Disclaimer: I own neither The Patriot nor its highly suspect historical timeline.

And now, a dark tale of an attempt to change the past, and save someone Mary Sue admires from afar. Can the past be changed? Should it be? Note that for this story, I am placing the climactic events of the film in the autumn, as the film does. I really do know better.

Episode 8: Mary Sue and the Art of War

Tara gave the punching bag a last, powerful left. Wiping her hot face with a forearm, she headed for the showers, sure that she was ready at last. She had had plenty of time on this end of history to polish her scheme. History would be changed—by her. Gabriel would live, and that bastard Tavington would die an ugly, horrible death.

Ever since seeing the movie, she had had a new purpose in life. Endless monomaniacal planning, strenuous hours in the gym and the firing range; on horseback and in fencing club; reading books and learning lost arts had prepared her for this moment.

She had the security codes for her sister's lab. Tonight she would get in, taking with her some absolutely essential items, and then she would travel to November 27, 1780. That was the day Colonel Tavington had burned the defenseless town of Pembroke. She was taking some history books with her, out of curiosity. Would the books themselves change, when she was through? Or would she and everything else she brought along be protected from alterations in the fabric of time? Her sister and her friends from the research lab discussed it over and over. No one was really sure what would happen if history were changed—some weren't even convinced it could be changed. They were wrong. Tara would show them.

Once in the lab, she found that the device was larger than she expected. Her sister had not described it in explicit detail, but Tara understood how to operate it. There was a sickening, shivering eternity of perfect darkness and cold, and then she was abruptly spat out onto a carpet of dead leaves in an autumnal, virgin forest.

Tara lay still for awhile, listening to the unfamiliar sounds of the natural world. Birds fluttered away in alarm at her sudden appearance. The wind sighed in the trees, which swayed gently and rhythmically as they released their rust-red leaves in a desultory shower. She looked up at the sun, half hidden behind the boughs overhead. She was in a new world, indeed.

Slowly, she got to her feet. It even smelled different: the air rich with leaf mold and faint animal odors, and a dozen other scents for which she didn't even have names. She dropped her pack to the ground. It was loaded with rations, with tools, with books, and with money of the period. She covered it with brush and leaves, and marked the spot so she could find it again.

It was unfortunate that she couldn't bring a horse, she thought for the fiftieth time, but it didn't really matter. She would confiscate one from the enemy very soon. She pulled out her map and compass and studied them for awhile. She should be close to the town. It had been too risky to aim for the swamp. With changes in water level, she could have drowned before escaping the device's perimeter.

Making her way through the trees, she saw the little white-washed village, innocent and defenseless. She slung her modified Kentucky rifle over her shoulder, and set off on foot to the church.

No one was there. She should have realized that every one would be out about their business, or at home. She knocked on the door of the house nearest. A young servant answered and stared at Tara, astonished.

"The British are coming," Tara announced. The servant kept staring. Tara raised her voice. "Didn't you hear me? The British know that Pembroke has been helping the rebels. They're coming to burn the town."

Frightened, the servant called back into the house, "Mistress, there's a strange woman here who says the British are coming!"

An older woman bustled to the door and eyed Tara up and down disparagingly, "And who might you be?"

"A friend," Tara answered tersely. "I got word that Tavington knows who's been helping the militia, and they're going up the Santee, burning the houses. Pembroke is on the list. Either get ready for a fight, or get out."

The woman looked at her suspiciously. "And why would you know this? It sounds like a trick to me—to get us out of our homes and loot the place." The woman pushed the servant aside and slammed the door.

Exasperated, Tara kicked the door, and went to the next building, a blacksmith's shop. The smith was at work, but looked up and did a double take at Tara, her male clothing, and her weapons.

"Good day to you," Tara greeted him. "I've come from south of here. The British are on the way, and they're going to burn the town. They've heard that Pembroke's been helping the rebels and Butcher Tavington and the Green Dragoons are killing anyone in their path."

The smith growled, "I don't know what you're talking about, woman. There are no rebels here."

"I'm not making this up! You've got to trust me!"

The smith sneered and began hammering a plowshare. "You'd best get out of here before someone decides you're a spy, Missy. Seems to me you're trying to get me to admit I have dealings with rebels."

Another man, leading a horse, approached. "What's going on?" He turned to the smith. "Who is she, Zeb?"

"Some woman, all dressed up for fighting," laughed the smith. "Telling a tale about the British coming to Pembroke to burn us out." He laughed again, but he and other man exchanged meaning looks.

Tara had had it with these rubes. "They'll be here by the afternoon. If you don't listen up, you'll all be dead!"

She had trained to be alert, and so saw the quick shadow of movement to her left. She ducked and caught the hitherto unseen third man; pulling him past her, and shoving him toward the forge with her follow-through. He stumbled, and screamed with shock as the blaze scorched him.

"Back off!" Tara warned them. The men ignored her, and began reaching for their weapons. "I'm trying to help you, you idiots! Tavington and the Green Dragoons are coming, and if you don't get a move on, you'll all be dead before morning!"

The smith hefted his hammer, and the second man cocked his pistol. They weren't listening. Tara kicked the burnt man into the man with the pistol and ruined his aim. She darted through the smithy and escaped out the other side. Running to the church, she found the bell rope and gave it a yank.

There was a second's delay, and then the bell pealed out. People came out of their homes, gossiping, looking around wonderingly. The smith and the horseman ran out of the smithy and saw Tara.

She shouted, "The British are coming! The British are coming! They are going to burn the town. Either get ready for them or run for your lives. They're not going to spare anybody!"

The smith bellowed, gesturing with his hammer, "I think she's a spy! She attacked Dick Tarrant and she's trying to create a panic!"

The older woman Tara had spoken to before, shrilled out, "I'll wager she's in league with outlaws. They're probably waiting in the woods right now!"

The crowd was gathering, increasingly hostile and raucous. It was time to quiet them down, and get them to listen. Tara pulled a pistol and fired into the air.

Immediately, half a dozen firearms were drawn and aiming at her. A few fired instantly. Wood splintered behind her, and Tara ran, cursing small-town xenophobia.

She headed into the woods, followed by the baying shouts of the men hunting her. She zipped around trees, running lightly, leaving little trace. Making a half circle around the town, she evaded pursuit, and finally found some rising ground, and a big, climbable tree with a good view of the town from a lower branch. She perched there, shrouded by the thinning foliage, and carefully reloaded her pistol.

"That went well." She had not expected the townspeople to be so paranoid and unreasonable. There was nothing unbelievable about her story. They must have been prejudiced against her because of her appearance. Wait—that didn't make sense. Patriotic Americans were certain to be more open-minded and tolerant than a bunch of la-di-da stick-up-their–butts Englishmen. She just couldn't figure out what had gone wrong.

She sat there a while, watching the town, and the clear sky began to cloud over somewhat. She could hear faint yells on the other side of town from the men still chasing after her. She grinned. When the British showed up, they'd see she was right, and then she'd rally the town and fight the redcoats. If they could just hold out long enough, the Patriot militia would arrive in time and finish Tavington and his scum off for good.

She had a view of the road as well. Within less than half an hour, she could see the cloud of dust that heralded the enemy. She organized her weapons. The Kentucky rifle with telescopic sight. Slow as it was to reload, its long range would allow her to get off at least four rounds before the English were on her. Two pairs of pistols. A saber, and a double edged dagger. A set of throwing knives. With any luck at all, she should be able to take out at least six to eight of the bastards herself. They could inflict enough damage that the redcoats would run like rabbits.

First of all, and most important, was to kill Tavington himself. That was the purpose of the anachronistic telescopic sight. If she could just get Tavington, that was half the battle. He could never order Pembroke burned, never kill Gabriel. She sighed, and imagined the handsome Patriot's gratitude to her for saving them all. And she would have changed history.

Tara readied herself. With its rifling and long barrel, the weapon was accurate at great distances. Much would depend on her skill, and quite a bit on the steadiness of the wind. She would fire her four shots from here, and then run back to the town and join the Patriots there, once they saw she had been right.

She took aim, resting the rifle barrel on a convenient branch. The dragoons were coming into focus. She couldn't yet make out faces, but she decided to go ahead. Heart pounding with excitement, she slowly squeezed the trigger.

The rifle slammed into her shoulder with a roar. Frantically steadying the weapon, she looked again through the sight. Two seconds later, a dragoon toppled from his trotting horse. The men around him paused. Then they must have heard the shot, for heads swiveled in her direction. Some men were down, looking at the dead man. A man in front was looking around him with a telescope. Tavington!

Eagerly, she began reloading the rifle—an awkward business, seated on the huge tree branch. This was better than Playstation! She patched the ball and rammed it. She placed Tavington in her crosshairs. Powder, flint, trigger….and the rifle roared again. Her shoulder would be bruised today, but she was used to it, and it was worth it.

"Son of a bitch!" She had just missed Tavington, and hit some other redcoat sitting on horseback next to him. He flew backwards off his horse and landed comically, in a splay of limp arms and legs. Tara felt a voluptuous excitement fill her. God, this was thrilling!

The little red figures were leading their horses into the shelter of the woods. Damn! There was a column of infantry with them, too. They were being diverted through the woods, too, obviously making their way to her position. There was no time to lose. She loaded the long rifle again. It took nearly a minute, and she feared there would be no more targets by the time she finished, but the telescopic sight did its work. Through the sparse autumn leaves, she could see the bright red uniforms. She looked for the horsemen, and tried to find Tavington. No—no—no—yes! He was leading his band of murdering English, moving as fast as possible through the trees. She took careful aim, and squeezed off another round, ignoring the pain in her left shoulder. A sudden gust of wind whipped past her. No!

That bastard must lead a charmed life! The wind had nudged the perfectly aimed bullet aside, and it buried itself in the face of a rider near him. He glanced over to the dying man, and now he was close enough for Tara to really see his expression. He looked mad as hell.

Fumbling in her excitement, she loaded another round. This would have to be the last, for she could hear the hoofbeats now, and the shouts of the English soldiers in the woods. Wait—were those English?

The men from Pembroke who had been chasing her suddenly appeared from the village side of the woods, at the bend of the road into town. They must have heard the shots, and were standing there stupidly looking around. Dumbasses. The redcoats saw them and emerged from the woods with ominous discipline.

She was here to help them out. Tavington was out of sight among the trees. Instead, she took aim at an infantry officer and fired. He fell bonelessly, but his men kept coming. The redcoats would naturally assume that these were the men who had shot at them. Tara swore again. She certainly hadn't intended for this to happen.

A couple of the civilians started running back into town, the cowards. Most of the men had muskets, though-- clearly visible to her, and also probably visible to the redcoats. There was another bellow, and then a huge puff of smoke from the English line, followed a split-second later by the roar of a volley.

The gawking civilians were mowed down. One remained standing, and clutched his reddening shoulder. The two or three other survivors fled.

This was just not working out well at all. The dragoons were coming through now, and heading to the road at the trot. They would be occupying the town in less than ten minutes. She herself was no longer safe in her sniper's perch. She slung her rifle over her shoulder, and slid down the trunk, making her way through the underbrush in a wide arc around the town. She could come up on the north side, close to where she had emerged from the time portal. The cover was good there, too, and wouldn't be overrun by Tavington's men.

They must be moving into town. There were a few scattered shots. If they didn't put up more of a fight, they were doomed. Tara needed to cross the road, and saw a wagon approaching in the middle distance. Well, what do you know? It's the Howards! She considered stepping out and warning the family, but that would put her in danger of exposure to the British, and it was hardly what she was here for, anyway. That wimpy Anne was not nearly good enough for Gabriel. A real woman would be fighting by his side instead of mouthing off in church without risking anything herself. Tara slid back down among the leaves and watched the wagon pass. In a moment, a tall dragoon approached them. Further on, she could see the townspeople being herded into the church.

Well, too bad. They should have listened to me. There's not much I can do now. She headed north, hoping to intersect with Martin's band before they reached Pembroke. She resigned herself to a long walk. After about a mile, she turned back and saw a column of dark smoke rising behind her.

The meeting with Ben Martin and his Patriot militia did not go as planned either.

It began well enough. Tara congratulated herself on tracking them down within a fairly short time. They accepted her story that she had seen Green Dragoons heading in the direction of Pembroke. Martin even gave her a spare horse by way of thanks. But no one seemed terribly interested in her. In fact, they seemed upset about something.

Then she remembered about the one guy who had killed himself. Right. That was pretty sad, but she still thought they would be more impressed. One of the men was curious about the sight on her rifle, but Gabriel seemed preoccupied and anxious to get to Pembroke, and Ben Martin was too busy. The French officer was pretty cute, and cleaner than the rest, but he only raised his eyebrows at the sight of her and looked like he was about to---laugh. Snotty Frog.

And then they didn't want her riding with them. Oh, Martin was polite enough about it, but he made it pretty clear that she wasn't welcome.

"We can't look after women. We're on the move and it would be too dangerous for you. Go on home."

Tara snorted. "I can take care of myself. I'm here to help you fight the British."

Martin said patiently. "We don't need your help. These men here are all friends of mine—men I know well. I don't even know your name, and we just can't risk it. Goodbye. Thank you for your information." He took off at a gallop on the road to Pembroke, and Gabriel and the others rode with him without even a backward glance, except for two of the guys who glanced back at her and guffawed to each other.

Insulted, Tara decided to follow them at a distance. Yes, that was the best thing. She'd track them back to Pembroke, and when Gabriel went after Tavington out of revenge, she'd be there to look after him. He'd be glad of her help then. After Tavington was dead, she could comfort him, and he'd forget about Anne, and it would all be cool.

It was harder going that she anticipated. The horse they had given her was not the greatest, and already pretty tired out. She had to kick it constantly to keep it from dropping into a weary walk. After awhile they were so far ahead of her that she decided to cut across country and meet Gabriel south of Pembroke, so save time and the horse.

It was a long ride. She had to stop a few times, when the horse seemed about to give out altogether. She found a position near the road, and ate some rations she'd brought along. It was taking the guys at lot longer in Pembroke than she had expected. I guess they felt they had to bury everybody, and that would probably take awhile.

The shadows were lengthening, and finally Tara decided to find the British. She knew Gabriel was coming after them, so why not be ready and in position to save the day?

There they were, halted and resting by the the river. Tavington was accompanied by a small patrol, and the rest of the men had been sent on, for whatever reason. She was able to creep quite close. Briefly, she considered finding a good sniper's nest, and picking off Tavington right away. There were problems with that, though. The rest of them would come after her, and her chances of getting away from them in time to open a portal and escape were not good. Besides, where was the fun in that? The whole point was to see the results of her efforts and to receive Gabriel's gratitude. It was best to wait for Gabriel and his men. She would tell them about the British, shoot Tavington, and they could kill the rest of the British. And Gabriel would be safe.

She heard them before she saw them.

Gabriel and the rest of the Patriots were riding hell for leather, not caring what kind of trouble they would meet. She threw herself on her horse and galloped up beside him, shouting, "I've seen the British! They're dismounted by the river. Let me get in and shoot Tavington and the rest will be cake!"

Gabriel was galloping past, and she thought he hadn't heard, until he snarled, "Tavington's mine!" Then he was past, and rest of them as well. He was riding to his doom.

She rode after them and decided the best she could do would be sniping from behind. Taking up a position, she began firing into the British, taking down as many as she could before the patriot band would reach them. Once again Tavington eluded her bullets, moving too fast for her. She saw him kill the minister and then nearly get Gabriel, before he was brought down by the musket. He fell into the grass and lay still.

Oh, no!

She had seen this a thousand times. Tavington was lying there, playing dead, and Gabriel was moving toward him. She screamed out, "Stay back," but he must not have heard her. She hefted her rifle and aimed carefully. If Gabriel would just wait a second, she could blow Tavington's pretty head apart. She pulled the trigger.

"No!" she cried. Gabriel lunged toward Tavington, knife in hand, and Tara's bullet slammed into his back. He stood motionless for a long second, and then crumpled lifeless to the ground. Tara ran to him.

That wasn't supposed to happen. Gabriel was quite dead, a bloody hole in his back . Tavington had turned onto his side, obviously in considerable pain, and saw Tara, rifle in hand, running toward him.

He looked very surprised and pleased. The conceited pig must have thought she had shot Gabriel to save him! He looked like he was about to thank her, when Tara ran up and kicked him in the ribs.

"You son of bitch! Why can't you just die?" She kicked him again, and he groaned as he clutched his wound. Tara grabbed his hair and screamed, "I've been trying to kill you all day, and something always goes wrong! Do you know how sick I am of you?" She kicked him again, not quite hitting him between the legs, and knocked his sword out of his hand.

He was hurt, but not helpless. He had been briefly overcome with pain and astonishment, but finally realized his danger. He lashed out with his leg and tripped her. She fell on top of him, dropping her knife, and he gasped with the pain. Immediately, she pulled a pistol and pressed it to his temple.

"Don't move, or I'll blow your head off."

He was quite still, watching her, his face tense with confusion and the hurt of his wound. He tried to speak.

"Who are—"

"Shut up!" she snarled. "Just shut up! You've ruined my plans, you murderer."

A faint grimace of a smile touched his lips. "It wasn't I who shot the rebel. It is you to whom I am obliged for my life."

"Not for long!" She reached into a deep pocket and pulled out the handcuffs she had brought. "Hands behind you." She neatly snapped them over his wrists, so he lay uncomfortably on his wounded side.

She kicked him again, and he curled up with a moan. "Not so tough, are you, after all? Wait until Martin gets here. You know what he did at Fort Wilderness in the last war. He'll carve out your eyes and scalp you before he lets you die."

"Why are you doing this?" he asked. "Have I personally offended you in some way? Have I attacked your family?"

"None of your business."

"No, I'm quite sure I haven't seen you before. Did you lose a sweetheart? Is that it?"

"Shut up! And for your information, you may not have seen me, but I've seen you. I nearly got you earlier today at Pembroke."

He looked at her silently, with an odd expression in his bright eyes. "You were the marksman. I wondered. You killed some good men."

"I killed murdering redcoats. It's not like killing real people."

"Ah."

"What does that mean?" He was silent, watching her. She kicked his knee warningly. "Tell me!"

"I simply was going to observe that you seem to believe that persons agreeing with your peculiar views are real people, but people with differing opinions are not human beings."

"Yes! That's right!"

His eyes narrowed. "You're not from Pembroke yourself, are you? The people didn't know about you."

"Yes, they did! I tried to warn them that you were coming to burn the town, but they wouldn't listen!"

He actually smiled. "Do you know why I killed them? Because of the marksman. I was quite furious over my men being murdered in that cowardly way. If you hadn't interfered, I would have burned the town, certainly, but probably not killed the people, other than hanging one or two as an example. As it is, they're all dead, and it was entirely your doing."

She drew another pistol then, aimed it just to his left and fired. The bullet whizzed by his ear, and he shuddered involuntarily. "Liar! You were going to kill them anyway! I know all about you! Everyone knows how you burned Pembroke. I went back there to save them!"

He gave her a very cautious, puzzled look. "You couldn't possibly know that. It only happened today." He grew more uneasy.

He thinks I'm crazy. Fine. That will worry him even more. The flies were buzzing around them, attracted by the blood. A few landed on Gabriel and Tara shooed them away. Her eyes burned.

"Were you in love with him?" Tavington asked idly.

"Shut up or I'll kill you."

"I've been wondering why you haven't killed me already."

"Ben Martin will be along soon. He deserves the chance to kill you himself. He's going to kill you anyway, sooner or later."

"Were I he, I would be quite upset with you." Tavington moved on the ground, and carefully sat up, wincing. "I wonder what he'll say when I tell him you shot his son. Not intentionally, of course, but he's exceedingly dead all the same."

"It was an accident! I told him not to move!"

"And naturally he would obey the orders of some mannishly dressed lunatic woman. I certainly would have ignored you." His lips twitched. "Yes, I think your lifespan will not be much longer than mine when Martin arrives." He looked past her, up the hill. "And here he comes."

Tara turned. In the distance, a lone horseman approached at the gallop. It was definitely Ben Martin, and she knew enough about him to acknowledge that he would lose it when he found out about Gabriel. She could shoot Tavington now, but that would probably make Martin angrier. He would want to know all about the fight, and he might not be satisfied with her answers. If Tavington told him what had happened, Martin probably would try to kill her, and then she would have to act in self-defense.

Well, it was very unfortunate, but this was a chance to see if she could change history in any appreciable degree. Martin was about a hundred yards away. She picked up her rifle, and knelt on the ground, bracing her elbow against her knee. Carefully, she aimed down the telescopic sight. He was right in the crosshairs.

With a roar, the rifle crashed back again into her shoulder. She looked up, and saw Martin falling from his horse. He didn't move.

"Oh, well done!" cried Tavington with enthusiasm. "Well done indeed! If you weren't talking about killing me, I'd ask you to unshackle my hands to I could have a look at that sight of yours. Quite remarkable. Is that a telescope?"

She scowled at him and threw the rifle down. He objected, genuinely interested in the weapon. "That's no way to treat such a splendid firearm. Did you devise that yourself? I apologize for any remarks about your intelligence. That's quite an innovation."

"Shut up!" She was disoriented and sick with anger and disappointment. The only man who was impressed with her was the scum of the earth she had come to kill. Gabriel and his father were dead. The only consolation had been in proving her sister and her geek friends wrong. But would she be able to tell them? Martin would not be at Cowpens now, and the battle might go very differently.

Tavington watched her carefully. "It seems to me," he began softly, "that you have rather burnt your bridges with your rebel friends. If you will undo these most interesting hand shackles, I give you my word that I will not harm you or allow any one else to do so. You are obviously an inventor of some genius, or you know the inventor himself. Allowances must always be made for the eccentricities of such individuals. The sight alone would make your fortune."

"No. I'm still going to kill you," she growled, quite depressed.

"And what good will that do? General O'Hara is headed this way, and should be here momentarily. He will hang you, and your devices will be lost to the world. Whereas I can offer you protection. After all, you did save my life."

"O'Hara!" she sneered. "That pansy! I'm not afraid of him. Mr. Lacy-pants!"

Tavington gave her a hard look. "I believe we must not be speaking of the same General O'Hara. He is not a "pansy," as you put it, but a quite creditable soldier." He cocked his head to one side. "What are pants?"

She kicked his knee again. "What you're wearing."

"Oh. Breeches." He watched her. Tara was thinking rapidly. She had changed history all right. Changed it really and truly. What if the Patriots lost at Cowpens because Martin wasn't there? Tara's sister and her friends had discussed time paradoxes at length, and there were a lot of different theories about would happen to someone who had changed history. Some thought that if the person didn't exist in the future because of the changes, they would simply disappear. Tara's sister thought differently. She thought that if the person who had changed history remained in the same timeline, it would act as a relativistic bubble to protect him or her, but if that person ever returned to the future, they would cease to exist—and would never have existed at all.

"Oh, shit!" Tavington looked a little shocked at her language. "Don't look at me like that! You don't know the trouble I'm in, you jerk. This is all your fault. I'm going to have to stay in this stupid, primitive place."

"Primitive?" Tavington was intensely curious.

Tara whirled on him. "Yes, primitive, bozo! I came back in time to help Gabriel Martin and his Patriots, but it hasn't worked out at all. And now I've changed history and I'm stuck here, because if I open a time portal now, I probably won't exist in the new future."

Tavington stared at her, looking dazed.

She stood over him, shouting. "Primitive, barbaric! No concept of decent sanitation, and medicine and dentistry on the level of village shamans. Medicine men, shaking bone rattles! You're a bunch of savages!" She jumped up and down, miming a tribal dance; and then threw herself down on the ground, her head in her hands.

Tavington said nothing at all for awhile. There was some noise among the trees, and the rustle of distant, marching feet.

"Well, I think you should consider my offer, young woman. From the future? Did you bring some other items with you?"

She sighed. "Yeah, yeah, I brought a bunch of things."

"And you know what's going to happen?"

"Well, some things I do. Some things will have changed."

"Still." He tried again. "And there must be some other weapons in the future that you know about…"

"Sure. Breechloading repeaters, revolvers, poison gas, modern grenades, machine guns…"

"Machine guns? What do they do?"
"Fire about a zillion rounds a minute."

"Ah."

A column of infantry emerged from the woods, led by a man on horseback who looked like O'Hara, but with a much scarier expression.

Tavington looked up at her. "I give you my word. No retaliation. I'll protect you, and you'll share your knowledge with me."

"Partners?"

"Yes, I suppose so. Undo my hands!"

Tara looked at the carnage around her. She looked at the advancing British infantry. She looked at Tavington. Bastard. He was acting like he'd won the lottery. Who would have thought that he would be the only person in this rotten place to show her any interest or have the imagination to believe her?

She unlocked the cuffs, hissing at him. "Fifty-fifty. If you try to trick me, you'll be sorry."

He grinned. He was still a bastard, but he was a good-looking bastard. "Likewise. Fifty-fifty." He grabbed her wrist hard, and hissed back, "But we'll have to find you some respectable clothing. And don't ever pull a pistol on me again."

He stood up, painfully, and wrapped a possessive arm around her. The unpleasant realization swept over Tara that only his word stood between her and hanging. And that eighteenth century women were not much more than chattels. Oh, crap. Right. Fifty-fifty. Like that's going to happen. And there's no escape.

Tavington gave an insouciant wave to O'Hara, and purred triumphantly in Tara's ear. "Once we get back to the fort, my dear, you must tell me all about machine guns."

Tara wondered just how much change the future could take. She figured she'd find out. The Continental Army at Cowpens was in for some surprises.