Chapter 73
The path climbed steeply away from the river, switching back through dense forest. Charlotte kept the mare at a walk, her lungs burning behind the mask, while Mason’s gelding followed with the dog.
Behind them, the river faded to a memory carried on the breeze.
Morning light came through the canopy in pieces, dappling the trail in amber and shadow.
Mason rode in silence, rigid on the gelding’s back, his hands gripping the saddle horn.
The washout appeared without warning. One moment, the path was intact beneath the mare’s hooves, and the next, it dropped into a ravine where soil, roots, and trail had given way to water and gravity.
Charlotte halted the mare so abruptly that the animal threw its head up.
Mason’s gelding stopped beside her, and the dog froze at the edge of the gap.
The trail ended at a jagged edge. Beyond it, the ravine dropped too steeply for the horses, its sides raw with exposed roots and damp soil.
At the bottom, a stream cut through the debris.
The trail resumed on the far side, twenty yards away across a gap horses couldn’t jump and humans couldn’t cross without climbing down and back up. Behind them, the other refugees arrived. The family with three children appeared first and stopped in silence at the gap.
“The trail’s gone,” the father said.
Charlotte dismounted. Her legs protested, and her cough took her before she reached the edge. When it passed, the world tilted briefly before settling.
“We need to go down,” she said. “Cross the bottom, then climb the other side. The horses can make it if we’re careful about the footing.”
The father looked at the ravine, then at his children, and finally at Charlotte, with an expression that held more skepticism than hope. “The sides won’t hold,” he said.
“They’ll hold if we go one at a time and stay to the right where the roots are thickest.”
Charlotte had no idea if that was true. She was reading the terrain the way she had once read neighborhoods on her route, looking for the easiest path even when it was still difficult. She turned to the mare. The horse stood at the edge, ears forward, assessing the drop.
“Easy,” Charlotte said.
She took the reins and led the mare toward the right side of the gap, where a natural ramp of exposed roots and packed soil offered what passed for a descent route.
The mare went down with reluctance, testing each step before committing.
Twice she balked until Charlotte’s voice and hand on her neck persuaded her to keep moving.
Mason followed on the gelding. The boy didn’t speak, but Charlotte heard his breathing change behind the mask.
It was shorter and quicker, the particular rhythm of a child working very hard not to show fear.
The dog went ahead, picking its way down with nimble confidence.
They reached the bottom. The stream was shallow but fast over rounded stones, and the mare crossed with careful placement of each hoof.
Behind them, the refugees began their descent.
The father went first with the child on his shoulders, then the mother with the older children, then an elderly woman with a walking stick.
Charlotte led the mare toward the far side.
The climb was worse than the descent. The soil was loose and wet, and the roots that had looked solid from above proved uncertain under the horse’s weight.
The mare made it halfway up before her hind legs went out.
It happened without warning. One moment, the mare was climbing, and the next her hind legs slid sideways as the ground gave way.
She lurched toward the ravine, balanced for one terrible second on the edge of a fall that would have broken her legs.
Charlotte moved before she could think. She threw her weight against the mare’s shoulder, driving her toward thicker roots.
“I’ve got you. I’ve got you. Move.”
The mare found footing. One hind hoof caught a root, then the other, and she pushed forward.
They reached the top. Charlotte stood with her hands on the mare’s neck and her breath coming in ragged pulls.
Behind her, Mason’s gelding made the climb without incident, the boy rigid on its back.
The refugees followed in a staggered formation.
The father reached the top with the child still on his shoulders, then the mother with the older children, and finally, the elderly woman, with a careful economy of movement.
The dog emerged from the ravine and shook itself.
They had lost three hours. The sun had climbed past midday.
Charlotte remounted with openly shaking hands and didn’t try to hide it.
She turned the mare toward the trail ahead, where it continued through oak and maple toward whatever waited beyond the trees.
That was when she saw a figure standing among the trees thirty yards ahead.
He wasn’t moving or approaching, simply standing.
Charlotte reined the mare to a stop. The figure raised a hand.
The stranger gently lowered his hand and stepped out from the shadows of the trees.
He wore a backpack snug against his back, and in his grip was a walking stick crafted from sturdy hardwood.
His face bore the marks of a life well-lived, each line telling a story of experiences that went beyond the passing years.
Charlotte instinctively kept her hand near her pistol, a mix of caution and concern washing over her.