His thoughts roiled as he imagined scenarios, considered everyone he’d known when he lived here, as he tried to figure out what had happened, and why Travis was so convinced that he needed to take the blame for someone else’s crime. Had Travis made another friend after James left? If so, no one had mentioned it, but then again, why would they? James made a mental note to check the visitor’s log when he went to visit Travis again—see who visited. Maybe the arsonist was showing up, either to make sure Travis stayed quiet, or perhaps out of guilt or shame. James rolled his eyes and gave up his convoluted thinking. He needed to find cold, hard facts, not wild speculations on people’s motives, or lack thereof.

Finally, he pulled onto the drive which led to the farm and slowly pulled to a stop near the blackened rubble. Wind whipped around his body as he plodded through the snow. The dark sky, the blowing snow, the charred rubble all contributed to the bleakness of what was left. If ever anything was needed to make someone lose all hope, this scene was it.

He tried to imagine the farmhouse before it had been burned to the ground. What had it looked like that night before the fire? What had Travis…not Travis, but rather Whoever-started-the-fire, seen that night? What had caused them to torch the place? Was someone so angry with one or all the Pearces that they thought it was worth destroying the home and everyone in it? Who would harbor such anger? James knew almost everyone in town, except the Pearces. He couldn’t think of a single person who’d hold on to this much hate.

In his mind’s eye, the farmhouse erected. Sturdy. Two-story. Picture windows…no, not picture windows. Old, single-paned glass set in ancient wooden frames that were painted the same white hue as the siding which covered the walls. James closed his eyes as he imagined the fire starting. Flames ignited to lick the outside walls, and then high-pitched shrieks echoed. The gruesome picture, the sounds, even the scent of the smoking ruins made his brain fill in the details. Every sense stirred, even his skin seemed to feel the heat as flames feathered up. The roar of the fire blended with the screams in his head, seemingly so real, he wanted to open his eyes and distance himself from his imaginings.

But he didn’t.

Mary’s words melded with the screams and the flames. They came here five years ago from England—England, no less—took over the Parker farm, and showed us a spirit like, I don’t know, they just so loved being here and farming and working the land.