Page 64 of The Soldier
“Let’s go, Miss Emmie.” Stevens led both horses out then handed her the reins while he doubled back into the barn for a lantern. “If we don’t find her, I’ll alert Vicar, and he can gather a searching party.”
“We have to find her.” The thought of having to tell Hadrian she’d lost Winnie—again—was no comfort at all. She hardly wanted to face the man, much less have to provide him with an example of his ability to solve her problems or succeed where she failed.
Shut up and ride.As Petunia dutifully picked up the trot, Emmie had the sense the admonition had come not from herself but somehow, from St. Just. His life had likely depended on his ability to do the next sensible thing, and now Winnie’s life might depend on Emmie’s ability to manage similarly. She did as ordered, keeping her mouth shut and eyes on the ground for any sign of Winnie or her dog, glad as the evening light began to fade that Stevens was with her.
And then she couldn’t keep her mouth shut, so she started hollering for the child. It was all but dark, and the moon not due to rise for at least two hours, when Emmie heard a faint bark in response to her ceaseless bellowing.
“That way.” She nodded in the direction of one of the tracks through the woods. “Toward the pond.”
“Careful!” Stevens admonished when she would have kicked the horse to a faster gait. “The leaves on wet ground make the going tricky. If she’s there, we’ll find her.”
So Emmie kept to a shuffling trot, nearly fainting with relief when Scout barked happily to greet them as they broke into the clearing. Winnie was sitting on a rock, pitching pebbles into the water.
“Hullo, Miss Emmie.” Winnie looked up, perfectly at ease. “Hullo, Stevens.”
“Bronwyn Farnum.” Emmie got off her horse and stomped over to the child. “What on earth are you doing out here in the woods after dark?”
“I used to come here a lot,” Winnie said diffidently, “and I wasn’t hungry at tea time. Did you know Scout can swim?”
Stevens cleared his throat and glanced at the darkening sky.
“Winnie,” Emmie said, gathering her patience, “you are not to wander off, and you know this. We’ll discuss the situation further when we have you safely at home.”
“C’mon, Miss Winnie.” Stevens held out a hand. He stood the child on a boulder, mounted, then hefted her up before him.
“Where’s Scout?” Winnie looked around anxiously. Stevens let out a piercing whistle, and the dog bounded out of the undergrowth to dance at the horses’ feet.
“Home, Stevens.” Emmie nodded at the trail. “Please.”
When they reached the manor, Steven dismounted, lifted Winnie to the ground, then gathered up the reins and snapped his fingers at the dog.
“But Scout hasn’t had his supper yet,” Winnie said, her tone indignant. “He needs to come get his scraps.”
“Winnie,” Emmie said through clenched teeth, “there are no dinner scraps tonight because Cook did not make us dinner. You were wandering, and I was searching for you. Scout has not had his dinner; neither have I nor Stevens nor these horses.”
“You know I always come home,” Winnie shot back. “You should have told Cook that Scout would be hungry when we came back.”
“To the house.” Emmie pointed, her tone nearly vicious. “You have been rude, inconsiderate, and mean, Winnie Farnum. I am disappointed in you, exhausted, and not in the mood for your disrespect. If you want your dog to be fed tonight, thenmarch.”
Winnie shot her a murderous glare then stalked off to the house, indignation in every line and sinew of her form.
“She’s so little.” Emmie shook her head as she watched Winnie go. “Even the church would say she hasn’t reached the age of reason.”
“She’s reached an age when she can fall in the pond,” Stevens replied laconically as he began to loosen girths. “Not a parent in the world wouldn’t be upset with her.”
With that sentiment ringing in her ears, Emmie made her own way back up to the house. Her steps were heavy and slow, anxiety no longer fueling her movements, her mood despairing, and her stamina—physical and emotional—gone. She went in the back door and found Winnie sitting at the counter, a plate of buttered bread before her.
Bread Emmie had wrapped up for delivery to a customer tomorrow.
“Winnie?” Winnie looked up at her indifferently and kept chewing like a squirrel. “Did you even wash your hands?”
“I was playing at the pond all afternoon, and my hands were wet a lot.”
“Your hands”—Emmie grabbed her by one paw—“are muddy, and you’ve also been playing with Scout, Winnie. What is the rule?”
“Wash your hands after you play with the dog,” Winnie replied, talking with her mouth full. “But Scout was in the pond, so he wasn’t dirty.” The dog had been a rank, sloppy mess. Emmie sat and propped her chin on her fist.
“Win? What has gotten into you? You aren’t a nasty little girl, and yet for the past few days, more than that really, you’ve been a complete, croaking toad.”
