Chapter Twenty-Eight

“This must be it,” Sheridan announced.

“Be what?”

“The Indian trail that’ll take us north.”

I peered ahead. There did seem to be a path of some sort on the far bank. The trees were spaced a bit farther apart and the ground was firm, without too many rocks or saplings.

“Must have travelled faster than I figured,” he said. “I didn’t expect to come across this trail until tomorrow.”

Oh dear. He really had no idea of where we were. No doubt any track in the wilderness would serve as a sign to Paul Sheridan that he was following the route for which he searched.

“Only another couple of hours,” he said. “Then we’ll make camp for the night.” The horse and I groaned in unison.

“My feet,” I said, “are not going to take me much further.” I had pulled off my shoe and sock to examine my left foot. It was not in good shape. I held it up as evidence, waving a tiny bug away.

“You’ll be fine,” he said. “The going’s much easier from now on.”

I doubted that very much.

I pulled my shoe back on and took off my hat and made an attempt to refasten my hair. At first glance, my wedding hat appeared to be ridiculously impractical, but it was proving to be a god-send. It kept the sun off my head, and I’d bent the black ostrich feather down to sweep across my face and brush the insects away. I’d ripped out the stitches holding the veil up and wrapped it around my neck for protection. Thank heavens this dress did not have a plunging décolletage.

Paul Sheridan’s face and neck, I was pleased to see, were dotted with lumpy red bites.

“Fill up these water bottles, will you, Fiona.” He scratched at the back of his hand. “Might be a while before we come to another river.”

I looked again at the small track leading into the bush. Sheridan was making some adjustments to the horse’s packs. I yanked the clump of grapes off my hat and dropped them into the mud.