“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?”

“Eventually, it’ll be on the border between North and South Carolina. Right now, it’s about a hundred miles or so …” She turned, squinting up at the sun for direction, then stabbed a long charcoal-blackened finger toward a copse of white oak saplings. “… That way.”

“You know the one about how, to an American, a hundred years is a long time, and to an Englishman, a hundred miles is a long way?” he asked. “If the folk hereabout aren’t all Englishmen, they’re definitely not Americans yet. I mean, it is a long way. You’re not telling me ye think we’re going to have to go to Kings Mountain for some reason?”

She shook her head, much to his relief.

“No. I just meant that when I said Patrick Ferguson was going to start a fight here … I meant … here. The backcountry.” She’d pulled a grubby handkerchief from her pocket and was absently rubbing the charcoal smudges from her fingers.

“He’s going to raise a Loyalist militia,” she added quietly. “From the neighbors. We won’t be able to stay out of it. Even here.”

He’d known that. They’d known it. Talked about it, before finally deciding to try to reach her parents. Sanctuary. But even reaching for that sanctuary, they’d known that war touches everyone and everything in its path.

“I know,” he said, and put an arm around her waist. They stood still for a little, listening to the wood around them. Two male mockingbirds were having their own personal war in the nearby trees, singing their little brass lungs out. Despite the charred ruin, there was a deep sense of peace in the little clearing. Green shoots and small shrubs had come up through the ashes, vivid against the black. Unresisted, the forest would patiently heal the scar—take back its ground and go on as though nothing had happened, as though the little church had never been here.

“Do you remember the first sermon you preached here?” she asked softly. Her eyes were fixed on the open ground.

“Aye,” he said, and smiled a little. “One of the lads set a snake loose in the congregation and Jamie snatched it up before it could cause a riot. One of the nicest things he’s ever done for me.”

Brianna laughed, and he felt the warm vibration of it through her clothes.

“The look on his face. Poor Da, he’s so afraid of snakes.”