He first saw her from the edge of No Man’s Land, the stretch of forest between two countries.
The Wanderer squinted, looking at the horizon where a black silhouette ran along the ridge in the land to the west.
He wondered if this was an apparition born of his loneliness until the shadow turned downhill. Then he saw a horse and rider after they left the halo of the setting sun. They ran for the woods, far from the gates where lawmen would check papers and ask questions.
He whistled when the fugitive disappeared in the trees. Anyone caught crossing the border in secret would lose a year of life in prison, possibly more depending on the misdeeds that compelled one to flee.
Turning his gaze east, the glow at the end of day spread across the hills, infusing warmth in the grasses soaked the day before. The rains always started in the limbo between summer and autumn, followed by sun and then rain again.
He knew the rhythm of the seasons well, but felt foreign in his home country. The land of his birth had become less familiar, less comfortable than the places where he couldn’t speak the language.
The Wanderer was grateful for his last spell of work. He convinced the Patron to pay him with a workhorse doomed for the slaughterhouse instead of the usual paltry wages. The presence of the old mare was comforting besides making travel easier.
The Wanderer inhaled the scent of grass and enjoyed the last rays of sun on his cheeks. The clear sky promised nighttime stars, tempting him to stake his camp where he was. Staring into the heavens while drifting to sleep would take him back to faraway lands, to the traveling mates and lovers he met along the way.
Those memories kept him going when he came back to the solitude of his waking life.
But he’d be vulnerable in the open fields. After a day or two, man or nature would drive him off, either the closest patron or sheets of water falling from the sky.
No Man’s Land was a safer choice, the canopy of trees providing protection and plenty of forage. He might pass a few weeks in there. The constant moving from one town to the next was wearing him down.
Then the Wanderer felt her stare.
He knew from the tingling along his flesh that it was a woman who watched him. He scanned the fields along the edge of the woods and found her up the hill, too far away to get a good look at her.
But even from a distance, the intensity of her gaze burned into him.
The girl kicked her mount into a canter across the field, circling the Wanderer at a five-stride distance from him. The size of her horse intimidating, the largest stallion he’d ever seen and standing many hands higher than his old mare.
The girl should have seemed overpowered by the animal; her legs didn’t stretch down half its girth. But her back was relaxed in an easy slouch, one hand holding the reins with a loose grip.
The Wanderer turned his nag to keep the girl in sight, and noticed the crest of patronage scarred into the horse’s flank.
But she looked no more highborn than he did. Her blond hair fell in a long braid to her waist, loose strands mussed around her face. Her skirt was tattered and the once creamy blouse dingy from overuse.
Yet she had what his grandfather always called presence, the quality that commands attention in a crowded room.
The Wanderer observed the girl looking him over, her cool gaze taking in his patched clothes and rucksack.
Then their eyes met.
The air snapped around him, teasing along his flesh.
He noticed that the muscles of her long thighs were taut, her shapely calves disappearing into heavy boots. He could see the silhouette of high breasts underneath her blouse, the curve of her waist swelling into hips.
When the Wanderer looked up, he flushed.
The girl’s lips were parted in a knowing smile, her regard penetrating when he met her eyes again. She raised her brows and chuckled, and heat shot through his veins.
“Happy trails, Wanderer,” she said.
He blinked a few times, stunned by her greeting.
Before he could answer, the girl turned her steed for the woods and clicked her tongue, disappearing into No Man’s Land.
She had actually recognized him as a wanderer.
Her voice echoed in his mind, the kind of voice he liked best in a woman, deep in tone yet smooth like well-aged liquor.
She must be an adventurer, one of his own.
Relief intoxicated the Wanderer and made him restless. Turning his mare towards the break in the trees where she went, he followed the swathe of trampled bushes.
