Now it was fear.
As the wagon rolled out of Ash Hollow, Lark caught glimpses of faces: shocked, offended, amused, angry. The town’s judgment followed them like dust, rising and clinging.
Gideon didn’t look back.
Neither did she.
The road to Banner Ridge climbed into pine-shadow, where the air sharpened and the world stopped smelling like spit and sweat and other people’s rules.
They traveled in a silence that didn’t feel like punishment, only… unknown.
Lark held the wagon rail with stiff fingers. Every bump reminded her of the workhouse cart rides, those grim little journeys from one chore to another. She kept waiting for Gideon to speak, to list demands, to tell her what she’d been bought for.
But the man drove like he was escorting a guest, not hauling property.
At dusk, the trees opened to reveal a cabin tucked against the slope. Solid logs. Neat stone chimney. A barn to one side. A small garden plot already turned, waiting. Chickens muttered in their roosts like gossiping old ladies.
Gideon climbed down, came around, and offered his hand.
