Page 81 of When the Sky Breaks

Sorcha huffed, shoved her bags in Ansel’s direction, and started forward.

It took more than twenty minutes to reach the path, and I spent the better part of that making sure Sorcha didn’t fall flat on her face trying to traverse the space between, which was littered with drainage culverts, waist-high brush, and discarded and damaged train parts. When we reached the road things improved little. The dirt track had turned almost entirely to mud. We walked for another hour before Ansel spotted a wagon approaching from the south.

He whistled, waving the driver down.

“But why are they out right now?” Sorcha asked, looking up at me, the frustration draining out of her and slowly being replaced with a mixture of worry and blind faith that we’d protect her. I gripped her shoulders and pulled her off to the edge of the trees and scrub.

“There is no sane reason for someone to be out at this time of night,” I said, voice dropping a register, matching the tone I’d used with her outside the club in New Orleans—she’d listened then. “So you keep your mouth shut. Understand?”

Sorcha nodded.

“I do not care how friendly he seems,” I continued. “Do not say a word. Let Ansel handle this. Got it?”

“I got it.” Sorcha nodded again.

I looked her over and pulled my coat off her shoulders.

“And try to look less pregnant,” I added—didn’t need to stack our deck any more in favor of vulnerable and easy to rob.

“What? How?” Sorcha replied, a little dumbfounded.

I folded the coat, shoved it into her arms and arranged it to conceal her growing belly. Then put my hands on her hips and adjusted her posture.

“Like that.”

I took her hand and squeezed it as the wagon pulled to a stop in front of us.

One quick glance back in her direction. “Be good.”

The driver was immediately chatty, and immediately unsettling. He smiled broadly, but it didn’t touch his eyes. Ansel climbed up onto the bench in front, matching the driver’s tone and speech pattern eerily perfectly. Meanwhile I helped Sorcha up into the back of the wagon with our bags and the barrels of cargo. I noticed a shotgun stashed at the driver’s feet.

“Where are you three heading?” he asked.

“North by way of Fredericksburg,” was all Ansel said in reply.

“And what brings you north by way of Fredericksburg?” the man pressed.

Ansel just shrugged and made a vague, noncommittal gesture.

“And where are you coming from?” the driver asked after a few long moments of silence.

Sorcha went to speak, but I clamped a hand over her mouth and gave her a warning look.

“I said be good,” I murmured in her ear.

“You three look like you’ve got a bit of money,” the driver said. Ansel merely grunted in response.

“What are you hauling?” I asked by way of reply.

The man chuckled and shrugged. “I think I’m the one who gets to ask questions here.”

My hand twitched subconsciously to my holstered pistol. We rode in silence for a long stretch, until suddenly the driver spoke again.

“So you three clearly aren’t vagrants, clearly aren’t drifters. I think you might have some things I want. And seeing as I’ve been so generous as to drive you into town . . .” He trailed off, picking up the shotgun from his feet and resting it across his lap. The gesture left little room for argument.

“Let’s not make any decisions we’re going to regret,” Ansel said simply. I slipped my knife from my belt and pulled the hammer back on my pistol.

“So give me whatever’s valuable in your bags,” the driver said. “I’ll take your money too. And a quick pass at her. And then you can be on your way. Otherwise . . .”