Red Rider RIsing: Book 2 of the Red Rider Saga by D.A. Randall (ebook e reader .txt) 📕

“I will,” I promised.

I meant it. This was exactly what I wanted.

Touraine glanced from one side of the bar to the other. Then he began to polish a new mug as he spoke in a low murmur. “I don’t know much, Mademoiselle. Some men come in here regularly, and they seem to know something about those wolves. Always eager for news about them, just like you. Always asking for details about recent attacks. It’s odd. They seem delighted by it, like someone’s telling a joke. Lately they’ve been asking about Monsieur Favreau’s farm.”

“Monsieur Favreau?”

“Pig farmer on the other side of the hill, west end of the forest. Lost four of his fattest pigs to a wolf over the last two weeks. He’s worried he’ll lose the rest, though he’s got plenty to spare, if you ask me.”

“When did he lose them?”

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Touraine rubbed his stubbly chin. “One was two nights ago, the other two nights before that.” He narrowed his eyes and blinked with sudden realization. “Seems it’s been every two nights since it took the first one. Following a pattern.”

“Which continues tonight,” I said, finishing the thought that was surely brewing in his mind. I rose from the stool.

“Mademoiselle, your drink.”

I retrieved the mug. “Thank you. I’ll need it.” I downed the water in one long swallow and returned the mug before heading to the door.

“Mademoiselle?”

I turned at the door.

He looked helpless as a child. “I trust – you have someone to look after you?”

“Yes,” I said, stepping out into the storm.

“I am.”

I let the door thud behind me.

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20.

Favreau’s farm was easy enough to find. I just followed the smell. Even in the rain, the distinctive odor of pig manure spread for a mile.

Smoke rose from a thin chimney above the farmer’s spacious cabin, set in a broad clearing surrounded by dense forest. A long narrow pigpen sat beside it, the large pigs kicking up mud and manure as the silvery moon rose above the trees.

To the left of the pen sat a small and well-kept stable, large enough to keep two or more horses.

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Monsieur Favreau would have his eyes and ears pricked for any intruders. He must have noticed the same pattern of attack by now, how the wolf seized one of his pigs every other night.

Tonight he could expect to lose another one.

I climbed down from the saddle and led Crimson carefully around the perimeter. He moved so cautiously, I don’t think he broke a single twig.

Hidden from the cabin windows by the horse stable, I crept toward it, leading Crimson. As we came around the corner, Monsieur Favreau’s black horse started in alarm, stamping and neighing. I quickly found the feedbag, hanging from a hook on the wall, and grabbed a handful of oats. I opened my hand for the horse to see and sniff. He calmed immediately and let me approach so he could nibble from my hand. I shared some with his companion, who had just woken, then grabbed more oats to feed them again. Once they relaxed, I brought Crimson into the stable to stand between their twin stalls.

I scanned the clearing. Nothing moved in the dark woods around the farm, though the drizzle made it difficult to be certain. I hoped that any wolves would have equal trouble spotting me.

Dim light issued from within the house.

Monsieur Favreau must have lit a lantern to keep a late vigil over his property.

I grabbed more oats and prepared to lay the pile in my skirt. Then I remembered I was no longer wearing one. I stuffed them in my pants pockets instead, wishing I could store more. I 192

reminded myself that the trousers still gave me the best advantage.

I crouched and crept toward the pen. A few pigs squealed upon seeing me approach in my sweeping cloak. I scattered a few oats at them, and they returned to their agitated pacing. Farmer Favreau wasn’t the only one anxious about the wolves tonight.

I crawled carefully between