Deep in the preserve...

Brian Belden cursed long and loud as he stumbled over the exposed root of a tree, and then winced at his lapse in control. Why did the preserve have to have so many trees? And why couldn't the trees stay in their own area and leave the path alone? Hadn't they heard of personal space? And how much longer would he be stuck in this cursed place? With one last glare at the nature surrounding him, he burst into the clearing that had become his home.

"Brian." Peter greeted him cordially, which Brian assumed was only because his father was a polite man. His attitude for the last few weeks had been so surly and childish that he wondered why the older man even bothered. He couldn't even muster up the energy to be embarrassed by his own bad attitude any more.

Brian held up the rabbit captured in the last trap he'd checked. "Just one today," he said, handing it to his father.

Peter nodded. "It's not as if we need more than one," he said. He placed the animal on a level tree stump and began the messy and stomach-churning job of preparing it for consumption.

Brian turned away, disgusted by the sight, and even more disgusted with himself for his reaction. He was a doctor, for goodness sake! He'd seen worse, much worse, in the ER and on the operating table. But you didn't cause the harm to the patients, he told himself. He sat down at the far edge of the clearing and closed his eyes, trying to shut out everything around him. One day he would wake up and this nightmare would be over. He would discover that there hadn't been a computer "glitch" that effectively kicked him out of his lease and ended his residency. He wouldn't be hiding in the game preserve with his fugitive father in a ramshackle building that didn't even keep out the rain.

At least they had shelter, such as it was. Brian opened his eyes, carefully avoiding the tree stump and staring instead at the dilapidated building that he now called home. It had been someone else's home, a real home, at one point, but it was impossible to tell how long ago it had been abandoned. The time would have to be measured in decades, or even centuries, not years. The weathered boards no longer fit together smoothly, and let in broad beams of sunlight. Which wasn't so terrible, he admitted to himself. After so many years of living in classrooms, hospitals, and libraries, it was actually kind of nice to see sunlight again on a regular basis. It was the fact that all manner of insects and rodents also crept in through the cracks that bothered him. Sharing a pallet on the floor with a rabid raccoon was not high on his bucket list. But, then again, neither was living off the grid in an attempt to escape the self-serving vengeance of Matthew Wheeler...

The sound of industrious grunts came to a halt, and Brian reluctantly turned his eyes back toward the tree stump and their supper. The rabbit was skinned, eviscerated, and ready to be cooked. Despite wincing at the dark stains on the tree stump, he couldn't deny the fact that he was looking forward to their evening meal.

It was only with a huge effort of will, however, that he pulled himself to his feet and walked over to help with supper preparations. After years of motivating himself to turn in assignments on time and fulfill his many obligations, he found that it was almost impossible to function without deadlines.

"Stew tonight?" Peter asked, pausing before cutting the meat.

"Sure," Brian agreed. "We have plenty of seasoning."

Peter whistled an off-key melody as he chopped the meat into bite-sized pieces. "Is it really so bad?" he asked.

Brian looked up sharply from the fire he was tending.

"Living in the preserve," Peter elaborated. "Do you really mind it so much?"

Brian poked at the fire with a stick, not answering right away. The flame had caught, and the wood was dry enough to burn easily. Though he would have been irritated if the fire hadn't taken, he couldn't seem to find it in himself to be grateful that it had. What was wrong with him?

"Of course not," he answered automatically. "I love the outdoors." And he did. He just didn't want to spend the rest of his life here.

"No emails to answer, no paper cuts, no crowds," Peter continued. "I don't suppose I'll ever actually thank Wheeler for driving us to this, but..." His voice trailed off, only to be replaced by more enthusiastic whistling.

Brian winced. No, living in the preserve wasn't the end of the world. But some days it did feel as if he'd stepped off the edge of civilization.

"And the sounds!" Peter exclaimed, ignoring Brian's silence. "I think my favourite is how the cabin picks up every little gust of wind and amplifies it. Turns it into music, almost. Did you hear it last night?"

Brian nodded, remembering the gusts that had awakened him several times. The howling gale had shaken the shack, and he had barely slept, wondering when the roof or a wall would be torn off.

"It sounds completely different than it did at Crabapple Farm," Peter continued.

"Of course it does," Brian muttered under his breath. "Crabapple Farm had insulation!" With one last frustrated poke at the healthy fire, he stomped into the shack and slammed the door, not caring that the sudden motion shook the cabin more than the wind of previous evening.

 

Inside the Manor House...

"What do you mean, the girls aren't here?" Matthew Wheeler demanded.

Miss Trask straightened her back and faced down the angry man with more courage than many of his business associates. "They were in their rooms last evening," she said, repeating the information she had already given him. "This morning, they were gone."

"And no one saw them?" he pressed, sitting down at the breakfast table and unfurling a napkin. "Impossible! They must have had help." He filled his plate with scrambled eggs, sausage, and a muffin.

"I've questioned all of the staff," she said. "No one knew they were missing until Celia went in to wake them and found their rooms empty." She paused, unsure if her next bit of news would increase his anger or assuage it. "I tried to check with Trixie's brother, Mart, to see if he had heard from them."

Matthew Wheeler looked up sharply. "And?"

"No one can find him, either."

He threw his napkin down in disgust. "Unbelievable!"

Celia entered the room, carrying a tray of fresh pastry. She placed it in front of Mr. Wheeler and took his coffee cup to refill. "I saw them at the race yesterday," Celia offered, adding precise amounts of cream and sugar. Though he drank his coffee black at work in order to maintain his image, he liked to indulge when he ate breakfast at home.

Celia bustled around the table, straightening items that were already perfectly in place while Mr. Wheeler watched her with narrowed eyes. "They spent quite a bit of time with that Frayne boy," she continued, pretending not to be at all interested in the topic. "I wouldn't be surprised if the girls decided to sneak out to meet him," she said, ignoring Miss Trask's glare.

Mr. Wheeler pounded his fist on the highly polished, mirror finish of the cherry table. "No," he stated. "Not my daughter. She wouldn't go chasing after some penniless boy." He took a vicious bite of pastry and chewed. "But it wouldn't hurt to have a little talk with his stepfather." Pointing a finger at Miss Trask, he commanded, "Have someone go over to Ten Acres. If the boy is there, bring him to me. If he's not, bring the stepfather."

He tossed his linen napkin onto the snowy white tablecloth and stood. "There's nowhere they can run that I won't find them," he declared. Turning on his heel, he strode from the room.

Close to Ten Acres...

Jim Frayne moved silently along the path leading to Ten Acres, his mind filled with the memories of both his victory at the race, and the people he'd talked with. It had felt good to full-out race, and it had felt better yet to win. Regan was well-known for his prowess, and even if Matthew Wheeler hadn't acknowledged it, Jim knew he'd done well to best him.

But it wasn't just the race that occupied his thoughts. With growing unease, he recalled his conversation with the tall blond man. Rider? Riker? Riker. Ben. He'd seemed honest, but surely he was over-reacting. Matthew Wheeler had been dismissive and unfair, but surely that was the extent of it. He couldn't be in any danger from the wealthy land owner, could he?

The gnawing in the pit of his stomach told him otherwise. Somehow, he had managed to alienate the very man he had hoped to impress. And all because he was a Frayne? Jim shook his head in disgust. Truth be told, he didn't want to accept help from anyone who thought poorly of his father. Still, it rankled. For years, his life had been ruined because his father had died so young. And now his life was continuing to be ruined, simply because his father had lived. There would be no reward for winning the race, either monetary or influential. Both were heavy blows. But there was nothing to be done about it now. Somehow, he would still find a way to open his own stables. He'd find the start-up money somewhere.

His resolve strengthened, he allowed his thoughts to wander to the other, far more pleasurable, conversation that he'd had. The blonde girl. His pace slowed, and he closed his eyes briefly, remembering how her eyes had danced with intelligence and fire, and how her wayward curls had practically vibrated with intensity. Simply put, she fascinated him. He didn't know much about women, but he did know what he liked. And he definitely liked the blonde girl. Trixie. Riker had said her name was Trixie. He tried out the name, saying it softly under his breath as he continued along the well-worn path. It suited her, he decided. It was strong and playful, and not cute, or, even worse, delicate.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a slow, shuffling step coming toward him. Still on edge from the race and his conversation with Riker, he tensed, his body naturally shifting to a defensive posture. A moment later, he relaxed as a familiar face greeted him.

"Jim!" Brom exclaimed, his voice sounding thin and weak. He started to speak again, but was interrupted by a fit of coughing.

Jim hurried to his side. The older man's cough had subsiding into wheezing, although he'd stopped walking as soon as Jim saw him. He crouched in a tripod position, attempting to regain control of his breathing. Jim slipped an arm under his shoulders, supporting his old friend.

"You shouldn't be out here!" he scolded. "You know that your heart can't handle the strain of extended activity."

"Had to... warn you," Brom panted, moving away from Jim to lean against a tree. His ashen pallor returned to a healthier shade, but with agonizing slowness from Jim's vantage point.

"Warn me about what?" he asked when he thought that Brom had recovered enough to speak.

"Your stepfather." Brom slid to a seated position at the base of the tree and closed his eyes.

"What about him?" Jim asked, his lips tightening in anger.

"You can't go home," Brom said, his voice whisper-soft in the evening. "He's going to burn down Ten Acres as you sleep."

The colour drained from Jim's face. An image of his stepfather, lighter in hand, came to him. Though Brom's prediction might have sounded crazy to some, he didn't doubt the elderly man for a moment. Jonesy was a terrible, terrible, evil man, capable of anything.

"You have to leave," Brom urged him. "Now!"

"But..." Jim scrambled to assimilate the information. He'd always known that Jonesy was unstable, and that he'd hated his stepson from the moment they'd met. But it was still a leap from hate to murder.

"He knows that you'll start out on your own," Brom said, reading his expressions accurately. "He can't let you succeed without him." He closed his eyes, resting now that his full message had been delivered.

Jim instinctively straightened his spine. "I'd like to see him stop me," he said. With the knowledge that his stepfather wished him dead, every last vestige of respect and loyalty he had for the man drained away.

Brom opened one eye and the ghost of a smile passed over his lips. "You look exactly like your father," he said, and Jim's heart swelled with pride. He was a Frayne. Not a Jones. Never a Jones. He might have to leave the family home for the time being, but he would return. And when he did, Jonesy would be gone. One way or another.

"I have some money set aside," Brom said, breathing more easily. "The Fraynes always paid me generously, and I was never one to spend it, not even when I was young." He patted a small leather bag. "It would mean a lot to me if you'd take it."

Jim shook his head. "I couldn't. You need that for your retirement," he said, knowing that Brom would never return to work at Ten Acres after the recent events, and that he was far too old and frail to begin a new job somewhere else.

"Then take me with you," the old man pleaded. "We both know that I'm done here."

"I don't even know where I'm going," Jim protested.

Brom shook his head. "Doesn't matter. My loyalty is to the Fraynes. My place is with you."

Jim stared at him in disbelief. "You would..." his voice trailed off as he choked up, overcome by his loyal retainer's sacrifices. When Brom didn't deign to answer, Jim held out a hand to help him to his feet. "They don't make employees like you anymore," he said, his voice suspiciously gruff. "In fact, they don't make people like you anymore."

Brom steadied himself and then brushed Jim's hand away. "As well you should be glad. I imagine you'll be tired enough of me by the time this adventure is over."

"Not hardly," Jim told him, his grin frank and easy in the aftermath of Brom's kindness.

"It would have been easy for you to become bitter," Brom said softly, "after your parents died so young and the way your stepfather treated you."

Jim grimaced. "Well..."

"No." He shook his head. "You're still your father's son, kind, strong, and brave. You haven't become like Jonesy." He paused. "But it's those same traits that give you trouble, especially with Jonesy."

"And yet, those are the parts of me that I wouldn't change," Jim said. He nodded to the elderly man and by silent mutual agreement, they turned and walked away from Ten Acres.

 

Somewhere in the preserve...

"I still can't believe that you actually made my hair worse," Trixie complained, blowing a short strand of poker straight blonde hair away from her eyes.

"It's not that bad," Honey said, but her voice lacked conviction.

Trixie stopped short in the middle of the path and planted her hands on her hips. "Not that bad?" she exclaimed. "Not that bad?!" She tore off the baseball cap that had been concealing the butchery of her hair and grabbed a fistful of the short blonde strands. "I look like a page boy!"

"That's because it's a page boy cut," Honey pointed out. "So it worked!"

Trixie squeezed her eyes shut and counted to ten. And then twenty.

"Besides," Honey continued. "It's not as bad as Mart's."

Both girls turned to look at the man who had wisely remained silent during Trixie's meltdown. He shrugged, the tip of his shoulder brushing against his curly dark hair.

"True," Trixie agreed, her natural good humour returning at the sight of her brother with dyed hair and extensions. "He looks like Gene Simmons."

Mart shrugged. "As long as it's not Richard Simmons, we're good," he decided.

Both girls shuddered.

"Do you really think these disguises will be enough to prevent anyone from recognizing us?" Honey asked, running a hand over her well-worn dungarees and old tee shirt. She was the only one who hadn't had to alter her hair. Just by dressing up in Trixie's oldest clothes, she'd changed her appearance drastically from the carefully put-together socialite that everyone assumed she was. The fact that her normally sleek and coiffed hair was pulled into a messy, tangled ponytail ensured that she wouldn't be immediately recognized.

"We're good," Trixie assured her, and Mart nodded in agreement. "But I still don't see why I had to be the one to dress as a boy," Trixie protested.

Honey glanced pointedly at her best friend's chest, and then her own. "Because there are some things that can't be covered up," she said tartly. "We needed someone to change gender to make our disguises complete, and I don't know about you, but I have no desire to see Mart in drag."

Mart winced and Trixie made a gagging motion that wasn't entirely forced. Trixie's eyes drifted along the path, and she sighed heavily. "Would it be terribly un-manly of me if I admitted that I could really use a break right now?" Without waiting for an answer, she stepped off the path and sat down, her back against the trunk of a sturdy tree. Mart and Honey joined her, and the three sat in companionable silence.

"It's not so bad," Honey said thoughtfully. "This living in the preserve, I mean. Well, not that we're actually living here yet. I mean, we haven't even been gone a full day yet. And it's not as if we have permanent shelter. Or a food source. Or—"

"What I can't believe," Mart interrupted, "is how big the preserve is. I know I grew up playing in here all the time, but, as an adult, it's just plain freaky that there's such a big pocket of undeveloped land in rural New York. You'd think it would have been gobbled up for subdivisions years ago."

Honey shrugged. "The preserve is why Daddy bought the Manor House. Well, that, and the stables."

Trixie thought back to the day several years earlier that Honey had moved in to the Manor House. With her brothers away working as camp counselors, Trixie had been having a rough summer. It was the first summer that she'd been allowed to stay at home unsupervised during the day while her father went to work. Eager for a summer of freedom, she'd soon grown tired of being alone all day. Then she had met Honey. With her sweet disposition, generous nature, and stable of horses, her new friend had made that summer one of the very best in Trixie's memory. She'd even helped Trixie learn to prepare meals for herself and her father so that they didn't have to rely on Mrs. Gruber, their housekeeper. The memories of those early, happy times caused her to squeeze her eyes tightly shut, but didn't stop a stray tear from escaping. As much as she hated cooking, she'd give anything to fix a meal for her dad now, and eat it with him.

"If you thought admitting to being tired was unmanly, it's nothing compared to crying," Mart whispered, giving her shoulder an affectionate nudge.

Trixie snorted and dashed away the tears, ashamed of her momentary lapse. Male or female, she was strong enough to do what needed to be done and to handle whatever life threw her way. Resolving to stay firm, she stood up, and reached a hand down to pull Honey to her feet.

Honey glanced at her friend's short, blunt fingers, and then back to her face.

Trixie shrugged. "If I'm going to be a man, I may as well be a gentleman," she quipped, but before Honey could accept the offer of help, all three of them heard footsteps coming along the path. Pressing a finger to her lips, she motioned for Mart and Honey to move farther off the path where they wouldn't be seen.

"I'm telling you, I'm in love!" a young man's voice protested.

"And if you're telling her the same way you're telling me, it's no wonder she has no use for you," an older, gruffer voice replied.

Trixie's eyes widened as two men came into view. The older one looked vaguely familiar, though for the life of her, she couldn't imagine why. He was dressed in the strangest outfit imaginable and for a fleeting moment she wondered if the knickers and old-fashioned shirt were part of a costume.

"You just don't understand how much I love her!" the younger man protested, and Mart started, recognizing one of his former baseball teammates as he came into view.

"I do understand," the first man said, chuckling. "You do realize that I've been in love once or twice myself, don't you?"

The man Mart recognized as Tad Webster snorted. "But you're old, Maypenny! You've forgotten!" he protested. "Maybe you have been in love," he added hastily, apparently repenting of his rude words. "But you can't possibly have been in love the way I am!"

"I've forgotten a fair many things," Maypenny admitted, his tone acerbic, "but I can assure you, that is not one of them."

Trixie wracked her brain, trying to figure out who this Maypenny person was. She thought she knew everyone in and around the little community of Sleepyside, but she was certain she'd never actually laid eyes on this man before. Had she heard stories about him, maybe?

"I just... it's so..." Tad flung himself to the ground in almost the exact spot that Trixie, Honey, and Mart had just vacated. Maypenny joined him, lowering himself to a tree stump.

"I can't eat," Tad continued, finally coming up with semi-coherent words. "Or sleep. Jane Morgan is all I can think about! Have you ever felt that way?" he demanded. "You can't possibly have, or you'd understand!" The young man jumped up and strode off into the forest at a clipped, angry pace.

Trixie felt almost ashamed, watching Tad's departure. She'd never cared much for him, as she had only ever seen him as one of Mart's annoying friends, but obviously he had a depth of emotion in him that she hadn't suspected. And the poor man could only be in turmoil if he was in love with Jane Morgan. She shook her head, trying to figure out what anyone, even Tad Webster would see in the often rude, sometimes cruel girl. Other than her generous... endowments.

And then, with a blush, she thought of her own broken sleep the previous night. She would have liked to blame her restlessness on the hard ground, but her stubborn honesty forced her to admit that it had more to do with her disturbing dreams rather than her hard bed of dirt and roots. She blushed, remembering how Jim had come to her in her sleep, smiling his crooked grin just for her. Possibly she was just as far gone as Tad. But hopefully she was less vocal about it.

Maypenny followed Tad down the path a few feet, just out of earshot, before stopping and resting against a tree.

"Been there, done that," Mart said quietly with a small smile. "I still haven't forgotten the many romantic adventures of my youth."

Trixie snorted. "Like the time you played Spin the Bottle with Deirdre Campbell and kissed her nose instead of her mouth?" she snickered. "You gave the poor girl a nose bleed!"

"A memorable first kiss, if I do say so myself," Mart said, his expression dreamy.

"And didn't Jennifer Clarke pull you behind the play structure to kiss you in sixth grade?" Trixie continued, always eager to continue a conversation where her almost-twin brother was being embarrassed. Mart, however, refused to be embarrassed.

"Yeah," he said. "That was great. And you needn't act so superior," he continued, turning on his sister. "One of these days, you're going to fall in love and you're going to act a million times goofier than I or Tad Webster ever did!"

"Let's say hello to this Mr. Maypenny person," Honey said impulsively, breaking up the escalating argument. "I bet he can tell us exactly where in the preserve we are, and if we're still on Daddy's land."

Eager to do something other than think about her crush on Jim Frayne, Trixie immediately scrabbled onto the path. "Yoo-hoo!" she called, waving.

The older man turned toward her, his weathered face devoid of expression. "Do I know you?" he asked.

"No, we're strangers," Trixie said, hurrying down the path to join where he stood, waiting. Mart and Honey followed at a more dignified pace.

"No stranger than me, I warrant," he commented wryly. He nodded to Mart and Honey as they caught up to Trixie. He looked at them expectantly, seemingly content to wait for one of them to start a conversation.

"We're, um, looking for a place to spend the night," Trixie said, realizing how crazy she sounded. Who on earth would be looking for a place to stay in the preserve? But Maypenny nodded as if it were a perfectly normal request. His eyes tracked away from them and his gaze drifted away from the path, into the treed area.

"I'm guessing that you want to stay off Wheeler property," he said, his eyes more knowing than Trixie liked.

All three nodded vehemently.

"There's an old school house a ways in," he said. "No electricity, but there's an old stove for heat if you want it."

"And no one will mind if we use it?" Honey asked, her expression earnest.

Maypenny shook his head. "Land belongs to the young man I was just walking with, but he doesn't tend it. It's only a stone's throw from my property, so I generally take care of it. If I don't report you, no one will ever know that you're there." He eyed the three more closely. Addressing Honey, he said, "Miss, you're certain you're safe with these two?"

Trixie frowned in confusion, and then realized that her disguise had worked—Maypenny seemed to think that Honey was travelling with two males. She covered her mouth to hide a giggle as Honey assured him that she'd be perfectly safe. Maypenny's eyes flickered from Honey to her two companions, but he nodded gruffly.

Hoping to move the process along before she inadvertently gave herself away, Trixie moved to stand closer to her best friend."Celia's awfully tired," she said, stumbling over the name they'd agreed on for Honey. "Not used to all the fresh air and exercise, you know."

Honey narrowed her eyes briefly at Trixie, knowing that she was just as tired. "We'd be happy to rent the building," she said, turning her attention back to Maypenny and the offer of the old school house.

He nodded briefly. "I'll pass the word along. He won't have a problem with you staying there and he'll be glad of the money, I'm sure. If you'll follow me?"

He strode down the path, expecting that the others would follow.

 

Another part of the preserve...

Peter Belden stifled a sigh as he watched his oldest son pace in the small confines of the cabin. Wound up. They were the only words he could think of to describe Brian's behaviour. Where was the little boy who used to sail boats in the pond? That innocence and freedom had been lost far too early, first when he became a big brother, and second when he was thrust into even more of a leadership role when Helen Belden died and there had been one less parental figure to cover all the bases. And now... now Brian was desperately trying to deal with an aborted education and the possible death of his dreams.

How had all of this happened? Peter stepped outside of the shack to commence his own pacing. Should he have done what Matthew Wheeler had demanded? Falsified numbers? Circumvented rules and procedures? Even now, he couldn't find it in himself to believe that he'd made the wrong decision. But at what price? His family was scattered, possibly in danger. He hadn't spoken to his younger son and daughter in months. Months!

It felt like years.

At this point, he wasn't even sure if there was a fix for the situation. It simply wasn't possible for life to return to what it had been, even if Matthew Wheeler somehow met an untimely (or timely, though he didn't want to admit to thinking that) death and he was exonerated of embezzlement. Would his children forgive him?

Watching Brian pace the tiny shack, Peter wasn't at all sure.

He wasn't sure when the sound of the footsteps ceased, or when the cloud of tension hovering over him faded. He did, however, notice when the door of the shack opened and Brian joined him.

"That tune you were whistling before," Brian said, his voice scratchy, as if from disuse.

Peter stared at him blankly until he remembered the melody he'd whistled as he cleaned the rabbit. Without thinking, he whistled the first few measures, stopping when Brian nodded.

"That's the one," Brian said, his pinched and tense expression softening. "You sang that when I was little, didn't you?"

Peter nodded mutely. To his surprise, Brian picked up the tune where he had left off, singing instead of whistling. He picked up the axe that had been left embedded in a piece of wood and proceeded to split the gathered wood stacked to the side, continuing the simple melody all the while.

Perhaps things weren't all bad, after all.

 

Meanwhile, elsewhere in the preserve...

Jim took a deep breath of fresh, clean air and smiled, his entire face lighting up with happiness. He was homeless, penniless except for Brom's generosity, and had been wronged on more levels than he could even keep track of, but he was happy. Happy, for the first time in recent memory. Liberated, even. No more Jonesy! It was hard to fully comprehend the implications, but at the very least, he had the satisfaction of knowing that he no longer shared a home with the vile man. Even better, he also had the satisfaction of knowing that he'd thwarted Jonesy's plans. He wouldn't be burned in his sleep, his ancestral home destroyed around him. Whatever else happened, that tragedy had been averted.

The shuffling steps behind him caused him to slow immediately, and he was swamped with guilt. Jim was bred for the outdoor life, sleeping under the stars, and foraging and trapping for meals. Brom was not. Well, he amended his thoughts, probably he had been. Fifty years ago. Now, however...

He waited as Brom caught up to him, knowing that the older man would reject any offer of assistance. The truth was, trudging through the preserve and sleeping on the ground was wreaking havoc on his body. The arthritis that was generally controlled by medication had flared out of control with his high levels of exertion, and Jim knew that each step was painful, even agonizing, for him.

But it wasn't Brom's arthritis-ravaged limbs that had Jim's eyes widening in horror when the old man finally caught up and stood beside him. His face had taken on a sickly, grey pallor, his lips were tinged with purple, and he was wheezing so hard that Jim wondered if his lungs would ever recover. Did Brom have a heart condition? Or was it just the stress and physical exertion? In any case, it was obvious that they couldn't keep going the way they had been. They needed shelter and concealment. And they needed a place to sleep, out of the wild.

Jim caught Brom and assisted him as he sank to the ground.

"I'm just going to lie down right here," Brom mumbled, his eyes drifting shut. "And if I don't wake up..." He shrugged one of his bony shoulder. "Well, that's okay, too."

Jim let him rest for a moment, and then took his arm and helped him to rise, no longer caring if he offended the man. Brom, however, was well past insisting on maintaining his independence and dignity. He leaned heavily on the younger man, and Jim almost staggered under the weight of the exhausted man, slight though he was.

"Just keep going," Jim said. "We'll find shelter, and you can rest for as long as you like."

Brom nodded, doggedly putting one foot in front of the other.

 

Meanwhile, back at the shack...

He could hear voices. The crack of an axe slicing through a thick cord of wood. But the distance to the voices was difficult to judge, and before he even quite realized that he'd arrived, he burst into a small, cleared area. Much to his relief, in the middle of the clearing was a small but functional shack. Two men stood in the clearing, both clearly surprised to see him.

"I need your shelter," Jim blurted, his worry for Brom over-riding his natural common sense and courtesy. He took an aggressive step into the clearing, sizing up his competition. If need be, he would fight them for it, though he hated to resort to violence. Still, time was critical for Brom, and he didn't want to waste a minute of it. Ready to gain access to the shelter by any means necessary, he schooled his features into a hardened plane and strode farther in. Both men were tall and dark, though one was considerably older than the other. A father and son? He thrust aside the momentary pang, refusing to dwell on how much he, himself, looked like his father.

They certainly didn't look like the shifty, dishonest squatters he'd expected to find if he encountered anyone in the preserve, but looks could be deceiving. Time was of the essence. If brute force and intimidation could garner him shelter, he would use them. There simply wasn't time for him to wander around the preserve again, searching for adequate shelter.

The younger of the two men crossed his arms over his chest and returned his glare, but the older man stepped between them. "You need a place to stay," he said, not so much asking as telling.

Jim nodded, so tense that his teeth were clamped together, radiating pain through his jaw. "Yes. It's an emergency."

The younger man looked at him sceptically, but the older one nodded. "We don't have much here," he said, gesturing to the old building, "but you're welcome to share it with us."

Jim felt the tension drain from his body and he resisted the urge to slump to the ground in relief. "Thank you," he said, his voice fainter than he would have liked. "Thank you," he repeated, his voice clearer and stronger. His eyes darted back to the thickly treed area he'd just vacated. "I apologize for my rudeness," he said, his tone stiffly formal in his embarrassment. "I'm not usually so—"

"Demanding?" the younger man said.

Jim flushed. "I'm very worried. I have an elderly man with me, and he's not doing very well. I'm afraid my concern for him may have made me more aggressive than I should have been."

"Is he nearby? Brian will go with you," the older man offered.

"Just back down the path a ways," Jim said, once more overwhelmed by his kindness and hospitality. "Thank you, Mr..."

"Belden," he said. "Peter Belden. And this is my son, Brian," he said, reaching out to shake Jim's hand. "And you must be young James Frayne," he continued.

Jim to look up sharply in surprise.

"Any son of Winthrop Frayne is welcome in whatever home I have," Peter said, pressing his hand. "Now go find your friend, and we'll have supper together." He paused and added, "You're not as alone as you might think."

Jim nodded once briefly and then hurried back out of the clearing, without looking to see if Brian followed him. When he finally had backtracked far enough to find Brom, he was horrified to see the elderly man slumped over, his eyes closed in something that did not look like sleep. Brian instantly dropped to his knees next to Brom, taking his pulse and talking softly. Brom's eyes fluttered open. He stared at Brian and then Jim before struggling to stand. The two younger men easily hauled him to his feet, and with one of the old man's arms across each youth's shoulder, supported him so he could walk with very little effort.

"We need to get him back to the clearing," Brian urged. "He needs a good meal and rest."

"We have eaten some," Jim protested, stung by the inference that Brom was suffering because he had been denied food.

Brian shook his head. "Judging by your clothes, you've only been in the preserve for a short time. This man's malnutrition goes back much further."

"Malnutrition?" His eyes widened in shock. If anything, this was worse. Brom lived at Ten Acres, taking his meals there daily. How was it possible he was malnourished? But then he remembered the cold, calculating looks his stepfather had given him as he'd eaten. As if he'd been weighing and measuring each mouthful of food, determining how much it was allowable for him to have. If Jonesy had decided that Brom had outlived his usefulness, it was entirely possible that he'd failed to provide enough food for the man.

"I'm so sorry," Jim whispered, his stomach churning as he helped the man along the path. "I didn't know."

Brom shook his head, exhaustion making both his words and actions slow. "Doesn't matter anymore. I'll either get enough food, or I won't," he said, obviously having come to terms with the eventuality of his own death.

"Today you'll eat as much as you like," Brian promised him, supporting him on his other side. "And every day, for as long as you like."

Jim closed his eyes, shamed once again by the actions of the Beldens. He'd run from an evil stepfather and a manipulative millionaire, but he'd found genuine care in the depths of the preserve.