Page 14 of What the Heart Knows

The following morning, before the sun streaked the skies, before all but the kitchen servants stirred, Meg dressed in an old woolen gown, tall sturdy boots, and a short but warm coat then made her way to Trout Creek at the spot the wishing trout called home. She was determined to capture the fellow. ’Twould be a way to thumb her nose at Father, and he would never know.

***

As night grayed into dawn, Kit crossed the empty public room and stepped into the Barque’s kitchen.

“Here’s the food you requested last night.” Mrs. Brewster added a stoppered cider jug to a bulky sack then handed him the bag.

“Thank you very much, Mrs. Brewster.”

“You can thank me by bringing back a dozen or more trout to offer on special tonight,” she groused.

Kit smiled. “I’ll endeavor to supply all you need. However, my intent is to pursue Fenwick’s legendary trout.”

“D’you know where to find the Wishing Trout’s hole?”

“The spot has been pointed out to me.”

“Then get you gone, Mr. Copefort. Daylight’s comin’ on fast. You’ll want to have your hook in the water before the sun’s full up.”

“Indeed.” He secured his cloak and tipped his hat before passing through the kitchen’s rear entrance. He saddled his own mount—rather than wake the hard-working stableboys. He affixed the rod purchased from Beuth to his saddle then loaded the sack and all remaining gear into his saddlebags. Soon he trotted north along the road roughly parallel to Trout Creek.

He arrived at the Wishing Trout’s watery home with the sun still below the horizon. The scene could have come from some artist’s palette. He emerged from the trees lining the creek to see the morning mist spread over the area.

Breaks in the fading fog revealed a heap of brush blocking more than half the southern part of the stream. Opposite the heap, the bank overhung the stream. A pool spread northward—water backed up from the brushy dam—providing the ideal place for the small prey trout favored as food.

As the day brightened, a figure emerged from the dwindling mist.

Miss Fenneman stood in the water—skirts hiked around her hips—near the upper edge of the brush heap. Stunned at the sight, Kit watched her fishing pole whip through the air as she cast her line northward. The hook landed with a delicate plop, floating just below the surface and drifting with the current.

The hook approached the northern edge of the overhang. Then the line jerked—hard.

Miss Fenneman let out a victorious cheer. “I’ve got you now, you old slyboots.”

Still speaking, she lowered the tip of her rod and carefully moved it sideways at about a forty-five-degree angle.

She’s good. Very good.

A huge trout leapt in the air, dove, then leapt again, thrashing side to side in an attempt to dislodge the hook.

The force of the monster fish on the line nearly toppled Miss Fenneman.

Kit dropped everything, tossed aside his hat, ripped at the ties of his cloak, and sprinted into the water.

Her stance still unsteady, she managed to remain upright while keeping a grip on her pole. The fish fled. She let the line spin out.

I cannot let her fall.

That dress would weigh her down. She’d drown even in the shallowest stream.

As he reached for her, his feet slipped out from under him. Momentum carried him forward to collide with Miss Fenneman.

“Nooo,” she yelped.

Impact forced the fishing rod from her grip, and she toppled.

Face down in the water, Kit lay across her.

Get up man, or you’ll both drown.