Mama tossed pieces of dry wood onto the fire. The flames sizzled and popped as they burned all the evidence of Amos’s stay with them. Coral rushed upstairs to hide her now empty lavender perfume bottle and the remnants of her soap.
Her lacy nightgown lay across her pillow. She seized it, along with a spare petticoat she’d mended earlier, and stuffed them into her trunk. The thought of those rough men searching her bedroom made her nauseous. Then she thought of Amos and shook her head. It was selfish to think only of one’s self at a time like this.
Coral steeled herself and hurried back down the stairs. She’d delay those brutes for as long as possible, and if that meant allowing them to search her room, then so be it. When she reached the foot of the stairs, she smiled and nodded at Mama.
The racket of baying hounds echoed in the night.
Fear punched her in the stomach. She pursed her lips. What little faith she had. She shook her head and turned to the Lord. “Mercy, Jesus, be with us.” The words rolled off her lips and fear dissipated.
The back door was flung open. Papa burst inside and slammed it shut. He rushed into the living room. Bounty hunters pounded on the front door.
“Open up, Martin,” said the brusque voice outside.
Hastening to Coral’s side, Mama clutched her so hard the breath went out of her.
“Lord Almighty, keep us in Your hands,” Papa prayed. She watched her father square his shoulders. In response, she straightened her spine and stood taller.
Time seemed momentarily suspended, like a small silver spoon dropped into a jar of thick honey.
With slow, methodical ease, Papa undid the latch and opened the door.
Three men stood in the entryway. The tall one, the lead bounty hunter from Wilbur’s store, shoved a piece of paper at Papa. Two hounds barreled under Papa’s legs. They approached Coral and sniffed at her skirts, then the floor, and barked.
“The dogs are on to something,” the shorter man said. A wicked grin spread across his stubble-covered face.
“You and your men are welcome to search our house,” Papa interjected. “There’s an opening in the kitchen floor that leads down to the cellar. You’re free to look there.”
“And don’t forget my room upstairs.” Coral wanted them to look anywhere besides the living quarters where Amos had been. The tall one eyed her, smiled, and then clomped up the stairs. She squeezed her eyes shut. Time, Lord, give Josiah and Amos time.
She averted her gaze to the kitchen. The cellar door lay open. For a moment she wondered what might happen if she shut and locked it. Too bad all three men weren’t down there, or she’d do just that. It took some strength to stifle her chuckle.
The cellar door banged shut, jerking her back to the present. The men finished searching the kitchen and the tall man came back down the stairs. The three men gathered in the living room, and she cringed at the way they looked at Papa.
Mama piped up. “It’s bitter cold out there tonight. Shall I make you all a cup of hot English tea?”
Coral gulped at the lump in her throat. Mama treated these men as she would any guest in her home.
Her mother continued. “Perhaps some biscuits and cheese to take with you. You’re bound to get hungry later on.”
Coral gulped harder the second time, but the lump in her throat stayed put.
She watched the taller man stride over to Mama and stare at her. His muttonchops twitched as he worked his jaw muscles. Then he looked to Papa, to Coral, and back to Mama.
After a slow minute passed he said, “He ain’t here, men; let’s go.”
Before she could blink twice, the men were gone.
A quiet hung about the house well into the evening. Coral hardly spoke a word, and neither did her parents. The close call rattled her more than she cared to admit. Still, her resolve was not weakened.
Four nerve-wracking days after that wild night, Josiah still had not returned. Every evening, and countless times while slogging through her chores, Coral prayed for his safety, and Amos’s. She wished Josiah would come home and inform them that Amos had made it to the next station. Many times she feared something awful had happened, even now as she donned her shawl and then stepped outside.
Moments later she carried an armload of firewood inside and deposited it in the wood box next to the hearth. The shawl did little to combat the chilly winds that blew across the homestead. When she went out for another load, she wrapped her shawl tighter around her. Her teeth chattered in the cold and she could see her breath.
She hurried back inside and dropped the wood where it belonged.
“Thank you, dear,” Mama said. She placed a log onto the flames and turned the spit. The roasting meat smelled heavenly. Coral’s mouth watered. Doing extra chores while Papa recuperated had increased her appetite. The physical exertion felt good but left her little time to work on her quilt. Her thread supply had dwindled again anyway.
Maybe Papa would allow her to take the wagon into town for more. Thankfully, the wagon had been returned the day after Josiah took it. While shopping for thread she could ask Mr. Wilbur if he’d heard anything.
“Mama,” Coral began, “I’d like to be more involved in aiding the freedom seekers. I have a passion to help them, and I’m sure it’s from God.”
Mama wiped her hands on her apron and smiled big. Her cheeks turned pink. “I’m sure the calling came from God. Your Papa will be pleased to hear of your devotion, but he’ll be afraid for your well-being too.”
“I really want to help.”
Mama said, “Are you sure your desire to help isn’t rooted in the idea of being around Josiah more?”
Warmth flooded through Coral. Thoughts of Josiah had certainly filled her mind the past few weeks, but could what she felt be called love? With minimal discomfort she’d recovered from the loss of Roland, but she still wasn’t sure if she wanted to venture that direction again. “I—I don’t know.”
Noises outside snagged her attention. At first she thought the bounty hunters had returned, but she didn’t hear the hounds baying. The sound of hoofbeats grew louder, and the voice didn’t sound familiar. Papa opened the door and there stood a man dressed as a Quaker.
Darkness covered the land by the time Josiah rode back into Newport. He jumped down from his horse and tied the reins to the hitching post. He took a quick walk around the outside of Wilbur’s store, but there was no sign of him. No light shone from inside the building either. The man had probably gone to bed. No sense in waking him.
Josiah unsaddled his horse and led it to the stable in back. Four days and nights of smuggling Amos north had plum worn him out. After brushing down the exhausted animal, he bedded down in the tack room. Tomorrow he’d tell Wilbur about the adventures with the hopeful freedom seeker.
His head hit the pillow, but before he could even stretch, he heard a voice.
“That you, Josiah? I thought I heard you ride in,” Sheriff Hansen said.
“Yep, what can I do for you?” Josiah yawned so big he thought his jawbones would come unhinged.
“I know what you’re doing, helping slaves escape. And although I can’t abide slavery, the law’s the law, twisted as it is.”
Josiah gave his friend a long look. “I know man’s law, but I follow the higher law of God.”
Hansen nodded. “I agree on all accounts. Why do you think I’ve looked the other way so many times? I just wanted to warn you to be careful. I pray God soon ends the scourge of slavery in this country, but the way folks get into such a state about the issue, I don’t think that’ll happen in our lifetime. Maybe never.”
Although it was dark, Josiah could easily see the moral quandary his friend was mired in, and he ached for him. “I’ll do my best to keep you out of it. Now, it’s late—why don’t you head back home and get some sleep.”
Hansen sighed. “’Night Josiah.”
The stable door creaked open, then closed. Josiah sank into a deep slumber.
The sun peeked through the knotholes in the walls and the room warmed considerably by the time Josiah awoke, but the rest had done him good. He stuffed a cold biscuit in his mouth and strolled over to the mercantile.
Not more than two steps into the building, he ran into the Martin family. His eyes lingered on Coral for a long moment until he heard Sam clear his throat. Josiah swallowed and stepped over to him. He’d tell him about Amos—not all the details, but enough to alleviate any worries.
“Sam, just the man I wanted to see,” Josiah said. “I was going to ride out to your place later today to speak with you. Mr. George DeBaptiste, the barber up in Madison, wanted me to thank you for the package you sent him.”
“Thank you kindly. I hope it arrived without incident.” Sam cocked an eyebrow.
Josiah nodded. “I delivered it myself, safe and sound.”
Sam smiled, turned to Wilbur, and said, “A Quaker named Strauss showed up at my place late last night. He just moved into town and wants to know how he can mail packages.”
Before much more could be said, Wilbur glanced around the store.
“Josiah, you mind tending things for a minute? I need to show Sam something in the storeroom.”
“Sure.”
The two men headed to the back. Josiah turned to watch Coral and her mother shopping for thread near the bolts of fabric. When Coral glanced up and locked eyes with him, he winked at her. He laughed aloud when her cheeks took on a pink hue and she dropped a spool of thread.
“Mr. Williamson.” Her admonishment didn’t match the smile playing on her lips. She bent to pick up the thread.
He pulled her handkerchief from his pocket and admired the lingering scent of lavender before he sauntered closer to her. “Here, I thought you’d like this back.”
“Thank you.” Coral took it and placed it in her reticule. “Perhaps you could dine with us some evening.”
“I’d like that.” He leaned against a barrel of dried beans.
Before she could set a date for her invitation, her father and Wilbur emerged from the back.
“Let’s tally up our wares and get back to the house. I need some rest.” Sam wiped beads of sweat from his forehead and leaned against the counter. Mrs. Martin and Coral fussed over him like a pair of mother hens. Not more than a few minutes passed, and they were gone. The dinner invitation would have to wait.
Josiah purchased a bag of dried beans and some coffee, but cut short his conversation with Wilbur. All he wanted was to get home and begin the next building project. He wasn’t a pauper, but he couldn’t neglect his customers either, or he’d starve through the winter.
The bell above the door jangled. The dandy who burst inside had wealth enough, judging by his fancy attire. Something about the man made Josiah uneasy. He locked eyes with Wilbur. “I’ll stay a bit longer, in case you need me.”
“Much obliged.” Wilbur nodded and cast a warning look at two freed women in the fabric section. The wide-eyed women clutched a bolt of calico and appeared frightened at the newcomer’s presence.
Josiah wandered to the hardware section and estimated the price of a pound of nails. He tried to be inconspicuous, but paid enough attention to assist Wilbur if necessary.
The dandy strutted over to the women and yanked the material from their hands. When he growled threats to them, Josiah took two steps toward him.
Wilbur’s boots pounded on the wooden floorboards as he stormed to the scene. “See here now, I run a respectable establishment. I don’t take kindly to the use of coarse language, nor do I tolerate folks who threaten our free citizens. You’ll have to leave.”
The man jutted his chin in the air and voiced a string of profane words that weren’t fit for decent folks’ ears. Wilbur stood his ground and threw the dandy out of the store. No more than what the scoundrel deserved. Josiah laughed, tipped his hat to the ladies, and left.
Late that night, after darkness had fully fallen, Josiah met Wilbur at the farm of Mr. Strauss, the new Quaker in town. They rode their horses into the barn and dismounted. A man who couldn’t have been a day over twenty came forward and shook their hands.
“Welcome.”
No twitching, no stammering, no averting his gaze when he spoke. What the man did have was a firm handshake, a look in his eyes. A good sign he could be trusted.
“Sam couldn’t make it, but he sends his regards,” Josiah told him.
Josiah and the two men talked about their faith, slavery, the community, and safe places for runaways. They even drew maps in the dirt.
During a lull in the conversation, Josiah heard the chickens in the nearby henhouse squawking and clucking. He cocked an ear in their direction. The chickens continued. Dogs barked. His horse added a whinny to the cacophony.
Josiah rose and placed a hand on the pistol in his holster. Wilbur ran his foot over the drawings in the dirt and ducked behind a stack of hay bales. Mr. Strauss grabbed a pitchfork and began pitching hay into the horses’ stalls.
Josiah reached for the lantern hanging on a nail by the door. He stepped outside and held it high. “Who’s out there?” he hollered.
No one replied.
Three steps into the barnyard, he called again. “Is anyone out there?”
A large haystack rustled. Several pieces of hay blew off of it and into the wind. Two dogs sniffed around the base of it. Were they bounty hunters’ bloodhounds, or did they belong to the Quaker? Upon closer inspection Josiah spotted a scrap of cloth protruding from the yellow-gold stalks. Someone had been spying on them!
That spy could be a slave patroller, an informant, a malicious Southern sympathizer, someone who could have them all arrested.
A flash of anger shot through Josiah like a bolt of lightning. Nobody would put the freedom seekers in harm’s way if he could help it.
With his free hand he pulled the pistol from his holster. Tramping over to the haystack, he realized his dilemma. He didn’t want to kill anyone, and prayed he wouldn’t have to, but the spy could be somebody intent on taking them all down.
When he reached the haystack he cocked his pistol with as much noise as possible.
Twice he cleared his throat and then said, “Come out, or I’ll shoot.”
He watched in growing amazement as a young woman made her way out of the haystack.