She hesitated for an instant—it was probably the savings of years, from odd jobs he’d done off the farm—and then took it. Like any farm-child in the district she’d been raised to despise a thief even worse than a sluggard, and nearly as much as a coward, but her need was great.
It’s like borrowing an axe or a bucket when there’s no time to ask, she told herself; people did that as a matter of course.
Lorrie looked out both ways; Bram’s family had the rarity of a second storey to their home, added in a prosperous year by his grandfather, and it was ten feet to the ground below. A quick look at moon and stars told her it was halfway between midnight and dawn; not a time anyone was likely to be stirring. There was a narrow strip of sheep-cropped grass beneath the window; she let herself out, hung by her fingertips and then let herself drop.
Thud.
Something stirred. She waited, then let out a gasp of relief when she saw it was only the family dogs, Grip and Holdfast, big mongrels who’d known her since they were pups. They were out at work, making sure no fox tried for the poultry or a lamb.
‘Quiet,’ she said, letting them sniff her hands—they were conscientious dogs, and wanted to be sure she wasn’t a stranger violating their territory. ‘Quiet!’
A glimpse around the rear corner of the farmhouse, her face pressed to the gritty, splintery logs. No lights, only silver moonlight across the yard, and the two barns, a shed, and a rail-fenced paddock where the working stock and the family’s milch-cow were kept.
As she’d thought, they’d brought her family’s stock home with them and she found Horace easily; he wouldn’t be fast, but she’d ridden him now and then all of his life, taking him to be watered in ploughing season, or shod, or sometimes just for fun. He nuzzled and sniffed at her as though happy to see someone familiar and she rubbed his velvety nose. Lorrie bit her lip and thought about what she had to do. She needed a saddle and tack and some grain for the horse. It was stealing, plain and simple, and she knew that her mother and father would be disappointed in her.
Maybe not, she thought fiercely, maybe they’d be more disappointed in their do-nothing neighbours.
There was an old saddle just inside the smaller barn’s door—a simple pad affair, for farmers didn’t ride often.
If I don’t do it, nobody will. Rip will die, or worse.
And that, she knew, would disappoint her parents even more.
She led Horace from the barn, slid the bridle over his head, arranged the blanket carefully, then slid the saddle on his back with a grunt of effort, for it weighed about a quarter of what she did, and tightened the girth. The horse gave a resigned sigh, knowing that meant work.
Back into the barn. She looked through a gap between the boards back toward the farmhouse, but there was no sign of life, only a drift of smoke from the banked fire through the chimney. That made her hands start to shake for a moment, but she forced herself to be calm, taking deep breaths.
Oats, she thought firmly. The sweetish smell led her to the bin, and there were always a few sackcloth bags near it. She filled two, then added a few horse-blankets to her loot for nights spent on the road.
Horace gave a whicker of interest as she threw the sacks over his withers; he knew what that smell was. ‘Later,’ she whispered to him, taking a moment to soothe him quiet before scrambling up on his back, for he was a tall mount for a fifteen-year-old girl, and tightened her thighs around his broad barrel of a body.
Obediently, the horse set out down the road which wound like a ribbon of moonlight to the south.
I’m coming, Rip! she thought.
Finding Flora’s grandfather had been easy; there weren’t more than a couple of law-speakers in a town this size. Getting up the nerve to see him had been harder.
‘What if he hates me for my father’s sake?’ Flora asked anxiously and for the hundredth time, looking at the tall house of pale mortared stone, not far from the town’s main square—it oozed respectability, right down to the costly diamond-pane glass windows.
‘Then he’s not much of a grandfather,’ Jimmy said stoutly. ‘And in that case, who needs him?’
His answer was the same one he’d given her almost as many times as she’d asked the question; by now it was automatic right down to the tone of his voice. Jimmy had pretty much stopped listening to her and was pretty sure she wasn’t listening to him at all.
They were at the entrance to Legacy Lane, a prosperous-looking street. They were beautiful buildings, with large glass windows curtained in embroidered cloth, the red tile roofs making a pleasing contrast with the honey colour of the stone and each window bearing a flower box overflowing with brilliant blooms. There was even a sweeper, a ragged youth with broom and pan and box, to keep the cobbles free of horse-dung.
It was clean, it was neat.