Lady Mae held her ear in the direction from which she came. There was only the cry of birds seeking shelter and the slowed patter of rain on the canopy above. She climbed to her feet and went up the mountainside. It wasn’t too steep yet, though she knew it’d get rocky quick. Arbuckle had said he’d been high up—the clearing, he’d said—but with the settlement still in view. She’d find it. If he were there she’d ask him how far and was it always, but he was not. She’d have to find it herself, remember the clues in letters written by his own hand. Crawl on her knees, claw at the clay-choked soil until she found his shack, the only thing left of him, if it was left at all. After that, she did not know. Arbuckle had said there was a farther still, past the valley and over the easternmost ridge—maybe she could go where Arbuckle had not, up and up to where the mountain met the sky.

She slung her satchel over her shoulder and walked. The ground gave softly under her boots, but the fallen leaves of the hemlocks, which carpeted the forest floor, kept the mud at bay. She walked quickly up the hilly earth, stopping every so often to turn around and cover her tracks. She might not fool the Deputies, but no resident would be able to pick up her trail. Even if they did, what would they do once night fell? Would they keep going in the thick darkness holding their hands out in front of them? No, they would fall back, retreat to their shacks and shops and be satisfied believing that they’d finally gotten rid of Lady Mae once and for all. She’d rest when evening came; until then she would keep going. It didn’t matter that her thighs burned, that her breath was short and labored. She would not let the residents nor the Deputies get her. And so she walked quickly and with purpose, weaving in between the trees until the rain stopped and the sky darkened.

When it became difficult to see without a lantern or even a match, she stopped next to a large patch of sumac. On her hands and knees, she climbed under the shrub, breaking off the larger branches until she had made a space big enough in which to lay down. By the time she was finished, she could see nothing at all. She leaned back onto the blessed earth and let it cradle her to sleep.

* * *

Lady Mae woke with the birds. The sun had not yet fully risen, but the grosbeaks and orioles were already calling to others through the trees. In the space between sleep and wakefulness, she felt a peace; gone was the weight of her heart, the malaise that sat unmoving just underneath. But then she rolled over, and it all came back: Arbuckle, his shredded bone, the heading knife through skin, the weight of the Deputy, her feet in mud. It choked her, and the heavy sadness made her sick. She spat into the mud, coughing, heaving until the seizing and gagging subsided. Then she slid out from under the red blooms and pulled her satchel out from underneath the shrub.