Willow couldn’t stop herself. “Did you find a woman?”
The men’s gazes pinned her. They exchanged confused glances.
Tingles of trepidation and fear crawled up Willow’s spine. She clenched her hands into fists as her breathing became shallow.
The men shook their heads.
“No,” the younger man answered. “Just four men.”
Willow almost collapsed with relief, her fisted hands releasing.
“We did find this,” the older man said. He hobbled over to the wagon and lifted what looked like a thick, dark rope from the back.
Willow frowned and approached. She took the rope from the man’s hand and recognized it immediately.
Sage’s braid.
Christian led Willow to the horses. She was trembling, and he put an arm around her shoulders, drawing her against him. “They didn’t find her,” he whispered and kissed her head.
“But her hair,” Willow muttered, staring down at the brown braid in her hand.
“She lost her braid. Not her life. She wasn’t one of the dead back there. She must have escaped.”
“But she was there.” Willow looked up at him, and her lips quaked. “I should never have stolen the book. Brother Nicolas is dead. Sage is in danger. I did all of this.”
Christian captured her cold hands. “This is bigger than you. It’s not your fault.”
“It is. I have to make it right. I have to save Sage and get that book back to you.”
He brushed a lock of her golden hair behind her ear. He loved her for her noble determination, but he hated to see her anguish. He wished he could set this all aside, comfort her, and make love to her, but she needed to see Sage as much as he needed to recover the book from Marcus.
He guided her toward the horses. “Then, let’s get to work.”
They searched the rest of the day for Sage’s path to no avail. They found no parchment, and the trail was trampled. As the sun set, they entered the town of le Carla.
Willow knew this town. She and her family had often stopped on their travels. They had friends here. Willow steered her horse toward the inn at the edge of the town.
The one-story structure was a welcome sight as they approached. Wonderful memories of sitting around a table eating with the farm owner, William, and his wife, Agnes, came to Willow’s mind. They would often give the Hawke family food and allow them rest for the night. But it was their son, Jacob, and the two girls, Amy and Emily, Willow recalled having the most fun with, running through the fields at night, climbing to the highest spot to look at the stars.
A small brown cat raced across the entrance and disappeared behind the inn’s harvested fields.
Christian and Willow dismounted and tied the reins of their horses to a tree.
Willow led the way, her stomach fluttery with eagerness. “They are friends,” she told Christian as they entered.
In the main room, the hearth was lit, and a flickering red light illuminated the room. Two empty wooden tables were in the center of the room. Willow sat in a chair at one of them.
Christian scanned the room. “I’ll be back,” he finally said and headed for the door.
Willow watched his confident gait and tight, rounded bottom for a moment in appreciation. Then, she looked toward the door at the back of the room with a sigh. She knew the cooking hearth was sheltered there.
A thin girl with dishwater-blonde hair emerged from the backroom. She noticed Willow and came toward her.
Willow stared. It couldn’t be! Could this be Emily? She remembered a small girl. But that was years ago.
Emily stopped before the table. Her head quirked to the side, and her eyes narrowed in uncertainty. “Willow?”
“Emily!” Willow stood and embraced her.
