John got down his wooden soldiers and animals. He even let Ruth play with a few, and so the hours passed.
All the while, Christine’s thoughts roiled round and round. Was the outlaw guilty of murder? How would they ever know for certain, unless he confessed? Had her hesitation to expose him brought about Mahalia Ackley’s death? She sent many prayers heavenward, until they all seemed to run together.
Father, keep Samuel and Ben safe. Let justice be done. Forgive me if I did wrong.
But she knew not whether to pray they found the outlaw or not.
Samuel and Ben tramped through the woods between the gristmill and the brickworks. They penetrated every thicket and peered up into every tree. They could hear other men not far away doing the same.
Paine and Baldwin had done a good job of organizing the search, Samuel thought. As well as any man could do. Every structure in the village had been searched, from the meetinghouse on down to the lowest root cellar. No trace of the man had been found. One man had gone so far as to suggest Miss Hardin’s outlaw was a phantom, made up to let them give up looking for the murderer among themselves.
Samuel had silenced that talk quickly, saying Miss Hardin was as honest and as staunch as they come. Baldwin, Paine, and the Dudley men backed him up, and the search resumed.
As he hunted the elusive man, Samuel wondered if Christine had told him all. She had met the outlaw at least half a dozen times, he judged. Did she sympathize with him? Had she gone so far as to set her affections on him? It was unthinkable, and yet the inkling was there. Samuel raised his corn knife and slashed viciously at a thicket of brambles.
Lord, calm my spirit.
With a sudden start, he realized that a man crouched in the bushes, his hands raised before his face.
Samuel froze with his arm over his head, ready to strike the brambles again.
The man roared and leaped at him.
ten
“Wait!” Samuel cried.
His adversary plunged forward.
Samuel swung the corn knife downward at the man’s arm. His breath whooshed out of him as his adversary’s body hit him, knocking him to the ground. Samuel lost his grip on the corn knife and grappled with the man, rolling over in the thicket.
He heard yelling, but he didn’t dare pause to make sense of it. As he continued to struggle, the man’s grip seemed to weaken. After a moment, Samuel felt strong hands tugging at his arms, lifting him off his opponent.
Stephen Dudley and Charles Gardner jumped on the stranger, hauling him to his feet.
Samuel realized that Richard Dudley had pulled him away from the man and was supporting him as they watched. “Are you well, Parson?”
“Aye, Richard. Thank you. He had a knife in his hand.”
“Looks like you got the better of him.” Richard stooped and picked up Samuel’s long corn knife.
“I regret that,” Samuel said. “I had only a moment to act, and I struck hard, I fear.”
The captured man bled profusely from a deep gash on his forearm, where Samuel had slashed through his sleeve.
He fumbled with the knot that tied his handkerchief about his neck. “Here, Charles. Hold him steady, and I’ll wrap his wound.”
The man snarled as he approached.
“Easy, now,” Charles said, yanking him up straighter. “The parson is a healer. Let him see to your arm.”
“He like to ha’ cut my arm off!”
Stephen picked up a bone-handled knife. “And you never planned to hurt him with this, I suppose.”
Richard put his own kerchief in Samuel’s hand, and the pastor moved in warily and pulled the man’s sleeve up. The cut went clear to the bone.
“You’d best let him sit,” he told Charles. “I’ll wrap it tight and try to stop the bleeding, but he needs to be sewn up.”
“Should we fetch that doctor back from the Point?” Stephen asked.
Samuel swallowed hard. He was a little light-headed. “Perhaps so. I could do it, but I fear my hands are not steady now, and I wouldn’t do so neat a job, I’m sure.”
“Reverend?” Captain Baldwin shouted from fifty yards away through the trees. “You faring well over there?”
“Come on over here, Captain,” Richard bellowed. “We’ve got a prisoner for you.”
Samuel felt a timid touch at his elbow. He turned and found Ben staring at him with glassy eyes. “Father! Are you hurt?”
“Nay, son.” Samuel realized he was shaking all over. He pulled Ben toward him and gave him a swift hug. “I’m fine.”
“I didn’t see him,” Ben choked.
“Neither did I until it was too late.”
The captain arrived with half a dozen other men from the search. “Well, now, what have we here?” Baldwin asked with a pleased air. “Caught a skulker, have you, Preacher?”
“He was hiding in the thicket,” Samuel said.
“Aye, he went at the pastor with this.” Stephen held up the stranger’s knife.
“Hey!” Daniel Otis stepped forward. “That’s my knife that I lost a couple of weeks ago … or rather my knife that someone stole.”
Richard clapped Samuel on the shoulder. “You’d best get home and rest, Pastor. We’ll lock up this worthless excuse for a man.”
“Aye,” said Baldwin. “Let’s march him over to Heard’s garrison. We can lock him in the smokehouse there until a magistrate tells us what to do with him.”
“I didn’t do anything,” the man cried. “This barbarous preacher tried to cut my head off, and I didn’t do anything!”
“Nothing?” Baldwin grasped the front of the man’s shirt and pulled him up close, nose to nose with him. “What about the goodwife who was throttled yesterday, hey?”
The man’s lips trembled. “I know nothing of that. I swear.”
“Be careful what you swear to,” said Charles. “Now, come along.”
The door latch rattled. Christine jumped up from the bench by the loom, her heart racing. She had laid the bar in place before sitting down with Abby to give her a lesson at weaving. It seemed odd to bar the door in the daytime, but with the men out looking for the killer, she would not have been surprised if the outlaw tried to take shelter there.
Tabitha and the children all stared toward the door. A loud knocking resounded through the house.
“Who is it?” she cried.
“It’s I, Christine. Let me in.”
She sprang forward at Samuel’s voice and grabbed the bar. The door flew open. She felt tears spring to her eyes as Samuel and Ben entered.
“We found your thief.” Samuel headed for the water bucket and helped himself to a dipperful.
Christine put one hand to her lips. “Is he …”
“He’s alive.”
“Father sliced him with his corn knife,” Ben blurted.
The girls gasped.
John jumped up and ran to his brother. “Really? Did you see it? Tell us what happened.”
“There, now. Hush, John.” Samuel sank down on the bench at the table.
Christine noticed blood on his hands and sleeve. “Sir, are you wounded?”
“Nay. The blood is not mine.” He ran his hand over his eyes. “If I weren’t so tired, I would get up and wash.”
She stepped toward him and stopped, wanting to ask all sorts of questions. She crumpled her apron between her hands. “May I bring you something, sir?”
“Aye. There’s no chocolate, I suppose.”
“Nay, sir, but I can fix you some strong mint tea.”
“I suppose that will do.”
While the tea steeped, she brought a basin of warm water and a facecloth. Samuel looked up at her and murmured his thanks then began to rinse the blood from his hands. She set a plate of samp with a slice of cheese and a portion of boiled cabbage before him and fixed one for Ben as well. The boy sat down and began to eat ravenously.
Samuel looked up at her, his eyelids drooping. “Thank you. I’m about played out, I fear, with all that’s happened these last two day
s. And tomorrow we shall bury Goody Ackley.” He sighed and reached for his spoon.
She bit her lip and forced herself to keep silence.
“Did Father really catch the murderer?” John sidled onto the bench next to Ben.
“Keep your peace, John,” Samuel said. “We caught a man lurking in the woods, but we know not whether he killed Goody Ackley. That shall be determined when the magistrate comes.”
Christine cleared her throat. “When will that be?”
“I don’t know. Captain Baldwin took charge of the prisoner. They’re taking him to the Heards’ to lock him up. I expect to hear more tomorrow.”
Goody Deane pushed her knitting into her workbag and rose. “And tonight you should rest, sir. Now that the blackguard is in custody, I shall go home.”
“Nay, you and Christine must have your supper first. You’ve stayed here all day, and I doubt you had much rest with these four children cooped up here with you.”
Christine could see that Tabitha moved slowly, as though her stiff joints ached. “Sit down now with the men, dear lady. Have some food, and as soon as I’ve fed the children I shall take you home. Abby and John can do the washing up tonight, if I pour the hot water for them. Can you not, children?”
John nodded somberly, and Abby hurried to her side. “We can do it, Miss Christine. Will you let me weave some more tomorrow?”
Christine smoothed Abby’s hair and smiled. She was glad the girl was more excited about weaving than about the man whom Samuel had apparently injured. “Of course I will. If you like it, you’ll soon be making material for your own petticoats and skirts.”
The next morning, Samuel ate his breakfast and prepared to go over to the meetinghouse for an hour or two’s study before Mahalia Ackley’s funeral service. He paused in the doorway with his Bible in his hand and watched Christine place several biscuits and a dish of gruel in a basket. “May I inquire your purpose this morning?” he asked.
She looked up and paused. “I thought to take something to the prisoner.”
Samuel stepped away from the door and stood for a moment, regarding her in confusion.
“Mrs. Heard will prepare something for him to eat, I’m sure. The captain will have set a watch over him. You needn’t trouble yourself on his behalf.”
Christine stood still, her eyes downcast. “Forgive me. I should have asked your permission first. I only want to be sure he is being treated well. It was cooler last night than it has been in many weeks, and I thought he might need a blanket tonight. And I wondered if they let him wash, or whether anyone will tend his wound, which you—” She stopped abruptly and turned away, her hand at her lips.
“Which I caused.” Samuel stepped toward her, acutely aware of his children watching. “Christine, do you think we would let him languish unfed, untreated? I shall go myself to dress his wound after the service if need be, but it was Baldwin’s intention yesterday to fetch the physician back again to tend him and stitch up his arm.”
Her shoulders jerked.
Samuel stepped closer and lowered his voice. “Christine! Think you that I injured him on purpose? He tried to kill me, lass. I struck in self-defense. I regret it turned out this way, but that is what happened. Do you care about this felon so much? Please, do not imagine that I gladly maimed him.”
“You are angry with me.” She turned, and he saw a tear clinging to her lashes.
“Nay. But I shall be if you go to the Heards’. Would you leave the children alone to go and comfort the prisoner the morning we bury his victim?”
She caught her breath. “How can you say that? You forbade John to call him a murderer until such is proven, yet you say it yourself.”
He stared at her. Something twisted in his heart. Could she possibly have formed an ill-advised attachment to the man who bullied her and perhaps strangled her neighbor? “I forbid you to go to him.”
She straightened her shoulders, and her eyes flashed. For an instant he feared she would challenge his right to speak so and go anyway.
Dear God, how have we come to this? Meek Christine defying me! Please, let us not show ill will before the children.
He swallowed hard and tried to frame a gentle overture, but Christine opened her mouth first. “Very well, sir.” Her posture drooped. She took the food out of the basket and folded the napkin.
He stood unmoving for a moment. The children still watched. The quiet in the room bespoke their attention, and he could feel their stares. He cleared his throat. “Thank you for that. I shall go at once to the garrison and inquire whether the prisoner needs food or medical care.”
Leaving his Bible on the table, he set out with long, purposeful strides.
Christine sent all of the children but Ruth to the river to fill the water buckets. Mr. Dudley did not need Ben’s labor this morning, since all of the villagers would attend the funeral service. Ben would watch John and the girls, and the brief excursion would do them all good.
As soon as they were out the door, she crumpled into the chair by the hearth and pulled her apron up to cover her face. Her sobs came unbidden, shocking her. She must stop weeping before the children returned.
After a few minutes, she felt a small, warm hand on her wrist.
“Why you cryin’, Miss ‘Stine?”
She raised her chin and wiped her eyes. Ruth stared up at her with wide blue eyes, as troubled as her father’s.
Christine clasped the little girl to her. “I’m sorry, dear. Your papa is right. There is no need to worry.”
Did she weep for the outlaw or for herself? She could not tell. Perhaps it was for the straining of the fragile tie between her and Samuel.
Things had changed between them. Two days ago, when she told him about the outlaw, he had responded considerately, almost tenderly. But now his tone had hardened. He thought her foolish to have acted as she did, aiding the thief and concealing his existence. Once, she had felt Samuel respected her and counted her a friend. Had that changed? Would she ever enjoy his high regard again?
She managed to smile at Ruth. “Come, let us set the bread to rise while we are at the service.”
Samuel returned to the parsonage just long enough to retrieve his Bible before the funeral procession reached the common. Christine had all the children scrubbed and turned out in their Sunday best, and Goody Deane had come to walk over to the meetinghouse with them.
“You needn’t worry about McDowell,” Samuel said.
“Who?” Christine stared at him.
“The prisoner. The Heards will feed him. He is well taken care of, and the physician dressed his wound this morning.”
“Ah.” She ducked her head and untied her apron.
So … she hadn’t known even his name. Somehow that lightened Samuel’s spirit.
He went out and hurried to the meetinghouse steps. James Dudley’s cart carried the coffin, and all of the neighbors who lived in that direction followed slowly behind. Elder William Heard cut across the green past the stocks. Samuel greeted him. Heard went inside and brought out the large conch shell they used to call the people to meeting and began to blow.
Other people came from up and down the village street, walking with somber, measured steps. Samuel waited until all the people had gathered on the green before the meetinghouse. The pallbearers lifted the casket out of the cart. Roger Ackley, his face set like stone, joined him on the steps, and Samuel led them into the building.
After the service and the burial, the villagers melted away to their farms and businesses, with no prolonged socializing. Many had already lost two days’ work due to Goody Ackley’s death and could not afford to give up more.
Ben went home with the Dudleys, and Samuel walked home with the children and Christine for his dinner. While she put the food on, he walked about the garden, observing the abundant crops brought on by hot, steamy days and occasional gentle rains.
When Constance came out to call him to the dinner table, he took her hand and walked in with her.
“We have corn to pick,” he told Christine, “and a few cucumbers.”
“The children and I can do it this afternoon.”
“I’ll stay a short while and help.” He made the decision as he spoke. Working together in the garden might give him a chance to speak to Christine again out of earshot of his offspring.
To his surprise, he had no need to make an opportunity. After dinner, she put baskets in the children’s hands and sent them into the garden, then she turned to him as she tied the strings of her bonnet. “I fear this business has caused a rift between us, sir, and I do not like it. Can you forgive me?”
He stepped closer and looked into her serious hazel eyes. “As I told you two days past, there is nothing to forgive. You acted as you thought best. Indeed, you may have saved the family from tragedy.”
A flush stained her cheeks, but she did not look away from him. “I meant, forgive me for my ill-considered actions … and my words … this morning. I was wrong to put this man—McDowell, you call him—ahead of you and the children.”
“Nay, not so remiss. It is only Christian charity to see that the lowest—widows, orphans, prisoners—are cared for.”
“But—” She bit her lip.
“What is it, Christine?”
“I did feel animosity this morning when you spoke to me. Perhaps it lies beyond my right to mention it.”
Samuel sighed. “Nay, I hope you will come to me with anything that concerns you. And you are not far off the mark.” He looked out over the field, where the children raced to fill their baskets. “I fear I misconstrued your actions today. It is I who needs pardon.”
“Pastor, you cannot think I imagined … that I cared for him in any but the most humane way.”
He smiled as the bittersweet reality struck him again. She was right. A new formality that had not been there before separated them. “You called me by my Christian name not so long ago.”
Her color deepened. “Forgive me. I spoke in haste and agitation.”
“I do not wish to forgive that slip, Christine. It was pleasant to hear … and to think we were friends.”
She couldn’t look at him then, or so it seemed. Had he spoken too plainly? For he could no longer deny that Christine, who had come to them a shy, tall, awkward girl with the plainest of features two years ago and more, had become a responsible, caring woman who had found a place in his heart.
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