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of dried meat and hard tack bread, and she sat down and ate with great relish. Her hearty appetite and the way she devoured whatever he placed in front of her would be deemed scandalous by Boston standards. He wonÂdered what Sarah would think of the dainty portions and timid eating habits of Boston's female population. The thought amused him.
    On the ground nearby, Owen slept, his chest rising and falling visibly with each labored breath.
    Sarah watched the marshal from beneath a furrowed brow. "He don't sound so good," she said.
    Justin leaned against a tree, his arms crossed in front. "I figure there must be a reason why you didn't get away," he said. He expected a reaction and she didn't disappoint him.
    She glanced up quickly, her face etched in confusion. "You ain't thinkin ' that bog was some sort of. . . you know?"
    "Divine intervention?"
    She shrugged. " Somethin ' like that."
    "Can you think of a better explanation?" he asked.
    "Yeah, I can. It was dark. I couldn't see farther than a blindfolded hog. So I decided to wait till mornin '. I got off my horse and took a tumble. It was my own stupid fault."
    "And you're not even willing to consider the possibility that maybe this is all part of a plan? That God has something up His divine sleeve?"
    "No one makes plans for me, you hear?" The sharp tone of her voice was at odds with the uncertainty in her voice. As if to explain the discrepancy, she added, "Not without my say-so."
    "Maybe He brought you back for Owen," Justin said.
    "If God wanted to help Owen, I reckon He would have sent a doctor."
    Later, as they prepared to hit the trail again, Justin checked his saddle. As far as he could determine, the extra burden of Owen's weight didn't create any problems for his horse.
    He rubbed the gelding's forehead. "What do you say, Noah? Was that or was that not divine intervention?"
     
    It was hot and humid that afternoon, and Sarah felt utterly miserable. Her canteen was empty, her mouth dry as cotton, and her head felt like someone was hammering inside, trying to get out. She was beginning to think they would never reach the town of Stonewell.
    She coaxed Blizzard to go faster until she reached the preacher's side. Owen was slumped over, his head bopping with each jolting step.
    "How's he doin '?"
    "Not too good," the preacher replied. "I only hope we reach Stonewell in time."
    "If we don't rest our horses, we ain't gonna make it to the next stump."
    He frowned in protest but nodded in agreement. "Looks like some trees about a mile ahead."
    They rode side by side in silence for several moments.
    She stole a glance at the preacher's profile. He looked tired but no less determined. Moisture glistened on his sun- darkened skin. For no good reason, she felt a sense of guilt for causing him so much trouble.
    "Don't you go thinkin ' I'm not grateful for what you've done for me," she said.
    He turned to look at her, his face shadowed by his hat.
    She took a deep breath and continued. "I've been buzzards' bait twice, and both times you saved my carcass." She stared at the trail ahead. "I ain't used to people being nice to me."
    "Maybe you don't give them a chance to be nice to you."
    Her eyes locked with his. "The last time I gave someone a chance to be nice, he held me up at gunpoint. Stole all my money, he did."
    "I won't steal anything from you, Sarah."
    Something in his voice touched her and made it harder to fight the battle inside. Part of her wanted to trust him, but to do so would only add to his own burdens without relieving any of hers. Still, she was tempted—and it practically scared the life out of her.
    "Let me help you," he beseeched her in a soft, clear voice.
    She tossed her head and lifted her chin. "I can tote my own skillet, and don't think I can't." With that she snapped the reins, forcing Blizzard to pull ahead.
    Later, as she sat around the campfire, the marshal asleep nearby, the preacher settled next to her. "Sarah . . . Everyone can use a friend,