9
The moment Caitlin saw the two of them ride back into camp without Mike was the moment she knew she had already won.
The boy sagged in his saddle she noticed with a smile, but the look on Fiona’s face worried her. Fi was tough and she could smell bullshit a mile off. She could definitely be a problem if Caitlin was to successfully finish what she started.
She watched as several of the other community families rushed out to greet the two. Like friggin’ royalty. Like the little Yank was the feckin’ crown prince returned to his kingdom. Now that the little shite’s da was gone, there was nothing standing in the way of the Yank bitch crawling into Mike’s bed, and all of ‘em being the picture of the perfect little family.
Nothing except her.
A smirk formed on Caitlin’s face as she watched Fiona help the brat down from his horse. Two children around his age ran up to him, but he shook his head as if he barely had the strength to make it to his bed, let alone play a game of stickball. Too right, Caitlin thought as she watched him stumble after Fiona toward her cottage.
Looks like he’ll be needing tending. Likely Fi has her hands full these days, what with big brother running after the new widow.
Likely she’ll be glad of whatever help a loving sister-in-law could give.
Mike had never been to the east coast of Ireland. In his mind, he expected it to look much like the west coast, which he knew well. As he sat on his horse looking down onto the busy harbor, it occurred to him that the difference was that this coast, the one on the channel and facing Wales, looked a little more civilized than what he was used to. His coast was wild—uncontained by land or shuttle boats taking commuters to and fro. Although there was no denying the awe-inspiring beauty of the coast, he knew which part of Ireland he preferred.
It was midday and the scene below him was controlled chaos. An outdoor market stretched from the bulkhead where the ferry was tied all the way through town. Even from where he sat—easily a half a mile away—he could hear the noise and clamor of the market.
This is what we should still have in Balinagh, he thought. Except, without a natural conduit like the channel leading straight to the UK, there was no reason for people to come to it, let alone stay in the region. Most people around Balinagh had left months ago to be near family or better resources in the towns and along the coast.
Only a barking mad Irishman would stubbornly insist on creating a community out of the godless wilderness.
As he moved down the worn pasture path down the steep hill to the town, Mike kept his eyes on the ferryboat lashed to the long pier that jutted out into St. George’s Channel. He wasn’t positive this was where they would have come. Mike had lost whatever possible tracks might have been Sarah’s. It was possible, if they had more raids, that they crossed the channel further north up the coast.
Now, as he descended to the town, he realized he was going strictly on hearsay from Fiona’s sources, logic, and hope. If he was totally off the mark coming here instead of further up the coast, he’d likely never know. And since the alternative was to turn around and go back to camp without even a whiff of the trail of the bastards who took her, he pressed on.
He knew he should rest and water Petey—it’d been a long and tiring trip, with rain most of the way—but he was keenly aware of the time. The lights and electricity may be out, but one thing stayed the same: it wasn’t going to get any easier the colder the trail got.
He saw the covered cart as soon as he was close enough to make out shapes on the ferry. It was easily large enough to carry several people in back and the tarp covering it was loosely tied. In case people needed to breathe. He stood in his stirrups the last few steps down into the town to get a better look. A young woman sat in front with two drivers, both of whom looked like rough trade. One of the men had his arm around the woman but she kept shrugging him off.
Sarah might be in there.
When he stepped from the pasture path to the cobblestones of the town’s main drag, he worked to keep Petey at a walk although it was all he could do not to gallop him straight for the ferry landing.
Did I figure it right after all?
It made so much sense. This was the most direct route back to the UK, especially if you had cargo that wouldn’t stand close inspection. The closer he got, the better he could see the young thugs with the cart. Even the woman looked rough, her face hard and ugly. Mike strained to see if the back of the cart moved at all—anything to indicate there might be human cargo hidden under that tarp.
“Whoa! Hold up, yer honor!”
Mike jerked his mount to avoid hitting a large bald man standing in his path.
“Watch where you’re going, you idiot!” Mike blurted. He could see over the man’s shoulder that the ferry was making last minute preparations for debarkation.
“Oh, idiot, is it?” the man said, reaching out to grab Petey’s bridle.
“Get your hands off my horse.”
“Jimmy! Liam! Give us a hand over here, will ya?”
Mike saw one of the men on the cart on the ferry jump down from his seat and go to the back, where he lifted up a corner of the tarp to peer inside.
Why would he do that unless there were people back there?’
Two men appeared on either side of Mike’s horse. One of them grabbed at Petey’s reins, trying to snatch them from Mike’s grasp.
“What the feck?”
The other man deftly slipped Mike’s rifle from his saddle scabbard.
“I’m afraid you’ll be needing to come with us, squire,” the bald man said as Mike twisted in his saddle to try to grab for his rifle. When he turned back to face the bald man in front of him, he saw the snout end of a Colt 45 pistol, which the man was aiming at his head.