Rekindled

by Tamera Alexander

  Twilight shadowed the quivering aspen and towering birch canopying them, but Kathryn could see the hint of a smile tipping his mouth. It brought one to hers too.

  “I gotta admit, it’s not something I ever thought I’d do.” His look sobered. “But I gave my word to your husband that I’d work through the spring. And I intend to stand by that.”

  “I appreciate your integrity, Mr. Taylor. I look forward to doing business with you.”

  After Matthew and the other men disappeared down the trail, Kathryn turned and walked back to the cabin. She wondered how many ranch hands Larson had to begin with and how many there would still be come Monday.

  After latching the door behind her, she stood for a moment in the dark silence of the cabin. The utter stillness held an invitation she wasn’t ready to face yet. She lit a single lamp and set about preparing dinner. She hadn’t cooked much recently. Her appetite had noticeably, understandably, lessened.

  Bending over to get a cup from a lower shelf, Kathryn’s world tilted.

  She grabbed hold of the back of a kitchen chair, but it toppled under her weight. Her knees hit the floor with a dull thud. The room spun in circles around her. Giving in to the dizzying whirl, she sank to the floor. Her stomach spasmed, and she tasted bile burning the back of her throat.

  She called out for help, as if someone would hear. The loneliness she’d been evading suddenly permeated every inch of the cabin. From the methodical ticking of the mantel clock, to the single dish on the table, to the bed in the next room—as barren and empty as her heart.

  Curling onto her side, she cradled her head in the crook of her arm and wept. She wept for all that she’d longed for from her husband and had never received. She wept for life’s promises that remained unfulfilled, and for the innocence with which she’d once embraced them. Wrapping her arms around her waist, her heart ached for the child she would never have.

  The flame from the lamp flickered and sputtered. The dwindling oil gave off a purple plume of smoke before darkness fell over the room.

  Staring at the shadowed outline of the cabin door, Kathryn thought back to the first day she’d crossed that threshold—in her husband’s arms. She’d known then that God was with her, guiding her steps. The One who stood beside her that day was still beside her now, and somehow already dwelled in the moment when she would breathe her last, whenever that day would come.

  Her choked voice trickled across the empty room. “‘Whither shall I go from thy spirit? or whither shall I flee from thy presence?’ ” She clung to the psalmist’s promise. “Lord, I cannot be anywhere where you are not.” And the same was true for Larson, wherever he was.

  Cradled on the floor, Kathryn surrendered herself—again—to the Lover of her soul, and laid her grief and worry at the foot of His cross.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  LARSON AWAKENED TO A cool sensation sweeping across his legs and arms, followed by a heat so intense it seeped all the way into his bones. His skin tingled in response, and though the experience was far from pleasant, neither did it resemble the ravaging of flesh he’d endured and come to dread.

  Thick haze surrounded his mind. Moving toward him through the fog, a dull pain throbbed with the rhythm of a steady pulse. He recognized its sickening cadence and fought to open his eyes, but couldn’t. Why couldn’t he see? He commanded his arms and legs to move, but they too proved traitorous.

  As the steady thrum of pain grew louder inside him, Larson begged for waves of slumber to carry him to the place where agony was a distant memory, and where Kathryn waited.

  His prayer answered, cool wetness slipped through his lips and down his throat. Murmurs of voices, far away, moved toward him through a distant tunnel. He willed himself to reach out to them, but he couldn’t penetrate the veil separating his world from theirs.

  Sweet oblivion drifted over him, luring him with her promises of peace and escape. He embraced her whisper and surrendered completely.

  When he awakened again, Larson sensed a change. Exactly what, he couldn’t figure, only that his surroundings were different. He was different. For the first time he could remember, he felt the flutter of his lids and knew he was awake. He slowly opened his eyes.

  Darkness still hung close, cocooning him like a thick blanket. But this time it wasn’t for lack of sight.

  Flat on his back, he sensed his body stretched out before him, somehow different from how he remembered. He tried his voice, and the muscles in his throat chastised the effort. The back of his throat felt like crushed gravel, and when he tried to move his body, hot prickles needled up his arms and skittered down his legs. He braced himself for the hot licks of pain to return and once again quench their thirst. But none came.

  Pain’s thirst had apparently been slaked, at least for the moment.

  He lay in the darkness, listening for sounds, for anything that might yield a clue to where he was. More than anything, he longed for the voices he thought he’d heard before. Or had they been part of the dream?

  One reality was certain—he was alive.

  He strained to recall his last memory preceding this nightmare. The recollection teetered on the edge of his thoughts, just out of reach. He shut his eyes in hope of bringing it closer. Scraps of disjointed images fluttered past his mind’s eye. Shadowed and jumbled, they wafted toward him then just as quickly drifted away, like ragged tufts of a down blanket ripped and scattered on the wind.

  He flexed the fingers on his right hand and lightning bolted up his arm and ricocheted down his leg. He gasped for breath. But with the pain came clarity.

  Bitter frost. His legs and feet going numb. Hands aching with cold.

  Darkness. Needing to hide. A voice . . . wickedly taunting.

  Brilliant light, more intense than he had thought possible.

  The metallic taste of fear scalded the back of his throat, and he pressed his head back into the pillow. Memories from that night crashed over him. The stranger at the camp, the gunshot to the man’s chest, but not from Larson’s own rifle. Then clawing his way through the frozen night in search of a place to hide.

  Cool lines of wetness trailed a path down his temples and onto his neck. O God, were you there that night? Are you here now?

  Then came an image so lovely, so breathtakingly beautiful, that his chest clenched in response.

  Kathryn.

  He tried to call her name, but the effort languished in his throat. How was she? Was she safe? Did Kat know where he was and that he was hurt? Or did she think him already dead? Wetness sprang to Larson’s eyes, but oddly the sensation didn’t seem foreign to him. And what of the ranch? He couldn’t let all that he’d worked for be wrenched from his grasp—especially when success was so close this time.

  His thoughts raced. The sale of cattle this spring was crucial. The increased demand for meat to feed workers in the mining camps would bring more sales, which should result in enough money to nearly pay off the loan they owed on the land. And it would also cover the second loan he’d secured this past fall—a loan Kathryn knew nothing about. He hadn’t wanted to worry her. He’d needed some extra to carry them through the winter months and had mortgaged their homestead, the last thing that didn’t already have a lien attached to it. But all the years of sacrifice and hard work would soon pay off.

  That thought drove him forward. He tried to lift his head but strained at the simple task. It felt like a forty-pound weight was wrapped around his temples. He let his head fall back to the pillow and felt the room sway. His neck muscles bunched into knots. He wished he could rub the tension away, but his arms would not obey.

  A noise sounded.

  He went perfectly still, listening for it again. Had he only imagined it?

  Despair crept up over him, robbing his hope. Bits and pieces of his life—choices he’d made, goals he’d wanted to achieve but paid far too high a price for—flickered like lit matches against the walls of his heart.

  But he hadn’t been the only one to pay the price. Kath
ryn had sacrificed so much for his dreams. She’d given up a life of affluence and certain success. She’d forsaken Boston’s wealth, her parents’ home, and a privileged upbringing. Not to mention the scores of high-society suitors who, if given the chance, would have lavished upon her every desire of her heart. The way he wanted to.

  She’d left it all behind. For him. And what had he offered her in exchange? A roughhewn cabin and an empty womb.

  The creak of a floorboard sent his thoughts careening.

  Larson lifted his head, wincing at the spasms already starting in his neck. Darkness enveloped him except for a yellow slash of light that appeared to be coming from beneath a door a few feet from where he lay. A footfall landed beyond the entryway; he was certain of it.

  He laid his head back down and managed to coax a moan through his cracked lips, hoping someone would hear.

  At the click of the door latch, Larson felt his tears return.

  Kathryn’s gloved hand rested on the door latch. She hesitated, knowing she wasn’t ready for what lay beyond. Her gaze traveled upward, over the breadth and width of the Willow Springs Bank building. Weakness spread through her, and her knees trembled. But she stiffened in resolve. She could do this. She would do this.

  For Larson’s dream. For their dream.

  A chilling March wind ushered in the month and gusted around her as tiny crystals of snow and ice pelted her cheeks. The journey to Willow Springs normally filled her with excitement, but when she’d left the cabin in darkness early this morning, the loneliness inhabiting every corner of her bedroom followed her, strangling her confidence with every passing mile.

  Without warning, a sense of Larson’s presence stole through her. It robbed her lungs of air, and with fading hope, she turned to search the sea of faces passing on the boardwalk behind her. Nothing. Her grip tightened on the handle. An overwhelming urgency to pray for him hit her. She blew out a ragged breath, white fog clouding the air.

  Father, be with my husband in this very moment, wherever he is. The memory of what Matthew Taylor had said about the severity of the storm on Christmas Day hung close. No matter what Matthew or the other men think, I know Larson is alive. I feel his heart beating inside me. Lead my husband safely home. Bring him back to me.

  She stared at the handle in her grip, summoning courage to complete this task.

  Close behind her, a man cleared his throat. “Well, are you going in today or not, lass?”

  Kathryn turned on the steps with a readied apology. The apology froze in her throat, however, when met with piercing gray eyes the same menacing shade as the storm clouds shrouding the Rockies in the distance. A shudder ran through her and she drew back, careful to keep her balance on the top step.

  A broad-chested man stood on the step below, his eyes level with hers. His voice bore a thick Irish brogue but lacked the accent’s customary warmth. At his temples, damp copper curls kinked with swirls of gray. His facial features were striking, but while Kathryn supposed some might label them ruddily handsome, nothing within her responded with attraction.

  As his gaze penetrated hers, his look of irritation lessened but still bore proof of a foul mood. The hard line of his mouth slowly split into a tight curve. “Perhaps I could offer my assistance. I conduct my business here and know a few of the people inside.” He nodded at the door, then back at her. “Maybe I could help you, if you’d let me.”

  Kathryn caught a whiff of musk and hair tonic. Although he maintained a physical distance that satisfied decorum, and his suit and outer cloak designated wealth, something about the man reeked of dishonesty. Yet, remembering why she’d made the trip all the way to Willow Springs today, she wondered if this man might somehow be part of the answer to her prayer.

  She decided to risk it. “I’m here to meet with the bank manager, Mr. Kohl—”

  “I know Harold Kohlman. What business do you have with him?”

  His curt reply took Kathryn by surprise. “Watch a man’s posture,” she’d once overheard her father counsel younger partners as she sat listening outside the double doors of his office at home— any chance to be closer to her father. “You can tell a great deal about a man from the way he folds his arms or strokes his chin. You must listen to what a person says, most certainly. But listen even closer to what they don’t.”

  Kathryn assessed the man before her. His focus briefly moved from her eyes to wander over her face, and what he wasn’t saying spoke volumes. Clearly his interests lay elsewhere where she was concerned. Dismissing him with a glance, she reached again for the door handle. His hand beat her to it.

  With a smile that provoked warning inside her, he motioned for her to precede him inside. She stepped into the bank lobby, thankful to at least be out of the cold and wind, if not finished with him.

  “Do you have an appointment with Mr. Kohlman, Miss . . . ?”

  She turned back to find him staring. “No, I don’t. I’ll address that with Mr. Kohlman’s secretary, thank you.”

  He gave a soft laugh. “Well, my offer to you still stands.”

  Kathryn raised a brow. Had she not made her lack of interest clear enough the first time?

  “My offer to introduce you . . . to Harold Kohlman.” He smiled again, and this time it looked almost genuine.

  But her instincts told her otherwise. Her youthful days in Boston were not so far removed that she’d forgotten men like this— who routinely sought to play this game in quest of her attention, and something else she’d never given them.

  Shaking flakes of snow from her wool coat, she realized again how crucial this meeting was to her keeping the ranch. Swallowing her pride, she nodded. “I would appreciate it if you would arrange a meeting with Mr. Kohlman.”

  A gleam lit his eyes, telling her his offer would extend much further. She chose not to acknowledge it.

  She followed him, her heeled boots clicking on the polished granite of the lobby floor. She paused to survey the surroundings. Though the intimidating exterior of the Willow Springs Bank building lacked grandeur of any significance, no expense had been spared on the interior furnishings. She grew reflective, thinking of Boston and the office buildings her father owned.

  Apparently aware of her reaction, the man stopped beside her. “Beautiful, isn’t it? The original building burned to the ground two years ago, almost to the day, as a matter of fact. Two people lost their lives; many others were badly burned. But the community banded together and, with the aid of a wealthy benefactor . . .”

  He paused, and Kathryn got the distinct feeling he was referring to himself.

  “We rebuilt in grandeur, and”—he flourished a wave of his hand—“you see the results.”

  She sensed he was waiting for a reaction. Not wanting to encourage him further yet realizing he had offered to help arrange a meeting with Mr. Kohlman, she managed a smile she hoped would suffice. “Yes, it’s quite impressive. And so generous of . . . the benefactor.”

  His own smile broadened, and he held her eyes for a moment too long before continuing through the maze of desks. Kathryn followed his path toward the large—and only—separate office located on the west side of the building. The architect’s forethought, no doubt, to offer the best view of the mountain range.

  The buzz of nearly a dozen bank employees and twice that many customers filled the spacious lobby and spilled over to the private waiting area outside the manager’s office. The low hum of blended conversation suddenly registered as foreign to Kathryn as she realized how long it had been since she’d been around a group of people. For so long it had been only her and Larson. Staring ahead at the massive double oak doors, she wished this meeting were already concluded.

  The man indicated a chair where she was apparently supposed to wait. Then he nodded to an attractive blond woman walking past.

  Her face lit. “Good afternoon, Mr. MacGregor.”

  Kathryn doubted that the woman’s voice was customarily imbued with such a lilt, nor her smile so bright. It would seem Kathyrn
was right about judging this man—this Mr. MacGregor— to be attractive to some.

  The nameplate on the closed double doors read Harold H.Kohlman, and Mr. MacGregor entered without benefit of announcement. Kathryn watched after him, unimpressed but curious at his apparently close affiliation with the bank manager. Benefactor, indeed.

  A wave of nausea spasmed her stomach. She gripped the cushioned arm of the chair and took deep breaths, praying not to be sick again. After a few moments, the queasiness subsided. She put a hand to her forehead and felt the cool perspiration.

  Kathryn noticed the lobby area had grown quiet. She turned to discover why and found several employees looking in her direction. Then she heard the voices. They came from behind the manager’s door. Growing louder and more intense. She couldn’t make out the source of the argument, only that one of the voices, the most pronounced, bore an unmistakable brogue.

  Should she leave and come back later this afternoon? That would mean staying the night in Willow Springs. She hadn’t the funds for a hotel. Should she wait in hopes of seeing Mr. Kohlman soon? She wished she’d never accepted Mr. MacGregor’s help—now it would appear to people that they were friends. Or, at the very least, acquaintances. And she doubted whether that perceived affiliation would play in her favor at the moment.

  Kathryn was halfway to the entry leading from the private sitting area when she heard a door open behind her.

  “Mr. Kohlman is available to see you now.”

  She spun around at the voice. MacGregor’s brogue was noticeably thicker, and if the annoyance on his face was any indication, his mood was definitely more foul. This didn’t bode well for an advance on her loan. “I appreciate your help, Mr. MacGregor, but perhaps it would be best if I came back later.”

  His scowl darkened. “Nonsense, Kohlman already knows you’re waiting. And he’s a very busy man.”

  A man appeared at MacGregor’s side, a portly gentleman a good foot shorter, and thicker around his middle. His thick reddish sideburns matched his full mustache and lent him an air of approachability that abruptly ended at the firm set of his jaw. This was not going as she’d planned.