Is this my day to die? Does Sir Death wait for me just ahead?
I turn on my right side and draw my knees toward my chest. Myfeet no longer dangle in mid-air. As I sit up on the bench, we round the corneron two wheels and tear across High Street. Poor Jem is completely out ofcontrol and crazed with fear, the froth from his mouth flying back and hittingmy cheek. People scream at me, as though I’m capable of fixing things. Childrencry out in alarm.
If I survive, I will never live this down. Witnesses will telland retell this tale forever.
The wagon swings wide, nearly turning over, and Jem jumps anobstacle in the road. I hear him crash against something and scream in pain.The crate of chickens topples out, and my head strikes the metal railing.
Blast it all but that hurt…
I must have lost consciousness, for how long, I’m unsure, butwhen my wits return, a horse and rider are bringing my wagon to a stop.
Curses! My top lip burns like hellfire. I spit the blood frommy mouth and hear Jem swing his head, agitated and restless. His breathing iserratic, punctuated with shrill braying. I turn my hearing down while tearsform in my eyes. Dear Jem. He must be in a world of pain with all thatcarrying-on. What can I do for him?
The rider dismounts and strides over to me. “Are you all right,madam?”
Slumped over the bench seat, I lift my aching head and nodonce.
“Good,” he says, touching my shoulder lightly. “I’ll be rightback. Don’t move.”
Don’t move? But I must help Jem. Do I know this man?
It feels as though I’ve barely sat up when my rescuer returns.“Your horse needs to be put down,” the low voice murmurs. “His front leg isnearly severed, and he has deep lacerations on his belly. I’m sorry, madam, butit should be done now. It’s the merciful thing.”
This news breaks my heart, for Jem has been my friend for manyyears. Even before Cordelia came, when I had no one else. Covering my face withmy hands, I listen as the man leads his horse away. He returns to the wagon, unhitchesJem, and moves between the cob and myself.
I wish I could pet Jem or rest my head against his neck, as Ihave done so often. Smell that dusty hay and horseflesh combination. There,there, old dear, I’d tell him. I’m so sorry. You’re a grand boy, and I’llalways love you.
The stranger cocks his weapon and a shot rings out, shatteringthe air. Sound waves strike my ears, and Jem grunts briefly. His heavy bodysettles upon the earth. Oh, Jem. Farewell.
Dizzy, brain throbbing. Everything turns upside down again.
I resurface amid bits of conversation.
“You there, transport the remains of the horse. It’s blockingthe street.” This person speaks with an official, constable-like tone. It’sprobably Wilkins-the-Younger—he comes from a long line of policemen.
Another person steps forward. “Did she strike the poor beastwith this whip?” He rounds his vowels excessively and sounds so condemning thatI wince. Must be Judge Phelan. He hangs everybody whether they’re guilty ornot.
“Miss Hester would never do that!” Cordelia replies.
Thank you, dear companion. That calls for a raise. And pleasedon’t quit. This wasn’t my fault.
“There’s a fresh lash on his back, I tell you!” the judgeexclaims. He must be hoping to impress his constituents. It’s an election year.
I shake my head gently, and sit up as Wilkins disperses thecrowd. “Go home everybody. Clear out—”
The wood under my hand is rough. Where am I? How did I gethere? The world spins like a top, and strong hands catch me, urge me back.Someone solid is sitting so close I can feel his warmth. In fact, I am lyingacross his thigh. He tilts my chin up and curses when I slap his hand.
“Stop struggling. Let me help.”
It’s the voice of the calm, reassuring man from before, thechampion who saved me. Only now he sounds a bit peeved, and he’s pulling off myspectacles.
This action dispels my hazy stupor. Nobody, but nobody, touchesmy glasses unless we’ve been introduced at the very least. I slap his handagain.
“I’m a doctor, Miss Grayson,” he says. “I need to examine yourinjuries.” Now he’s at my spectacles again, this time successfully removingthem. “The name’s Kelly. Just arrived in town today.”
Vulnerable, and therefore supremely put out, I gesture for thespectacles. Dr. Kelly returns my glasses, laughing softly. Even though this manhas shot my horse and sworn at me, I do like his laugh. It’s a smoky,whiskey-flavored sound.
“Where’s your home?”
Raising my eyebrows, I gesture at my throat, implying that Icannot talk. And that he is a dunce. And quite probably medically incompetent.
Again, that smooth, dark laugh. “So you’re mute as well asblind.”
I clap and point at my nose.
“Right on the proboscis, eh?” Kelly checks my limbs for brokenbones while he talks. “Let it never be said that you’re uncommunicative. I’drank your scowl with the best of them.”
Cordelia joins us, climbing into the wagon bed, and sittingbetween the good doctor and I. Truly, it’s rather crowded now.
“I’m so glad you’re alive, Miss Hester.” She puts her hand onmy arm, turning me for a closer inspection. “You look horrible! Does your facehurt?”
What a ridiculous question. Of course it does.
Someone ambles over to the wagon and spits in the dirt. I knowthis man. He smells of chewing tobacco and sagebrush. “Yep, White Hair,”Willard Little Hawk says. “You were born lucky, all right.”
Dr. Kelly snaps his bag shut. “She’ll be fine. Miss Grayson hasa very hard skull.”
He jumps off the wagon and walks south. His horse whinnieshappily as the doctor approaches. Cordie immediately begins grooming me—wipingat something on my nose, fixing my hair, pulling my skirt into place. It hasbeen a long, frightening afternoon, and my nerves can’t tolerate much more. Ithink I’m being reasonable when I shove her away and stand on wobbling legs,ready to climb down from the wagon and walk home if necessary.
“You’re a mess,” Cordie whispers, brushing at my sleeve. “ThatKelly’s one fine-looking man, though.”
I’m a mess? A
