Sentinels Read Online Free Page A

pushed away her half-eaten oats, her appetite sapped.
    He knew she meant it more out of frustration than anger.
    â€œI’m glad you know how to use that,” he said. “We’re targets whether I’m a deputy, or a lawyer, or an adviser, or whatever.”
    â€œI know, but that metal star they’re gonna pin on you makes you a shinier target.”
    â€œI love you.” He left to saddle up his black Arabian stallion, Wilbur, and circled the property to make sure nothing seemed out of place before galloping down the dirt road to his new job.

Chapter Three
    Sarah Jenkins opened her home’s front door and stepped onto the porch, instantly spotting a Klansman’s hood. Ignoring it, she approached the well facing the house.
    â€œIf you’re out there, come and get me, here I am,” she called. Hearing nothing, she grappled with the sickle handle jutting from the water bucket and twisted out the blade.
    Dressed in white field clothes and with a purple kerchief around her head, the fit woman in her mid-forties gripped the sickle to defend herself, while walking to retrieve the pitchfork speared through the barn’s door. She dropped the sickle, grabbed the pitchfork handle like a rifle and jostled it free. Holding the tool in one hand, she unlatched the barn and swung open the double doors, sunbeams highlighting splinters poking through three fresh holes.
    â€œWe can get a new bucket. I’ll be damned if we’re getting a new door on account of that,” she muttered to herself while grabbing the sickle with her free hand.
    Three horses flicked their ears and inched toward her so their heads hung over the interior stable walls for Sarah to pet.
    â€œMercy, it’s too hot in here for you all. Let’s get you in the field.”
    The Jenkinses’ wagon, big and wide to transport crops, occupied much of the barn, as did assorted plows and other farming implements. Toby rarely used the barn to store his harvest. Charlie Stanhope’s buyers always knew when to arrive for their purchases. The distributors appreciated Toby and Sarah as they’d gotten to know them over the years when they were under Charlie’s ownership. Whatever corn remained could be sold in Henderson or the next town over.
    Sarah horizontally placed the pitchfork on two wall pegs and did likewise for the sickle, covering the tools’ dusty outlines.
    A long shadow appeared behind her. She turned to see the morning sun shining on her six-foot, four-inch husband standing in the middle of the entrance.
    â€œI was wondering where you were,” she said. “Next time put the tools away yourself, if you please.”
    â€œThe baby?”
    â€œSleeping like a log,” she responded. “But he’ll be hungry soon. He’s been down for hours.”
    â€œGood,” said Toby, pushing fifty, and athletically built like his wife from years of labor. He wore brown overalls and a straw hat. “Guess I’ll saddle up Chester and head to town for a new bucket—unless you want me to make one.”
    She smiled. “I’d like a bucket we can actually use and not have to put cups under it to catch the leaks.”
    Toby opened Chester’s stall and grabbed a heavy leather saddle as easy as lifting a bed pillow and plopped it on the horse’s back.
    â€œSteady, boy.” He calmed his trusty brown stallion.
    Sarah walked to her husband to hold the saddle while Toby fiddled with the straps.
    â€œI’ll take the other two to the pasture,” she said.
    â€œYes, please do.”
    â€œYou saw what was on the porch?”
    â€œCan’t really miss it.”
    â€œDo you know who they were?”
    â€œNot a clue, but I know who sent them.” Toby tugged the saddle tight.
    â€œMe too. Diggs. Then you know they’ll be coming back.”
    â€œThat’s why I want to get done what I need to get done now, dear. And I want you and the baby to be