visible horse did the same thing
again, putting more distance between himself and his approaching, would-be
masters.
"Shoot, will ya look at that," Sam said, halting.
"We're no closer to riding out of this trouble than we were when we
crawled out of that swamp." He looked at the woman beside him. "Maybe
you should wait here. I'll go get 'em and—"
"No, it's going to get dark. I don't want" – she
hesitated – "I don't want us to become separated." She lowered her
voice; it quavered. "I'm afraid," she said, as skittish as the
horses.
He let out a breath, nodding, frowning under the brim of his hat,
then started to walk again. He could see her point. By her careful movement, he
was pretty sure her ankle hurt more than she wanted to let on; she was trying
to be brave. What to do with her and the horses, though?
When, ten minutes later, the last horse in sight bolted again to
just this side of the stand of rocks, Sam let out a long, windy sigh. "Sit
down," he said. "You have to wait here."
"No—"
"You have to." The sun lay on the horizon behind thick
clouds, making the sky glow, while it gave every rise and bump of the moor the
faint, long, fantastical shadows of early twilight. "I'm leaving you here.
I'm running that way" – he pointed west – "at an angle away from
them, then I'm circling back around behind that outcrop of rock—"
She turned to face him. "You can't leave me here alone—"
"I can, and you have a part to play, so listen to me. It's
getting dark, and I don't have time to argue."
"I'm coming with you—"
He put his fingers over her mouth, which made her mad. She shoved them
away. Before she could say anything, though, he told her, "Stop
complaining. Listen."
"You stop. Stop acting as if you have everything taken care
of. As if I had no say."
He snorted. "All right, what's your plan?"
Silence. She pressed her pretty mouth tight, scowling up at him.
After a moment, she admitted, "I don't have one."
"Then, till you do, can we try mine out?"
More glaring, more lip pressing. "Oh, jolly good," she
said. She meant the opposite. "Certainly. Whatever you say. You're a
one-man Wild West show. I'll just stand here and watch."
"Listen, Liddy" – it just came out. Lydia , Liddy; close
enough. It sure as blazes beat calling her Mrs. Brown , when she was no
more a missus than a fly and Brown probably wasn't her name anyway. "I'd
feel insulted if I wasn't so busy feeling bad for you. You're worried, scared
witless, and it's addling your brain."
She blinked, frowned, and drew her head back, still mad, then
surprised him. "Fine," she said grudgingly, "what do you want me
to do?"
Well. All right then. "I'll go round that rise and send the
horses around this way. I'll run them toward you. When you see me come out from
behind them, stand up and wave your arms. Make a lot of noise. Turn them back
toward me. We'll get them between us, and I'll latch onto one, one way or the
other."
Her bottom lip pushed out, she nodded. Her chest, those fine,
wobbly breasts, rose and fell like she was running a race. Poor thing. She was.
Against him. Against herself. Against her own bucking fright – she didn't think
for a second she could take care of herself, and she didn't have much more
faith in him.
Before he could think about her more and reconsider, he left her
there.
Without looking back, Sam sprinted toward the sun. He paced
himself, taking long, even strides, watching the ground as best he could in the
fading light, trying to keep himself on the even tract as he ran parallel to
the rise of granite.
The big shock came as he rounded on the high rocky rise. He
slowed, then moved around it till he could see the horses: In the dim light he
spotted not six but at least a dozen, a small herd. They weren't the coach
horses at all. They were ponies. Wild ponies. And they scattered, every last
one of them, in all directions, the moment they caught the drift of his scent and
movement.
Sam stood there stunned, watching small,
again, putting more distance between himself and his approaching, would-be
masters.
"Shoot, will ya look at that," Sam said, halting.
"We're no closer to riding out of this trouble than we were when we
crawled out of that swamp." He looked at the woman beside him. "Maybe
you should wait here. I'll go get 'em and—"
"No, it's going to get dark. I don't want" – she
hesitated – "I don't want us to become separated." She lowered her
voice; it quavered. "I'm afraid," she said, as skittish as the
horses.
He let out a breath, nodding, frowning under the brim of his hat,
then started to walk again. He could see her point. By her careful movement, he
was pretty sure her ankle hurt more than she wanted to let on; she was trying
to be brave. What to do with her and the horses, though?
When, ten minutes later, the last horse in sight bolted again to
just this side of the stand of rocks, Sam let out a long, windy sigh. "Sit
down," he said. "You have to wait here."
"No—"
"You have to." The sun lay on the horizon behind thick
clouds, making the sky glow, while it gave every rise and bump of the moor the
faint, long, fantastical shadows of early twilight. "I'm leaving you here.
I'm running that way" – he pointed west – "at an angle away from
them, then I'm circling back around behind that outcrop of rock—"
She turned to face him. "You can't leave me here alone—"
"I can, and you have a part to play, so listen to me. It's
getting dark, and I don't have time to argue."
"I'm coming with you—"
He put his fingers over her mouth, which made her mad. She shoved them
away. Before she could say anything, though, he told her, "Stop
complaining. Listen."
"You stop. Stop acting as if you have everything taken care
of. As if I had no say."
He snorted. "All right, what's your plan?"
Silence. She pressed her pretty mouth tight, scowling up at him.
After a moment, she admitted, "I don't have one."
"Then, till you do, can we try mine out?"
More glaring, more lip pressing. "Oh, jolly good," she
said. She meant the opposite. "Certainly. Whatever you say. You're a
one-man Wild West show. I'll just stand here and watch."
"Listen, Liddy" – it just came out. Lydia , Liddy; close
enough. It sure as blazes beat calling her Mrs. Brown , when she was no
more a missus than a fly and Brown probably wasn't her name anyway. "I'd
feel insulted if I wasn't so busy feeling bad for you. You're worried, scared
witless, and it's addling your brain."
She blinked, frowned, and drew her head back, still mad, then
surprised him. "Fine," she said grudgingly, "what do you want me
to do?"
Well. All right then. "I'll go round that rise and send the
horses around this way. I'll run them toward you. When you see me come out from
behind them, stand up and wave your arms. Make a lot of noise. Turn them back
toward me. We'll get them between us, and I'll latch onto one, one way or the
other."
Her bottom lip pushed out, she nodded. Her chest, those fine,
wobbly breasts, rose and fell like she was running a race. Poor thing. She was.
Against him. Against herself. Against her own bucking fright – she didn't think
for a second she could take care of herself, and she didn't have much more
faith in him.
Before he could think about her more and reconsider, he left her
there.
Without looking back, Sam sprinted toward the sun. He paced
himself, taking long, even strides, watching the ground as best he could in the
fading light, trying to keep himself on the even tract as he ran parallel to
the rise of granite.
The big shock came as he rounded on the high rocky rise. He
slowed, then moved around it till he could see the horses: In the dim light he
spotted not six but at least a dozen, a small herd. They weren't the coach
horses at all. They were ponies. Wild ponies. And they scattered, every last
one of them, in all directions, the moment they caught the drift of his scent and
movement.
Sam stood there stunned, watching small,
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