*Hattie*
The horse is soaked with blood, and my arms are shaking from the effort of holding Martin upright. His weight is dead against mine. His head droops on my shoulder, breath shallow, barely there. The smell of smoke clings to the breeze, and the sky above the trees is stained the color of rust and ash.
We round the bend, and at last, I see the white slats of the Monroe house through the trees. The sight nearly knocks the breath out of me. As we enter the yard, I call out with what little strength I have left.
“Help! Mrs. Monroe! Help! Please!”
The front door flies open, slamming behind her as she crosses the porch and rushes down the steps.
“Hattie? What the blazes?”
“This boy is hurt bad,” I choke out, barely able to speak through the pounding in my head. “He’s a British sol
