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WHAT THE WINTER TOOK

A Historical Novel of the French and Indian War

R. P. Loyko

THE ROAD TO REVOLUTION SERIES

What The Winter Took

First Edition

Copyright © 2026 by R. P. Loyko

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This is a work of historical fiction. While some historical figures, events, and locations are based on fact, the characters and many of the events in this story are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to persons living or dead, other than historical figures, is purely coincidental.

Published in the United States of America

For permission requests, please contact the publisher at RPLoyko1@gmail.com.

The Road to Revolution Series

Before a nation declared independence, ordinary people faced extraordinary choices. The Road to Revolution Series follows the lives of young colonists and the communities around them as growing tensions between Great Britain and the American colonies reshape everyday life.

Through war, political struggle, and the slow awakening of a people determined to defend their rights, these stories explore how the path toward revolution unfolded one decision – and one moment – at a time.

Book One

What the Winter Took

In the dead of winter, one choice could cost everything. A story of survival during the French and Indian War.

 CHAPTER 1

The Homestead

———

Deep in the Berkshire Hills west of the Connecticut River where the wall of hemlock and granite swallows the sun by mid-day, I stepped off the porch, my boots sinking into the cold earth. The air smelled of pine, smoke, and the sharp bite of winter that never quite left us.

The woods stood still, the kind of stillness that felt deliberate — like they were watching, deciding whether to trust me.

Sam stumbled out behind me, rubbing his eyes and blinking at the morning light.

“You always wake up this early?” he muttered.

“You’re lucky I didn’t drag you by your feet,” I teased.

He yawned, leaning into me just enough to show he wasn’t fully awake. I nudged him toward the creek, and we set off with the empty bucket bumping gently between us.

The creek’s edges were thin with ice, the kind that cracked like fragile glass when Sam prodded it with a stick. I dipped the bucket and froze as the water splashed against my wrists — cold enough to sting.

“Do you think the war’s coming here?” my younger brother asked suddenly.

The question hit like a pebble thrown into still water — small, but with ripples that traveled far.

“I hope not,” I said.

But this winter of 1760, the fighting between the British and the French had already taken more than it promised.

I wasn’t sure hope counted for much lately.

Father said not to worry.

Mother said to prepare.

The woods said something different entirely — they’d been uneasy for weeks.

We carried the water back, our shadows stretching long across the frost. Sam’s shadow wobbled; mine stood straight and uncertain.

I didn’t feel steady.

I felt like I was standing on the edge of a life just a little too small, wanting something bigger without knowing its shape.

Some girls dream of marriage.

Some dream of travel.

Some dream of Boston’s cobblestone streets or London’s tall ships.

Me?
I dreamed of more, even if I couldn’t name it.

And I never told a soul.

❖ ❖ ❖

Mother was already at the table when we returned, sleeves rolled up, fingers deep in dough. Flour dusted her hairline. Her face was soft but lined with worry, the kind she tried to hide from us but never quite succeeded.

“Good,” she said. “Set the bucket by the hearth.”

Father sat near the window, sharpening his knife.

Not just any knife. The knife.

The steel blade caught the morning light as he drew it slowly across the stone — steady, patient strokes. The sound filled the room: a quiet scrape that meant safety, food, work, survival. On the frontier, a knife wasn’t a tool you set down and forgot. It dressed game, split kindling, cut rope, carved handles, opened hides. It could save a life — or take one.

Iron blades dulled too fast, chipped when you needed them most. Steel held an edge. Steel lasted. Steel mattered.

This one had come with us all the way from Boston.

Father’s brother had given it to him the week before we left — wrapped in oiled cloth, pressed into his hands without ceremony. His brother was a printer, ink-stained fingers and city-soft hands, the kind that shaped words instead of wood. He’d said it was a practical gift. But Father never said much about the look they shared when it changed hands — like they both knew this blade would outlast letters, presses, and maybe even promises.

Father drew the knife once more across the stone, testing the edge with his thumb. Satisfied, he nodded to himself.

“You’re restless,” he said, without looking up.

I blinked. “No I’m not.”

One corner of his mouth twitched. “You get that look when your mind’s racing.”

I bristled because he wasn’t wrong.

“I’m fine,” I said.

He nodded, letting the matter drop. That was our unspoken agreement: he didn’t push, and I didn’t bolt. It worked well enough.

A knock sounded at the door — quick, anxious.

Visitors were rare, and morning visitors rarer still.

Father set the knife carefully on the table before opening the door.

The Halberds stood outside, wrapped in travel cloaks, cheeks pink from the cold.

“Come in,” Father said. “What news?”

Mrs. Halberd removed her gloves with trembling fingers.

“They’re saying the French and their Indian allies burned farms two valleys over.”

Silence settled like heavy snow.

“And General Braddock’s defeat…” Mr. Halberd added, rubbing the back of his neck. “They say it was worse than we heard. Survivors stumbling out of the woods for days. Even young Washington barely got out alive.”

My stomach tightened.

Sam clutched Mother’s skirt.

Mother pressed a hand to his hair.

Father’s jaw hardened. “Rumors,” he said — too sharply.

But the Halberds weren’t smiling.

And the knife still lay on the table between us, catching the light.

Mr. Halberd finally turned to me.

“What do you think, Eliza?”

Everyone waited.

I swallowed. “I think the war doesn’t care what we think.”

Mother inhaled sharply.

Father’s eyes flickered — approval? annoyance? maybe both.

The Halberds exchanged a look that said they agreed.

❖ ❖ ❖

Later, after chores and visitors and too many whispered worries, I slipped outside alone.

The air was colder now, the sun sliding toward the ridge. Needles clattered softly in the wind, the sound thin and brittle.

I stood at the tree line, watching the forest breathe.

Some days the woods felt like a cradle.

Today they felt like a warning.

A sharp crack echoed — a branch snapping deep in the pines. I stiffened, scanning the shadows. Only an owl answered, hooting lazily as if I were paranoid.

But I wasn’t.

Not anymore.

War had a way of creeping into places long before soldiers set foot there. You could feel it in the ground. The air. Your bones.

I stared into the fading light and whispered, to no one in particular: “Something’s coming.”

And for the first time, the woods seemed to whisper back.