by Susan Wiggs
But the trouble was, they had no forever. Spring would inevitably come.
THIRTY-ONE
Tom spent the next several weeks trying not to think. Thinking was a dangerous thing, because it took him places he didn’t want to go. He and Deborah lived in a fairy-tale realm of their own making, drifting through days comprised of small, domestic pursuits and nights of long, uninterrupted lovemaking. He showed her the melting colors of the aurora borealis and then made love to her. Each time, he was moved by the beauty of the experience. All her barriers of fear and confusion had faded away, and now she embraced him with a delight that filled him with love and tenderness so deep he ached inside.
When the sap ran in the maple trees, they tapped the liquid and boiled it over a fire outdoors. He dribbled some of the hot syrup onto the snow where it hardened instantly into candy. They took long walks in the woods, and when he stopped to kiss her cold mouth, she tasted sweeter than the candy. They went skating, and in the evenings he read aloud to her while she sewed on her quilt.
On the day that would have been Asa’s fifteenth birthday, the sun showed its face and they dug a trail up to the old mine site to plant a marker he had carved for Asa. Amid a tangle of wild dead roses forming a hump in the snow, Deborah held the ornately carved marker while Tom nailed it to a tree. He stood for long, agonizing moments remembering, grieving. Her arms came around him from behind. Feeling her warm and vital presence, Tom felt alive again. He still missed Asa so much that he hurt in his bones, but sharing the moment with Deborah helped, somehow.
In March, she finished the quilt and spread it like a handmade blessing over the bed they now shared. He was touched by the way she had used bits and pieces of Asa’s clothes in the design. It depicted birds in flight, their patchwork wings spread as they headed for a spray of stars.
When he lay beneath that quilt, he knew for certain that Deborah had done something he thought was impossible. She made him love again.
It was a hard thing, loving a woman and not being able to tell her. So he loved her in the wordless ways that had always suited him better anyway, and he would keep on doing so.
They were like the animals in winter that lived in the warm underground darkness, far from the bright, busy world. Nothing could disturb their peace and contentment, but inevitably, the spring would come. With the melting snow, they would have to face the world again, and the world would divide them. They were two different species, from two different worlds. Like a tropical orchid that could not survive outside its protected warm home, Deborah was too exotic and delicate to live in the frozen north.
They didn’t speak of the future, nor did they speak of their tacit agreement not to discuss it. They both knew there was a risk of pregnancy but they never spoke of that, either. Made reckless with a fever of passion, Tom refused to think of it. His love for her was a quiet thing expressed in looks and gestures and in the deep long night when they made love and fell asleep together under the quilt she had made. He forced himself to be content with the arrangement because he didn’t know what else to do. With each day it was harder and harder not to think.
His trouble, he knew, was that he had always gone seeking things beyond his reach, and it had always ended badly, proving to him that he should learn to be content with what he had. As an underage, oversized youth he had joined the Union Army only to learn that war was an ugliness that destroyed the soul. As a young man, he had taken in Asa, believing he could give the boy a safe home. He knew if he tried to keep Deborah as his own, his woman, his wife, no good would come of it, and he’d be a damned fool to think it would.
* * *
One morning Deborah was awakened by a new sound—the constant drip of water. She ignored it for a while, reluctant to leave the warm nest of their bed. With a smile on her lips, she indulged in the lazy contentment of holding her sleeping lover close. Each day was a wonder to her, and it was all because of what they had discovered together.
As he did each day, Tom somehow sensed her wakefulness and stirred gently against her. They didn’t speak; theirs was a conspiracy of silence that added to the intensity of all Deborah felt. Each morning he knew without asking that she wanted him to make love to her.
On this particular day he matter-of-factly lifted her gown and slid it over her head, then skimmed his hands over her breasts, awakening in her an exquisite sensitivity that would stay with her all day. She had learned to be bold when it came to touching him and to take delight in his pleasure. She stroked him and felt his urgency, and when his big hands grasped her waist and positioned her atop him, she gasped. And then slowly, sweetly smiled as she took charge of the rhythm. His hands slid up and over her torso, moving lower, taking advantage of the freedom to roam and caress her. She shut her eyes, threw back her head and let the magic happen.
When she opened her eyes, she looked through a gap in the curtains and saw a veil of water dripping from the eaves. There was something odd about the sight. She bent and kissed Tom, then pulled back and drew on her shift. The planks of the floor chilled the soles of her feet as she went to the window. She heard Tom getting up behind her, knowing he would start the day by building up the fire and filling the basin with warm water for her to wash.
A curious apprehension seized her as she parted the curtains to look out at the day. Rather than the customary overcast skies and light snow flurries, she saw a mist rising off the lake, and snow and ice from the roof melted and dripped down. A flicker of movement caught her eye and she said, “Tom, look. Is that a warbler?”
“First sign of spring,” he said, then bent to pull on his boots.
She dressed quickly and joined him outside. First sign of spring.
Traditionally those were hopeful words, but not now. There had been a time when she couldn’t wait for spring to come. Now she dreaded it. But the sight before her was unmistakable. The ice was thawing. The air was dense with a certain heaviness and the temperature was noticeably warmer. Disturbed by the roving dog, a flurry of birds rose in agitation from the birch woods at the edge of the settlement. The snow felt wet and slushy beneath their feet as they walked along the roadway past the abandoned houses.
When they came into view of the harbor, she saw that the ice on the lake bore many more cracks than usual, like pieces in a great puzzle.
Later that morning, she asked him, “What happens when the thaw comes?”
“There’s an ice cutter that will move into the harbor and break up the ice. After that, the fishing fleet returns. And things…start up again.”
Her heart understood what he would not say aloud. Some things started up. Others ended.
* * *
Arthur Sinclair had never had any trouble holding his head up with pride, but as he walked into the newly refurbished Founders Club on a Wednesday afternoon, his heart was heavy. Who would have thought he would miss her so much, even after so much time had passed?
It was, he conceded wearily, because he had forgotten that he loved his daughter. He loved her as he had loved May—simply for the mere fact of her existence. Somehow, in his ambitious climb to success, he had lost sight of that. The very idea shamed him, and it had been a long time since he had felt shame.
After passing a lonely, empty Christmas, he had finally concluded that he’d made a horrible mistake in refusing to bring Deborah home. He’d sent the Pinkerton agent, Price Foster, up to find her in January, but the news was not good. An old voyageur in Northern Minnesota had revealed that she had stayed on Isle Royale over the winter. Foster had made inquiries about the man called Tom Silver, discovering that he was a decorated war veteran and a man known and respected in the region. Arthur could only pray that he hadn’t harmed Deborah.
In February, with the rebuilding of the city in full swing, Arthur had been struck low with his heart ailment. After enforced bedrest, he had regained his strength. And, without even trying, he’d reclaimed his place in Chicago society. He wasn’t quite sure how or why it had happened, but the invitations had b
egun to arrive again. The funny thing was, he didn’t care anymore. He knew then that he would pay any price to get his daughter back.
Now it was March, and the most surprising invitation of all had brought him into the city for a meeting. He accepted a glass of whiskey and a cigar from a waiter, sat back in a leather wing chair and waited.
Philip Ascot arrived like the prodigal son, hand outstretched, a faintly sheepish grin on his face. “I can’t thank you enough for coming, Arthur,” he said.
Arthur knew then why the doors to society had opened for him once again. Philip must have arranged it. He wanted to be angry with Ascot for dismissing Deborah, but it was no less than Arthur himself had done. “You have something to discuss with me?”
Ascot ordered a drink with no more than a discreet nod; he was known in this club. “Your daughter,” he said. “I won’t mince words with you, sir. I cannot stop thinking about her.”
Arthur pondered the rumors he’d heard over the holiday. “Seems to me you stopped long enough to get yourself engaged to Miss Bartell.” Another heiress. Not as well-fixed as Deborah had been, but who was?
“A mistake.” Philip sipped his bourbon, shaking his head in self-disgust. “She broke it off abruptly. Women just don’t know their place anymore,” he concluded. He lowered his voice. “I’ve been such a damned fool, Arthur. It’s always been Deborah for me.”
“Deborah, or her fortune?” Arthur asked bluntly.
Ascot winced. “You wound me, sir. If you choose not to give us your blessing, that won’t change my mind. I don’t care if she’s been sullied, dragged through the muck. I wouldn’t care if you disinherited her. I want her back.”
A fine speech, Arthur thought, but despite his cynicism, his heart felt lighter. Philip Ascot knew damned well that Deborah would now come with an even bigger dowry.
“Then we are in accordance,” he said. “I want her back, too.”
* * *
In early April, lying in the delicious cocoon of Tom’s arms, Deborah heard a noise. Without opening her eyes, she tried to guess what it was. Smokey gave a warning growl in his throat.
The spring thaw was coming on so fast that something new happened every day. Only yesterday, a beaver dam she’d been watching over the winter had been swept away by a flooding creek. She and Tom had watched the lodge being broken up and she’d felt absurdly sad for the homeless creatures.
Feeling Tom stir, she snuggled in closer, wrapping her arms tight around him. He was always trying to get up at the crack of dawn. She was always trying to find ways to keep him in the warmth of their bed. It wasn’t difficult. A few sleepy kisses, a suggestive caress, and he was more than willing to linger with her. They drifted off to sleep again, and she forgot to tell him about the noise she’d heard. A row of icicles falling from the eaves, perhaps.
But the second time she heard the noise, she knew it wasn’t icicles.
She sat straight up in bed, pulling on her nightgown. The dog gave a sharp bark. Tom grabbed his jeans, yanked them on and went for the door.
But it was too late. Four men crowded into the cabin and three gun barrels pointed at Tom’s chest. He backed into the room, shielding Deborah with his body.
For a moment no one moved, spoke, breathed.
After a shocked silence, Deborah swallowed a horrible dryness in her throat and scrambled to her knees on the bed. “Father!”
He had changed. In his long dark cloak, he looked smaller than she remembered, his usually florid face a shade paler. The thought swiftly came to her that he had not been well.
She kept moving, pushing herself in front of Tom. He grabbed her arms and shoved her out of the way, and immediately two of the gunmen moved in, aiming the muzzles of their long-barreled pistols at his chest and neck.
“No!” Deborah screamed, planting herself in front of Tom again. She didn’t care that she was in a state of indecency, that her father and three strangers were seeing her barefoot, her hair loose and wild. “You wouldn’t dare,” she said. “You wouldn’t dare start shooting.”
“Take a good look, Princess,” Tom said. “They can do whatever they want.” He tried to pull away from her, reaching up to disengage her arms from his neck. “Let go. It’s me they’re after.”
“Never.” She held fast to him. “I won’t let them gun you down.” Even as the words came out of her, she looked at her father and saw the fury in his eyes. She knew, with an ugly shock of certainty, that her father was not above such things. Unarmed, Tom had no defense and her father would show no mercy.
“I figured I’d find you cowering behind a woman,” her father said, addressing Tom with acid contempt.
Deborah refused to let herself be hurt by her father’s failure to greet her. “Call off your…whoever these men are.”
“What the hell are you doing here, Sinclair?” Tom demanded. She saw his tension in the tautness of the muscles that banded his chest, and in the rapid, shallow breaths he took.
“I came to collect what’s mine.”
“Why didn’t you come before?” Deborah snapped, and her tone made her father look at her in a way he never had before. With something akin to respect.
“I don’t negotiate with outlaws,” he said.
“Not even on behalf of me?” She spoke softly, unable to keep the anguish from her voice. A menacing growl rolled from the dog’s throat.
Her father stared at her as if regarding a stranger. “I can only imagine what you have suffered at the hands of this madman. Come home with me.” His gaze dropped. “I was too rash, angry and confused by all that happened the night of the fire. Forgive me, Deborah. Forgive me and come home.”
A flicker of yearning, fanned by the old obedience trained into her, came to life inside her. He sounded so sincere. She let herself hope she and her father could forgive one another. But she’d had no self, not until she had come to Isle Royale and discovered what truly mattered. Until then, she had been a hollow shell—one of her father’s creation.
“Call them off, Father,” she repeated. “I will not budge until you do.”
She heard his breath catch at the steady command in her voice. He hesitated, then thumped the tip of his cane on the floor. The men lowered their weapons, but kept them cocked. In the coming light of early morning, she saw that they wore braid-edged hats and long coats with sharp red piping along the seams, and each had a small collar stud depicting a single open eye. Allan Pinkerton’s men. Hired detectives. Hired guns. How much had her father paid them to come here?
“How did you find me?” she asked. “How could you have known we were snowed in here?”
“I made inquiries.”
The Pinkertons had done their work thoroughly. She wondered if they had harassed and threatened Lightning Jack or the island families wintering on the mainland.
“I’m not well,” her father said. “I need you with me. Come home, Deborah.”
She studied the deep haggard lines in his cheeks, the shadows of sleeplessness under his eyes. This was her father, she told herself. Her father. He was a man whose humanity was deeply buried, but it was there. It was something that could be saved.
“Let’s go,” her father said, aiming his cane toward the front door.
“Tom comes with me, and that’s final.”
“Don’t worry about a thing,” he said, a hint of his old indulgent smile softening his face. “I have your things aboard the Triumph.”
“Do as he says,” Tom whispered, bending to push his feet into boots. “Then…we’ll see.”
They were barely given time to don coats and boots. Her father wore a cloak and beaver hat. In the sweeping garment he resembled the condadori in Don Giovanni, sent to tell the hero to redeem himself while he still could. The Pinkertons were as silent and impersonal as foreign servants, yet never once did they relax their vigilance over Tom. Deborah clung to his hand as they stepped outside.
A great steamship lay to in the harbor. In a channel between broken ice floes, two launches ha
d made it in to the dock. “Stay close to me,” Deborah said to Tom. Inside, she grew as cold as a stone. I have your things…. But her father had said nothing about arrangements for Tom.
She didn’t want to believe her father capable of the thing she feared, but the thought stopped her in her tracks. “I want you to see your mine,” she said suddenly, turning to her father. “The one that was supposed to make this settlement so prosperous.” Who was that, speaking with such acid authority? She caught his look of surprise. She had made the suggestion in order to stall for time, but also because the man responsible for seven deaths should be made to look upon his handiwork.
* * *
Prodding Tom in front of them, the men walked in almost military formation. Their footsteps made moist slapping sounds in the wet earth. Tom wasn’t sure what Deborah had intended, insisting on bringing her father here, but he stayed on his guard. His instincts made him want to turn and fight, but he wouldn’t risk it, not in front of Deborah. He didn’t want her to see him shot.
The snow had melted considerably since they had put up Asa’s marker on his birthday. The seven graves lay barren and forlorn in the winter chill. Moisture wept from the trees that fringed the clearing. The dog trotted restlessly back and forth, clearly confused by the intruders.
The inverted cavity of the mine formed a snow-filled wound in the frozen earth. Arthur Sinclair walked toward the broken hole in the ground, his feet crunching over the half-frozen terrain, his cane stabbing holes through the crusted snow. The old man walked slowly to the edge of the pit, motioning for his bodyguards to stay back. He stood there for a long time, looking more human than Tom had ever imagined him. Leaning on his cane, he went down on one knee to read the Bible verse Tom had carved on the new marker. For the Lamb at the center of the throne will be their shepherd; he will lead them to springs of living water. And God will wipe away every tear from their eyes.