Nolan Wraycroft wanted to marry the heir of the family his own kin had feuded with for three generations. To do that, he first had to reach her side of the forest without a gamekeeper putting an arrow in him. He stood behind his riverside cottage at dawn, tightening the red scarf around his fist. The scarf was her family's color, not his. He wore it anyway, like a dare. The problem was simple. He didn't know the way. A dozen deer trails split off into the trees beyond the river, and any of them could lead to her father's land or straight into a trap. Wandering blind meant getting caught, and getting caught meant no wedding, no talk, nothing but a beating and a warning. Nolan had crossed before and stumbled home lost twice. He couldn't keep guessing. Then he saw the fawn. It stood at the water's edge, thin-legged and spotted, drinking. It lifted its head, watched him, and did not run. Nolan crouched slow. He knew wild things. A fawn this calm belonged to someone's care. Someone across the river fed it. "Show me home, then," he whispered. The fawn turned and picked its way up the bank. Nolan followed. It led him along a trail he'd never noticed, under low branches, past a rose bush thick with blush-pink blooms that no wild ground would ever grow. Someone had planted it. He was close to tended land now. His heart beat hard. The fawn stopped in a clearing. There, cropping moss, stood a great elk, its wide antlers hung with green growth like a living crown. Nolan froze. The elk raised its head and stared at him. It did not bolt. It knew people too. This whole clearing was hers, or her family's — cared for, fed, watched. A voice cut through the trees. "That's far enough." A young woman stepped from behind the elk. She held a walking staff, and she wore boots caked with river mud. Her eyes went straight to the scarf on his fist. She knew the color. She knew whose it was, and she knew he wasn't allowed to wear it. "You're a Wraycroft," she said. Not a question. "I am." Nolan didn't lower his hand. "And you're the one I came to find." She studied him a long moment. The fawn trotted to her side and pressed against her leg. "My father's men walk this ridge at midday," she said. "You've got till the sun turns. After that, I can't help what happens to you." Nolan had his answer at last. He knew the path now, and he'd found her. But he stood on her father's land with a clock running and armed men coming, and the woman before him had just made his trespass her problem too.

Nolan had his path and his welcome, thin as it was. Then the heir's face went hard. She pointed past the old oak, to a shape down on its side in the grass. Her big gray draft horse lay there, not moving. "He's been down since dawn," she said. "I can't lift him alone." She looked at Nolan, and he saw the trust she'd shown him hanging on this. Nolan crossed the clearing fast. The horse's coat was dark with sweat. Its belly heaved. He knelt and pressed a hand behind the foreleg. The gut was tight as a drum. He'd seen this in draft teams at the mill. Twisted gut, or close to it. A horse that stayed down like this died. "He rolled in the night," she said. "I found him tangled in the picket rope." "He has to get up," Nolan said. "If he lies here, he's gone." He looped the loose rope, freed the horse's hind legs, and got his shoulder under the great neck. "Pull the halter. Hard. On three." They heaved. The horse groaned but didn't rise. Nolan's boots slid. He set them again and shoved with his back and legs. The animal's forelegs scrambled. Then it lurched and stood, shaking, wide-eyed. Nolan kept a fist in the mane and walked it in a slow circle, the way the mill hands did to work a bad gut loose. A voice called from the trees. "That's a Wraycroft holding a Wraycroft's grip on the wrong family's horse." Nolan knew the smirk before he turned. Archer Nyle stepped from the brush, oar over his shoulder, sandals in the mud. The river guide shared Nolan's cottage and shared none of his loyalty. Nyle guided folk through these woods for coin, and he'd guide the wrong folk here for the right price. "Walk him," Nolan told the heir, passing her the mane. "Don't let him lie down." He faced Nyle. "You cross the river to gawk?" "I cross for work." Nyle nodded at the horse, at the girl, at the scarf on Nolan's fist. "Her father pays well for news of trespassers. This is worth two trips of coin." The horse blew a long breath and passed dung into the grass. The belly softened under Nolan's hand. It would live. The heir's shoulders dropped, and she looked at Nolan like he'd handed her something back. "You'll say nothing," she told Nyle. "I'll say plenty." Nyle was already backing toward the trees, oar swinging. "By the time his men walk the ridge, they'll know just who to look for." He grinned and was gone into the brush. The horse stood healed. The trust was won. But midday still came, and now a man was running to bring her father's guns down early.