Swearing softly to himself, he dropped over the edge and half slid, half scrambled down the slope, clutching at juniper to slow his descent, flaying his fingers in the process. On a narrow ledge, a man’s height above the floor of the canyon, he found a large puddle of blood, purple-red in the snow. Ice crystals were already forming around the edges. Next to the puddle was the fletched end of a crossbow bolt. She must have broken it off.

No.

“Where are you? I know you’re hurt. Please. Let me help you.” Han knelt, scanning the ground. A scattering of crimson drops led him back into the underbrush.

“I’m coming,” he called. “Don’t shoot me.”

Sliding the longbow from his shoulder, he set it down. Cautiously, he pulled the branches aside, crawling forward on hands and knees, kindling a wizard light on the tips of his fingers to show the way.

She was wedged into a crevice in the rocks, knees drawn up under her chin, a knife resting across her knees, the useless crossbow by her side. She was very still, scarcely breathing, like an animal that hides in the open. Had the light not caught the blade, he might have missed her. But when he got too close, she waved the knife. “Stay back,” she whispered. “Leave me alone. I’m warning you.” She swallowed, licked her lips, lifted her chin stubbornly. “Come any closer and I’ll cut your throat.”

It was Rebecca Morley.

“Rebecca?” Han whispered, amazed relief warring with dismay. He sat back on his heels, his mind churning. His eyes fastened on her knife. Its design mimicked the sword he’d taken from Captain Byrne. The knife was probably his too.

How had she ended up with Captain Byrne? Could Byrne’s bluejackets have been the “rovers” Simon saw in Fetters Ford? But what would they be doing there?

“Rebecca.” Han leaned forward, extending his hand, and she raised the fancy knife again, looking wild-eyed. “Don’t you know me? It’s Han.”

Han realized that he looked like no one’s hero. After weeks on the road, he was shaggy and stubble-faced, lean and grubby. He knew that he too was out of place, probably the last person she’d expect to see.

But still recognizable, right? After all, he’d recognized her.

“It’s all right,” he whispered, unconvincing even to his own ears. “I won’t hurt you.”

She waved a hand dismissively to show she didn’t believe him. She was in bad shape. The snow around her was spattered with blood. One side of her face was purple with bruises, as if she’d been beaten. The other was bloodless and pale. Her hair was shorter than he remembered—it had been cropped since he’d last seen her.

The green eyes were cloudy and confused, the hand holding the blade tremoring.