“Do you have everything—the letter to my sisters and the note to pass to Mrs. Wells? Good. Now, you be careful. Put your hood up.”
“I’ll be fine, miss. I’ve been meeting Mrs. Wells at the market for five days now. And nothing has happened. Besides, Rigby’s never far away. He’s very good at being sneaky, you know.”
Hannah smiled at the way Olivia’s face, now a little fuller and pinker, turned red whenever she said that particular young man’s name. “I’m sure he is. But I still worry. I know you have to be the one to pass along false information to my uncle, but I don’t like it. You’re just a child, and anything could happen.”
“Child? I’m a mother, miss. And it pleases me to play false with Mrs. Wells. Let her think she’s giving right and true notes about your comings and goings to Mr. Wilton-Humes. Let him think he has me where he wants me.”
Hannah sighed. “You’re right. Now, go on.” When Olivia balked, Hannah made a shooing gesture with her hands. “I’ll be fine. Aren’t there armed men all about this place?”
Olivia smiled and nodded as she started for the door of Hannah’s bedroom at the brownstone, but Hannah snapped her fingers at her next thought. “Wait. I nearly forgot.”
She rushed over to the mahogany chest of drawers and opened the top drawer. Reaching in, she lifted out a tissue-wrapped package and spun around, going hurriedly back to Olivia. She shoved the package into the girl’s hands. “Here. Mrs. Garrett had Rigby stop yesterday at a little shop, so we could get this for Colette.”
Olivia stared in silence at the gay little package in her hands. When she raised her eyes, unshed tears filled them. “I’ve never had a gift for Colette.”
A fierce sympathy tugged at Hannah’s heart, but she said nothing as the young mother looked down again, smoothing a hand reverently over the paper, eliciting a soft crinkle from its crisp texture. A tear fell on her hand. She looked up and blinked. “Thank you, miss. I’m most grateful.”
Hannah smiled and briskly played down her generosity. “It’s nothing. Neither one of us was very anxious to get to Mrs. Ames’s. She thinks I’m a saint now that young Mr. Ames and Miss Wannamaker have announced their engagement. We were glad for the delaying stop.” She then turned the girl toward the door. “You take that and enjoy your afternoon with Colette and your mother.” Her smile faded. “How is your mother, Olivia?”
A gray cloud settled over the girl’s face. “I don’t think she’ll be with me much longer, miss.”
Hannah’s hand went to her heart. “I’m so sorry. I know what it’s like to lose your mother.” She then put her hand on the girl’s sleeve. “Perhaps I can come help you?”
Olivia shook her head, dislodging her hood. “Oh, no, miss. That’d only make Mr. Wilton-Humes more suspicious than he already is about your being here and not at Woodbridge Pond. Besides, it’s enough what Mr. Garrett’s done for me and Mum.”
The name hung in the air between them. Hannah withdrew her hand to knot it with her other one. “Mr. Garrett? What’s he done?”
“He didn’t tell you? Oh, I’m sorry, miss. I forgot.”
Her heart stinging, Hannah raised her head a notch. She hadn’t seen or talked to Slade in five days. “It’s all right. It’s not your fault. What did he do?”
An eagerness to tell replaced her hesitancy. “For me pretending to be spying on you, he moved in the nicest couple upstairs from Mum—name of Hill—to look after her and Colette. And he’s paying for everything. What’s more, he put in two men across the hall to keep an eye out. So, everything looks normal, what with me working my regular hours.” Olivia then sobered, speaking as if in defense of the man. “Mr. Garrett’s a good man, miss.”
Looking into Olivia’s brown eyes, Hannah accepted the censure of the girl’s last words. “Yes, he is. You’d better go now.”
“Yes, miss.” Olivia pulled her hood back up over her braids, tucked the gift into her pocket, and turned to leave the room. But she immediately spun back to Hannah and grabbed her in a fierce hug. “Thank you for the present. I love you,” she whispered and then turned and ran out of the room.
Hannah stood where she was, fingernails digging into her palms. She bit at the inside of her cheek until she no longer felt like crying. One drop of excess emotion and she would crack, crumble, and collapse. Taking deep breath after deep breath, she finally squared her shoulders. She had to get out of this house. She was suffocating.
Perhaps a trip across the street to the Public Garden was what she needed. The flowers weren’t in bloom and the trees were bare. But it didn’t matter. The garden was outside, and that was all that mattered. Besides, no less than four of Slade’s men would follow her. What could go wrong? Hannah set off for the hallway, realizing she’d better tell Hammonds. No sense having the disapproving butler sound an alarm at her absence.
Now there was an odd one, that Hammonds. He had the strange habit of staring at portraits when he was talking to her. On the first floor now, she went in search of the little man who’d reduced her, more than once, to staring at the same portrait he did when she spoke with him. Hannah walked into the parlor. No Hammonds. But feeling the tug of the outdoors, she went to the window and pulled the lace sheer aside. And smiled.
“There it is,” she said softly, but still aloud, “the outdoors. Oops. There he is, too, across the street. Jones—my square, silent guard. What’s he posing as today? Looks like … hmmm—a lazy man sitting on a park bench staring at this house. That’s original. Wonder how he likes city life over Woodbridge Pond?”
“Did you say something, Mrs. Garrett?”
Crying out, Hannah spun around, nearly bringing the lace sheer with her. Hammonds was in the doorway, staring at the portrait on the far wall. Hannah put a hand to her thumping heart. “Yes. I mean, no. Um, Hammonds, I was looking for you.”
He cut his gaze over to her. “You thought I was outside, madam?”
A scorching heat flamed up her cheeks. “No, of course not. I’ll be going out and will need my cloak.”
“Outside, madam?”
Was that all he could say? “Yes, Hammonds. Outside. Surely you know it—all the world that isn’t inside?”
Nose in the air, arms stiffly at his sides, he addressed the portrait. “I’m not sure that Mr. Garrett will approve.”
“Well, then, we just won’t tell him, will we? My cloak, please.”
“Yes, madam.” He bowed to the portrait and left the room.
Hannah turned back to the window, again pulling the sheer aside. In a wistful mood, she watched the passing pageant of people going about their lives. Would hers ever be normal again? Facing away from the scene, she hugged her arms to herself. Her mouth frowned in self-pity. Married, alone, in a strange city, Mama and Papa dead, Glory and Jacey and Biddy so far away, her life in danger. And all she wanted was a walk in the fresh air. Funny, how life came down to moments.
Hammonds came back into the room with her lined and hooded cloak draped over his arm. “I’ve alerted the … gentlemen as to your intentions, madam. They’re most concerned.”
Gentlemen, indeed. Her keepers, he meant. Hannah put her fisted hands to her hips. “Are they? Well, they’re also about to be most cold.”
“Yes, madam.”
Hannah held out her hand for her cloak. It remained empty because Hammonds kept his eyes on that dead person in the portrait. Sighing, she stomped over to the rigid man. Tugging her wrap away from him, she flung it around her shoulders as he bowed and left the room. Waiting a moment until she no longer heard his footsteps, Hannah bolted across the parlor. Maybe she could get out before her keepers had time to be ready.
A smile already forming at that thought, she rounded the corner. And stopped suddenly. And sighed. There stood Hammonds, his hand on the front door’s heavy knob. And with him stood three tall, beefy, serious men, all coated and hatted. They stared wordlessly at her. Bottom lip poked out, Hannah silently walked through their parting ranks. Hammonds opened the door, bowing her out. She deigned to nod her head at him. Then, over her shoulder, she said, “Last one out is a damned Yankee.”
She stepped onto the stoop and lifted her nose to the air. Glorious, cold, and fresh. And skipped down the ten or so steps of the front stoop to the sidewalk below. Turning around, she smiled at the straight-faced damned Yankees who ambled with brute confidence down the steps after her, their hands in their coat pockets. No doubt those pockets held guns. Well, so did hers.
Hannah turned back to the street, waiting at the curb for a lull in the traffic, so she could cross. Sensing she wasn’t alone, she looked up and around her. One on her left. One on her right. One at her back. Like huge elms around a sapling. Just then, the men on her left and right boldly stepped into the street, stopping the carriages and wagons with no more than a raised hand.
Hannah’s eyes widened at that sight, but not so much as they did when the man behind her stepped to her right, took her elbow, and escorted her safely across the street to the park. Slightly intimidated, she kept her gaze on his craggy, impassive face all the way over. And pronounced herself glad these men were on her side.
When the man let go of her and stepped back, Hannah blinked at him and his two cronies who flowed into the crowd around her, no more detectable than one blade of grass from another. Public Garden stretched before her. Here was freedom. She smiled at the trees, at the benches, at the Bostonians, at the dogs, at the horses, at the children. Her smile faded. She tugged at her bottom lip with her teeth and eyed a group of running, playing children.
Suddenly she straightened up, clamping her hands over her mouth one half-second ahead of a loud cry. She watched the children, heard their happy shrieks of laughter. A baby. What would Slade do if she told him…?
* * *
Patience Wilton-Humes gasped and sat forward in the carriage. Without looking away from the figure in Public Garden, she reached behind her, roughly grasping at Cyrus’s sleeve. “Cyrus, look there! I believe it’s Hannah. Way over there. See her? By those children. And she’s alone.”
She scooted over, giving her place to Cyrus. Perching on the edge of the narrow leather seat, he looked this way and that and then turned to his wife. “Are you sure? Because she wouldn’t be alone. She has those damned men surrounding her everywhere she goes.”
Damned fool couldn’t see his hand in front of his face. “Of course I’m sure. Those idiot men are probably lurking close by. Now, move out of my way.” She yanked at Cyrus’s coat, roughly dislodging him. “Tell Hankins to pull over. I don’t want to lose her. Mrs. Wells can just wait for us a bit longer. That stupid Olivia’s probably not on time, anyway.”
She grabbed his coat again, this time pulling him toward her. “Cyrus, this could be the chance we’ve been waiting for. A nice, public accident. Runaway horses and all. Just the thing. Now, hurry it up—get Hankins to stop.”
When she pushed him back again, Cyrus scrambled to tap at the small trapdoor set in the roof. It opened immediately. He told their driver to pull over. Patience leaned forward to peer out the window. A squawk of glee escaped her when she spied her great-niece strolling through the bare gardens. Patience sat back, a smug smile lighting her face. The meddlesome chit would pay dearly for her accusations.
The carriage slowly worked its way out of traffic and stopped alongside the park. Patience folded her hands in her lap and glanced up to be sure the trapdoor was now closed. She then cocked her head at the expression on her husband’s face. “Are you scared, Cyrus?”
Cyrus’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he shook his head no. “It’s not that. We just need to consider those men with her. Should we try to run Hannah over, they’re bound to recognize our carriage.”
Patience stared. The man was pathetic. She huffed out her breath, closed her eyes, and pinched the bridge of her nose with her gloved index finger and thumb. Opening her eyes again, she exhibited the quality of her name by patiently explaining, “Cyrus, Cyrus, Cyrus. We won’t run over her. We will hire some ruffian to do it for us and tell him that if Hannah’s guards interfere, they’re to die right along with her.”
“They are? What about our man?”
“Jones?” Patience waved her hand in dismissal. “He’ll have a care for his own skin. But if he’s so unfortunate as to be in the way? Well, it would be just as well if he did meet his end with Hannah. Prices himself and his information very highly, he does.”
She picked at a loose thread on her sleeve. “If that damned Olivia weren’t relaying false information to us, we’d have no need of Jones’s services. But, oh-ho, that one—she’ll pay dearly for her betrayal.” Patience then dug through her handbag, coming up with three coins. “Here. This ought to be enough. These low-class beggars hold life cheaply enough.”
Cyrus took the coins, greedily pocketing them. His face eager now, he whispered, “Let’s have Hankins hire someone. That way no one can point a finger at us. He’s the one I had tamper with Hamilton’s carriage the day of their accident. If he’d do that for us, he’ll do this, too.”
Patience gave her husband a look that bordered on motherly pride. “Cyrus Wilton-Humes, just when I think you’re a hopeless idiot, you come up with something brilliant.” Then she put her finger to her chin in a thoughtful attitude. “Of course, we’ll have to rid ourselves of Hankins afterward. The man knows far too much.”
“Rid ourselves of Hankins? We can’t do that, my dear.”
Patience’s beaky face hardened. She sighed out her irritation. “What now? An attack of morals, my husband?”
“Not at all, my wife. If we do away with Hankins, then we’d have to hire a new driver. Hankins may know too much, but he does keep his mouth shut. A new man might not.”
Patience raised an eyebrow in admiration of Cyrus’s devious intuition. “Sometimes you surprise me, Cyrus.”
He met her look for look. “Yes. Don’t I?” With that, he reached up and tapped again on the trapdoor. When it opened and Hankins’s pocked and pointed face appeared in the small opening, Cyrus held the three coins up to him. “Hankins, I want you to take this money and pay some ruffian…”
* * *
Ensconced in Isabel’s ancient carriage, Slade cursed. No one escaped his tirade. Not the slow-moving traffic around Public Garden for boxing him in. Not Isabel and her entire staff of ancient domestics for their reproachful looks. Not Esmerelda for chewing up his boot—and his glove. Not Dudley for being respectable. Not Hannah for being … Hannah. And most of all, not himself for being on his way to his … her brownstone.
Now, what was it he’d come up with? Oh, yes, important papers. Damned important business papers. Locked in the desk. Well, it was enough to get him in the door. He looked out the carriage window at the smiling, strolling citizens and hordes of laughing children, imagining he could see his destination. He’d get there quicker by walking. He could cut across the pathways in a direct line, instead of being subjected to all this roundabout.
Walk. Yes. He reached up and tapped on the trapdoor. A moment later it opened and in peered Sedgewick, Isabel’s balding, nodding, decrepit driver, pressed into service what with Rigby trailing Olivia. “Yes, Mr. Garrett?”
“Pull over, Sedgewick. I’m going to walk.”
“Walk, sir?”
“Yes. One foot in front of the other. After you let me off, continue on to my … um, Mrs. Garrett’s brownstone and wait for me there.”
“Yes, sir.” The trapdoor closed and the carriage moved painfully, slowly over to the curb nearest the green expanse of the lawns.
The second Sedgewick reined the bays to a stop, and being too impatient to wait for the old man to take ten minutes dismounting the driver’s box and another ten minutes to shuffle around to the side to fumble with the latch, Slade opened the door himself and neatly hopped out.
He tapped on the carriage to get the stiffly rising old man’s attention. “No need, Sedgewick. Stay where you are. No, over here, old boy. Yes. I know I’m already out. Go on, then. Have a cup of tea with Hammonds. And while you’re at it, ask him why he talks to my ancestor’s portrait instead of me, will you?”
The doddering little man nodded. Or maybe that was just his normal tremor. At any rate, he agreed. “Yes, sir.” And took his seat again, handled the reins, and jiggled them over the well-behaved horses’ backs.
His heart in his throat, Slade watched the carriage pull into the traffic. Good thing there were drivers more alert than Sedgewick who could rein and draw aside at the man’s incautious, unyielding maneuvers as he … merged with the flow. Wincing in relief that there was no accident, Slade turned and set off, with a jaunty, long-legged stride, down the tree-lined, shrubbery-edged pathway.
Tipping his hat to the giggling, simpering ladies he passed, stopping for or dodging around playful children, and nodding his greeting to the men he knew, Slade suddenly wondered why he didn’t walk more. The air was briskly cool and smelled of coming cold, but the wind was mercifully light. The sun’s warmth felt good on his face. The exercise was invigorating. His fellow Bostonians were in good cheer. And Hannah was alone and coming toward him.
Slade stopped cold, his smile of well-being fading into a grim line. Hannah was alone and coming toward him? What the devil! Bolting off to one side of the crowded pathway, he put his hands to his waist. No, she wasn’t just coming toward him. She was ambling along, not a care in the world, smiling as she watched a group of toddlers being tended by their nurses. She hadn’t seen him yet. But in a few more steps she’d hear his heart pounding for her.
Jerking at that thought, Slade cut his gaze to points all around her slender, cloaked self. And relaxed. Temple, Hardy, and Cates were no more than ten steps from her, but may as well have been a continent away for all the apparent attention they paid her. Jones probably still lounged somewhere close to the brownstone to keep an eye out for skulkers. Slade smiled at his men’s well-paid devotion and then frowned, telling himself his dour expression was for Hannah’s selfish endangerment of her guards. No doubt she’d poked that lip out—and her gun, to get her way. Otherwise, these men knew better and had other orders.
Well, he’d take Miss to task right now over that very point. Because here she came. Excited by this legitimate reason to confront her, he also decided to teach her a lesson. So, staying to the side of the path, he caught his men’s alert gazes. A nod from him toward the unsuspecting Hannah was sufficient.
Anticipating her surprised response when he reached out to grab her, a rare stomach-rippling giddiness seized Slade. When he realized he was grinning like a jackass and his pulse was wildly erratic, the closer she came, he insisted to himself that his symptoms had to do with the impending upbraiding he was going to give his errant wife.
Slade stepped onto the pathway and grabbed Hannah’s arm. He yanked his wide-eyed, gasping wife around and pulled her into a leafy bower just off the walkway. Immediately, the three guards formed a loose, lounging semicircle in front of their boss and his lady, forestalling the notice of even the closest passerby to the woman-napping that had just occurred.
“Slade Franklin Garrett,” the boss’s lady cussed through gritted teeth, smacking him soundly on his arm with her fisted hand. “You scared me out of ten years’ growth. What are you doing lurking about in the bushes?”
Every fiber of his being screamed at him to cover her in kisses, to never, ever again let her sweet little body get more than a foot from him. However, he remained aloof and dignified. Except for the belligerent set to his frowning mouth. “I don’t lurk, madam.”
Hannah wrenched her arm free of his grasp and set about straightening her cloak and hood. “Call it what you want—you were lurking. What’re you doing here?”
“That is my question to you. What are you doing here—outside, in a public park, leaving yourself open to intrigue?”
Watching her pucker up her winsome face into a petulant frown, Slade called himself a besotted fool. He locked his knees before he could slip to a kneel, wrap his arms around her waist, and beg her forgiveness. In broad daylight, in Public Garden.
“What am I doing out here?” Jerking her thumb back over her shoulder, indicating the three men behind her, she sassed, “I’m airing out the Yankees.”
“The—? You’re what?” Slade bit the inside of his cheek until his eyes watered. Under no circumstances would he laugh at her antics.
“Walking the dogs. The boys were getting quarrelsome inside. Rex snatched King’s toy, and the fight was on. Then that stinker Prince, the biggest one, piddled on the carpet.” She sighed a long-suffering sound. “It was this or take the newspaper to ’em.”
Slade raised his eyebrows at her words and then his gaze to the three silent, competent, seasoned men behind her. And broke his own vow. He burst out laughing. Just threw his head back, hands to his waist, and howled out his high emotion. God, how he loved this woman.
That unguarded revelation broke Slade’s hilarity off in mid-guffaw. He jerked upright, quickly sobering. He sought Hannah’s face, saw her sun-sparkled blue-green eyes and lopsided grin. And knew it was true. God, how he loved this woman. And he just didn’t have the heart to be grim and forbidding with her right this moment.
So, he shook his head and wiped at his eyes, seeing now the curious, bemused stares of passing Bostonians. As well as the over-the-shoulder, concerned looks cast his way from Rex, King, and—no. Temple, Cates, and Hardy. Another rumbling jolt of laughter shook Slade. Would he ever be able to look at these men again without laughing?
He lowered his gaze to a very smug Hannah. Shaking his head at this irreverent, curly-haired, gun-toting wife of his, he wondered how he’d survived the last five days without her. And admitted that he hadn’t—he’d simply existed. And in such a bearish mood that he was no longer welcome at Woodbridge Pond. Well, no more would he be without her.
Taking her arm, he turned her and set them back on the path, striding briskly along and feigning unconcern for her squawks of protest and her hurrying feet. He didn’t have to look to know that her trio of guards were on their heels.
“What are you doing?”
He spared a glance down at his wife. “I’m taking you home.”
“To Woodbridge Pond?”
“No.” His heart flip-flopped at the hopeful note in her voice. “Back to your brownstone, madam.”
“Oh.” She sniffed, turned petulant. “I don’t want to go. I like it out here.”
“You’re sounding very childish, my sweet.”
“I’m not your sweet.”
Slade glanced down at her, at her poked-out bottom lip. His own lips twitched in amusement. “Yes you are.”
“Like hell I am.”
Slade stopped so suddenly, the three guards were forced to keep on walking past them a pace or two before they could adjust. Slade narrowed his eyes at Hannah’s mutinous expression. “I’ll thank you not to hurl obscenities in public.”
Oh, no. He knew he was done for before she ever opened her mouth. Why hadn’t he listened to Isabel years ago and married some well-behaved, timid little Brahmin girl? No, he had to join his life with the most belligerent, outspoken, independent Westerner this side of the Mississippi.
Whose leering grin right now belonged on the face of one of Satan’s minions. “Take your hand off me, Garrett. Or I’ll change the weather with my language. And you know I can do it.”
Thus dared, Slade gripped her other arm and turned her to face him. He then pointedly looked around him, enjoining her to do the same, forcing her to realize her stranger-crowded surroundings. Then he leaned over her, almost touching the tip of her nose with the tip of his. “Go ahead. I dare you.”
Her blue-green eyes blinked. And crossed. He was too close, he knew, for her to properly focus, much less to drag in the air she’d need to bellow. Nevertheless, she surprised him by opening her mouth and flaring her nostrils, all preparatory to an outburst. Jumping into the breach, Slade promised, “If you do, I’ll kiss you so soundly that you’ll faint right here.”
She stiffened, closing her mouth and whuffing her air out her nose.
Slade straightened up and let go of her. “That’s more like it.”
“Go to hell, Slade Garrett.”
He smiled his triumph. She’d no more than whispered it. “Want me to save you a brimstone? I have a feeling I’ll see you there, hellcat.”
In less than a moment’s time, Hannah’s expression crumpled. She stared silently up at him with those big, beautiful eyes of hers as fat tears began to stream down her cheeks. People passing by looked their way and stopped, murmured, and commented to companions about this silently crying woman—in public. Desperately, Slade sought out his men’s eyes. They backed off immediately. Intrigue and death were one thing. A woman’s tears were another.
A sneaking suspicion assailed Slade. Was she really crying? His face contorting to one of cautious doubt, he leaned down just enough to be at her eye level. Her face was red. Her nose was running. Her shoulders heaved with her effort. She was really crying. Aware of the gathering crowd and their murmurs asking what was wrong, Slade thought it best if he hurried her away. Turning to the people massed around them, he smiled and assured, “Nothing’s wrong. She’s a new bride. Nerves, you know.”
With sympathetic understanding, the people smiled and nudged each other, patted at the shoulder of a wife, turned to pass the word through the crowd. Relieved, Slade put his arm around Hannah’s shoulder.
She elbowed him in the gut, doubling him over. Then, edging her way through the gasping crowd, she took off in a run down the pathway. All talking at once, the highly entertained crowd, which had parted for Hannah, now closed in gaping curiosity around Slade. And Hannah’s guards.
The three Yankees shouldered their way to Slade, who was just then trying to twist his way to an erect posture. Blinking, gasping, he pointed after his wife. “Hannah. Go … after Hannah.”
Like three hunting dogs catching the scent, the men jerked their heads in her direction. And melted back through the crowd. Some kindly person in the gathering took Slade by the arm, holding him up. Slade managed to nod thankfully at his Good Samaritan, a nattily dressed older man with graying mutton-chop whiskers and a stout woman on his right.
“That’s quite a right hook your bride’s nerves have there, son.”
Able to breathe and talk at the same time now, Slade nodded. “You ought to see her nerves with a Smith and Wesson in her hand.”
Amid much male laughter and female tsk-tsking, Slade elbowed his way free and took off, in a sideways, lurching gait. He found running easier if he pressed a hand against his contracted stomach muscles. Sighting on the damned Yankees, as Hannah called them, since she was too far ahead for him to see her, Slade limped along. No one challenged him for space on the path, having been cleared to the side by the spectacle of the four running figures who’d preceded him.
Rounding a curve, closer now to the street that edged the park, Slade caught sight of Hannah’s billowing cloak. Her hood hung down her back. What in the hell had he said to make her cry? Cursing, he knew that in only a moment, she’d be across the street and in the house. His entire fortune said she’d lock it against him. Slade decided he couldn’t let that happen.
His stitch gone, he straightened up, smoothing out his pace and picking up his speed. In the next moment, he saw her run through the opening in the wrought-iron fence that marked the park’s boundaries. Right there, she jerked up short, whipping around as if someone had grabbed her cloak. Slade’s heart skipped a beat. Then he saw her desperately tugging on her heavy garment. A grin spread over his lips. A spike on the fence held her firmly in place.
She’d better hope she got free before he got there, because if he had any strength left, he was going to turn her over his knee. Nearing her now, able to see her contorted, reddened face, and feeling Fate was holding her for him, Slade slowed down. He caught sight of the three winded Yankees doing the same thing.
Damned woman could run like a greyhound. Slade no more than thought it before his ears were assaulted by a clanging, clattering commotion out in the street. Looking to his left, he jerked to a stop, breathing hard, hands to his waist.
“Hallo! Beware! Runaway team! Runaway team! Save yourselves!” A whip lashed. Screams rent the air. Jangling livery mingled with the guttural snorting and stamping gallop of horses out of control. A huge, weathered-wood carryall careened crazily back and forth in the street. And the driver looked straight at Hannah as he whipped his animals into a frenzy.
For Slade, time slowed to a molasses trickle. He means to kill Hannah. Slade turned his head to her, saw her look directly into his eyes, open her mouth to a surprised O, and then give a fierce tug on her captured cloak. Slade put his hand out, began running, his heart and blood pounding out of proportion with his efforts, and cried, “Hannah, get back. Hannah!”
Hannah’s cloak came free. Her momentum staggered her back into the street, her arms flailing, her eyes wide. Slade thought he heard her cry out his name. One of her damned Yankees made a plunging leap for her. And they both disappeared under the wheels of the wagon. Sickening thumps and screams split the air. Gasps and groans went up from the crowd. Some froze. Some covered their faces with their hands. Still others stood transfixed, jaws slackened, as the team hurtled down the street and around a bend.
“Hannah!” Slade screamed from the bottom of his heart. And all went black.