Her eyes flew open and she immediately wanted to close them again. A band of six Indians formed a human barrier across the trail; four rode horses of their own, the other two shared a sway-backed, muddy-white mare. Clad in buckskins, they carried bows, and their ponies were slat-ribbed and matted. A shotgun lay across Scully’s thighs, and the visitors eyed it warily.

“Jupiter and Zeus!” Abigail cried, sounding as exuberant as a sinner seeing the Light and standing bolt upright in the back of the sleigh. “Indians!”

Evangeline did not turn around, did not look back. In fact, she barely moved her lips. “Abigail Keating,” she hissed, “if you don’t sit down and hold your tongue, I promise you, you shall not have a single sweet for a year—not even at Christmas!”

Scully gave a low chuckle, though his attention remained fixed on the Indians. “You’re a hard woman, Mrs. Keating,” he said.

It was no time to wax indignant, though Evangeline was certain she would have been indignant, had she been at liberty to do so. “What do they want?” she whispered, unable to stop staring at the Indians. They were a frightening sight, there could be no doubt of that, but they were also pathetic.

“Food,” Scully answered. He spoke a few words in a clipped, guttural language, and the man on the best horse rode forward a few paces, replying in kind. “Chippewa,” Scully explained. He reached into the back of the sleigh and grasped a large burlap sack, heretofore occupying the space next to Abigail. He held the bag out, one handed, and the Indian hesitated, then rode forward and snatched it up, peering inside with an expression that might have been comical, if three lives hadn’t been in imminent peril.

“What is that?” Evangeline asked. She didn’t really care, it was just that when she was nervous, she tended to talk too much. The sound of a voice soothed her, even if it was her own.

“The Christmas ham,” Scully answered, with a little sigh of regret.

The Indians collected into a small milling circle of men and horses and conferred among themselves. Evangeline waited, her heart thundering at the base of her throat, fresh out of words.

Presently, one of the Chippewa approached, looked Evangeline over speculatively, spared a ghost of a smile for Abigail, and muttered something. Scully acknowledged the unintelligible remark with one of his own, then the Indian raised an arm into the air and shrieked some sort of blood-curdling command.

Evangeline fully expected to be scalped—and that was taking the optimistic view—but in the next instant the marauders turned tail and rode off into the timber, still crowing and carrying on.

Evangeline sagged against Scully, suddenly lightheaded enough to swoon, and it seemed natural enough for him to put an arm around her shoulders and give her a slight, encouraging squeeze. “They’re gone now,” he said, as if she couldn’t see that for herself. “They’re gone.”

She stiffened, remembering that she was pledged to another. She had no business leaning on Scully, and certainly no business liking it. “I am quite all right, Mr. Wainwright,” she said, somewhat tartly, “but thank you for your concern.”