“Stay out of this, Dylan.” Flynn threw a scowl at the boy. At fifteen, Dylan was way too young to enlist. But with all the talk of war, the boy wouldn’t hesitate to run off and join first chance he had, same as Brody.

A few weeks ago back in October, Pennsylvania had started the draft. They’d heard of riots in some places. Over in Berkley in Luzerne County the military had been called in. They fired on a mob of rioters, killing four or five of them—if the stories about it were true. For a lot of people, the draft only served to remind them the war wasn’t going away as fast as everyone said it would.

Flynn reckoned the fighting would be over in another six months. No more than nine, which was the length of time for the conscription outlined in the bill President Lincoln had signed in July.

Six months was still long as far as Flynn was concerned, especially after reading reports about the Battle of Antietam and the horrific casualties, along with the stories about Bloody Lane with over five thousand injured or dead on Sunken Road alone. There was no way on God’s green earth Flynn was letting Brody join the Union Army, even if they’d supposedly won the battle.

“You ain’t going. Not unless they march in here and make you. And so far they haven’t.”

Brody’s dark brows came together in a ferocious scowl. More and more, the boy reminded him of Wyatt. Although Brody was bigger boned and brawnier than their oldest brother, he had the same swarthy dark hair and eyes and handsome features. They both took after their pa with their looks, whereas Flynn and Dylan had ended up with more of Ma’s fair complexion—green-blue eyes and light brown hair.

The older Brody got, he was starting to resemble Wyatt in more ways than just looks. He was ending up as stubborn and strong willed. And lately Flynn was getting along with him about as well as an old goat.

“I ain’t waiting to be drafted.” Brody picked up the rake he’d been using to muck a stall. “I’m no coward, and I’m aiming to go fight because it’s the right thing, not because someone’s telling me to.”

“Who says it’s the right thing?” As Flynn tossed out the challenge, deep inside he knew if not for his lame hip, he’d have enlisted already. Many a day over the past year he’d cursed his hip and Rusty for breaking it.