Patricia Rice by Wayward Angel

could bleed to death. Frantic with terror, she didn't want to leave him. She didn't want to do this alone. She couldn't let Pace die.
    But because he'd told her to save the child, Dora covered the girl under the seat blanket on the floor and backed the horse and cart onto the road again. She spread her heavy wool skirt and petticoat wide to hide the lump in the blanket, keeping her feet off the child beneath them. And she switched the horse to a fast trot.
    She bit her lip and shut off her thoughts as she drove the horse. Or she shut off her thoughts about such things as the gunshot in Pace's ribs and the baying hounds and things beyond her control. Instead she focused on the best road to the river, whether or not anyone would be in the cabin on a cold night like this, if she could find any turpentine balls or if she should stop to make one. And then her mind would slip into the rut of wondering if she should go back to look for Pace.
    Why had God seen fit to dump this responsibility on her frail shoulders? Surely He knew she wasn't fit. She didn't know what was right. Her experience had taught her that no matter what she did, it came out wrong. They would capture the child. Pace would die. She would end up in jail. Surely there must be someone else more fitting for this task. But Papa John had died and gone to heaven and there was only her.
    Resigned, Dora heard the horses pounding up the road behind her. She had known she couldn't escape them. Only one route led to the river from here. They would discover her sooner or later. She might be invisible most of the time, but the cart wasn't. And then they would have to notice her. No one else would roam these roads at this hour.
    The horses reared and twisted as their riders brought them to a reckless halt, surrounding the cart. Dora looked up and scanned the bearded faces of the men, looking for some sign of someone she could trust. Charlie and Joe and the others weren't with them, but that didn't surprise her. They had found more lucrative mischief than chasing runaways these last years. Several of the men were strangers to her. They were probably bounty hunters. She doubted that the child beneath her feet came from around here. Pace had smuggled her from somewhere deeper in the state. These men were on the child's trail.
    She said nothing. She only looked at them with curiosity from beneath her wide bonnet brim. She thought she recognized Billy John's younger brother, and one of the Howards with the hounds. The bounty hunters had found some locals to guide them.
    One of the men leaped into the narrow back of the cart. Too small to carry more than a sack of feed, the cart was obviously empty. Dora didn't have to pretend alarm as she glanced over her shoulder at him, then back to the large men preventing her from driving on.
    "What are you doing out here at this hour, ma'am?" one of the younger men asked.
    She glanced at the black bag on the seat beside her. "There was a birthing this night. Might I ask what thou lookest for? I have no money."
    Howard came forward and gave her a cursory glance. "We're looking for a nigger gal. Where're you hiding her?"
    "If I were to hide her, I would not tell where," Dora answered calmly. "But as thou must see, I have nothing to hide. If thou wouldst tell me from which direction she comes, I would happily look for her, but I would not promise to give her over to thee. She must be cold and frightened by now."
    Howard scowled and jerked his horse back so he could keep an eye on his dogs. "The hounds don't smell her. We lost her trail back at the Butlers'. Let's get back there."
    "What about this Quaker? You know damned well she has something to do with it or she wouldn't be out here on this road," one of the strangers shouted.
    "She helped deliver my little sister last winter," the younger man answered. "She takes care of crazy old lady Nicholls. She wouldn't say boo to a fly. We've just taken the wrong road. Maybe they're not aiming for the