The yard was still black with early morning. Mud clung to her shoes. Somewhere behind her, another newborn cried from the master bedroom.
The baby in her arms made one thin, fragile sound.
“Lord, help me,” Martha whispered.
She crossed the fields, then the old wagon path, then the woods beyond the property line. She walked until her legs shook and her breathing turned ragged.
At the edge of the timber stood an old hunting shack nobody used anymore. The roof sagged. One window was broken. The door leaned crooked on its hinges.
Martha stepped inside.
She found an old blanket, laid the baby down, and stared at him while tears ran hot down her face.
He had a tiny mouth. Long fingers. A face too innocent for the cruelty waiting in this world.
“You deserved better than this,” she whispered. Then, with her voice breaking, she added, “My sweet boy.”
She was never meant to call him that.
At sunrise, she made her way back toward the house.
Before she reached the back steps, she heard horses and wagon wheels.
Mr. Harper had returned early from Charleston.
He strode through the front door in his coat and boots, barking questions before anyone could catch breath. “Where’s my wife? Did she deliver? Are the babies healthy?”
The midwife, exhausted and distracted, answered too fast.
“Three boys.”
Mr. Harper stopped cold.
