The arm disappears. Footsteps retreat. I wait, quiet as a mouse, my heart in my throat, as he rubs down his gelding. Is it twenty minutes? An hour?

Finally, finally, he sets the curry brush back on the shelf and closes Blackwind’s stall. The barn doors shut behind him, leaving me in safe, blessed gloom, and I loose a single sob of relief.

I stay frozen, waiting for him to get out of earshot. When I can stand it no more, I spring to my feet and toss Peony’s blanket over her back, followed by the saddlebags and saddle. As I buckle on the rifle holster, I whisper, “We have to move fast and quiet, girl. Won’t be more than an hour before he starts to wonder why I’m not home yet.” And sooner or later, he’ll figure out what the missing wagon means.

She bears the saddle without complaint, and I heap praise on her and kiss her nose. After one last tug on her girth strap, I take her reins and pull her from the stall. Gradually, quietly, I crack open the barn door and peer outside. A light snow is beginning to fall. Hiram’s footprints, crisp in the fresh snow, lead toward the house.

The barn door isn’t visible from anywhere in the house except the back porch, so I probably have a few minutes to get out, close the door, and get into the cover of the woods. I’m about to yank her forward when I get an idea.

Blackwind’s saddle hangs over the side of one of the empty stalls. I grab my knife from the belt at my waist and saw through the girth strap. It takes longer than I care for, but unless Hiram’s a dab at bareback riding, it’ll be worth it.

I grab Peony’s nose strap and lead her from the barn. The door squeals when I close it behind us. I swing up onto her back. She dances a little, but I dare to hope it’s with anticipation rather than nervousness over the unfamiliar saddle. I check that Daddy’s Hawken rifle is steady in its holster, and give her flanks a light kick. She lurches forward, eager to go, but I keep her at a quiet, patient walk.

The world is smothered in soft white. Fresh flakes continue to drift down, and I twist in the saddle to make sure they’re filling Peony’s tracks. No birds call, no rodents rustle in the barren underbrush, no wind whistles through the bare branches. The winter-still world holds its breath, waiting for me to give myself away with a sound.