“Hang in there, Pops. We’re going to have to ride it out here.” Another blast from the gun ricocheted through the scrub.

Suddenly, Gwen heard Joshua calling out in an annoyed voice. “Is one of you idiots firing a gun?” he asked as he strode through the cattails toward them.

“No,” Liam bellowed. “Someone is shooting at me, but they hit Poppy instead. Get down, you fool!”

Joshua’s eyes grew horrified at the sight of blood all over Poppy. He dove for cover, but not before another blast from the gun hit the trunk of a nearby oak tree, spraying chunks of wood and bark that hit him in the face. He scrambled through the underbrush, blood dribbling from the nicks on his face as he reached them.

“Who’s shooting at us?” he asked in appalled wonder. “And why?”

“Probably whoever stabbed Liam last month,” Gwen whispered.

Poppy tried to speak, but Liam’s hand clamped over her mouth made it impossible to understand.

“Let her talk,” Gwen urged, and Liam hesitantly lifted his hand.

“My water broke,” Poppy said.

“Oh, for pity’s sake,” Liam muttered. “We need to keep moving, then. As soon as we get to the trees, we’ll be safer. We’re sitting ducks out here.”

As a group, the four of them inched their way through the tall grass, desperately trying to avoid brushing against the cattails and revealing their location. They barely made any progress, but a full minute had passed and there had been no more shots.

“Maybe we should make a run for it,” Liam said, nodding toward the thick screen of trees ahead.

“I can’t run,” Poppy said. “I can’t even walk. I’ve been shot!”

“I can’t carry you,” Liam said. “I’ve got a healing stab wound in my belly, and I’m not ripping it open for you, Pops.”

“Stop calling me Pops. I’ve been shot!”

“I’ll carry her,” Joshua said, scooting forward. Gwen moved aside, amazed at his courage, but Joshua didn’t hesitate as he reached Poppy and wiggled his arms beneath her.

In the distance came the sounds of shouting and clanging. Was that Bertie’s voice? He was yelling orders, and Gwen risked a glance, spotting a pair of the old aunts banging pots together. Aunt Martha scolded the foolish hunters to stop shooting. Even ancient Uncle Herbert waved a red-checkered tablecloth for attention.

Joshua gaped at the old people heading their way through the cattails and choked out a relieved laugh. “Here comes the cavalry.” He still looked terrified, his complexion a ghastly white against the streaks of blood dribbling down his face. He tentatively raised a hand above the cattails, and there were no more shots.

Bertie came tromping through the scrub, his face red with exertion. “Who on God’s green earth is hunting turkeys while there’s a beach party going on?”