On the other side of the fire, there was a shifting. Elizabeth did her best to ignore Richard, but she could see Nathaniel's attention focusing on him. She put her hand on his cheek and turned his face back to her own.

"Richard says the bullet seems to have done minimal damage," she told him. "If you stay still, and warm, and fed, the wound will close itself and you will heal. If you don't—"

His half grin closed like a fist around her heart. "Boots. I'm not that easy to get rid of."

She leaned toward him. There was the taste of blood on his mouth, bright and coppery. "As if I'd let you get away," she said, her voice trembling.

Elizabeth sat with him while he drifted off, holding his hand. For the first time since she'd known him, his fingers were colder than her own.

She studied him, the joint of the thumb, the scars, the hard places on his palm, the short, blunt nails that he was constantly cleaning with his knife. Elizabeth wet the corner of her kerchief in the water kettle and wiped Nathaniel's hands clean of the dirt of Joe's grave, and of his own blood. Then she stood, and walked over to Richard. He looked up at her, his face impassive.

"I'm going for help," she said quietly. "But I want you to know something before I go." Elizabeth crouched down to bring her face closer to Richard's. She could see that he was in considerable pain, but that he was never going to admit it. For a moment she wondered at him, what a complex man he was. Then she thought of Nathaniel alone with him, and at his mercy. She said: "I've shot one man I didn't mean to. It won't be hard to shoot the next one, if I've got good cause."

"Promise me you'll answer the summons to appear before the court, and I promise you I won't lift a hand to hurt him."

"Or to help him, either." She almost laughed. "Your word is less than worthless, Dr. Todd. I will make you a promise. If you hurt him, then a court of law would be the best you could hope for. I doubt Hawkeye would be so kind. I know that I would not."

He was watching her closely. "You're not as tough as you think."

"For your own sake, you had best hope that you are wrong." She began to turn away.

"Wait."

Richard shifted on his pallet, grimacing. The wrappings on his hand were bloody. "I swear on my mother's grave that I'll do what I can to keep him alive until you get back. If you promise to meet me in a court of law and answer the charges against you."

"I am starting to wonder if you are completely sane," Elizabeth said quietly. His face was haggard, every crease caked with dirt. There was no sign of the elegant Dr. Todd who had proposed to her in such formal terms in the Bennetts' parlor, the man who painted landscapes and wore velvet waistcoats. And yet, somehow she had the sense that while much of the paint and glitter had been scraped away, the real Richard Todd was still not completely in evidence.

"Do we have an agreement?"

Nathaniel coughed in his uneasy sleep.

"On your mother's grave?"

He nodded, and Elizabeth inhaled. "Then I agree. But only if my husband survives, is that clear? If I find him in good condition on my return, then I will answer your charges in court."

Richard's smile was a frightening thing.

Elizabeth turned away and made herself ready. With the musket and knife tucked into her belt and the powder horn slung over her shoulder, she lifted the pack of provisions to her back, and glanced at Nathaniel. Without another look at Richard Todd, she set off, the red dog trotting beside her.

Chapter 36

The red dog woke her at sunrise by pushing its cold nose into her neck. Elizabeth gasped and rolled over and then, suddenly remembering where she was and why, she sat up. There was a muffled woof and a single, appreciative thump of a tail.

"Wretched beast," she muttered, rubbing the heel of her hand on its bony skull. The fire had gone out, insufficiently banked. It was the animal's warmth that had kept her from waking in a shiver. She wondered if fleas would be worth the comfort. "I don't suppose you can fetch wood, can you?" Never mind. No time anyway.

How long had she slept? She had made a hasty camp at twilight and fallen immediately to sleep. Eight hours, perhaps; it felt like less. Elizabeth ate a breakfast of raw oats and dried meat, staring into the bush as she chewed. A long day of walking ahead of her. She forced herself to swallow and took another mouthful. The dog watched her, one brow cocked. Then she snuffled and rolled onto her back, waving her bent paws slightly and casting Elizabeth a hopeful look.

"You don't really think I'm going to stick my hand into that mess, do you?" Elizabeth asked, even as she leaned forward to scratch the dog's freckled belly. She was surprised to see that the teats were elongated; a bitch, with a few litters in her past. Elizabeth thought of uncle Merriweather, how much boyish enthusiasm he had shown when one of his retrievers had whelped. It was the only time he had ever gone into the kitchen, to visit the litter in its nest of wood shavings by the hearth. And how cook had hated having him there, disrupting her routine and staff.

"Treenie," Elizabeth said, thinking for the first time in many months of the cook at Oakmere, a wiry twist of a Scotswoman with a face like an overripe tomato, a carving knife for a tongue, and fists like raw joints of beef.

The dog rolled to her feet and stood wagging her tail.

"It's as good a name as any," Elizabeth said. "I must call you something if you're going to come along."