The Patriots is underway!

Set against the turbulent backdrop of the American Revolutionary War, The Patriots continues the Surviving Adversity series with a gripping tale of courage, loyalty, and the unbreakable will to endure. As colonial America fractures under the weight of conflict, ordinary men and women are forced to choose sides, protect their families, and fight for a future they may never see. This installment blends historical authenticity with the series’ signature focus on resilience, community, and the human spirit under pressure.

I’ve been deep in the world of The Patriots lately, and instead of keeping everything behind the curtain, I thought… why not bring you along for the ride? So today, I’m sharing the first part of Chapter One. It’s still early in the journey, but that’s what makes it fun—you get to see the story as it starts to take shape, not just the polished final version. Think of this as me pulling up a chair and saying, “Hey, come check out what I’m working on.”

The day had the look of iron.

Gray pressed down from the sky in an unbroken sheet. It promised no snow and offered no mercy. The cold sat deep in the ground, locked there as if it intended to stay. Beyond the fence rails, the fields lay stiff and colorless, winter refusing to loosen its grip despite what the calendar claimed. Smoke rose thin and straight from the farmhouse chimney, as though even the wind had given up.

Abby was the first to see the rider.

She stood behind the house splitting, kindling, the axe rising and falling in steady rhythm. When a shape crested the rise in the road, she paused mid-swing, squinting.

“That’s no neighbor’s pace,” she said softly.

The horse came on hard, head down, flanks dark with sweat despite the cold. The rider did not slow until he reached the yard, reins hauled tightly, breath tearing from his chest.

Heads lifted across the farm.

Ben Carlson straightened in the outside pen, abandoning the horse’s hoof he had been examining. He wiped his hands on his breeches. Two field hands crossing the barnyard stopped where they were. Frances appeared at the front door, drawn there without knowing why, her shawl clutched tight around her shoulders.

Malcolm emerged last.

He moved with practiced calm, though his eyes were sharp. He reached the horse first, laid a hand on the bridle, and spoke softly until the animal settled.

“What brings you riding so hard and fast in this weather?” he asked.

The rider swallowed. He glanced back down the road, as if expecting something to follow him. “News,” he said. “From the north,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “Boston!”, he continued.

The yard went still. The word struck like a cold draught through an open door.

Ben stepped closer and patted the horse’s neck. “What of Boston?” he asked. “More darn taxes?” He spat on the ground and added, “We’ve had enough of them to last a lifetime. It’s time for a change!”

Malcolm’s head turned sharply toward him.

“No,” the rider said, shaking his head vigorously. “Worse.”

Malcolm waited. He knew better than to rush bad news. It only made it cut deeper.

“They rang a bell,” the rider said at last. His voice shook now. He dismounted stiffly. “A crowd gathered. Soldiers were there. Redcoats. Posted by the Custom House.”

“A protest, then?” Ben said.

“A scuffle,” the rider replied. He sounded uncertain, as though he still could not believe it. “That’s how it began.”

Abby drove the axe into the stump and joined them. “And how did it end?”

The rider hesitated. His eyes moved from face to face.

“They fired.”

No one spoke.

“They fired?” Ben asked, slow and deliberate.

The rider nodded. “Into the crowd.” He raised a hand to his mouth, as if he might catch the words before they escaped.

“On whose orders?” Malcolm asked.

“That’s the part that’s not clear,” the rider said. “Some say the captain gave it. Others say someone in the crowd shouted first. I don’t know. I only know men fell.”

“How many?” Abby asked.

“Five,” the rider said. “All dead, by last count.”

Frances drew in a sharp breath.

“Dead,” Ben said. “By the King’s soldiers.”

More hands had gathered now. One of the field men shifted his weight. “They must’ve been attacked,” he said. “Stones, at least.”

“So?” Abby snapped, turning toward the speaker. “Is that worth five lives?”

The rider looked down. “They’re calling it a massacre.”

The word lingered, heavy and unsettled.

Rufus, who had been leaning against the barn wall, spoke for the first time. “Calling it that where?” he asked, joining the group.

“Everywhere,” the rider said. “Taverns. Docks. All along the road south.”

Rufus nodded once. He said nothing more.

Ben spat again, into the dirt. “I’ve served with soldiers. They don’t fire unless they mean to.”

“They’re there to keep order,” someone muttered.

Rufus turned his head slightly. “Order for who?”

No one answered.

Malcolm stepped away from the group. He looked out across the nearby fields—fields that would soon need planting, labor, confidence in a future that suddenly felt uncertain.

Frances came to stand beside him. “If soldiers can fire on civilians there,” she said quietly, “what stops them from doing so here?”

Malcolm did not look at her. “Nothing.”

The rider left soon after. He had more miles to cover and more mouths to unsettle.

Work resumed. Tools were lifted. Chores were taken up. But the rhythm was wrong. Voices faltered. People looked where they should not.

Abby hefted the axe again and watched Malcolm standing alone by the fence, hands clasped behind his back, shoulders tight—not from the cold, but from thought.

She knew that posture.

It belonged to a man who had just realized the ground beneath him was no longer solid.

This was not ordinary unrest.

This was something else.

And it had reached them at last.

Thanks for taking a moment to step into this world with me. There’s a lot more on the way, and I’m excited to share each new piece as it comes together. So stay tuned, check back often, and feel free to follow along as The Patriots continues to grow—one scene, one chapter, one discovery at a time.