of it as the ironing-board bag – belonged to the good Mrs. Brown,
who didn't want him to go through it: only carry it.
"It holds a lot of private things," she said.
They argued. She won. The satchel wasn't heavy enough for him to
put the energy into the debate that she was willing to. He picked the odd thing
up by its handles.
"You carry the gin," he told her, handing her the
bottles, one wrapped in the shirt, one in the socks. "It could be our
dinner."
They decided to go after the horses, mostly because, though the
animals had galloped off a ways, they were visible around a rocky rise near the
horizon. Two had broken loose from the others, the remaining four presumably
behind the dark outcrop of granite. It was Sam's intention that they walk up to
the animals – a fifteen-minute trek, he estimated, if they could approach the
horses without spooking them or having to give chase. Once close enough, he and
Mrs. Brown here would decide on the two horses most willing to be ridden,
improvise riding bridles from the coaching tack, then take to the road
bareback: a good, solid plan, even if the riding part was a little tricky for a
"lady's maid," but he could always take her up on his horse if she
couldn't ride without a saddle.
Thus, with Sam carrying the elongated satchel and Mrs. Brown
carrying a wrapped bottle of gin under each arm, they took off on foot, heading
toward the distant silhouettes of the two horses that looked fairly calm – in
fact, the animals appeared to be happily grazing on low bushes.
The land itself proved less accommodating. It was uneven and hard
to cover at a steady rate, spongy in places, stone-hard in others. There were
no trees to speak of, only the occasional cluster of scrubby vegetation. And
rock, everywhere dark gray rock. It lay in random bits, in buried chunks or
loose under a person's feet. It topped the smallest hills in stacks that stood
in the clutter of their own deterioration.
The generally flat vista was broken regularly by stony ridges that
erupted from the ground like the prows of ships emerging from a rolling ocean
of land. Grim landscape. Gray and still. Walking across such terrain, it didn't
take Sam long to realize that the only lively, colorful thing in it, Mrs.
Brown, had something wrong with her foot.
"You havin' trouble walkin'?" he asked.
"No," she said immediately. Then, "Well, yes. I
twisted my ankle earlier today. It hurts a little. I can walk on it,
though."
He smiled – her first impulse had been to lie – but contained
himself as he held out his free arm.
After a second's hesitation she took it, transferring that gin
bottle to the crook of her other arm, carrying the bottles against her chest.
As they tromped along, she let herself lean on him ever so
slightly every right-footed step. The feel of her weight reminded him of half
an hour ago, her arms around his neck as he'd pulled her out of the coach. He
could've worn her like a bandanna; she was as light as sunlight. Where she
linked her arm in his, where she held on, her fingers gripped like a vice, yet
their hold was feminine, soft and warm through his sleeve; he was surprised
again by the contact, the contradiction.
They walked along beside each other, neither speaking, while Sam
in surreptitious glances studied the young woman so reluctant to take help, yet
so much better off for it.
What a funny girl she was. Pretty, yet fragile somehow. The hand
that gripped his arm was lily-white, small with a faint pattern of blue veins.
Though well kept and, God knew, soft to the touch, it looked bloodless. Her
complexion was pale. From angles, she seemed frail, as if she were built of
delicately laid match sticks – he could have put his fingers around her wrist
with a knuckle to spare. She didn't have a lot of bosom, though what there was
sure was round: small but plump – unexpectedly ample for a girl as slim as a
bedslat.
In contrast, he couldn't help remembering that backside of hers,
seeing it again
who didn't want him to go through it: only carry it.
"It holds a lot of private things," she said.
They argued. She won. The satchel wasn't heavy enough for him to
put the energy into the debate that she was willing to. He picked the odd thing
up by its handles.
"You carry the gin," he told her, handing her the
bottles, one wrapped in the shirt, one in the socks. "It could be our
dinner."
They decided to go after the horses, mostly because, though the
animals had galloped off a ways, they were visible around a rocky rise near the
horizon. Two had broken loose from the others, the remaining four presumably
behind the dark outcrop of granite. It was Sam's intention that they walk up to
the animals – a fifteen-minute trek, he estimated, if they could approach the
horses without spooking them or having to give chase. Once close enough, he and
Mrs. Brown here would decide on the two horses most willing to be ridden,
improvise riding bridles from the coaching tack, then take to the road
bareback: a good, solid plan, even if the riding part was a little tricky for a
"lady's maid," but he could always take her up on his horse if she
couldn't ride without a saddle.
Thus, with Sam carrying the elongated satchel and Mrs. Brown
carrying a wrapped bottle of gin under each arm, they took off on foot, heading
toward the distant silhouettes of the two horses that looked fairly calm – in
fact, the animals appeared to be happily grazing on low bushes.
The land itself proved less accommodating. It was uneven and hard
to cover at a steady rate, spongy in places, stone-hard in others. There were
no trees to speak of, only the occasional cluster of scrubby vegetation. And
rock, everywhere dark gray rock. It lay in random bits, in buried chunks or
loose under a person's feet. It topped the smallest hills in stacks that stood
in the clutter of their own deterioration.
The generally flat vista was broken regularly by stony ridges that
erupted from the ground like the prows of ships emerging from a rolling ocean
of land. Grim landscape. Gray and still. Walking across such terrain, it didn't
take Sam long to realize that the only lively, colorful thing in it, Mrs.
Brown, had something wrong with her foot.
"You havin' trouble walkin'?" he asked.
"No," she said immediately. Then, "Well, yes. I
twisted my ankle earlier today. It hurts a little. I can walk on it,
though."
He smiled – her first impulse had been to lie – but contained
himself as he held out his free arm.
After a second's hesitation she took it, transferring that gin
bottle to the crook of her other arm, carrying the bottles against her chest.
As they tromped along, she let herself lean on him ever so
slightly every right-footed step. The feel of her weight reminded him of half
an hour ago, her arms around his neck as he'd pulled her out of the coach. He
could've worn her like a bandanna; she was as light as sunlight. Where she
linked her arm in his, where she held on, her fingers gripped like a vice, yet
their hold was feminine, soft and warm through his sleeve; he was surprised
again by the contact, the contradiction.
They walked along beside each other, neither speaking, while Sam
in surreptitious glances studied the young woman so reluctant to take help, yet
so much better off for it.
What a funny girl she was. Pretty, yet fragile somehow. The hand
that gripped his arm was lily-white, small with a faint pattern of blue veins.
Though well kept and, God knew, soft to the touch, it looked bloodless. Her
complexion was pale. From angles, she seemed frail, as if she were built of
delicately laid match sticks – he could have put his fingers around her wrist
with a knuckle to spare. She didn't have a lot of bosom, though what there was
sure was round: small but plump – unexpectedly ample for a girl as slim as a
bedslat.
In contrast, he couldn't help remembering that backside of hers,
seeing it again
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