Missy Parker was pushing through the crowd too, but in the other direction, toward the front. When she got where she wanted to be she was breathing hard, her ample bosom heaving and flushed. She took a moment to put her cap to rights and pat the kerchief around her neck.

“Watch out, Reverend,” Charlie LeBlanc said in a low voice that would not be heard beyond the circle of men at the very back of the room. “You're square in her sights, now.”

Behind Lily, Simon grunted softly. Then his hand was on her shoulder, and his breath stirred the hair at her ear.

She leaned toward him, just a little, thinking that he had something to say, and then stayed like that, shoulder to shoulder.

“Reverend Stiles,” Missy Parker was saying. “Maybe it's a little unusual how you've come to us, but I for one am glad to have you. We've been too long without a shepherd.”

All around the room people began to shift uncomfortably. Lily saw suspicion and disquiet on the faces of most of the women, but the men were amused or annoyed or a little of both. Stiles wasn't the first preacher to think he could bring some order to this particular flock. No doubt the wagering would start as soon as Stiles was out of earshot: how many days it would be before he gave up and sold out. Tonight when the regulars sat down in the tavern they would talk themselves hoarse, cursing Missy Parker and Jemima Wilde both, and the Reverend Mr. Stiles most of all.

Lily could almost feel sorry for the Yankee preacher who had been enticed into this nest of no-nonsense Yorkers. It was a fine joke Jemima had played on them all, and Lily had the uncomfortable idea that it wouldn't be the last one. But Stiles didn't seem to have any sense of that.

The severe old man was looking at Missy Parker from under a tangled mass of white eyebrows, his small mouth pursed tight, out of place in the fleshy face. “The good Lord giveth and he taketh away.” His voice boomed out, filling the room. He raised both hands, palm outward, squeezed his eyes shut, and tilted his head back. “Let us pray.”

“But not here,” Anna McGarrity said, clapping her hands. “And not now. I got a business to run, Reverend Stiles.”

The heavy head dropped forward. When he opened his eyes Lily saw a burning anger there, the first sign of the real man, she thought: she would draw him this way, when she had the chance.

“We'll adjourn to the meetinghouse, then,” he announced. And seeing the surprise in the faces around him said, “There is a meetinghouse, Mrs. Wilde assured me.”

Missy Parker cleared her throat importantly and flashed a triumphant look in Elizabeth's direction. “Well, sure we had a meetinghouse, Mr. Stiles. But it was give over to less godly pursuits.”

Lily might have spoken up then, but Simon's hand slipped to her waist and tightened. “Wait,” he said. “Let your father handle it. Stiles isn't the kind of man who'll pay attention to anything a woman has to say.”

It was true and it was infuriating too. Lily caught her father's eye and the shrug that said he was more aggravated than worried and would make short work of the trouble at hand.

“Let's leave it to him,” Simon said so softly that no one else could hear. “Come, lass, come away.”

Lily swallowed down all the protests that rose up so readily, and let him help her down from the crate. She was at the door when she realized that Nicholas Wilde was standing there too, his hand on the latch, watching her.

She wanted to say something to him, something kind and helpful, something that would make the terrible lost look in his eyes go away. But there were no words that could accomplish that, and Lily felt that lack as surely as she felt Simon's hand on her waist.

Nicholas looked at her for a long moment and then turned his head away. He closed the door behind him.

When Lily found the nerve to follow him, seconds or minutes or hours later, the only sign that he had ever existed were fresh heel marks in the road, already filling with water.

“Will you walk with me for a bit?” she asked Simon, and set off, not waiting for his answer. She turned onto a trail that led up through the woods, a trail she could walk in full dark and never take a misstep, and she walked as hard and fast as the mud and the boggy patches would let her.

Simon stayed close behind. For a white man he walked well, without a lot of extra movement or noise. Her uncle Runs-from-Bears liked Simon, and no doubt this was part of the reason; he had little patience with any man who lumbered through the forests like a cow. Except for Gabriel all her people liked him, though they tried to keep it to themselves.

And I like him too, Lily admitted to herself. She liked his dry humor and calm good sense and the way he talked to his elders, respectful but not fearful; she liked what he had made of himself. She liked the smell of him and the dimples he had hidden for so many years, and the strength in his arms and hands and the way he couldn't hide what he was feeling when he held her. She was aware of him just behind her, down to the shape of the shadow he threw when they passed through a patch of sunlight.

Her father had asked her, as no one else had dared, if she loved Simon Ballentyne, and she had told him the truth: she didn't know. She still didn't know, not really. For a long time she had believed herself in love with Nicholas Wilde, but now that felt to her like a dream only partly recalled.

He'll ask now where we're going, Lily told herself, and determined that she would turn around and go home when he did. But Simon kept his questions to himself and followed her, and she pushed on until every breath burned and she cursed the awkwardness of her skirts.