"Then it will be in God's hands," she replied softly.
~~~
The road was worse than Sarah had expected. For hours they had slipped and slid along the muddy track, often getting out to lead the horses through a snowbank or even to help push the wagon when the footing was particularly icy. She'd not needed Forest to remind her that she couldn't have made it this far without his help.
They didn't pass a soul on the trail. It was obvious by the lack of tracks that no one had traveled this way since the snowfall on Christmas Day. Once, they left the road altogether to cross a meadow and pick up another trail heading northeast toward the Delaware counties.
For the most part, Sarah and Forest rode in silence. Sarah knew that she was taking a terrible chance in bringing him along. She hoped they'd get close enough for her to explain her reasons to Isaac before someone took a shot at him. The thought that her brother-in-law might murder Forest in a fit of anger overshadowed her own fears that Isaac knew of Obediah's death.
If Isaac knew his brother was dead, then she could tell Forest she was a widow and not a cheating wife. She'd wanted to explain to Forest a dozen times. Once, after they'd made love, the words formed on her lips, but in the end she'd held her silence. Telling the truth meant losing the inn and her livelihood to Isaac, and it might mean losing Joshua too.
What would Forest say when he found out she'd been living a lie for more than a year? Burying your husband in an unmarked grave was certainly reason for suspicion, and she had never pretended any affection for him. Would Forest accuse her of murdering Obediah? What if he or Isaac turned her over to the sheriff? Would anyone believe she was telling the truth after so many lies?
The guilt of living a lie troubled her. She wanted to trust Forest and confide in him, but her fear was stronger than the guilt. The law had failed her before when she demanded protection from Obediah. How could she expect more when Obediah's will placed Joshua under Isaac's control? Even if Forest believed her story and wanted to help her, he would be powerless against Isaac and the full force of the law.
Sarah's reverie was shattered by two rough-looking men on horseback who appeared suddenly in the road ahead of them. She recognized one as Isaac's man; the second was a stranger.
Forest yanked back on the reins and the wagon slid sideways. "Whoa," he called to the skittish horses.
"Hold up right there!" called the second man, on a big dapple-gray gelding. The left half of his face was covered by a burn scar, distorting his mouth and left eye. He cradled a musket in the crook of his arm. "Sarah Turner?" he demanded.
"I'm Sarah Turner," she shouted back. "Isaac won't take it kindly if—"
The other man spurred his horse closer. "That's Forest Irons!" he yelled. "He's a rebel! It's a trap! Shoot!" Sunlight glinted off the barrel of his rifle as he took aim at Forest.
Two flintlocks roared, and Forest threw himself sideways, shoving Sarah off the wagon seat into the snow. Half deafened by the sound, she scrambled behind the nearest tree as a horse screamed in agony. The team reared and fell back in their traces; there was a third shot, and then the scar-faced man threw himself on top of Forest: The two rolled over and over on the ground in mortal combat.
Heart pounding with fear, Sarah dashed out from her place of safety and grabbed the reins of a riderless horse. The animal's eyes rolled back in his head, and he tried to pull free. Sarah's arms felt as though they would be wrenched from their sockets, but she held on, breathlessly managing to wrap one of the dangling reins around a sapling. The sorrel's ears were back, and he snapped at her with long yellow teeth. She smacked him hard on the nose with her fist and dodged a slashing foreleg.
Ripping off her cloak, she threw it over the head of the plunging horse. The animal snorted and stood still, trembling. Sarah wound the reins tighter around the tree and knotted them. Cautiously, she peered out from behind the wagon as she stripped off her heavy gloves.
The second horse stood a few feet down the trail. Her stomach lurched as she saw the man who had shouted Forest's name lying motionless in the trampled snow. A red stain spread outward from a hole in the center of his chest.
In the traces, in front of the wagon, one of the harness horses was on his knees. Blood ran from a wound in his left hindquarter, turning his dark hide bright red. His teammate seemed terrified but uninjured.
Sarah's breath came in ragged gasps as she spied Forest and his opponent half under the wagon, struggling for possession of a wicked-looking hunting knife. The scar-faced man was on top, the veins at his temple bulging as he tried to force the knife down into Forest's chest. Choking back a scream of terror, Sarah forced herself to run around the wagon and pick up Forest's musket.
Terror numbed her mind as she stared at the heavy weapon in her hands. She remembered Forest firing the gun at the same time he pushed her from the wagon. That meant the musket was unloaded. She knew how to load the flintlock, and she could see Forest's powder horn lying in the snow by the front wagon wheel, but loading the gun would take precious seconds—by the time she finished it might be too late.
Still uncertain about what to do, she ran toward the struggling men. The tip of the knife blade hovered just above Forest's heart. Instinctively, she lifted the gun, intending to strike the scar-faced man in the head. When she realized that the wagon was protecting him, she brought the barrel down with all her might on the small of his back.
The man screamed and jumped, slamming his head against the bottom of the wagon bed. He let go of Forest and lunged backward, coming to his feet with a flood of curses. Sarah dropped the empty musket, turned, and fled toward the loose horse with the giant right behind her.
"I'll kill you, bitch!" he roared.
Sarah dodged the dead man and ran toward the dapple-gray. The horse shied to the right, but Sarah seized a trailing rein and set her foot into the stirrup. She was halfway into the saddle when Scarface grabbed her shoulder and dragged her down. She fell heavily against him, striking him in the face with her fist.
Spooked, the gelding spun around. The animal's rump slammed into the man, causing him to lose his footing in the wet snow. He went down with Sarah on top of him. Screaming like a banshee, she kicked wildly and flailed at him with both fists. The toe of her heavy leather shoe caught him in the crotch, and he gasped with pain, losing his hold on her in his agony.
Sarah scrambled free and ran back toward the wagon. "Forest!" she screamed. "Help me!" Her foot slipped, and she fell almost on top of the dead man.
Scarface cursed again, and his massive hand closed around her leg, his fingers biting cruelly into her flesh. "Damn you," he swore. "I'll—"
Sarah's hand brushed a pistol at the dead man's waist and she seized it, rolling onto her back and leveling the weapon inches from her assailant's face. Time seemed to slow as her brain registered the blood lust in the man's piglike eyes. Without hesitation, she squeezed the trigger.
She twisted away as he fell but was unable to avoid the spray of crimson blood. Gagging, she fell to her knees, still clutching the smoking pistol, and backed away.
Seconds passed. The giant twitched and laid still, the ruin of his face hidden by the snow.
Sarah leaned forward and was suddenly and violently ill. Seized by sharp spasms, she drew in great, gasping breaths of cold air that set her head to spinning. She clamped her eyes shut and fought the waves of nausea that threatened to cause her to lose consciousness. Slowly, she regained control; the sickness ebbed and her pounding heart slowed. A small sound registered behind her and her eyes flew open.
The dapple-gray horse whinnied and took a few steps in her direction. Shakily, Sarah got to her feet and moved toward the horse, speaking soothingly. "Whoa. Easy, boy." To her surprise, the animal allowed her to take the reins and lead him to the wagon. She tied him tightly and then went to where she had last seen Forest.
"Forest!" she cried. "Why didn't you—Oh!" She dropped to her knees in shock as she saw the spreading blood. "You're hurt!"
&nb
sp; He opened his eyes and looked at her with a dazed expression. "Hurt?" he repeated. "I . . . I don't think so."
She grabbed his legs and pulled him out from under the wagon. Quickly, she stripped the wagon canvas aside and took several blankets and spread them on the ground. Gently, she moved him onto one blanket and covered him with the other.
"I'm . . . I'm cold," Forest mumbled. "I'm cold . . . but I don't . . . Are you hurt?"
"Shhh," she cautioned. "I'm fine." With trembling hands, she raised his shirt to expose the knife wound in his side. She hadn't realized that Forest had already been so badly injured when she interrupted the struggle under the wagon. She'd been furious that he hadn't come to her aid, when . . . "Lie still," she said soothingly, trying to cover her own fear. The wound was bad . . . very bad . . . and they were a long way from home. "It will be all right," she said, unconsciously using the same tone she had with the horse. She packed the gaping wound with snow and repeated the action when the snow turned red with Forest's life's blood.
"Stop that," he protested weakly. "I'm cold. Let me . . . go . . . to sleep."
She looked up at the gray sky overhead. Already the wind was picking up, and snowflakes were drifting down. "I've got to get you someplace where I can take care of you," she said. It couldn't be Isaac's fort. Her brother-in-law would kill both of them if he learned they'd killed his men.
Taking a rope from the wagon, Sarah looped it around the dapple-gray's neck and used the animal to pull both bodies well off the road. They were still miles from Isaac's fort; if it kept snowing, the snow would cover what had happened here and Isaac might not suspect her.
Next, she gathered all the weapons and put them under the wagon seat, taking precious minutes to load all the guns. She unhitched the injured horse and put the dapple-gray in harness in his place. She tied the wounded horse to the back of the wagon along with the ill-tempered sorrel. She didn't know what use the animals would be to her, if any, but she couldn't leave them here or turn them loose. Gratefully, she dropped her cloak around her shoulders and pulled up the hood against the cold.
She returned to Forest and was relieved to see that the bleeding had slowed to a trickle. "I have to put you in the wagon," she said to him. "I know it hurts, but I have to get you to shelter." She took his face in her hands. "Do you think you can help me?"
Forest opened his eyes and grinned. "Hallo, pretty lady," he said. "Can I have this dance?"
"Certainly." With a sigh, she began to rearrange the items in the wagon, using blankets to make a snug bed for Forest in the center, where she could cover him from the weather with the canvas.
She knew she would have to bandage his side before she tried to move him, but she was certain there were bits of his shirt in the wound. As bad as the bleeding looked, it was infection that killed most men.
The venison had been wrapped in an old sheet. The ends that were clean and unsullied by the meat would do for a bandage. Using the same knife that had done all the damage, Sarah cut the sheet into strips. Packing fresh snow against the wound, she covered it with a pad of linen and wrapped that securely around and around Forest's waist. He groaned in pain and mumbled protest, but seemed too weak to struggle.
"How am I going to get you up into the wagon?" she asked him softly. She knew he was too heavy for her to lift without doing serious damage to the wound. It would start to get dark soon, and she must get back to the spot where she had to cross the meadow. It wasn't marked, and she'd never find it after nightfall.
She shook him. "Forest, you've got to help me. You're hurt. I've got to get you home. Can you understand?"
"Hurt? You're hurt?"
She shook him harder. "Forest! Listen to me! It's Sarah!"
"Sarah?" The corners of his mouth turned up in a smile. "I love Sarah," he murmured.
In desperation, she scooped up two large handfuls of snow and rubbed them in his face. Forest gasped and his eyes flew open. "Wake up!" she screamed in his ear. "The British are coming!"
Forest struggled to a sitting position. "My rifle." He groaned. "Give me my rifle."
"Your rifle's over here," she lied, throwing her shoulder under his armpit and straining to lift him. "Get up, quick! It's General Howe's men!"
Forest lurched onto his feet, and Sarah half carried, half dragged him to the wagon. "Rangers," he murmured deliriously. "Got to tell the captain. Uncle John! Where's Uncle John?" Forest fell against the wagon and Sarah climbed up and pulled at him.
"Up here," she insisted. "John's here." She didn't know who John was, and she didn't care. It was plain as the ears on the wall-eyed sorrel that Forest—Forest Irons, Isaac's man had called him —was a damned rebel spy!
But she didn't care about that now either. All she cared about was getting him to where she could sew up that gash in his side and keep him from freezing to death.
"Uncle John?" he repeated drunkenly. Red showed against the white of the bandage as he climbed and was dragged onto the wagon bed.
With a sigh of relief, Sarah settled him into the nest she had prepared, tucking blankets tightly around him. "It's all right," she murmured into his ear. "It's all right. John chased all Howe's men away. You're safe now, Forest Irons. Go to sleep."
"Cold," he repeated.
"You'll be warm soon enough." Sarah dragged the canvas over him and climbed up on the wagon seat. She gathered the reins and slapped them over the rumps of the horses, turning the wagon around. "We're going home," she called back to Forest. "You sleep now."
"Home?" came the muffled reply.
"God, I hope so," she answered. "Git up!" she cried to the team as she pulled her sheepskin mittens on. "We've got miles to cover before nightfall."
The big dapple-gray snorted in response and surged ahead, setting the pace with a strong, steady stride.
Chapter Seventeen
Changing Allegiance
Sarah knew she would never have made it home to King's Landing in time to save Forest if it hadn't been for the dapple-gray gelding. Strong and patient, the big horse fought his way through snowdrifts and mud, forcing his teammate to keep up the pace.
She nearly missed the turnoff across the meadow due to the poor light and falling snow. She had to get down off the wagon seat and mount the bad-tempered sorrel. She rode him to the far side of the meadow with the injured horse on a lead line, tied both horses to a tree, and returned to lead the team across.
Once she climbed back onto the wagon, it was difficult to follow the narrow trail in the dark. If there had been a farmhouse near the trail, she would have stopped, but there was nothing to do but keep going until she reached the inn. Forest was silent during the journey home, but Sarah was afraid to pause and uncover him to look at his wound again. She knew there was nothing more she could do for him until she had medicine, hot water, and soap.
She drove home watching over one shoulder, afraid Isaac would discover what had happened and follow them to take his revenge. If Isaac learned Forest was a rebel, he would also believe she was a secret Patriot . . . that she had betrayed his hidden headquarters to the enemy. She had no illusions as to what her fate would be if Isaac caught up with them. He would strangle her with his own hands.
Despite her fears, Sarah reached the inn without incident. Her heart was in her throat as she and Gideon carried Forest into her cabin and put him on her bed. He cried out in pain when they moved him, but other than that, he had given no sign of consciousness since Sarah dragged him into the wagon at the scene of the fight. He's so deathly pale, she thought. In the darkness of her bedchamber, his face was the same color as the linen pillowcase.
Gideon sighed and shook his head when Sarah showed him the wound in Forest's side. "It's bad," he agreed, "but I seen worse-off men live and better die." The old seaman busied himself with building up the fire. "Needs t' be stitched," he said. "Reckon I can do it if—"
"No," Sarah protested. "I'll do what needs doing. An innkeeper's wife learns her share of the barber surgeon's trade." She moved to
the hearth and held out her numbed hands. "If you could see to the horses, I'd appreciate it," she said wearily. "And give the dapple-gray an extra measure of corn. He's earned it."
"Aye, mistress, that I can do."
Feeble light spilled through the window beside the bed. It was daylight again. Sarah had driven through the night and into morning. Now she was so tired she could hardly hold her eyes open, but she knew that Forest's injury couldn't wait. She'd need to prepare a poultice to hold down the infection and an herbal tea of willow bark for fever.
Gideon paused by the door and looked back thoughtfully. "Ye didn't say who did this to him, ma'am. Should we rig for a squall?"
"We fought with two of my brother-in-law's men," she answered softly. "They're dead. But if he finds them, and he guesses we're to blame, he'll come after us. This is none of your trouble, Gideon. You're free to take one of those horses and ride out of here."
He grinned. "Trouble always did foller Forest like a bo'sun follers a keg o' Haitian rum."
Sarah wiped her hands on her skirt. "You know he's a rebel."
Gideon nodded. "Aye, mistress, that I do. Real fire-eater, Forest is. Knowed it fer years. He were part o' the ruckus from the start." The old man scratched his head. "Ye gonna turn him over t' Georgie's troops?"
"Would you let me?"
He chuckled. "Don't 'spose we got to test them waters, Miz Sarah. Less'n the sea salt in my brain has finally rusted what judgment powers I got, ye don't look like a woman about to betray the man she loves."
Sarah dropped into a chair. "You know about us?" Her voice quavered. "I'd not thought . . . "
"A blind man could see that the two of ye are as close as any man and woman hope to be." Gideon motioned toward the still form on the bed. "I got no son, least not I ever knowed of—but if I did, I'd want him to be like Forest there. He's a good man, mistress, not jest skin good like some, but bone good. Ye could find no better, not if ye searched the seven seas."
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