She Asked the Gunsmith to Wed Her Before Her Uncle Sold Her Land — “I’ll Want to Court You After,” the Gunsmith Said
Chapter 5
They escaped through the kitchen garden.
Samuel led Margaret through a narrow passage between the stone wall and the orchard.
Rain had turned the soil to mud.
Behind them, men shouted.
Samuel carried the deed beneath his coat.
Margaret carried the payment ledger.
They reached the barn.
Inside stood four horses.
Samuel chose two.
“Can you ride?”
“Yes.”
He looked at her.
“Like your father?”
“Better.”
He smiled.
They mounted.
The barn doors opened.
A musket fired.
The ball struck the wooden beam above Margaret’s head.
Samuel shouted:
“Go!”
They rode.
The horses tore across the fields.
Behind them came three riders.
Samuel knew the land.
He turned toward the creek.
The trail narrowed.
Branches struck his shoulders.
Margaret followed.
One pursuer gained on them.
Samuel drew his pistol.
He fired into the air.
The pursuing horse reared.
Its rider fell.
The others stopped.
Samuel and Margaret continued.
They reached the river.
The bridge had been destroyed by the spring floods.
Margaret looked across.
“How do we cross?”
Samuel pointed downstream.
“There is a ferry.”
They rode toward it.
The ferryman recognized Margaret.
“Miss Vale?”
“My name has changed.”
He smiled.
“Congratulations.”
“We need to cross.”
He looked at the approaching riders.
“Quickly.”
They loaded the horses.
The ferry moved into the river.
Margaret watched the men gather on the bank.
One shouted:
“You cannot run forever!”
Samuel looked at her.
“We don’t need forever.”
“What do we need?”
“Tomorrow.”
She smiled.
The ferry reached the opposite bank.
They rode toward the village of Ashford.
But before reaching it, Samuel stopped.
A man stood in the road.
Silas Crowe.
He held a pistol.
“You have something that belongs to me.”
Margaret dismounted.
“The land belongs to me.”
Crowe smiled.
“Not for long.”
Samuel stepped between them.
Crowe raised his pistol.
“Move.”
Samuel did not.
Margaret reached beneath her cloak.
Crowe’s eyes shifted.
She was holding her father’s old flintlock pistol.
“I would rather not fire,” she said.
Crowe laughed.
“You won’t.”
Margaret cocked the hammer.
The click echoed.
Crowe’s smile vanished.
“I believe I will.”
For the first time, Crowe looked uncertain.
Then he lowered his weapon.
“This is not finished.”
“No,” Samuel said.
“It is only beginning.”
