Ambrosia cried out as her shoulder slammed into the window frame, the force knocking the breath from her chest. She would have tumbled from the bench entirely had Dash not caught her in time, one strong arm banding around her waist and yanking her hard against him. The shock of his hold stole what little breath she had left, his strength and warmth searing through the chaos. Mr. Dog yelped from the floor, skidding helplessly against the wall at her feet.
The carriage groaned, shuddered, then lurched to a bone-jarring halt.
When the chaos stilled, the floor remained slanted, the entire left side sagging heavily toward the earth.
Her pulse thundered, and she became acutely aware of how firmly she was pressed to Dash’s chest, of the rise and fall of his breath against her cheek. For one wild instant she did not move, did not want to move, but remained caught in the cocoon of his strength. Only when Mr. Dog scrambled into her lap did the spell break.
Above them came Mr. Daniels’s voice, sharp and unmistakably profane.
“What happened?” Her voice sounded higher-pitched than usual.
Dash’s hand tightened around hers. “Easy, princesse,” he said under his breath, his voice rough. “Are you hurt?”
She shook her head, though she could not be certain—her teeth were still rattling in her skull.
With a grimace, he carefully released her, then shoved the door open and stepped out before turning back to help her down. As she shifted to rise, Mr. Dog clamped his little paws around her arm, clutching so tightly she felt his claws through her sleeve. Poor creature—he must have been terrified.
Tucking him against her chest with one hand, she accepted Dash’s arm with the other and stepped cautiously from the tilted carriage. Her boots sank into the soft, uneven turf, and she stumbled before regaining her balance.
Mr. Daniels’ curse-laden tirade drifted from the front of the carriage, clearer now. “Cracked clean through the bloody hub this time! Splintered like firewood. Nearest village is back the way we came, and a good hour’s walk, at least. I told you we should’ve stayed on the main road, but nooo—the widow needed to see a bloody circle of rocks?—”
Ambrosia winced, setting Mr. Dog down on the ground and tying his leading string once again around his neck, looping it behind his front legs for good measure after Dash’s story about him running off the night before.
Dash was rubbing the back of his neck, looking every bit the man caught between a rock and a very inconvenient place.
This road had seemed less traveled. She couldn’t remember the last time they’d seen another vehicle. Ambrosia stretched and glanced around at their surroundings. At some point while they’d been traveling, clouds had gathered and now hovered low in the sky, though they didn’t look quite dark enough to threaten something like a thunderstorm—not yet, anyway. Smoke rose from the chimney of a farmhouse that wasn’t far off, and she felt encouraged to see two people approaching.
“Hello!” She waved across the field.
At her call, Mr. Daniels and Mr. Beckman caught sight of the farmers as well, a man and a woman who were lumbering toward them. The woman was waving.
“Heard that wheel snap clear up by the house,” called the man. He was dressed in work clothing, his weathered face making it difficult to tell his age, which Ambrosia guessed could be anywhere between forty and sixty.
A heavyset woman wearing an apron followed him at a slower pace. Ambrosia guessed the couple didn’t get many visitors, situated in such an isolated location.
“Halloo!” the short, ungainly woman waved again, appearing even more cheerful than the farmer. “Welcome!”
“I’m Bart Wooten.” The man extended his hand to Dash and then to Mr. Daniels. “And this here is the missus.”
“Pleasure to meet you, sir, ma’am.” This from Dash. Mr. Daniels shook the farmer’s hand grudgingly. “We’ve run into a bit of trouble, as I’m sure you’ve guessed.”
The farmer stepped back to inspect the wheel, all the while chewing on a piece of straw. “That you have indeed. That you have. It looks like you’re gonna need a new one, too. No repairing something far gone as all that.”
Ambrosia peered around at it herself. The wheel didn’t even look like a wheel at this point.
“Not to worry,” Mrs. Wooten spoke up. “My husband can give your driver a lift into Joseph’s Well to find a replacement.”
“Joseph’s Well?” Ambrosia asked.
Mrs. Wooten laughed. “It’s what we call our little village. It’s not much. We have a church, a mercantile, and of course, a tap room.”
“If anyone can help you get that coach rolling again, it will be Mr. Finch. He owns the mill. We’ll have to track him down, though,” Mr. Wooten added.
“And if we can’t get on the road again today? There is an inn?” Ambrosia asked.
Although their night outside hadn’t been nearly as uncomfortable as she would have imagined, she didn’t relish the notion of sleeping outside again, especially if it could rain.
“No inn for miles.” But the woman smiled. “Not to worry, dear. Mr. Wooten and I have an extra room for you and your husband, don’t we, Bart?”
