Glancing overhead, he studied the bridge. He could probably follow it until . . . until what? Until he found a home the way he and Lydia had done the night they walked into Miss Barrett's house? No, that was a long, scary trip, and he would never attempt it without Lydia. He was smart enough to know that.
If only he had a friend.
Once more he stared across the river toward the saloon.
It was his only chance. Maybe if Ross was as mad at Miss Barrett as she was at Ross, he wouldn't tell on him, He would sneak inside the storage room until after the saloon closed, then he'd find Ross and beg him to take him out West, where a man and a boy could run away and never be found. And of course, they would take Lydia, too.
It was his only chance.
Clara cleared the dishes from her supper table. Thank goodness her energy had returned; she would need it to accomplish her plans.
With an anxious eye on the setting sun, she washed the dishes, all the while her mind rationalizing the need for this drastic step she was about to take. She had no intention of harming any one personally. That would be wrong. But to destroy that which causes destruction and thereby rid the town of one blot on society would not be wrong. And it only stood to reason that if the saloon were gone, then Ross Hollister would have to leave. It was the only solution.
She dried her hands on her apron before slipping it over her head and onto the peg near the door. It was time to gather the things she would need: a hooded black cloak that was too warm for this time of year but would hide her well, and a box of matches. Simple measures for a simple plan. What could go wrong?
Folding the cloak over her arm with the matches hidden in the folds, she left the house by way of the back door. Dusk had settled upon the town nestled so carefully against the bend in the river. With the drone of mosquitoes accompanying her, she made her way along the side streets and alleys. When she reached Front Street, she slipped unseen between two buildings, donned her cloak, and proceeded toward the side-cut canal. As she approached the back of the row of establishments, she cautiously checked to see if any loiterers hung about. She found only a few barges tied up at their moorings with their captains nearby. With darkness just descending, she wondered if perhaps she'd been too hasty in allowing her eagerness to bring her so early. She would have a long wait before the saloon closed. But if she waited too long, she might run into someone leaving the saloon who would recognize her, and although she would take great pride in this deed, she could not risk being seen.
She walked along close to the buildings with her hood pulled up, shielding her face. Her steps slowed as she neared the saloon, and her hand faltered when she reached for the door. Perhaps she should walk on by until she had the complete cover of darkness to protect her.
Continuing on toward the dam, her steps slow and measured, she watched the last rays of sun ebb from the sky in a brilliant display of colors. Life should be like that, she thought, beautiful and without tarnish. As she turned around and headed back, she decided that tonight she would do her part to see to it that at least one tarnished blot would be removed from her town.
Jonathan sat quietly on an empty bench behind a row of kegs, his eyes adjusting to the pitch dark as well as a cat's. He was sure he wouldn't be seen if Ben had to come in for another keg. So when the door opened, he wasn't startled. He moved his head in order to see between the small barrels, but instead of finding Ben moving through the doorway with a light in his hand, he saw the figure of a cloaked woman. He strained his eyes trying to make out who it was, but it wasn't until she put down her hood just as she closed the door that he realized Mrs. Wilson had joined him. He heard the strike of a match before it flared, exposing the firm jaw and stubborn face of the woman he disliked so much.
What was she doing here? he wondered. And how would he ever get past her to go find Ross? Hardly daring to breathe, he held as still as a mouse being stalked by a cat. If she knew he was here, he would be returned to Miss Barrett immediately; then he would be taken away to live with another stranger. He clamped his lips tight and decided to wait until she left. But why was she sitting in the damp, dark storage room of the saloon?
Irene sat at the table beside Ross. Lydia, Winnie, and Sarah sat with them, worry etched on their faces as well. Supper had been served and eaten in the hopes that Jonathan would show up as he always did, his anger overcome by his hunger. But not tonight.
"This is my fault," Sarah said. "He was afraid I was coming to take him away from here, when in fact I wasn't. I should have said so immediately."
All heads swung her way.
"You weren't?" Lydia blurted out. "But I"
Sarah shook her head and reached a comforting hand toward Lydia. "I just wanted to see for myself that you were well taken care of." She smiled at Irene. "And I can certainly see that's true. I'm afraid I was feeling guilty about not being able to take you in. What with eight children of our own, we're fairly packed to the eaves. Not that we aren't happywe are. But I just didn't know where I would put two more. So Carl agreed that the least I could do was to come and visit. And I hope you'll come visit us, too."
A round of sighs, some audible, some inaudible, came from those who listened. Irene squeezed Ross's hand beneath the table, where he held it tenderly, and their eyes met with the unspoken words of love that they would save until after Jonathan was home again, safe and sound.
Relieved, Lydia got up to hug her aunt. ''Thank you. We would love to visit with your family." Sitting once more, she felt the familiar heaviness in her heart over the lies hiding there. "I have a confession to make," she said in a small voice. "I . . . I never mailed the letters you wrote to Aunt Sarah and I tore up the ones she sent to you." Raising her head, she waited for the disappointment to show on Miss Barrett's face.
Irene blinked in surprise. She would never have suspected, but then again, Lydia was just the kind of girl who needed to be in control of her life, especially when it was out of control. She would do what she had to do in order to survive, just the way she had when she and Jonathan ran away from an orphanage before finding their way here. At least those were her suspicions, and now she felt sure they were true.
"I'm glad you told me," Irene replied with a small smile of her own. "It restores my faith in the U.S. postal system."
Lydia smiled in return, thankful for the understanding she read in Irene's eyes. Everything was working out better than she'd ever believed possible. Ross was with them once more, Aunt Sarah wouldn't be taking them away, and Lydia hadn't lost favor in their eyes. If only Jonathan knew about all this good news, he would be as happy as she.
Ross pushed back his chair. "We've waited long enough. I'm going to the mill and look for him around the canal."
"I'll go to the schoolyard," Lydia said, "that's where I always go when I need to think. Then I'll see if he went to any of his friends' homes."
Irene rose from her chair, too. "I can"
Placing a hand on each of her shoulders, Ross said, "You can stay here in case he comes back. He'll need to know you're here for him."
Nodding, Irene acquiesced. He was right. And she wanted to be there for him, to hold him tight and reassure him that she'd always be there.
"I'll whip up a batch of oat-and-raisin cookies," Winnie said, always rising to a crisis with fresh-baked food.
"I'll help," Sarah offered, needing something to do.
Ross kissed Irene's cheek. "I'll check back here every so often."
Again she nodded, feeling helpless.
The evening wore on, long and tedious, while the cookies cooled until they became cold. The fire went out in the stove, but nobody thought to keep it going. Their thoughts were reserved for worrying over Jonathan.
Ross and Lydia had both come back twice without Jonathan or any news of him. The last time Lydia came through the door, Irene insisted she was not to go out again.
Around ten o'clock, Ross showed up with Howard, Benwho had closed up the saloonand a few others from town.
&nb
sp; "We're going to have to get as many men as we can. It's hard telling how far he might have gone. He might have even gone to the old cabin," Ross said, worry tightening his face. He shouldn't have waited so long, but he hadn't really believed Jonathan would leave. He'd questioned the captains along the canal and was assured that a young boy had indeed tried to stow away on a couple of barges but had been caught. Perhaps he'd succeeded on another; then there would be no telling where he might be. He mentally kicked himself for a fool.
After two more hours of fruitless searching, all of the men converged on Irene's house simultaneously as if of the same mind.
"I'll say one thing," Ben volunteered. "He sure is one smart boy to out-fox ten grown men."
Everyone nodded their agreement, feeling a sad defeat. Only the sound of shuffling, tired feet filled the otherwise silent kitchen.
Then the heart-sinking clang of the firebell resounded through the night as someone frantically pulled the clapper to and fro. Suddenly alert, every man's head jerked up with fears of their own homes in danger. One after another, they rushed from Irene's back door, pouring out like smoke from an overheated chimney. The sky over the town glowed with the flames that engulfed one building and threatened several others.
With the speed that only fear can produce, they ran down the hill in the direction of the fire. Lagging behind them were Irene, Winnie, Lydia, and Sarah. All hands would be needed; no man or woman would be turned away.
When they reached Front Street, they knew without a doubt that it was the Broken Keg that had burst into flames. The crowd outside hadn't waited to begin dousing the building with water, and there among them was Andrew. But their efforts seemed useless. The old timbers were easily and greedily consumed.
"Is anybody in there?" Ross shouted to the first man he met.
"I don't think so," came the response.
Irene caught sight of Emma standing across the street in front of the mercantile. She stood staring with frightened eyes at the sight before her.
"You shouldn't be out here," Irene said to her, trying to usher her away.
"I thought I heard someone. In there. Just before the firebell sounded."
Chapter Twenty-Four
Fear ground itself against the walls of Irene's stomach. "There's someone in there?"
Emma nodded. "I think so. I'm not sure. Maybe I imagined it."
Turning away, Irene ran to find Ross. They had given up trying to save the saloon and were concentrating on keeping the other buildings from catching fire.
She clutched his arm, shouting above the voices surrounding them and the raging fire before them. "Ross! Emma thinks someone is in there!"
He stared at her, disbelieving, then turned toward the burning saloon. Could Jonathan be in there? Panic rose in his chest as he watched the orange and red flames engulf the entire front of the building. It would be impossible to survive in an inferno like that. And there was no human way to get in through the front door. But maybe the back, he thought as he took off at a run, skirting the fire.
"Ross! Wait!"
But he couldn't wait. If Jonathan was in there, it might already be too late. He had no time to lose.
When he finally made his way to the back, he found heavy smoke pouring through the cracks around the door. Wet, he thought, he needed something wet. The canal. Without wasting a second, he tore off his jacket, dipped it in the canal, and then used it as a shield. Quickly, he kicked the door open and called, "Jonathan!"
Inside the little entry way he could see nothing but billowing black and gray smoke.
"Jonathan!" he called again, trying not to choke as he inhaled.
He kicked open the interior door to the saloon, and a flash of fire snapped at him like the head of a dragon before it receded.
"Jonathan!" he yelled, but his words only came back in his face with the scorching heat.
He took one step ahead, then stumbled. Catching himself, he stared down at a dark form on the floor. A timber somewhere gave way and fell, sending a shower of sparks into the already burning room. Quickly, he knelt and rolled over the inert form of Clara Wilson.
Then he heard it, or thought he did. He glanced around but could see nothing. Still, he couldn't be sure. A strange tingle of fear spiraled down his spine. He had to get her out and then search for Jonathan.
With one hand behind her head and the other beneath her knees, he lifted her weighted body and turned to flee. Just as he reached the door, another timber cracked like thunder and fell. With one backward glance, he rushed from the inferno into the cool night, taking great choking breaths of air into his burning lungs.
He carried her a safe distance from the saloon and laid her down. Momentarily, her eyes opened and she smiled.
"Thaddeus, it's you," she cried, her voice raspy from the smoke. "I knew you'd come. I knew you'd come."
Irene appeared around the corner, running toward him. "Is Jonathan in there?" Then she saw Clara and knelt beside her. "Clara? Oh, Clara, what were you doing in there?"
Immediately Ross was on his feet. "Stay here. I'm going back in. I think I heard someone else." He couldn't tell her it might be Jonathannot yet, not until he knew for sure.
He entered the door once more, but decided not to go into the main part of the saloon. That left two other doors: the one to the upstairs and the one to the storage room, The upstairs was no longer in existence, the fire having eaten most of it. He turned to the storage room and pushed on the door, but it wouldn't budge. He pounded on it with both fists, then yelled through the wood barrier.
"Jonathan! Are you in there?"
He waited for an answer but heard nothing. With all his might, he rammed his shoulder against the door, once, twice and once again. Panic choked him worse than the roiling smoke as he viciously kicked the door and alternately thrust his shoulder against it until, finally, the boards gave way in splintering pieces.
Inside the small room that once had been cool and damp but now was hot and suffocating, he stumbled around, calling as he went.
Then he heard it, a small weeping voice. "Ross. I'm here."
He groped through the dark until his fingers found clothing first, then a sweaty, overheated forehead.
"Come here, son," he said, gathering the limp boy into his arms.
Coughing and sputtering, he carried Jonathan into the welcome cool, damp air of the night. He hurried along the bank of the canal to the place he'd taken Clara, where Irene and several others waited. Kneeling down, he laid the boy on the grass.
Irene and Lydia crowded close, crying with happiness that they'd found him.
"Is he . . . is he all right?" Lydia asked through her sobs, sitting on the ground and cradling his head in her lap.
In a desperate attempt to find out, Irene gently tugged at Jonathan's shirt, checking for burns.
"He was . . ." Ross could only say a few words at a time since the need to cough was so great. "He was . . . in the . . . storage room."
Glancing up into the crowd, Irene called, "Somebody bring the doctor." To Ross she said, "Sh-h-h. Don't try to talk. Lie here next to Jonathan and rest."
But he continued to sit up, watching as she looked Jonathan over. "How's Clara?" he asked, before breaking into a spasm of coughing.
Her hands stilled as she looked him in the eye. "Gone. You did the best you could."
The snapping and crackling of the fire filled the night as it cast an unearthly glow on the faces watching it. With a crashing blow, the remainder of the roof and upstairs caved in, while a crescendo of live sparks erupted from the center.
"Why did she do it?" he asked. "It wasn't worth her life."
Shaking her head, Irene replied, "I don't know."
In the distance they could hear Winnie's stern voice, "Step aside, please, let the doctor through. Please, we need to get through. Thank you. One side, please. Thank you."
Within seconds, Doctor Stephens was at their side. He checked for Clara's pulse, but the sad expression on his face told them he
'd found none. Then he turned to Jonathan while they all continued to look on anxiously.
"He appears to have escaped burns. Thank God. But his lungs . . . Well, it isn't much wonder with all the smoke he's inhaled. But I think he's going to be all right with the proper rest. He'll probably have a sore throat and chest for a while. We'll give him something soothing for that."
He glanced at Ross, but Ross waved him away. "I'm all right, really." He coughed for a moment, then gave in, saying, "I guess I'll take some of that . . . soothing stuff, too."
The doctor nodded his head. "Just what I like, a cooperative patient."
A quiet calm settled over the people as they watched helplessly as the fire consumed the saloon like so many sticks in a fireplace. They stood in small groups or alone, saying nothing. Word of Clara's death and Jonathan's safety had spread to all, and feelings were a mixture of sadness over the passing of one and gladness over the safety of the other. The fire would continue to burn, then smolder on into the night, so watchmen were appointed to keep an eye on it in case a wind should arise and spread the burning embers to other structures. Eventually, the crowd began dispersing.
Ross picked up Jonathan and carried him toward Irene's house. Winnie and Sarah had gone ahead to make preparations for washing up the tired, smoke-stained boy. Irene and Lydia stayed at Ross's side, not wanting to be separated from either of them.
A kind of melancholy happiness overwhelmed Irenea contentment for the way things had turned out, yet a sadness for the end of a part of her life. So much had changed in only one day. No, she thought, not one day but a series of days. She'd lost her job as a teacher of many children but had gained two of her own to nurture. She'd thought she'd lost Ross and his love only to find a richer, deeper love full of confidence and trust. When all was said and done, she'd gained much more than she had ever lost, much more than she'd ever dreamed possible.
Ross awoke on the small cot with a cramp in his neck. His throat hurt as though he'd swallowed a hot porcupine, and his chest felt as if he'd been hugged by a grizzly. He couldn't even moan out loud for the pain it would undoubtedly cause, so he lay without moving, just staring at the ceiling in Irene's parlor.
Abiding Love Page 30