed, and if he still felt the pangs of memory, he was able to put them aside to be dealt with later.
“And who’s Mary Patton, when she’s at home?”
“A gunpowder maker—I don’t know if there’s a name for that profession. But she and her husband have a powder mill on the Powder Branch of the Wautauga River—that’s why it’s called the Powder Branch. It’s about forty miles from here,” she said casually, squatting to pick up a blackened chunk of charcoal. “I thought I might ride out there next week. There’s a trail—even a road, part of the way.”
“Why?” he asked warily. “And what are you planning to do with that charcoal?”
“Draw,” she said, and tucked it into her bag. “As for Mrs. Patton … we’re going to need gunpowder, you know.”
Now she was serious.
“You mean a lot of gunpowder,” he said slowly. “Not just for hunting.” He didn’t know how much powder the household had; he was no kind of a shot, so didn’t hunt with a gun.
“I do.” She turned her head, and he saw her long, pale throat move as she swallowed. “I read some of Daddy’s book. The Soul of a Rebel.”
“Oh, Jesus,” he said, and the qualm he’d suppressed at sight of his ex-church came back with a vengeance. “And?”
“Have you heard of a British soldier called Patrick Ferguson?”
“No. Am I about to?”
“Probably. He invented the first effective breech-loading musket. And he’s going to start a fight here”—she waved a hand, indicating their surroundings—“pretty soon. And it’s going to end up at a place called Kings Mountain, next year.”
He searched his memory for any mention of such a place, but came up empty. “Where’s that?”