Free Wilderness Run by Maria Hummel

negligent sweetheart. He had painstakingly written Betsey several letters already but had received nothing in reply. Only Addison’s mother had written him, and with unfortunate news: Her cough had worsened, their larder was nearly bare, and his little sister was running around wild. Addison’s allotment in the correspondence department seemed particularly unfair to Laurence, who got the most letters of anyone in the company. His mother, aunt, and cousin competed for his attention with almost daily frequency, and his haversack rustled with their written greetings every time he lifted it.
    â€œMaybe the post is slow,” Laurence offered, shuffling a deck of cards.
    â€œMy mother said her mother was fast and Betsey would turn out fast, too,” Pike blurted out.
    â€œBully for your ma.” Addison placed his hands on his knees and hauled himself up. He stared out over the jaw of pointy teeth the tents made across the field. “Did it ever occur to you she was jealous?”
    Pike pursed his lips together to say something else, but Gilbert slapped him on his bony thigh and spoke instead. “Ain’t we gonna play cards?”
    â€œYou can. I’ve got to go see about a horse they can’t break over in the paddock,” Addison said. He walked off into the bright afternoon.
    Laurence let the deck splay over Addison’s future hay field. “Can I come, Addison? You said I could see you break this one.”
    â€œDon’t see why not.”
    â€œCan I go, too?” Pike sprang to his feet.
    â€œYou said you’d play cards,” protested his brother.
    â€œNope. Too many of you will scare the horses,” Addison said, his voice carrying through the sunny air. Pike continued to stand, swaying on his blistered feet. The scratch on his face had healed to a thin line, and he cupped it gently with his fingers.
    â€œLet’s go,” called Addison. Laurence paused for moment, pitying the boy. Noticing Laurence’s eyes on him, Pike plopped down beside his brother, hissing at the pain of the blisters.
    â€œIf the schoolmarm already shuffled them, then we can start, can’t we?” he said in his determined little voice. He leaned over and scooped the deck from the dirt.
    â€œI ain’t playing with just you.” Gilbert fished Laurence’s mirror from the tent and eyed the growth of his black beard. Since their fight, Gilbert had gone back to being a frequent victor, and he was always trying halfheartedly to bait Laurence into a rematch. Laurence refused to consider it. His ribs still bothered him when he breathed.
    â€œI’ll play,” Laurence heard Lyman Woodard offer as he jogged after Addison, skirting the white flags of undershirts hung out to dry.
    â€œI wasn’t thinking straight when I asked about Betsey,” he apologized when he caught up.
    Addison wagged his hand in the air. “I’m touchy about it,” he said.
    â€œPerhaps she’s just a bad letter writer?” A wet sleeve hanging from one of the tent ropes dragged a chill across Laurence’s arm.
    â€œPerhaps I ain’t the one she wants to write to,” Addison said.
    They reached the rise where the officers kept their horses. The rolling Virginia pasture was already grazed down to the root. Bales of hay sprawled at its edges, ignored by the mares, who preferred the sweet taste of new clover to the dry dust of last year’s fields. At the end of it, a pond, deep with spring rains, wavered and held the noon heat. The few lone trees were nipped of their lower leaves, and they provided only the faintest shade for the horses.
    â€œPrivate Addison.” Captain Davey strode up with a rope slung over his shoulder, a hunting knife in his hand. On the ground, Davey looked awkward and shambling, his body bulging at the gut and filling the square shirt he wore half-tucked. His eyes were fixed in a perpetual squint, as if he were gazing into an unpleasant