Chapter 2

“I’ll wait.”

She held her breath as he moved around the narrow loft, bent low at the waist to keep from smacking his head against the beams. The only sound in the barn was his boots against the thick wood planks. Even the horse seemed to be holding its breath, waiting for the stranger’s ultimate discovery. His fingers rested on the butt of his gun, a warning and a defense. Eliza had no doubt that if she leveled her gun in his direction again, he would turn and fire without thought, guided by instinct.

When he reached John’s hiding place—and she understood now that it would have been smarter to hide him anywhere else, even in the house—he stopped, gripped his gun, and kicked the man hiding under the hay.

“Stand up,” he ordered.

Eliza watched as John straightened, his brown eyes wide with fear. She kept the tears at bay, but she couldn’t stop the bile from rising in her throat.

“Come on, let’s go,” the stranger said, drawing his gun and waving it toward Eliza.

John didn’t speak. He hurried down the ladder, then put himself between Eliza and the stranger. Eliza knew that he probably wouldn’t kill John—the bounty was higher if he returned the escaped slave alive—but that didn’t alleviate the terror slithering in her stomach.

“What’s your name?” the stranger asked.

“John Brownstone.”

“Do you know a man that goes by Corbett?”

John shook his head. “Never met a Corbett in my life.”

The stranger looked to Eliza. “What about you?”

“No.”

The stranger still pointed the gun at them, but he seemed to relax. “Has anybody been here, looking for water and a bed? He’s a bit taller than me, rides a black horse, wears a beard.”

“Nobody matching that description has been in these parts,” John answered.

Eliza nodded. “We haven’t had any visitors in…months, I’d guess.”

He holstered his gun, looking pleased. “Then I’ll be staying. If he hasn’t been here yet, he will be soon.”

“How…how do you know?” Eliza asked.

“This is the only bit of water in fifty miles, going any direction. He’ll be passing through. And when he does, I’ll be waiting.”

He walked to his horse, pulling the saddle from its back and draping the saddlebags over his shoulder. Eliza and John watched him without moving, both still uncertain about the man’s plans and John’s future. He must have sensed their unease, because he added over his shoulder, “I’m not interested in the Negro. Corbett’s the man I’m after.”

“Go on back to work,” Eliza said softly.

John hesitated, clearly unhappy with the thought of leaving her to fend for herself against the stranger. “I’d like to stay here.”

“I’ll be fine, John. That garden won’t weed itself.”

He glanced at the stranger, then back to Eliza. She nodded with a forced smile, trying to assure him that she would be fine. He finally sighed with a slight tilt of his head. “Yes’m. I’ll get right to that.”

“Why don’t you come to the house, Mr…?”

“You can call me Ford.”

“I’ll have supper on the table soon, Ford.”

He nodded, falling in step behind her as she hurried across the yard to the house. She felt slightly better—she did believe him when he said he wasn’t interested in John. But the apprehension hadn’t completely departed. Who was this Corbett? Why was the stranger…Ford…tracking him? What would happen to her and John now that they were effectively trapped in the middle?

* * * *

“I’ll take some coffee if you have it,” Ford said, settling at the table, the bags dropped at his feet.

Eliza nodded. “Yes, there’s still some warm from lunch. Unless you’d like a fresh pot?”

Ford waved his hand. “Whatever you got.” He looked around the richly decorated kitchen, whistling softly. “Where did you get all this finery?”

“England. I brought it all with me.”

Eliza finally had a chance to study his face when he removed his hat, setting it on the table beside his hand. His hair, bleached almost white from the sun, was slick against his skull, giving his thin face a rather severe appearance. His face was marred with wrinkles, but it wasn’t from age—she could see the sun, wind, and rain on his leathery skin. His cheeks and chin were covered with at least a week’s worth of dusty, sweaty hair. His eyes were a steel gray, his mouth a thin line, his nose crooked from countless fights.

“And where’s your husband? Did you forget to bring him?” Ford asked, accepting the coffee from her. She noticed his hands were as rough as his face, lined with hard calluses and scars.