“If we figure that Cole got them to Windham, as he intended, we should reach them by early evening.”
“I’m sorry to put you through all this.”
The rain swiftly obliterated all chance of further conversation, but Malcolm put his lips to my ear so I would hear over the pounding assault. “Don’t be sorry, Camille, not for a thing. Having you here in my arms means more to me than any heaven I could imagine.”
Tears surged, mixing with the rain, and I closed my eyes, huddling as close to him as I could; his hat offered some shelter but the onslaught of water grew brutal. Aces was forced to a walk, shying from the incessant deluge striking us at a slanted angle. No lightning accompanied the storm and we could have sought shelter beneath a cover of trees, if any were in sight. At last Malcolm tugged Aces to a standstill, angling him sideways so our heads, all three, were offered some meager protection. Yesterday’s unrelenting sun became a distant memory. Malcolm rewrapped the rain blanket, tucking my head to his chest. Despite our combined warmth, shivers overtook my limbs.
“Hang on, love, it’ll soon pass,” he murmured in my ear, and within fifteen minutes the worst of it blew over, hauling the rain westward, leaving behind a soggy but manageable drizzle. Malcolm removed his hat, shaking excess moisture from its brim before doing the same thing with the blanket. He dismounted to resituate it behind him on the saddle, patting Aces on the neck and speaking to the animal in low tones while I squeezed out my braid and willed my muscles to stop quivering.
Standing beside Aces, rubbing his horse’s damp hide, Malcolm sent me a grin and the fault lines along my heart throbbed; tenderness came so naturally to him. He observed, “Aw, sweetheart, your lips are blue.”
“Yours…too,” I mumbled, hard-pressed to speak through my numb, discolored mouth. “Come back…up here…please.”
He took the saddle in a hurry, curling me close. “C’mere, I’ve got you. Put your face against my neck.”
The clouds remained thick and inhibiting, intermittently weeping over the prairie as we rode without letup through tall, dripping grasses, along a bumpy road carved into the earth by wagon tracks and hooves. To my relief the air warmed as the hidden sun rose, growing humid; combined with the heat of Malcolm’s body, the chills eventually receded. I decided it was best not to dwell on the state of my hair and clothing. Open prairie dominated the landscape, though from time to time we passed split-rail fences separating the road from cropland, at least some evidence of human habitation. No towns, very few trees. I conjured up an image of Iowa as it appeared on a road map, attempting to guess our exact position. I had no idea, trusting completely in Malcolm’s sense of direction.
“Where are we?” I asked at one point, when Malcolm slowed Aces to a walk, conserving the horse’s energy. While clouds continued to shadow our route, the rain had finally ceased. The trail was bordered to the right by a trickling creek edged with cottonwoods and willows; it flowed along in a friendly, gurgling rush. “I’m trying to picture where I think we are in the state.”
“We’re about centered, and I pray a good deal farther south than Dredd and his father aim to travel this day. We’ve a stretch yet to cover, likely eighteen or twenty miles to Windham. How are you holding up?”
“I’ll make it. I can’t pretend I’m not sore, but I’ll survive.”
“This sort of travel must seem all-fired strange to you, coming from another century.” His voice took on a faraway quality, as he was attempting to conjure images of vehicles racing along concrete roadways. How strange that world would seem to his eyes; the image of him and Aces among the clamoring, fast-paced chaos of a city street was so blatantly wrong as to evoke tragedy.
“It’s slower,” I allowed, lacing the fingers of our left hands. “If we had a car, we could cover that distance in about fifteen minutes. But…” I brought his knuckles to my lips. “We can sit much closer on Aces than we could in any car.”
“I’ve been thanking God all darn day for that very thing.” I sensed his grin, its warmth enveloping me like a bright, errant sunbeam. He squeezed my fingers, our hands still interlocked and resting between my breasts, and inhaled, about to speak. But I would never know what he intended to say just then, because his bearing snapped alert with such suddenness I gasped.
“What is it?!” I searched the road stretching before us, seeing nothing but the cloudy-bright landscape through which we’d traveled all day. But something had changed, I knew without being told.
In the space of a breath Malcolm became the man who had spent much of his life stalked by danger, who had endured perilous conditions I was only beginning to understand; a man whose survival depended on his instinct, his senses, his weapons, and the knowledge of when to fight and when to run. And right now, it was time to run.
Severe and intense, he ordered, “Lean forward, hold tight to his mane. Don’t let go. Don’t lift your head.”
I felt Malcolm’s posture shift, every muscle tensing like a sprinter poised on starting blocks, and he heeled Aces with a double kick; the animal snorted an immediate response and rippled into a canter.
“Gidd’up, c’mon now, boy,” Malcolm urged, keeping low, bracing over me as best he could. Tension and trepidation resonated in his voice and I followed his instructions without question, starkly aware of the difference in the horse’s rapid passage; we were not hurrying in effort to deliver a message or flee a rainstorm.
We were being pursued.
“Run, c’mon!” Malcolm growled, heeling Aces a second time, taking us to a full-out gallop.
I pressed my forehead to the rough bristle of hair lining the animal’s neck, my bones clacking with the pounding of his powerful hooves, clutching
