The first pursuit began on the road to find Peter Wells. Two riders appeared a mile behind them and stayed there through three turns. They never closed the distance, which made them more alarming. Men intending robbery usually hurried. Men gathering information could afford patience.
Samuel Avery changed routes and sent his carriage ahead empty while he and Lydia Ashcombe continued on horseback through pine woods. She rode better than he expected, despite her injuries.
“You learned young,” he said.
“I learned before people decided women should sit still and let men handle the world.”
Near dusk, one rider finally approached. He claimed to carry a message from Judge Martin Ashcombe: return the woman and no accusation would be pursued against Samuel Avery for interfering with lawful custody.
Samuel Avery asked to see the custody order.
The messenger had none.
Lydia Ashcombe leaned forward in the saddle. “Ask him who signed the first confinement warrant.”
The messenger’s face changed.
That was answer enough.
He turned his horse and fled before Samuel Avery's hired man could stop him. They did not chase. Capturing a messenger would reveal little; frightening him into reporting panic might reveal much more.
By midnight they reached the outskirts of the town where Peter Wells lived.
Her house was dark, and the front door stood open.
The first riders appeared before sunset, too disciplined to be neighbors and too quiet to be lost. No one fired; the threat was in how confidently they approached the gate. He understood that wealth could buy guards, but it could also buy enemies with better information. The conflict had moved from rumor to pursuit. The woman watched every face now, measuring fear, loyalty, and the small signs of betrayal. Still the road ahead held questions that none of them could answer.