“Shh!”
Honor stopped, the stalks banging together around her.
“Go slow or it makes noise,” the woman whispered. “And we got to go through without breaking the stalks, so no one know we been here. Get to the middle and wait. Follow me, now.”
They stepped carefully along a row, trying not to rattle or break the stalks. Honor kept her eyes on the woman’s back, where a patch of sweat was blooming through her brown dress. Several feet in, the woman turned and cut across rows, zigzagging and pushing carefully through the thick corn. Eventually she turned into a row and walked along it, on and on, for far longer than Honor would ever have gone on her own. “Please,” she almost said. “Please stop.”
She was about to reach out and touch the woman when the runaway did stop, and Honor almost stumbled into her. She was dizzy and the baby was pressing on her bladder.
The woman sat. “Let’s wait here.”
Honor went a little farther along to squat. It was so hot that the urine dried up just moments after she finished. She came back to sit near the runaway and opened her bundle. This time the woman took one of the plums. Honor savored the fleshy pulp, and sucked for a long time on the stone.
The woman was looking at her sideways. “I like that bonnet,” she said. “You think it’s jes’ gray, then there’s that little flash of yellow to give it spice.”
“A friend made it for me.” Honor felt a pang, thinking of Belle Mills. She had never replied to her letter, and now she would not see her again.
It was uncomfortable sitting in the cornfield. The sun beat down on them, for the stalks did not provide much shade. The leaves caught at her, their surfaces a rough softness. The ears bulged from their husks, but this was feed corn, its kernels too tough for human teeth, and the taste less delicate than the sweet corn Honor had come to love and crave. There was nothing substantial like a tree to lean against, and the corn grew close enough together that it was difficult to find space to lie out. She was exhausted from the sun and the physical exertion, however, and managed to nod off, jerking herself awake.
“You sleep a bit,” the runaway said. “I’ll keep watch. We’ll take turns.”
Honor did not argue. She laid her head on her bundle, curled around the baby and, despite the hot sun, the flies and the dull ache in her belly, soon slept.
She woke with a dry mouth, the plum stone tucked in her cheek. The sun was arcing down toward the horizon. Honor had slept a long time. She could hear a horse in the distance, clopping steadily along the track, and sat up, startled. The black woman was sitting on her heels.
“Thee should have woken me,” Honor said.
The woman shrugged. “You needed the sleep.” Her eyes grazed over Honor’s belly. “I remember wantin’ to sleep all the time toward the end.”
“Thee has children?” Honor glanced around, as if somehow she could conjure up children in the cornfield.
“Course. That’s why I’m here.”
Honor shook her head to clear her thoughts. Then she froze: it was Donovan’s horse. He rode fast, then slowed, then stopped, then rode slowly again, then turned around and galloped away.
Honor gulped, but the woman seemed unconcerned. She even chuckled. “He been doin’ that a while now,” she said. “Knows we here somewhere but don’t know where.”
“Will he come into the corn?”
“I reckon not. They’s lots of woods an’ fields to search. He gon’ wait till we make a move.”
Honor did not ask when that would be.
“Remember, he don’t know where we are, but we know where he is. We got the advantage.”
Honor wished she shared the woman’s optimism. Unfortunately, Donovan had the advantage of the law on his side, and a horse, and a gun.
At dusk they heard another horse along the track. As he called her name, Honor recognized Jack’s voice. He must have cut short the harvest to look for her: it was good weather and she knew the Haymakers had been planning to work as late as they could to get the hay in before rain came. She could hear anger and impatience in his voice, and winced.
The black woman stared at her. “That your husband?” she whispered when Jack had turned back. “What he callin’ you for? Don’t he know you out here with me?”
Honor didn’t answer.
Then the woman understood. “You runnin’ away?” she cried, her voice for the first time that day rising above a muffled tone. “What in hell you doin’ that for? With a baby comin’ an’ all? What you got to run away from?”
With each question, Honor shrank further into herself, taking refuge in silence.
When it was clear she would not-or could not-respond, the woman clicked her tongue. “Fool,” she muttered.
As it was growing dark, they heard horses again, and Jack and Adam Cox calling this time. The woman reached for her bundle and scrambled to her feet.
Honor grabbed her sleeve. “What is thee doing?”
“I gon’ tell them you here.”
“Please don’t!”
But it was Donovan’s voice joining the others’-sarcastic, amused-that stopped the runaway. “Honor Bright, I’m a little surprised you’re hidin’ out there, after all your promises not to help niggers. Guess I can’t trust even a Quaker these days. Time to come out now, darlin’-you’re scarin’ your husband.”
The women remained still, listening to the men shifting about on their horses and talking in low voices. Honor shuddered and took a deep breath.
Then she heard the barking.
“Oh Lord, they got a dog,” the black woman whispered. “Oh Lord.”
“That’s Digger.”
“He know you? Well, when he find us least he won’t tear you apart. Get ready to run.”
“He hates me.”
“Your own dog hate you? Oh Lord.”
Honor could hear stirring among the corn, and then made out Digger’s shadowy form trotting up the row. He did not bark, though, but came to stand at Honor’s feet. He gazed up at her, ignoring the runaway, and growled low. Then he turned and ran back down the way he had come. The women stared after him.
“That’s him lettin’ you go,” the black woman murmured. “Good thing he hate you. Thankee, Digger.”
“There he is,” they heard Jack say. “What has thee found, Digger? Nothing?”
“Thought he was after somethin’ there,” Donovan said. “Damn dog. That’s why I don’t like to use ’em-noisy and unreliable. I trust my own senses more than a dog’s.”
Eventually the men rode away again, and the women began threading their way east across the rows of corn. Honor’s legs ached from inactivity, and she shook and stretched them. She could see two stars in the sky. More would soon appear.
At the end of the cornfield they passed through a wood, taking them south of Faithwell. As it grew black Honor kept her eyes on the woman’s back again, finally reaching out to touch her so that she could be guided through the dark.
Eventually they reached the familiar main road between Oberlin and Wellington. It was quiet, but Honor suspected Donovan and possibly Jack were somewhere along it, waiting for them.
“We’ll go into that corn,” the woman said, gesturing across the road. “Stay off the road, but near it so we know where we at, and where the hunter at too. Always better to know that, so you don’t get surprised.” She spoke with the confidence of someone who had done this often. She hurried across the road, which was a pale river even without a moon. As Honor followed she thought of being in this very spot a few months back, looking for Donovan in the night. Now she was hiding from him. The darkness brought with it the same metallic taste of fear. Honor swallowed but the taste remained, though muted, for this time she was not alone.
In the cornfield the woman turned south. When Honor did not follow, she stopped. “You comin’ or what?”