Bridget checked the door every hour for the sight of Jake returning safely. Late afternoon, with winter’s early dusk settling, she saw him coming out of the trees. Lumpy shapes on the sled were two men with their long, wide boots dragging off the back, furrowing the snow and making extra work for Jake. But he looked unhurt. Nothing else mattered.
They wasted little time removing the yoke and climbing the slope. They fastened feedbags to the four horses they’d unhitched but kept tied to the sides of one wagon. Climbing into the second, they headed for the hotel in Bleaksville.
Bridget grimaced as she worked one painful foot into her too small shoe and then the other, carving the blisters deeper as the toes scraped against the rock-hard leather. The long arms of Rev. Jackdaw’s tattered coa
