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the bridle was intact, and Margaret seized it, leading the animal toward Cain. Though she had no idea how she would get him on top of the horse, she had to try.
    Her brain turned over the problem, and although she thought of a way to get him on the animal, it still might not work. And if she did secure him to the mare’s back, it meant she would have to walk.
    Sinclair was a tall man, and in this instance, it was a godsend. One of the wooden crates containing food had been thrown from the coach before the fire had started. It was tall enough to stand upon, and she picked it up along the way.
    When she reached Sinclair, she set the crate down and placed the mare’s reins atop it, which would let her step upon them to prevent the animal from moving. All she had to do was lift Sinclair high enough to push him onto the animal’s back.
    Inwardly, she worried that she wasn’t strong enough. Cain Sinclair was a heavily muscled Highlander, and she doubted if she could manage his weight.
    He still had not regained consciousness, except for the time she’d touched him. Undoubtedly, she would hurt him again, and she braced herself for the prospect.
    You must lift him, she reminded herself. You have no choice. No matter how heavy he was, no matter how weak she was, she had to save him.
    This time, she braced herself for his reaction. She seized him under the arms and lifted him quickly over her shoulder, struggling to stand up. He didn’t respond at all, which frightened her even more. His head was still bleeding, and she knew she had to bind the wound.
    Margaret shoved back her rising panic, her muscles burning as she held him and stepped atop the crate. He was slipping down, his knees buckling.
    The threat of failure was so strong, she could taste it. But Cain had done everything in his power to save her from burning to death. She had to get him out of here, no matter how weak she was.
    Straining hard, she bent her knees and shoved him upward as hard as she could. His face and torso slid over the horse’s back, and when at last his body hung across the mare, she let herself cry.
    Tears streamed down her face as she tore a strip of fabric from her gown and used it to bind his head wound. She wept as she gathered the reins and drew the horse away. Their supplies had been thrown from the coach when it had overturned, and she gathered up whatever food she could find, stuffing it into the crate. It would serve as a basket, and she tied it across the mare’s back. Carefully, she covered the supplies with her petticoat, forming a makeshift pillow for Sinclair’s face. It was better than him lying prone, she decided.
    Hot tears burned at her eyes as she stared at the wreckage and the darkness all around them. Her body was numb with the knowledge that they were stranded here together. They could no longer help Amelia tonight, if her sister had indeed traveled this way.
    The tears continued to roll down her cheeks, and she wept openly, knowing that all chances of finding Amelia were lost. She could never catch up to her sister like this—not with Cain wounded and both of them without a coach.
    Margaret picked up a fallen piece of wood to use as a torch to light their way. Her shoes sank into the mud as she trudged forward, praying that she would find a town or an inn within the next hour or so. Behind her, the fire raged against the fallen coach, burning the wreckage. And now, they were stranded in the middle of nowhere.
    Cain had been right. There was nothing at all ahead of them, and apart from the fire and the barest traces of sunrise in the distance, she saw no other lights. Her hands shook, but she forced herself to walk onward.
    You’re alive, she reminded herself. For now, it was all that mattered.

Chapter Three
    T here’s no doctor, not for miles,” the vicar apologized. “But you and your husband can share our house until we can send word to him.”
    Margaret stood at the doorway to the village church, her feet blistered