opposite side, jerking him backward, bringing him up tight against his assailant’s chest a moment before their two bodies hit the side of the wagon. Colin’s eyes flew wide, thoughts of the strange men they’d seen on the plains flaring bright into his mind And then, in a hoarse whisper right next to his ear, breath hot against his neck, he heard Walter mutter, “So your father thinks he owns this little wagon train, does he?”
All of Colin’s fear-all of the prickling terror that had flooded down through his arms and legs and gut, making them fluid and rubbery-vanished. The rage that he’d buried, that had sat locked inside since his day in the penance lock, burned forth, searing through his chest.
He lashed out, kicking, body writhing beneath Walter’s hold, realizing as he did so that he wasn’t as small as he used to be, that he and Walter were nearly the same height now. Walter cursed, his grip tightening, fingers digging even deeper into Colin’s cheek, into his side. Still kicking, Colin reached up and back with his hands, went for Walter’s face, for his hair. He felt Walter’s head jerk backward, heard it thud into the side of the wagon, but Walter’s grip didn’t loosen. Instead, he hissed, “Punch him! Punch him, you pissant Company bastard!”
He sensed more than saw Jackson move, the shadows too deep And then the fist landed in his stomach, awkwardly, but with enough force to double Colin over, Walter dragged down with him before the Proprietor’s son caught his balance and jerked him back upright.
“Again!” Walter barked. “Harder!”
The second blow drove the wind from him. He gasped, breathed in and out through his nose, nostrils flaring, as Walter chuckled.
Before he’d recovered, Walter spun and shoved him face first into the wagon. The Proprietor’s son leaned hard into his back. One of Colin’s arms was trapped between his chest and the wagon at a painful angle. Colin slammed his other hand into the side of the wagon, tried to push himself away, but Walter had his full weight behind him.
“You’d better hope that your father wises up, or I’m going to make your life miserable,” Walter said through clenched teeth.
“I’m not afraid of you anymore, Walter,” Colin gasped.
He grunted. “We’ll see. I don’t have my father holding me back anymore. I’ll find some way to hurt you. And out here… no one’s safe out here.”
Then he pushed back, the pressure against Colin gone.
Colin spun, back against the wagon, but he couldn’t see anything except the flicker of firelight from behind the wagons and the stars and moonlight farther out on the plains. In the lee of the wagon, there was nothing.
He thought he was alone until another voice, soft and low, said, “Your father must realize that the Company will never accept this.”
Colin sucked in a sharp breath, the Company representative’s cold, implacable voice slicing through his rage with a thin blade of fear. But then he heard the rustle of grass as Jackson retreated, and the silence of the night descended again.
When he stepped into the reach of the firelight, where his mother had set up camp inside the circle of wagons, other fires scattered around to either side, he’d managed to stop trembling. He found his father, Sam, Paul, Lyda, Karen, and her father joking and laughing together, his mother stirring the pot and checking on the skewers of meat set over the flames. The scent of the charred, sizzling meat was strong. Someone nearby had pulled out a fiddle, and low music floated out over the group. A few tents had been erected, children and some of those that would stand guard later already bedded down.
His mother stood as he halted. “I see you’ve decided to return to camp,” she said, and then her smile faltered. “What’s wrong, Colin? What happened?”
He glanced toward his father, toward Karen. “Nothing.”
His mother sighed. “Well, they’ve finished with the butchering, but we could use more water.” She reached down to retrieve a bucket from the ground and held it out to Colin expectantly. “The stream’s on the other side of the gap.”
Colin almost refused to take the bucket-his stomach hurt from Jackson’s punches, and he’d barely managed to control his rage-but then he stepped forward, snagged its handle, and headed off in the direction of the gap without a word.
Behind, he heard Paul resume his interrupted story, the rest bursting into laughter, and then he passed beyond hearing.
Preoccupied with thoughts of Walter, he made his way down between the two banks, nodded to the guards on duty, then paused to listen for the sound of the stream. Water gurgled over stones off to the right, so he headed in that direction, one hand massaging the ache in his abdomen.
He found the stream, black with glints of white and silver in the weak moonlight. Kneeling, he dipped the bucket into the frigid water, listening to the sounds of the fiddle in the distance, faint because of the intervening bank. He hummed along with it, his anger abating, the bucket almost full, then glanced up.
A figure crouched on the opposite side of the stream, three paces away.
He jerked back with a grunt, yanking the bucket up out of the water. He overbalanced, sat down hard on the grass embankment, water sloshing onto his shoes, and then he scrambled backward, his throat closed so tight he could hardly breathe, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. His arm hit a hole hidden in the grass and he collapsed onto his side, his scramble halted, but he rolled onto his back, bucket held up before him like a weapon, water spilling onto his chest.
“Don’t move!” he ordered. “Don’t move or I’ll-”
He choked on his anger as he realized it wasn’t Walter or Jackson. It wasn’t anyone from the expedition at all.
The man on the other side of the water didn’t react, except to tilt his head to one side, chin slightly forward, brow wrinkling. His face was narrow and thin, his skin pale in the moonlight, paler than anyone in the expedition. His eyes were dark, his hair darker, but Colin couldn’t tell what color they were, not in the scant light.
Heart still shuddering in his chest, Colin swallowed and sat up, gathering his feet beneath him while still holding the bucket out before him, defensively now.
The man watched silently. He was dressed in a fine material that Colin didn’t recognize, his shirt strangely patterned, the torso a swirl of lines and colors, all muted in the moonlight, the sleeves a single color and long, covering his arms. His breeches were tanned leather, supple, his boots made of the same material, but hardened. He carried a bow, unstrung and longer than any of the bows Colin had ever seen, the curved wood held in one hand, reaching up to twice the man’s height while crouched. Colin could see lettering carved into the side of the bow near the grip. A compact quiver was slung over one shoulder, and a sheathed short sword and pouch were secured to his waist.
A glint of gold or silver drew Colin’s eye to the man’s fingers. He wore a band of metal around two fingers on one hand and another thicker band around his wrist. There were markings on the bracelet and rings.
Colin met the man’s eyes and frowned. “Who are you?” he asked. He thought about the guards on duty at the gap, a swift sprint away. But something in the man’s subtle movements, in the considering tilt of his head and the dangerous, casual way he held the bow, told him he’d never make it more than a few paces.
The man straightened and said something in a language Colin didn’t understand, certainly not Andovan. His voice was harsher than Colin expected, rougher, but the words had a smooth cadence.
When the man finished speaking, he frowned, waiting expectantly.
Colin shook his head. “I don’t understand you.”
The man scowled, glanced out toward the plains, out into the darkness. His motions were a strange combination of short, sharp gestures and fluid movements. Colin suddenly wondered where the rest of the man’s group was. They’d seen at least six figures on the horizon. How close were they? Did they intend to attack the wagons?
He felt his heart quickening again and shifted backward.
The strange man’s head jerked toward him, hand falling to the hilt of the short sword at his side, and Colin froze. He licked his lips, his mouth suddenly dry. Sweat prickled his skin, on his forehead and back, in his armpits.
They held still, regarding each other. The bucket began to tremble, Colin’s arm tiring. He saw the man’s hand tighten on his sword hilt as the bucket began to shake, but Colin couldn’t hold it up any longer.
He let it sag to the ground, released his death grip on its handle, and flexed his fingers, wincing at the
