D orothy reached the shack, panting. She needed water. She probably needed food. She had left her sack at Weaver’s Needle in her distraction and hurry.
Her father sat in his usual place, carving at his usual rate. On instinct, she rushed to him, pouring out the entire story of Rumple and Artie and the gold. Kneeling beside his chair, she waited for his response and begged for his help.
At first, the man said nothing whatsoever.
Dorothy laid her hand on his arm. “Father, he only gave me until Tuesday. Whatever will I do?”
The gray head nodded, eyes still focused on the wooden creature in his hands. “You’ll work it out, I reckon. If you don’t, some might say a Sinclair is a waste of skin anyway. He would be a small loss.”
A pang Dorothy could never describe shot through her. “He would be a great loss to me, Father.”
He looked at her then with a sharp, lingering expression. “You have strange taste in people then. I reckon you had better work out a plan if he would be such a loss to you.”
Dorothy couldn’t keep the falter from her voice as he turned back to his carving. “Won’t you help me, Father?”
He shook his head, slow and deliberate. “I’m busy, Dorothy. I’ve got work to do.”
Dorothy’s hand fell from his arm. Rising with difficulty, she went to her room. Sinking to her knees in front of the window, a single sob broke from her, but tears refused to come. She stared at the Superstition Mountains, beautiful yet so terrible and ominous. Her heart constricted.
“Father in Heaven…” For a few minutes, she could think of no other words. At last, the words came in a voice that she could feel trembling. “Father in Heaven, forgive me, I pray Thee. I acted in my fear, even though I doubted whether I ought to have taken the man’s last offer. I decided there could be no other choice, yet Thou couldst and may have offered one, if I had waited. Forgive me my hasty actions and reliance upon myself, in Jesus’ name and by His blood.”
She bowed her head upon the sill, pain thrilling behind her eyes. “My Lord, Thou who strengthened David’s fight against Goliath, Thou who saved Daniel from the den, Thou who raised Christ from the tomb and covereth my sins—Thine arm is strong and Thine ear can hear me. I pray Thee, grant mercy and spare Artie’s life. Grant me a way to act. Grant me wisdom to know whether I should go and what course of action I ought to take. I pray Thee, grant me wisdom.”
She remained there for some time, continuing in prayer, before a thought made her raise her head.
Theo. And Kat. Theo might help me. Artie is his brother. Kat—Artie said Kat and the Gilberts seemed to know a lot about Rumple. Perhaps…Just perhaps they can help me.
She stood, looked around, then started pulling on her shoes. Halfway through the process, she paused.
“I don’t know where they live.”
The answer seemed to come almost audibly. It’s Saturday.
The Pavilion. If neither are there—if I run—surely there will be someone at the Pavilion willing to direct me to the Sinclair’s or the Gilbert’s house if I beg. Dear Lord, lead someone to assist me!
She finished her shoes, pulled her hat over her head, and checked the knife in her scarf by habit.
Grant me Thy grace to accept Thy Will, if Rumple takes his life…But, oh Lord, I do pray that Thou wilt be merciful and spare him!