She rode on and off as the sun climbed into the southern sky and then began sinking again far too quickly. Each time she walked, she moved a little slower. And as the sun disappeared, it was harder to keep up her hope. Falling snow would have covered her bucket and the firewood. Even if it hadn’t been snowing, she’d dropped the firewood when she’d run. It wouldn’t have fallen into a neat stack. Filip wouldn’t know where she’d gone, wouldn’t have any idea where to search.
But he would still love her, wouldn’t he?
Doubt crept in as thoroughly as the winter chill. She dismounted when she reached a few trees, and she stamped her feet to force feeling into them. Maybe tomorrow she’d find the train tracks. Until then, she would ignore the crimes that had been committed against her and assume her husband would take her back, despite the ravages of bandits.
She took the ax and chopped down one of the short, spindly trees. It was harder to do than she’d expected. Filip usually set up the boxcar’s naida. In the growing darkness, she chopped down a second tree and cut off all the branches. She couldn’t feel her toes, but everything else from her waist down hurt. The logs of the naida were supposed to have squared sides, but she gave up after a few swings. The snow made the night not quite so black, but it was still difficult to see and even more difficult to get the angles right with frozen fingers.
She tied the logs together with one of the lead ropes and worked on starting a fire between them where the two pieces weren’t flush. Despite the pile of kindling, the flames blew out twice before she finally got something burning.
A fire at night might act as a beacon to any bandits in the area, but the alternative was freezing to death, and she couldn’t push forward indefinitely without rest. She piled up branches and snow to hide some of the light. Then she sat on the pile of hacked-off branches and roasted one of the potatoes.
When she finished eating, she brought the ponies close and laid down beside them, cocooned in fur coats. Guilt swept over her when she realized she had no food for the ponies. She shouldn’t have brought them when she couldn’t feed them. But as she watched, they nuzzled into the snow until they found the dead, buried grasses and grazed on those. The ponies were bred for these lands. They would be just fine.
The next day was difficult. She walked and rode but had to rest often. How far to the train tracks? Her captors had traveled by day, spending the first three nights in different locations. But they might not have traveled in a straight line. And what if they were following her? That fear—that terror—wouldn’t release her from its grip.
She stopped earlier the second day after her escape, while there was still enough light to build a proper naida. Then she made a shelter from branches. The ponies didn’t seem any worse for the miles they’d covered, but Nadia’s strength was failing. She felt feverish again, and whenever she had to urinate, it burned. She’d been a nurse long enough to recognize it as an infection that would likely resolve with time and rest, but in the meantime, she wasn’t sure how far she could push her body before it collapsed.
She wept that night as her memories haunted her and refused to be banished. The tears froze on her eyelashes, and their sharp edges cut at her skin. Not even prayer brought her solace. But with the new day, she asked God for strength and set out again. She kept her eyes up, in search of the telegraph lines that ran along the railroad.
Her body still ached as she rode, so she stopped and walked for a while. She mounted again when she grew dizzy. Had she even walked ten minutes? She kept at it, walking a bit, then riding a bit longer. But the dizziness was worse, and the cold had seeped into her bones. She pulled on another coat.
She ate a piece of bread at around noon, then rested. Just a short rest, she told herself. She didn’t mean to drift to sleep. She woke with a start—lucky to have woken at all. Falling asleep in the open like that was dangerous.
All was silent.
The wind had died down. No noise.
No ponies.
She stumbled to her feet. Where had they gone? She’d been foolish not to tie them to something. But they’d left hoof prints in the snow, so she could follow those to the animals, the food, the ax, and the extra coats.
Her brisk pace soon turned to a slow walk, and that became a hobble. Worse, the wind picked up. Even with all the layers she wore, she was cold, and the wind blew the snow around, covering the trail she followed.
The ponies had been traveling in a steady direction. At least she thought they had. It was hard to tell when everything was gray and the clouds kept the sun hidden. With no sun, she was in danger of wandering in circles. And what if the ponies headed back toward the men who’d abducted her?