by Anne Barton
James was already itching to get back on his horse and go after her. “Is there anything else you can tell me? Anything else I should know?”
The woman shook her head. “I gave her some food to take with her.”
“Thank you—you’ve been very helpful.” He dug into his pocket and slapped a few coins onto the bar.
The innkeeper’s wife eyed them, then pushed them away. “Keep your money.”
But James was already heading toward the door, praying that Olivia wouldn’t be foolish or desperate enough to ride at night. The darkness would slow his pursuit, but with any luck, he would reach Mapleton well before morning and stop her from getting on the mail coach.
However, his gut told him that it wouldn’t be that simple.
It never was with Olivia.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Oasis: (1) A fertile, green place in the desert, usually having water. (2) A refuge, as in
She’d forever think of the idyllic spot by the river as their private oasis.
Olivia had never jumped off of a moving cart before, and her heart beat triple time at the thought. She scooted all the way to the back and let her feet dangle over the edge, but the ground below was farther away than she’d imagined and seemed to slide by at an alarmingly fast rate. Which would have been daunting even if she hadn’t recently turned her ankle.
She took a deep breath and summoned her courage. So far, everything had gone according to plan. Upon reaching Sutterside a couple of hours ago, she’d gone directly to the bakery, where she’d purchased three loaves of bread. From there, she’d found a fruit stand where she was able to add peaches, apples, and ripe berries to her bag. At the inn, she’d bought some dried meat, cheese, and a bottle of wine.
Most importantly, she’d spoken to the innkeeper’s wife, confident that James and Owen would somehow charm or otherwise convince the woman to reveal what Olivia had told her.
Of course, she had no intention of heading south or taking the mail coach. They’d be able to track her much too easily. No, she was headed to the last place anyone would think to look for her—back to Haven Bridge.
She’d left Owen’s horse behind at Sutterside, hoping James and her brother would be too busy pursuing her to realize that she’d abandoned the horse for other means of travel. It had been easy to find a farmer traveling north. Olivia had smudged her face, clothes, and portmanteau with some road dirt and covered her head with a dark shawl. She approached the farmer in the village square as he finished unloading grain from his cart. When he said he was going north, she requested a ride—and the utmost discretion regarding his passenger—in exchange for a few coins. He’d shrugged his shoulders and agreed.
He’d offered her a seat on the bench beside him, but she declined, saying she preferred to ride in the back and rest.
In truth, her plan required her to jump off the back of this jostling cart shortly before reaching Haven Bridge. She couldn’t risk having someone see her in the village, and she didn’t wish to respond to the farmer’s questions. If he did happen to mention his odd passenger to someone, all he’d be able to say is that she’d disappeared somewhere between Sutterside and Haven Bridge.
The cart rumbled over a bump, jarring Olivia’s teeth. Night had fallen, and the time was right. She craned her neck to look up and down the road; no one else was in sight. She dragged her heavy bag to her side and, knowing it would be the point of no return, shoved it over the edge. It bounced inelegantly and produced a little puff of dust. The farmer didn’t notice.
Now it was her turn.
One, two, three… jump.
She fell forward, landed on her hands and knees, and rolled several yards, her skirts twisting around her legs. She stayed down for a few seconds, catching her breath and making sure that she was still in one piece before untangling herself and scurrying to retrieve her portmanteau. What if the wine bottle had broken? Her extra clothing and her food would be ruined.
When she spotted the bag, she began walking faster, and when she finally gripped the soft leather handles, she said a little prayer of thanks. The contents of her bag were critical to the success of her plan, and a peek inside revealed that while the contents had been jostled, the wine bottle had survived the fall.
It was tempting to stay on the road rather than brave the tall grass—home to countless insects, no doubt—and the uneven ground that lay beside the main road. But she couldn’t risk being seen by someone who would tip off James and Owen. Besides, a woman walking alone at night would make an easy target. So she opted for the brush and the rocky terrain that might help to keep her hidden.
Glad that she’d worn her ugliest, sturdiest boots, she trudged through the grass and lugged her bag up a slight embankment. At the top, she found a narrow path where the vegetation had been trampled by other travelers. She fervently hoped she didn’t happen upon any of them on her walk back to Haven Bridge.
She treaded cautiously over the matted grass, certain that a snake would slither across her toes. But since the sun had set and the sky grew darker by the minute, she couldn’t really tell what creatures lurked in the wild—a blessing, she supposed.
With every step she took, her bag became heavier. When the muscles in one arm began to ache, she switched it to the other. After a half hour, her shoulders burned and her arms were numb, but she didn’t dare stop. She had a great distance to go before this night was over.
Her ears perked at a clopping in the distance, and she crouched low, keeping still. The noise grew louder and before long she spotted movement on the otherwise deserted road. A horse galloping, too fast in the darkness, its rider leaning forward like he was on a mission. Olivia held her breath and watched as the man rushed by.
Though the moonlight was dim, she recognized him. She would have recognized him anywhere. The breadth of his shoulders, his lean hips, his athletic grace. James.
He’d come after her, as she’d known he would.
Oh, she’d hoped the letter would dissuade him, but deep in her heart she’d known he wouldn’t give up easily. The most gut-wrenching part of writing the letter was imagining him reading it and knowing the hurt and betrayal he must have felt.
She wanted to call out to him, to tell him she loved him and that she didn’t mean a word of that stupid, horrid letter. She wanted to tell him that she’d marry him anytime and anyplace, so long as they could be together.
But that would mean the death of his dream, and so she kept quiet, kept still. She waited until the pounding of the hooves faded into silence.
And then she dropped her head to her knees and cried.
“What have we here?”
The deep, sinister voice made her leap to her feet and stagger back. A stranger, large and imposing, grabbed her already sore arm so tightly that she cried out.
“Quiet.” He shook her with a force that knocked her teeth together.
Her heart thundered in her chest as his insolent gaze crawled over her, taking in her dark clothes and stuffed bag. “Running away? Did no one warn you about evil men who prey on girls like you?”
Oh, James had warned her—one time or twenty. “Let me go.”
He chuckled, and the hollow sound sent chills over her skin. “What’s in the bag?”
“Clothes. Not your size.”
“We’ll see.” He picked it up, the whites of his eyes growing larger. “What heavy gowns you have.”
“Slippers, too,” she said, amazed she could be flippant and petrified at the same time.
Still squeezing her arm with one hand, he bent down, yanking her with him, and opened her portmanteau. He flipped it over, spilled everything onto the ground, and began rummaging through it. When he came across the bottle of wine, he arched a slick brow and set it aside. Inevitably, he also found her pouch of coins, which he held to his ear and shook, smiling at the clinking it produced. He shoved the pouch into his pocket and jerked her to standing again.
“A lady of means. Why, it’s my lucky day.” He leane
d forward, his reeking breath invading her nostrils. “Give me your jewelry.”
“I don’t have any with me.” It was the truth. Where she was going, she had no need of jewels.
“None? I find that hard to believe.” He grabbed her chin and turned her head to the side, checking her ears. Then he looked lower, scowling at her unadorned neck. “Let’s see your hands,” he demanded.
She held out her shaking hands, belatedly remembering the ring. The gold ring James had given her, from the river.
“Give it to me,” the robber spat.
“No.” She hadn’t cared about the wine or the money, but this was different. “It’s my wedding band,” she lied. “And not worth very much.” She reached into her pocket and produced the last of her coins. “You can have these instead. Just take the money and leave me, please.” Her voice quivered.
The brute greedily added the coins to his pocket and shook her again. “I want the ring.”
“I don’t know if I can take it off,” she said truthfully. “If you let go of my arm, I’ll try.”
He narrowed his eyes but did as she asked, watching her like he was afraid she’d bolt any second.
She twisted and pulled on the ring, but it wouldn’t come off.
“Let me see,” he said impatiently. He grabbed her hand and tried to wrench it off, pulling so hard she thought he’d either scrape her skin off or break her finger.
The more he pulled, the more her finger swelled, throbbing like she’d slammed it in a door.
“Please,” she cried out. “It’s not going to come off until my finger does.”
His sinister laugh pierced the air as he reached into his boot and brandished a knife; moonlight glinted off the blade. “If that’s the way you want it.” He lunged for her hand again, and she spun away, just out of his reach.
“Wait. Give me another minute. I’m sure I can loosen it.” Only, she wasn’t sure at all. And though she would have liked to think the thief was bluffing about cutting off her finger, she didn’t want to take the chance he wasn’t. She spit into her hand and worked the saliva around the ring. It moved a little.
“I grow weary of waiting, you cheeky chit. I’ll have that ring. Now.”
He grabbed her from behind, wrapping an arm around her waist, then pressed the blade, cool and razor sharp, against her cheek.
Blood pounded in her ears; her knees wobbled. She kept twisting the ring—it was almost over her knuckle. But the sick feeling in her belly was telling her that even if she managed to remove it, he wasn’t going to let her go. He was having far too much fun torturing her.
His rancid breath wafted over her face. “You’re a feisty one.” Then the point of his knife pricked her skin, unleashing her rage.
She screamed and jammed her elbow into his gut, loosening his hold just enough so that she could turn and dig her heel into the top of his foot. He yelped and his knife dropped to the ground. She dove for it, snatching it before he could. Her ring popped off her finger and flew through the air.
Panting and shaking with fear, she gripped the hilt of the knife with both hands and waved it with a lot more bravado than she felt.
Undaunted, the robber hulked toward her. “You little—”
The unmistakable rhythm of galloping hooves thundered toward them. “Help!” she screamed.
“Bitch.” Her attacker grabbed the wine and stumbled into the taller grass. She could just make out his silhouette mounting a swaybacked horse and charging off across the field, away from her and the rider coming down the road.
Her knees did give out then. She dropped the knife and collapsed to the ground, shivering in spite of the balmy night. The rider still galloped down the road, toward her, at full speed. She doubted he’d heard her, and now that the robber had fled, she was grateful she hadn’t been discovered. She peered through the reeds as the man passed her on horseback, a blur of black on gray. Owen. He charged past her, oblivious to everything but his goal—finding her.
Without even meaning to, her brother had saved her. If she survived this ordeal, she would never again complain about his tendency to be overprotective. In fact, she rather adored him for it. As she watched him disappear into the darkness, her heart squeezed in her chest.
And that was more than enough sentimentality for one night. Still wobbly, and worried that the robber would return, she grabbed the knife and carefully wrapped it in a shawl before placing it in the bottom of the portmanteau. She crawled around, gathering all the other items and shoving them in, too. She spent more time than she should have feeling around in the grass for the ring, but quickly realized the futility of it. It broke her heart to leave behind that little piece of James, but she couldn’t waste any more time. So, heedless of what rocks or other obstacles might lay in the path, she ran.
Fueled by fear and love and anger, she ignored the branches that scraped the back of her hands and the weight of her bag slamming into her thigh. She ignored the stitch in her side and the quivering of her exhausted muscles.
When at last she saw the lights of the inn at Haven Bridge, she sank to her knees, leaned to the side of the path, and retched.
Once the spasms ceased, she sat back and rested her head on her knees. Her heart gradually slowed to normal. The night breeze cooled her neck, damp with sweat.
She had to press on.
By her calculations, which were not so much calculations as a sort of highly fallible intuition, the abandoned cabin on Uncle Humphrey’s land was about four miles away.
The cabin was the perfect place for her to hide out. No one would suspect that she’d doubled back and hidden right under their noses. And Lord knew that no one would believe she’d tolerate such primitive living conditions. She could scarcely believe it herself.
But she was willing to endure a week or so of discomfort if it meant James could leave for Egypt unencumbered by guilt—or a wife he hadn’t asked for.
She pushed herself to her feet and brushed off her hands. There would be plenty of time for self-pity once she reached the cabin. In fact, there’d be little else for her to do but sleep… and think.
It occurred to her that the last leg of her journey would have been much more enjoyable if she’d had a horse. Or a coach with plush velvet squabs. But she was not the spoiled, pampered, squeamish Olivia of old.
So, she hefted the bag onto her shoulder and suppressed a groan. She could travel faster if her load was lighter, but she didn’t dare leave any of her supplies behind. She would need them all. At least she didn’t have to worry about the wine bottle any longer.
The village was even more peaceful than usual. She could just make out the lake in the distance, shimmering in the moonlight. She hadn’t seen or heard anyone on the main road for some time, and before long, she’d leave it behind for paths that were even less traveled. She’d walk up the path where she’d turned her ankle—at least it wasn’t raining—and past the spot where she and James had eaten hot cross buns on the rocks.
It would be slow going, but with a modicum of luck, she’d reach the little dilapidated cabin—her safe haven—by dawn.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Olivia awoke later than usual to thirst scraping her throat and hunger gnawing at her belly. Her head pounded and the sunlight streaming through the cabin’s only window sharpened the pain. She threw off the shawl that served as her coverlet and rolled off of her crude pallet—a blanket she’d doubled over.
One of the wooden floorboards was broken and some were warped, but the floor was relatively clean, thanks to a few leafy branches that she’d turned into a makeshift broom. She could have worked wonders with a scrub brush and a bucket of soapy water, but at least the cobwebs were gone.
She shielded her eyes as she felt along the ledge of the window, then grasped the handle of the knife she’d taken from the highway robber. Carefully, she carved a tally mark in the wall beside her.
Seven nights.
She’d survived a week alone in the woods.
Cl
osing her eyes, she whispered a prayer. James would board a ship today and begin his journey to Egypt. Though her chest ached from grief, she sighed with satisfaction.
Her plan was working. She had only to manage one more night of solitude.
But it wasn’t going to be easy. She reached for her portmanteau—which was also her pillow—and looked inside. Her supplies were terrifyingly low. She’d run out of bread and fruit a couple of days ago. All that was left was a bit of dried meat.
She stood slowly, steadying herself with a hand on the wall. When the dizziness faded, she staggered to the cabin door and opened it, flooding the small room with light.
Though she hadn’t seen a single soul for a week, she still feared being spotted by someone passing through Uncle Humphrey’s land, so she scanned the horizon for any movement. Nothing but birds flitting from tree to tree and leaves trembling in the warm breeze. Blinking in the sunlight, she stepped outside and took a gulp of fresh air.
The greatest challenge of the last week had been neither thirst nor hunger. Oh, she would have gladly traded her favorite pair of earrings for tea and a scone, but what plagued her the most was boredom. Inside the cabin, the hours blurred together so that she could scarcely tell the difference between morning, midday, and evening.
Fortunately, she’d found a pastime of sorts—digging. She didn’t have proper tools, but sticks weren’t in short supply. After she’d whittled the end of a branch to a point, it worked almost as well as the pick James carried in his supply bag. Over the past few days she’d spent hours along the riverbank, painstakingly uncovering interesting little artifacts. Most of them were the same rounded stones James had found. But between the rocks she’d also discovered bits of metal, tarnished with age. Perhaps she’d draw them in her journal before giving them to Uncle Humphrey. She hoped they’d make him smile.
Today would be her last day of isolation, and though there was not much she’d miss about the cabin, she realized, with no small amount of surprise, that she would miss exploring and digging by the river.