The Soldier's Wife. Cheryl Reavis

ain’t,” Ike said. “I am. It’s loaded so don’t go throwing it around and shoot the horse or something. Now all we got to do is get you out of here.”

      Ike moved to the entranceway, alert and watchful as Jack led the horse forward.

      “Ike,” Jack said. “I...don’t know how to thank you. I can’t ever repay you—”

      “There ain’t but one way, Jack,” Ike said without looking at him. “Die in your own bed when you’re ninety—and don’t you ever come back here.”

      “Ike, if—”

      “Shh!” Ike said sharply. “Watchmen—I think it’s the same two.”

      The horse, alarmed by the sudden tension in both men, began to toss its head and shift about.

      “Easy,” Jack whispered, hanging on to the bridle. “Whoa! Easy!”

      “Out the candle. I’m going to draw them away,” Ike said, slipping outside before Jack could stop him. Incredibly, as his footsteps faded into the darkness, Ike began to sing, a rousing song about a little chicken that wouldn’t lay an egg, the one he used to sing on the march to make the Orphans’ Guild perk up and laugh.

      “O, I had a little chicky and he wouldn’t lay an egg...”

      Jack waited, listening hard, but the storm was nearly overhead and the walls too thick for him to hear whatever it was Ike had heard. All he could do was stay put and try to keep the horse from bolting. His hands were beginning to shake, but he didn’t let go of the bridle. He leaned his head close to the animal’s nose and breathed evenly, quietly, until he could loosen his grip. Then he reached into his pocket and gave it a piece of the peppermint candy.

      “All right,” he said to the horse after what seemed a long time. “In for a penny, in for whatever’s in that leather pouch.”

      He moved to the doorway and stood for a moment, then led the horse outside. It was still raining, but the worst of the storm had passed. He couldn’t see or hear any activity in the cemetery.

      He made sure his haversack was secure, then he mounted the horse and let it find its own way among the tombstones until he reached the road leading out of town. He knew better than to take it. He cut through more back lots and alleyways instead, hoping the watchmen would be more interested in staying dry than in obeying Farrell Vance. Eventually he found a part of the town he could still recognize even in a downpour. He cut across a field, careful to stay between the rows of corn and not leave an irate farmer in his wake. Heading into the mountains was a better plan than Father Bartholomew had realized. Jack had impulsively told Elrissa that he was heading out West, and it seemed likely that she would have told her husband.

      In a very short time and through any number of plowed and planted fields, Jack had ridden beyond the Lexington town limits, but he stayed off the main road until he was certain he was beyond any watchmen assigned to monitor the comings and goings of nighttime travelers. It was still raining, and he stopped for a moment and listened to get his bearings. Then he crossed into yet another field and ultimately came out onto the road again. He headed for London, and he didn’t look back.