They galloped hard, the sound of hooves drumming like thunder behind them. Frances stayed tight at his side, bent low over her mount, her eyes locked on the ridge ahead.
One of the pursuers closed the gap. Johnathan glanced back and recognized him—a tall man with a scar across his cheek.
“Faster!” he yelled.
But the scarred man raised his pistol.
Johnathan swerved his horse sideways, narrowly avoiding the shot. He twisted in the saddle and fired back—once, twice.
The man veered off with a cry of pain.
Still, the others gained ground.
The last of the riders aimed at her.
Johnathan did not think. He urged his horse sideways, slamming into the attacker, knocking him off balance. They tangled for a heartbeat—hooves, fists, steel—and then the man fell.
Johnathan galloped forward, blood pounding in his ears.
Frances had reached the bridge.
He caught up beside her as the final rider gave up pursuit, vanishing into the trees.
They thundered across the bridge—not just over water, but into freedom. Into something chosen. When they finally reined in at the edge of the village, breathless and whole, the silence between them was not fear. It was wonder.
“We lost them.” She glanced over her shoulder, then dismounted.
Johnathan dropped down beside her. “Yes.”
He had faced pistols and regret and nearly lost her again. But now, at last, the only thing left to fight for was her.
With resolve coiling through him—he pulled her into his arms and kissed her, not with desperate hunger—not to claim, not to calm, but to honor with reverence, with joy.
With love.
