“Si, you can,” the lady said. She was back peering over Fergus’s shoulder. Just his luck to be stuck with a woman unable to recognize the voice of authority, not to mention good sense. “I know it hurts, Papa, but if you use your good leg, you can do it.”
The man’s terrified eyes sought out his daughter, and Fergus recognized paralyzing fear. So far, the older man showed considerably less fortitude than his daughter. “You’re una ragazza crudele, and the angels despair of you.”
“We don’t have time for this,” Fergus said between his teeth.
“Papa, if you don’t come out, I’m coming in to get you. Then it will be your fault if we both drown.”
“Per pietà, this won’t work.”
“Try, Papa. Per favore. You don’t want to be buried in Scotland.”
“Certo, I do not! Even for a dead man, this country is too cold.”
“In that case, you have to move.”
Fergus was about to tell the woman to be a bit gentler with her father’s fears, when to his surprise, he saw determination seep into the plump features. “For you, then, figlia mia.”
“Take my hand,” Fergus said on a surge of hope, reaching in, while still trying to use his weight to keep the carriage level.
“You, Coker, come and hold the broken shaft to keep the coach steady,” the woman said sharply behind Fergus. Coker must be the blockhead of a coachman.
Grunting in pain, the Italian began to shift gingerly in Fergus’s direction. Halfway along the leather seat, he stretched out a shaking hand. Fergus lurched forward to grab the man’s wrist as he felt the carriage settle further into the mud. Coker must have at last decided to lend his aid.
The next few seconds became an agonizing nightmare of suspense. It seemed to take the older man an hour to get into position. Beside him, Fergus heard the woman’s unsteady breathing and what he thought was a whispered prayer or two.
He realized she wasn’t quite as unemotional about her parent’s plight as she pretended. He liked her better for the hint of vulnerability, and for her courage in keeping it to herself.
This time, he didn’t waste his time telling her to stand back, although if the coach went into the burn, it would take half the bank. The mudslide would carry her away with it.
“That’s it, Papa. Bravo.”
“Give me room, madam,” Fergus said curtly.
“Of course.” Before he had an instant to remark on her sudden cooperation, she went on. “I’ll hold you steady while you bring him out.”
Fergus didn’t have the breath to consign her to Hades, although he wanted to. When she stepped down, the coach gave another alarming wobble. As Coker struggled to keep a grip on the shaft, he swore in some incomprehensible Glaswegian patois.
“Coraggio, Papa.” Fergus heard how she strove to keep her tone bright. “You won’t be in there much longer.”
“Try and maneuver yourself out. If I pull you, I might damage your leg.” If only he’d had the luxury of splinting the break before bringing the man out, but the carriage was too close to going over.
“Don’t let me go, per favore,” the man said shakily, struggling to stand on one foot. The
movement set the coach shuddering again.
“Coker, hold on!” the woman shouted.
Fergus reached in, trying not to upset the vehicle, then felt surprisingly strong hands grab his waist and ground him from behind. The Italian fellow gave a broken cry of agony as he made a clumsy hop toward Fergus. There was no time for niceties. With every second, the carriage tilted at a steeper angle.
“I won’t let you fall, sir,” Fergus said.
“Papa, listen to the man,” the woman said.
“Let me go, lassie. I need to step back if he’s to get out.”
“Very well,” the woman said. Despite the fraught circumstances, he noted that for the first time, she did what she was told.
Praying the carriage wouldn’t tip over without his weight to hold it steady, Fergus retreated backward onto the muddy road, pulling the Italian as he went. Inch by inch, the older man came forward, then with an awkward movement, more stumble than step, he toppled through the door.