Excerpt from In the Valley by Ron Rash, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"Bost," Allen said to a man who wore a frock coat Rebecca recognized, "you and Murdock and Etheridge gather what chickens you can."

Several men shouted encouragement as Bost dove for the closest chicken. White feathers slapped his face until he pinned the bird firmly to the ground.

"Kill it now?" Bost panted, his scratched face looking up at the colonel.

"No, we'll take them with us."

A second man retrieved a burlap sack and the squawking chicken was shoved inside. Bost knotted the sack and tied it to a saddle as the other two men began their own chases.

"Take a man and get that ham, Corporal," Allen said. "Sergeant, go inside. Look around good. You know how they hide things."

"Nothing inside is worth your while," Rebecca said. "There's a root cellar behind the barn. It's partial hid by old board planks. Near all what food we have is there." She met Allen's eyes, saw that, like Aaron's had been, there were gold flecks within the brown. "These chaps are cold. Just let me and them go inside, and you take everything else."

"She must be hiding something real good," the sergeant said. "It's yankee money or clothes that boy there can't fill. Maybe the son of a bitch himself is hiding under the bed."

"Go see then," Allen said, and turned to Rebecca. "You and your children come on out here."

"Let me get their shoes first," Rebecca said, but Allen shook his head.

Rebecca settled Hannah on her hip and took Ezra's hand. They went down the porch's one step and into the yard. As Allen gave more orders, Rebecca glanced furtively toward the ridge, looking for a bright wink of sun on metal, then looked farther down the valley. Smoke rose from Ira Wilkey's farm and, beyond it, Brice and Anna Fothergill's home, which meant the Confederates had come in the night unseen. Hannah began whimpering again, but Ezra stood silent, his hands balled into fists. Don't, she whispered, and used her free hand to open his.

She should have burned the letters, as she had done with the newspapers her father-­in-­law had brought. But there were only five because Aaron died early in the war, so early her father-­in-­law had been able to travel the eighteen miles from Asheville in broad daylight, this before bushwhackers as well as Colonel Allen and his men made any stranger in Shelton Laurel a suspected spy or thief, thus shot on sight. I will return with a wagon to take you and the children back to live with me. That was her father-­in-­law's promise when he'd brought the last letter, which contained a brass button taken from Aaron's field jacket. My hope is that this button might offer some remembrance, Aaron's commander had written.

But her father-­in-­law had not come again, with or without a wagon, and Rebecca had wondered if it was suspicion of her allegiance, not fear, that had kept him away.

"Put a match to the barn?" the corporal asked when he'd returned with the ham.

"We'll feed our horses first," Allen said, as men returned with potatoes and apples from the root cellar, what chickens had been caught.

The two privates came out of the cabin, one holding the salt pouch and matches. The sergeant followed, in his hands the crock.

"It's near all letters, except for this," the sergeant said. He cradled the container with his elbow as he reached inside and removed a button with CSA stamped into the brass.

He handed it to Allen, who examined the button a moment before putting it in his jacket pocket.

"You know it was took off one of our own, probably killed up here by some coward sniping from behind a tree."

"What do the letters say?" Allen asked.

"You know I never had any school learning, Colonel."

Rebecca glanced toward the ridge, then the closer woods before she spoke.

"Please," she said softly.

Colonel Allen took the crock and sat on the porch step. He lifted the lid, took out a letter, and began to read. As he did so, Rebecca remembered the night Aaron had packed the travel trunk with clothing but also his briar pipe, pocket watch, and penknife, the tintype taken on their wedding day. She thought of the two shirts and pair of breeches he'd left, cut up for Ira's quilt, and how her fingers lingered on those cloth squares, sometimes pressing one against her cheek.

Excerpted from In the Valley by Ron Rash. Copyright © 2020 by Ron Rash. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.