sat up, resting his elbows on his knees. A fire blazed in his chest. Sarah. Their baby she carried. The flame that took them burned in him still. Three years without them—where would he be now without Miss Rose’s prayer and love and support?
“I still miss them. I know they rest with You, Lord. It makes it easier, but I still ache that they’re gone. Help me, Lord.”
He stood and brushed himself off, clearing his dry throat. “All these things I lay before You, in the name of Your Son, Jesus Christ. Amen.”
He nickered to his horse, who trotted over and nuzzled his shoulder. “C’mon, Malachi. Let’s get back. You can listen to my sermon before I turn in.”
He’d always been a fair tracker, but when the Lord had called him to preach, he was sure he’d misread the signs. His palms still sweat when he stood before his congregation. Sarah had always listened to the sermon twice—once the evening before so he could practice and again during Sunday service. Her soft laugh would echo through the tiny home he’d been able to provide, and she’d run her fingers through his hair. He could still feel her wide, moist lips on his cheek.
“Preach it with the fire God’s given you for His Word, for others, and you’ll be fine,” she’d say.
Now he had Malachi. Captive audience, little response. He mounted up and spurred the horse to a trot farther along the stream before heading home. It was too nice a night to head back early.
A cry broke through the night. He grabbed the Spencer gun holstered behind his saddle. He hadn’t heard any talk of bobcats in the area, but it sure sounded like a woman’s scream coming from the stand of trees ahead. He edged Malachi closer, picking his way into the darker night of the woods. What would a woman be doing out at this time of night?
He slid from the saddle and readied the gun in case he’d guessed wrong. A whinny sounded to his right as he drew closer, and it didn’t take the brightness of the moon to find the broad, crooked path of broken twigs. Zane followed.
The thrashing horse caught his attention. The mare’s eyes rolled back to white in panic as she neighed and struggled to get up from her side. He ground-tied his own mount, then moved toward the frightened animal.
“Easy, easy there, girl.” He slid the halter off, stroking her wide brown head. The horse seemed to quiet, kicking only occasionally with her hind hooves.
He patted the heaving side, continuing to comfort the horse in low tones as he slid his other hand along her right foreleg. He grimaced when the bone shifted beneath his touch. Busted.
A soft moan drew his attention to the still, small form lying nearby. Peering through the dimness, he found a floppy brimmed hat lying against a tree trunk. The same one he’d seen on the woman Abby had introduced earlier. Journey? What was she doing all the way out here?
If not for the unnatural angle of her left leg, Zane could’ve believed she’d fallen asleep. She lay on her side, head cradled on her outstretched arm. A few loosened curls draped over her shoulder. He dropped down beside her and eased her over to her back. A bruise formed near her temple, stark against her pale skin. She moaned again and he leaned back on his haunches, pulling her tattered skirt down from where it bunched at her knees.
“Journey? Miss Smith?” He tapped her cheek. “Journey, wake up.”
She tossed her head once to either side as if to refuse him. “Don’t touch me. I—I mean it.” Her voice slurred.
“Journey? Ma’am, it’s me, Zane—Reverend Thompson.” Her eyes fluttered. “That’s it. Come on now.”
He watched her eyes slit open, and she struggled to sit up. He saw her grind her teeth rather than cry out at the pain the movement had to have caused her leg.
“Gypsy?”
He guessed she meant the horse by the way she searched about with her deep brown eyes. She blinked at him as if he’d just appeared. She moved to touch the lump on her head, but he pulled her icy fingers away and held them in his hand.
“Hold on, there.” Zane stayed her with a hand at her arm, not quite touching. “Let’s check you out, first. How many fingers am I holding up?”
Squinting, her head wobbled slightly. “Four. How’s my horse?”
“Three. And she’s not good,” Zane said. He slid down and picked up her left foot in both hands. “Neither are you. I need to check your leg.”
She didn’t protest, only turned her head and squinted in the direction of her whimpering horse. He slid the tattered fabric back to just past the smooth knee. Moving his hands along the leg, he felt the bone move beneath the stockings, much as the horse’s had. Fortunately for her, unlike with the horse, it wasn’t a fatal injury.
She shivered. Wind blew through the trees. “Journey? Are you with me? Your leg’s broken. We need to get you inside.”
“My horse…”
Her white skin glistened in the moonlight, like some ghostly beauty from an old story. Her head bobbed with no particular rhythm as she scanned the space around them.
Zane grabbed a blanket from her now-still horse. He balled it up and placed it under her head.
“Ma’am, my house isn’t far from here if we cut straight through the field. It seems best if I carry you there, then go for the doc in town.”
“I need my horse,” she said, as if that should be his only concern.
He moved his head, trying to keep himself in her field of vision. “We’ll get you inside, I’ll get the doc and then I’ll come back and take care of your horse. Ready?”
She stiffened as he moved to lift her. “I’ll ride Gypsy.” Her voice fairly shook.
He settled back on his heels and slid his hat off to scratch his head. The horse panted behind them, and he knew she hadn’t gotten a good look at the damage. But then, she didn’t seem to register her own damage.
She scrambled to her feet, slender arms swinging to gain balance. The instant she rested her weight on her broken leg, a low moan ripped through her throat. Zane saw her eyes flutter closed and caught her as she collapsed.
Her breath puffed warm on his neck. He knew he needed to get her indoors but set her back to pull a coil of rope from the horse’s halter. He patted the horse’s head and she quivered at his touch. “Hold on, gal.”
Journey moaned softly. He found a few branches nearby to splint her awkward leg before bending to lift her. “I hope you’re as light as you look, ma’am,” he said, peering through the pine boughs waving overhead to the starry sky above.
Malachi was a sturdy sort. Not fast, but steady. Zane was thankful now as he lifted Journey to the saddle. He held her head in one hand and pulled himself into the saddle with the other. Her teeth clenched as he reached for the bridle.
“I mean it, Hank. Don’t you touch me,” she said. He leaned forward, but her eyes never opened.
“Don’t worry, lady,” he said. He lifted soft curls of hair to check the cut on her head again. “You’ll feel a whole lot better, soon’s we get the doc to take a look at you. Giddap, Malachi.”
Journey listened, straining to catch the sounds of the room beyond the pounding in her head. Creaking boards told her she wasn’t alone.
She opened her eyes a slit, peering through her lashes. She could barely make out a window frame opposite where she lay. The glow at her right side could’ve been only a lamp, but the warmth made her think of a fireplace. How did she get here? And where was here? She couldn’t think with this stampede running through her head.
Gypsy. She remembered the horse stumbling, going down.
A shadow crossed over her. She sat up with a gasp as pain flashed hot like lightning down her leg.
“Take