“Are you sure you’ll be all right?” Alex asked Cay for the third time.
“You’re worse than my father,” she said, but she was faking her bravado. The truth was that she was scared to death to be left alone in the forest. She glanced back at the spooky old ruins where he’d set up a canvas roof. Since the front was open, there wouldn’t be any protection from . . . from whatever was lurking in the trees. “I’m fine,” she said. “I’ll just wait here until you return.”
“You have the pistol and you know how to use it, don’t you?” He’d already wasted a lot of time reassuring her that bears were unlikely to attack the camp.
“I can shoot quite well.” She rubbed her arms against the chill in the air as she glanced at the sky. “It looks like it might rain soon so maybe you should go.” She wanted to beg him not to leave her alone there, but she would die before she told him that.
Alex wasn’t fooled by her act of bravery. He knew she was frightened, and since they were wanted by the law and being hunted by every reward seeker in three states, she was right to be afraid. But he needed to get them food, and he couldn’t go into public with her with him. Too many people were looking for a man and a woman traveling on horseback together.
“I’ll take your mare,” he said, watching to see how upset she’d be by this. When a look of panic crossed her pretty face, he almost relented. There were bags of dried food in his saddlebags but they’d need them later. Right now, they both needed a hot meal, and if possible, Alex was going to get it for them.
“Go!” Cay said as she stepped back toward the canvas covering. “Stop worrying about me. I can take care of myself.”
Alex thought she could barely walk by herself, but he wasn’t about to say that. His real fear was that she’d again decide this was her chance to escape and she’d leave as soon as he did. He hated to think what a bunch of vigilantes would do to a young girl they thought was a criminal.
Reluctantly, he saddled the mare and, with one more backward glance, left her alone in the woods, sheltered by a few falling-down brick walls of a burned-out house.
He rode as quickly as possible along the narrow path through the trees, and for the thousandth time he cursed T.C. Connor. On the one hand, Alex owed his life to the man, but on the other, it was T.C.’s fault that he was stuck with the care—and feeding—of a girl who didn’t know how to do anything. She refused to obey orders and went where she wanted when she wanted to. And when Alex so much as made a suggestion of how she should do something, she told him he was the most ungrateful, smelliest man she’d ever met.
As Alex came to the road, he couldn’t suppress a smile. She could ride, he’d give her that, and the memory of her on her horse with her hair flying, the huge cloak billowing behind her, and that white dress sparkling on her trim little body made him chuckle out loud.
Immediately, he stopped and looked about to see if anyone had heard him, but no one was on the road.
The truth was that the girl was good company, which was something he desperately needed after the last months of his life. The trial had been a farce. There wasn’t a person in the courtroom—including his own lawyer—who didn’t think he was guilty. Every day he was half dragged from the jail to the courtroom, and people hissed at him, spat on him, even threw rocks. By the time the guilty verdict came in, Alex had begun to doubt his own innocence. But then, a defense of “I don’t know what happened” wasn’t a very convincing one.
Only T.C. had shown him any kindness, and when the man told of his plan to free Alex, he’d been skeptical. That on the day of the breakout T.C. broke his leg and couldn’t supervise, and that one of the men paid to help Alex escape had been shot and the other captured, seemed to fit the whole situation. When Alex finally made his way on foot to the rendezvous site and there sat a pretty girl wearing a sparkling ball gown, it had seemed like the end of the world. He was sure he’d be dead within minutes—and she with him.
When she’d understood his brogue—which most Americans couldn’t—he’d realized with horror that she was the daughter of Angus McTern Harcourt. She was the beloved, precious sister of Alex’s best friend, and she’d been put under the care of Alex when he couldn’t even protect himself. If he’d had time to think, he was sure he’d have turned himself in rather than risk her life. But the bullets flying past hadn’t allowed them to do anything but run.
But the girl had proven to be made of sterner stuff than she’d first seemed. He’d seen how frightened she was, but she’d gathered her courage and made the best of a very bad situation.
He urged the mare forward. T.C.’s map had shown that there was a tavern nearby, and he meant to do what he could to get them some proper food. It had been weeks since he’d had a hot meal and he could feel his ribs sticking out. Again he chuckled at the way the girl had told him he was weak—and old. Alex ran his hand over his beard. He needed that now to hide his face, which so many people in and around Charleston had seen. But the beard seemed to make the girl think he was an old man, certainly older than her adored brother Adam.
Alex ducked his head as he passed a man and a woman in an open buckboard, then breathed a sigh of relief when they passed without recognizing him as an escaped convict.
As he kept riding, Alex tried to remember what Nate had told him about his sister, but there hadn’t been much. Nate was interested in solving puzzles, and he and Alex had exchanged letters about things they considered mysterious. Nate had only written about his little sister when she did something that got her punished—and that usually meant a fight with her brother Arthur Talbot Harcourt, “Tally.” Many times, Alex had made his father laugh when he retold the antics of Cay and her brother Tally.
“She sounds like her mother,” Alex’s father would say. “Did I ever tell you about the time she shot at Angus?” Alex would say yes but that he wanted to hear it again. It had been Malcolm, Cay’s great-uncle, who’d first told them the story. Three times Alex and his father had visited the McTerns where they lived just north of Glasgow. Alex had met all six of Cay’s first cousins, all of them older, richer, and better educated than Alex was. It was only when it came to horses, to any animal for that matter, that Alex was considered the leader. It was the oldest boy, Derek, eleven years Alex’s senior, who had recognized Alex’s gift. Derek had been adopted by Malcolm, who was now the laird of the McTern clan, and his wife, Harriet, and someday Derek would be the laird, so others listened to him. He said Alex was a “magician” with animals, able to make them do whatever he wanted them to. When Alex wrote Nate this, he started calling Alex “Merlin”—and to explain the name, Nate sent Alex a book about the ancient wizard. The name stuck, and forever after Nate called Alex “Merlin.”
Alex’s mind returned to the present when he saw the tavern in the distance. It was larger and much busier than he’d like for it to be. His hope had been that he could walk in and order food, but with that many people there, they were bound to have heard the news from Charleston. If Alex were clean and in good clothes, with his face hidden behind his beard, he could probably walk in unnoticed. But as he was, he looked like someone who’d just escaped prison.
“Damnation!” he muttered and thought of going back to Cay. They could live on the beef jerk
y and dried fruit for another few days. The farther south they went, the less likely that they’d be recognized.
But his stomach growled, reminding him of the need for food. Alex dismounted and led his horse into the trees where he could watch the activity at the tavern. He could see that the kitchen was at the back of the house and there was even a big kettle outside. He saw cooks and butchers in bloody aprons moving about.
In the front, the double doors opened frequently as people went in and out. No, there was no way he would be able to get in there without someone knowing who he was.
An idea came to him. If he couldn’t go in, then he’d just have to make all of them come out. He checked the supply of gunpowder he’d brought with him. With that and some pinecones, he’d be able to make a great deal of noise.
Cay ran along the path until the Scotsman was no longer in sight, then she went back to the dreary little campsite and sat down on a log. She had the pistol he’d left her in her hand, and she began to wonder if the powder was dry. If it was wet and she shot it, the pistol could blow up in her face. Even if it didn’t explode, it would take her at least three minutes to reload. But what if the powder was on the other side of whatever she was shooting at? If it were, say, a bear coming at her and she missed her first shot, how did she get around the huge thing to get the powder and reload? On the other hand, if she didn’t kill the bear with the first shot, it would kill her, so getting more powder wouldn’t matter because she’d be dead.
When a branch behind her broke, she jumped up and aimed her pistol, but it was only a squirrel.
“You must calm down,” she said aloud and looked to see if anything had heard her. It was daylight, but the overhead canopy of trees made it seem like twilight.
Cay wasn’t used to being alone. Whether she was at home in Virginia or with her relatives in Scotland, someone male was always nearby. For a moment she closed her eyes and wished to see one of her brothers or her cousins or her father. “Even Tally,” she whispered. If Tally came riding up right now she’d be so glad to see him that she’d endure all his taunting and teasing with a smile.