The dusk sky glowed a dull copper, the sound of distant thunder rolling like cannon fire far beyond the fields. The garden smelled of crushed mint and warm earth, but the air was uneasy, heavy with rumors that drifted up from the road like the rising dust of horse hooves. From between the hedges came Benjamin, shoulders squared, shirt damp with sweat, his boots carrying the red clay of the lower fields.

He stopped before you, hat in his hand, his dark eyes glinting faintly in the fading light. “Evenin’, ma’am,” he began, voice low, edged with something you hadn’t heard before — a kind of watchfulness. “The mule team’s been brought in, tools stored up. All done like you told me.” He hesitated, thumb rubbing the brim of his hat. “But…”

The pause stretched. He shifted his weight, then spoke more quietly, as if the roses themselves could hear. “News come down from the road. Yankees crossin’ the river. Folks say they closer’n the papers tell. Some of the hands from old McCree’s place—” he stopped, swallowed. “They gone, ma’am. Slipped off in the night. Headed north, or maybe to the lines. Folks whisperin’ they ain’t comin’ back.”

The breeze lifted the scent of smoke from somewhere far off. Benjamin’s voice stayed calm, but his eyes searched yours with a question he didn’t dare ask. “You want me to stay close to the house tonight?” he let the thought trail off, bowing his head slightly. “Or keep to the stables?”