Page 85 of When the Sky Breaks

“Family?” The officer scowled. “How exactly?”

“She’s my wife,” I said simply, “and that’s her uncle.”

“Oh really?” the officer said. “Nice young girl like her⁠—

“I’m twenty-seven,” Sorcha cut in, but the officer didn’t even pause for breath.

“—with an older man⁠—”

“I’m not that much older,” I muttered.

“—showing up in the middle of the night. Sick. Ragged. With another much older man as company, no chaperone, no real family,” the officer blustered. “And you two clearly drifters.”

“I’m not a drifter,” I said, raking a hand over my face and trying very hard not to lose my temper.

“You think you can just show up in my town without anyone asking what you’re really here for?” the officer snapped.

“We’re just having breakfast and finding new horses,” Sorcha said calmly, stealing an uneaten muffin from Ansel’s plate.

“And last night?” The officer scowled harder.

“We got caught in the rain,” Sorcha replied. “Baby makes me tired, and I took the cold and the wet hard. We’ll be on the road north in an hour if you let us be.”

“Baby?” The policeman looked ready to explode. “What baby?”

“Our baby.” Sorcha nodded in my direction.

The officer pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know what kind of sick little game you all are playing, but you leave my town right now.”

And that’s when Ansel stepped in.

“First of all,” he said, voice eerily calm, “it’s not your town. You’re a low-level patrol officer. You’re not even carrying a gun. And you’re making insinuations for no reason. Insinuations no proper member of society would even think of.”

“I want proof they’re married,” the officer said in a huff. “It’s indecency otherwise.”

“Fine,” I snapped, my preparedness paying off for once on this damn trip. I pulled out my wallet and handed the patrolman a folded document. “Proof.”

Our marriage license—notarized, signed, near impossible to argue with.

“Happy?” Ansel asked, taking the document back and passing it to me.

“Just get on your way,” the officer grumbled as he stalked out the door.

Thirty-Five

Sorcha

Neal and Ansel let me choose our horses. It was a goodwill gesture, placation, apology. Neither commented on my decision as we left Fredericksburg with the biggest, happiest, laziest draft crosses available—slow but sure-footed, capable of carrying at least five times the gear we had on hand. Mine was named Peanut. Ansel seemed disgruntled as always, but I was thrilled.

Our first day on the road was almost entirely uneventful. After almost a week on the train, it was oddly exhilarating to be back on the saddle and on our own again. The highway was well trafficked, we passed dozens of donkeys and oxen pulling carts, stagecoaches and mail coaches, others riding, and many on foot. Baby liked the blueberries and cinnamon, and I hadn’t vomited once.

And then it started to get dark.

“Ansel, weren’t we supposed to reach an inn before dinner?” I asked, shifting in my saddle. We’d been out too long. My hips were screaming. Neal was clearly starting to lag. Ansel had said we’d reach a town two hours ago.

“I may have misjudged the distance from Fredericksburg to Dale City,” Ansel admitted. “I’m sure it’s up ahead soon.”

“What does soon mean?” I snapped.