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This was where he had met Mariah, when she had been chased by those rogues weeks earlier. |
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The rogues were dead now, but not before they'd hurt her. |
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He'd hurt her, too, though not physically. |
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Carrying his rifle and as many supplies as he could, he dragged himself through the woods toward the compound and his inn. It was late afternoon, and a muggy heat hung in the air, even in the shade of the tall oak and hickory trees. A hanging grape vine touched the top of his head, brushing hair into his eyes, and, with his hands full, he tossed his head impatiently to tame the errant lock. |
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He reached the clearing. Before him was the tall palisade wall, with its pointed logs appearing, he hoped, formidable to raiders. |
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He wondered idly how Mariah's friends, the settlers, were faring in their new homes. Perhaps he would see them someday. Trade, with that Francis Kerr, fond recollections of Mariah. |
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At the gate, he called out, "René!" Putting down the goods in his arms, he swung a metal cylinder that hung on a rope and beat out a tattoo against the gate that they had arranged to show who stood outside. Guests would not know the signal, but they would understand to rap with the metal bar until they got a response. |
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Now, though, nothing happened for long minutes, and he tried again. |
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"Thorn!" came the call of a familiar male voice from inside. "Is it you?" |
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"Of course, René. Were you expecting someone else?" |
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"We always expect guests at the finest inn in west Pennsylvania." The gate swung open, and there was his squat friend, beaming a huge smile that faded as soon as he saw Thorn's face. "Mon ami, you look terrible. Come, and we will fix you." |
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We. He used the word continuously, and Thorn guessed why. |
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His supposition was confirmed when Holly skipped out of the kitchen door toward them, wearing a blue dress that Mariah and she had sewn from the material bought weeks ago |
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