“Damn!” He pushed me backward, and from behind him I saw a stretch of the northbound road that met up with the main highway a mile or so to the south. “Get back, before anyone drives by.” He steered me by my shoulders, back into the dark and primitive recesses of the woods. “Hurry!”
He slipped into the front again, and we ran and leapt and climbed until pain stabbed at my right side, below my ribs. The ankle I’d twisted on the porch steps throbbed. The holster pelted my thigh, and the path ahead of me blurred.
“Joe, I need to stop.”
“What?” He turned around, at least twenty feet ahead of me.
“I’m hurting.” I dropped his belongings and braced my right hand against a fat red trunk, which was cold to the touch. A beetle scrambled up the bark, away from my hand, upon feet swift and silent.
Joe sauntered back to me through piles of fallen pine needles. “What’s wrong?”
“My side. My ankle.” I pushed my other hand against the trunk and leaned forward to catch my breath. “My ribs feel like they want to split wide open.”
“You must have been breathing wrong.”
“How much farther should we go?” I asked. “Where should we go?”
“I don’t know.” He set down his lantern, which had long since blown out, and dropped his bag of clothing beside it.
“What are we even doing, Joe? What the hell are we—?”
“Shh!” Joe put out a hand. “A car.”
We both stiffened, even though we no longer stood within sight of the road. I held my breath, and my ribs ached all the more from tightening my muscles.
The automobile in question neared us, no more than fifty yards beyond the trees beside us. I heard the pop-pop-pop of a motor, and my heart pumped my blood in a staccato rhythm. I imagined the screeching of brakes, car doors opening, bloodhounds barking, Deputy Fortaine charging toward us with a rifle and bared teeth.
We stood as still as the trees surrounding us, not breathing, not flinching. Beyond the wide green firs, the automobile chugged by and rattled off to the south, toward the crossroads where I’d spoken with my father just the night before.
“Come on.” Joe picked up the lantern and wheeled back around toward the trail. “Let’s keep going and find someplace to sleep overnight, before it gets any darker.”
“Am I safe with you?” I asked, not budging.
He glanced at me over his shoulder. “I’m not going to touch you, Hanalee.”
“Are you sure? You’re not just making up that thing you said about yourself so you can—?”
Joe’s mouth tautened.
“After those men attacked Mrs. Downs a couple years ago,” I said, “I just . . . I want to watch out for myself.”
“I’m not going to hurt you. You can sleep with your gun pointing straight at my face if you want, but I’m not planning to attack anyone besides Clyde Koning. Come on.” He turned back around to the path ahead of us. “We’re wasting time.”
He continued onward, this time with steps that made mere whispers of sound against the pine needles that littered the forest floor. I grabbed the basket and blanket and followed.
THE WOODS SLOPED UPWARD IN A DIRECTION THAT I believed to be the north, although the darkness settling over our surroundings proved disorienting. My stomach dipped with the sensation that we were nearing the territory of unkind people.
“How far do you think we are from the road?” I asked. “There are houses up here in the hills. Swanky ones.”
“I know.” Joe kept walking. “I think we’re still far enough away to avoid seeing anyone. I don’t hear any dogs or other signs of civilization.”
I stopped, set down his belongings, and drew the pistol out of my holster.
Joe spun around, and his shoulders jerked. “Jesus! Why are you bringing that out right now?”
“I’ve got to be honest with you, Joe.” I held the derringer by my side, the muzzle pointed toward the ground. “You’re not safe at all. Fleur told me that Laurence, the Wittens, and some of the other local fellows want to do terrible things to you because they know . . .” I nodded through the words I didn’t know how to say.
Joe leaned back on his left foot. “Who told them about me?”
“I don’t know. Fleur suspects Laurence has been hiding you so he can brag about leading the others to you.”
Joe tightened his grip on his bag and scanned the forest with his eyes.
“You ever shoot a gun before?” I asked.
He blinked. “No.”
“I had to store the pistol in a hiding spot in a log,” I said, “instead of sneaking it back to my bedroom. I didn’t have time to replace the bullet I shot past your head.”
Joe grimaced.
“So there’s only one left,” I continued. “I’ll use it if we’re desperate.”
He swallowed. “Put that gun back in your holster. I don’t want you tripping and shooting me in the back by mistake.”
A twig snapped behind me. I flinched and turned and nearly cocked and fired. A deer leapt into view and zigzagged off into the distance, leaves swishing behind its hooves.