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A knock at a random door . . .
    Hamish, who had grown up in another isolated and independent world, the Highlands of Scotland, said,
It's a verra simple life, this. But it can still breed jealousy and murder. Greed, even.
    Rutledge, fighting the tiredness that was nearly overwhelming him as the fire's warmth began to seep into his cold sinews, caught himself in time or he would have answered the voice aloud, from habit.
    Instead, he said to the farmer, “I think we ought to see what Mrs. Follet has found. I must be on my way again as soon as possible. There's still some distance to travel.”
    “The lass can remain with us. It's for the best, if she's bad hurt. And in your shoes, I'd wait until morning myself. But you know your own business—”
    He was interrupted by his wife, poking her head around the door and saying, “The ribs don't appear to be broken, but they're badly bruised. I've wrapped them as well as I can. And she's warmed up a bit. If you'd want to speak to her, sir—”
    As the two men got to their feet, Mrs. Follet added shyly, “And there's a cup of tea for you as well, if you'd like one.”
    He followed her down the passage to the kitchen, and found the woman he'd rescued still huddled by the fire. Her face was very tired, her eyes looking into an abyss, as if she had finally realized how close to death she'd come.
    Her wet clothes had been replaced by a flannel nightgown, two sizes too large, and the heavy quilt around her served as a robe. Her carriage blanket and his rug had been draped over chairs by the stove to dry, the odor of damp wool strong in the comfortable room. A glass of warmed milk stood at her elbow, half empty. She looked like a child, with the thick dark hair that fell down her back in a braid. A towel around her shoulders had been used to dry it.
    Turning her head as the two men came in, she stirred and began to pluck at the edges of the quilt, as if in modesty.
    Mrs. Follet handed Rutledge a cup of tea, and he realized with the first swallow that she'd added a little something to it. Grateful, he smiled at her. Then he nodded to his passenger and asked gently, “Feeling better?”
    She said, “Yes.” But her voice was a polite thread in the quiet room.
    “What's your name?”
    As if surprised that he didn't know it, she answered with more strength, “Janet Ashton.”
    “Can you tell us what happened, Miss Ashton?”
    That seemed to alarm her, and Mrs. Follet put her hand on the quilted shoulder, comforting her.
    “The horse lost the road,” Mrs. Follet answered for her. “And dragged the carriage a bit before it went over and pulled him down. He injured himself thrashing about in the shafts and finally was still. She couldn't reach him or coax him to his feet.”
    Miss Ashton blinked, as if awakening from a dream. “Yes . . . I—it was frightening, I thought he'd crush the
carriage
—but I couldn't get out, not at first—” She shuddered, and took a deep breath, trying to shut the experience out of her mind. Then she looked up at Rutledge. “You said—you did tell me the horse
is
dead?”
    “He is.” Rutledge pulled a chair away from the table and sat down close to hers. “Is there someone I can contact? Your family must be worried about you.”
    “No—there's no one. No—”
    “What brought you out in this weather?” Follet asked on the heels of her faltering answer. “It was foolishness, a lass like you!”
    But she buried her face in the quilt, refusing to answer.
    Mrs. Follet scolded, “Don't fret her, now! She's that tired. I'll take her up to bed. Jim, there's a warm bottle for her feet. If you'll bring it up in five minutes.” With a soothing croon that would have comforted a child, she coaxed Miss Ashton across the kitchen and down the passage, her arm around the thick wrapping of quilt.
    Follet and Rutledge watched them go. “There's my son's bedroom, at the head of the stairs, if you're agreeable to staying what's left of the night. He's over