One

1863—Sort of

Jane Jeffry shifted the heavy gunnysack to her other shoulder and almost stumbled. The field was rutted and the stubble of last year's wheat crop dragged at the hem of her calico dress and poked at her legs through her prickly black wool stockings. Her feet hurt in her tightly laced shoes, but they were the only things keeping her ankles from collapsing. It was so hot. She and her friend Shelley could have walked to town along the dusty track at the edge of the field: it would have been shadier and easier walking, but there were dangers in the woods. Desperate men with hair-trigger tempers, empty bellies, and eyes and hands starved for the sight and feel of women. No, it wasn't safe to walk near the woods where soldiers — or worse, deserters-might be hiding. If only she'd worn a bonnet with a wider brim to keep the sun off her face.

There were other women making the long trek to town for supplies as well. Jane looked over her shoulder and could tell that the threesome a few yards behind was suffering, too. Their postures were wary but exhausted, and one rather plump young woman had a face as red as a beet.

Jane glanced past Shelley at the inviting shade and wished they'd thought to bring water along. "I'm thirsty," Jane complained.

“It's not much farther," Shelley said. She, too, was suffering from the heat. The ties of her bonnet were sweat-soaked and she was squinting against the bright August day. "It's too bad ladies can't go into the saloon in town. But there's that pump in front of the saddler's. We can get a drink there.”

They stumbled on for a few more feet and Shelley suddenly stopped, putting her hand out to signal Jane to listen. There was the faint sound of a bugle.