43

Something ominous settled in Xander’s spirit at the onset of the storm that had nothing to do with the weather. Although all of James Towne and the coastline had gone tapsalteerie, he’d seen worse. As Rose-n-Vale’s shallop tugged at its moorings, confirming his return upriver was futile, he sought a different route.

His business with the tobacco inspector done, he sought refuge at Swan’s to sit out the tumult. The ordinary’s four rooms were mostly empty, a few lone travelers happening by.

A serving of oysters and two pints of ale later, Xander stared out the window as barrels careened down streets and brush and leaves whipped past along with a hat or two.

“You look on tenterhooks, Renick.” The proprietor stood at table’s end as a serving girl cleared away his empty dishes. “Shall I ready a room?”

“Rather a bold horse.”

Swan scratched his head. “You’ve never been one for flinching at shadows, but falling trees are another matter. Gaining Rose-n-Vale without injury to you or your mount is chancy.”

“At least there’s no rain,” Xander told him. “And the dark is a way off yet.”

With a nod, Swan turned aside. “I’ll send word to the stables, then.”

Xander paid his bill and stood at the back door to wait for a mount, the wind tugging at his hat and yanking at his coattails with fierce talons. Northeasters wreaked special havoc on the coast, as ships and piers were oft dashed to pieces. Inland would be less fractious, or so he hoped. Selah was in good company, thus he had no fear on that score.

As he swung himself into the saddle, a Scripture leapt to mind, chilling in its force if comforting in its promise.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.

Meihtawk could lead blindfolded, even in the dark. Never had Selah seen so capable a woodsman. Wisely he kept to open ground, well away from the trees shuddering and cracking at the forest’s fringes. In the dark their reverberating upon the ground sent a tremor through her. She’d tied her neckerchief about her bent head as sand and twigs stung her exposed skin. Betimes she clutched a fence to stay upright, the raw wood driving splinters into her ungloved hands. All the while she clung to one verse like a rope, an anchor.

And a man shall be as an hiding place from the wind, and a covert from the tempest . . .

She would not lose heart. The African had not hazarded so dangerous a mission to let fear have sway. Too much was at stake. A great deal to be gained.

Unless he was a pawn of the enemy, luring them into a trap.

Surely this scarred, gaunt man had no guile, even at Laurent’s behest. His face was too beseeching, his eyes too haunted. His crude drawing of a cage struck her to the heart. It could lead to none other than Watseka.

But would they find her alive?

For the first time she felt thankful Laurent’s land adjoined their own, if only to speed their chase. As for Shay and what lay behind that front door, she could only guess. And Xander? Where was he in the midst of all this?

On they pressed through the last wind-beaten remnants of summer. How long they’d been walking she did not know. Chest heaving, she felt chilled and heated by turns. She tripped repeatedly, her skirts a nuisance. Weariness sank bone deep.

Without warning, Meihtawk slowed his pace and let the African lead. A loosened branch raked her cheek as the wind shifted with a moan. With it came a parting of the clouds.

Moonlight streamed down in silver ribbons, hastening their steps, taking them into a copse of woods that looked dangerously black. Jett plunged in first, nose to the ground. When Meihtawk held up a hand, halting her, she watched the African swallowed whole by the darkness. Breathless and light-headed, she dug her heels into the dirt to stay standing, Meihtawk’s sturdy shoulder against her own. The African finally reappeared, bidding them come as a flash of lightning lit the sky.

Lord, spare us any evil.

Briars tore at her skirts and skin as they entered what seemed a dense blackberry thicket. The men went ahead of her, standing tall one minute, then crouching the next. Tearing away underbrush. Digging. Had they been led to a grave? Everything within her recoiled.

Nay, nay. I cannot bear it.

The African was speaking in his strange tongue. Excitedly. Hurriedly. Thunder snatched his words away. Selah crept forward to where the men hovered, her pulse rapid as a bird’s wings. Reaching out, she touched something cold. Rough.

Iron.

Despite her shaking, she thrust a hand through the bars of the cage and felt . . . flesh. “Watseka?”

Over and over she called the girl’s name, fingers roaming desperately to find answers. Was she merely hurt? A cold rain began falling, driven sideways by the wind. It stole any reassurance that Watseka was alive. Her skin . . . so cold to the touch. And damp. Selah’s searching hands told her what her eyes could not. Watseka was encased in an iron cage used for criminals. The padlock confining her hung ponderous, denying them her freedom.

Meihtawk’s voice rose above the din. “Stand back.”

She obeyed, landing on her backside as he began hacking at the lock with his hatchet. Only this might open the cage too ponderous to move. Picking the lock was denied them in the dark. As he leveled blow after blow, Selah bent her head and prayed for deliverance.

Xander dismounted at Rose-n-Vale’s stable, sent the lathered horse into a stall, and woke a groom to tend him. Hurrying to the main house, he was heartened by a sudden bark and the flicker of light within. The riverfront door opened and Shay stood before him, Ruby wagging fiercely at his side.

Relief eased Shay’s tight features. “I feared ’twas Laurent again.”

Again. Xander’s hackles rose as he came through the door into the sanctuary of the still hall.

“To her credit, Ruby tried to have him for supper.” Shay moved to set down the lantern as a gust of wind slammed the door shut behind them. “So much has happened. I hardly know where to begin.”

Xander shrugged off his coat, none the worse for the tempestuous miles dealt him. “Start at the beginning.”

With a nod, Shay took a breath. “Not long after nightfall, when a gale shook the very rafters, an African appeared. We understood not a word, but he seemed to want you. We told him you weren’t here and tried to make out his purpose, to no avail. Finally, Selah cast down a sand bucket. With a poker, the African drew a picture that looked to be a cage. He bade them follow, so she left with Meihtawk and Jett and told me to stand watch here.”

Xander’s eyes sought the hall clock. Nearly midnight. “How long ago?”

“Full dark. Ten o’clock or so. I’ve no idea where they’ve gone to. Laurent came as they went out. Said at least one of his slaves was missing. He suspected the African came here.” Shay shook his head in disgust. “’Twas clear he’d been drinking. He left, murmuring threats against you.”

Xander called Ruby, his every thought of Selah. “Lock everything till I return. If Laurent reappears, do not open the door or exchange a word.”

He passed into his study and opened a cupboard where his weapons were kept. Selecting a flintlock, he shoved it into his pistol pocket before returning to the stables for fresh horses, Ruby on his heels.

Meihtawk was growing tired fighting iron. His efforts began to lag, Selah’s hopes along with them. She crouched in the rain, a sodden lump, one arm thrust through the back of the cage with a hand on Watseka’s bent head.

Lord, please lend Thy strength to the blows.

Before she finished the prayer, Selah heard a final clang and the lock was cleaved in two. She scrambled to her feet as Meihtawk yanked open the heavy door of the cage. And then raw force faded to tenderness as he extracted Watseka. In his sinewy arms, her body hung limp. Raising her hands, Selah took the girl from him. Light-headed again, she sank down upon the muddy ground. She lowered her face to Watseka’s nose and mouth and tried to detect the faintest breath. The barest flicker of movement. But the weather showed no mercy and denied her knowing.

A miracle, Lord. One is sorely needed.

Meihtawk uncorked a flask and dribbled water into Watseka’s open mouth. Gently Selah shook her and called her name, to no avail.

She’d nearly forgotten Jett till the big dog lowered his head and began licking Watseka’s face. The long, rough tongue did a thorough if gentle work.

Could it be? Watseka moved her head ever so slightly.

Selah swallowed down a sob of gratitude, tears streaking her cheeks like rain. Just as hope soared, fear swooped in like a devouring raven. A great rustle of brush sent the African fleeing as a horse charged into the thicket. For a moment even the rain abated. The rider jumped to the ground, the fickle moon sliding behind a bank of clouds. Selah’s heart seized.

Laurent? They were on his land—

“Selah?”

Xander. She went weak with relief, her answer lost to another gust.

He sank to his knees, hands roving Watseka, assessing, much as hers had done. “I’ve brought two horses. Meihtawk will carry Watseka, and I you.”

“Where is the man who brought us here?” She half believed him to be no African but an angel in disguise.

Xander shook his head. “There’s none but us four. At least now.”

Selah released her burden to Meihtawk, only too glad to return to her husband’s arms. Atop the horse they took a different route to Rose-n-Vale, the wind giving way to deafening thunder.