Lily by Patricia Gaffney Page A

ladder. They stood that way for a minute or two, his back to the gate post, her body pressed against him. The wet-leather smell of his buckskin jacket was pungent in her nostrils.
    “The horse is gone.”
    Lily looked behind her. “He must’ve gone to the sta—” A string of curses cut her off; their vileness stunned her. He was furious.
    Then the rain came.
    In seconds they were drenched to the skin. Huge, pelting drops struck them with the force of hurled stones, plastering clothes to skin, hair to faces. The wind ripped and tore and howled, battering at them with a ferocity that drove them to cling together, protecting their faces against each other’s bodies. Thunder cracked and roared; lightning flared incessantly. Lily felt Devon’s hand at the back of her neck, warm on her wet skin, holding her steady. After a wild, endless time, when speaking above the wind and water was impossible, the rain stopped—as abruptly as it had started. But they both knew it would begin again, probably soon.
    She pulled away, out of his arms. He was only a black blur against the lighter blackness behind him. “Please, won’t you let me go for help?” she asked as calmly as possible, pushing her dripping hair out of her eyes. He just shook his head, and she smothered a few curses of her own. “Can you walk?”
    “Of course I can walk.”
    “Then we should go now, before it starts again. Put your arm around me. Am I allowed to ask where you’re hurt?”
    He only grunted at first, annoyed by her sarcastic tone, but finally bit out a curt, “Shoulder.” She moved to his right, and he got his good arm around her. At least the girl was tall, he thought as they set off at a snail’s pace down the lane toward the house, about half a mile away.
    Minutes later they had to stop, and again a dozen times after that when the storm recommenced or when his weakness forced him to rest, beside whatever inadequate shelter they happened to be near. His helplessness appalled him; his way of confronting it was to ignore it, and it was Lily who had to call for their frequent pauses. He wouldn’t sit down, for fear of not being able to get up again, so she had to prop him against the trunk of the nearest sturdy tree, holding him upright with her full weight against him, while he recovered enough strength to walk on. In a second-long burst of lightning she saw that the wet front of her dress was stained pink now from the contact; she wondered how much blood he had lost, if he would faint soon in the middle of the road, and what she would do if he did.
    If she hadn’t understood by now that he wanted secrecy, she would have when they drew close to the path that led to his steward’s cottage. “Let me fetch Mr. Cobb,” she pleaded. “He can help you better than I can.”
    “No.” Uttering the word required all his strength. He stopped walking and clung to her with both arms, battling a new dizziness that frightened him. It passed, slowly, and when it was gone he felt her slender, small-boned body shaking. “Are you all right?” he murmured, his face buried in her wet hair.
    “Yes, of course.” She straightened her spine and got a better grip around his waist, willing strength into her weak legs.
    If she could have seen his face in the darkness then, she’d have been surprised to note a flicker of a smile. Her tone reminded him of his; it held a mirror up to his own bravado. What a pair they made. “I’m relieved to hear it. Let’s not have a race, though; I don’t quite feel up to it.”
    She couldn’t help smiling herself at that. “Another time, perhaps,” she said, echoing his dryness.
    Eventually they reached the house. They got in through the same door by which Lily had left it earlier. The first two floors of the house were unoccupied, so there was no need for silence. But the sudden stillness after the deafening fury of the storm was uncanny; every footfall, each creaky floorboard, sounded like an explosion, and they