Hoisting the saddle off the horse’s back, he draped it over the side board of the stall and then turned around to pull off the blanket. “Don’t try to frighten me away with such foolery. I’m not leaving until—”
“Until they kill your daughter?”
* * *
The giant that arose inside Richard wasn’t the one he expected. Instead of the old, guilt-driven ogre, an angry one emerged. One that was as driven to protect his daughter as it was to protect his own life. Tossing the blanket over the saddle, he marched out of the stall, slamming down the end board. “Nobody will harm my daughter ever again. Nobody.”
“Others have boasted as much, but they couldn’t stop their loved ones from being imprisoned or worse. Sometimes evil can’t be stopped.”
Richard paused, both in his steps and his thoughts. The last bits of color had slipped from her already white face, leaving even her cheeks ashen. “Yes, it can,” he replied, although he knew she spoke of more than Grace. A touch of compassion for this woman arose inside him, for she clearly was afraid of something, but he’d been here for the better part of an hour, and other than discovering his daughter was ill, he knew no more than when he’d read her note back in Boston last evening. “With the right information, and that’s what I want. I want to know who almost let my daughter starve to death. I want to know where her grandparents are and how she came to be living with you and your uncle. And I want to know who those poor souls were hanging off that tree back in Salem.” That last bit slipped out before he realized it. Mostly likely because of the terror in Marina’s eyes. Did she truly believe in witches, fear for her own life? He’d suspected that was a ploy, but her fear appeared real. Very real.
A single tear slipped out of the corner of one eye, which she quickly swiped aside before she bowed her head. “I’d prayed that wouldn’t happen.”
He had a great desire to reach out and lay a hand on her arm, offer a touch of comfort. That was as unusual for him as most everything else he’d encountered this day. Therefore, he remained still, his hands at his sides.
After a moment of silence, she snapped her head up and started for the door. “I must see to Gracie.”
The change of her demeanor, from tears to stoic determination, confused him as much as it surprised him. Women, though—all women—were not something he needed to ponder or understand. “Where are her grandparents?”
Barely pausing as she crossed the threshold, she answered, “They died along with your wife. During the smallpox epidemic last winter. A great number of lives were taken.”
There was urgency in her steps as she left the barn, and Richard had to hurry to follow her. “Has Grace been here since then? Since last winter?”
“No, she’s only been here a few days. I just sent the note to you yesterday.”
“A few days?” That too was confusing. “Where had she been all this time? Since her mother died?”
Marina entered the house. “In the village.”
“With who?” He followed her through the door. The way she headed directly toward the hearth caused a final nerve to flare. He was a man of action—found the problem and took care of it. When he asked a question, people answered. Tired of attempting to be polite, he slapped a hand on the table. “Damn it! Why are you making me fight for every morsel of information? Why can’t you just tell me what I want to know?”
She spun around and the fire that shot from her eyes startled him slightly. When her burning gaze landed on his hand, he practically felt the heat and lifted his hand off the table.
“A smart man does not meddle in things that don’t concern him,” she said icily.
“A smart—” Letting out a growl, he planted his hand back on the table. “This does concern me. Anything that concerns my daughter concerns me.”
“Very well.” She picked a bowl and spoon off the table. “Once I’ve seen to Gracie, I’ll join you and my uncle and answer any questions you have on that matter.”
Steam hissed inside his head. “On that matter?” Richard blocked her way around the table. “I’m tired of this cat-and-mouse game. I have questions on several matters I want answered now.” Once again slapping the table, he added, “Right now!”
He’d expected to startle some sense into her, but the only things that jumped about Marina were her eyes, moments before they turned as bitter as a nor’easter.
“And I want you to leave,” she said as frosty as her blue eyes. “Which you will do.”
Richard kept his gaze locked on hers, letting her know he wasn’t moving until he was ready.
Her eyes never left his as she lifted her chin. “However, right now, I must see to Gracie.”
She could easily have turned and made her way around the other side of the table, but she didn’t. Instead, she walked directly toward him. A spark of respect flared for this uncommon golden-haired woman. He’d made note of how she carried herself, earlier. Head up and purposeful, unlike most women, who rarely met a man eye to eye.
“If you were any kind of a father,” she said without a footstep faltering. “A real father. That is where your concern would lie—in her health and that of her recovery.”
Richard had been chastised by men far more powerful than she’d ever be. On a bad day, Earl could send sharks swimming in the opposite direction with little more than a shout and a fist waving in the air. This woman, however, possessed a different kind of power, one he couldn’t explain. “I am her father,” he answered out of defiance. “And I am concerned about her health and well-being. That is why I’m here.”
Her glare remained ice-cold. “Then you’d be interested in knowing I’ve been giving her broth every two hours, not enough to upset her stomach but enough to get it working again.”
It flustered him that a rebuttal wouldn’t form in his mind, but what could he say to that? He’d stood his ground with opponents around the world, yet, right now, he stepped aside so she could leave the room.
Which she did.
His gaze followed her. Marina Lindqvist was not what she appeared to be. A matter of fact, if he’d ever believed in witches, he might wonder about her. Not in the evil, brewing-up-potions kind, but in the kind who could cast spells upon men without them knowing it. There was no other explanation. With little more than those blue eyes, she’d knocked the wind right out of his sails.
Flustered with himself, he entered the hall. William was still in the front room, and the snore that shook the old man’s body confirmed what Richard already knew. William wasn’t just old; he was tired, worn-out from his life at sea. For a brief moment, Richard was reminded of Earl and the fight the man had fought against aging, against giving up the life he’d known. Earl had died at sea, doing what he loved. William wouldn’t, and for that, Richard experienced a pang of sympathy.
Switching his thoughts, he started up the steps. When the time came, he wanted to be like Earl, sailing into the sunset as his days ended. Until then, he had things to do. A legacy to maintain so his daughter would never again know the pains or consequences of hunger.
The door to the bedroom was open. He’d been only a few steps behind Marina, yet she was already sitting on the edge of the bed, spooning soup into Gracie’s mouth. His daughter was sitting in the middle of the bed and her eyes widened when she saw him in the doorway. A slight and wobbly smile turned up the corners of her lips.
Richard’s heart fluttered inside his chest. The sensation was as remarkable as it was foreign. He hadn’t expected this immediate connection to his daughter, for it hadn’t been there the first time he’d seen her, when she’d been a tiny infant. Then again, at that time, he’d already been told he’d never see her again, that he wasn’t welcome in Salem Village, nor would he ever be. That had been shortly after Earl’s death, and on that very day, Richard had fully accepted the advice his mentor had shared before dying. “Let them go,” Earl had said. “Forget you ever had a wife or child. The sea is all you’ll ever need.”
“Your arrival seems to h
ave worked wonders,” Marina said. “Grace was awake and ready to eat.”
Snapped out of his musings, Richard crossed the room. “That’s good news. To see her well is my greatest wish.” He chose not to delve too deeply into the things happening inside him. Grace was his daughter, and every father wanted his children to be healthy and well. However, he was aware now that Earl’s advice was no longer relevant. He’d accepted the loss of his wife long before her death, but he had a second chance with his daughter and didn’t need anyone’s advice on what to do.
“Goodness,” Marina said. “You’ve eaten the entire bowl.” She brushed a clump of black hair off Grace’s cheek. “Would you like more?”
“Yes, please.”
“Very well. I shall get you some.” Marina stood and bestowed a sun-kissed smile upon the child. “I’ll be back in little more than a moment.”
Richard didn’t know much about ill children but knew shipmates got well faster once they were up and about, and despite refusing to leave, every instinct he had was still telling him to get his daughter and depart this place as soon as possible. “Perhaps Gracie would like to go downstairs to eat.”
Gracie’s eyes lit up. For a moment, he saw himself in her and knew that must be how his eyes glowed when they settled upon the great span of water surrounding his ship. Smiling brightly, she pushed aside the covers and scooted toward the edge of the bed.
“The stairs may be a bit much for her yet,” Marina said gently.
“Not if I carry her,” Richard supplied. Without waiting for Marina’s answer, he asked his daughter, “Would that be all right with you, Grace? If I carried you?”
She nodded enthusiastically.
Marina, on the other hand, seemed torn. “I don’t want her to lose the ground she’s gained.”
“She won’t,” Richard assured her. “I’ll carry her back upstairs, too.” Without further ado, he plucked the child off the bed. She wasn’t any heavier than one of his ledger books and felt far more fragile. Far too fragile. Once again something inside him fluttered. The life of a sailor had always fulfilled him, never left him wondering or wanting more, yet holding his tiny daughter in his arms made him question if he’d made the right choice years ago. If he’d remained in Salem Village rather than returning to the sea, Gracie wouldn’t be in this condition and Sarah might still be alive. They could even have had more children.
“We all have regrets.”
He lifted his head and caught Marina’s thoughtful expression.
“It doesn’t pay to dwell on them,” she added with a smile as gentle as the one she’d given his daughter. “Forgiveness, including ourselves, is the pathway to salvation.”
She was right. No one could change the past; nor should they allow it to possess them. He owed Marina his gratitude, too. If not for her, Grace may have died. He would never have known his daughter then. That thought hit solemnly in his mind and gut.
Not ready to react to that or to let her know she’d read his mind, he gathered the length of material dangling beyond Grace’s feet. “What is all this?”
“Gracie is wearing one of my nightdresses.” Marina had walked around the bed and brushed his hand aside in order to twist up the extra material and tuck it between Grace’s thin frame and his chest. “I needed to wash hers this morning.”
Richard heard what she said but chose to interpret the statement to mean Grace didn’t have ample nightclothes. That should not be. He’d sent material to his dead wife regularly. Yards upon yards of sturdy cotton, knowing the finer silks and other materials he’d once shipped would not be welcome. The last shipment should have arrived this spring, after Sarah’s death. Of course, he hadn’t known she’d died then.
He pondered on that as he carried Grace down the narrow hall. His wife had died. Should he be in mourning? It wasn’t as if he’d held any ill will toward Sarah. It wasn’t as if he’d held any great love for her, either. The affection that had sparked between them had never been given the chance to grow. Not as it should have. Which was just as well. Sailors had no right taking a wife. They were already married to the sea. He’d known that even back then but had let his physical needs overshadow his good sense. Earl had pointed that out to him, and he’d come to accept it over the years.
Richard shifted Grace in his arms, not because of her slight weight—he could have been carrying a sparrow for all she weighed—but because he didn’t want her to bump the wall of the narrow stairway. She lifted her head and gazed upon his face deeply and perhaps a bit critically.
“Are you really my papa?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Marina told me if I prayed hard enough, you’d come.”
Richard glanced briefly toward the woman moving down the stairs ahead of them. He still had more questions than answers. “She was right.”
“Where’s your boat?” Grace asked.
He grinned. “In the Boston Harbor.”
A tiny frown formed before she nodded.
“Would you like to see it?” he asked.
The smile returned tenfold. “Yes.”
“Well, then,” he said, “as soon as you’re better, I’ll take you to see the Concord.”
“You will?”
“Yes, I will. It’s a mighty ship,” he said. “But you have to eat and get strong. It’s a long way to Boston.”
Her little head bobbed up and down. “I will.”
It had been years since he’d seen Sarah, and he wondered if Grace looked like her. He should remember, but an image of his wife no longer formed in his mind. There was no explanation as to why, other than that she’d become nothing more than another payment, akin to taxes or merchant fees. That was no way for a man to think of his family or something he was proud of, even if it wasn’t out of the ordinary. Plenty of captains had wives and families, sometimes numerous ones, just as William had said, in ports all around the world. One of the things he’d carried pride in was the fact he wasn’t like all other sea captains. Not in that sense or in others. He treated his shipmates fairly, along with the merchants and countries whose cargo he hauled. His reputation was well established, and now it would also become known that he took care of his family. He didn’t need to vow it; he knew it.
“What do we have here?” William had awakened from his nap and was precariously rising to his feet as they entered the front room. “Is that Gracie?”
The girl nodded while Marina answered, “Yes. She wants to eat at the table. Would you care to join her?”
“I’ve been smelling that chicken you’ve been boiling all morning,” William said, using both hands to get his stump leg solid on the floor. “It’ll be good to eat some.”
Marina waited for her uncle to cross the room. Richard did, too, while noting how the young woman stood ready to aid William if the need arose. It didn’t. Once the old man got the wooden leg in rhythm with his other one, he scurried past them with the speed of a sailor with two good legs.
“You will be joining us, Richard,” William stated.
It had been hours since he’d partaken in a brief repast before leaving Boston, and all sailors were known for one thing—that of never bypassing the offer of a meal. “Thank you,” he answered and waited for Marina to enter the hall.
In the kitchen that, indeed, did host a very appetizing scent, Richard paused before setting Grace on one of the chairs. Her chin would barely come up to the tabletop if he set her down. Noting a pine box on the shelf near the brick oven built into the side of the fireplace, he crossed the room. “May I use that?” he asked, pointing at the box.
“The salt box?” Marina asked. “Whatever for?”
“Yes, the salt box,” he assured her. “For Grace to sit upon so she can see over the table.”
“That’s a splendid idea.”
The expression on her face was a mixture of surprise and delight, a sight that intrigued Richard. He pulled his eyes away and gathered the box. After he set it on the chair, he lowered Grace upon it and took a seat hi
mself. The table was soon set with plates and silverware and a host of foodstuffs in plated dishware. It made sense that William would have such luxuries while many colonials still used wooden spoons and trenchers. Ships hauled crates of dishware and utensils to America regularly, had for years.
“Marina insists on feeding us more than two times a day,” William said. “She claims her family ate morning, noon and evening, even on Sundays. I’ve told her on a ship, a man eats when a meal’s prepared, whether it’s the middle of the day or the middle of the night.” He chuckled before adding, “I’ve grown accustomed to her ways, those of my family from the old country that I’d forgotten about until she arrived, although that too we keep private.”
Having traveled the world, Richard had eaten meals at all times of the days, but he knew a custom of the Puritans was two meals a day, morning and midafternoon, after church services. He also knew their penchant for allowing no work of any kind on Sundays, including preparing meals. If there were no leftovers, they ate bread and water or fasted. He’d witnessed it on the ship that had carried Sarah and her family to America. From what he’d seen so far, Marina did not fit into the Puritan world in any way. So why was his daughter here rather than with one of the families in the village?
“We’re not trying to pull the wool over anyone’s eyes,” William continued. “We just don’t need any more fingers pointed at us.”
Although he could assume, Richard asked, “Why would fingers be pointed at you?” Following William’s gesture, he began to ladle food onto his plate. The bowl Marina had set before Grace contained clear broth, while the soup he spooned onto his plate had been thickened and contained chunks of chicken, carrots and potatoes, as well as dumplings. There was also bread and a thick pudding that smelled of maple syrup, and cider for their earthen mugs.
“I told you.” Sighing heavily, William looked at Marina, who’d just sat down, before he said, “They believe Marina’s a witch.”
Tension returned to Richard’s neck—his entire spine, actually. This witch business was more than frustrating. It had become an assault against his good sense. Over the years, he’d spent time with many types of people and cultures. In some countries people worshipped witches; in others, they feared them. Went so far as to hire witch hunters to eradicate them from the countryside far and wide. He’d never believed one way or the other, but had met a few witch hunters and would be hard-pressed to come up with a more evil profession comprised of more wicked men.
Saving Marina Page 4