“Here, Bieder,” the farmer at last called to the dog, and with a final challenging glance at Rutledge, the animal turned obediently to his voice.

Pulling on a pair of Wellingtons, the man came out into the yard, a lantern in his hand. Holding it high, he stared from Rutledge to the pale face of his passenger.

“An accident, you say?” he demanded suspiciously. “Miss?”

“My-my-carriage-went off-the road,” the woman managed, her teeth chattering as she raised her head out of the nest of blankets. In the lantern light the blood on her lip was a dark and ominous smudge. “Please-I don't think I can bear the cold much longer. L-Let me sit by your fire for ten minutes, and we'll b-be on our way.”

“Ah.” He lowered the lantern and said to Rutledge, “Can she walk, then?”

“Her ribs are bruised-possibly cracked. Her feet are numb.”

Rutledge got out, walked around the bonnet, and came to the passenger door. Opening it, he said gently, “It will hurt, to help you out. Can you manage?”

A ghost of a smile appeared on the strained face. “If there's a fire-”

The farmer, a burly man, said, “Come along, lass. I'd lift you myself but for the ribs, now. Between us, we'll have you in the kitchen in the blink of an eye. My wife already has the kettle on!” His accent was heavy, the words gruff, but his intentions were kind.

They got her down, and between them on their crossed wrists, to the house, the dog sniffing at their heels. A heavyset woman with a red face, cheeks permanently windburned, was waiting for them in the kitchen, her hands tight together.

As they came through the door, her expression softened. She said, “My sweet Lord! Oh, the poor lass! Bring her here, by the stove!” Over the injured woman's head she said to Rutledge, “What's happened to her?” He could see the shadow of alarm in her eyes, as if the older woman expected him to say his companion had been attacked by a murderer.