In the rhythmic rocking of the buggy wheels and the horse’s hooves clopping up soft puffs of dust, Bridget watched the road—its curves and washed out areas, the houses they passed, and the landmarks of big trees.
Rev. Jackdaw wasn’t talking to her, but he kept glancing at the sky where the sun was sinking and dark clouds rumbled. He shook the reins harder. “Git up!”
When the horse, without a word or tug on the reins, turned down a long, rutted lane, Bridget smiled and breathed a sigh of relief. Shelter was up ahead. A barn, a pigsty, and a house. Was this her home until Mum and Pappy found her? As they went down the dusty lane, the comfort of seeing shelter faded. The land either side of the buggy made her stomach hot and shaky. She grabbed hold of the red wool, imagining not just the br
