"I don't believe you, Buck! They met the Pimpernel and you just walked away from them?"
The young man's incredulous voice cut through the chilly morning air, mingled with the sounds of brushes smoothly moving across horsehair and the rustling of leather tack. The stables of the Wilmington mansion were deserted at this early hour save for two figures, their forms moving about in the dusty columns of early sunlight which slanted lazily through clouds of dust flecked with bits of hay. Buck was sitting on a wooden barrel, checking his bridle and casting amused glances at his frustrated young companion.
"We didn't just walk away, JD," Buck said in a tolerant tone. "We asked them a few questions, but there wasn't any point in pestering the fellows. They'd been through enough, I'd say."
"No point!" JD exclaimed, staring at the older man as he brushed the long, thick black hair out of his eyes, his boyish face relaying a look of shock. "Lord, Buck, I'd give my right arm to meet someone who's met the Pimpernel, and you run into two of them! It's not fair." His hazel eyes scowled as he continued brushing the dark horse in front of him.
"I know, JD," Buck said lightly as he peered at the bridle, looking for worn marks, "but if this situation in France goes on much longer, you won't be able to turn around without tripping over someone rescued by the Pimpernel. It's not something you'd want to have happen to you, you know."
JD considered this. "I know, but..." His voice became more excited as he worked the brush. "But I've never heard of anybody like the Pimpernel. God, Buck, could you just imagine it, going around France right under the eyes of the French, rescuing people from the mouth of the guillotine? Facing danger at every step, never sure what's around the next corner..." He laughed, shaking his head. "That sure sounds more exciting than grooming horses all day!"
"And dangerous, too, don't forget, son," Buck reminded him, standing up and striding over to hang the bridle up alongside the rest of his tack. "Someday that man and his League just might not run fast enough, you know."
JD gave his friend a look of dubious amusement. "Oh, they'll never catch the Scarlet Pimpernel," he admonished Buck with a grin as he finished the grooming. "I heard he outrode a whole squad of soldiers, all while carrying three prisoners with him on his horse!"
Buck chuckled. "I'd call the horse a hero for that," he said, looking over a nearby saddle. "You should read things other than those lies the Gazette prints out. They're just trying to sell papers by making up stories about the Pimpernel."
"They ain't lies," JD said in a challenging tone as he checked the horse's shoes.
Buck sighed and scowled in JD's direction. "Not lies, son. You'd better watch that new slang if you want to improve things for yourself. And, yes, they are lies, no man could do all that stuff they say he does. You'd think the French prisons were empty, with all the people they say he's carried off."
JD gave his friend a goading smile. "You're just mad because the girls won't talk about anyone else," he said as he mopped his brow on the sleeve of his simple, somewhat dusty work shirt.
"I am not mad," Buck protested, hefting the saddle and frowning at the younger man. "A man...just can't compete with all those wild stories, that's all."
"Mmm-hmm," the stableboy replied knowingly as he stood up and wiped his hands on his plain dark breeches. "I wish I knew who the Pimpernel was. I wonder if he'd let me join his League."
"A youngster like you?" Buck carefully settled the saddle on the horse's back. "I don't know, JD."
"Well, why not?" JD inquired, brushing his thick black hair out of his eyes as he went over to the tool bench and began picking through it. The clopping of the heels of his worn black boots resounded throughout the wooden stable. "You already taught me French, and I can swordfight rings around just about anybody." He looked up and gazed out over the yard of the estate, seeing past the green-gold trees and landscaped lawn. "And what I wouldn't give to see France. Mama always wanted me to travel."
Buck's expression softened as he saw JD drop his eyes. He finished cinching his saddle, then walked over to the young man, who had grown suddenly quiet.
"JD, I know you still miss your mother and want to do things that would make her proud," he said in a soft voice. "I miss mine, too. But I don't think running into a nest full of Frenchmen who're looking to chop your head off is what she had in mind."
"But I'd be doing something about it, Buck!" JD insisted, lifting his eyes to give the older man a determined stare. "What's happening over there is wrong."
"Sure it's wrong, but so's getting yourself killed," Buck shot back in a louder voice. "Now I promised your mother I'd look after you, didn't I? You know I couldn't let you walk right into that hell. I've been there, JD, and trust me, it's not a place for a holiday. Chris, Vin and I barely got out of there with our lives."
"But you did get out, right?" JD said brightly, pointing at him with the hoof pick he'd pulled from the tools. "So it's not impossible."
Buck sighed. "JD-"
"Buck!"
It was another voice, older and male, calling from the house nearby.
Buck sighed again, irritation clouding his eyes. "Yes, George?" he yelled, none too pleasantly.
"Father wants to know if his horse is ready yet!" George's voice shouted back.
"He'll be right there!" Buck replied, hurrying over to the tack as he dropped his voice. "Take my advice, JD, and don't waste any more time daydreamin' about going to France with the Pimpernel. I don't want to have to have another argument with Father over keeping you on here."
"Don't you worry about me, Buck," was JD's confident response as he picked an elaborate leather bridle off the wall. "After all you've done for me, I won't let you down. Maybe we could go to France together, wouldn't that be great?"
"BUCK!" George yelled again from the yard. "Father says hurry the hell up!"
Buck grunted and gave JD a chagrined look. "Don't tempt me, boy," he muttered, and hurried to finish readying his father's horse.
---------------------
The sparse forest lay quiet beneath the bright morning sunlight, its tranquility broken only by the gentle song of the distant river and the rustling of its wildlife moving through the leaf-strewn undergrowth. Overhead a small flock of ducks winged their way across the treetops, their wings flapping sharply against the chilly air.
Suddenly two loud noises rent the silence, the thunderlike reports of the hunter's rifle. One of the ducks faltered and plummeted to the ground, dead before it struck the earth.
The two hunters soon appeared from among the trees, one of them shaking his head with a smile as they approached the downed bird.
"That's why I hired you for my huntsman, Vin," the man said, his blonde hair ruffling in the soft breeze. "If I miss, I know you won't."
Vin grinned a little as he picked up the prey and swung the three dead birds he already carried off his shoulder to add it to the tally. "Keeps food on the table," he said modestly.
"It's done more than that," Chris replied grimly, looking off into the distance as a pensive look crossed his face.
Vin finished tying the duck in with the others and glanced up at Chris, concern in his blue eyes. "You all right?" he asked, still in a crouch.
His friend answered with an offhand nod. "Oh, fine, just...thinking. I suppose I'm ready for a rest." He sighed as he swung the heavy load of prey from his shoulder, setting it carefully down on the ground. "I was thinking about when you and Buck got me out of Paris. If it hadn't been for your skill, we'd all have been dead."
Vin nodded once with a slight, uncomfortable expression. "If I ever was thankful for being such a dead shot, it was that day," he confessed, putting the kill aside and sitting back in the grass. Chris sat down next to him, laying his rifle to one side.
"You weren't the only one," Chris assured him, allowing his gaze to wander over the vast fields and woods in front of them, brilliant in their autumn colors. "Though I am sorry you had to pay such a high price for your loyalty."
"What, that bounty on my head?" A small smile curled one end of Vin's mouth. "Damn, Chris. That's nothin' to me if it meant getting you out of there alive. Hell, I'd do it again."
"You would?" Chris posed the question casually as he sat back, palms flat against the cool grassy ground. "You'd go back into Paris?"
Vin's tan, handsome face became thoughtful as he sat up, his elbows resting on his knees, the hands dangling. "Chris," he finally said quietly, "you know I've been on my own most of my life. Made my livin' hunting, trapping, sailin' on ships for a time. I've seen a whole lot of the way people treat each other, and learned early on what I saw as right an' wrong. An' what's happenin' over there now isn't right, so I've got no fear about standin' against it."
Chris dropped his eyes to the ground, thinking, then looked away, a nod being his only response.
"Now, we've been through a lot together," Vin went on. "Owe each other our lives more times than I can count, anyway. If you were in danger again over there, or Buck, an' needed help-then hell, yes, I'd go back. Couldn't live with myself if I didn't."
Chris remained quiet for a moment, then looked over at Vin with a serious expression. "I never doubted you'd do it for me, or Buck," Chris admitted. "What if it was someone you didn't even know?"
Vin scowled, confused. "What d'you mean?"
The other man paused, then looked away once more. "Vin, what would you say if I told you I met the Scarlet Pimpernel last night?"
His friend let out a skeptical laugh. "I'd say you've been drinkin' too much ale at Nettie's," he replied.
Chris paused, then swung his head back to level a somber look at the huntsman.
Vin read the expression's meaning instantly, the amusement slipping from his face. "Damn," he breathed, "you're serious."
Chris reached into his pocket, pulled something out and handed it to Vin. "Found that under my door last night."
Vin stared at the small piece of parchment with the beautifully inked note and the small red flower.
"Shit," Vin breathed in awe, wide-eyed. After a few moments he looked up. "So, who is he?"
The other man smiled a bit and shook his head. "Sorry. I gave him my word not to reveal who he is. It's safer that way."
His companion accepted this with a comprehending nod. "You're right," he muttered. "He's got plenty of people lookin' for him who want him dead."
"Yes, he does," Chris said quietly, his gaze wandering over the gentle hills as he spoke. He took a deep breath and said, in an equally soft tone, "He asked me to join the League, Vin."
A startled expression swept over Vin's features. Then they settled into a slightly amused grin. "He must've heard how you handled yourself during that tavern brawl in Bolton," he said with a touch of pride.
Chris shrugged, smiling a little as well. "Maybe," he said, his voice still low and contemplative. He looked at his friend. "He needs help, Vin. Things over there aren't getting any better; they're sending hundreds to that damn guillotine every day. I was almost one of those people. I figure I've earned the right to try and stop those bastards."
"Nobody'd argue that," Vin said firmly, shaking his head. He paused, thought for a moment, then looked his friend in the eye. "But you know I'm not goin' to let you go over there alone."
Chris peered at the huntsman closely, a great sense of unease spreading over him. "Vin, if it's dangerous for me to go back over, it's doubly so for you. They've got a price on your head that most poor Frenchmen would do anything to get."
Vin shook his head firmly, one hand waving in the air as if to physically ward off any arguments. "I know that, and don't think I'm too happy at the thought. But hell, Chris, your fight is my fight. I think between the two of us, we can give 'em a brawl even the people in Bolton wouldn't believe."
Chris chuckled a little and after a pause extended his hand to Vin. "I think you're right," he said. "Thank you, Vin."
Vin shook his friend's hand. "Thank me after we've turned that damn guillotine to firewood," he muttered. "When do we leave?"
Chris sat up and rubbed his forehead. "I'm not sure yet. Probably at least not for-"
A distant shot split the air, followed by the unmistakable shout of human pain. Chris and Vin sat up, startled, and looked around as the noise rolled and echoed through the woods. Not far away, a surprised flock of birds fluttered out of the trees, swooping into the sky.
"What the hell-" Vin murmured, as he got quickly to his feet, his hands deftly collecting his discarded items as he peered off into the forest.
"Maybe a hunter's been hurt," Chris offered, gathering up his gun and catch. "Sounds like it was down near the river, we'd better go see what's happening."
Without another word, they swiftly trotted in the direction of the sound, Vin in the lead.
-----------------
They ran for five minutes, Chris following Vin as they moved along. The huntsman had the keenest eyes and ears of any man Chris had ever known, and he trusted him completely to discover the source of the disturbance. As he ran, Vin gripped his rifle, ready for any surprises.
At length they burst into a large clearing, in time to catch the rhythmic sound of several horses riding swiftly away. Vin ran forward fast enough to see four dark shapes disappearing into the woods.
"Damn," he muttered in frustration. A low nickering caught his attention. Whirling, he saw a beautiful chestnut-colored stallion tethered to a nearby tree stump, watching him with alert brown eyes.
"Vin!"
Vin turned to see Chris loping towards a still form lying in the middle of the clearing. Pursing his lips, he followed his friend, his gaze now locked on the supine figure. As he got closer he saw that it was a man, dressed in a fancy white shirt and striped yellow vest, light breeches, and knee-high black riding boots. On the ground nearby lay a crumpled, familiar, very fashionable green coat and a gold-topped walking stick.
"Hell!" Vin exclaimed as Chris reached the man and knelt down beside him. "Is that-Ezra Standish? From the tavern?"
Chris nodded as he bent over the form; there was blood seeping through the man's fine clothing from a shoulder wound. "Looks like our gaming friend here ran into a streak of bad luck," he said, as Ezra began to moan.
"Least he's still kickin'," Vin observed, looking around with concern. "Was it a robbery?"
Ezra moaned louder and struggled to sit up, one hand grasping his bleeding shoulder. As Chris helped him up, he glanced at something behind Ezra's head, reached back and picked it up, showing it to Vin. It was a spent long-muzzled pistol.
"Looks more like a duel," he explained, his voice dry.
Vin nodded and took the gun, not at all surprised.
Ezra gagged as he sat up, his face contorted with pain.
"Played one card game too many?" Chris inquired.
Ezra blinked, confused, and looked up at his two rescuers.
"Ah," he coughed. "From the tavern, correct?"
"I'm Chris Larabee, this is Vin Tanner," Chris explained. "We heard the shot, thought we'd better have a look. You come up against a sore loser or something?"
"Oh," Ezra looked uncomfortable and tried to sit up farther. "Just a, er, small matter of honor, related to the fact that my opponent does not possess any."
"Is that why they just rode off and left you?" Vin inquired, leaning over to study the gambler's wound.
"Precisely," was the gasped reply as Ezra bent his own eyes down as far as he could to see the injury for himself. "I believe the surgeon was convinced my wound was mortal, and the fewer people who knew about this, the better. I do not believe my welfare was their primary concern at the moment."
"Where's your second?" Chris asked. "Shouldn't he be looking after you?"
"Lord," Ezra muttered as he saw the blood seeping through his clothing. "My second? I believe that loathsome fellow rode off with my opponent, his second and the surgeon."
Vin made an unpleasant noise in his throat. "That's a pretty low thing for a friend to do, leaving you like this," he observed angrily.
"Friend?" Ezra emitted a gurgled laugh, shaking his head a bit. "I barely knew the man. And since he revealed himself to be such a rascal, I am rather glad our acquaintance was so short."
Vin's blue eyes widened a little, and he glanced over at Chris, confused. "I thought you usually got a close friend as your second for this sort of business," he said before dropping his gaze back to the wound. "Someone you trust."
Chris shrugged a little, and looked down at Ezra for an explanation.
Seeing his attention, the gambler shifted a little, his expression one of discomfort. Licking his lips, Ezra coughed and turned his eyes up to Vin. "Am I gravely injured?"
The huntsman was eyeing the bullet hole carefully. "I could try to get the ball out," Vin murmured, squinting. "It's not too deep."
Ezra stared at him. "Are you a physician?" he asked in thinly veiled disbelief.
Vin grinned a little and sat back. "You learn to be a lot of things if you live on your own long enough," he stated. He turned his eyes to Chris. "It'd be better if we could get him to a doctor, though. Don't want him to lose the arm."
"We could see if Dr. White is home. He's not too far from here," Chris mused as he looked down at Ezra. "Do you think you could stand a ride?"
Ezra appeared chagrined as he struggled to sit up under his own power. "I appreciate your concern, gentlemen," he said through clenched teeth as he finally managed to hoist himself upright, "but I believe I am able to locate medical care under my own power."
Chris and Vin exchanged glances. "I'm not so sure about that," Chris observed, reaching over and picking Ezra's coat up.
The gambler gasped, suddenly agitated. "Ah, you needn't trouble yourself about my attire, I am perfectly capable of retrieving it myself," he protested.
A puzzled frown crossed Chris's face as he looked down at the seemingly innocuous green coat; it was a beautiful garment, cut in the very latest style, but hardly something which would cause such anxiety. As he lifted it up to hand it to Ezra, he felt something small and stiff in the left sleeve, a flat object which should not have been there. He peered at Ezra, a knowing light in his eyes, before reaching into the cuff of the sleeve. After a moment of feeling around, he removed his hand; clutched in his fingers were two playing cards, the queen of hearts and the ace of spades.
"I think I can guess what the duel was about," Chris said dryly, bending a sharp gaze at Ezra.
The Southerner pursed his lips. "Sir, I object to your invasive handling of my clothing, as well as your heinous insinuation," he said as firmly as his wound would allow.
Chris smiled a little as he pulled three cards from the other sleeve, two knaves and a king. He turned them over, studying the backs, then looked expectantly at Ezra, waiting.
Vin let out a small whistle. "Do you have the whole bloody pack hidden in there?"
The wounded man licked his lips. "Ah, it's not what it looks like, I assure you..."
"That's good," Chris said, handing the cards to Vin for inspection. "They're marked, too."
"Hm," Vin grunted with interest as his keen blue eyes peered closely at the plain backs of the cards. After a moment he flipped them over, gazing at the faces. "Damn nice cards, though."
Ezra growled and awkwardly snatched the cards from Vin's hands. "Are you two men rescuing angels or demons sent to torment me?" he inquired angrily.
Vin smiled, amused.
"You can decide that after we've gotten you to the doctor," Chris replied, getting to his feet as Vin did the same. The two men took the gambler's elbows, preparing to help him rise. "Can you stand?"
Ezra quickly pocketed the cards and climbed to his feet, shrugging off the aid. "As I have informed you," he said, finally straightening after a few wobbly tries, "there is no need...for..."
His eyes immediately rolled up in his head and he pitched to the ground.
"Damn!" Vin gasped, jumping forward and grabbing Ezra in an awkward grip.
"Standish?" Chris grabbed Ezra's head, lifting his face into view. "He's unconscious."
Vin cursed again, looking out into the vast forest. They were a long way from the edge of the woods. "It's going to be a hard road to the doctor's, carrying him like this. He might bleed to death before we get there." He glanced over at the gambler's mount. "Think that horse'd let us ride him?"
As Chris pondered the question, a new sound came to his ears: the thudding sound of hoofbeats pounding through the trees towards them. Chris tensed; Vin quickly but gently lowered Ezra's sagging body to the ground and picked up his rifle just as his friend also retrieved his own weapon. The two men stood protectively in front of Ezra as the galloping neared. Had Ezra's dueling opponent come back to finish the job?
Chris was about to load his rifle when the rider suddenly burst into the clearing. Both men's eyes widened at the same time at the sight of the large horse and its equally impressive master; it was the tall, graying stranger from the tavern of the day before, who like Ezra had been rescued from the guillotine by the Scarlet Pimpernel.
Neither party spoke as the man rode up. Chris watched him carefully, unsure. While he wasn't certain if the man was mad, as the rumor went, he didn't appear completely ordinary either, with his rough, plain clothes, large hat, and strange beads hanging around his neck.
Finally the burly stranger reined in his huge mount to stand just next to the trio, looking down at Ezra's bloody, unmoving form.
"I do hope you two didn't do that," he said in a deep, warning voice.
Chris quickly shook his head as he lowered his weapon. "He got on the wrong end of a dueling pistol," he explained.
The large man sighed and shook his head. "The wages of sin," he said sadly. "Is it bad?"
"Bad enough," Vin pronounced, kneeling down beside Ezra.
"We'd be thankful if you could help us get him to town," Chris said, stepping forward.
The man leaned over a little, looking into Ezra's pale face. "I'm not so sure he'd last that long, over these roads," he said. "If you'll hand him up here, I can get him to my house. I'm sure Nathan can help him."
Chris looked up at him, puzzled. "Is Nathan a doctor?"
The other man smiled a little. "Better than many doctors I know. He can get a bullet out, at least, and there's a good chance our brother here won't die before he can be helped."
Chris glanced at Vin, and saw his own decision mirrored there; town was too far away, and time was running out. He turned to the stranger.
"Can we trust you with his life?" Chris inquired, studying the man closely.
The tall rider peered at him, his blue eyes dark and serious. "I'm willing to swear before God that I don't mean him, or you, any harm," he said in a somber tone. "Besides, you've got the guns. If I do something you don't like, there's nothing to stop you from just shooting me."
Chris considered the truth of this, looked over at Vin, and nodded. As gently as possible, they lifted Ezra's limp form up to the stranger, who settled the gambler before him on the saddle, wrapping one strong arm around Ezra's waist.
"Get on this fellow's horse and follow me," the man said. "It's not too far, down by the river."
With that he whirled his horse around and began to ride off. Chris grabbed the green coat and Ezra's walking stick, and he and Vin climbed onto Ezra's horse and rode after the mounted stranger, hoping that they had made the right choice in trusting the strange man's word.
--------------------
After ten minutes' travel, they came upon a large open area by the river. The trees thinned out some distance past, indicating that they were close to the edge of the woods. In the clearing loomed a small stone structure with tall windows, their glass panes mostly broken and patched with wood, the roof in the first stages of repair, the wooden steps leading to the front door half-rotted away. It appeared to have once been a church or meeting-house, long since abandoned. If any name had been attached to the building, it had eroded away years ago.
To Chris's surprise, they turned from the church to a wooden building nearby. This house was smaller and simpler, but appeared more recently built and reasonably intact. Smoke curled from its stone chimney, and next to the east wall spread a large garden full of several plants Chris didn't recognize. Bunches of drying greens hung from the eaves, and there was a large iron kettle strung up over a cold fire pit near the back corner waiting to be used. The place seemed somewhat wild, but there was no ignoring the well-worn path to the cottage's front door.
The stranger reined in outside the small house. Within moments Vin and Chris were dismounted and at his side.
"Looks like the Lord is with us," he said as he cautiously eased the still-senseless Ezra into Vin's waiting arms. "Nathan's home."
"What'd you bring me today, Josiah?"
At the sound of the voice, all three heads turned to the opened front door, where a man stood, wiping his hands on a stained white cloth and watching the proceedings with concern.
Chris blinked, slightly startled. He was not so surprised at Nathan's tall build, or the expression of compassion in the man's brown eyes. But he had not expected Nathan to be black.
After a moment, he glanced over at Vin, but the huntsman was absorbed in trying to hold Ezra upright; if he was taken aback by the healer's appearance, he showed no outward sign of it.
In an instant, Josiah was at Vin's side, helping him ease Ezra over the threshold. "Bullet wound, Nate," he announced calmly as they lifted the unconscious man inside.
The interior of the small house was cozy and dim. As Chris's eyes adjusted to the light, he saw a large room formed by plain wooden walls, mostly devoid of decoration. Drying herbs and plants hung almost everywhere; a fire flickered in the hearth, a kettle boiling over the glowing coals. There was little furniture save a rough wooden table and two benches by the fire. Against one wall stood a sagging bookshelf half-full of tattered texts.
"Over here," Josiah instructed, as they conveyed the gambler to a small bed in the corner by one of the room's two windows. Nathan followed them closely, leaning in to examine the wound as soon as Vin and Josiah settled the gambler down and cleared out of the way.
"Don't look too bad," he muttered, his fingers gently pressing around the wound with great care and skill. After a few minutes he stood, looking at the three men. "Might need y'all to hold 'im down if he comes to while I'm gettin' the bullet out."
Chris nodded. "It sounds like you've done this often."
Nathan sighed. "Yeah, too often," he replied, glancing down at Ezra. "He a friend of yours?"
"I'd wager he is now," Vin offered, taking off his large hat and ragged leather hunting coat. "Found him in the woods; some men he was dueling with shot him and rode off."
Nathan snorted. "Damn gentlemen," he said, shaking his head as he walked halfway across the room and picked up a leather bag which had been sitting by the table. After a few moments of rfling through it, he removed a long iron probe.
Footsteps sounded heavily on the wooden floor as Josiah walked up, rolling his sleeves to the elbow. In the small house, he appeared even larger. "Well, my friends, I suppose since we keep encountering one another, we might as well introduce ourselves," he announced. "Name's Josiah Sanchez, this talented fellow with the probe is Nathan Jackson."
A small shock coursed through Chris as he looked up at Josiah. God, why didn't he realize it? This was the man Percy wanted him to find, to join the League. Strange, he realized, how he had found both Ezra and Josiah at just about the same time. It was just enough of an oddity to send a slight tingle down his back.
"Vin Tanner," the huntsman announced with a grunt as he began removing Ezra's bloodied garments. He nodded at Chris. "You can call him Sir Christopher Larabee, if you want to be formal."
"I think under the circumstances, Chris will be just fine," Chris said, slightly embarrassed as usual by the pretentiousness of the title. He shed his fine black coat and began undoing the cuffs of his simple white shirt.
Before long they had divested Ezra of his ruined fancy shirt and hopelessly bloodstained striped silk vest. Chris was slightly surprised at how solidly built the gambler was under his foppish clothes; he was a good deal more muscular than he appeared. Standing at the ready in case Standish began to thrash, the three men watched anxiously as Nathan probed for the bullet.
After only a few minutes, the healer bit his lip and slowly withdrew a smashed pistol ball from the Southerner's bleeding shoulder.
"He's lucky," Nathan announced quietly as he dropped the projectile into a nearby wooden bowl.
"We'll see how lucky he feels when he wakes up," Chris said, studying Ezra's pale, sweat-soaked face. The gambler had moaned once or twice but remained unconscious.
"You're pretty damn good at that," Vin observed in a grateful tone, nodding at Nathan.
The healer shrugged a bit as he reached behind him for some water.
"Served as a slave to a ship's doctor most of my life," he said, by way of explanation. "Compared to most of what we had to do, takin' out bullets is simple."
"Is that where you learned all this?" Chris looked around the room at the exotic herbs and plants.
Nathan was pouring water on the wound and swabbing it gently with a cloth. "Some," he said. "Learned a lot of it from my mama in Georgia before I was sold off. The poor folks around here don't seem to care where it all came from, long as it helps 'em out."
"Can't argue with that," Vin admitted as he watched Nathan place a clean bandage over the wound. He glanced up at Chris. "Looks like he'll make it."
"I'm relieved to see the Lord's in a good mood today," Josiah said with a slight smile. "Chris, if you'll come with me, I've got some food over at the church which ought to serve as a passable supper. I just need a few strong arms to help carry it over."
Chris nodded; he wanted to talk to Josiah anyway. He looked back to where Vin was helping Nathan wind the bandages around Ezra's chest.
"We'll be here," the huntsman said in a dry voice.
With a small answering grin, Chris followed Josiah out the door.
"So, this is your church?" Chris asked as they walked across the grassy expanse towards the sagging stone building.
Josiah laughed a little. "I suppose it is. I found it here years ago when I was wandering through these woods; nobody else seemed to want it, so I moved in. It was almost falling down. Needs a lot of work, but no worthwhile task is ever easy. Now I just have to figure out why God led me here."
They reached the front of the building. Chris could see it had once been a handsome chapel, but time had left its mark. He looked at Josiah as they mounted the creaking wooden steps. "You sound like a minister."
"I was, once," Josiah replied with a sigh, putting one large hand on the tarnished brass knob of the tall wooden door. "About a hundred years ago."
With a push the door opened, its iron hinges protesting every inch of movement. Chris squinted as they entered the large sanctuary; the patched windows afforded little light. Overhead the high ceiling soared to a point, birds fluttering in its rafters. There were no seats, only a small bed set up at the front, stacks of books, scattered tools, and a small fireplace to one side in which a few coals blinked.
"My father was a minister," Josiah explained as they walked to the front of the church. "When I was young, we went to America to save the Indians from themselves. Spent most of my young years going from colony to colony, watching my father tell those people to accept what he said or face damnation." He paused, his face grim in the uncertain light. "Said the same thing to me, too."
Chris considered the sobering words. "Is that why you came back to England?"
The older man was gathering some bits of bread and checking a joint of beef which sat on the table. "Mostly," he replied. "We didn't agree on a lot of things. I'd talked to the Indians quite a bit. They're not the savage creatures you've heard about, Chris. In many ways, they're more civilized than we are. My father didn't want to hear any of that, and after our last...discussion, I was on an American ship sailing to England. Could you get that pot off the fire, please? There should be enough stew left for a few bites apiece."
"Oh-" Chris grabbed a cloth and carefully lifted the small covered iron kettle from the coals. "Did you meet Nathan on that ship?"
Josiah wrapped the beef joint in a cloth as he nodded. "The crew was about to flog him for letting one of their shipmates die. From what I could tell, the surgeon was fond of his rum, and didn't seem to mind letting his slave take the blame for the bungled operation. Apparently, he'd done it before."
A hot feeling of anger burned in Chris's chest; he had seen naval floggings during his sea travels, and stood against slavery on principle, as many Englishmen did. "So what happened?" he asked as he brought the kettle over.
"I went and pleaded Nathan's case before the captain and that surgeon," Josiah replied, wrapping the bread up in some cheesecloth. "Naturally, both of them told me to go to hell, and the surgeon said I was a limey bastard who should mind my own damn business." He looked at Chris and smiled. "Such blasphemy offended me, of course. I told him I'd be happy to drop the matter if he would accept my challenge to a fair fight as soon as he sobered up. If he won, he could flog Nathan; if I won, I'd be allowed to buy Nathan from him."
"I think I know how it turned out," Chris aid with a grin as he accepted the wrapped food Josiah was handing to him.
A similar grin was on Josiah's face. "Let's just say he was still out cold when Nathan and I disembarked in Portsmouth," the preacher said. "We traveled some, even spent some time in Paris. Few years back we settled down here, then I heard about the trouble in France and went over, thinking I could help. Next thing I knew, I was arrested as an enemy of the state and condemned."
Their arms laden with food, they began walking back towards the door.
"That's how you met the Scarlet Pimpernel," Chris guessed, his mind working fast.
"That's right," Josiah said. "Never met a man like him, I'll say that. God must be watching over him, the way he's always one step ahead of his enemies."
"Any idea who he is?" Chris nudged, deliberately slowing his pace.
Josiah shrugged. "None. I've helped him out a few times since, even had a lively debate on religion with him as we crossed the channel. But he was always in disguise, and so were his men." He gave a slight shake of his head. "I've never stopped praying for him and his cause, though. I only wish I could do more."
Chris stopped and looked at the other man intently. "Is that the truth?"
Josiah halted as well and eyed his new friend curiously. "As truthful as a sinner like me can be," he replied in a puzzled tone.
There was a pause. "In that case," Chris finally said quietly, "I think some of your prayers are about to be answered."
----------------
"Sounds like a very dangerous endeavor, to me."
Josiah's quiet, thoughtful voice barely disturbed the warm air of Nathan's cottage. He and his three companions sat at the rough table before the fire, lit only by the flickering glow of the hearth as they softly conversed over the remains of their supper. In the shadows, Ezra slept undisturbed on Nathan's bed, oblivious to the crucial conversation taking place nearby.
Chris took a puff on his long pipe, the aromatic smoke rising and mingling with the clouds wafting from the shorter pipes held in the hands of Josiah and Vin. "It is very dangerous," Chris replied softly. "And it's entirely up to you if you want to join us. But the way I see it, it's the very dangerous endeavors that need doing the most."
Josiah puffed his pipe and glanced at Nathan. Unlike the other men, Nathan had foregone the pipe for a small cigar. Chris waited, hopeful; he'd decided to include Nathan for several reasons, not the least of which was the fact that they'd likely need someone with healing skills in the risky venture which lay ahead of them. The former slave had already proven his worthiness by saving Ezra's life; the question now was whether he would risk his freedom by involving himself in such a lethal enterprise.
"Dangerous don't tell it by half, from what I hear," Nathan offered, the pungent smoke from his cigar floating around his head. "It sounds like they've lost their minds, over there."
"And it's likely going to get worse," Chris said with a sigh, shifting in his seat on the rough wooden bench. "Now that Robespierre's in power, Paris will most likely be drenched with blood."
"I saw enough in France to know this won't be easy," Vin said in a grim whisper, his blue eyes staring into the hypnotic fire. "Everyone's ruled by the fear of bein' denounced and condemned. All you got to do is look at someone sideways to be arrested."
"And if we're caught," Josiah added in a low, pensive voice, "it'll likely mean facing the guillotine again."
Chris drew a deep breath and leaned forward, folding his hands on the table, the pipe cradled in one palm. "At least they probably wouldn't kill us right away," he said in a deceptively light tone. "I imagine they'd have a few questions to ask before putting our necks under the blade."
"And I'm guessing they wouldn't ask politely," Vin coughed quietly.
Chris shook his head, lifting his eyes to meet the gaze of every man at the table. "I know it's asking a lot," he said in a voice barely above a whisper, his green eyes burning in the firelight, "and there's no guarantee of anything, not even returning to England alive. But I know I can't sit easy here, knowing what's happening to my dead wife's countrymen, and not try to help. Those poor bastards have no one to look to, but men like the Pimpernel. And us."
Josiah's face was somber, his blue eyes cast down to the table as the smoke from his pipe slithered into the air. "The Lord's led me down a lot of paths in my life," he finally said softly, not looking up. "Some of them I felt certain were roads to hell, like the one that led me into the prison in Paris. I've been thanking God every day for my survival, even if I wasn't sure why He granted it to me." He paused, then looked up at Chris. "Maybe this is why. I suppose I won't find out unless I come along."
Chris smiled, relieved and not terribly surprised. He glanced over to the healer. "Nathan?"
The former slave took a draw on his cigar, his expression thoughtful. For several minutes, he said nothing.
"I wouldn't blame you if you'd rather stay safe, and enjoy your freedom," Chris said, eyeing the healer earnestly. "God knows you've suffered enough, from the sounds of it. But we certainly could use you."
Nathan glanced up at him, paused, then nodded. "It ain't been easy, that's for sure," he agreed softly. "An' if it was just those rich aristocrats in those jails, I'd say go on without me. But they're lockin' up and killin' rich and poor alike, people who don't deserve it." His lip twitched, and his eyes fell. "I know what that's like, an' I can't sit by and be selfish with my freedom. It'd shame my mama and papa to know I could have helped, and didn't." He took a deep breath and met Chris's eyes, a smile spreading over his face. "S'pose I'm in."
A second grateful smile crossed Chris's face. "Good!" he said in a quiet, emphatic voice. Percy would be pleased to know so many men were willing to join him.
"Having a private council, gentlemen?"
Four heads turned to the bed in the shadows, where a slender form was seen sitting up and trying to peer through the dim light.
Chris stood. "Rest easy, Standish, everything's all right."
"So I see," was the drawled reply as the gambler slowly swung his legs over the side of the bed. One arm was gingerly rubbing his bandaged shoulder. "Where am I?"
"We brought you to a healer," Vin replied, standing and joining Chris as they walked to the man's bedside. "How are you feelin'?"
"Well," Ezra slurred, shaking his head sharply, "a bit dizzy, but nothing a dram of ale and a good rest in my own featherbed wouldn't remedy." He looked up, his eyes scanning the room until they lit on Josiah. "Ah! I trust I have you to thank for my treatment, sir," he said as he got carefully to his feet. "Fine work. May I offer you some form of compensation?"
Chris saw Josiah's mouth tug into a smile. "Not me, but you might try offering it to him." He indicated Nathan, who stood nearby.
Ezra glanced at the former slave, his eyes narrowing a bit in confusion. One muscle in his right cheek twitched. "And why would that be?"
"Because he's the one that saved your life," Chris stated flatly.
The gambler blinked, frowned, then chuckled a little, clearly disbelieving. "Is that some sort of jest?"
"Nobody was laughin' when he dug that pistol ball out of your shoulder," Vin observed.
Nathan stepped forward, proudly meeting the Southerner's gaze. "I'm a healer," he explained. "Been takin' care of wounds like that since I was twelve years old. You're lucky it didn't go in too deep, your arm'll just be sore for a little while."
Ezra said nothing as he stared at him.
"I'll show you the bullet if you want," Nathan offered, bending to retrieve a wooden bowl nearby which held the smashed pistol ball.
"No, no," Ezra said quickly, holding up his hand. "It's just, ah-I've heard of you slaves having remarkable healing skills-"
"Nathan's not a slave," Josiah declared hotly. "He's as free as you are."
"Free-?" Ezra turned his astounded gaze to Josiah, then back to Nathan, as if he could not quite grasp the idea. He stopped for a moment, pursed his lips, then took a step back, looking around quickly.
"Well," he coughed, sounding more than a bit rattled, "most remarkable. Are my clothes anywhere about? I really must be on my way."
Nathan looked over at Josiah and gave a slight 'I might have known' shrug and walked away without another word.
"They're over on that chair, what's left of them," Vin said, pointing with his pipe. "Afraid there's not much you can about the shirt."
"Hell," Ezra muttered, disappointed, as he took a step towards the chair where his garments lay neatly folded. Chris followed him, glancing back for a moment at Josiah, uncertain; asking Standish to join their group might be risky if he couldn't get along with Nathan. During his time in America, he'd seen the way Southerners treated their slaves, and was hardly surprised that Ezra seemed to regard Nathan as less than human. But they needed every man they could find.
Ezra had arrived at the chair, and was surveying his bloodstained shirt with dismay. Chris walked up beside him, watching him with sharp green eyes.
"I'm putting together a group of men to join the Scarlet Pimpernel in his efforts to help the condemned in France," he said, his voice low and serious.
"Is that a fact," Ezra replied casually, frowning at the ruined shirt.
"We thought you might like to join us, as you've worked with him before," Chris continued, his voice growing slightly louder in mild annoyance as Ezra seemed to ignore him. "I spoke with him, and he recommended you to me."
Ezra laughed a bit as he pulled on the torn shirt. "That was highly flattering of him, I'm sure," he responded with a slight shake of his head, "but I believe I shall remain on this side of the channel for the time being. Further forays into that den of insanity are no longer of interest to me."
"But you've helped him before," Vin pointed out.
Ezra carefully buttoned his vest, mindful of his hurt shoulder. "So I did," he confessed, looking over at the long-haired huntsman. "But in doing so I'm afraid I have exhausted my supply of altruism." He picked up his coat and shrugged it on slowly, easing in over his sore arm. "It is my hope to live long and die rich, not get myself entangled in someone else's affairs."
"If the Pimpernel felt that way, you'd be dead right now," Josiah pointed out, folding his arms.
Ezra glanced at the tall older man, his green eyes fixed as he nodded. "The Pimpernel has his noble calling, my friend, and I have mine," was the pragmatic response as Ezra picked up his walking stick. He then frowned and cast his gaze about the room. "Did anyone perchance find my hat?"
"Must be back where we found you," Vin muttered, sitting back down before the fire and putting his pipe back into his mouth. "Your horse is outside, though."
"Ah! Excellent. Well, best of luck, gentlemen," he said cheerfully, grasping the walking stick and lifting it in a salute. "Give my best to the Pimpernel. I'm sure he'll understand."
He was halfway to the door when Chris's voice stopped him in his tracks.
"You know," Chris said idly, sitting down next to Vin, "if you changed your mind, you might have yourself enough of a fortune to buy a hundred hats when it's all over."
Ezra turned back, his brow wrinkled in confusion. "A fortune?" he repeated in a skeptical voice.
"Sure," Chris nodded, leaning back in his chair. "Just think of all those rich aristocrats in Paris, just waiting to bestow their gratitude on whoever's brave enough to save their lives."
Ezra laughed. "You're mad," he said, shaking his head. "Those people in the prisons have nothing. If you'll recall, I was one of them, once."
"Many of them have lost it all," said Chris with a shrug. "But you know how some of those rich people are. They don't keep all their gold in one place. I'll wager some of them have money hidden away in Germany, or Italy, or hell, even here in England. It's not the sort of thing they'd share with anyone, except maybe someone they were very grateful to."
Ezra stood still for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he studied Chris. "You know," he muttered in a very low voice, "I have heard, on one or two occasions, the grateful rescued offering a cash gift to the Pimpernel for his services. But he never accepted it."
"Of course not," Chris exclaimed, putting one elbow up on the table. "He's not that kind of man. But," he smiled, "you are. One or two such rescues and you could give up the gaming tables forever."
Vin nodded, a smile lighting his blue eyes. "Some of those aristocrats got an awful lot of money," he observed.
Silence fell in the small cabin as Ezra stared at him, mentally wavering. As he considered the dangerous yet tempting offer, Nathan approached him, carrying something in a small burlap bag.
"Here," the healer said, handing the befuddled gambler the bag.
"What's this?" Ezra opened the top and peeped inside.
"Just somethin' for your wound, if it starts hurtin'," Nathan replied, looking Ezra full in the face. "Put it on an' wrap it up, and it should be fine."
"Oh," Ezra murmured uneasily. He looked up at the former slave, swallowed, and managed to choke out a somewhat awkward, "Thank you."
Nathan nodded and stepped back, his eyes never leaving the Southerner.
After a moment's thought, Ezra clutched the bag and looked up. "Well, now, I really must be going. Sir Christopher, I promise to...consider what you have said. If you need to reach me, I have a room at the Red Horse Inn. Good day, gentlemen."
With that, Ezra turned and hastened out the door. A few minutes later, the hoofbeats of his horse sounded his departure through the woods.
Nathan snorted. "We probably won't be seein' him again," he commented with a shake of his head.
"You never know, Nate," Josiah said as he sat back down at the table. "I think he was feeling pretty tempted. The money was a good idea, Chris."
Chris shrugged. "If that's what it takes to get him to help us, that's fine with me. He doesn't have to have pure motives."
"As long as he doesn't sell us out to the French," Vin sighed, sitting up.
"He would've done that before, if that was his way," was Chris's reply. "The Pimpernel wouldn't have suggested Standish if he didn't trust him, and I'll go by his judgment."
"So what happens now?" Nathan inquired.
Chris sat back, puffing slowly on his pipe.
"I've got one more man I want to talk to," he said thoughtfully. "And I'm pretty sure I know what he's going to say."
-----------------
"Go back to France? Chris, are you MAD?"
Buck's incredulous voice echoed through the deserted stable, empty except for himself, Chris, and a few horses who were content to ignore them and much hay instead. It was almost dusk; most of the household was inside or away, leaving the two friends to converse in privacy. Nevertheless, they stood in the furthest corner of the building, and spoke in hushed tones.
"Probably," was Chris's dry response as he leaned on a post and gazed at his friend. "But it's a madness I'm not going to fight, if it'll help things."
"That's very noble-sounding," Buck agreed in a somewhat sarcastic tone as he continued his activity of sweeping out the corner stall, "but maybe you've forgotten that the last time we were there, we came damn close to having our heads chopped off!"
Chris sighed, a tense, almost angry glow in his eyes. "I'll never forget that, Buck, and that memory is part of why I'm doing this. If we just sit on our asses over here, those people condemned to die haven't got a chance."
The other man's lip pressed together in frustration as he sighed. "I'm not saying it's not a horrible situation, Chris," he said in a tight voice as he raked the floor with the broom. "But it was hard enough for Vin and I to get you out of there the last time. Things are worse there now, and getting bloodier all the time. Do you really think we'd stand a chance of getting in and out of that charnel house alive?"
"Possibly not, but it's a risk I'd be willing to take," Chris admitted. He drew a deep breath and ran one hand over his hair, looking seriously at Buck. "I know it sounds like insanity, Buck, but I'm determined to see this through, with or without you. But we'll stand a better chance with you."
Buck winced a little and looked at Chris sideways, hesitation in his deep blue eyes.
"Are you doing this in the name of righteousness," he asked Chris quietly, "or revenge?"
Chris's expression was grim, and it was a few moments before he found an answer. "I'm not quite sure myself, yet," he confessed, looking away across the bright green lawns of the Wilmington estate. "But I don't suppose that will matter much to the people who need our help."
"I suppose not," Buck agreed, dropping his eyes. After thinking in silence for some time, he went back to sweeping. "Well...I don't suppose Father or my brothers would care much if I went off now and then."
Chris looked back at Buck, hopeful.
"And," Buck went on, his voice becoming bit stronger, "last time we were in Paris, I barely had any time to meet any of those pretty mademoiselles. At least, the ones that weren't trying to kill us."
Chris grinned slightly. "I don't think they'd forgive us if we came over without you."
Buck laughed a little, then paused as a thought struck him. "Chris, what about JD?"
There was a pause as Chris looked sharply at Buck, thinking. Finally he sighed, his face somber. "Buck, I'd rather he not know about this," he said in a quiet voice. "He'll want to come along, and he's too young to have to endure the sort of things we'll be facing. He'll be safer here."
"Now, Chris, you know I've got to at least tell him about this," Buck said firmly, turning to face his friend. "I can't go off and perhaps get killed without him knowing what's going on."
"Who's getting killed?"
Both men turned to see JD standing by the stable's trough, holding a dripping bucket full of water and eyeing them both with a puzzled look on his boyish face.
"Damn," Chris muttered below his breath, looking away. He hadn't wanted this.
Buck gave him a quick glance. "Sorry, Chris. He's got to know," he whispered, and stepped forward towards the young man. Chris followed warily, fairly certain of what was about to happen.
"I thought you were over helping Sir Hodsford's stableman birth their new colt," Buck said aloud as he approached the younger man.
JD shrugged and poured the water into the trough. "By the time I got there, she'd already had the colt. They didn't need me, so I came back." He glanced between Buck and Chris and shrugged a little. "Sorry, I couldn't help hearin' you say you're going off somewhere. Up to Ireland again?"
Buck cleared his throat. "A little farther than that, JD," he said, glancing around to make sure noone was near. "Now, I've got some things to tell you, but you have to swear you won't tell anyone else a word of it."
The stableboy's face contorted in puzzlement for a moment as he set down the bucket, wiping his hands on his roughly woven breeches as he stepped closer. "You know I won't say anything, Buck. It sounds serious-are you in trouble or something?"
"Probably, son," Buck said with a nod. "JD, Chris met the Scarlet Pimpernel the other night."
The young man's hazel eyes flew open. "Bloody hell!" he exclaimed in a loud, awestruck whisper as he stared at Chris.
"Shh!" Buck hissed, looking towards the house.
JD nodded contritely and turned back to Chris, his voice dropping sharply. "What was he like? Who is he-do we know him?"
"I can't tell you that, JD," Chris said quietly. "The less you know, the better and safer it is."
The young man grunted with frustration and looked at Buck. "Damn, Buck, why tell me this if I can't hear any of the details?"
Buck took a deep, preparatory breath, his expression betraying the fact that he knew this would not be easy. "Because, son, the fact is, Chris and I are joining up with the Pimpernel, and I wanted you to know about it in case we go out one day and don't come back."
JD blinked, his jaw dropping. After a few minutes, he stepped back, looking at the two men in disbelief.
"You're serious," he prodded.
"Deadly serious, JD," Chris replied. "The situation in France is worsening every day; even the Pimpernel and his men can't handle all of it any more. He's asked for our help."
JD's eyes studied Chris for a moment, weighing his older friend's words, his face slack with surprise.
A few moments passed, then JD began to shake his head. "You've got to let me come with you," he insisted.
Both Chris and Buck had fully been expecting this.
"No, JD," Buck said firmly.
JD took a few more steps closer to them, his eyes pleading as he turned to each man. "Please, Buck!" he urged. "You'll need all the help you can get, the way France is now. You know I can handle a sword, and my French is better than yours!"
"JD, you've never even been to France," Buck explained patiently.
"Exactly! Don't you see?" JD shot back enthusiastically. "They don't know me there, the way they know you. I can go into places you can't, they'd never suspect me. Please, you know I'll go mad knowing you're over there!"
"JD," Chris's voice was very quiet, its somber tone catching the young man's attention, and as he spoke he regarded JD with intense green eyes, "this won't be like some exciting newspaper account of the Pimpernel's latest adventure. There are things happening in France today that those writers don't tell you about. The last thing Buck and I want is to get you involved in that hell."
Silence fell in the stable, and JD looked away, sighing a little as he pursed his lips in thought. Finally he looked back, more calm, the brilliant energy of enthusiasm replaced by quiet determination.
"I know it'll be dangerous," JD said softly, "and I know it won't be anything like the stories they've been telling. But I think...I know I'm strong enough to face it. I want to help, to feel I'm doing something important. Something Mama would be proud of."
"I'm not so sure she'd approve of you going off to France, JD," Buck noted. "And what if you got killed? Damn, I'd never forgive myself."
JD frowned at him. "How do you think I'd feel, Buck, if you got in trouble over there and I couldn't help?" He sighed. "Most of the noblemen around here treat me like dirt, except for the two of you. I can't repay you by letting you go off into danger without me."
Buck was plainly wavering. He glanced over at Chris, who had dropped his eyes as he mulled over the question. At length Chris lifted them, looking straight into JD's face.
"We won't be able to protect you, JD," he said in a soft but sharp voice. "You've got to understand what this decision means. If you're caught by the French, you'll likely face the guillotine, and they'll probably torture you first to find out what you know. They'll do anything to find the Pimpernel, but you'd have to be strong and not say anything, no matter what they did to you."
Chris's voice fell to a cold, serious whisper. "You're right, I need someone with your skills," he went on, barely moving, "but I've got to know that I can trust you in this. I want you to think about it for a while, and remember there's no shame in deciding you'd rather stay here. At least then, you'd be able to have a family and grow old, a chance we may not have. But if you come with us, there won't be any turning back. All right?"
The distant sound of several approaching horses caught their ears. JD jumped a little, startled out of his reverie, and he looked over his shoulder towards the east lawn.
"Sir Wilmington's coming back from his afternoon hunt," the young man explained, turning back to the two older men. "They'll want their horses tended to. I'll...think about what you said, Chris."
With that, JD hurried off, his expression still deeply pensive.
"I think you frightened him, Chris," Buck noted as they watched JD run across the lawn.
"Good," was the satisfied reply. "Better he be frightened now, where he's still safe." He paused, then glanced at his old friend with a slight smile. "Did I frighten you?"
Buck laughed. "Damn, Chris, I've been frightened all along! But that never kept me out of a good fight."
The other man nodded with a grin. In the distance, a small group of horsemen appeared, heading for the stable.
"I'd better go," Chris announced. "See you tomorrow night at the reception?"
"Still planning on it," Buck said, smiling. "It's been too long since the pretty ladies of the county were treated to the Wilmington charm!"
Chris shook his head, amused. "Now I'm frightened," he muttered, and with a farewell nod left the stable. As he mounted Valor and prepared to ride off, he glanced back at JD, who was carefully walking Sir Wilmington's horse back to the stable. Chris sat still for a moment, his face reflecting an attitude of anxious thought. Then, hoping the young man would make the right decision, Chris turned his horse and headed for home.