Chapter 87
Rachel approached along the tree line and stayed in cover until she had to cross the yard.
The space between the woods and the porch lay open for thirty yards in every direction.
She studied the building from behind the last screen of trees.
The front door was closed. One downstairs window showed a narrow gap between boards where someone inside could watch the yard without being seen.
Rachel stepped into the open with her hands visible at her sides. She walked toward the porch at a steady pace, careful not to look threatening or panicked. Sophie stayed three steps behind her. Ten yards from the porch steps, a voice came from the upstairs window.
“Come any closer, and we’ll shoot.”
Rachel stopped, her palms raised, so anyone watching from the farmhouse could see she carried no weapon. Sophie stayed behind her, close enough to hear every word and far enough back to move if the boards split with gunfire.
“My name is Rachel Mercer. I’m searching for Walter Mercer and two children, Hannah and Caleb. They were traveling with the church caravan that was attacked on the county road. I found the wreckage half an hour ago,” Rachel called toward the upstairs window.
She let the words settle. The farmhouse gave back silence.
No movement was seen at the windows, and the warning voice didn’t respond.
Rachel held her position, her hands visible, and gave the people inside time to decide what to do.
Sophie stood still behind her. Rachel could sense the girl there without turning.
Sophie’s breathing stayed quiet and measured, but Rachel knew she was ready to move if the warning voice changed.
That steadiness helped anchor her more than she wanted to admit.
The silence lasted long enough for fear to sharpen.
Rachel imagined the people inside knowing Walter’s name because they had seen him fall or knowing the children’s names because they had helped bury them beside the road.
The front door opened. Rachel kept her hands raised and forced herself not to step forward.
Behind her, Sophie went completely still.
A woman stood in the doorway. She was about forty, with dark hair pulled tight.
Her right arm hung in a sling made from torn bedding, stained dark near the shoulder.
Behind her, an injured man leaned against the wall with a hunting rifle braced at his hip.
His left leg was bandaged from knee to ankle, and his grip on the rifle stayed steady.
“We have wounded inside. Two can’t walk. One’s fevered. If you’re armed, say it now,” the woman said.
“I’m not armed,” Rachel said.
“Come in. Slowly.”
The farmhouse interior smelled of woodsmoke, blood, and iodine.
A woodstove burned in the main room with pots of water crowded across its surface.
Blankets covered the floor where three injured people lay: a young man with a bandaged chest, an older woman breathing in shallow rasps, and a teenage boy propped against the wall with a compress pressed to his temple.
Five survivors remained in the house. Two could still move. Three were down. On a side table, torn cloth, a nearly empty bottle of iodine, and rust-spotted scissors had been arranged for quick reach. The woman closed the door behind them and turned the bolt. The sound echoed in the quiet room.
“You said Mercer,” she said.
“Walter Mercer. Traveling with two children. Hannah and Caleb,” Rachel said.
“Walter’s your father?”
“Yes. The children are mine. Hannah’s sixteen, Caleb’s eleven. They were with the caravan. Please. Were they here? Did they make it off the road?”
“Your children were alive when I last saw them. After the first assault, the boy had his hand bandaged, and the girl was helping him behind one of the wagons when the shooting started. Walter pulled them both down when the first wagon overturned. I saw that much before everything broke apart,” the woman said.
Relief hit Rachel hard enough to make her knees weak. She braced one hand against the doorframe and forced air into her lungs. The room steadied around her. Sophie moved close enough for her shoulder to touch Rachel’s arm.
“Where did they go after the attack? Which direction?” Rachel asked.
“The raiders came from the tree line east of the road. They hit the lead wagons first with crossbow bolts, then gunfire once people started running. Several were killed in the first few minutes. Walter pulled your boy behind an overturned wagon while the girl helped drag a younger child away from the shooting. Then the groups split. Some went west along the road, and others scattered into the fields. We lost sight of each other in the confusion,” the woman said.
“Where did my family go after you lost sight of them?” Rachel asked.
“They didn’t get away alone,” she said. “Hawthorne found us before the raiders finished.”