Duncan cried out, but then he staggered through the doorway and grasped Maggie by the hair with one hand. The knife was protruding from his left shoulder, his shirt was wet with blood, and Maggie felt bile rush into the back of her throat as her captor forced her down the outside stairway.

“What do we do about the sheepherder?” one of the scoundrels called after them.

In the first glimmer of dawn Maggie could see that Duncan was white with pain, but still he propelled her toward his carriage and thrust her inside. “Whatever you like,” he groaned in response. “The bastard’s all yours.”

Maggie, flung onto the dirty floor of the rig, felt sick. Reeve had spent all those years looking for his brother, and now Jamie was about to die because of her. She screamed as Duncan lurched, half conscious, into the carriage and slammed the door. He back-handed her so hard that she tasted blood on her lip, and then moaned, swaying on the seat.

The carriage was rolling, and in the distance Maggie heard the sound of shattering glass. She prayed that Jamie had gotten away.

“Help me,” Duncan mumbled, “please—”

Blood soaked the carriage seat, Duncan’s clothes, and Maggie’s as well. She groped her way onto the seat and saw that the knife had gone into his shoulder, almost to the hilt. She held down another surge of sickness and reached for the stained handle. Only then did she notice that she was clutching Jamie’s medallion, still on its rawhide string, in her hand. Hastily, she dropped it into her bodice. “I’m not sure I’m s-strong enough,” she managed to say.

Duncan’s flesh had turned a pallid gray. “In the name of God, Maggie, try,” he pleaded, and then he fell forward, kneeling on the carriage floor, his upper body sprawled across the opposite seat.

Trapped beneath him, Maggie had to squirm free. “We need a doctor!” she screamed out the window to the driver.

“No,” Duncan rasped, “no doctors—oh, God, Margaret, please help me—”

As far as Maggie was concerned, this man was a murderer, among other things, but she could not ignore his pleas for help. Kneeling beside him, muttering a fervent and insensible prayer, she grasped the handle of Jamie’s knife in both hands and pulled as hard as she could.