Page 3 of A Troublesome Circumstance

His heart kicked. He raised the rifle and approached slowly, every instinct alert. “If you’re thinking of robbing me,” he called out, “you’ve chosen a poor mark.”

No response.

When he stood beside the pile of hay, he realized the intruder was a woman—young, disheveled, and entirely unconscious. Her gown was torn, spattered with mud. A jagged cut split her forehead, blood dried along her temple. Her hair—fair, tangled, and heavy with straw—fell in loose waves around her shoulders.

He frowned. “What in heaven’s name happened to you?”

She didn’t stir.

He tapped her slippered foot gently with his own. “Wake up.”

Nothing.

A cold thought struck him. Was she⁠—?

He leaned closer, holding his breath. Then he caught it: the faint rise and fall of her chest. Relief loosened his shoulders. “Thank heaven for that.”

Straightening, he used the barrel of his rifle to nudge her side.

Her eyes flew open. In an instant, she was on her feet, snatching up a pitchfork and aiming it squarely at his chest. “Who are you?” she demanded, her voice trembling but fierce.

Jude blinked, momentarily stunned by the speed of her reaction. “Who am I?” he repeated. “I should think I’m the one with the right to ask that.”

“Stay back,” she warned, gripping the pitchfork tighter.

He raised a brow, lowering the rifle slightly but not entirely. “I would, if you weren’t threatening to skewer me in my own stable.”

Her eyes darted about, assessing him warily. “What do you want?”

“Nothing but for you to leave my property.”

That gave her pause. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“Good,” Jude said dryly. “Because I wasn’t offering.”

She swayed, catching herself against a bale of hay. “Why do you have a rifle?” she demanded.

“Because I heard a noise and thought it might be a wild animal. Which, to be fair, I wasn’t entirely wrong about.”

Suspicion darkened her expression. “Do you work for Mr. Broderick?”

“Who the devil is Mr. Broderick?”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “If you mean me no harm, you’ll put the rifle down.”

“And why would I do that when you’re pointing that thing at me?”

For a moment, neither moved. Then something in her posture sagged—a flicker of exhaustion or defeat. Her voice was softer when she asked, “You’ll let me go, then?”

He hesitated. Every instinct told him she was hurt, and terrified—but she was also drenched, muddy, and very much a mystery. Still… “I’ll let you go,” he said at last, lowering the rifle to the ground.

Her shoulders eased a fraction. “Where’s the nearest town?” she asked, her voice shaking.

He studied her pale face, which was growing more pale with each passing moment. “You’re in no condition to walk anywhere. Are you hurt besides that head wound?”

“I’m fine,” she insisted, though her legs trembled beneath her. “I only need directions.”

Jude didn’t believe her for an instant. “You’ll collapse before you reach the main road.”