"It looks as if he ran pell-mell through a thicket," Hayley mused. "He's a beautiful animal, and obviously well cared for. These scratches are fresh and he is saddled, but there are no homes for miles around. His rider must have been thrown." She turned toward the woods. Peering into the inky darkness, she pressed a hand to her knotted stomach and forced back her apprehension. "We must search for this fellow. He could be seriously injured."

Grimsley's eyes widened behind his spectacles. He swallowed audibly. "A search? Here? Now?"

"No, ya moldy old coot," Winston said with a snort. "Next week."

Grimsley ignored him. "But it's so dark, Miss Hayley, and we're already hours late getting home because we had to fix the gig's wheel. Everyone's probably worried-"

"So another quarter hour will not matter," Hayley broke in, her tone crisp. God knew she wanted nothing more than to get home, but how could she leave, knowing someone may need aid? She couldn't. Her conscience would eat her alive.

Filled with resolve, she asked, "How can we possibly leave without checking? The fact that such a fine animal is wandering about, scratched and bleeding and riderless, is a sure indication that something is amiss. Someone may be in desperate need of help."

"But what if the horse belongs to a murderer or robber?" Grimsley asked in a weak, quivering voice.

Hayley patted the old man's hand. "I doubt it, Grimsley. Murderers and robbers rarely possess such fine horses. And who would they hope to murder or rob on this deserted stretch of road?"

Grimsley cleared his throat. "Us?"

"Well, if he is hurt, he cannot do much damage, and if he is unharmed, we shall simply return his horse to him and be on our merry way." She leveled a meaningful, penetrating look on her companions. "Besides, after what happened to Mama and Papa, you two know better than anyone that I could never forgive myself if I left someone who is sick or injured."

Winston and Grimsley both fell silent and nodded. Turning her attention back to the stallion, Hayley ran her hand down the animal's sweating neck.

"Is your rider here? Is he hurt?" she asked softly. The stallion pawed the ground and whinnied, his nostrils flaring. She glanced at Winston and Grimsley. "Horses have very good homing instincts. Let's see if he leads us anywhere."

Before either man could stop her, Hayley hitched up her skirt, placed her booted foot into the stirrup, and swung into the saddle. It was a good thing she was taller than most men as the horse was the largest she'd ever encountered.

"Please fetch the supply bag from the gig, Winston. We need to be prepared. Grimsley, you carry the lantern."

With the ease of an accomplished rider, Hayley touched her heels to the horse's flanks. The animal seemed to have a definite destination in mind and showed no hesitancy. They traveled parallel to the road for approximately half a mile, then turned and moved deeper into the dark woods. Holding the reins loosely, Hayley surveyed the area with sharp eyes while Winston and Grimsley followed behind, arguing all the while.

"Fling me on the poop deck and strip me to my skivvies," Winston growled. "Step up the pace, ya old bag o' bones. I won't be stoppin' to haul yer wheezin' arse along. I'll be leavin' ya here to rot."

"I can keep up just fine," Grimsley puffed. "I am simply minding my new footwear."

"Don't want no scratches on yer prissy shoes, do ya?" Winston sneered. "God save me from fussy old butlers. Worse than bleedin' babies."

"I was Captain Albright's personal valet-"

"Yeah, yeah. And I was 'is right hand, God rest 'is soul. You tell me which is more important."

"A valet, of course." He sniffed loudly. "And at least I don't smell."

A chuckle escaped Winston. "You do now, old Grimmy. Best mind yer shoes a bit better when yer walkin' behind a horse!"

Their voices droned on, but Hayley ignored them and concentrated on her surroundings. The forest was darker than the inside of a cloak. Leaves crunched beneath the horse's hooves. An owl hooted nearby, nearly stopping her heart. Surely she must be mad to have embarked on this excursion. But what choice did she have? She closed her eyes and imagined Nathan or Andrew, hurt and alone. God knows she'd want someone to aid her brothers. She couldn't leave until she knew if anyone needed her help-even if the effort scared her witless.

Several minutes later the horse stopped. Nickering softly, he pawed the ground and laid his ears back. Hayley dismounted, took the lamp from Grimsley and held it aloft, bathing the surrounding area with a soft, golden glow. They stood on some sort of precipice. She walked to the edge and peered down, her gaze traveling the length of a steep rocky slope. The gentle gurgle of a stream rose from below.

Grimsley peered over her shoulder and gingerly wiped his shoe on a patch of grass. "Do you see anything, Miss Hayley?"

"No. There's a steep bank and I hear a stream…" Her voice trailed off as a low groan drifted up to them.

"Wh-what was that?" Grimsley whispered in a shaky voice.

"It's just the wind, ya crusty old coot," Winston said, his voice laced with disgust.

Hayley pressed her hand to her stomach and shook her head. "No. Listen."

Another groan, barely audible but still unmistakable, floated up from the darkness below.

"There's someone down there," Hayley said, her voice grim. Without a thought for herself, she started down the steep slope. Halfway down she lifted the lantern, arcing a beam of light toward the stream.

And she saw him.

Lying facedown, the lower half of his body submerged in the water, was a man. A cry of alarm escaped her. Hayley half ran, half slid down the slope, ignoring the sharp rocks and twigs tearing at her clothing and skin.

"Miss Hayley! Are you all right?" Grimsley's frightened voice drifted down.

"Yes, I am fine. But there is an injured man down here."

She reached him seconds later. Unmindful of the icy creek water and her now ruined shoes, she dropped to her knees and gently turned him over.

His face was filthy and covered with scratches. Blood oozed from a nasty gash on his forehead. Mud, leaves, and grass clung to his torn clothing. His dark jacket was flung open, revealing a bloodstained shirt.

Hayley pressed her fingers to the side of his neck. To her profound relief she felt a pulse-a weak, thready pulse, but at least he was alive.

"Is 'e dead?" Winston's voice called out of the darkness.

"No, but he's badly injured. Quick! Bring down the supply bag." She ran light, probing fingers over the man's head, searching for additional wounds. When she touched an egg-sized lump on the back of his skull, he groaned slightly.

The sickly sweet odor of blood filled Hayley's nostrils and she fought back the urge to panic. She needed to clean his wounds and dared not waste the precious minutes it would take Winston and Grimsley to reach her. So instead she yanked down her petticoat, tore off a long strip, and dampened the fabric in the cold stream.

With gentle strokes she bathed the mud and blood from the man's face. In spite of the poor light and the filth covering him, she could see he was striking. He certainly didn't look like a robber.

"Can you hear me, sir?" she asked, rewetting the material. He remained completely motionless, deathly pale under the grime.

"How is 'e?" Winston asked when he and Grimsley arrived with the supply bag.

"His head is bleeding. So is his upper arm. Badly." She leaned down and sniffed at his torn jacket. "Gunpowder. He must have been shot."

Grimsley's eyes widened. "Shot?" He glanced quickly about as if expecting pistol-toting highwaymen to materialize.

Hayley nodded. "Yes. Luckily it appears to be only a flesh wound. Help me pull him out of the water. Be careful. I don't want to hurt him any more than necessary." Grimsley held the lantern while Hayley and Winston grabbed the man under his arms and dragged him from the stream.

Hayley pulled out a knife from the supply bag and cut his jacket and shirt away from the wound. With Grimsley clutching the lantern, she examined his upper arm. Blood oozed from a nasty gash. Flecks of dirt dotted his skin, as did numerous scratches. Gritting her teeth, she pressed her fingers to the injury and nearly swooned with relief.

"It's only a flesh wound. Bleeding, but no lead ball evident," she reported after a short, tense silence. Knowing they would need more bandages than the emergency few contained in the bag, she indicated her discarded petticoat with a jerk of her head.

"Tear that into strips, Grimsley."

Grimsley squinted at the garment and gasped. "But that's your petticoat, Miss Hayley!"

Hayley took a deep breath and mentally counted to five. "These are dire circumstances, Grimsley. We cannot stand on ceremony. I am sure Papa would do the same thing were he here."

Winston's eyes bugged out. "Captain Albright never wore no petticoat! Why 'is crew would have flogged him! Tossed 'im to the sharks!"

Once again Hayley mentally counted-this time to ten. "I meant Papa would not have stood on ceremony. He would have done whatever was necessary to help this man." God, give me patience. Do not force me to cosh these two dear, infuriating men.

Without further discussion, Grimsley tore the petticoat into bandages and passed them to Winston. He in turn wet them and handed them to Hayley. She bathed the wound as best she could, then applied pressure to it using clean bandages from her bag. Her eyes constantly flitted back to the man's face. She feared that every breath he drew might well be his last. Don't die on me. Please. Let me save you. When the bleeding finally slowed to a trickle, she bandaged his arm.