"My, my, Livie," I said, playfully. "From your deepening hue, I can see you have a warm opinion of silent James."

Livie giggled and shrugged her shoulders. However, the smile on her face was not that of a childlike crush, but rather the reflection of a vulnerable woman's heart. I envied the amorous swirl in her eyes, which so sharply contrasted with the vacant eyes of my counterparts who existed in marriages arranged like business deals struck long before their hearts could awaken with love.

"Come over here, young'uns, so you ain't trampled." Granny Morgan greeted us like a mother hen corralling her chicks. She patted the stacked bales of hay, signaling us to sit.

Mabelle swayed and hummed as the music gained momentum. Sensing our approach, she paused to echo Granny's declaration. "Tuck yo'self in behind Granny. Best place fo' stayin' warm and out o' the way."

Mabelle's pocked eyes rolled back and forth as she reached her hands out and groped the air. "Is this here the Blessin' girl I hear tell of ?"

"Yes, ma'am," I said, stepping toward her to let her hands find mine.

Her plump fingers squeezed my hands and pulled me nearer. "The good Lawd give you a fittin' name, chile. Jes' like yo' mama and papa."

Her words took me off guard, because in all of my time at Hillcrest, no one with the exception of Aunt Augusta ever spoke of my parents. "Miss Mabelle, did you know my mother and father?"

"Of course, chile, we all-"

Granny Morgan laid a firm hand on her sister's arm. "Hush up now, Mabelle. An ol' soul with hair as white as yorn don't recollect proper or know nothin' 'bout nothin'. Ain't that right, ol' gal?"

Granny patted Mabelle's hand in a way that delivered a message that transcended her words. Mabelle released my hands and receded back into her own world, humming and swaying to the spirituals. Livie grabbed an armful of corn and nudged me up on the hay, where we settled behind Granny Morgan. Tucked away in this makeshift balcony, I found discreet respite, although the mournful strains of Mabelle's serenade tugged at my heart. Countless times in the past, I had heard her sing when she sat on the stoop of the mercantile. Melodies filled with random tales and meaningless words seemed designed to fill the emptiness of a day. But somehow they cut deep in me now and released a dormant ache. Thankfully, the laughter and fiddle music around us pulled me from my stupor.

Any doubt I had about coming down into Mud Run was replaced with curiosity about the people who lived behind the abiding, complacent faces that moved through my life, barely noticed. As the shadows spread into twilight and most of the corn was cribbed, the fires grew into excited infernos. The blazing halo gave light to the twisting and turning pairs immersed in musical escape and contentment. Smaller cook fires produced a stream of sweet potatoes and turnip greens for anyone seeking to fill their wooden bowls. Eventually, Livie and I left the balcony and mixed among the revelers as they ate and clapped in unison. Occasionally, though, Mabelle's voice rose above the others and had me wondering what she knew of my mother and father. And why was it being hidden from me?

Chapter 13.

Sweeping tentacles of fire whooshed high into the midnight sky as the mountain of harvested corn was leveled, shucked, and cribbed. Six crates of jugged corn whiskey, a limited allowance offered by Uncle Mooney, were now empty. The enthusiasm of the inebriated pushed the music and carousing into a feverish uproar. The blend of fiddles, mouth organs, and banjos shook my heart free of the social corset in which I had been dutifully bound. I stepped in tune and clapped my hands, discreetly at first, then with complete abandon as Elijah's small, rough hands held mine and bounced me in a circular two-step. I laughed shamelessly as my skirt whirled above my exposed ankles, until I finally reached down with one hand and hoisted my hemline halfway up my calf so I could move without restriction.

Swept up in my unguarded enthusiasm, I lost sight of Livie, who had remained faithfully at my side throughout the night. As I turned around the dance floor with Elijah, I caught a glimpse of Livie leaning against the corner of the blacksmith barn. Next to her, James straddled an overturned rain barrel, keeping his usual quiet distance outside the circle of activity. Livie shifted shyly as she spoke to him, her dewy eyes soft with warmth and sweetness. James hunched forward, delicately working his small carving knife up and down a smooth piece of cherrywood as a slow tumble of wood shavings fell around his feet. Livie's face radiated as she spoke with him. He stood and brushed his trousers clean of wood dust, then removed his hat, holding it awkwardly in his thick hands. Words pa.s.sed from him to her. Livie responded with shining eyes. Then, to my surprise, James' terminally solemn face melted into an engaging grin accentuated by a timid nod inviting Livie to join him. Livie floated to his side and as they settled onto the barrel together, he pressed a gentle hand against the small of her back. They were the picture of contentment embraced by the bright aura of fire. And though it went unnoticed by most, or perhaps dismissed as nothing more than the flicker of firelight, I recognized the spark of infatuation when I saw it.

"Does yo' feet need to rest a spell, Miz Hannah?"

I looked down into Elijah's cocoa bean eyes and realized I had stopped dancing. My heart skipped with excitement from my exertions of the evening. Elijah's angelic face lit up with a smile, unaware of the powerful impact his acceptance of me had within the circle of Runians. His innocent gesture of bringing me onto the dance floor had given me a gateway into their lives. Gone were the sedated bows and curtsies that hung like a curtain between their world and mine. The absolute real-ness of the night dizzied me, and for a fleeting moment, I wished the music would never end.

"Do you want me to fetch you some cider, Miz Hannah?"

Elijah's words were punctuated by the fiddle bow stroking a quick and unexpected end to the delightful jig. As the musicians set aside their instruments to wipe their brows, the crowd continued stomping and singing, their spontaneous momentum never waning. But I savored a momentum all my own. I tucked my fingers beneath Elijah's chin and raised it in a playful yet sincerely felt gesture of grat.i.tude.

"Thank you for the lovely dance, Mr. Elijah," I said with a delicate bow of the head and curtsy. "It was truly my honor to have such a fine partner, but I do not wish to be utterly selfish by keeping you all to myself when there are so many other pretty girls waiting to share your time. I shall go over and dip my own cider while you run off and have some fun."

Elijah beamed a satisfied smile as he turned on his heels and strolled away toward a group of giggling girls, his chin still high in the air. I walked my tired feet across the dance floor to where a gaggle of women, some young, some old, whispered around the cider barrel. A tall, lanky Runian named Isabel dipped a hollow gourd in the cider barrel and handed it to me as I approached. Isabel worked in the fields, so I did not know her well, but I smiled as I accepted the tart cider from her. As I sipped the cool refreshment, she watched my movement with a perplexed gaze.

The crowd thinned as the gray predawn sky brought with it drowsy completeness. Light snow began falling tranquil and silent, a fitting end to a celestial evening. Many of the older Runians who had nodded off during the night now shuffled with stiff, labored steps to the cabins hidden in the shadows. An intimate group of coupled pairs, including Livie and James, swayed to the strains of a lone fiddler, serenading them with a waltz so tender it was impossible for courtship not to be set in motion.

The smile I held from afar drained my last bit of vigor and with it my ability to hold open my heavy eyelids, which bobbed and sagged with exhaustion. Unwilling to face the gloomy trek back up the hill, where isolation and loneliness would be my only companions, I decided to seek respite in Livie's cabin at the far edge of Mud Run. I slipped through the shadows that laced the path between the huddled cabins. If not for the remnant of moonlight still fighting the dawn, I would have stumbled over rocks and tree stumps hidden along the way. Still, the gray mist enveloped me, and I became disoriented and led astray. A hoot owl mocked my ignorance from above. I paused to regain my bearings, but was a.s.saulted by the dank stench of rat droppings and chicken manure, a bleak reminder of the harsh and desperate conditions within Mud Run.

Without warning, a rough, clammy hand latched on to my wrist. I shrieked, and when my frantic eyes found blank eyes staring at me through the mist, my body erupted into molten fear. I twisted my hand to break free, but could not release it. The eyes moved toward me, shedding the haze between us, and revealed the weathered outline of one of Uncle Mooney's ragged slave women, who was nameless to me. She was a tall, meatless woman with one hand gnarled into a claw. Her infirmity was the result of a suffocating August day several years earlier, when heat and lack of water had collapsed her in the fields. Now she earned her keep by looking after the children left motherless during the day when the able-bodied women worked the fields.

The strength brought on by a lifetime of labor flowed powerfully from her good hand, still clutching my wrist. Her mouth, which hung as crippled as her claw, garbled a few low groans with no meaningful form. Using her claw, she gestured gruffly up through the trees. Shrouded by a thin veil of tumbling snowflakes, the gray outline of Hillcrest stood lifeless in the distance. I shook my head.

"No, I do not seek the path up the hill. I am trying to find my way to Livetta's cabin."

She c.o.c.ked her head and moaned with disapproval. Poking twice more toward Hillcrest, the woman let the grossly bent angle of her wrist punctuate her insistence that I leave Mud Run. By now the rug-thumping fright eased in my heart and in its place came steady resolve.

"Old woman, I know you mean well, but I insist you direct me toward Livetta's cabin."

With a resigned grimace wrinkling the side of her face not robbed of expression, the woman released my wrist and shuffled like a broken pinwheel in a strained half circle. She pointed down a narrow trail beyond the dull gleam of candlelight illuminating the cabins nearest us. She turned back to me long enough to mumble something befitting a stern warning, then scuffed away until all I could hear of her was the sound of her dragging leg.

I hurried among the cabins, some silent and others with the soft hum of songs meant to coax sleep. The path darkened beneath a line of hickories, then opened into what I recognized as the nearest cabin cl.u.s.ter to the upper fields. Livie's cabin was the last one along the back edge, and the only one of the cl.u.s.ter with the faint glow of firelight leaking from its door frame. Even though I had never stepped inside its log walls, I ran toward her home like it was my safe haven I creaked open the door and was met by the scents of damp leather, straw, and earthy simplicity. Orange embers dozed near dormancy in the stone fireplace of a hazy room. A small table with benches centered the room, and two cast-iron pots hung from pegs above the hearth. Near the smoldering ash sat a wooden bucket with a small ring of water puddling at its base. There were two modest bed frames huddled against opposite walls. Each held a straw mattress draped with a lump of frayed blankets and one fairly st.u.r.dy quilt. The bedding struck me as inadequate, considering the limited warmth put forth by the meager ashes that gasped for life from across the room.

Without warning, one of the lumps bolted up. I reeled backward against the door, and would have screamed if the force of the collision had not knocked the breath from my lungs. The ebony reflection of my surprise stared out at me from beneath her blanket. I had forgotten Livie shared her cabin with another slave girl who had not yet been matched for breeding. I recognized Fatima from our time together in the sewing room.

"Excuse me," I said with awkward embarra.s.sment. "I did not mean to wake you."

Realizing I wanted nothing from her, Fatima burrowed back under her covers. I was now dizzy with exhaustion, so without further consideration of my surroundings, I folded my weary body onto the empty bed nearest the fireplace. The straw mattress was stiff and p.r.i.c.kly, making me long for the crisp linen sheets and thick, warm quilt tucked neatly over my feathered mattress. However, in spite of my dependency on the fine comforts accompanying wealth, I was not yet prepared to let go of my day of immunity from pretense and distinction. Shucking day awoke new understanding in me, and left me as raw as the harvest. Much like the stripped corn prepared for the coming winter, I too was made ready for new purpose by the hardened hands of the oppressed. Wrapped in a tattered quilt and with the lilt of Mabelle's mournful songs beckoning me, I sank into sleep.

"Wake up, Hannah! He's here! I seen him."

Livie jerked me to my feet and shook me until the fog cleared from my groggy head. Through the dimness of dawn, I saw Livie's wide eyes snapping against her strained face. My heart jolted to life as I realized I was still in her cabin.

"Has Twitch returned with Aunt Augusta?" I lurched, pulling the door ajar. "She must not find me here, Livie."

"No, no . . ." Livie had me by the sleeve and pulled me into the bite of a cold morning.

I fought against her, but her strength had me stumbling along after her. A thin crust of frosty snow crunched beneath our feet as she tugged me across the back edge of Mud Run. Before we broke through the last line of trees, I grabbed the branch of an azalea bush as an anchor and brought us to a sudden halt. Our breath churned rolls of mist through the icy air between us.

"Livie, this is serious. I shall be of no use to you if Aunt Augusta sends me away. If she finds me here, she will disown me and banish me from the plantation. What's more, no matter how cruel my fate, you and the others will bear worse. Aunt Augusta will take great pleasure in levying punishment on all of you. It will be swift and merciless, because she will see this as the worst kind of betrayal."

"No, Hannah," Livie panted. "Miz 'Gusta ain't home." Urgency sparked from her fingertips as she took my hand and dragged me to where the trees opened into the upper fields. "I seen him up yonder."

"What are you talking about, Livie? Who did you see?"

"Marcus," she squealed. "Marcus came back, jes' like he said he would. James and me was behind the tobacc'y barn, and I caught a glimpse of someone runnin' through the trees up there. James said I was plumb crazy 'cuz he didn't see nothin'. But I took off, 'cuz I knowed what I seen."

"Are you certain it was Marcus? There were lots of folks wandering around last night."

"I know the difference 'tween wanderin' and runnin'," she shot back, tight with frustration. "If you think I'm crazy like James says, then I'll go off and find him by myself."

I reached out and gripped her shoulders in steady loyalty. "I do not think you are crazy, Liv. Show me where you saw him."

I followed in the direction Livie pointed. We raced to the upper edge of the field where two large boulders called Castle Rock were wedged at an angle against each other. A knotted pine, wounded by years of winter gales, twisted from behind the rocks and slouched over them like a thatched roof. The heavy lid of daybreak had not yet blinked entirely open, but there was no mistaking the sudden whisking movement within the gray shadows of the formation as we approached. Livie exploded by me, no doubt seeing the illusive figure ducking from sight.

Excitement drove my feet against the back of Livie's heels, matching her step for step. My heart took an unexpected leap. Is it possible? Is Marcus there in the shadows? Is it possible? Is Marcus there in the shadows?

There was no time to reflect or wonder. When our feet brought us within an apple toss of the rock, the figure shot from the hovel and sprinted back through the trees where the mountain's slow rise weighted our legs.

"Marcus! Oh, Marcus!" Livie called in a hushed voice.

The dark figure did not respond but stumbled in one direction, then another. The morning mist hung low on the snow-kissed fauna. Its weightlessness swirled beneath our footsteps as we sliced nearer to him. It seemed our familiarity with the terrain gave us the advantage, until we closed the gap enough to realize the figure was hobbled and exhausted. My heart stuttered with disappointment.

"Marcus, don't run off. It's me, Livetta!"

Livie's emotion must have clouded her vision, because it was clear to me the figure we were chasing was not Marcus. The man in the woods was shirtless, with torn, frayed trousers barely clinging to his shrunken hips. Even with his back to me and his skin as dark as a scorched chestnut, I recognized the cut of his shoulders was not as broad as the powerful image of Marcus emblazoned in my mind. He was not as tall and the marks on his back were fresh and pocked with sores. The man slipped on the frosty dew and sprawled against the base of a weeping willow. He dragged himself within reach of a willow branch that dangled close to the ground and hoisted himself upright.

"You ain't . . ." Livie gasped. "Who you be?" She choked back tears and sought no answer for her question. Livie wilted when struck with the realization that Marcus had not come back.

With a grunt, the wayward slave bolted from us. Within a dozen steps, he was snared in a bramble patch. The th.o.r.n.y claws clung to him like a posse securing its bounty. The harder he struggled to free himself, the tighter it harnessed him, nipping his skin from his elbows to his shoeless feet, which were cracked and bleeding of their own accord. Dry blood caked from one ear and beneath both of his nostrils. He shrank as far away from us as the clutching thorns allowed. He convulsed with antic.i.p.ation, of what I'm not sure, but our hesitation calmed his struggle. The fact we were not armed or calling for help seemed to nudge his terror toward desperate hope. He whispered hoa.r.s.ely through parched, flaking lips.

"I jes' want to get back home to ol' Kentuck. 'Taint gonna die here wit' n.o.body knowin' what become of ol' Hobey. Ma.s.sa George been good to me and mine. My woman is prob'ly heartbroke, thinkin' I left her and the chilluns behind. I jes' wanna go home."

Livie stood limp and detached, as though she hadn't heard a word he said. I considered him carefully as he shivered for mercy in the brambles. He was in a bad way and a stranger to me, but I saw Winston in him, and the image of how pained Esther Mae and Elijah had been after Winston had been whipped in town by Twitch. I thought of stoic James, hollowed by the loss of his family, and poor Livie still mourning the separation from her brother. Like them, the figure pleading from the bushes was no longer a slave to me, but simply a man who wanted to reunite with his family. I hurried over and yanked at the branches until the sharp spurs released. The man burst from his p.r.i.c.kly cage and never turned back. I started to call out, but realized silence was his greatest a.s.set. And as the first blades of sunshine lanced the gray mist around us, the mysterious man disappeared into the trees. Livie's hope of seeing Marcus ebbed in the wake of the runaway. I went to her and gathered her in my arms. Livie sobbed in my embrace, and as my tears joined with hers, a painful ache stirred within me. The depth of my sorrow was not only for my heartbroken friend, but also for me. As much as I loved Livie and she loved me, I understood for the first time that she was not mine to keep.

Chapter 14.

When I tucked Livie into bed, she did not utter a word. She curled among her quilts with her eyes open but focused on nothing. The chill of the cabin seeped through me as I sat on a chair next to her bed. Silence hung heavy in the room until Livie was lulled to sleep by the distant crack of an ax. The lonely caw of a crow echoed through the trees, beckoning the new day. Two voices, then another rose with the sun as Mud Run began to stir with the morning birds. Exhaustion weighted my eyes until I could no longer will them wide and awake. My head bobbed its last resistance before drooping into sleep.

I floated deeper into unconsciousness, casting my fears and worries into the abyss when suddenly my eyes were pulled open by the creak of the cabin door.

" 'Scuse me, Miz Hannah," James mumbled in a low, throaty voice. "Jes' checkin' on Livetta. She run off in a tizzy last night."

"Come in, James," I said, standing to meet half his height. His size alone made him commanding, but it was offset by the gentleness in his voice and the concern in his eyes. "Livie has suffered a great disappointment," I continued. "She has finally given in to sleep; however, I am very worried about her."

James nodded, then stepped closer to take in the sight of Livie limp beneath her covers. Uncle Mooney often said James was built for work, with his fry-pan hands powerful and skilled for the farrier duties required between the two plantations. However, shed of his hammer and anvil, James looked as shaken and vulnerable as Livie. He shifted with uncertainty on callused feet that bulged through the seams of his boots. Rawhide strips were wound strategically around his peeling soles to hold them together and mark an unsightly measure of a year's worth of sweat and toil.

"Shouldn't have stripped her of hopeful notions, the way I did last night. It's the one rightly thing we got fo' ourselves," James said more to himself than to me. He pulled his eyes from Livie and added, "No disrespect, Miz Hannah."

I nodded to a.s.sure him he could speak freely without fear of repercussions. And truth be told, I was drawn by the curiosity of not ever having heard James utter an entire sentence before. I saw him as stoic and driven, not much different from a plow horse with blinders in place, plodding from task to task. He usually appeared removed and uninterested in all else but the next ch.o.r.e at hand. Now I was fascinated by James and the ease with which he displayed his sincere attachment and tender concern.

"I knowed it couldn't be the brother she is always goin' on about. Chances of him gettin' north ain't likely, but thinkin' he could make it back down here, even if he had a mind to, is jes' plain fool-hearted. But holdin' out hope fo' him sure do light her up bright as a beacon."

I was surprised when James wasn't more guarded in his thoughts. Obviously, he had some awareness of the relationship Livie and I shared. It was a relief, because it released me from the cautious veil I had worn for nearly a year.

"Since the day he left her, Livie has been steadfast in her wish for his return," I confided aloud for the first time.

"When you got no hope nor wishes left, yo' heart goes to stone," James whispered. "Livetta says I is strong as a grizzly bear 'cuz o' the mighty boulder I carry inside me since my family was sold off by the ma.r.s.e who owned me befo' Ma.s.sa Reynolds. Truth is, last night with Livetta, I felt my heart a-beatin' fo' the first time in a long spell. Made me remember what wishful thinkin' can do fo' a lonely soul. Don't want nothin' or n.o.body takin' that from her. A heart o' stone is a heavy burden to carry."

Tears burned like hot puddles in my eyes. The beauty of raw, uninhibited affection was nonexistent in my world, and watching it flow so easily and naturally from James to Livie opened a door in me. He was a man whose heart ached for the woman he loved. We were bonded by the ache we shared, and I felt sameness rather than difference.

"Would you like to sit with her awhile, James?"

He settled onto the chair I offered. "I'm much obliged."

"I must attend to some things but did not want to leave Livie alone."

James nodded up at me from his chair, allowing a quick acknowledgment of mutual trust and respect. When I stepped from the cabin into the bright sunshine of a clear new day, a nagging question swirled in my fatigued mind. Who was the downtrodden slave that ran through the night, not to escape, but rather to return to his master? Who was he running from? Who was the downtrodden slave that ran through the night, not to escape, but rather to return to his master? Who was he running from? And though my body begged for sleep, I lifted my skirt and trudged to the upper field with hope that the receding chill of morning did not take with it the answer I sought. Alone in my quest, I wished Colt was home and not so long away. And though my body begged for sleep, I lifted my skirt and trudged to the upper field with hope that the receding chill of morning did not take with it the answer I sought. Alone in my quest, I wished Colt was home and not so long away.

The morning mist lifted while most of Mud Run slept away the fatigue of their nightlong revelry. The lonely coo of a mourning dove halted when the echo of someone chopping wood began again. It was the same axman I heard earlier, and could now pinpoint somewhere within the fog-shrouded hillside of West Gate. But as I walked the field, the crunch of the crisp snow beneath my feet was the only sound of interest to me. The secret held by the snowy ground cover would not linger in the presence of the rising sun, so I retraced the footprints Livie and I left behind earlier, slicing the center of the upper field with a crescent frown.

I slowed my walk at the tree line, where our stampede of footprints trampled the frosty coating. The b.l.o.o.d.y outline of bare feet stood out from the others. A cool breeze trickled down the mountainside and twirled a strip of torn trouser snagged within the brambles. I plucked the cloth from the thorns and held it as gently as I would a silk ribbon. Its coa.r.s.e surface was stained with salty, dry sweat and spilled blood. The diverging white and dark residue melded together in the runaway's struggle.

I dismissed the thought of following the path up the mountainside. The sunrise in the east would orient the errant slave and redirect him back toward the plantation he sought in Kentucky.

I looked over my shoulder from where the footsteps appeared. The line staggered its way to the far edge of the field, where it dipped out of sight toward West Gate. I scampered along the bloodstained path, hoping to find its origin before the whole of the plantation awakened. The ground had already begun drinking in the rusty prints, leaving them barely recognizable by the time I reached the small, rocky ravine that tumbled into the backside of West Gate. I froze at the sight of Twitch's plot of land a short climb below me. The pen of fiendish hounds reeked of musk and manure. Although only ten in number, the dogs slept with the edginess of a restless mob. Ankle- deep holes pocked the ground along the base of the chicken wire as proof of their urgency to run wild. I was certain if I did not calm my surging emotion, the perceptive hounds would spring to life at any moment.

The dawning day stopped and held its breath with me. With Twitch away, the back lot was eerily silent. Even the pop of the axman halted, leaving dead air pressing from all sides. My eyes were drawn to the two outbuildings that stood between the carriage house and the pen. The smaller of the two structures had a cracked shovel and two broken tobacco machetes propped against its open door. From what I could see, it was not as much a toolshed as it was an a.r.s.enal for punishment. Several sets of leg irons hung from a peg on the backside of the door. More chains and a neck collar were strewn across the floor. Several whips, including a cat-o'-nine-tails, lay draped over a table. All were devices I had seen hundreds of times, but with the warmth and laughter of the previous night still pulsating through me, the sight of these tools sent a chill through me.

The second building was grossly deteriorated, with its frame buckled to one side. If not for a row of bowed planks wedged strategically against its lopsided weight, it would have collapsed into a pile of splinters and dust. Its thick tar roof was cracked and peeling; the result of extreme seasons of hot and cold. The crooked building was peculiar because it had no windows. Similar to the top of a corncrib, it had two narrow slots along the roof line at each end for drafting. The door, however, stood strong, with an extra plank nailed securely to its base to close the gap created by the lopsided skeleton. The lone impressive feature of the building was the large padlock clamped to its hinge, displayed like a badge of honor on the lapel of a war-proven commandeer.

Near the corner of the structure, there was a ditch dug like those in the dog pen, the soil dark and loose as though newborn. I considered the hole more carefully, struck by the odd sense of something amiss. The thought catapulted from my mind when the sound of boots made me duck for cover. Rounding the far corner of the carriage house, w.i.l.l.y Jack appeared with a pile of split logs loaded in his arms. I dove into the brittle gra.s.s with only a knee-high line of rocks to conceal me. w.i.l.l.y Jack came only as far as the back corner of Uncle Mooney's carriage house. He struggled down onto one knee, then let the logs tumble from his arms. After taking a moment to restack the logs into a neat pile, the fierce slave driver stood and turned back in my direction, brushing his hands together to clear the dust. I pressed my body tighter against the cold ground and rested my cheek on a smooth rock. I held my breath as I watched him through a sliver between two adjoining rocks. He turned away; then as if he smelled fear in the air, w.i.l.l.y Jack stepped back in my direction. His boots crunched the stony earth in a deliberate march toward the slope dropping from the field where I lay. He closed the distance between us by half before stopping to puzzle over the horizon behind me.

My heart screamed with terror. Each thrust in my chest seemed to lift me from the ground in an effort to betray my presence. w.i.l.l.y Jack was close enough for me to see the dark layer of whiskers that spiraled tight against his mahogany jawline, except where two long scars carved upward from his cheek and across the length of his ear, a savage gift delivered by one of the frenzied hounds he shepherded for Twitch. w.i.l.l.y Jack c.o.c.ked his gnarled ear into the breeze. As he scanned what was left of the morning mist, he reached inside his ragged woolen jacket and pulled out a plug of tobacco. He pushed it deep inside his cheek and chomped with the snarl of a hungry wolf. Then, as if losing interest in the distraction, he shot a stream of spittle against the rocks below me. w.i.l.l.y Jack hoisted his ax back onto his shoulder and turned back in the direction he came.

I waited breathlessly, afraid to move until w.i.l.l.y Jack disappeared beyond the far side of the carriage house. I hedged to my knees and listened, my senses razor sharp. When I heard the knock of w.i.l.l.y Jack's ax resume amid the distant trees, I let go a tremulous breath. However, before my terror completely released, it caught in my throat and wound tight as a knot. Still on my knees, I leaned closer to the rock where I had just pressed my face for cover. There, imprinted on its smooth surface, was the clear, unmistakable outline of a bloodied foot. The path of blood trailed straight down the slope and disappeared into the small ditch clawed in the dirt at the corner of the crooked building. How could it be? A runaway from West Gate? No slave ever slipped away from the plantation. How could it be? A runaway from West Gate? No slave ever slipped away from the plantation.

The torn strip of cloth I had plucked from the brambles fluttered in my fingertips. When the escape was discovered, the hounds would be unleashed on the scent of the bloodied footprints. In my hand was the perfect bait for confusion. I ran to an azalea and broke loose its longest branch. Tying the cloth to the stick, I touched the tip on the footprint staining the rock, then ran back across the field, dragging the runaway's scent against the ground to where the footprints met the brambles. I traced circles in the ground to ensure some scent was deposited, but instead of following where the now-melted footprints had turned up the hill, I made a new trail straight across the upper field and then down into the wooded acreage dropping to the river. I stumbled through the trees as if running for my own life, slowing only when I reached the swampy marsh that edged the river, north of the Horse's Bend. I sc.r.a.ped what was left of the shredded cloth back and forth in the moist ground to clear the imprint of my shoes so they would not betray my efforts. Then I flung the branch into the current and watched as it was swept into the bend.

Gathering my dress around my waist, I waded knee-deep into the chilly water and sloshed downstream, where I exited the river through a patch of cattail and marsh gra.s.s. The sights and sounds of the morning were lost amid my desperate breaths as I stumbled back through the trees toward Hillcrest. When I thought I could run no farther, the profile of the main house loomed on the crest above me. I ascended the cliff that bordered the back of the house, where I dropped to my knees, exhausted by the weight of my drenched clothing.

With one final burst, I pushed through the rear entrance of the kitchen. Once inside, I sank to the floor. After a late night of celebration and the reprieve of Aunt Augusta's absence, Granny Morgan had yet to warm the hearth. I stripped bare and scrubbed my clothes at the kitchen pump, then draped them over the table to dry. My naked body shivered as I made my way through the house and up the stairs. The scent of verbena welcomed me into the seclusion of my bedchamber. I pulled back the drapery on my front window and watched Winston lumber up the hill from Mud Run to the stable. It seemed I had lived and expired ten times since the last time I watched Mud Run come alive with the rise of morning, when in truth it had been only one day. My day spent in the slave quarters was certainly a day lived, steeped in good and bad, and far too full of activity and interaction for loneliness to take root.

I knelt next to my bed and whispered a prayer of thanks, and asked that safe pa.s.sage be granted to the mysterious slave somewhere in the hills. I reached beneath the bed and pulled out Livie's small box of treasures. Along with her mother's Bible, she had several stones that held meaning for her, remembrances of her earlier life. A hair ribbon given to her by her sister, and small figure Marcus had carved from darkened cherrywood. There was no detail of features, but Livie swore it was the image of Marcus. I could feel him there in the wood, warm and strong against my hand. I lay back across my bed and traced my finger along its curve.

Why did my heart leap with excitement when Livie claimed she had seen Marcus? Why did I still have his neckerchief, which had fallen from Livie's ankle before she entered the river, folded and hidden in my wardrobe closet?

Exhaustion and confusion made it impossible to sort out. As I drifted off to sleep, the yelping of dogs yanked me from the bed and across the room to the rear window. A line of hounds raced along the upper field from the direction of West Gate. w.i.l.l.y Jack ran in their wake, clutching a shotgun and chains. I held my breath when they reached the brambles and one dog shot up the hill toward the peak. The rest of the pack sniffed and bellowed in circles, then took off toward the river where I had laid the false trail. w.i.l.l.y Jack went after the one wayward hound and booted him back in the direction of the others. When the herd stampeded down over the hill into trees, the smug smile that released across my face reflected back at me in the window gla.s.s. Knowing this momentary reprieve would be brief, I crawled into bed and fell into a silent abyss.

Chapter 15.

"Get on out the way, Miz Hannah," Esther Mae said, pulling the window drapes wide to bathe my room with the bright rays of a noontime sun. To my surprise, I still clutched Marcus's carving in my hand. Before Esther Mae took notice, I quickly shoved it beneath my pillow. I had slept half the day away, yet the haze of exhaustion hung around my head like a leaden halo. Esther Mae held the wet dress and stockings I had tossed on the kitchen table. I was tempted to offer false explanation, but believed anything short of the truth would have offended her. So I said nothing.

"We ain't accustomed to havin' you underfoot fo' cleanup, fix-up time. I gots'ta throw open these windows and hang out yo' bedding while the sun is high enough to take the bite from the air. Some o' the gals is gonna beat the dust out o' this here rug while I scrub down these walls with vinegar and water. Now, you best find a quiet corner in the sewin' room so you is out o' the way during the commotion. Only got a week or so befo' Miz 'Gusta gets back, and she be expectin' to find this house sparklin' by the start of Big Times. Dey be fetchin' the Yule log from the swamp any day now."