Gemma, being Gemma, paused and immediately began running through the appropriate treatment of sprains in her mind. She had no cool water to soak in, nor salts, nor even strips to bind and support the joint. Resolving upon the one thing she could do, which was to raise her wrist above her heart to diminish swelling, she cradled her right hand high on her left shoulder and supported the entire arm with her other hand. She imagined she looked as though she were scratching her own back. Then she put all that consideration aside and moved forward to inspect the wreckage.

Someone had come riding into the village and in a matter of seconds had devastated the entire preparations for today's festival, including Gemma's special project, Farby's first country dance assembly. Despite that, Gemma's first concern was for the man who lay injured beneath the shattered remains of the village's old pavilion.

And the ram, of course. "Is Shepherd Orren's ram all right?" She looked to the nearest farmer. "He took no injury?"

"Oh aye, Missus. 'e's right as rain, no doubt. No thanks to that big off-comed 'un."

That meant "stranger." Just ahead of Gemma, two of the younger men struggled with a piece of shingled roofing, which they heaved away with timed grunting.

"There he is. That's him." The other men peered at the stranger.

"I never seen him afore. He donna be from any village in Swaledale."

The man on the ground was very long, which matched Gemma's brief impression of his height. He had lost his hat and his dark hair covered half his face as he lay upon his side. He wore a deep blue coat and buckskin breeches with tall black boots.

London. Gemma wasn't sure how she knew that. After all, there were many large towns and cities in England where men on a fine horse could come from. But he looked like London to her. She was certain she was correct. Perhaps it was his finely made but worn clothing, or the careful polish of his boots although she could see the soles were in need of refurbishment.

One long arm lay stretched out toward her, the large hand open palm upward as if in plea. Even his hand look like London. A gentleman's hand, with naught but a horseman's callouses, unscarred by hard labor.

All this she took in as she swept past the watching villagers. Keeping her right hand high on her shoulder as she knelt, she took the pulse of that exposed wrist with the fingers of her left hand.