Daniel started down the road so lost in thought that he nearly forgot Amy. At last he saw she was trotting along at his side, trying to keep up with his long strides.
Frowning at himself, he stopped and turned. He took her hand and apologized. “Sorry. I was off on my own tangent. Wondering what to do next.”
There was a worried expression on her face. As she looked up into his face, she caught her breath and said, “Might be we’ll have to forget about the whole thing.”
“Wanna sit down and rest?” He pointed to the rocks beside the road.
She nodded, “It’ll give me time to get my wits together.”
They found two large rocks and sat down. Daniel watched Amy point to the touch of green appearing around the base of the rock. She said, “Soon it will be spring.” But he was thinking it would soon be a year since their marriage. How much longer could they both endure this awkward situation? Friends. That was laughable, heartbreaking. He sighed.
“Daniel, you’re tired too. We’ve tried, can’t we forget about it?”
He hesitated. “Well, I can’t stay up here too long. There’s folks depending on me. Also, if you’re not back in Denver City before the week is up, your Father may head for home without you.”
She nodded, got to her feet and started down the trail. “I’ve rested enough. Let’s get on with it.”
As they approached the boardinghouse, Amy said, “Looks empty. It’s probably locked.”
“That door is ajar.” He went in ahead of her, and she followed, hanging on to his coattail like a frightened child. But even he had to admit to the strange feeling it was giving him. The emptiness, the creaking of the floorboards under their feet, and the scurry of mice made the deserted building seem alien.
“That’s her room over there.” Her voice echoed as she pointed, “But I sense there’s not a soul here.” Her brave voice was too loud. Daniel tried the door that led to Silverheels’ room. It seemed locked. He twisted and shoved. The door moved inches.
Amy murmured, “It’s a chest against the door. I can see it. I’ll squeeze past.”
“Do it then.” He stepped aside, adding, “No reason to force our way if there’s—nothing to be seen.” She slipped through. There was silence and impatiently he asked, “Amy, can you move the chest?”
“Not alone. Push on the door, and I’ll push on this side.” He pushed, then heard the rasp of wood against wood, and found he was able to slip through the opening.
Heavy draperies covered the windows. Amy went to pull them aside. She stood, slowly looking about the room, and he saw the sadness on her face.
He felt the weight of the room himself. As she turned away, he saw her blinking her eyes. “Amy, it’s somehow pathetic, isn’t it?” His voice sounded lame to him. He walked about the room, wondering how to express the sadness the empty room was making him feel.
Amy moved restlessly about. Picking up the black cloak Silverheels had given her to wear, she said, “I wonder what happened to the picture? It isn’t in the pocket.” He watched her go to the closet. With her toe she nudged the pair of silver-heeled slippers lying there.
“Looks as if they’ve just been kicked aside,” he murmured. Daniel saw the sadness on Amy’s face had deepened. Feeling a surge of tenderness welling up inside, he clenched his hands and turned to pace the room.
The overwhelming hopelessness of their situation swept over him. To love and have a chance of winning was one thing, but to be committed to denying the possibility of fulfilling that love is a burden I no longer want to carry. Friendship, Amy? Dry crumbs compared to having a wife. He rubbed his face and sighed, admitting to himself, These days a spiritual tiredness is sapping my strength.
He lifted his head and saw that she was standing in front of the dressing table. Her fingers moved among the line of bottles, brushes and crystal flasks.
Daniel took a deep breath and went to her side, saying, “It’s as if she’s just stepped out for the day. Amy, you must accept the possibility that she’s—”
Amy looked up at him. “Dead? It almost gives relief. Don’t feel bad. I’ll never be touched by her memory again.” He looked at her strangely and she continued. “It seems certain she’s dead or gone forever. Obviously no one has been here for a long time.”
“We haven’t been upstairs yet. Come along.” He headed for the stairs, glad to be free of the room and the strain of seeing the tears clumping Amy’s eyelashes together.
Amy was behind him as they walked the hallway, looking into the tiny cubicles. Each roughly finished room still held the tattered remnants of the life left behind. The beds had been stripped of their blankets, but many of the open closets spilled forth color and texture.
To Daniel the abandoned marks of the trade—the costly and garish, the silks and satins—proclaimed a message more loudly than words. Their owners no longer had need of them.
Amy shuddered and turned away. “I can think of only one reason those dresses would still be here. Just like Lizzie. Left behind.” She touched the spill of cheap perfume bottles on the dresser and the candle holder bearing a mouse-chewed candle and a frayed hair ribbon. “Daniel, do you know that at one time I envied these dance-hall girls with their pretty dresses and their saucy, confident ways?”
They resumed their silent march up and down the halls, checking in all the rooms for evidence of life, clues that promised hope. Daniel murmured, “This is like a wake, a silent mourning. It seems a vigil of emptiness for a froth of brightness that has lost the reality of life.”
Amy looked around, “Reality of life—yes, I suppose that is so.”
When they returned to the first floor, Amy stopped in the hall. With a quick glance he passed her and entered Silverheels’ room again. Standing in the middle of the room, he turned slowly, studying every detail.
Amy came, saying, “The piano is gone from the parlor. I suppose it’s been carried off because of its value.” Her voice was wistful and he glanced at her. That note in her voice revealed a yearning he should have guessed. He wanted to promise her a piano. But that was something he couldn’t say. He took a deep breath and sought the safe ground.
“Music is a part of you, isn’t it—like I have brown eyes and a funny nose.”
She looked up. He saw astonishment, and then her expression changed. He turned away quickly even as his heart was pounding with a new revelation. Amy had a soul-deep hunger; he could see it in her eyes. Was music a need in her life? A something as big as his need to preach the Gospel?
Now he recalled the things Lucas Tristram had to say about Amy’s talent. The fellow had looked at him, saying he’d do everything in his power to see Amy got her opportunity. Well, he’d be the fellow who could afford to give her the biggest piano in the world.
Daniel paced around the room; his thoughts circled back to Amy as he felt a growing excitement. Just maybe God was behind her soul-hunger.
He stopped. Amy was waiting with that wistful expression in her eyes. Maybe I can’t now, but someday, my Amy. Daniel straightened his shoulders. He also clenched one fist and smacked it into his hand. He grinned, tempted momentarily to inform his wife that after all, friendship wasn’t so great, and nuts to Tristram—she was Mrs. Gerrett.
He turned to nod toward the closet door hanging open. “About Silverheels—Maybe we shouldn’t give up just now. Look. There’s a gap in there. I see her dancing frocks, but where are the warm, sturdy clothes?” He pointed to the half-drawn curtains around the bed. “What has happened to the blankets on that bed?”
“Perhaps someone has stolen these things,” Amy murmured as she continued to walk around the room, looking into every corner. When she reached the mantel above the fireplace, she stopped.
Daniel watched her stiffen and catch her breath; she moved forward slowly, even reluctantly. Frowning now, he saw that for Amy the room had ceased being an impersonal memory. Something had touched her deeply.
“What is it?” Daniel bent over her. He saw a fragment of china on the mantel.
“Oh, Daniel!” her voice was breaking, but she persisted, pressing out the words as if they were a form of torture she deserved. “See, it’s part of a china doll’s head. Mother gave the doll to me. She said to remember her. I had intended to take it. But—” She gulped. “Daniel, we shouted terrible words at each other. Before I left she reminded me to take it. She said, ‘Don’t forget your dolly.’”
Daniel waited. He watched her clench her fists, and lift her chin. With tears streaming down her face, she admitted, “I threw it at her. Just as hard as I could throw. I was sorry it missed hitting her.” He waited.
Her face crumpled as she said, “Don’t you see? I hated her.” Now with imploring eyes, whispering, she said, “Daniel, I am afraid!”
“Amy!” He had not intended it, but his arms were open and with a sob she came at him. “My darling.” He held her, kissing away the tears and feeling the urgency of her body against him.
But he had made a commitment to be her friend. Just a friend. He held her away. “Amy, Amy, my dear, please!” Her lips were still lifted and he kissed her once more. Then gently he put her aside and paced the cold darkening room.
When he came back to her, the approaching dusk had hidden away the expression in her eyes. Bending close, speaking softly, he said, “I promised you I’d be your friend. Do you want me to keep that promise?”
Then he said, “You’re crying; why?”
She shook her head slowly from side to side. Steadying her voice she said, “It’s Silverheels. I can’t get away from the sense of responsibility. What if she’s alive and in need?”
“I don’t know what to say. I’ve no suggestion to offer unless we go to the cemetery after dark. It seems nearly a hysterical story.”
“Do you mind going with me?”
“No, of course not. Amy, we’re still in this together. If that is what you want, I’m willing.”
While the minutes passed slowly, Amy considered it all. Daniel’s rebuff still stung. Her tears were only partly for Silverheels; how much more deeply his rejection had wounded her pride! She thought back to yesterday. Friendship? Daniel, I sensed you jumped at the chance to escape the trap we’re in.
“Then I think we should go tonight. It may take several days to be certain that she isn’t visiting the cemetery.” He paused and then added, “It’s important to get you back to Denver City before your father leaves.”
Important. Most certainly, otherwise he would be stuck with the task of getting her home. She considered the dismal future. Central City or Denver. Without Daniel, either one would be part of the past.
She sighed and shook her head, impatiently wondering why the need to be with him had risen to a clamor. Willful Amy. Again she blushed with shame as she thought of the way she had thrown herself into his arms.
She looked at Daniel. What would he say if she were to reveal her plans to stay in Denver City? For a moment hope flared, and then flattened. Somehow she had the feeling he would say nothing.
Daniel was holding her shawl. With one last glance at the broken doll lying on the mantel, they walked out of the boardinghouse.
That evening they told Father Dyer. As Daniel talked, Amy searched the man’s face, expecting ridicule, even disbelief. But he nodded, saying, “It seems to be the only thing to do. If you’re serious about this, Amy, the Lord will either make a way for you to contact her, or lift the burden to do so. I’ll come with you if you wish.” They both shook their heads, declining his gesture.
After supper dishes were washed and placed back on their shelf, after the embers in the stove were cherry red and Father Dyer had poked in the big chunk of wood and set the damper, Daniel said, “Let’s go now.”
There wasn’t a full moon, but the light reflecting off the snowbanks filled the bowl of the gulch with light. When they reached the road, Daniel took her arm and pulled her close. “Will you be warm enough?”
“I’ve put on an extra jacket under this shawl.” He nodded and moved out ahead of her. Striding quickly to the well-traveled road, they turned and headed down the cut to the cemetery.
“Hear the owl?” Daniel murmured. Amy nodded and shivered. The cemetery was a cleared space in the midst of the trees. By the light of the moon, it was a glistening expanse of white. Daniel whispered, “A mouse can’t cross that without being seen.”
They moved back into the shadows of the trees. She shivered and Daniel came close to wrap his arms around her.
She felt her spine stiffen in response even as she guessed he wanted to talk. “There’s movement over there in the trees. It’s either a doe or a coyote; I didn’t want you to scream.” She resisted the impulse to snuggle against him. It seemed as if they had waited forever in silence when he began to speak. She heard the strain in his voice. “Amy, please, I—” They both heard the crack of twigs.
They held their breath and waited. A buck moved into the clearing and began to paw at the snow. “Look at that set of antlers,” Daniel murmured. As they watched him feed, Amy felt Daniel relax and she leaned back into his arms.
A cloud drifted across the moon and he sighed and moved. “I’m guessing we might as well forget it for the night. We’re both half frozen.” She waited a moment longer; finally he bent and kissed her, gently, lightly. “We better hurry before we freeze.”
The next evening a swift storm moved through, filling the air with icy snow. The following night, as Daniel shrugged into his coat, he addressed John Dyer. “Might as well come along with us, unless you’re too old for the game of standing in the snow.”
“Maybe Amy should stay in and keep warm,” Father Dyer suggested.
“It’s mostly because of Amy that we’re here.” Daniel answered firmly. “She probably won’t have another chance to talk to Silverheels.”
“Daniel, do you think she’ll refuse to have anything to do with us?” Amy asked.
Daniel considered, then said, “If the story is true, there are a lot of unanswered questions. A normal healthy person just doesn’t wander around in cemeteries at night; neither do they hide away from people they have associated with in the past.”
“I want to go with you,” Amy urged.
It was very late when they saw her. The snap of breaking branches alerted them. Amy heard Daniel’s whisper. “That isn’t an animal.”
By moonlight her dark cloak was easy to identify against the lighter wood. Soon she left the trees and began to walk slowly up and down between the line of headstones.
Amy stood transfixed, watching her slow movement. Unexpectedly she found herself responding to that lonely figure. Wiping at her eyes, Amy tried to guess the reason for the zigzag course, the stooping, the way her hand moved to touch each stone.
The stark black and white scene, the rhythm of it all, pulled her spirit down. She was trembling now, trying to hold back the sobs.
Daniel bent close to whisper, “We’re going to move around to the other side while you walk up to her. If she runs, we’ll try to stop her.” His flat words brought her back to reality. Shivering now with cold, she nodded.
The men started off together. When they disappeared from sight, Amy hesitantly stepped out.
She approached slowly, creeping close enough to hear the murmur of Silverheels’ voice, the sobs. And then the next step plunged Amy’s foot into an icy snowdrift.
At the sound the woman turned. As Amy caught her balance, the shock of that black-swathed figure held her motionless and shivering. Silverheels’ face was invisible. There was nothing to be seen except the slender column of black.
For a soundless moment, they stood facing each other. Then the dark figure spun around and ran toward the trees.
It took Daniel’s shout to break Amy free, and send her stumbling through the snow after them. It seemed to go on forever, the lurching, plunging, churning through snow, into trees, pitching into snags and tearing free. Only the shouts of the men in front of her marked the way.
At last, when she thought another step was impossible, Daniel and Father Dyer were beside her.
They linked their arms about her, pushing her back up to the road. She was sobbing with cold and frustration when they reached the cabin.
Daniel knelt and stripped off her soaked boots and handed her the towel. “Start rubbing those feet and legs as hard as you can or I’ll do it for you.” She heard him say something about frostbite, but it didn’t seem to matter.
The stove was glowing nearly cherry red and Father Dyer brought hot tea while Daniel spread the blankets on the floor. “Let Amy have my bed,” Father Dyer said.
Daniel shook his head. “She’ll be better off here with her feet close to the fire. I’ll make certain she’s warm enough.”
Amy had only begun to wonder how when he carried hot stones to her and piled on some of his blankets. She shook her head but couldn’t find voice to protest. He took her empty mug and pushed her down. “If you get cold, tell me.” But that was the last she remembered.