“I got together with some other farmers and we rounded up more ferals last year,” Mike said as they passed the last field. “That’s where I got the oxen, too. And you’ve never lived until you’ve tried to turn a feral bull into a plow-ox.”

Herzer laughed again as they came in sight of the house. It was a low, log structure, rough in appearance but sturdy and well made. The barn to the side of it was much larger and made of a combination of logs and sawn wood. There were two or three other outbuildings as well.

“Leave it to you to have a better barn than you do a house,” Herzer chuckled.

“That’s what Courtney keeps saying,” Mike replied. “But we’re not made of money.”

The woman in question came out the door as Herzer was loosening Diablo’s saddle. She was a short, buxom woman with fiery red hair and an open, smiling face. Having watched her negotiate, Herzer was well aware that that heart-shaped face masked a mind like a razor, but he was fairly sure the smile in this case was genuine.

“Herzer,” she yelled, pulling her skirts away from the child at her side and running to the hitching post. “Where did you come from?”

“Harzburg,” he said, picking her up and kissing her on the cheek. As he did he noticed a decided roundness to her abdomen. “Got another one in the oven?”

“Yes,” she said with a tone of asperity. “This will make three.”

“Three?” he asked then nodded. “I hadn’t realized I’d been gone that long.”

“Little Daneh is in the crib,” she said, gesturing at the child that was still hiding by the door. “Mikey, come here. This is our friend Herzer.”

The boy shook his head and then, as her face clouded up, darted in through the door.

“I doubt he’s used to strangers in armor at his door,” Herzer said then frowned. “I hope he doesn’t get familiar with strangers in armor at his door.”