Echoes Page 0,94

across the final distance as the car followed at full speed. She was almost there, and then realized what she was doing. She was leading the Gestapo right to the farmhouse. There was no way she could outrun them. And then suddenly a truck pulled up ahead of her, as the car that had been following her pulled up behind her. They had her cornered.

“Halt!” two men shouted as the horse danced in the cold night air, and blew steam from his nostrils. She had pushed him hard for the last half-hour. “Who goes there?” She sat in her saddle as the horse pranced nervously, and she didn't answer.

They shone a bright light on her, and were startled to see it was a woman. She had ridden like a man, driving the horse hard over rough terrain. One of the men walked up to her, as she considered making a run for it. But they would shoot the horse for sure, or her. She knew then that she would never make it to the farmhouse, and in the morning Gérard would know that. Worse than that, from the brand, they would know she was riding one of his horses. No matter what happened, she didn't want to implicate him, as she thought quickly.

“Papers!” the soldier shouted at her, holding out a hand, as another pointed a gun at her. “Papers!”

“I have none.” They had had none to give her at the convent. And she had had none since then. She had been out of the world for six years.

“Who are you?” She thought of inventing a name, but there was no point in that either. She might as well tell them the truth.

“Amadea de Vallerand,” she said clearly.

“Whose horse are you riding?” they asked, keeping their guns pointed at her in case she made a run for it. The horse was powerful, nervous and bucking, and they could see easily that she was a skilled rider. Even after all these years, she had no trouble controlling one of Gérard's best horses. Her father had taught her well.

“I took it,” she said, sounding fearless. But her whole body was shaking. She had no idea what they would do to her. “My father used to work at the stables. I stole it.” She knew she had to protect Gérard and Véronique at all costs. She could not let them think the Daubignys gave it to her.

“Where are you going?”

“To visit friends.” It was obvious that they did not believe her story, and there was no reason they should have. She just prayed they didn't find the map to the farmhouse in her pocket. It was a small scrap of paper, and she made no move to reach for it.

“Dismount,” they ordered, and she swung easily out of the saddle, and held the reins until one of the soldiers took them from her. He led the horse away, as the other soldier pointed his gun at her. As she stood there, she wondered if he was going to shoot her. She was surprised at how unafraid she was. She felt as though she had nothing to lose. Only her life, which belonged to God. And if He chose to reclaim her, He would.

They pushed her roughly into the back of the car, and as they drove away, she saw one of the soldiers mount Gérard's horse and ride him back in the direction of the stables.

“How many horses have you stolen?” the soldier driving the car asked her. Another soldier had appeared and was riding with him.

“Just that one” was all she answered. She didn't look like a horse thief, but all of the men had noticed that she was an exceptional rider, and a beautiful young woman.

They drove her to a house nearby and left her alone in a small room. While they did, she shredded the map into particles, and dusted them around in corners and under the rug. They came back two hours later. They had asked her once to spell her name, and when they returned, they had spoken to Cologne. They had her records, or more importantly her mother's. There were clear records of her now, ever since the incident at the bank.

“Your mother was a Jewess,” they spat at her. Amadea didn't answer. “She and your sister were arrested in April.” Amadea nodded. She had all the poise and grace of a woman who knew she was protected. She stood there, looking at them, telling herself she