Beguilement

Chapter 18

One day was Dag’s first thought upon awakening the next morning.

He’d expected this wedding-eve day to be one of quiet preparation for the small family ceremony, with perhaps time to meditate with proper seriousness on the step he was about to take—also to calm the tiny voice screeching in the back of his mind, What are you doing? How did you end up here? This wasn’t in your plans! Do you have any idea what’s going to happen when you get home? To the last question a simple No seemed to Dag a sufficient answer. More complicated questions, such as, How are you going to protect Spark when you can’t even protect yourself? or What about half-blood children? he tried to ignore, although the last thought led directly to, Would they be sawed-off and fiery?

and kept on going from there.

But after breakfast there descended upon the Bluefield farm not the one or two neighbor girlfriends of Fawn’s he’d been led dimly to expect, but two girlfriends, five of their sisters, four sisters-in-law, a few mutual cousins, and an indeterminate number of mothers and grandmothers. They were like a plague of locusts in reverse, bringing quantities of food with hands that produced and put in order instead of consuming and laying waste. They talked, they laughed, they sang, they—or at least the younger ones—giggled, and they filled the house to bursting. The male Bluefields promptly fled to the far corners of the farm.

Dag, fascinated, lingered. For a time.

Being introduced to the young women wasn’t too bad, even though he mainly garnered either intimidated silences or nervous titters in return. The bolder ones, however, observing Fawn’s aid to him, wanted to try their hands at it too, and he was shortly ducking being fed and watered like some strange new pet.

Fattened for the slaughter, he tried not to think. An even more giggly troop, albeit led by a sterner matron, along with Fawn, who refused to explain anything, cornered him with strings and proceeded to measure various parts of his body—happily for his shredding equanimity, not that one—and floated away again in gales of laughter. Nattie’s weaving room, ordinarily a quiet refuge, was jammed, and the kitchen was not only crowded but intolerably overheated from the busy hearth. By noon, Dag followed the men into self-imposed exile, although he lurked close enough to listen to the singing floating out through the open windows. With all the males gone, some of the songs grew unsurprisingly rowdy; this was to be a wedding party, after all. He was glad Fawn was not to be deprived of these flourishes due to her strange choice of partner.

The female help left before supper, although with plans to return again in the morning for the final push, but it wasn’t till afterward that Dag found his thinking time. He settled by himself on the front porch, dangling his legs over the edge and watching the quiet river valley turn from gold-green to muted gray as the sun set. In the eaves of the old barn, the soft, tawny mourning doves called in their soft, tawny voices. It was Dag’s favorite view on the whole farm, and he thought whoever had originally sited this house must have shared the pleasure. He felt strangely unanchored, all his old certainties falling behind, and no new ones to replace them. Except for Spark. And she made an unlikely fixed point in his spinning world, because she moved so fast he feared he’d miss her if he blinked.

He caught sight of Rush walking down the lane in the gathering shadows. After the bowl episode, the twins had stopped aiming barbs at him, but only because they now avoided talking to him at all. If he couldn’t make friends, perhaps intimidation would do instead? Whit by contrast had become rather fascinated with Dag, following him about as though afraid he’d miss another magic show.

Dag tried treating him as a particularly feckless young patroller, which seemed to work. If only his arm hadn’t been broken he might have offered to teach Whit archery, which would have made a good way to move them along amiably. As it was, his idle comment about it made Whit say, showing willing to a degree that surprised him, “When you come back, maybe?”

Which made him wonder: were they ever coming back? Half of Dag’s original intent for the marriage proposal had been to repair Fawn’s bridges here in case of some dire need—in case of his death, bluntly. A Lakewalker would be trying to join his bride’s family, to fit in as a new tent-brother; and the family in turn would expect to receive him as one. Farmer kin took in new sisters, not new brothers, and they weren’t trained up to the reverse. It had taken Dag some time to realize that the only members of the family he really needed to please in order to carry off Fawn were the elders, and they had quite expected her to be carried off sometime by someone in any case. Dag was a stretch of custom, but not a reversal. The questions this begged for Dag’s own homecoming niggled hard, the more so since Fawn could not anticipate most of them.

And here came Rush again, walking back up the lane. He spied Dag on the porch and angled toward him between the house and the old barn, a grassy area the sheep were sometimes turned out to crop. What the sheep refused to eat was scythed once a year to keep the space from turning back to woods and blocking the view. Rush, Dag realized as he approached, was tense, and Dag considered opening his groundsense wider, unpleasant as it was likely to prove.

“Hey, patroller,” said Rush. “Fawn wants you. Down by the road at the end of the lane.”

Dag blinked once, slowly, to cover the fact that he’d just snapped open his groundsense to its full range. Fawn, he determined first, was not down by the end of the lane, but nearly out of his perceptions to the west, up over the ridge. Not alone—with Reed?—she seemed not to be in any special distress, however. So why was Rush lying? Ah. The woods below were not unpeopled.

Concealed among the trees near the road were the smudges of four horses, standing still—tied? Four persons accompanied them. Three blurred grounds he did not know, but the fourth he recognized as Stupid Sunny. Was it so wild a guess to think that the other three were also husky young farm boys? Dag thought not.

“Did she say why?” Dag asked, to buy a moment more to think.

Rush took a couple of breaths to invent an answer, apparently having expected Dag to leap up without delay. “Some wedding thing or other,” he replied. “She didn’t say, but she wants you right now.”

Dag scratched his temple gently with his hook, glad that he had mostly stuck to the deeply ingrained habit of not discussing Lakewalker abilities with anyone here, Fawn and Nattie excepted. He was now one move ahead in this game; he tried to figure how not to squander that advantage, because he suspected it was the only one he had. It would be amusing to just sit here and watch Rush dig himself deeper concocting more desperate reasons for Dag to walk down the hill into what was shaping up to be a neat little ambush. But that would leave the whole pack of them running around loose all night to evolve other plans. As little as Dag wanted to deal with this tonight, still less did he want to deal with it in the morning. And most especially did he not want it to impinge on Spark in any way.

His brotherly enemies, it seemed, were looking after that angle for him just now. So.

He let his groundsense play lightly over the lower woods, which he had crossed several times on foot in the past days, looking for… yes. Just exactly that.

A

flush, not of excitement, but of that very peculiar calm that came over him when facing a bandit camp or a malice lair jerked his mind up to another level.

Targets, eh. He knew what to do with targets. But would targets know what to do with him? His lips drew back. If not, he would teach them.

“Um… Dag?” said Rush uncertainly.

He wasn’t wearing his war knife. That was fine; he had no hand to wield it.

He stood up and shook out his left arm. “Sure, Rush. Where did you say, again?”

“Down by the road,” said Rush, both relieved and the reverse. Absent gods, but the boy was a poor liar. On the whole, that was a point in his favor.

“You coming with me, Rush?”

“In a minute. You go along. I have to get something in the house.”

“All right,” said Dag amiably, and trod off down the hill to the lane. He descended it for a few hundred paces, then cut over to the wooded hillside, plotting his routes. He needed to surprise his ambushers on the correct side for his purpose. He wondered how fast they could run. His legs were long; theirs were young. Best not to cut it too close.

Mari would beat me for trying this fool stunt. It was an oddly comforting thought. Familiar.

Dag ghosted down the hill at an angle until he was about fifteen feet behind the four young men hiding in the shadows of the trees and keeping watch on the lane.

Looks like Sunny took my advice. It was still early twilight; Dag’s groundsense would give him considerable advantage in the dark, but he wanted his quarry to be able to see him. “Evening, boys,” he said. “Looking for me?”

They jumped and whirled. Sunny’s gold head was bright even in the shadows.

The others were more nondescript: one stout, one as muscular as Sunny, and one skinny; young enough to be foolish and big enough to be dangerous. It was an unpleasant combination. Three were armed with cudgels, for which Dag had a new respect. Sunny had both a stick and a big hunting knife, the latter still in the sheath at his belt. For now.

Sunny got his breath back and growled, “Hello, patroller. Let me tell you how it’s going to be.”

Dag tilted his head as if in curiosity.

“You’re not wanted here. In a few minutes Rush is going to bring down your horse and your gear, and you’re going to get on and ride north. And you don’t come back.”

“Amazing!” Dag marveled. “How do you figure you’re going to make that happen, son?”

“If you don’t, you get the beating of your life. And we’ll tie you on your horse and you’ll still ride north. Only without your teeth.” Sunny’s grin showed white in the shadows, to emphasize this threat. His friends shifted, a little too tense and worried to quite share the amusement, although one tried a huffy sort of laugh to show support.

“Not to find fault, but I see a few problems with your plan. First would be a notable absence of horse. I ‘spect Rush is going to have a trifle of difficulty handling Copperhead.” Dag let his groundsense spread briefly as far as the old barn. Rush’s troubles were indeed beginning. He decided he did not have the attention to spare on managing his horse at this distance, and withdrew the link. The entire family had been told, at the dinner table in front of Sorrel and Tril, to leave Copperhead alone unless Dag was there. Rush was on his own.

Dag tried not to smile too much.

“Patroller, Fawn can handle your horse.”

“Indeed she can. But, you know, you sent Rush. Unfortunate, that.”

“Then you can start walking.”

“After a beating? You have a high opinion of my stamina.” He let his voice go softer. “Think the four of you can take me?”

They glanced at his sling, at his handless left arm, at each other. Dag was flattered that they didn’t all burst into laughter at this point. He thought they should have, but he wasn’t about to say so. The stout one, in fact, looked just a shade ashamed. Sunny, granted, was more guarded. That hunting knife was a new ornament.

“Just to make it clear, I decline your invitation to the road. I don’t care to miss my wedding. Now, it does look as if you have the numbers on your side.

Are you prepared to kill me tonight? How many of you are ready to die to make that happen? Have you thought how your parents and families will feel about it tomorrow? How the survivors are going to explain to them what happened?

Killing gets a lot messier than you’d think, and the mess doesn’t end with burying the corpses. I speak from long experience.”

He had to stop this; by their uncertain expressions, his words were getting through to at least two of them, and that hadn’t exactly been his intent when he’d started babbling, here. Run and chase, that was the game plan.

Fortunately, Sunny and the other muscular one were starting to try to stalk him, moving apart and around to get into position for a rush. To encourage them, he started to back up. And called, “No wonder Fawn calls you Stupid Sunny.”

Sunny’s head jerked up. From the side, one of his friends muffled a guffaw; Sunny shot a glare at him and snapped to Dag, “Fawn’s a slut. But you know that.

Don’t you, patroller.”

Right, that’s done it. “You’ll have to catch me first, boys. If you’re as slow-footed as you are slow-witted, I shouldn’t have a problem—”

Sunny lunged, his stick whistling through the air. Dag was not there.

Dag stretched his legs, driving up the hill, dodging around trees, boots slipping on old leaves and damp limestone lumps and green-black rolling round hickory husks. By the thump and pained grunt, at least one of his pursuers was finding the footing equally foul. He didn’t actually want to lose the boys in the woods, but he wanted a good head start by the time he arrived…

Here.

Ah. Hm.

His chosen tree turned out to be a shagbark hickory with a trunk a bit less than a foot and a half wide. And no side branches for twenty feet straight up.

This was a mixed blessing. It would certainly be a challenge for the boys to follow him up it. If he could get up it. He pulled his right arm from the sling and let it swing out of his way, reached up with his left, jammed in his hook, clapped his knees around the trunk, and began shinnying. Yanked the hook out again, reached, jammed, shinnied. Again. Again. He was about fifteen feet in the air when the pursuit arrived, winded and swearing and waving their cudgels. It occurred to him, in a meditative sort of way as he dragged his body skyward, that even without the unpleasant searing feeling in his left shoulder muscles, he was putting an awful lot of trust in a small wooden bolt and some stitching designed to pull out. The rough bark strips crackled and split beneath his gripping knees, small bits raining down in an aromatic shower. If his hook gave way and he slid down, the bark would have an interesting serrated effect between his legs, too.

He made it to the first sturdy side branch, put an arm and a leg over, winched himself up, and stood. He searched for his objective. Absent gods, another fifteen feet to go. Up, then. A dry branch gave way under one foot, which was partly useful, for he was then able to kick it free and drop it on the upturned face of the skinny fellow who was being urged up the tree in Dag’s wake by his friends. He yelped and fell back, discouraged for a moment. Dag didn’t need too many more moments.

To his delight, a rock whistled up past him, then another. “Ow!” he cried realistically, to lure more of them. A couple more missiles rose and fell, followed by a meaty clunk and an entirely authentic “OW!” from below. Dag made sure they could hear his evil laugh, even though he was wheezing like a smithy’s bellows by now.

Almost to goal. Absent gods, the blighted thing was well out on that side branch. He extended himself, gripping the branch he was half-lying across under his right armpit, feet sliding along the wobbly bough below it, wishing for almost the first time in his life for more height and reach. Overbalance at this elevation, and he could swiftly prove himself stupider than Stupid Sunny. A

little more, a little more, get his hook around that attachment… and a good yank.

Dag clung hard as the rough gray paper-wasp nest the size of a watermelon parted from the branch and began its thirty-five foot-drop. Most of the nest’s residents were home for the evening, his groundsense told him, settling down for the night. Wake up! You’re under attack! His feeble effort to stir up the wasps with his ground seemed redundant when the plummeting object hit the dirt and ruptured with a loud and satisfying thwack. Followed by a deep angry whine he could hear all the way up here.

The first screams were a deal more satisfying, though.

He cuddled back against the trunk of the tree, feet braced on some less flexible side branches, gasping for breath and applying himself to a few refinements.

Persuading the furious wasps to advance up trouser legs and down collars proved not as difficult as he’d feared, although he could not simply bounce them like mosquitoes, and they were much less tractable than fireflies. A matter of practice, Dag decided. He set to it with a will.

“Ah! Ah! They’re in my hair, they’re in my hair, they’re stinging meee!” came a wail from below, voice too high-pitched to identify.

“Augh, my ears! Ow, my hands! Get them off, get them off!”

“Run for the river, Sunny!”

The shuffling sounds of retreat filtered up through the leaves; the pell-mell flight wouldn’t help them much, for Dag made sure they left under full guard.

Even without groundsense, though, he could tell when his trouser-explorers made it all the way to target by the earsplitting shrieks that went up and up until breath was gone.

“Limp for the river, Sunny,” Dag muttered savagely, as the frantic cries trailed away to the east.

Then came the matter of getting down.

Dag took it slowly, at least till the last ten feet when his hook slipped free and scored a long slash down the trunk in the wake of the flying bark bits from under his knees. But he did manage to land on his feet and avoid banging his splint very much on anything on the way. He staggered upright, gasping. “It was easier… when I could just… gut them…”

No. Not really.

He sighed, and did his best to tidy himself up a trifle, brushing bark and sticks and wide papery leaves from his clothing and hair with the back of his hook, and gratefully slipping his throbbing right arm back into its sling. A

few stray wasps buzzed near in investigative menace; he sent them off after their nest mates and slithered back down the slope to where the horses were tied.

He picked apart their ties and did his best to loop up their reins so they wouldn’t step on them, led them out onto the road, and pointed them south, trying to plant horsey suggestions about barns and grain and home into their limited minds. They would either find their way, or Sunny and his friends could have a fine time over the next few days looking for them. Once the boys could get their swollen selves out of bed, that is. A couple of the would-be bullies, including Sunny—Dag had made quite sure of Sunny on that score—would definitely not be wishing to ride home tonight. Or for many nights to come.

As he was wearily climbing back up the lane, he met Sorrel hastening down.

Sorrel gripped a pitchfork and looked thoroughly alarmed.

“What in thunder was that awful screeching, patroller?” he demanded.

“Some fool young fellows trespassing in your woods thought it would be a grand idea to chuck rocks at a wasp nest. It didn’t work out the way they’d pictured.”

Sorrel snorted in half-amused vexation, the tension draining out of his body, then paused. “Really?”

“I think that would be the best story all around, yes.”

Sorrel gave a little growl that reminded Dag suddenly of Fawn. “Plain enough there’s more to it. Have it in hand, do you?” He turned again to walk up the lane side by side with Dag.

“That part, yes.” Dag extended his groundsense again, this time toward the old barn. His future brother-in-law was still alive, though his ground was decidedly agitated at the moment. “There’s another part. Which I think is your place and not mine to deal with.” It was not one patrol leader’s job to correct another patrol leader’s people. On the other hand, teaming up could sometimes be remarkably effective. “But I think we might get forward faster if you’d be willing to take some direction from me.”

“About what?”

“In this case, Reed and Rush.”

Sorrel muttered something about, “… ready to knock their fool heads together.”

Then added, “What about them?”

“I think we ought to let Rush tell us. Then see.”

“Huh,” said Sorrel dubiously, but he followed as Dag turned aside from the lane at the old barn.

The sliding door onto the lane was open, and a soft yellow light spilled out from an oil lantern hung on a nail in a rafter. Grace, in a box stall by the door, snorted uneasily as they entered. The packed-dirt aisle smelled not unpleasantly of horses and straw and manure and dove droppings and dry rot.

From Copperhead’s box sounded an angry squeal. Dag held out a restraining hand as Sorrel started to surge forward. Wait, Dag mouthed.

It was hard for Dag not to laugh out loud as the scene revealed itself, although the sight of half his gear strewn across the stall floor being well trampled by Copperhead did quite a lot to help him keep a straight face. On the far wall of the stall, some wooden slats were nailed to make a crude manger, and above it a square was cut in the ceiling to allow hay to be tossed down directly from the loft above. Although the hole was big enough to stuff down an armload of hay, it wasn’t quite big enough for Rush’s broad shoulders to make the reverse trip.

At the moment, having scrambled off the top of the manger as a partial ladder, Rush had one leg and both arms awkwardly jammed through the hole, and was attempting to twist the rest of his body out of range of Copperhead’s snapping yellow teeth. Copperhead, ears flat back and neck snaking, squealed and snapped again, apparently for the pure evil pleasure of watching Rush squirm harder.

“Patroller!” Rush cried as he saw them come up to the stall partition. “Help me!

Call off your horse!”

Sorrel shot Dag a worried look; Dag returned a small headshake and draped his arms over the partition, leaning comfortably.

“Now, Rush,” said Dag in a conversational voice, “I distinctly remember telling you and your brothers that Copperhead was a warhorse, and to leave him alone.

Do you remember that, Sorrel?”

“Yes, I do, patroller,” said Sorrel, matching his tone, also resting his elbows on the boards.

“I know you magic him in some way! Get him off me!”

“Well, we’ll have to see about that. Now, what I’m mightily curious about is just how you happened to be in his stall, without my leave, but with my saddlebags and bedroll and all my gear, which I had left in Aunt Nattie’s weaving room. I think your pa would like to hear that story, too.” And then Dag fell silent.

The silence stretched. Rush made a tentative move to swing down. Copperhead, excited, stamped and snapped and made a most peculiar noise, halfway between whipsaw menace and a horselaugh, Dag thought. Rush swung up again hastily.

“Your brute of a horse savaged me!” Rush complained. His shirt was ripped on one shoulder, and some blood leaked through, but it was clear to Dag’s eye by the way Rush moved that there was nothing broken.

“Now, now,” said Dag in a mock-soothing tone. “That was just a love bite, that was. If Copper’d really savaged you, you’d be over there, and your arm would be over here. Speaking from experience and all.”

Rush’s eyes widened as it dawned on him that if he’d wanted sympathy, he’d gone to the wrong store with the wrong coin. Dag didn’t say anything some more.

“What do you want to know?” Rush finally asked, in a surly tone.

“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” Dag drawled.

“Pa, make him let me down!”

Sorrel vented an exasperated sigh. “You know, Rush, I’ve drawn you and your brother out of wells of your own digging more than once when you were younger, because every boy’s got to survive his share of foolishness. But as you’re both so fond of telling me, you’re not youngsters anymore. Seems to me you got yourself up there. You can get yourself down.”

Rush looked appalled at this unexpected parental betrayal. He started blurting a somewhat garbled account for his predicament involving an imaginary request relayed from Fawn.

Dag gave Sorrel another small headshake. Sorrel looked increasingly grim.

“No,” Dag interrupted in a bored voice, “That’s not it. Think harder, Rush.”

After a moment, he said, “I should also mention, I suppose, that Sunny Sawman and his three strapping friends are now on their way downriver to West Blue.

Under escort. Underwater, mostly. I don’t think they’ll be back for some several days.”

“How did you—I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

More silence.

Rush added in a smaller voice, “Are they all right?”

“They’ll live,” said Dag indifferently. “You can remember to thank me kindly for that, later.” And fell silent again.

After a couple more false starts, Rush at last began to ‘fess up. It was more or less the story Dag expected, of alehouse conspiracy and youthful bravado. In Rush’s version, Reed was the ringleader, valiantly horrified at the thought of his only sister marrying a Lakewalker corpse-eater and thus making him brother-in-law to one, and Rush’s motivations were lost in a mumble; Dag wasn’t sure whether this was strict truth or blame-casting, nor did he greatly care, as it was clear enough both boys were in it together. They had found a strangely enthusiastic helper in Sunny, fresh from a summer of stump-pulling and happy to show off his muscle. Unsurprisingly, it appeared Sunny had not seen fit to mention to the twins his prior encounter with Dag. Dag chose not to either.

Sorrel looked grimmer and grimmer.

Rush at last stuttered to a halt. A cool silence fell in the warm barn. Rush began to sag down; Copperhead lunged again. Rush tightened up once more, clinging like a possum to a branch. Dag could see that his arms were shaking.

“Now, Rush,” said Dag. “I’m going to tell you how it’s going to be. I am actually prepared to forgive and forget your brotherly plan to beat me crippled or dead and buried in your pa’s woods on the night before my wedding. The fact that you also seriously endangered the lives of your friends—because I would not, facing that death, have held back in defending myself—I leave to your pa to take up with you two. I’ll even forgive your lies to me.” Dag’s voice dropped to a deadly register that made Sorrel glance aside in alarm. “What I do not forgive is the malice of your lies to Fawn. You’d planned for her to wake up joyful on her wedding morning and then tell her I’d scunnered out in the night, make her believe herself shamed and betrayed, humiliate her before her friends and kin, set her to weeping—although I think her real response might have surprised you.”

He glanced aside. “You like that picture, Sorrel? No? Good.” Dag took a long breath. “Whatever reasons your parents tolerated your torment of your sister in the past, it stops tomorrow. You claim Reed was afraid of me? He wasn’t near afraid enough. Either of you so much as look cross-eyed at Fawn tomorrow, or anytime thereafter, I will give you reason to regret it every day for the rest of your lives. You hear me, Rush? Look at me.” Dag hadn’t used that voice since he was a company captain. He was pleased to note it still worked; Rush nearly fell from his perch. Copperhead shied. Even Sorrel stepped backward. Dag hissed,

“You hear me?”

Rush nodded frantically.

“All right. I will halter Copperhead, and you will climb down from there.

Then you will pick up every bit of my gear and put it back where you found it.

What’s broken, you and your brother can fix, what’s been rolled through the manure you can scrub—which will keep you two out of further mischief for the rest of the evening, I think—what can’t be fixed, you’ll replace, what can’t be replaced, I leave you to work out with your pa.”

“You heard the patroller, Rush,” said Sorrel, in a deeply paternal snarl.

Really, it was almost as good as the company-captain voice.

Dag extended his ground to his horse, a familiar reach long practiced; he’d been saddled with this chestnut idiot for about eight years, now. Disappointed at the loss of his toy, Copperhead lowered his head to the stall floor and began lipping straw, pretending that it all never happened. Dag thought he had a lot in common with Rush, that way. “You can get down,” said Dag.

“He isn’t haltered,” said Rush nervously.

“Yes, he is,” said Dag, “now.” Sorrel’s eyebrows climbed, but he didn’t say anything. Cautiously, Rush climbed down. Red-faced, his eyes wary on Copperhead, he began collecting Dag’s strewn possessions: clothing and saddlebags and ripped bedroll, knocked-about saddle and pummeled saddle blanket. The adapted bow, though kicked into a corner, was undamaged; Dag was glad. Only the reasonably benign outcome was keeping him from utter fury right now—that, plus not thinking too hard about Spark. But he had to think about Spark.

“Now,” Dag said, as Rush made his way out of the stall with his arms loaded, and Dag closed the stall door after him. Rush set the tangled gear down very carefully. “We come to the other question. What of all this would you have me tell Fawn?”

The place had been quiet like a barn; for a moment, it grew quiet like a tomb.

Sorrel’s face screwed up. He said cautiously, “Seems to me she’d be near as distressed for the word of this as for the thing itself. I mean, with respect to Reed and Rush,” he added, visions of Fawn weeping over Dag’s battered corpse evidently presenting themselves to his mind’s eye, as indeed they did to Dag’s.

Rush, who had been rather red, turned rather white.

“Seems that way to me, too,” said Dag. “But, you know, there’s eight people who know the truth about what happened tonight. Granted, four of them will be telling lies when they drag home tonight, though I doubt even those will all be the same lies. Some kind of word’s going to get around.”

Dag let them both dwell on this ugly vision for a little, then said, “I’m not Reed’s and Rush’s linker, though I should have been. I will not lie to her for them. But I’ll give you this much, and no more: I’ll not speak first.”

Sorrel took this in almost without expression for a moment, clearly thinking through the deeply unpleasant family ramifications. Then he nodded shortly.

“Fair enough, patroller.”

Dag extended his groundsense briefly, for all that the proximity of the two shaken Bluefields made it painful. He said, “Reed is coming back to the house with Fawn, now. I’d prefer to leave him to you, Sorrel.”

“Send him down here to the barn,” said Sorrel, somewhat through his teeth.

“That I will, sir.” Dag gave a nod in place of his usual salute.

“Thank you—sir.” Sorrel nodded back. Fawn returned to the kitchen with Reed in some annoyance with him for dragging her out in the dark. She lit a few candle stubs on the mantel to lighten both the room and her mood. Better still for the latter was the sound of Dag’s long footfalls coming through from the front hall. Reed, who had ducked into Nattie’s weaving room for some reason, came out with an inexplicable triumphant smile on his face. She was about to ask why he was so happy all of a sudden when the look was wiped clean at the sight of Dag entering the kitchen. Fawn bit back yet more irritation with her brother. She had better things to do than fuss at Reed; hugging Dag hello was on the top of that list.

He gave her a quick return embrace with his left arm and turned to Reed. “Ah, Reed. Your papa wants to see you in the old barn. Now.”

Reed looked at Dag as though he were a poisonous snake surprised in some place he’d been about to put his hand. “Why?” he asked in a suspicious voice.

“I believe he and Rush have quite a lot to say to you.” Dag tilted his head and gave Reed a little smile, which had to be one of the least friendly expressions to go by that name Fawn had ever seen. Reed’s mouth flattened in return, but he didn’t argue; to Fawn’s relief, he took himself off. She heard the front door slam behind him.

Fawn pushed back her unruly curls. “Well, that was a fool’s errand.”

“Where did you two go off to?” Dag asked.

“He dragged me all the way to the back pasture to help rescue a calf stuck in a fence. If the brainless thing had got itself in, it had got itself out by the time we made it there. And then he wanted to walk the fence line while we were out there. I didn’t mind the walk, but I have things to do.” She stood back and looked Dag over. He was often not especially tidy, but at the moment he looked downright rumpled. “Did you have your quiet think?”

“Yes, I just spent a very enlightening hour. Useful, too, I hope.”

“Oh, you. I bet you never sat still.” She brushed at a few stray bits of bark and leaf stuck to his shirt, and observed with disfavor a new rip in his trouser knee stained with blood from a scrape. “Walking in the woods, I think. I swear, you been walking so long you don’t know how to stop. What, were you climbing trees?”

“Just one.”

“Well, that was a fool thing to try with that arm!” she scolded fondly. “Did you fall down?”

“No, not quite.”

“That’s a blessing. You be more careful. Climbing trees, indeed! I thought I was joking. I don’t want my bridegroom broken, I’ll have you know.”

“I know.” He smiled, glancing around. Fawn realized that, miraculously, they were actually alone for a moment. He seemed to realize this at the same time, for he sat in the big wooden chair by the hearth and pulled her toward him.

She climbed happily into his lap and raised her face for a kiss. The kiss went urgent, and they were both out of breath when their lips parted again.

She said gruffly, “They won’t be able to keep us apart much longer.”

“Not even with ropes and wild horses,” he agreed, his eyes glinting. His smile grew more serious. “Have you decided yet where you want us to be tomorrow night?

Ride or bide?”

She sighed and sat up. “Do you have a partiality?”

He brushed her hair from her forehead with his lips, likely because he had a notable reluctance for touching her about the face with his hook. It turned into a small trail of kisses along the arches of her eyebrows before he, too, sat back thoughtfully. “Here would be physically easier. We won’t get to Hickory Lake in a day, still less in a couple of hours tomorrow evening. If we camped, you’d have to do most everything.”

“I don’t mind the work.” She tossed her head.

“There is this. We won’t just be making love, we’ll be making memories. It’s the sort of day you remember all your life, when other days fade. Real question, then, the only really important one, is what memories of this do you want to bear away into your future?”

Now, there was a voice of experience, she thought. Best listen to it. “It’s farmer custom for the couple to go off to their new house, sleep under the new roof. The party goes on. If we stay, I swear I’ll end up washing dishes at midnight, which is not what I want to be doing at midnight.”

“I have no house for you. I don’t even have a tent with me. It’ll be a roof of stars, if it’s not a roof of rain.”

“It doesn’t look like rain. This high blue weather this time of year usually holds for three or four days. I admit I prefer inn chambers to wheatfields, but at least with you there’s no mosquitoes.”

“I think we might do better than a wheatfield.”

She added more seriously, thinking about his words, “This place is chock-full of memories for me. Some are good, but a lot of them hurt, and the hurtful ones have this way of jostling into first place. And this house’ll be full of my family. Tomorrow night, I’d like to be someplace with no memories at all.”

And no family.

He ducked his head in understanding. “That’s what we’ll do, then.”

Her spine straightened. “Besides, I’m marrying a patroller. We should go patroller-style. Bedroll under the stars, right.” She grinned and nuzzled his neck, and said seductively, “We could bathe in the river…”

He was looking immensely seduceable, eyes crinkling in the way she so loved to see. “Bathing in the river is always good. A clean patroller is, um…”

“Unusual?” she suggested.

And she also loved the way his chest rumbled under her when he laughed deep down in it. Like a quiet earthquake. “A happy patroller,” he finished firmly.

“We could gather firewood,” she went on, her lips working upward.

His worked downward. He murmured around his kiss, “Big, big bonfire.”

“Scout for rowdy squirrels…”

“Those squirrels are a right menace.” He looked down over his nose at her, though she didn’t see how he could focus his eyes at this distance. “All three?

Optimistic, Spark!”

She giggled, joyful to see his eyes so alight. He’d seemed so moody when he’d first come in.

To her aggravation, she could hear heavy footsteps coming down the stairs, Fletch or Whit, heading this way. She sighed and sat up. “Ride, then.”

“Unless we have a barker of a thunderstorm.”

“Thunder and lightning couldn’t keep me in this house one more day,” she said fervently. “It’s time for me to go on. Do you see?”

He nodded. “I’m beginning to, farmer girl. This is right for you.”

She stole one last kiss before sliding off his lap, thinking, Tomorrow we’ll be buying these kisses fair and square. Her heart melted in the tenderness of the look he gave her as, reluctantly, he let her slip out of his arm. All storms might be weathered in the safe harbor of that smile.