Page 11

Maybe he fell.

The thought sends panic through me. He’s old. He’s still recovering from a winter that nearly took him from me. The roads through the mountains are narrow, uneven, and difficult to navigate even under the best conditions.

My God.

He could be hurt.

He could be lying beside the road right now.

Panic claws at my chest, tightening around my ribs until every breath feels too small.

I force myself to move.

Standing here isn’t helping him but finding him will.

I untether Bramble from the carriage and hurry toward the shed, nearly tripping over a stack of firewood in my rush. My fingers fumble with the buckles as I pull the saddle from its hook and swing it onto his back.

I tighten the straps with shaking hands.

One thought repeats itself the entire time.

Find him.

I race back into the cottage.

I need clothes. Warm clothes. Food.

My eyes dart across the room as I grab the thickest coat I own, an extra pair of gloves, another pair of wool socks, and every blanket I can carry. I shove everything into my saddlebags so quickly that I nearly forget to fasten them.

Bramble shifts as I approach.

I place one foot into the stirrup and pull myself into the saddle. Worn leather creaks under my weight. Bramble moves restlessly, his muscles bunching under his chestnut coat as though he’s just as unsettled by my father’s absence as I am.

The morning wind slices across my face hard enough to make my eyes water. I lean forward and rest one hand against Bramble’s neck, sinking my fingers into his thick mane while I try to steady my breathing.

“Bramble, you have to take me to Dad.” My voice takes on an edge. “He can’t be far.”

One ear flicks backward.

I swallow against the pressure building in my throat.

“Please.”

I don’t know whether I’m talking to the horse or praying.

Probably both.

I tighten my fingers around the reins and press my heels gently against his sides.

He takes off.

The cottage disappears behind us, followed quickly by the rest of the village. Familiar landmarks blur together as we pass weathered houses and fenced gardens. Soon, the road opens into rolling fields where winter-browned grass is surrendering to spring.

The farther we travel, the narrower the road becomes. Eventually, it disappears under the dense canopy of the forest.

Towering pines rise on either side of us. Their branches stretch overhead, weaving together tightly enough to block much of the morning sunlight. Shadows cover the path ahead. The scent of damp earth and pine needles grows stronger with every passing minute.

“Dad!”