It had been the sight of the pistol butt protruding from one of the mare’s saddle bags as well as De Witt’s more obvious credentials that had prompted the Ranger to take the preacher aside and enquire quietly if he and his wife might be willing to look after a couple of strays in the person of a twelve-year-old orphan boy and a racoon hound of a more indeterminate pedigree.

When the pastor had asked after the boy’s parents, Wyatt had seen no reason to hold back. Neither, after revealing what he knew of the boy’s background, had he spared details in describing how Will and Beth Archer had died. What he had not disclosed was how the boy had dispatched one of his guardians’ attackers with a hatchet. The last thing he’d wanted was for either De Witt or his wife to think that they would be taking some delinquent ne’er-do-well under their wing.

The reverend, who’d known of the Archers through mutual acquaintances within the Loyalist community, had turned pale at the telling. When he’d summoned his wife to apprise her of the situation, the anguish in her face had mirrored that of her husband.

“Oh, my dear Lord – the poor wee boy!” she’d gasped, lifting a hand to her throat in horror.

“Can’t argue with that, ma’am, but probably best not to make a fuss over him,” Wyatt had advised. “From my dealings with the lad, I’d say he’s got true grit and then some. My sense is he’s strong enough not to need any reminders. He just needs to sit for a spell. It’ll hit him hard eventually and when that happens—”

“You can rest easy on that score, Lieutenant,” the pastor had reassured Wyatt firmly. “Esther and I’ll not crowd him. War makes orphans of us all in one way or another, and Mrs De Witt and I have seen more than our share of pain in that regard. And if there’s one thing I’ve learnt in ministering to those who’ve suffered a loss, it’s that people vent their sorrow in all sorts of ways. With some, it leaks out a few droplets at a time, while others keep the grief bottled up so tight it’s like watching water rising behind a dam, so that when the hurt becomes too much to bear—” The pastor clenched a fist against his chest. “Well, I don’t have to tell you. All we can do is offer comfort if and when that happens and place our trust in the Lord.”

Not being a particularly religious man, Wyatt wasn’t sure if the pastor had been expecting him to say ‘Amen’ at that point, but he’d made do with a solemn nod, which had evidently sufficed.

“What’s his name?”