Synopsis | Reviews | Excerpt
1896 Oklahoma Indian
Territory
Mary Goode has spent nearly a decade hiding her sweetly off-kilter
brother,Robin, and two fellow misfits after she rescued them from a
brutal institution. But unknown to Mary, the trio's fascination with
Robin Hood and their hero's crusade to "steal from the rich and
give to the poor" may have led to a few actual robberies.
U.S.Marshal Shane Latimer is on the trail of the inept Robin Hood and
his shabby band of not-so-tough Merry Men when
his rattlesnake-spooked-horse lands him in the care of Robin’s
fiercely protective sister, Mary, aka Maid Marian.
He’s instantly charmed by Mary’s devotion to her whimsical brood
but worries that she may be hiding the truth.Still, for a cynical
loner like Shane, the appeal of their family affection, love, and
loyalty,combined with Mary’s growing hold on his heart, is hard to
resist.
Mary is equally torn. This wounded stranger could be the man of her
dreams, and for the first time in her life she has someone to
share the challenges of keeping her brigands out of trouble.
But will her quest for happiness forever shatter the idyllic life
she's forged for her special family?
And how will Shane reconcile his duties as a lawman with his love for
Maid Marian and her outlaws?
Since publication of her first novel in 1995, Deb Stover has received dozens
of awards for her cross-genre fiction, including ten RT Book
Reviews nominations and a Career Achievement Award.Visit her
at www.debstover.com.
Coming soon!
Prologue
Southern Kansas—1888.
The
relentless north wind sliced through Mary Goode’s threadbare coat as she
trudged along the narrow trail. An image flashed through her mind of a warm
fire and sweet tea with hot milk. Ah, but England was a far better place than
this godforsaken land, where parents died of mysterious fevers and left their
children homeless orphans.
Tears
pricked her eyes, but she blinked them into submission. Now was not the time,
and if all went as planned, she would never succumb to tears again. Crying was
for children, and fate had decreed that at thirteen, Mary was no longer a
child.
Huge
snowflakes floated down from the blue-black canopy until whiteness nearly
obliterated the dark sky. She paused and pulled her coat closer, wishing she still
had the warm muffler her mother had knitted last winter. Alas, her guardians
had taken everything.
Including
Robin.
Her breath
caught in her throat at the thought of seeing her brother again. Soon, she
promised herself. Very soon.
Turning
her face into the wind, she continued her journey, pausing at the top of a
slight hill. She tucked a stray curl beneath her hood and blinked several
times. At last, the massive brick and stone structure came into view.
God,
please let him still be here.
Three
months had passed since their parents’ deaths, when the sheriff had taken her
brother to this dreadful place. Though they called it an asylum, in truth it
was a prison where people like Robin were locked away until they died and were
no longer a burden to anyone.
Mary would
never forget that horrible day when they’d dragged Robin from her side. Weak
from the same fever that had killed their parents, she’d been unable to run
away and hide her brother. But now she was strong, and she would take Robin
across the border to Indian Territory, where
they would hide until their grandfather came for them.
What horrible things might these people
have done to her smiling brother, whose laughter brightened even the most
dreary days? Her mother had often called him one of God’s special angels, and
their father had raised Robin with patience and love. Not once could Mary
recall having heard her father refuse to read his son the same bedtime story.
Every night until that horrible fever had rendered their father unconscious, he
had read from The Merry Adventures of
Robin Hood. Of course, it was also his favorite, which was why Lawrence
Goode’s only son bore the name Robin.
Mary knew the entire story by heart,
though she no longer had the book. That, along with everything else she’d loved,
was gone. But no one could take her memories. Those were hers to cherish, and
soon she would have her brother to share them.
She blinked, certain no one in this
place had ever read Robin his favorite bedtime story. She would recite it to
him herself once they were safe, but first she had to find him.
"Please, God, make it so,” she whispered
into the snowy night. "Please.”
Her mother’s last words echoed through
Mary’s mind, as they often did. Look
after your brother, Mary. He will
always be a child.
Mary stumbled and her throat worked
convulsively, her vision blurred. I will
not cry. She drew a shuddering breath; the icy air cleansed her lungs and
purged her mind.
Stealthily, she crept around the
building, searching for a window without bars. There had to be a way for her to
get inside to Robin. Soft light streamed through a ground-floor window,
spilling onto the freshly fallen snow in a square of gold. Peering into the
room, she determined it was the kitchen and, more importantly, unoccupied.
She widened her stance and gripped the
window, easing it open very slowly. The old wood creaked and her heart pressed
against her throat, a tight fist of trepidation.
And hope.
Within a matter of moments, she was
inside. At first, she thought to leave the window open to aid their escape, but
in this weather, that would surely draw unwanted attention.
After closing the window, she rubbed her
arms, savoring the kitchen’s warmth. Without knowing where in this huge
building she might find her brother, she resigned herself to searching every
room on every floor if necessary. A narrow staircase drew her attention, and
she decided upstairs made the most sense this time of night.
Her eyes readjusted to the darkness by
the time she reached the next floor. She stood with her back pressed against
the wall, waiting and wondering, listening to her heart pummel her ribs and
echo through her head.
A lone lamp burned at the far end of the
hall, and she inched along the wall until she came to the first closed door.
With sweaty fingers, she turned the handle and peered inside. A lamp burned
near the window, illuminating the room enough for her to see several cage-like
iron cribs lined up against the far wall. Most of them were occupied by small
bundles.
Oh,
dear God. She held her
breath and her throat burned with the need to vent her rage at this injustice.
If she were rich, she’d take all the babies home and raise them herself. With a
shudder and a powerful sense of futility, she left the room and proceeded to
the next door.
On the fourth floor, she noted one door
slightly ajar with light overflowing into the hall. She heard someone talking
from inside, though the words were muffled. Still, something about the voice’s
inflection and tone beckoned her.
Holding her breath, she peered through
the open door. Joy surged through her when she recognized Robin sitting
cross-legged on a narrow bed near the window. He clearly didn’t see or hear her
as she stepped into the room, for he continued moving his hands and talking
excitedly, reciting his favorite story.
He
remembers. Mary’s
determination renewed itself. She would find a way to take Robin away from
here, to a place where they could live together again as brother and sister.
Though he was six years her senior, he would always be her little brother in so
many ways.
Her eyes blurred as she searched the
stark room until her gaze came to rest on two men seated on the floor near
Robin’s bed. They were staring up at him, hanging on his every word. One of
them was very tall and dark, obviously an Indian. The other man was the
complete opposite, and she knew if he stood he wouldn’t even reach her
shoulder. She’d seen a man like him once—a midget, her father had called him.
At first, she remained in the shadows
near the door, wondering if the men would try to stop her. But the expressions
on their faces told her of the trust and adoration they obviously felt for her
brother.
Robin continued the story, pronouncing
some words in ways she knew most people wouldn’t understand. However, Robin’s
audience, whoever they were, obviously understood.
Knowing she could delay no longer, Mary
stepped into the lamplight. "Robin,” she said quietly. "It’s me, Ma—”
Robin leapt to his feet and rushed into
her arms. "Maid Marian,” he whispered.
Hearing her father’s pet name for her
made Mary’s heart flutter. "Yes, Robin. I’ve come for you.” She cast a furtive
glance at the men, who now rose.
"This is Little John,” he indicated the
towering Indian, "and that’s Friar Tuck.” He patted the smaller man on the
shoulder.
Mary swallowed hard. "How nice. I’m
pleased to meet you both.” She looked at her brother again. "We must hurry,
Robin.”
"All right.” Obediently, he went to the
corner and pulled on an old coat, several sizes too large. "Make haste, men.”
As Mary stared in surprise, the
mismatched pair imitated Robin’s actions. The small man donned a coat far too
large for his short frame, while the Indian wrapped a blanket around his
shoulders.
"We go,” Little John said.
Friar Tuck put a fist on one hip and
glowered up at Mary. "You’re but a child,” he said, shaking his finger at her.
"But that’s all right, Maid Marian. I shall take care of you all.”
Mary realized that if she refused to
allow the men to accompany them, they might alert the staff to Robin’s escape.
"Very well then, follow me.”
"Where we going?” Robin asked, his eyes
wide and filled with unconditional trust.
Praying for a miracle, Mary reached up
to push a stray dark curl from her brother’s brow. With a smile, she said,
"Why, to Sherwood Forest, of course.”
Chapter One
Indian Territory—1896.
SHERWOOD FOREST
NO TRESPASSING
SHANE LATIMER read the crude sign
attached to a gnarled hickory and chuckled. He shook his blond head and rubbed
the back of his aching neck. Though rain had made the trail almost impossible
to follow, he’d made it.
Why had the outlaws marked their hideout
with a sign? Either they were even more cunning than Shane had thought, or they
were fools. Their reputation indicated the former.
He looked around, marveling at how
drastically the terrain had changed once he left southern Kansas
and entered the northeastern corner of Indian Territory.
Some would deem the lush countryside paradise. Considering the amount of rain
that had fallen on him since yesterday, the abundant foliage was
understandable. But right now he’d trade his last strip of jerky for the hot Texas sun baking through
his bones.
He had to give the Merry Men credit,
though. They’d chosen the location for their hideout wisely. Missouri,
Arkansas, and Kansas were each less than a day’s ride from
here, giving the outlaws a wide and varied area in which to practice their
thievery.
Watery sunlight broke through the clouds
as a mockingbird sailed past, distracting Shane from his daydreams. "Get your
hide moving, Latimer,” he muttered to himself, peering beyond the sign and into
the dense forest.
After all this time, he knew his
backside wouldn’t part company with the saddle willingly, so he decided to
remain mounted for now. With a sigh, he retrieved his canteen and took a long
drink. Then, as he secured it to his saddle horn again, he saw him.
Half-naked and motionless, the man
blended with the trees as if part of the forest. Shane swallowed hard, taking
in the long black hair, the buckskin breeches, and the feathers adorning the
man’s lance and headband.
An Indian in Indian
Territory—no surprise there. However, the brave was as tall as
many of the surrounding trees. Shane wasn’t exactly short, standing well over
six feet himself, but he knew the giant would dwarf him.
And beat the hell out of him in a fair
fight.
Of course, if it came to that, he’d
manage somehow to swing the odds in his favor. With the reins laced through his
gloved fingers, he allowed his hands to rest on his thighs, never shifting his
gaze from the silent brave.
He could think of only one way to
determine the man’s intentions. Slowly, Shane moved both hands to the pommel as
he shifted his weight in the saddle. The contrast between creaking leather and
dead silence gave him pause, but the brave didn’t even blink.
Shane raised a hand in greeting. "Nice
day,” he said and touched the brim of his hat.
Silence.
"Well, I’ll be on my way then,” he said,
gathering the reins.
The brave widened his stance and gripped
his lance with both hands. "Who goes there?” he asked in a booming voice that
sent birds fluttering from nearby trees.
Shane figured he had three choices. One,
he could draw his gun and get rid of the problem, though killing was something
he didn’t take lightly, and the brave hadn’t done anything to warrant killing.
Yet. Two, Shane could turn and ride away in silence, or three, he could try to
bamboozle his way past the brave. Maybe.
"Who goes there?” the Indian repeated.
"Well, who are you?” Shane grinned. No harm in trying.
"I am called Little John.”
Perfect. "Little?” Shaking his head, Shane
chuckled. "I’m looking for someone. Maybe you’ve see—”
"Who goes there?” Little John asked
again.
"I told you, I’m looking for—”
"You go.” The brave’s voice left no room
for argument. "Leave Sherwood Forest.”
Shane stared long and hard at Little John,
weighing his options and his chances. Damn.The giant’s stance and expression remained unwavering. Shane’s element of
surprise was lost no matter what. Either the brave would warn the others, or a
bullet fired from Shane’s gun would reveal his presence.
His decision made, Shane nodded and
urged his horse to turn north. He’d have to circle back and ford the Verdigris. A menacing whir caught him by surprise.
His horse reared, throwing Shane from
the saddle. He hit the ground hard and rolled away from the flailing hooves.
Somehow, he maintained his grip on his pistol.
Squinting, he managed to fire two
rounds, but missed the coiled snake.
The gunfire sent the mare into even
greater panic just as the snake struck, impaling pearl-white fangs into the
horse’s fetlock. The bucking frenzy would pump the snake venom through her
large body that much faster. Shane had no choice but to end the animal’s
suffering. God knew he didn’t want to do it.
Clutching his pistol, he rolled onto his
hip to rise, but another eerie rattling turned his blood to ice. He swallowed
hard, knowing the snake was close. Too close. He shifted his gaze to one side
without moving his head, searching until he found the small rattler coiled,
ready to strike. Again.
Stealthily, he cocked the hammer of his
pistol, praying the metallic click wouldn’t prompt the snake to strike. Sweat
dripped from Shane’s brow and pooled in his eyes, but he didn’t even blink.
The mare moved closer, still bucking but
with less vigor. Fearing the horse would prompt the snake to strike, Shane
pulled the trigger.
The mare’s hoof glanced off Shane’s
temple and his shot went wild. Pain exploded through his head. Knowing what he
had to do despite his blurred vision, Shane turned his gun on the mare and
pulled the trigger. This way would be far more merciful than death by
snakebite.
And where was that damned snake?
The mare went down instantly—Shane’s
shot had been clean. She suffered no more. "Damn shame,” he whispered, gnashing
his teeth.
As if from nowhere, Little John appeared,
staring down at Shane like an indulgent parent. "Good horse. Great loss.”
"Yeah.” Shane tried to nod, but his head
threatened to split with the slightest movement. He pressed his glove to his
temple, then pulled it away bloodied.
The brave extended his large hand.
Hesitating only a moment, Shane allowed the giant to haul him to his feet. He
sensed he was in no danger—at least no immediate danger.
Little John had to be nearly seven feet
tall, with silver streaks glistening in his blue-black hair. Barely reaching
the Indian’s chin, Shane wondered how the hell he was going to get out of this
mess.
"I need to see to my horse,” he said,
tightening his grip on his pistol as he took two dizzy steps toward the mare.
She lay on her side, unmoving, but he had to make absolutely sure. If there was
one thing he couldn’t do, it was walk away from a suffering animal.
"Snake.”
Little John’s voice startled Shane,
making him turn in midstep. Twin probes of fire pierced his calf, sending Shane
immediately to his knees.
He’d forgotten the damned snake.
Stunned, his fingers went limp and his
pistol fell impotently to the ground. Little John shot past him and grabbed the
snake and sent his knife through it. It sure as hell wouldn’t bite anybody
else.
But that wouldn’t save Shane or his
horse.
Fire sizzled in his calf. Looking down,
he saw the snake’s deadly yellow venom, tinged with streaks of his own blood,
oozing from the twin holes in his jeans. The pain in his leg rivaled the
constant throbbing in his temple.
Stiffly, he lowered himself to the
ground and yanked a knife from his boot. Ignoring the blood trickling down the
side of his face, Shane ripped the blade through his jeans until the fang marks
were revealed.
The rattler had been small,
comparatively speaking, but little ones had more potent venom. Still, after
biting the mare it couldn’t have had much left. Maybe Shane had a chance, but
he had to act fast. The wound on his head wasn’t helping matters any. His
vision blurred and cleared.
Little John’s shadow loomed behind him
as the sun again broke through the clouds. The brave reached down with his huge
hand, holding it out for the knife.
"Help,” Little John said.
Indecision slashed through Shane. What
choice did he have? With a sigh, he placed his knife, his trust, and his life
in the Indian’s hand. "There’s whiskey in my saddlebags.”
While Little John retrieved the nearly
full bottle of whiskey, Shane loosened the bandanna from around his neck and
wound it tightly, just above his knee. He grabbed a sturdy stick and slipped it
beneath the bandanna, then gave it a decisive twist. Then another.
Little John handed the whiskey bottle to
Shane, who splashed some over the snakebite. He sucked in a sharp breath as the
fiery liquid burned his wound. Then he tipped his head back and swallowed a
generous amount. A far more pleasant warmth seeped through his veins, and he
took another pull of the potent, numbing—at least he sure as hell hoped
so—liquor.
With the bottle still clutched in his
fist, he met Little John’s curious gaze. "Just do it,” Shane urged. "Now.”
Grunting, Little John made two clean
slits on Shane’s leg, crisscrossing between the wounds left by the snake.
Without speaking, the Indian sucked the poison from the cuts and spat on the
ground repeatedly.
A wave of dizziness swept through Shane
and he shuddered, knowing at least some of the venom had crept up his leg and
into his blood. Only time would tell if he lived or died. He touched the side
of his head again. Hell, he might survive the snakebite and still die from the
blow to his head. That would make the snake victorious either way. Dead but
victorious.
His vision blurred again as Little John
continued his efforts. Shane fell sideways and hit the ground hard, his head
landing in a mound of damp leaves near Little John’s bare feet. The earthy
scents of mud and rotting leaves filled Shane’s nostrils, assuring him he was
still alive. For now.
"Little John help more.”
The brave’s voice sounded far away,
though Shane was vaguely aware of the giant’s strong arms sliding beneath his
knees and shoulders. A moment later, Little John lifted him as if he weighed no
more than a small child.
Swirling darkness, waves of dizziness,
and unbearable nausea spiraled through Shane. His gut clenched and he retched,
then swallowed great gulps of air to calm his gut. The snake’s venom couldn’t
have worked this fast. It looked as if the blow to his head might prove more
deadly than the snake.
But there was one problem that snake
hadn’t taken into consideration. Shane Latimer was nowhere near ready to die.
Little John took a few jarring steps,
then broke into a full run, sending shards of pain splintering through Shane’s
head.
"Maid Marian make better,” Little John
said forcefully, never slowing his pace.
Wondering what sort of insanity awaited
him, and if he would live long enough to see for himself, Shane slipped into
blessed oblivion.
MARY STEPPED outside the door and looked
up at the sky, where patches of blue broke through at long last. For three
weeks it had done nothing but rain.
Her gaze rested on her brother’s dark
head bent over the task of restringing his bow. At twenty-seven, Robin Goode
still possessed the mind of a boy, filled with mischief and fantasy.
With a sigh, Mary looked around the area
surrounding their isolated cabins in the woods—home for the past eight years.
Sometimes, when she permitted herself to remember her parents and their life in
England
at Briarwood, she found herself yearning for something more.
But her parents were gone, and here she
had a home and what remained of her family. What else was there? A husband and children.
No. Drawing a deep breath, she banished
such thoughts. Dreams and tears weren’t for her. She had responsibilities, and
no time for daydreams or crying.
After all, this was a good place to
live, with an abundance of game, water and fertile soil. Eight years. She and Robin were both grown now. They could probably
return to civilization, but what if something happened to her? What about
Robin? There was no doubt in her mind that the authorities would put him back
in that asylum, or another one just like it. Or worse. No, she had to stay here
with her brother and their haphazard family—misfits one and all.
Perhaps Little John was a little slow,
but Mary knew he would do anything to protect Robin. The tall Indian was loyal
and good-hearted.
Friar Tuck was a fussy little old man
now, who’d appointed himself in charge of them all. He was a dear, sweet man,
though sometimes a trifle on the bossy side. He’d never shown any signs of
instability, other than his random recitations of Shakespeare and some strange
scientific ranting no one understood.
They had no clue about his earlier life.
According to both Little John and Robin, Tuck had arrived at the asylum shortly
after Robin, so he hadn’t been there long before Mary came for them.
Yes, them.She smiled to herself, for fate had surely played a role in their situation.
Though she’d gone to that dreadful place with only Robin in mind, now she
couldn’t imagine their life without Little John and Tuck. Yes, fate...
Mary picked up her egg basket and headed
toward the henhouse, inhaling deeply of the rain-washed air. Except for one
unwelcome serpent that appeared from time to time, their Sherwood
Forest was truly a Garden of Eden, especially in spring. A sweet
profusion of honeysuckle bowed the fence around the henhouse, a startling
contrast with the chicken yard’s typical stench.
She bent down to enter the squat log
structure, but a shout stayed her.
"Maid Marian.”
Recognizing the urgency in Little John’s
voice, Mary dropped her basket and hurried to where Robin had set aside his
bow. They both stared into the woods from where the voice had come.
"Maid Marian,” the call came again. The
sound of him crashing through the trees and underbrush heralded his arrival.
"Need help.”
Winded, Little John paused before them
with his burden. "Snake,” he said.
"Oh, no.” Cringing, Mary turned toward
the cabin. "Bring him inside,” she ordered. "Robin, get my herbs from the shed.
Quickly now.”
Little John ducked to enter the cabin and
dropped to his knees beside the straw tick in the front room. Carefully, he
deposited the unconscious man, then stepped away.
Mary’s attention was riveted to the
man’s bare leg, red and distended below the tightly wrapped bandanna. "How long
ago was he bitten?” she asked.
Little John looked out the window,
tilting his head to see the sky. "Two—no, one hour.”
She smiled, realizing how hard he was
trying to understand. For years, she and Tuck had tried to help both Robin and
Little John with the concepts of time. They both grasped the passing of days,
but they struggled with shorter intervals.
Turning her attention back to her
patient, she looked at his face. Burnished golden hair curled around his
handsome face and nearly touched his shoulders at the sides and back. A heated
flush crept up her neck to her face as she noted the profusion of curls peeking
from his open collar.
Ashamed for failing to concentrate on
the man’s injuries, Mary followed the trail of dried blood on his cheek to the
massive discoloration at his temple. She had no way of knowing which of his
injuries was more serious. If the snake had bitten him only an hour ago, a man
his size shouldn’t have been unconscious.
"Horse kicked,” Little John explained.
Robin rushed in, depositing a basket of
herbs and bandages beside the bed. Mary knelt on the floor beside the wounded
man to examine his leg more closely. Little John had thoroughly siphoned the
venom. She squeezed the inflamed flesh around the fang marks gently but firmly.
The man moaned in pain, but only clean blood oozed from the wounds—no trace of
the noxious, straw-colored venom.
"You did well, Little John,” she said,
reaching into her basket for a few items. "Bring the kettle, please. Careful,
it’s hot.”
After Little John returned with the
kettle, Mary stirred hot water into a wooden bowl filled with herbs until she
had a thin paste. Adding a generous glob of red clay from the riverbank, she
soon had the necessary consistency for a good poultice.
Fragrant steam wafted up from the
mixture as she spread it thickly on the man’s leg. With any luck at all, the
poultice would draw any lingering poison from the bite. "Robin, we’ll have to
cut away his boot. His foot is too swollen to remove it any other way.”
Nodding, her brother grabbed a huge pair
of shears from a shelf near the window. Mary watched him carefully cut through
the soft leather, far enough for the boot to fall to the floor with a solid thunk.
"Thank you,” she said, and removed the
man’s sock. His bare toes were icy, and the little one was already turning blue
on the outer edge. She had no choice but to loosen the bandanna. And pray she
wasn’t releasing more poison.
"Who is he?” she asked Little John as
she turned the stick that held the twisted bandanna in place.
"Don’t know.”
Merely nodding in response, Mary rinsed
a cloth in cool water and bathed the dried blood away from her patient’s face.
Even with the discoloring and swelling, she could see he was a handsome man. He
moaned again, and his eyes fluttered open for an instant. They were green and
glazed with pain.
"Thirsty,” he whispered.
Excessive thirst was an expected
consequence from a rattlesnake bite. Mary took the cup Robin handed her and
dipped it into the pail of fresh water. Holding the back of the man’s head in
one hand, she lifted him and held the cup to his lips. He drank greedily, then
fell back against the bedding.
She felt his toes again and noted their
color. They were still cold, but healthy pink had replaced the blue tinge. She
could only hope that by saving his leg she hadn’t cost him his life. Biting her
lower lip, she loosened the bandanna a little more.
She bathed his face again, noting the
cut wasn’t serious, but the bruising was massive. All they could do now was
keep him comfortable and try to satisfy his thirst. And pray.
Rising, she faced Little John. "What
happened?”
Tuck came in during Little John’s
recitation of the morning’s events. With a sigh, he shook his bald head and
faced Little John. "Well, did he have anything with him? We need to know who he
is in case he doesn’t make it.”
"Had a horse,” Little John said clearly.
"Horse dead. Snake.”
Tuck rolled his eyes and shook his head.
With an indulgent sigh, he tilted his head back to stare up—way up—at Little
John. "Did the man have a saddle? Hmm? With saddlebags, perhaps?”
"Whiskey.” Little John nodded. "Yes.”
Mary stood beside Little John and took
his hand. "You were very strong and brave today, my friend,” she said with
complete sincerity, smiling when the Indian blushed with pride beneath his
bronze complexion. "This man owes you his life.”
"If he lives.” Tuck folded his arms across
his pudgy belly.
"True.” Mary could hardly argue that
point, though she desperately wanted the stranger to live. She didn’t take time
to ponder her reasons as she returned her attention to Little John. "Can you
take Robin along to help you retrieve the man’s saddle and any other
belongings?”
"Make haste, Little John,” Robin said,
turning toward the door. "Lead me to saddle.”
Grunting in acknowledgment, Little John
followed his friend and self-appointed leader toward the door.
"Be careful,” Mary called after her
brother, as always. Robin paused at the door. Wrinkling his brow, he stared at
the injured man. "I wonder...”
"What?” Mary looked at the stranger
again, then back to her brother. "What is it, Robin?”
"Will Scarlet.”