Page 65 of Christmas at Carnton

Ridley got a spooked sort of feeling. A little like . . . if Robert Green were to give the word, those thoroughbreds would charge that hill and stomp the life right out of him. All because Robert Green wished it so.

Hearing in his mind the question Mr. Green had asked, Ridley pulled his thoughts taut again. “Yes, sir. Go ahead.”

“Where you from, Lieutenant? I know by your speakin’ you ain’t from nowhere north.”

“No, sir. I’m not. I’m from South Carolina.”

Robert Green whistled low. “I’s guessin’ what you done ain’t gone over too well with your kin.”

Ridley pushed aside the painful images of his father and younger brothers. “No, sir. It hasn’t.” He turned his thoughts to figuring how he was going to get these thoroughbreds back to camp. He was a fair rider, but he’d never been especially good with horses. Not a fact he’d been eager to share with his commanding officer. He’d handled this many horses before, but not spirited blood horses, and he certainly lacked the knack for it this man possessed.

“But still . . . you’s fightin’ for what you think is right, Lieutenant. Speaks high of a man to do that, sir. ’Specially when it costs him dear.” Robert Green paused. “Anythin’ I can do to change your mind on this, Lieutenant Cooper? These here are the general’s favorites. And he trusted ’em to me special, sir. To keep ’em safe.”

Ridley leveled a stare. “I appreciate that, Mr. Green. But no. There’s nothing to be done. I’ve got my orders.”

The older man bowed his head, nodding. “Mind if I water ’em up ’fore you take ’em?”

“No. Long as you don’t mind if I come along.”

Robert Green took hold of the leads of two of the thoroughbreds and led them to the stream. The other two horses trailed behind. Ridley followed, rifle in hand.

The largest of the thoroughbreds, a black stallion, nudged up beside Green similar to how Ridley remembered Winston—his hunting dog as a boy—doing. He hadn’t thought of that ol’ dog in years, buried on the hill behind the house back home.

But it was how Robert Green leaned into the stallion that caused Ridley to study the scene. He’d never witnessed anything like it. Animal like that reacting toward a man this way. And he felt a disquiet inside himself, one he tried to dismiss. But couldn’t. He had a direct order. He had no choice but to do this. He couldn’t return without these thoroughbreds. And wouldn’t.

He followed Green back to where the horses had been.

Green turned to him. “You know anything ’bout horses, Lieutenant?”

“’Course I do.” Ridley heard the defensiveness in his own voice, for some unknown reason eager to prove himself to this man. He gathered the reins of two of the thoroughbreds, noting they were none too eager to follow him over the ridge. But finally, with firm insistence, they did.

“Blood horses like these,” Green said, coming down the hill behind him. “You gotta take special care with ’em, Lieutenant. They got high spirits, and they can—”

“I know about horses, Mr. Green.”

Green didn’t say anything, but his silence did.

“Lieutenant Cooper?”

His patience thinning, Ridley paused and looked back.

“If you got a mind to let me, sir, I go with you, a ways anyhow.” The man looked at the horses with fondness akin to what Ridley had felt for old Winston. “I go as far as the road runnin’ north of here, then I turn back. That rebel patrol . . . they catch me out in these woods—” He shook his head. “I be better off bein’ trampled by Olympus there.” He thumbed toward the black stallion. “Either way, I be dead.”

“If the Rebs catch either of us, Mr. Green, we’ll likely both be dead.”

Surprisingly, Green chuckled. “That’s God’s honest truth, sir. I’s thinkin’ they might just take to killin’ you ’fore they kill me.”

Ridley considered that possibility and found no comfort in it. But having Green along to help with these horses did have advantages. Finally, he nodded, and Green packed up the camp.

They were on their way inside of fifteen minutes.

Ridley was grateful—and also not—for the full moon. It gave them light, but did the same to anyone else in the woods. He led the way, reins to a dark bay stallion and a handsome chestnut in his grip. He glanced back at Robert Green every so often. “We’ll head north about a quarter mile to where I left my horse, then we’ll take the path over the next ridge. There’s a deer trail running through there that I followed a day or so back. Unless you know of a better way?”

“No, sir. That’s the best way. And fastest.”

The thoroughbreds were surefooted and grew easier to lead as they went, which Ridley knew better than to attribute to his own skill. “When I came into camp, Mr. Green, you looked about packed up, ready to move out. Where were you headed?”

“I got me some good hidin’ spots in these hills. I move around some. Mainly at night. Ain’t seen nobody for a while.”