Before Sarah could say anything, Johannes nodded to Zeb. “Tell Reuben, would you?” Then he abruptly turned, leading Bente away from the wagons and toward the east, Zeb and Sarah watching them both disappear from the firelight.
Sarah looked down at the brush and turned it in her hands, remembering. The fire sheen on the silver of metal blurred. “Oh…” she said softly
Zeb put his hand on her shoulder. “Let’s go,” he said quietly, leading her away. They stepped outside the curved line of rigs, the frontiersman’s right hand holding the .52 caliber Sharps, his left arm hanging loosely in the darkness next to her. In a few paces, he stopped and turned. “We can walk around the wagons, or we can walk out to that little rise yonder,” he pointed south to a raised portion of the shelf slightly more than one hundred yards from where they camped. “Your druthers, Sarah.”
“Let’s head up there, Zeb. I just have to make sure I don’t trip and fall in the dark with this dress.”
To her surprise, he took her hand. “I won’t let you fall, Sarah,” he said, shortening his steps. Her hand seemed lost in his warm, protective grip. She liked the rough and gentle feel of his touch.
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