Free Wanderville by Wendy McClure Page A

‘donated’ things, right?” Frances said with a sigh.
    â€œLook, now,” Alexander said. “This is all for a good cause.”
    â€œThat doesn’t make
stealing
right,” she retorted.
    â€œWell, was it stealing when George Washington’s army raided the redcoat arsenals for gunpowder in Boston?” he asked.
    â€œYes
,
” Frances said.
    â€œWell, have you any better ideas? Because—” Alexander stopped suddenly and crept over to the stable’s grimy window that faced Whitmore’s center street. “Uh-oh,” he said. His face fell and he looked a little sick.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?” Jack asked, joining him at the window. Frances and Harold came over as well.
    â€œSee her?” Alexander pointed to a woman standing outside the mercantile, next to a black wagon.
    â€œShe’d be hard to miss,” said Jack. The woman was wearing a brocade dress and an elaborately plumed hat, both of which wouldn’t have been out of place in New York.
    â€œShe looks like a
Godey’s Magazine
engraving,” Frances added. “Or . . .”
    â€œMaybe not,” Jack concluded. The spring wind had sent the woman’s hat askew, and when she reached up to straighten it, Jack could see that her face beneath was as red and weathered as a washerwoman’s.
    â€œThat’s the woman whose ranch I escaped from,” said Alexander. “That’s Mrs. Pratcherd.”
    â€œShe has a lot of feathers,” Harold said.
    â€œDoes she wear that kind of finery at the farm?” Jack asked.
    â€œNot when she’s overseeing the farmhands. She likes to ride out to the fields to pick out kids who aren’t digging up beets fast enough. Then she marches them through the mud to muck out the stables,” Alexander said. “And see that wagon? It looks like a delivery wagon, but that’s what they used to take us out to the farm after we got off the train.”
    Jack drew closer to the window, determined to memorize the sight of the wagon with its hard top and its windowless black sides. Just then a figure appeared around the back of the wagon—a teenage boy in a bowler hat whose face was as ruddy as the woman’s. He had a coiled whip in his belt.
    â€œThere’s the son,” Alexander whispered. “Rutherford. Even worse than Mr. and Mrs. Pratcherd.”
    â€œWhat are they doing here?” Frances asked.
    Alexander bent his head to see the sky out the window. “It must be around noon. They usually come into town around this time. She visits the dressmaker’s, and Rutherford chews the fat with some fellow at the gun shop. I always make my trips into town earlier so that I can avoid them. But I guess we got a late start today.”
    â€œSo what do we do?” Jack asked. “Just wait until they’re gone?”
    â€œWait
here
?” Frances quivered. Jack could sense that she still didn’t like being in Whitmore, and he was inclined to agree. Hiding out in some fellow’s shed wasn’t any better than being out in the middle of town. In some ways, it was even worse.
    Harold was the only one who wasn’t anxious. “We can play in here,” he said. He stood on his toes and tried to reach a hat that hung high on a peg until Frances shooed him away from the wall.
    â€œI don’t know if we should stay. The Pratcherds are out there. . . .” Alexander paused, his voice changing back to a whisper. Jack couldn’t help but notice that Alexander had turned a little pale. “And since they’re around, it means Sheriff Routh is nearby as well.”
    Jack took in a quick breath. “Really?” Mrs. Routh had been nice, but that didn’t mean her husband would take kindly to runaways.
    â€œThey always meet after she’s done shopping,” Alexander said. “The sheriff looks over the wagon, and she always asks him how many orphans are