Chapter Eleven

Those men won’t take you, Josie—not while I’m still breathing. Dougie’s promise repeated over and over in Josie’s mind as she followed Dorothea up the shore with the lads and Chieftain following, Alasdair and Archie laughing and playing as if this were some game. She little knew or cared where they were going.

The discord that had grown within her all day while she sat quietly stitching had culminated in a storm of terrible proportions. Oh, why had she failed to listen to that inner voice, the one that spoke to her at the very worst—and very best—of times? She’d sat there like a fool while the slave hunters sailed into Lobster Cove harbor ready to destroy her life.

She stumbled over a stone on the seldom-used path and just caught herself from falling. Chieftain, the big Newfoundland dog, pushed up to her side and looked at her with what seemed like concern. Would he protect her? Just like her Dougie.

Those men won’t take you, Josie—not while I’m…

She halted his comforting voice in her head as a new thought hit her, so terrible it froze her in her tracks. Not while I’m still breathing.

But what if Dougie—her beloved husband with the strong, gentle hands and the bottomless dark eyes and that rare, beautiful smile—stopped breathing? What if those awful men who followed her made it so? They were violent and merciless, capable of killing anybody who stood between them and their quarry. She’d heard the stories. And Dougie was but one man.

Oh, Lord, what if she’d just sent him to his death? Darkness overcame her in a wave, and she swayed where she stood.

“Jo?”

Dorothea stopped on the path ahead; even the boys paused and stood, for once, quiet.

“Are you all right?”

“I need to go back.”

Dorothea looked appalled. For once she groped for words before she said, “You can’t! It’s too dangerous.”

“I don’t care.”

“Let Douglas see them off.”

“But he—I can’t let him risk himself for my sake.”

Dorothea came back a few steps and touched Josie’s hand. “Why not? He lives for your sake, doesn’t he?”

Josie met Dorothea’s eyes—such dreamy-looking eyes for such a levelheaded young lady. “Maybe.”

“Listen to me, Jo. I’ve known Douglas Grier all my life. I’ve never seen him as happy as he’s been with you. Never. Let him protect you. It’s his right.”

“He’s just one man.” Josie said starkly, “They might kill him.”

“Come on.” Dorothea tugged Josie’s hand. “We can’t stand out here in the open. It’s not much farther now.”

Torn, Josie hovered between the pull of the girl’s fingers and the one, far stronger, that drew her back toward Lobster Cove. For an instant, she closed her eyes and listened.

Could she feel him? The ties—those he said were stronger than any chains—still connected them.

He lived; he breathed yet.

She allowed Dorothea to pull her on.

****

The town of Lobster Cove, usually as laconic as a Yankee fisherman, now buzzed. The arrival of the packet boat carrying letters and news tended to create a bit of a flurry anyway. Now its passengers—three men the likes of which Douglas had never seen even in his time away in the war—seemed to have infected the place like a contagion.

Folks had abandoned their work, left their homes, and come out into the street, women with baskets and bundles and some with small children in tow, men standing in twos and threes, talking.

The three bounty hunters—for Douglas could think of them as nothing else—had split up and gone about the place, their hard faces set and no mercy in their eyes. Douglas, standing in front of the blacksmith shop, wondered how long it would be before someone spoke of the Freemans and of Douglas’s little wife.

He wanted to challenge those men and smash his fists into their faces—wanted it so much he could barely contain himself. He wanted to set them straight and send them packing. But as Rab pointed out, they came heavily armed.

“Wait and see what happens,” Rab advised.

Douglas could imagine what would happen. Plenty of folks hadn’t been happy having the Freemans in town, and some didn’t approve of his marriage to Josie.

Anyway, was anything harder than waiting?

He didn’t have to endure it long. Before an hour passed the searchers made a beeline for the blacksmith shop—not just one but all three of them. They came at a swagger, broad-brimmed hats pushed to the backs of their heads and long coats thrown open to display their weapons.

Douglas, back at his work, looked up from the anvil when they darkened the doorway, and his nerves tightened unbearably.

Josie? He asked in his mind. You still all right?

She didn’t answer, of course, but he could feel his connection to her holding strong. Safe, then. He drew a breath.

“Lookin’ for Douglas Grier,” said the first man through the door, in a drawl. He sported a large handlebar moustache and had small eyes, easily the coldest Douglas had ever seen.

Douglas clenched his fingers on the hammer in his hand. “You’ve found him.”

The man pushed his way further into the shop. The other two followed and fanned out, one on either side of him. Douglas felt rather than saw Rab shift over to his side.

“We’re after a little Negress,” the first man spat. “Hear you might know where she is.”

Douglas shook his head.

“Well, now,” said the man on the right, “not sure as how we believe that. See, we’ve been chasing down a band of escaped slaves, and we figure this is the end of the trail, at least for one of ’em. We’re taking her, son, and we’re taking her today.”

“I’m not your son.” Rage rose to Douglas’s head, so bright he could barely see through it. In the past he’d never stood up for much, never fought very hard on his own behalf—maybe not so hard as he should. That was about to change.

“Goes by the name of ‘Josie’—Collingwood or Freeman, take your pick,” the third man stated. “That ring a bell?”

“Not here.”

The first man glanced behind Douglas at the curtained doorway to the rear quarters. “Find I don’t believe that, either. You won’t mind if we take a look.”

Rab edged forward. “I own this place. I don’t just let folks come walking in.”

The slave hunter eyed Rab up and down the way he might measure a horse at auction. “No quarrel with you, mister.”

Rab jerked his head at Douglas. “You have a quarrel with him, you’ve got one with me.”

Douglas felt a flash of gratitude. But the slave hunter’s hand moved toward the pistol on his hip. “Now, mister, you don’t want none of this. We’re just here to recover some missing property. We know Mr. Collingwood’s slaves passed through here and that when they moved on, one of them stayed.”

“You’re behind the times,” Rab said coolly. “No slaves in this country, not any more. We fought a war over it and, mister, your side lost.”

The first man jerked his head. “Grady, look in back.”

“I don’t think so.” Rab moved to block the way and stood like a rock.

Douglas raised the hammer up onto his shoulder. “Get back on the packet boat while you can still do it under your own power. It’s hard for a man to walk when he has two broken legs.”

The slave hunter smiled the way Douglas imagined a snake might. “Talk ’round this town says you married this little Negress we’re after. So I figure if you married her she must be close by, right?”

“Swear to God,” Douglas said thickly, “I’ll take you to pieces before I let you touch her.”

“Well, son, you may think you have a claim, but—”

“She’s my wife.”

The man went on, as if Douglas hadn’t spoken, “I know a man with a better.” He turned his head and looked at his companions. “Go get Mr. Collingwood.”

Douglas barked, “Who?” But he knew all too well who Buford Collingwood was, and sickness churned in his gut. “Here?”

The slave hunter gave him another long look before he turned back to his man. “Ask Mr. Collingwood to come speak up for his daughter.”