THE NIGHT LAMP
Carol
A. Spradling
Copyright © 2012 by Carol A.
Spradling
Smashwords Edition
Contact Information: www.CarolASpradling.com
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Dedication
For my children, Jennifer and
Jared, who have made my life complete.
And to my son-in-law,
Jeremy, and daughter-in-law, Sam, who have made our family complete.
Acknowledgements
Peggy Henderson. This book exists because of you. Thank you so much for reigniting a passion in me for writing and then challenging me to become better. You identified my weaknesses and helped me improve. Not only have you shared your skills and talents as an author, you have become a great friend.
Jane Richardson. You have encouraged me from the beginning of my career. I enjoyed our time in London, discussing options for the ending of this book. We'll have to do that again.
Kristen Callihan is such an inspiration. I am awed and honored by your willingness to write a tagline for me.
Jerrica Knight-Catania, Jodie Pearson, Gail Zerrade, and Amy Williams. Thank you ladies for reading my early drafts, helping me sort through the brush, and find a clear direction for my characters.
Steve and Lorraine Richardson. You are always there, no matter what. Thank you for your friendship and for your willingness to proofread my books.
Greg, you are the best husband a writer could have. Thank you for all of your encouragement and for taking over kitchen duty.
THE NIGHT LAMP
by
Carol A. Spradling
Prologue
March, 1781
Mount Vernon, Virginia
The fireplace log ruptured and split through, much like her home had done over the past eight years. The cold floor chilled her thoughts while the fire's warmth heated her decision. Even the elements had established harsh boundaries. Martha Washington had not married to lose her home, her name, or her social standing. She side-stepped Fayette and Hissy, her slumbering kittens, and her silk, dressing gown floated behind her like a queen's robes. She walked to the window, the glass laced with frozen ice, and looked out. Below her, moonlight lit the grounds in a ghastly, blue hue, and water from the Potomac River lapped the shore in a silent cadence. Her husband's command was hundreds of miles from her door but on nights like this, she was certain she could hear the soldiers weep into their bedrolls.
She gathered the neck of her robe closer together. George had assured her that her thoughts and imaginings were circumspect. The war would be short-lived and their holdings would remain intact. Yet the holes in his shoes and the frequent troop reports did little to convince her of his ability to honor his promise.
At the side of the bed, Hissy stretched her paws, kneading the air. There was little fear of her spilling Martha's secrets. The kittens had been her confidants, purring their approval as Martha shared the details of her decision. Jumping for the bed, the little ball of fluff misjudged the edge and fell out of view. She squealed but landed feather-soft on the floor. Fayette opened her eyes and glanced in the direction of the clatter. From the way she snuggled down in her bed, she was annoyed at being awakened so abruptly.
Martha set her jaw, dropped the curtain back in place, and looked across the room. Gold filigree caught the light and flickered down the ensconced sides of the Queen Anne desk. On the writing surface, a silver tumbler held African indigo and a plumed pen lay across the writing pages. The letter had been carefully considered, her words cautiously chosen. All the message lacked was her signature. Martha tapped the pointed end of the pen against her fingertip. The courier would arrive at dawn. She scanned the letter once more. George would forgive her in time, and if things played out as she feared, he would appreciate her wisdom. Of course, if the message was to find its way into the wrong hands . . . She tapped a finger against her lip. How long would it take for people to forget a military general's wife?
Hoof beats sounded in the yard. Martha doused the pen nib and scrawled her name across the bottom of the page. Sanding it quickly, she heard the door open and close on the first floor. The trusted courier knew where to locate the back stairs. They would have their assignment and be off the property before the household stirred. Martha picked up the wax bar and then returned it to its drawer. There was no time for a seal; she would have to trust her Night Lamp to keep the contents safe.
Chapter 1
August, 1781
North
Carolina
Murderers are hanged. This realization wrapped Isa Foster in a cold sweat. She rubbed her throat where phantom knots laced her neck like a string of pearls. It was reassuringly smooth. She swallowed and wondered if stealing a horse could also send her to the gallows but then, it was her horse. Of course, she hadn't committed murder either, but that hadn't stopped Eli Banks from trying to wrap a noose around her neck.
Crouched down and peering through a holly bush, she sat back on her heels and tucked her hair behind her ear. Home. She had to get home. Although her aunts would be a welcome sight, more importantly, she could learn if they knew anything about Martha Washington's letter. Jack had assured Isa that the message was within a two-day's ride, but he had been murdered before they could retrieve it. Effectively escaping a hangman's noose, she would have to be careful how to proceed.
The main roads would be ideal for travel, but it would be better to avoid people. It was impossible to know how far news had traveled about Jack's death, and a hefty reward, even an invalid one, could easily cloud someone's judgment. Traveling the backcountry not only slowed her pace, but exhaustion, bug bites, and an abundance of snakes compounded the misery of the sweltering days and frigid evenings. All-in-all, it was a small inconvenience when put in perspective.
She glanced down at her arm where an industrious mosquito probed for a fresh supply of nourishment. It must have hit a rich vein because its body lowered with the added weight. It shifted its feet back and forth. From the way it positioned itself, it looked as though it stored a hefty supply of food for winter. Not interested in bloodletting, Isa flattened the wiry pilferer. Its infusion no longer benefited either of them. She flicked the black speck into the air, snapped a few marigold petals from their stem and then rubbed the leaves over the itchy bumps. Steeped, orange buds worked better, but she hoped the makeshift remedy proved effective. Although the area remained pink, the bite no longer begged to be scratched.
A mere twelve feet away from where she squatted stood the means to expedite her trip. Isa tossed the spent leaves to the side and returned her attention to the horse in front of her. She had raised him from a colt. The white tips of his ears signaled to her like a welcome beacon. The odd coloring of white and brown triangles pivoted independently of each other as if motioning her closer. She fought the urge to break through the roughage, throw herself on his back, and race from the clearing. It would be a bold move but not one worth taking. Isa clenched her fists and bit down on her lip. Although she was close enough to be heard, she didn't dare call out. His bridle held him tethered to a sapling. It was foolish to think he had wandered here unattended.
Stooped low, she edged closer to the campfire. Orange flames flickered in front of her, and burning wood crackled. Keeping to the shadows, she glanced around the site. A fat trout hung heavy over a fire, poised headlong as if ready to dive into the soft blaze. Her stomach nudged her and her mouth watered. For the past week, she had found nothing but berries and a stray carrot in an overworked field. The single fish looked as inviting as an overburdened, banquet table.
She licked her lips and glanced around the perimeter. Ten yards away, a figure hunched at the creek bank. Keeping her eyes on him, she pushed thick wads of hair up under her hat and then pulled the rim down until her ears jutted out at odd angles. Her skirt was becoming an even bigger hindrance. Breeches would have been helpful, not to mention warmer in the cool evenings, but it was impossible to find any that fit her properly. For now, her identity was safe as long as no one got too close to her.
Her horse pawed the ground and she moved quickly. The warmth of the fire welcomed her as she squatted down beside the flames. She lifted the makeshift skewer and blew across the fish. The heated morsel created hunger pangs so strong, a scrawny carrot could not satisfy her appetite. Grabbing the twig in her dirty grip, she sank her teeth into the side of the trout. The scales burned the roof of her mouth and she jostled the bit from one side of her tongue to the other. She swallowed, feeling fire burn the sides of her throat. She took another bite, knowing blisters could heal, and pulled a bone from between her lips as she chewed. She cut her eyes to the water's edge and checked to see if the person responsible for her meal still sat by the creek bank. The dark silhouette remained in place. Not relinquishing her dinner, she crawled to the far side of the camp.
The familiar mount nodded his head toward her. Isa stood to her feet, anxious to be reacquainted with her old friend and flicked the last of the bones into the shrubs. The horse was still saddled, and Isa wondered if the campsite was meant to be temporary. No bedrolls were laid out to indicate a more permanent stay. She rubbed the long nose of the gelding and waited for him to nuzzle her in recognition. It had been a few months since she had last ridden him, and there was no need to call attention to his new owner.
She wiped her hands on her skirt and flicked a glance over the saddled back. The shadowed lump hadn't moved, but she doubted he would stay there for much longer. Isa hummed a tune in the animal's ear, and the soft points rotated towards her in recognition. He lowered his head and gave a soft blow through his nostrils. Isa had always thought this was his way of accompanying her when she sang to him. Relief melted over her. The duo's harmony was still intact. Patting his neck, she loosened the tether and then hefted herself into the saddle.
"Where do you think you're going?" asked a deep voice from behind her.
Her heart jumped to her throat preventing words, and her head turned to the shoreline. The dark shape still crouched at the water's edge. How had she not recognized the deceptive illusion as something other than a man's form?
Movement shot past her leg, and a sturdy hand grabbed the bridle. The horse shied and Isa pulled back on the reins. Metal clinked as a fist yanked the horse's head, forcing him closer.
Isa kicked into the darkness, hoping to strike the owner of the elusive body parts.
"Release me!" she demanded. "This is my horse. I'm merely collecting him."
"Your horse?"
The strange man swore under his breath as the tug-of-war continued. Determined to win, she kicked her heels and the horse sidled away.
With an unrelenting, one-handed hold on the bridle, the man caught a fist full of mane in the other hand and held to the horse. The jerking had brought the tall, dark-haired man into the open. Finally, she had a visual target. She could inflict more damage, now that she knew where to aim. Moonlight illuminated her next strike and she punched her leg forward. His shoulder rolled backward and although the blow glanced off his collarbone, his grip held firm.
"My property was stolen two months ago, now let go!" she screamed.
She winced as her right leg scraped against bark and the horse became wedged in a cluster of beech trees.
Apparently thinking she had no way of escape, the man released his hold and stepped back. He breathed heavy and shook the hair from his face. His cheeks were covered with stubble, which appeared lighter than his hair. Although it was hard to determine his eye color in this light, one thing was certain. Fire burned in their depths.
"Are you Isabella Foster?" the man spat out.
Isa lifted her chin and glared down at him. "I prefer Isa."
"Banks," he sneered as though the name was acid on his tongue. "I was told all of your property was legally confiscated."
"Stolen," she corrected. "And since you realize you are in possession of ill-gotten goods, I'll be on my way."
He blocked her escape, and memories of four mud walls closed in on her. In a panic, she turned her gaze upward and searched for the moon in the night sky, silently praying to find it unobstructed by metal bars.
"Stolen or not," he shouted, unrelenting in his task, "I have a bill of sale, and I don't plan to be left stranded in the middle of the mountains with no transportation. I'm willing to let you ride with me, but--"
She kicked her foot, catching him in the chest. He wheezed and doubled over, stumbling backward. Isa spurred the horse into a gallop. There would be no bargains.
Chapter 2
The heel of Cole's boots thumped against his calf as he slowed his stride. Under his feet, the plank sidewalk creaked, etching an eerie shiver over his spine. He swung his foot forward, and rough wood snagged the hole in his sock. He had hoped to put off this meeting until after he finished his assignment for General Washington. Meet a courier in Callihan, and then finish selling his soul.
His mother's face flashed in front of him, and he pushed the vision to the side. The deal would have to be done if he wanted to get his home back. He stopped in front of the iron-studded door and glanced at the name etched in the wood. Eli Banks. Cole sighed and pushed open the door. There was no other way to accomplish his goal.
Stepping inside the building, he waited for his eyes to adjust to the shaded room. With only one window in the structure, it was hard to tell how many people occupied the dwelling. Papers rustled in front of him, and he blinked away the dark spots in front of his eyes in an attempt to adjust his vision. Light and shadows shifted into place, transforming silhouettes into recognizable images.
At the center of the far wall, a silver haired man sat behind a desk, sprinkling sand on a document. He held the shaker in midair, and grains struck the paper like a soft drizzle of rain. Eli Banks, his cold, blue eyes stared across at him. Even if it were the dead of night, that piercing gaze would be visible. His predatory state bordered on demonic.
All too familiar with the evil within the man, Cole ignored the threatening gaze and swatted at a fly that buzzed near his ear. He and the insect had accepted each other's company a few miles back. If the flying noise-box didn't mind the reek of sweat and mud, along with something putrid Cole had fallen into, why bother to shoo him off now. The freeloader had most likely stowed away during Cole's dispute with a territorial bull. Not inclined to share a shortcut across his homestead, the snorting bovine had furiously escorted Cole to the property line and then assisted him over the split-rail fence.
Cole rubbed his backside. It was as wounded as his pride. He shuffled stocking covered feet to a chair and dropped his boots to the floor. A billow of dust clouded around his legs, floating upward to knee height. Grunting, he lowered himself onto the seat and shifted his weight to appease his tenderized quarters. There was no comfortable way to sit. His legs felt like thick clay that had hardened to stone. Oh, what he wouldn't give for a hot bath before his entire body completed the petrifaction process. From over the desk, Banks' silver head nudged toward him and his soulless eyes scanned Cole's weathered form.
Exhausted, Cole leaned backward and answered his obvious question. "I walked half the way from Pierside," he said. As harsh as his tone sounded, it couldn't come close to matching his foul mood.
"What happen to your horse? Did he go lame due to your recklessness?" Banks asked.
Cole winced. As fatigued as he was, he was certain he could summon the strength to choke this man. "The owner wanted it back," he answered.
"Isabella Foster?" Eli's pointy ears perked, and he sat up like a fox catching the scent of a new chicken coop.
"She prefers Isa," Cole sneered, remembering how he had learned this information. He touched his chest, the spot still tender. "The lady didn't seem as set to find me as she was her horse."
The silver fox slid to the end of his seat, arms perched on the desk edge. Cole was certain there was a hissing sound as he prepared to speak. The man's tongue darted out from between his lips, wetting them. Without realizing it, Cole glanced down to see if the protrusion was forked.
"Did she say how she found you?" Banks asked.
"It wasn't mentioned."
"I don't suppose you know where she was going?"
Cole pushed himself up from the chair. He had cursed the strong-willed woman with every step he had taken and every briar patch he had encountered, especially when his boots had rubbed his feet raw and forced him to walk barefoot. Her destination was not of any interest unless he could be assured of ample time alone with her. Thoughts of her being on the receiving end of a sound thrashing in payment of his unwarranted misery had fueled most of his trip.
"No," Cole snapped and limped toward the desk. Sitting down had been a serious mistake. His entire body protested his insistence on renewed movement. At least, he had the forethought to grab his boots before standing. He doubted he had the strength to bend over for any reason. "I don't know where she is. Just give me my assignment--and a horse that doesn't belong to someone else."
Foxy laughed and handed him a folded paper. "Isabella Foster is your next assignment. You need to find her and bring her in."
Cole's shoulders slumped as though weighed down by the document. It would be impossible to argue about it. "Who did she kill?"
From beneath bushy brows, watery gray eyes peered up at him. Eli made it no secret that he thrived financially from the capture of murder suspects, but Cole's willingness to take these assignments without argument seemed to rouse him. This irritation was something that even he couldn't explain. Still, criminals in exchange for reward money were hardly as tantalizing as Cole's death and the potential ownership of his property. His eyes practically glowed red in anticipation of being master of Knight's Moor.
"She killed no one, according to Judge Hanley. It is his opinion that a woman isn't capable of murdering a loved one in cold blood."
"So why am I to bring her in?" Cole asked, staring at the paper.
Banks pushed back in his chair and propped delicate ankles on the corner of his desktop, crossing them fussily. He inspected his fingernails, flicking one nail against the other. "She has something that belongs to me," he said and peered up at Cole. "And your opinion isn't relevant. We both know you'll bring her in."
Cole averted his gaze and scanned the paper, hoping his fury wouldn't burn a hole through it. He hated every assignment and tried to do them quickly and with little emotional involvement. Basic knowledge of the person was more than enough information to return them to Banks. Isa Foster was already more than a name on a page. Riding her horse for the past two months gave him an insight he preferred to not have. From his experience with military leaders and their choice of mounts, a person's horse told the character of the owner and if his theory held true, Isa Foster was a strong woman with a softness that made him . . .
Bold letters brought him out of his character assessment. He reread the sentence and then glanced over the edge of the page. Across from him, the plume of a letter opener twitched in the air while Banks worked the lead along his cuticle.
"This report states Isabella Foster was traveling with a man of similar age," Cole said and lifted the page in the air for emphasis. "Her companion was found dead, yet Miss Foster was questioned and then released."
Banks nudged his glasses up the bridge of his wide nose, enlarging the view of his pupils. Surely a bat would fly from their cavernous depths at any moment. His full lips twisted to the side and he sucked in air between his teeth. After a few more grisly, slurping noises, he pulled a whisk broom from his desk drawer, broke off a straw, and prodded at his molars. "At the time of the murder, Bohannon, her escort, was transporting--"
The details of his assignment demanded Cole's full attention, and his feet sorely objected to his abusive treatment of them. Sitting down, he lowered the paper to his lap and rested his palms on his knees. "Bohannon? Jack Bohannon?" He mumbled the name aloud.
"That's what I said. Do you not listen when I give you details?" Banks paused and tilted his head. His eyes glistened like a bandit discovering an open safe. "Bohannon stole an important document from me, and I want it back." He spoke slowly, obviously calculating a way to increase his profits. "That's why you're going to bring Isabella Foster to me instead of the sheriff. Since she was with Bohannon when he died, I'm certain she knows where the letter is. After I get the document from her, he is free to enforce the law however he chooses."
Banks' tongue flicked across a pointy incisor then wiggled its way to the back of his mouth. A series of smacking noises coming from his open jaws ended, and he tossed the crumpled straw into the fireplace. Cole expected it to burst into flame or at the very least, hiss when it struck the fire irons.
Remember your objective. She is just another assignment. Bring her in and you will have your home back, and this will be the last you ever see Eli Banks. Cole slid the notice into the leg of his boot. "Speaking of important papers," he said.
"What? You don't like working for me?" Eli asked and then laughed.
"I never have, and you know it." Cole walked to the door, twisted the handle and then paused. "As agreed, this is my last assignment? I bring in the girl, and you'll sign over my family's stolen home. Aye?"
"You still insist on calling me a thief? Should I remind you that it was your brother who lost your home?" Banks stood and walked cocksure to the window behind his desk. He pushed up on tiptoe and looked through the glass. "How is your mother, by the way? Adjusting well to her new living arrangements? What has it been now, a year?"
Cole slammed the door closed. "Two years. And you also remember my brother was lost at sea, leaving my mother unable to take care of the family finances. By the time I found out, you had already claimed illegal possession of my home."
"Your brother was captain of one of your family's vessels. He should have known better than to sail under harsh conditions. Perhaps the rumors are true. He had no intention of returning to the Carolinas."
All fatigue left Cole. He stormed to the desk and slammed his boots on top of scattered papers. Dried mud sprayed the floor like falling stars. "Nate wouldn't do that. He'd rather . . ."
"What? Die and then ruin your family name and business? How noble of him? Is that why you agreed to work for me?"
"You know why I work for you," Cole snapped. "My mother was grief stricken with the loss of Nate. You took advantage of my absence and badgered her into thinking she was responsible for his debt."
"Your mother signed over your plantation of her own volition. Ask the witnesses."
Cole sneered. The conversation filled his mouth with bile. "I should have killed you two years ago."
Banks lifted his chin and looked down his nose at Cole. "Is your mother's health still an issue? It would seem her welfare doesn't prevent you from being away from home for extended periods of time."
Straining to keep his arms at his side, Cole's hands tightened. He could practically feel Bank's slimy skin compress in his grasp as the smarmy man gasped for breath. One day, his murky eyes would float like swollen globules in his puffy face. Cole's fingertips tingled at the sensation of ridding the world of such vermin. The slimy Banks would beg for his mercy. Although not today, his time would come.
Cole's fingers trembled at the forced restraint, and he pulled his crushed tricorn out from his bootleg and attempted to reshape it. "Since my mother's well-being is the only reason you continue to live, I have no concern that you will see to her safety." He glanced across the crumpled brim and checked for a flicker of weakness in Banks' marble-size, gray mist. There was none.
Knowing what his employer was capable of, Cole knew he would never sit across a gaming table from this man. "Two years of heinous, not to mention unethical, work for you in exchange for my family's home. That was the agreement. Aye? The girl is my last assignment."
"If that's what you prefer. Unless of course, you want to move into a different area of my business. There is a shipment of cognac en route from France. I'll need distributors."
Suffering from years of use, the black hat looked more like a right triangle than the evenly spaced lines it once held. Anxious to leave, Cole settled it on his head. One point jutted out like an arrow. "I want my home and property. I have no interest in expanding other people's misery."
Eli Banks opened the desk drawer and pulled a red-ribboned document from it. "Then we are agreed. And as an act of good faith, I'll let you carry the deed with you. Unsigned of course." He held it out to him, then shrugged. "Perhaps it will comfort you."
Cole glanced down at the small scroll. It was wrapped as neat and tidy as an Easter bonnet. Unable to justify each warrant he had aided in, the pending deed had been the balm he used to ease his conscience. Whether legal or not, he had brought one man after another to Banks, many times with threats and curses placed upon his life. It made no difference what people thought or did to him. He would see his mother settled in their home.
"Not until I bring in the girl," Cole said.
Banks dropped the ribboned paper to the desk. From the lack of care he gave it, Cole wondered if it had been used to clean dung from his boots. The symbolism would be lost on Banks.
The unethical man studied Cole, his lip curling. "You should at least wear a decent hat." He reached to a hook and tossed him a leather tricorn. It spun symmetrically and landed at Cole's feet.
"I'll wear my own." Cole flipped the felled hat on the desk, its leather as soft as butter.
"How much of a lead do you plan to give this girl?" Banks snapped. Their meeting was clearly at an end.
"I'll find her." Cole caught his boots under his arm. "A horse?"
Banks lowered his head. A sinister smile spread across his face, and saliva puddled at the corner of his mouth. He held his curled fingers to his lip and caught his breath. He undoubtedly studied the details to the orphanage's land grant. There were no boundaries he would not cross.
"Tell Jonas to give you whatever you want," Banks said and waved his hand in a dismissive manner.
Cole stepped onto the sidewalk and spoke to no one in particular. "Too bad you aren't as receptive as Jonas," he said with a quick glance at the closed door. At least he had established the fact that Isa Foster would be his last assignment. He secured his hat on his head and began to formulate a plan of action that would satisfy both Banks and Washington. Within a few steps from the doorway, a horse in full gallop raced past him and knocked his hat from his head. The culprit continued riding away from him without pausing to offer an apology. Dark auburn hair bounced down the person's back, and Cole stared after the racing horse. The middle of his chest throbbed, refreshing a heel-sized bruise. At least the rider's backside seated the saddle much surer than it had earlier in the week.
Storefronts blurred as Cole weaved in and around a small child on his way to the stables. He twisted to the side and scraped his back against clapboard siding. He was certain there would be more bruises he could attribute to his new assignment soon enough. Why did the tot have to run ahead of his mother? His recklessness would end up causing someone to trip and sprawl headlong into the street. The boy's mother must have shared the same opinion of Cole judging by the quick grab she had made for her son.
In the far distance, the redheaded vision disappeared, and Cole swore. He grunted a quick apology over his shoulder, and then glanced in the direction of the squeal behind him. At least the mother and son were reunited.
Taking the boy by the hand, the woman shoved a wad of pink fabric under her arm and stared down at the little guy. Clutched in tot's chubby hands, Cole's hat was now in the possession of a new owner. He shrugged. He'd get a new one later. It was the least he could do after the fright he had given the boy's mother. Instead of upsetting the toddler's new treasure, Cole yelled for the stable hand, who pushed open the barn door.
"Jonas! I need a horse, NOW."
Chapter 3
A black bird squawked as it looped through in the air, disappeared behind the treetop, and then surged upward again. How it found sufficient wind currents to maneuver was a mystery. The air had been as thick as gravy for days. Still, the winged creature graced the sky as effortless as sea foam cresting an ocean wave. Too bad the lighter currents couldn't descend to the ground and thin the air of its molasses consistency. Isa glanced once more as the black spot above her defied gravity and circled again before flapping southward.
Gnats swarmed in front of her like a peppered web but undeterred, her horse plodded on. Saddle sore and numb, Isa sat wearily on his back, her upper body swaying with each step. The crow screeched overhead as it doubled back. Forgetting that it was close to noon, Isa glanced up into the bright sunshine. Harsh beams of light blinded her vision, rocking her backward. She caught herself and squinted at the mocking bird. If only she had a rifle and the strength to shoulder it, she would end his cruel taunts.
In her mind, she pictured the noisy bird plucked clean and tied to a spit, roasting deliciously over a small flame. His screeches turned into fragrant crackles as he rotated all succulent and golden. She could almost hear the sizzle of juices dripping onto hot stones. Her shoulders shook in a silent chuckle and she flicked her dry tongue across parched, cracked lips. As vivid as her imagination was, the anticipated moist goodness couldn't create enough saliva to dampen her mouth.
It had been a gamble to leave the river's path. Not everyone had heard the news of her release. But after following the current for a day and a half eastward, she had to chance a different route. Even though her hopes of finding new streams and farmhouses had been unproductive, she continued in a southeasterly direction, no longer certain of her present location.
At least she could be certain of the general location of Martha Washington's letter. After two altercations with the same drunk vagrant, Isa had sent the letter to Callihan Township. It seemed the best way to keep it safe. No one would think a visit to her aunts as suspect. Spend a little time with the aunties, collect the post, and continue to the coast in search of a ship en route to England. The timing of her plan had to ring true. The slightest breeze made news in Callihan, and nothing happened without Aunt Lenore's knowledge. Details, no matter how inconsequential, could not circumvent the righteous ears of this saintly woman.
Isa sighed. It would be bliss to spend time with her aunts, but for now-- She brushed her hand over her face hoping sweat would drench her fingertips. She touched the pads to her lips. Instead of heated water droplets, they were as dry as salted fish. She would have to find water soon. Without it, her clouded thoughts and fevered body would be no match for her biblically seasoned aunt.
A flapping sound bucked against the wind, and Isa glared heavenward to an empty sky. Swaying in the saddle, she glanced around and listened. A crack resonated to her left, and she steered her horse toward it. Movement flickered among the trees as a woman flipped a garment over a bush and spread its edges to dry.
If Isa could make it into the clearing, perhaps there was a chance of getting help. Her mouth and throat went through the empty motions of swallowing, but she was too dry to lubricate her voice. Undaunted, she tried to speak, but managed nothing more than a rasp.
The woman bent to pick up another item but froze. Isa released her hold on the reins and tried to motion to her. Her vision tilted and the sideways image of a woman running toward her faded to black.
****
Dozing in and out of awareness, Isa's arms and legs felt as heavy as iron pipes. Her head cleared slightly, and she flexed her wrists and ankles. Nothing bound her or prevented movement. At least she wasn't a prisoner. Still, if it wasn't for the irritating itch that burrowed across the back of her knee, she would have thought she woke from the dead. She pulled her leg to the side and scratched until she was certain there would be blood.
She took a hesitant breath, tried to rouse herself, and swallowed. Her dry throat burned as it had for the past week. Nearly choking, her eyelids fluttered open and then closed again. She laid perfectly still, her body too sore to move fluidly. How long had she been asleep, and more importantly, where the bloody hell was she? With any luck, something in the room would tell her what she needed to know.
She blinked, and then stared straight up at the ceiling. Above her, hewn beams crossed beneath the pitched roof and a row of planks, narrow and wide, scattered the ceiling ribs like a little girl's braid. Several lengths of harness lay coiled in a pile on top of a cross section. A loop of fresh rope, at least the smell and tightness of the hold indicated it to be so, leaned against the gable.
Isa turned her head as though wringing out a wet towel and massaged the stiffness from her neck. The storage space aside, the room was plain with a small dresser in the corner, and her dress hung over the back of a cozy looking chair.
Her dress? Her heart skipped a beat. What had happened to her clothes while she slept? Surely, she would have awakened if someone had tried anything improper. She licked her lips, pulled the blanket from her shoulders and peered down. A woman's nightdress covered her, but there was still no indication of how she came to be in it.
Pushing up on one elbow, she slowly dragged herself to a seated position. The room tilted and started to spin. To prevent herself from sprawling to the floor, she closed her eyes and waited for the sensation to pass. The whirling slowed, and she peered out from between cracked eyelids. To her relief, everything remained horizontal.
Untangling her legs from the sheet, she pulled her knees over the edge of the bed, and slapped her feet to the floor. Piercing needles shot upward through her soles, all the way to her thighs. She clenched her upper body and smothered a scream. Perspiration trickled down her temples. Focused on her dress, she wiped her forehead and toddled a few steps toward the chair. In the other room, voices grew louder.
"Has she said anything yet?" a male voice asked, none too nicely.
"No. She mumbles, but there's nothing coherent."
"It's been a week since you brought her here. How long before she wakes?"
Isa ran her hand through her tousled hair and tugged at the nightdress. Sweat sealed the gauzy fabric to her. Almost a perfect fit, an added inch or two would make it modest enough to cover her ankles. She held to the bodice and tried to prevent the buttons from popping open. A deep breath would burst the seams, and this was not the time for God's generosity to be on display.
Her curvaceous figure was an asset, her mother had told her nine years ago in an attempt to soothe her twelve-year-old tears. It was bad enough that the neighborhood girls had teased her about having red hair, but none of them had experienced the same physical changes over the summer that she had. To compensate for their late bloom, they made sure Isa felt like the troll they accused her of being.
As much as she hated to admit it, her mother was right. They were jealous, especially Clara Harth. Her brother Timothy and his best friend Wooten, whom Clara followed like a puppy, became Isa's shadow. Whenever they spoke with her about their self-proclaimed knowledge of horseflesh, their eyes always stared six inches below Isa's chin. With their misguided sense of direction, she was surprised they knew one end of a horse trough from the other. When Wooten had tried to steal a kiss, as well as determine the fullness of Isa's new figure, she had shown him that while her body preceded her emotions into womanhood, her tomboy skills were still sharp. It took the entire autumn for his broken arm to mend. It must have been hard to harvest a potato field one handed, but he had managed. It was such a pity.
The male voice in the other room sharpened, and Isa jumped, freeing one of the buttons on her nightgown. He sounded as though he had dug a few gardens of his own while one-handed. Apparently, he had not grasped the moral of his lesson.
Isa lifted a brow and glanced to the doorway, uninterested in his life story. Hopefully, he would be distracted while she found a second exit. Not wasting another moment, she snatched her dress from the chair and searched for an open window. She scanned the room while one sentence repeated in her thoughts. A week ago. Have I been here that long?
"Her fever broke last night," a woman's voice answered the man. "She should be awake soon."
"When she is, I want to talk with her."
"She'll probably not answer you."
"Oh, but she will. That's Cole's horse she rode in on and when he left here, he was enjoying excellent health and had no intentions of selling the gelding. So how did she end up with his mount? I'm certain he didn't hand him over along with his blessings. Blast thunder, Honor. I would think you'd want to know the answers to those questions more than I."
Cole? That must be the name of the man who had her horse and no, he had not handed him over with his gratitude. Surely he had made it to town by now. He seemed hearty enough when he had fought for the release of Ursa Minor. Where was her horse, anyway?
"I thought you and Garrett looked for Cole," the woman said. Her voice rose with concern.
Apparently, this Cole person meant something to her.
"We did. Other than a campsite that could have been his, there isn't hide nor hair of him."
In the back of the room, a small pinprick of light sliced through the darkness, and Isa shuffled to the window. Whoever Cole was, he wasn't her concern. If he was daft enough to get lost, he could wander around until he found his way clear. She had more immediate concerns, the main one being a way out of here.
She glanced back at her bed. Over the headboard, a heavy canvas draped a delicately laced curtain. It must have been placed there to keep the room as dark as possible to help her rest. The gesture was thoughtful, but she had rested enough. She lifted the embroidered edge and flooded the room with light. Shielding her eyes, she squinted into the yard. Draped in a stark white light, everything moved normally. Next to the barn, her horse stood as though outlined in charcoal, grazing on lush clumps of green grass. She absently rubbed her inner thighs where his bony ribs had chafed her legs. Chomping away, he appeared intent to regain his lost bulk.
"Oh. You're awake," a voice said from behind her.
Isa turned, open-mouthed, and blinked away her surprise while staring at a woman who appeared to be about her own age. She had a smaller build with delicate bones. At least the owner of the nightgown was no longer a mystery.
The woman stepped into the room and set a pitcher on the dresser. She looked as perplexed as Isa felt. Moving to the window, she pulled the heavy cloth away. Blonde hair and blue eyes set off her porcelain skin. Peach tones on her cheeks made her look absolutely perfect.
"You should stay in bed," she said, examining Isa's face and paying close attention to her eyes. "You haven't any strength yet."
"I need to leave," Isa's voice scratched out. She eased herself to the bed. All of her strength had been spent retrieving her dress and finding a window.
"You won't be able to leave just yet. Not only are you as weak as a newborn kitten, there's a bad storm moving in. It doesn't matter where you're going; I doubt you'll make it without receiving a thorough drenching."
"Honor?" A man burst into the room and looked from the blonde woman to Isa.
Isa lifted her dress in front of her to cover up.
The man tried to walk further into the room, but the woman moved toward him and held out the canvas.
He tossed it to the side like a ball of dirty rags. "Honor. Move. She's awake, and I want answers."
"Judson, I want to know about Cole more than you, but badgering her isn't the way to do this. Give her a chance to collect herself. Then, we'll ask."
He looked down at the woman as though contemplating her reaction. "You're willing to take the chance that he's wounded or dead while she gets comfortable? You surprise me."
Isa scooted to the edge of the bed and leaned her head against the wall. Perspiration drenched her and she raised a shaky hand to wipe her brow. "I don't know anyone by the name of Cole, if that is what you want to know."
"You don't?" Honor stumbled to the side as Judson pushed her out of the way. "Then how did you come by his horse?"
Isa rolled backward while a wave of nausea washed over her. From the dirt lines on this man's clenched forehead and the brambles in his hair, he hadn't bathed before returning home. She blinked back a flood of refreshing tears and coughed into her hand. "That's my horse. Always has been."
Unaffected by his fetid appearance, Honor stepped next to the man and looked apologetically at her. "He's right, Miss. We know that horse. Not only are his colorings distinct, but my brother, Garrett also shod the beast before Cole left. His mark is on the irons." Tears glistened in the small woman's blue eyes and she glanced away. As if trying to convince herself that Cole was merely behind schedule, she squared her shoulders and turned back. "If you know where my . . ." Her voice squeaked as it choked and her eyes pleaded more than her words. "If you know where he is, please tell us."
Judson's hand came around Honor's shoulder and she leaned into him. After a few moments of deafening silence, she glanced up and patted his chest. "Perhaps you have a few things in the barn that need your attention."
Isa was unsure if she liked Honor's idea any more than Judson. The woman's tone had turned eerily serene. She wondered if this was how shepherds lured sheep to slaughter. If it were, she would not imitate docile lambs.
Isa slipped her hand between the bed and the wall. With every spare inch of space used for storage, the odds were in her favor that something would be stored under or beside the bed. Finding a weapon was probably too much to hope for but at this point, anything would compensate for her lack of strength. Cold, rough wood grazed the back side of her hand as she pushed it deeper beside the wall. Scratches could be dealt with later but for now, her thoughts were on the window. Her fingers dangled above the baseboard, and something moved from under her fingertips. She flinched and looked up to see if anyone noticed.
In the corner of the room, Judson stood in the doorway. His gaze narrowed, and his hand moved to his waistband. Silver disappeared under his meaty hand as he clasped the knife hilt.
Isa swallowed, her escape plans interrupted with his unspoken threat. It was clear that if Honor did not get the answers she wanted, he would conduct the next interrogation.
Slowly moving her hand, the furry object no longer there, Isa glared back at the wide-faced man. She curled her lip in an attempt to look menacing. Undaunted, he snarled in reply but left the room. Without question, she would have to leave tonight.
As if weighing in on her decision, a small ache throbbed at the back of her head, and her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. Obviously, her body was not of the same notion. It would take some convincing to get mind and limbs working in one accord.
Isa focused on the water pitcher. Blue floral buds against white porcelain appeared to flutter coolly, inviting her to enjoy the contents they held. She licked her lips and blinked to clear her vision. Not wanting her thirst to be used as a bargaining chip, she didn't dare ask for any refreshment. Neither Judson nor Honor seemed overly anxious to accept her word of her brief encounter concerning the missing man.
Isa rubbed her thumb against her temple and peered up at Honor. "I found my horse in the wilderness and took him. It's as simple as that."
Honor poured a glass of water and handed it to her. "Was the animal unattended?"
Isa raised a brow but accepted the drink. She sipped demurely at first then tilted the glass and emptied every drop. When finished, she glanced at Honor and lifted her hand for more.
"There was a man," she said as she watched the water tumble from the decanter. "But I assure you, this is my horse and the man was healthy when I left him."
"This man," Honor said and returned the pitcher to the bureau. "Was he tall with dark brown hair and blue eyes?"
A stubbled face flashed in Isa's mind, reminding her of the encounter. She wondered if this woman knew that the man she held so much affection for, had a wicked temper. "It was dark. I couldn't see him clearly," she answered. There was no need to bring about a senseless debate.
Honor nodded as though trying to accept what she heard as truth. "Perhaps my brother Garrett will have better luck than Judson."
Unsure of what to do, Isa offered comfort the only way she knew how. "I'm sorry your husband is missing."
Honor's attention turned to Isa. "Cole?"
Isa nodded and sat the now empty glass on the dresser.
"We are concerned for his well being. That's all." She peered outside. "The storm will be upon us in no time. I should tend to the animals. You rest, and I'll be back later with some broth."
Something banged against the side of the house, and Honor hurried from the room.
Weak and slightly clammy, Isa rested her head and assessed her strength. A short nap would allot her renewed energy, but storm or no, she would be gone by morning.
Chapter 4
The barn door shook in Isa's hand as it warred against the wind. She tightened her grip and pulled it closed, threading the wooden brace inside the bracket. Loud howls angrily screeched and gusts slammed their protest against the outside of the wood partition. Isa sniffled and wiped watery eyes while peering around inside the structure.
The building was petitioned off in small and tidy stalls, six in total. To her left, a worktable butted up against the wall. Various tools of size and shape dangled from nails for easy access, and a blacksmith apron hung from a peg on the far wall. Honor had mentioned that her other brother did the blacksmithing chores on the farm and from the looks of how he kept his work station, his demeanor was a far cry from Judson's.
Isa shivered as the residual smell of smoke coming from the forge mixed with her image of Judson. She wouldn't be surprised if brimstone lurked in his workplace. It would certainly explain his dark scowl and grave voice, not to mention his heated disposition. She pictured his wide face sprouting a thin, pointed beard and matching pencil-thin moustache similar to the men she had seen posed in Dutch Masters' paintings. Since Judson could hardly be compared to the puritan models represented in art galleries, there was no need to give the heathen another thought. With any luck, she had most likely seen the last of him.
She glanced down the barn's walkway. Black and gray images lined the partitions. As long as she stayed to the center of the building, she should be able to maneuver without incident. At least the charred fumes masked the overpowering, manure aroma. It was obvious that someone, probably Judson, missed stable duties today. She was certain he would blame that on her. Actually, other than the one, pungent stall, the barn appeared well maintained.
She walked past the first few bays, both empty, and glanced into the next set. Within the borders, a palomino stood on one side and a pinto on the other. At the last booth, a familiar whinney encouraged her to the back of the passageway.
Ursa Minor's long, brown nose perched over the gate, stretching to Isa's outreached hand. He nuzzled her palm, no doubt in search of an apple. She wondered if Cole had been able to figure out that the gelding expected a treat upon his master's arrival.
"I'm sorry, fella. I don't have anything with me." She glanced around. Her gaze landed on what he no doubt smelled, and she smiled. Feed bins lined the back wall, and a bundle of carrots topped the closed tub. No wonder he had not accepted her empty-handed response. If he could have stretched his neck a tiny bit more, he would be able to snack at his leisure.
"I hope you've eaten more than your fill of oats," she said, lifting a carrot to his mouth. "We have a long way yet to travel."
His flabby lips encompassed the last of his snack. Not even a green leaf spotted her hand.
Wind whistled through the barn slats, and a foreboding quiver shook her shoulders. Ursa Minor continued crunching, unaffected by the weather, and Isa glanced around for his saddle. It lay on a nearby table, flanked by his tack. Scooping up the blanket, she slipped inside the cubicle and closed the gate.
"I'm glad foul weather doesn't bother you. We need to leave, even with a storm at our heels."
The double doors at the front of the building burst open, swirling wind through the barn. Isa's head jerked up as lightning flashed. Her entire body shook, but she was unconvinced it was from the thunder rattling the ground. Dark silhouettes blackened the opening, and two men on horseback ducked their heads beneath the lintel, edging their mounts forward. Instinctively, she hunched down and peered over Ursa Minor's back. There was no need to alert anyone to her presence.
Swinging down from their saddles, the men went about their business, comfortable with their surroundings. They lit a couple of lanterns, turned down the wicks, and hung the squeaky handles over pegs near the front stalls. The front of the building glowed warmly, and Isa glanced around to make sure she was still covered in shadows.
The back of the structure was cast in theatrical dreariness with long lines and canopied arches. Lightning flashed again, and the room stood stark naked in a ghostly white radiance. She kept her head low and decided to not move until the men had left the premises.
Quite possibly, this was the brother Honor had mentioned, but that wouldn't explain the oth--no, it couldn't be. Cole. It was hard to tell in this light, although it was comparable to when they had first met. But if the militant Judson hadn't found him, why would he show up tonight of all nights?
"When you were delayed," a voice from the stall to the right said. "I thought you might have gone back to meet with Washington. Honor was convinced you would have sent word if that was the case. Are things panning out to be less explosive than anticipated?"
Isa leaned forward, listening carefully to his voice.
"That's why I was in Philadelphia," the other man said and flipped a stirrup over his saddle. "Washington is doing everything he can to bring a brisk end to the war. I need to make sure nothing distracts him from it."
Nothing distinctive identified this man. She closed her eyes and strained to listen. The man she met weeks ago had been furious with her, his voice, firm and harsh. It was unlike this man's calm, civil tones. Of course, tonight she was relatively certain that she wouldn't leave someone stranded in the forest with no means of transportation. She sniggered to herself, thinking of the look he must have had on his face as she galloped away. It served him right for buying stolen goods.
"I thought I saw the girl in Beech Creek, but she got away before I could be certain it was her. The chit's going to cost me my home."
Through the irons and wood partitions, Isa could see the man on the far side of his horse. A flat brush dangled from his hands, and his arms stretched languidly over the animal's neck and flanks. Her eyelids drooped, but she followed each line as he brushed the horse in long, extensive strokes. She could almost hear the beast's breathing deepen with the massage. Her own breath slowed and her limbs grew relaxed as she watched. She licked her lips, followed where his hands led, and then raised her gaze.
His chest was broad, not that of a boy transitioning into manhood, but of a man fully developed. Although his facial features were still muted, he held his head and shoulders well, fatigued, but with a confidence that lacked arrogance. She leaned to the side as he did, but moved her upper body too far off center. She stumbled and scrambled to keep her balance. At least this humiliation nudged her out of her dream-like state, and she tried to rouse herself.
"You'll find her. You always do," his companion said.
Whoever the man was, he offered a nice distraction from the restful moment. In an effort to regain her thoughts, Isa squinted in his direction and concentrated fully on him. His head dipped forward, and she raised a brow. After a moment, she nodded as though approving his movements. It would be wise, she thought, to inspect his horse's hooves after a long ride. She rolled her eyes and shook her head at her own idiocy.
What are you doing, Isa? It isn't like you haven't seen attractive men before.
Before her arrest, she had drawn the attention of several men, all of whom seemed completely unprepared for her quick assessment of life and her sharp tongue regarding other people's ludicrous views. She had yet to meet a man who could handle her independent thinking.