“No ‘let’ about it!” Zena snapped. “When you try to gang up on a girl, and use a gun—”

“Look at the gun,” Thatch said with a wry expression.

She looked, alert for a trick. She was no expert in handguns, though she was sure she could shoot straight if she had to. Most women were womanishly foolish about such things; not her. But this, she saw now, was not actually a pistol. It was an imitation, a mockup for a child. A realistic toy.

“I just wanted to keep you quiet long enough to talk to you,” Thatch said.

Her glance flicked to the side. She could open the door and leap out before they could stop her, though she might have to clip someone again in the process. But what would she do out there in the pelting rain? Few cars were moving now, and fewer would be inclined to stop; and in just a few hours it would be too late anyway. Was escape really her best choice?

Obviously she had misjudged these men, to a degree. A toy gun! “I’m listening.”

“It’s going to rain a long time, Gus says. Maybe flooding, bad flooding. We have to stick to the highlands, the ridge, until we can get north out of the state and into the mountains. We’re picking up people along the way.”

“So I noticed.” She set down the mock gun. “Why haven’t you picked up men?”

Gus and Thatch exchanged glances. “It gets complicated,” Thatch said. “Anyway, we meant you no harm, and if you really don’t want to stay here, you can get off now. Gus just thought naturally you’d stay, and want to get dry.”

She glanced across the dinette cubicle and out of the window. The rain was still coming down heavily, at the rate of about an inch an hour. She knew it would continue, and that there would indeed be severe flooding. The men, whatever their motive, had stumbled on the right idea—and their vehicle was ideal for it. If she had misjudged them—and it seemed increasingly likely that she had, at least to some extent—she could do worse than travel with them. Much worse. For now.