Page 84 of When the Sky Breaks

“I’ve got a spare pair of trousers in my pack,” I said. “We’ll find a way to make them fit. Keep a coat on her. It won’t be the most respectable thing but . . .”

“What is lately?” Ansel mumbled.

I shifted Sorcha in my arms, shaking her a bit, repeating her name, but she barely stirred. She was warm—safe finally, hard asleep. And I felt completely awful having to wake her, but I also didn’t want another run in with Fredericksburg police. So, when talking and nudging failed, I decided to just put her down on her feet and crossed my fingers she’d rouse.

And she did. Sorcha’s bare feet hit the ground and her knees nearly gave out, my hands under her arms the only thing keeping her from landing on the stone floor. She was annoyed, sleepy, swatting at me in protest, but awake.

“What was that for?” Sorcha mumbled, pressing her face into my chest as though she could will herself back to sleep.

“We’ve got to head out,” I said, kissing her hair, cuddling her gently, not giving in for a second to the frustration in her tone.

“Where are my clothes?” Sorcha asked, rousing more now, looking around. “And where are we?”

“When exactly do you think you fell asleep last night?” Ansel asked, passing her my trousers and a belt.

“I don’t know,” Sorcha muttered. “Sometime after you shot the lock off a grate.”

Ansel just gestured at the broken grating. Sorcha huffed but took the proffered clothes and didn’t press for details.

“Do I not have a clean dress?” she asked.

“Both are soaked through,” Ansel admitted as I belted my greatcoat over the shirt and trousers, just above the curve of her belly. It wasn’t proper but it was decent.

“Is traveling always like this?” Sorcha asked, looking between us with something akin to desperation in her eyes.

“No,” I assured her immediately.

Ansel shrugged and made a noncommittal sound. “Now, breakfast?”

“Yes please,” Sorcha agreed immediately, grabbing my hand and looking more energetic than she had since we got kicked off the train.

The town was just waking up as we headed to Main Street. Ansel found a quiet little bakery with round wooden tables and air that smelled like cinnamon. I hadn’t seen Sorcha this genuinely excited about food in months, not since before the baby.

“You’re not gonna get sick on me now, are you?” I asked at one point. “You haven’t eaten this much since Santa Fe.”

Sorcha shook her head. “Baby likes tea and cinnamon apparently, also blueberries. We haven’t had decent food until now.”

“And who are we to argue with their taste?” Ansel chuckled.

“I’ll make a note,” I said, smiling for what felt like the first time in weeks. And there, for almost an hour, it felt like things were just going to be okay—no threats, no problems, eating happily together.

And then the police officer reappeared. Ansel clocked him through the front window, made brief eye contact, and nodded to catch my attention. My gaze followed, and I saw the deputy’s face immediately turn red. He stalked into the shop, scowling at everyone.

“I told you to leave,” he snapped.

“You told us to leave the cemetery,” Ansel corrected. “Nothing about not patronizing your town’s delightful bakery.”

“Our vagrancy laws are clear,” the officer said, crossing his arms.

“And we’re not vagrants,” Ansel said simply, “so those laws aren’t an issue.”

“You show up in my town in the middle of the night,” the officer continued, “two older men, younger woman.”

I bristled a bit.

“Sleep in a damned tomb!” the officer snapped. “And tell me you’re not vagrants. Then what are you? Grave robbers? Escaped convicts?”

“We’re traveling,” Ansel said calmly. “We’re family.”