Healing the Disguised Heir (Preview)

Chapter One

1861, The California Frontier, Crossroads Path

“Coach is late,” Deacon remarked, a tad unnecessarily. To highlight his point, he took out his pocket watch – gold and expensive, thank you very much – and flipped it open to inspect the time. He tapped the back of the watch with his signet ring. Also gold, of course. The noise soothed him. Click, click, click, try and guess how much this cost.

The other would-be passengers, all waiting for the same coach, rolled their eyes. They’d been giving Deacon dirty looks all day, but that wasn’t his business, and if they knew what was good for them, they’d mind their own. They could all stand there craning their necks like a bunch of chickens if they liked, staring down the dusty road to where the stagecoach was meant to be coming along.

Jonah didn’t bat an eyelid at the showy display of all that gold.

“What’ll we do if it doesn’t come?”

Deacon shrugged. “Find another way through California, I suppose. Get us a bed for the night. We’ll have to travel through the night as it is.”

Jonah sighed. “More expense.”

“What’s it to you? Pa pays for all our expenses, doesn’t he? You always get reimbursed for business stuff.”

The younger man ignored Deacon’s sharp tone, much like he had the heavy gold pocket watch. Jonah was twenty-three but acted like a man two decades older. In a good way, that was. He was placid, always calm, and clever enough to avoid the troubles Deacon’s temper got them into.

For example, casually commenting that Deacon had better put his gold pocket watch away because there were bandits and whatnot in places like this.

Deacon sighed, tucking his watch away. They were meant to have gotten to Sacramento a full week ago, but bad weather and just plain lazy coachmen meant they were running behind. There weren’t many telegraph offices around here, either, so he couldn’t send a message to his pa.

Chauncey Hayes wasn’t a man who liked delays. He hadn’t made his fortune in gold by hanging around when there were nuggets to be got, and he expected the same from his son. He wouldn’t be pleased.

Cursing softly to himself, Deacon swept off his hat and dabbed his brow with a handkerchief. It was a nice one, with his initials embroidered in the corner. That always made him laugh. The fifteen-year-old Deacon, panning for gold ten years ago, had to make do with a scrap of filthy fabric as a handkerchief, and there was no hiding from the sun back then. He hadn’t even had a hat for the first half year.

“Here it is,” Jonah said abruptly.

A cloud of dust rose further back along the hard-packed dirt trail, and Deacon gradually made out the blocky black shape of a stagecoach, trundling toward them unhurried. He clenched his back teeth in annoyance. A full day late. He’d better watch his tongue, too – some coach drivers would throw you off if you annoyed them, and there wasn’t a thing you could do about it.

Around them, the other passengers began to stir themselves, shifting children onto hips, grabbing small hands tightly, and lifting bags and boxes in readiness. A few, like Deacon, withdrew handkerchiefs to wipe away the sweat and dust of the day.

It was mostly cowboys and their wives, skin leathery and lined from a lifetime in the sun, clothes bleached colorless and worn to rags. Deacon and Jonah must look a sight beside them, with their fine suits and shaved cheeks.

Deacon was lucky enough to tan well in the sun, and once they’d made enough money for him not to have to toil in the heat of the day, he’d seized it with both hands. In fact, he was generally considered pretty handsome. Some twenty-five-year-old men were already cursed with bad teeth and receding hairlines, to say nothing of poor skin and expanding waistlines.

Not Deacon.

He was dark-haired, and he took care of his hair. He had sharp blue eyes often remarked upon and hadn’t let himself get fat now that his work was mostly administration and overseeing.

Jonah was a nice contrast beside him, with a pleasant, roundish face, big brown eyes, and dirty blond hair. They’d attracted plenty of admiring glances from women in this town, but Deacon was pretty sure it was just because the other local men were so ugly.

He was disturbed from his contemplation of the locals by the stagecoach lurching to a halt in front of them. A driver in a filthy cape hunched over at the front, chewing tobacco and glancing down at them with dislike. He held out a gnarled hand for money, and it galled Deacon to have to put something into it.

The families fought to the coach first, leaving Deacon and Jonah as just about the last ones to climb onboard. The coach was pretty spacious but not quite spacious enough. Deacon found himself rammed up against the door, with a portly woman sitting beside him, a fat baby on her knee. The baby had snot and tears crusting on its face and looked as though it was ready to start another squalling session. A tired-looking man sat beside the woman, eyeing the baby. The father, Deacon thought.

Most of their things had been lashed onto the coach roof, but sensible folks kept their valuables close. For Deacon, that meant his wallet, some papers his pa had given him, and their family picture. His ma was in that only a year before she passed, so it was precious to him. He had been generous in letting Deacon keep it – they only had one picture of her.

Apparently, for others, that meant baskets of groceries, scrunched-up linens, and heavy boxes full of heaven-only-knew-what. More and more bags and boxes were shoved into the footwell of the coach until Deacon was obliged to rest his feet on a long, low box, since there was nowhere else to put his legs.

The owner of the box, a leathery-looking cowboy of indeterminate age, glared balefully at him. Deacon grinned back.

And then they lurched forward, the heat inside the coach already unbearable, and they were off.

Jonah, crammed against the window in a position similar to Deacon’s, leaned forward and tapped his knee.

“We’ll be there soon. Do you feel ill?”

Deacon sighed. “Don’t tell the whole coach. They’ll throw me off if they think I’m likely to hurl.”

“It’s not your fault travel makes you feel ill.”

They passed over a particularly nasty pothole, and the passengers were all jostled together. Already, there was an unpleasant smell of unwashed bodies drifting among them. Deacon was fairly sure it wasn’t from him – he was fastidious with his washing – but there wasn’t much to be done about that now. Oh, well.

He took out his pocket watch again, ignoring the tuts of annoyance when he was forced to press his elbow against his neighbor to get to his pocket.

Seven hours. We have to sit for seven hours in this wretched thing.

Pa had better be grateful. Better not complain about my being late.

Even as he formulated the thought, Deacon realized that his father was going to complain.

Still, it would be good to see him.

Jonah, never one to sit in peaceful silence, leaned forward and tapped Deacon’s knee again to get his attention.

“My ma wrote to me the other week. There’s another girl from her church group she wants me to meet. She keeps talking about her. I reckon I’ll need to meet her at least once I go home to visit.”

Deacon sighed. “Just tell your mother you don’t want to get married. Tell her you’re busy.”

“Would you tell your ma that?”

He picked at the hem of his jacket. A thread was coming loose. He’d have to get that sorted as soon as he could.

“My ma would have understood,” Deacon said carefully.

That wasn’t exactly true. Mrs. Eliza Hayes had died when Deacon was fourteen, just before they hit it rich. She never had a chance to enjoy the good life, and Chauncey had never forgiven himself for not somehow making their change of fortune come sooner. Maybe she would have nagged Deacon to marry and kept throwing nice girls his way.

Deacon’s pa didn’t seem to bother much, aside from occasionally remarking that he should get himself married as soon as possible.

“I don’t want to hurt her feelings,” Jonah remarked, sitting back in his seat. “Anyway, maybe I’ll meet this girl and fall madly in love. You never know.”

Deacon snorted, and Jonah raised his eyebrows.

“What?”

“Nothing, just …” Deacon sighed. “You’ve already half given up. You need to be firm, Jo. You know that. Marriage is … well, it’s good enough for some people, I suppose. People who don’t have much else to do beyond pick a girl or lad and produce a few children.”

The rest of the adult passengers, who wore wedding rings on their fingers, threw scornful looks at Deacon. He ignored them. Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his knees, making sure that Jonah was listening.

“Marriage ties you up,” he said at last. “It’s not a romance novel. It’s hard enough. It’s another mouth to feed, and then the mouths keep coming and the demands get higher. Me, I don’t intend to marry. I’m going to go to New York and live the good life. Can’t do that with a woman in tow.”

Jonah only chuckled, shaking his head. “Sounds like you haven’t met the right woman.”

Deacon sat back, feeling ever so slightly riled. “Yeah, well, neither have you.”

“I suppose not. But I do want to fall in love and get married one day.”

Deacon sniffed. “Those two things don’t necessarily follow the other, you know.”

His friend eyed him thoughtfully for a long time, long enough for Deacon to wonder whether he’d said something unintentionally stupid. He had his pocket watch in his hand before he knew what he was doing, flicking it open to check the time.

Five minutes later than the last time he looked. Although they were outside the town boundary by now, with nothing but scrubland and a maze of valleys and canyons ahead.

“No, they don’t,” Jonah conceded, “but I hope they will. I hope it works out for you, too.”

Before Deacon could say anything – probably something scathing but clever that would annoy Jonah and lead to an awkward silence for the next few hours – a gunshot rang through the air.

That woke everybody up. The fat baby next to Deacon opened its eyes wide and began to scream without hesitation. Its mother clutched it close. Men sat up, peering out of the window, and women pressed hands against their mouths, eyes wide.

And then the coach jerked to a sudden halt, sharp enough to send Jonah flying off the opposite seat and sprawling over the rubbish piled in between the seats.

“What’s going on?” he gasped, righting himself. “Deacon?”

Deacon felt like demanding to know how he was meant to know what was going on. He swallowed his tart response – time and a place, after all – and peered out the window.

A man on horseback went thundering past the window. There were raised voices, one of them from the coachman, and another gunshot rang through the air.

No more responses from the coachman. There was a low thud in the silence that followed, like a bag of flour or perhaps a body hitting the ground.

Then more quiet. Deacon strained his ears. He could hear the shuffling of horses’ feet and the jingle of harnesses. No more voices.

And then, quite without warning, the door was yanked open. Deacon nearly fell out. A pistol was aimed at him, the barrel yawning black. It stunk of gunpowder, smoke, and hot metal.

A man stood there, draped in black from head to toe. Black wide-brimmed hat, black cape, black breeches, black, worn old boots covered in dust.

Black handkerchief around his face.

Only his eyes peered out, lined and hard, onyx black. He had a pistol in each hand.

Over his shoulder, Deacon could see a handful of other men, all on horseback, all with their faces covered. They were armed, of course. He noticed that the first man wore a belt with a few knives hanging from it and a pouch of what were certainly spare bullets.

We’re getting robbed, Deacon thought, with a surprising amount of clarity, considering the situation. He dragged his gaze up from the shiny pistol pointed in his face and found the man narrowing his eyes at him.

“If you’re done gawking,” he said, voice oddly muffled, “get out. All of you, get out. Start collecting your valuables because we’ll be taking it all. I just shot your coach driver, so don’t think I won’t shoot any of you, either.” He glared at Deacon. “No matter how finely you’re dressed.”

Chapter Two

They all tumbled out of the stagecoach. Not much else to do, really, not with a gun pointed at their faces. They’d reached a dense section of woodland populated by determined trees and the sort of scrubby greenery that could survive in a place like this. Plenty of cover, which was probably why the bandits had chosen this spot. The hard-packed dirt road snaked away through the trees. It probably wasn’t used much, so no help would come.

Deacon felt the familiar tightening of fear in his gut. He didn’t dare look at Jonah.

Once they were out of the coach, he risked a quick look around. Bandits, if the novels were anything to go by, didn’t much like you looking at their faces or staring too much. Fair enough.

There were four men in total, compared to eleven stagecoach passengers. Plus Deacon and Jonah, of course.

Thirteen of us in total, he thought suddenly. Unlucky.

They might have outnumbered the bandits, but the odds were certainly not in their favor. Five of those passengers were children, and the other six didn’t look much up to brawling. And, of course, the four bandits were all heavily armed.

Up close, the bandit who’d beckoned them all out of the coach didn’t seem particularly menacing. He was about a head shorter than Deacon and had more of a wiry frame than a muscled one. He swaggered around almost comically, waving his guns in the air.

However, it was pretty clear that he was the one in charge. Deacon found himself watching that man.

One of the women was crying. The children had fallen deathly quiet, which really was not normal for children of any age. The men – there were three, not including Jonah and Deacon – kept their chins tucked into their chests, staring at the ground.

“My name is Oliver,” the bandit announced suddenly. “You can call me Olly. Everybody does. Can you all guess why I stopped your coach today?”

Deacon spotted a crumpled shape underneath the wheels of the coach. The coachman, he assumed. The horses kept twisting around to stare at it. He averted his eyes.

“You want to rob us, but we haven’t got anything worth stealing,” Jonah spoke up abruptly. Deacon flinched, shooting a shut-the-hell-up glare at his friend. Jonah ignored him.

The bandit – Olly – swaggered over to Jonah, looking him up and down.

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

Jonah bit his lip. “Look. We’ve got kids here. Let us pool what we have right here, and then we can walk back to town. You’ll have plenty of time to sort through it before we get even halfway there. Let us go, won’t you?”

Olly’s eyes narrowed. Abruptly, he reached up and pulled down the handkerchief covering his face.

Deacon’s stomach dropped.

No bandit would reveal his face like that. Not unless he was well known, or if … well, if he had no intention of leaving anyone alive to describe him.

Stop it. Don’t think like that. He’s a robber; maybe he’s just dumb.

He was young, probably in his middle twenties, with a plain square face, black hair, and a snub nose. He was the sort of man you wouldn’t pick out in a crowd.

Of course, he was getting plenty of attention now. Maybe he liked it.

“Actually, you’re wrong,” Olly announced. “I don’t much care about what you’ve got in your pockets – although if you could go ahead and turn them out anyway, that would be great. Go on!”

He gestured with the barrel of his gun. At first, people didn’t move, but when the other three bandits jabbed people with their rifles, they jumped into action.

Purses, rings, a couple of pocket watches, and even wedding rings went flying onto the ground and sat there glittering on the hard-packed earth. One man even reluctantly took out a pretty little pearl-handled pistol and laid it down gingerly. Olly kicked it away from him.
It occurred to Deacon that if he didn’t throw something in, he would be clearly holding back. With what he hoped was just the right combination of reluctance and fear, he pulled out his wallet and tossed it onto the paltry pile of belongings. His wallet probably had twice as much as everybody else’s.

He left his watch in his pocket. Surely, that would be valuable, but it had been a gift he didn’t want to lose. There was an inscription on the lid:

To Deacon, from Pa. Your mama always wanted to get something from this jeweler. I can’t do anything for her, but I can sure get it for you. Take care of it since it’s a gift from us both.

The inscription alone must have cost a fortune. The watch might be solid gold, but that wasn’t why Deacon hadn’t parted from it since his eighteenth birthday.

Of course, if he were searched, they’d find it right away, and he wouldn’t see it again. Still, Deacon didn’t dare try to move it to a safer spot in case he was noticed. One or two men shot him quizzical looks, probably guessing that he’d held back the watch. He’d shown it off enough at the beginning of their journey, so they must have noticed it. Still, nobody said a word, and for that, Deacon was grateful.

One of the bandits squatted down and began going through the little pile of things. Most of the things he tossed impatiently aside, but all the wallets and purses were opened, and the money inside counted. More than once, the bandit cursed under his breath when he found an almost empty one.

He whistled aloud when he opened Deacon’s, revealing a wad of dollars.

Deacon tried not to react. If the bandits knew the wallet was his, they’d assume he was rich and had more money. They’d search him. People like that were greedy, always wanting more.

Having said that, Olly hadn’t so much as glanced at the pile of stolen things. They hadn’t bothered to take down any boxes and bags on top of the coach or the ones inside.

It’s us they’re interested in, Deacon thought, with another pang of fear.

“Now that we really have your attention, without all those …” Olly paused, glancing over to where he’d kicked the pearl-handled pistol, “… distractions, let’s get to the meat of things. Which one of you gentlemen is Deacon Hayes?”

Hearing his own name was like having a bucket of ice water poured over his head. Deacon was glad he had his eyes pointed down at the earth, watching the bandit count through his dollars because he might have flinched and given himself away.

Should I say something?

Jonah, standing beside Deacon, snaked a hand toward him, hidden from the bandits. He placed his finger on the back of Deacon’s hand, digging in his nail.

The sharp pain brought Deacon back to reality. The message was pretty clear.

Don’t. Stay quiet.

And so, Deacon clamped his jaw shut and forced himself not to flinch as Olly paced up and down the line of people. Everything was dead quiet. The only sound came from ragged breathing and the shuffling of horses’ hooves, left untethered to graze while their bandit riders went about their business.

Olly let the silence hold for a minute, then scowled.

“Come on, come on, we know he’s here. There’s only a few of you men here, so it won’t take a genius to work it out. Which one of you is Deacon Hayes?”

I’m about to be kidnapped, Deacon thought in a rush. They know Pa’s a rich man. They know he’ll pay a pretty penny to get me back.

Still, nobody spoke. Deacon was sure that nobody else knew his name besides Jonah. People were glancing at each other, eyeing strangers – and eyeing Deacon and Jonah too, of course. Some of them would have guessed. He was relieved not to have pointing fingers aiming his way.

Olly came to a halt in front of Jonah and Deacon and grinned mirthlessly up at them.

“I’d reckon it’s one of you two, finely dressed as you are. So, who is it? Come on, come on, I ain’t got all day.”

More silence.

Sighing heavily, Olly rolled his eyes. “Fine, fine. We’ll do it your way.”

Without warning, he darted forward, snatching a boy of about seven. The boy screamed, and his mother grabbed ineffectually at him, but the pointing rifles of the other silent bandits forced her back.

Yanking the boy along by the arm, Olly withdrew his pistol. With one fluid movement, he aimed the pistol at the boy’s head.

The mother shrieked, pressing her hands over her mouth. People yelled incoherently, some of them surging forward despite the guns and threatening bandits. Deacon felt as if he’d swallowed a stone.

“Let me be clear,” Olly said, sounding bored. “If Deacon Hayes doesn’t come forward by the time I count down from ten, this kid is getting a bullet in his head. Ten … nine …”

There was chaos. Deacon moved woodenly to step forward, but Jonah grabbed his arm, fingers digging in.

“You’ve got to get out of here, Dean,” Jonah hissed. The childhood nickname sounded odd coming from his old friend’s mouth. “They’re going to kill us all.”

“They want Pa’s money.”

“Yeah, and what’ll they do with us once they’ve got it?”

“Eight … seven … six …” Olly continued. The boy’s mother fainted. The boy himself kept trying valiantly to tug away but couldn’t get himself loose.

“For God’s sake, which of us is it?” a man shouted. Then he shoved one of the bandits.

The bandit caught off balance, stumbled back, arms windmilling. He dropped his rifle.

Olly adjusted his grip on the pistol. “Five … four … three …”

Jonah darted forward, snatching up the gun. He aimed it straight at Olly, who seemed to register the danger for the first time. The other two bandits headed for Jonah.

“Two … one …”

Bang.

The gunshot split the air. Somebody else screamed, and Deacon’s senses were full of the scent of gunpowder.

The shot had missed, carving a hole into the coach behind Olly’s head. Astonished, Olly had released his hold on the boy, who’d gone racing toward his mother.

“There’s more of us than of them!” a man roared, the same one who’d spoken earlier.

People surged forward, fists clenched. Deacon saw the boy’s mother, recovered from her faint, get knocked in the face with the butt of a gun, flailing backward with a bloody nose. The bandits weren’t giving ground.

“You’ve got to go,” Jonah was at Deacon’s side, shoving him away from the developing brawl. “Go! I’ll catch you up.”

Maybe he should stay. Maybe he should brave it out. Maybe …

Deacon closed his mind to maybes and turned tail and raced toward the untethered horses. He mounted the nearest one at a run, swinging himself into the saddle. Glancing back over his shoulder, he saw Jonah tackle a bandit who was pointing his rifle at a woman. Jonah’s tackle threw the man’s aim wide, and the gunshot fired into the ground.

Olly was shouting something incoherent, pointing at Deacon. And then he raised his own pistol to his shoulder, and Deacon realized that he’d almost wasted his head start.

Bang.

He felt the pressure of the gunshot before the pain hit. Warmth spread down the outside of his thigh, and Deacon didn’t have to look to know that it was blood.

Terrified by the gunshot, the horse screamed, eyes rolling, and threw its head back. It reared up off the ground, front hooves pawing the air.

Deacon wasn’t sure what kept him in the saddle. The horse lurched forward, breaking into a frenzied gallop, and they plunged into the forest.

All he could do was lean forward over the horse’s neck and hold on. Deacon had no clue which way they were going. In circles, maybe. He didn’t dare risk letting go of the reins to press a hand over the gunshot wound in his leg, but he could feel blood trickling down his calves and ankles now.

It’ll go into my shoes, he thought hysterically. Already, the edges of his vision were going black.

Maybe I’ll pass out, and this wretched horse will drag me unconscious through the forest. What a way to go.

He needed to staunch the bleeding. Needed a bandage, a strip of cloth, something, anything to put pressure on it.

But Deacon couldn’t let go of the reins. He knew with surety that if he did, he’d fall. This wasn’t his horse. Were the bandits behind him? He didn’t dare turn and look.

The last thing Deacon Hayes thought before he passed out was: They’re going to kill Jonah. They’re going to kill him, and it’s all my fault.

Chapter Three

Forest Woods, California

The wind was getting up again. It was the most recent development in a line of bad weather, unusual for that time of year. They’d already had a harsh winter and a hot summer, and Ella was already working out how long their food store would last. They could pickle more vegetables, for sure, and the salt meat would last a while longer, but still.

Sighing, Ella hitched up her skirt and climbed over a fallen tree, uprooted by last night’s gale. The goats were ahead of her, some glancing back curiously to see what was taking her so long. They knew the way back to their paddock, at the very least.

The small town of Forest Woods – imaginatively named after the large stretch of woodland that covered their valley and the ones beyond – didn’t see much excitement, so everybody was talking about the weather and rumors of bandits off to the west. People kept to themselves, and Ella was mostly left alone. That suited her fine.

Ivy was different, though. A gregarious little girl, she loved school and was constantly asking to have her friends over to stay. How was Ella supposed to tell an eleven-year-old girl that if her friends saw the state of their home and how they lived, they probably wouldn’t want to be her friends anymore?

The smallest goat, a velvety black creature little more than a kid, fell behind and turned to stare off into the woods. They were following a hard-packed dirt path worn in by generations of goat hooves, and it led from the verdant fields on the other side of the finger of woodland all the way to the clearing where Ella’s shack was situated. The goats didn’t need telling where to go, and they were generally eager to return to their safe barn at the end of the day.

In Ella’s experience, goats were much cleverer than sheep, and they knew perfectly well that there were wolves, bears, and even the occasional mountain lion prowling this area at night.

“What is it, Snowy?” Ella asked, bending down to smooth the goat’s coarse fur.

Snowy was, of course, a misnomer. Ivy had picked the name and thought it an excellent joke that a pitch-black goat was called Snowy.

Snowy lowered his head, still staring at the forest. Ella followed his gaze, starting to feel uneasy.

“Hello?” she called. “Anyone out there?”

It was unlikely that any of their neighbors would visit, but if they did, they would come by the wide, well-cleared path from the town. Nobody local would be stupid enough to go crashing through the woods. People disappeared in there. In these parts, you stuck to the path and prayed you didn’t lose it.

She glanced up at the sky. Dusk was coming on fast, but it wasn’t dark. Still, that meant nothing. A bear could still be out there, watching her.

Or it could be a stranger, some man with intentions unknown, also watching her.

Ella considered the picture she’d make. Her dress was gray wool, not very well-fitting. It didn’t suit her, but it was well-worn and serviceable. She had long, auburn hair, braided and slung over her shoulder, and while it needed a wash, Ella was uncomfortably aware that she was generally considered very pretty. She had an oval face, freckled, delicately featured, possessed of large hazel eyes fringed with long lashes. Pretty. Sometimes men turned and stared as she walked past, and she hated that with a passion. Getting attention was never a good thing.

She shifted from foot to foot, hoping it was just a bear out there. Wild animals could be trusted to act like wild animals. In the worst case, they’d kill you.

Strangers, though – well, you never knew. There were worse things than death.

Nobody answered her call, of course, and Ella turned on her heel and marched away, not quite daring to break into a run in case something – or worse, someone – started to chase her.

Snowy galloped at her heels, perfectly cheerful. Ella glanced back more than once but the path behind them stayed clear.

Still, that didn’t mean there was nothing there. She made a mental note to walk Ivy to school herself in the morning, just in case.

The woodland surrounded Ella’s home, with patches cleared for fields and so on. The smallest clearing housed her shack – it sounded better to call it a cottage, but shack was more accurate – and the modest barn Ella had raised mostly by herself. The ground sloped sharply in places, meaning their home also sloped. Several of their counters had ridges along one side to prevent things from sliding off. The door seemed to hang crookedly, too, giving the building an odd, lopsided look.

The goats set off for the barn right away. The temperature was dropping rapidly, and the trees around them swished urgently. Ella paused at a safe distance from the tree line and glanced around. A sort of wrongness hung in the air, prickling her skin.

Or perhaps that was just because Snowy was staring at the trees again, stiff like a guard dog.

I wish we had a guard dog, Ella thought miserably.

The last of the goats disappeared into the barn altogether, but Snowy stayed where he was. Ella’s skirts, hitched up by a network of leather straps she’d made herself and buckled around her waist, swung heavily around her calves.

“If somebody is out there,” Ella called, “you’d better come out now. Or better yet, go home. You don’t want to be stuck in that forest once the sun goes down. There’s wolves and bears out here.”

No reply. She hadn’t expected one.

Glancing over at the dilapidated two-room shack Ella and her younger sister called home, she saw that Ivy’s book bag had been dropped in the porch, and a light was on in the window. Generally, Ella would scold her sister for leaving out her book bag – they couldn’t afford a new one if that one got damaged – but today, it was just a relief to know that Ivy was home and safe.

Then Snowy bleated urgently and began hopping backwards and forwards, head down as if it wanted to charge at the tree line.

A repetitive thudding sound came, like something heavy crashing through the forest. Slowly, though. A charging bear would make a lot of noise, and a wolf or mountain lion would make none at all.

Ella stood where she was, frozen. She could see the undergrowth swishing, something forcing its way through. Thinking briefly and wistfully of the rifle hanging above their fireplace, she began to back away.

Could I get it in time? If I get the rifle, could I shoot a person?

Probably not.

And then a horse came crashing out of the forest.

Ella gave a shriek despite herself, backing away. Snowy galloped around in circles.

The horse was a large one, a pale shade of sand with a straw-colored mane, more graceful than a carthorse. Sweat poured off the creature’s hide, its ears pressed back, and its head drooped in exhaustion.

“What happened to you, then?” Ella murmured, edging forward, holding out a hand. She didn’t recognize the horse as belonging to anyone in the village. It was saddled and harnessed up, too.

The horse stumbled forward a little further, and Ella froze.

There was a man on the back of the horse.

He was slumped forward and sideways, on the brink of sliding off the saddle altogether. White, nerveless hands still clutched the reins, and he was leaning right over the horse’s neck, face pressed into its mane. The man didn’t move. He didn’t even seem to be breathing, and for a moment, Ella was entirely sure she was looking at a horse with a corpse for a rider.

“Oh, my … Ivy! Ivy, come out here!” Ella called, shuffling closer. The horse’s ears flattened against its head as she approached, snorting a warning.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay,” she soothed, holding out her hands, palms first. “I don’t mean you any harm. You’re tired, aren’t you? You need a good rub down and some hay. Maybe an apple? Do you like apples?”

The horse’s ears pricked at the last word. Apparently, apple was a word it recognized. The horse – a mare, she guessed – snorted, allowing her to approach some more.

Ella got close enough to grip the horse’s bridle. She could see how the harness had rubbed the poor creature raw, a sure sign that it had ridden too far and too fast, sweating hard all the way.

She still couldn’t tell if the man was breathing, but when the horse sidled a little, Ella saw he was certainly bleeding.

His left leg was soaked with blood. His breeches and once-shiny boots were black with it, and streaks of red stained the horse’s pale hide. Ella cursed under her breath. Gingerly, she reached forward and poked the man’s shoulder.

He wasn’t stiff, at least. He was cold, but not deathly cold. Behind her, she heard the tell-tale groan of the shack door opening.

“Ella, did you call … oh, my!” Ivy exclaimed. “Who’s that?”

“I don’t know,” Ella called back. “But he’s hurt bad. I don’t think he’s dead. I’m going to try to bring him inside. Boil some water on the stove and get out a knife and a pair of scissors. We want rags for bandages, gauze if we have any, and a needle and thread, okay?”

“Okay,” Ivy responded, for once not arguing. Ella heard her younger sister hurry inside, drawers clattering as she assembled the items.

I wish she’d be as enthusiastic about all her chores, Ella thought grimly.

Carefully, terrified that the man would collapse off the horse’s back, Ella led the mare toward the shack. The horse was limping slightly, another sign that it had run too hard. Snowy sidled around her, eyeing the horse suspiciously.

Where are you going, huh? Ella thought, eyeing the unconscious man. She still couldn’t see any of his face. He might as well have been a mannequin or a doll. Where did you come from, and what happened to your leg?

The horse was fairly placid by this point, or perhaps the poor creature was just too exhausted.

“Not long now, sweetheart,” Ella soothed, smoothing the horse’s nose. “You can rest soon, I promise.”

The horse huffed. Her large, dark eyes were heavy with exhaustion and red-rimmed.

They reached the porch, and then Ella paused, trying to figure out how to get the man down from his saddle.

After a moment’s thought, she decided now was not the time to be gentle.

If he dies, he dies, she thought wearily and pushed the man out of the saddle.

Despite Ella’s best efforts to break his fall, he fell like a sack of potatoes.

“What was that noise?” Ivy called from inside, sounding anxious. “Sounded like a thump.”

“Nothing to worry about,” Ella responded, crouching to get her arms underneath the man’s shoulder.

You weigh a ton, she thought, gasping. She was able to drag him across the porch and into the shack itself, leaving a rust-colored trail smeared after them.

Inside the shack, Ivy had collected all the things Ella had asked for, and a pot on the stove was steaming thickly.

People often did not believe that Ivy and Ella were actually sisters. Ivy was much paler than her olive-skinned sister, with blonde hair, blue eyes, a dainty frame not suited to farm work, and almost white lashes and eyebrows. Ella could have told them that she resembled her mother, while Ivy looked exactly like their father, but really it was too exhausting to explain. Ivy was good with books, and if they scraped together enough money, perhaps she could be more than a goatherder one day.

“Is he going to die?” Ivy asked, eyes popping. “Look at all that blood.”

“I’d rather you didn’t look at the blood,” Ella responded. “Go and take care of the horse outside.”

Ivy peered out of the doorway, nose wrinkling. “It’s covered in blood. Whose horse is it?”

“His, I imagine. Give the poor creature plenty of water, hay, and some oats if we have them. Oh, and at least one apple. Rub her down well and sponge that blood off of her. Give her a stall away from the goats to rest.”

Ivy nodded but did not move. She kept staring at the unconscious man. Ella dragged him into the middle of their living room – the bedroom being much smaller and really only large enough for the bed they shared – and let him fall back with a thud, stretching out her cramping arms with a sigh.

“Shouldn’t we get a doctor?”

“Do you have money for a doctor?” Ella responded drily.

Ivy shrugged. “No, but he might.”

That was a good idea, actually. Ella briefly patted the man down but found no wallet, only a heavy pocket watch, which seemed to be real gold. That would be worth a good deal, but the doctor dealt only in cash.

“Doesn’t look like it,” she responded. “Besides, it would take hours for the doctor to get here, and I’m not sure he has hours. We’ll just have to do our best and hope he pulls through. Go on, Ivy, do as I say.”

“I want to help.”

“You are helping. I’m going to have to clean him up and probably sew up his leg. It won’t be pleasant.”

“I’m not squeamish. I’m interested.”

Ella sighed. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“Aren’t you the least bit curious?” Ivy continued, shuffling closer. “I mean, how did he come to be here? And who shot him?”

Ella blinked, frowning. “Who said anything about being shot?”

Her sister shrugged, pointing at the man’s leg. “You can see the bullet hole in his breeches.”

Ella followed her gesture and bit her lip hard. Ivy was right. He had been shot. That meant that aside from sewing up the wound, she’d likely have to dig out a bullet, too. Wonderful.

“I’m sure that if he comes round, he’ll tell us exactly what happened. Go on, Ivy, take care of the poor horse. Tie her up in the stall, just in case. Do a good knot this time – your knots are always slipping. If he wakes and finds his horse gone, he’ll be angry.”

Ivy gave up with a bad grace, stomping outside. She took the horse’s bridle and led her away toward the stable. Ella watched her go and made a mental note to get the horse reshoed if she could. The blacksmith owed them a favor, anyway.

She moved over to the man’s side, kneeling beside him to get a good look at him. He was younger than she’d expected, maybe not much older than she was. He had dark hair, but it could have been darkened with sweat and blood. There were little cuts and bruises on his face, hands, and neck, probably from racing at top speed through a crowded forest.

He was handsome, very handsome. It was impressive, looking good after such an ordeal, covered in grime and one’s own blood.

Ella gave herself a little shake.

Stop admiring his face before he bleeds to death, she scolded herself.

She still had the pocket watch in her hand, and since the man’s trousers and their associated pockets were almost certainly going to have to be cut off, she placed the watch in the palm of his hand.

Slowly but surely, the man’s fingers curled automatically around the item, squeezing into a fist until his knuckles and finger joints stood out white.

“Steady on,” Ella muttered, even though he almost certainly couldn’t hear her. “Nobody’s going to take it from you. My sister and I might be poor, but we’re certainly not thieves. Although, if you wanted to leave the watch once you’re better, as a token of your thanks, I wouldn’t say no.”

There was a heartbeat of silence before Ella remembered that she was talking to an unconscious man, who would probably soon be a dead man. Sighing, she picked up the scissors and got to work.