No! What would she do now? Her first inclination was to sit where she was and sob. She couldn’t. She had to get those pigs! Everybody already looked at her doubtingly, especially Reeve Folsham after she nearly killed him. If they found out she let out all the pigs . . .
How could she get someone to help her? She couldn’t even call out for help.
She ran after them. She would get those pigs back in their pen, even if it killed her.
Westley stared as Eva ran, her red hair streaming behind her, after about half a dozen pigs who had apparently just escaped from their pen. She looked quite distraught.
He threw down his fishing gear and raced to close the gate so the remaining pigs didn’t get out, then ran after her.
When she neared the pigs, she slowed as if she was trying to sneak up on them.
He picked up a fallen tree limb as he entered the woods. She hurried toward two of the pigs who seemed to be in the lead, but they were rooting in the dead leaves and ignoring her as she shook her skirt at them and stomped her feet. She looked up and her eyes went wide at seeing him.
He pressed a finger to his lips to show he was being quiet on purpose. She nodded.
He came around the side, and when he and Eva had the pigs trapped between them and their pen, Westley yelled, raised his arms, and shook the tree limb at them.
The larger pigs grunted and barely moved, while the smaller pigs squealed and took a few steps toward the pen.
Eva picked up a smaller tree limb and imitated him, shaking it in the air, but the limb was so rotten it snapped in two and crumbled to the ground. Undeterred, she ran toward the four smaller pigs, chasing them back toward the pen.
Westley prodded the older pigs with his stick, making them grunt louder, but they finally obeyed and started back toward the pen. He overtook them to open the gate while Eva herded them through. Three went in, but the fourth little pig scurried past them and stopped to root on the ground with its snout. Eva pursued it while Westley closed the gate.
“We mustn’t chase it,” Westley said softly, slowly sneaking up behind it. “Pigs are faster than you might think.”
Eva nodded, keeping her gaze on the pig. She got very close, then pounced. The pig squealed as if it were being murdered. Eva had the pig by its hind legs. She dragged it backward as it screeched with every breath. Westley yanked open the gate so she could drag it inside. She let it go and it ran to the back of the pen, still squealing.
Eva was breathing hard as she brushed her hands together, a triumphant glint in her eye. Her cheeks were pink and her red hair was in disarray, more strands hanging loose than in her braid.
He lost his breath for a moment.
She went out of the gate and he closed it. She was already hurrying into the trees where they had left the two older pigs.
The pigs were rooting around in the leaves, finding acorns and mushrooms. The swineherder sometimes took them out foraging, so they were familiar with the kinds of food they would find. They were reluctant to leave off, as they were ignoring the tall redhead clapping at them and shooing them with her skirts.
She picked up another stick and tapped the boar on the head. It made a warning sound in its throat.
“Be careful! He could hurt you,” Westley called out. “Male pigs can be very aggressive.”
The large boar lifted his head, possibly preparing to bite her.
Westley let out a loud call similar to what he had heard the swineherder use. To his relief, the pig took a step back. But Eva did not give up, and she came at them both again.
“Chuck-chuck!” Westley imitated the swineherder’s call again.
The hogs turned their heads in his direction and began moving slowly but steadily on their short legs, with Eva clapping right behind them.
When they got closer, Westley guided them with his long stick into the pen and closed the gate.
Eva gave him a smile, her cheeks glowing pink and her chest rising and falling with every breath. Her skirt was splattered with mud. She pushed several strands of hair off her face using the back of her hand.
“Are you well?”
She nodded and bent to pick up two buckets off the ground.
“Please, sit down and rest for a while. You look tired.”
She sat on the grass. He sat as well, a few feet away.
He started to ask her how the pigs got out of the pen, but it was pretty obvious that she had been feeding them—hence the buckets—and had inadvertently let them out.
“You did a very good job getting the pigs back in their pen.”
She frowned slightly, keeping her head down even as she glanced up at him. She shook her head and pointed to him. She smiled and placed a hand on her heart.
“I’m glad I was nearby and was able to help.”
She picked at the grass, then lay on her side, propping her head on her arm. She picked a tiny flower and twirled it between her fingers, smiling.
“I wish you could talk.”
She shrugged and shook her head, almost as if the subject embarrassed her.
“Did your injury happen before or after the Peasants’ Uprising?”
She seemed to think for a moment, then pushed her hand outward.
“After?”