Free The Last Broken Promise by Grace Walton Page A

up to him.
    He didn’t hesitate. He tilted the bottle to his lips. His scrawny Adam’s apple jerked up and down as he swallowed. He smacked his lips and wiped his mouth on the back of a dirty sleeve. “That’s right good, ma’am, right good. What is it?. It don’t taste like what my Pa used to brew.”
    “This, me boyo.” She patted the little bottle lovingly. “Is imported French brandy.” Dorcas took another sip, savoring the smoky taste of the liquor. “My nephew sends me a bottle every year, for medicinal purposes, of course.” She passed it back to him.
    He took another long swig. “It’s got the kick of a mule to it.” He started giggling. “Don’t it?” His knees bent as he went down to sit beside her. Stretching long, skinny legs out, he handed the brandy back.
    “Oh aye,” she agreed amicably. “My poor dead husband used to say brandy could heal a broken heart and cure the pox.”
    “Do tell?” The man’s words were said slowly and carefully. “Can I have another taste, ma’am?” he wheedled.
    Dorcas gave him a blinding smile and nodded. “Surely you can, boyo. Just let me take a wee sip first.” She upended the bottle and drank deeply. Unsteady hands passed it back to the hired man.
    The bottle almost slipped to the ground before his fumbling fingers saved it, at the last possible second. “Ma’am?” he asked as he chugged the liquor down his gullet. “Ma’am?” His bleary eyes searched for her. Finally he found her. Dorcas was slumped sideways against the tree trunk snoring softly. “You asleep, ma’am?” When he didn’t get an answer, he shrugged and drained the last bit of liquor from the small bottle.
    Lurching to his feet, he stumbled over to the weary horses and unsaddled them. Their heads were lowered in fatigue and they scarcely even nibbled at the fodder he gathered for them. Taking two musty blankets from his bedroll, he covered the sleeping old woman with one. Spreading out the other blanket on the grass, he lay down and rolled until he resembled a big lumpy cocoon. Without a few minutes, he fell asleep. Neither Dorcas nor the man gave the fleeing girl another thought.
    Jess’s lips were clamped tight as she navigated the tired horse through the twilight. The woods became frightening at night. Shadows became demons. Wild animals prowled seeking food. Why hadn’t Dorcas caught up with her yet? The girl’s thoughts were worried. Her nerves were on edge. Where was her aunt? When she’d ridden off with such bravado, Jess had believed her aunt would be following close behind. Dorcas Moore was not the type of woman to let a young girl wander off into the forest by herself, especially not her own niece. Jess had counted on that. She didn’t want to be riding the rest of the way to Port Wentworth alone. Too much could happen to a solitary traveler, especially a woman. If Aunt Dorcas didn’t catch up with her soon, she’d have to turn back. Dylan would have her head on a platter if he ever found out she’d ridden off by herself.
    A tremor of relief ran through her as she spotted a road through a clearing up ahead. She must be very close to a town, she assured herself. Easing her weary horse onto the wide path was comforting. She rode silently, listening for danger. Her brothers had told her stories of men who waylaid travelers on lonely roads like this one.
    Ancient trees grew like an enveloping tent over the road. They blocked whatever weak moonlight might have been available. The sounds of the night were magnified by the menacing darkness. Every tiny creak of her saddle, every metallic clink of the horse’s bit against the leather reins, sounded loud. At the rise of a hill, the trees thinned. She could see, in the distance below, tiny lights. It must be Port Wentworth. She smelled the salty ocean air on a stagnant breeze. Because she was so busy searching out the horizon for the village, she failed to hear the sound of approaching hoof beats stamping on the narrow,