by B. J. Hoff
Yet the only way she could hope to convince Samuel of this would require that she reveal Gant’s efforts to help the slaves and, at the same time, expose her friend Phoebe’s secret activities. She couldn’t do that. Mamma had promised Phoebe that her secret would be safe with them. Not for anything would Rachel go against her mother’s pledge to their mutual friend.
It seemed she would have to let Samuel think what he pleased. She turned away from him and went to the sink to pump water for rinsing the dishes she’d washed earlier.
As she worked she spoke, thinking it better not to face him with her impatience and irritation. “You needn’t worry about my being alone here with the stranger, Samuel. Gideon and Fannie are going to take turns staying the night as long as necessary, and Fannie will be spending most of her days with me as well. Mamma will also be helping out with his care.”
He waited to reply. “It’s not seemly that you should be caring for him at all. A woman’s care should be all for her husband.”
Rachel couldn’t help herself. She whirled around, splashing water down her front and onto the floor from the dishcloth. “I have no husband to care for! And I’m not a blushing maedal who knows nothing of men. I’m a widow woman fully capable of looking to the needs of a wounded man who has no one else to depend on.”
She tried to steady herself, but she was so angry—too angry. “If you’re so concerned about any impropriety, Samuel, why don’t you take in Captain Gant? I’m sure we can arrange to have him moved to your home by this evening. And I can give you Dr. Sebastian’s instructions for taking care of the wound. You can take a few days out of the fields and your other business doings, can’t you? Or if you don’t want the extra work and can’t find the time necessary to tend to a wounded stranger night and day, perhaps the bishop would take him in. Or what about one of the other families—perhaps the Glicks or the Lambrights?”
She should stop. She was going too far. But she wasn’t finished yet. She would say her piece, never mind the consequences. “You can tell the bishop or anyone else who’s bothered by my tending to a wounded man in my home that I can have his few belongings packed in a matter of minutes—sooner than they can have a bed made ready for him in their home! I’d be only too glad to be relieved of the responsibility!”
Her outburst had clearly shocked him. His eyes widened, and the brackets around his mouth tightened. “Rachel—”
“Samuel, I’m sorry, but the day’s getting on, and I have to help Fannie with her lessons. I think it would be best if you’d leave now.”
She didn’t trust herself to say anything more.
“I didn’t intend to upset you, Rachel.”
“Nevertheless, you have.”
He started toward her, but Rachel was firm. “I don’t want to argue with you, Samuel. I know you mean only what’s best for me. But I’m a grown woman, and I have to be the one who decides what that is.
He crossed his arms over his chest. “Eli was too lenient with you, I think. We all knew he was giving you too much free rein.”
For an instant—a sharp, stinging instant—Rachel had a wicked urge to throw the sopping wet dishcloth at him. So shocked was she at her own impulse that her anger died in a heartbeat, and she managed to answer him in an even tone of voice. “Eli was good to me, gentle and kind, if that’s what you mean.”
What kind of husband had Samuel been?
His wife, Martha, had died giving birth to their third son a few years past, even before Eli’s death. Martha Beiler had always seemed the perfect Amish wife—quiet, agreeable, respectful, and quick to serve others. Had she been happy with Samuel? Had he tried to make her happy?
Not for the first time, Rachel recognized the truth about herself: Even if she could eventually grow to love Samuel, she could never be the kind of wife he’d want her to be, the kind of wife he would no doubt expect her to be. She wasn’t like Martha Beiler, yet she suspected Samuel would try to make her more like Martha.
“Ja, Eli was a good man, and good to you. But you have a way about you, Rachel. You’re headstrong, stubborn, and full of opinions. And apparently Eli did little to correct these faults.”
Again Rachel lifted a hand to silence him. “Samuel, I’ll not listen to you speak against Eli in his own house.”
“Your house, Rachel. Eli is gone. And this latest—situation—only proves what I’ve suggested to you before, that you need to seriously consider marrying again. It’s not good for a woman to be alone. You need the protection and guidance of a husband.”
Rachel clamped her teeth together but managed to smile, weak though it was. “As I said, Samuel, I think you should leave now. I have much work to do yet today, and I’m sure you do as well.”
Rachel figured the long breath he pulled in was exaggerated for her benefit. He studied her for another moment, then lifted his hands in a gesture of resignation. “All right, then, I’ll go. But you haven’t heard the end of this. And I’ll be stopping by often to see that you’re all right.”
Rachel didn’t doubt him for a minute. She was quite sure she hadn’t heard the end of this, and she was just as certain that Samuel would be stopping by often.
She drew a long breath of her own and saw him to the door.
Gant wished he were stronger. A great deal stronger. Strong enough to leave this bed and face that stiff-necked Amishman.
What kind of a man talked to a woman so? Especially a woman who seemed as gentle-natured as this Rachel Brenneman.
Though he had to hand it to her, she’d stood up to him well enough.
From what he could tell, which wasn’t all that much since they’d been speaking in that foreign tongue of theirs part of the time, the man was some kind of an important fellow in the Amish community, a deacon in the church or some such. Even so, he ought to keep a civil tongue in his head and not take on as though the woman had committed some sort of black-hearted sin.
Is this how the Amish treated their women? Giving them what-to for helping a body in need? Talking down to her as though she hadn’t all her wits about her, as if she were some sort of a troublesome wee child?
In truth she did seem little more than a girl, though she’d said she was a widow. That being the case, she must be older than she looked.
He’d been tempted to give a shout to the man from his bed and shame him where he stood. But he sensed the woman wouldn’t thank him for interfering. And when it came right down to it, it wasn’t any of his business, not a bit of it. What was it the Amishman had called him? An “outsider”? Well, there was no denying that’s what he was.
Besides, he hadn’t the grit just now for a match with anyone. He was as weak as a cat that just crawled up on the riverbank.
He almost smiled at the thought. Wasn’t that exactly what he’d done—crawled up on the riverbank? And even that had required Asa’s help.
He ground his teeth in frustration. What a fix this was! His boat gone. His leg shattered. People waiting on him hand and foot. Asa left to manage by himself. Completely useless, that’s what he was. No good for anything or to anyone. Nothing but trouble for the young Amish widow and her family.
He’d never been in such a state before, had never had to depend on anyone but himself. Now he needed tending like a helpless babe. His insides burned with humiliation.
Meanwhile, Asa was off on his own, jeopardizing himself without anyone to watch his back. They worked as a pair, and they’d done well. So far they hadn’t lost a single “passenger.” Not a one of them.
He should have known their luck wouldn’t hold forever.
Luck? His conscience prodded him. Hardly luck, given some of the scrapes they’d gotten in and out of. Nothing or no one but the Almighty could have saved their necks as many times as they’d needed saving. Ah, no, he doubted that luck had anything to do with it.
He would talk to that doctor next time he came round. He had to know just how long he’d be laid up like this—and what he could do to hurry things up. He’d lose his mind if
this went on too long.
No doubt the pretty widow shared his frustration. This had to be a hard thing for an Amish woman, having a stranger in her house with no man but a brother to help out.
He’d spent a couple of days near another Amish settlement last year, up in Pennsylvania. There hadn’t been time to get to know the people all that well, but there was no mistaking their eagerness to see him gone. They’d been godly folks and given him the supplies he needed willingly enough. But they’d made it clear he wasn’t welcome. They made him feel as if they feared his very presence might taint them.
His last thought before drifting back to sleep again was that this Rachel Brenneman seemed skittish around him all right, but at least she didn’t treat him like he was some kind of a devil.
Though perhaps to her and her kind that’s exactly what he seemed to be.
10
ASA
Watch not the ashes of the dying ember.
Kindle thy hope. Put all thy fears away—
Live day by day.
JULIA HARRIS MAY
It wasn’t like he hadn’t worked alone before. He had taken other runaways to the North twice before without the captain. But those other times, there had been one or two men among the passengers. Had he known that this time he would be transporting only two women and three little girls, he would have been even more worried than he was.
The abolitionist doctor at Marietta, who provided the wagon and a draft horse, had sent them on their way with blankets, enough food for several days, and a stern warning about what they might face. “You’re going to be traveling through woods filled with wild animals—including wolves and bobcats. But your worst enemies will be the bounty hunters. They’re thick in this area, hoping to collect the reward for runaways. Have you used this route before?”
“No, sir. But the captain has. I have a map, and he gave me good instruction as to what to expect.”
“Yes, well, don’t get careless. There are always surprises.”
What Asa didn’t say was that the doctor was one of the biggest surprises of all. He’d come across all manner of folks on other routes. Some were kind, others stern and harried, though helpful. But the doctor was a different sort from all the others.
A number of the people who helped them in various places were clearly nervous, even frightened. Some seemed so fearful it was a wonder they were willing to help at all. But the good doctor, if he had any misgivings about what he was doing, kept his doubts to himself. There was a steadiness about the man—it calmed Asa, and the runaways had responded to it too.
Now that they had been on their way for a time, though, Asa could tell by the barrage of harsh whispers and stirrings in the back of the wagon that their fears had returned in full force.
By midnight the fog was so thick it covered the wagon like a shroud. Asa’s head felt as if it would split from the tension of straining to see and, at the same time, stay alert to the sounds all around them. Even Mac, riding the bench beside him, seemed on edge. The big dog pricked his ears at every small sound that came out of the fog, occasionally making a low but warning growl.
What bothered Asa most, though, was the lack of sounds. Other than the occasional snap of fallen tree limbs or the sound of small animals tossing eerie calls upon the night, there was nothing to be heard.
He supposed he ought to give thanks that it wasn’t raining. He’d had enough of cold rainy nights to last him a good long while.
They were still close to the river, and the dank night air smelled of fish mingled with wood smoke from a nearby farmhouse. The pungent aroma of the smoke made him think how nice it had been inside the Amish widow woman’s house, where he could walk to the kitchen and warm his hands by the stove. And the missus had provided him with a good warm quilt to cover himself while dozing in the chair beside the captain’s bed.
He shook off the memory. Who could say how long it would be before he again would sit close to a fire or tuck a warm blanket around himself? The blanket he’d thrown around his shoulders before leaving was anything but warm.
The women and children rode in back of the wagon, under the canvas cover. If their whisperings grew much louder, he would have to hush them for fear of discovery. But for now he would let them take their comfort as they could.
There would be little enough in the way of comfort this night, and only the good Lord knew for how many other nights to come.
11
WHEN THE PAST DIVIDES
So here is my desert
and here am I
in the midst of it alone…
THOMAS MACDONAGH
After David Sebastian finished his examination of Gant’s wound and applied a fresh dressing, he stood, stretched his arms out in front of him, and eased his back.
He was pleased with Gant’s progress. It had been five days since the riverboat captain showed up near to dying on Rachel Brenneman’s doorstep, and today, for the first time, David no longer feared for the man’s life. Not only did the wound look to be in the initial stages of healing, but Gant’s color had improved, and there’d been no fever for two days now.
He was also more alert than he’d been since the injury, having stayed awake most of the entire time David tended to him.
Awake, but not exactly communicative, merely mumbling a short response to anything David asked him. Those responses, however, were enough to identify something of his origins.
“You’re Irish,” David said, meaning to learn something more about his wintry-eyed patient.
“And you’re British.” The words were edged with acid.
David lifted his eyebrows. “I suppose you think that makes us natural adversaries.”
Gant made no reply, but his hard-eyed stare never wavered.
In an attempt to bridge the divide, David ventured what he thought would be a safe topic of conversation. “How long have you been in the States?”
Gant seemed to consider whether he would reply or not. “Ten, eleven years or so,” was the curt reply.
He looked to be in his mid to late thirties. A big, raw-boned, rangy fellow. Probably strong as an ox before he was shot. Square-jawed, deeply bronzed and weathered skin, and the kind of piercing eyes that could peel away several layers of another man’s defense in scarcely no time.
He wouldn’t be an easy man to know. Even in his weakened state, he kept a stony barrier in place. Yet there was a certain substance and keen-eyed intelligence about him that David couldn’t help but find intriguing. “So what’s your story, Captain Gant?”
“What story would that be?”
David met and held the unreadable blue gaze. “The story that found you washed up on the riverbank with your leg shattered and your companion suddenly gone missing.”
Something glinted in the other’s eyes before the shutters closed on all expression. “Nothing all that interesting, Doc.”
“Even so, I’m interested. As it happens, I expect I already know most of it, so you needn’t dissemble with me.”
One heavy eyebrow lifted, and the hard stare turned defiant.
“You’re a ‘conductor,’ I imagine. Isn’t that what you call yourselves, you fellows who help the runaway slaves make their way to the North?”
A look of surprise scurried across the rugged features.
“It must have complicated things considerably when you lost your boat.”
Gant frowned, and David went on. “Rachel told me what your man Asa related to her. About your taking a bullet for him, the burning of your boat—and the rest of it.”
The other moistened his lips. “And would that be all the lady told you, then?”
David feigned a look of innocence. “Oh, so there is more, then? I thought there might be.”
Gant struggled to haul himself up a little against the pillows, pulling a face at the obvious effort it took. “You’ve my gratitude for doctoring me. And I’ll see you’re paid for your time and your effort. But the less you know of anything else, the better you are fo
r it.”
Suddenly impatient with him, David said, “I don’t doubt that for a moment. And I’d ask you to take that same tack with Rachel and her family.”
Gant frowned, and David went on. “Don’t bring any trouble down on these people. Things haven’t been easy for them as it is. If you’re who I think you are—if you’re up to what I suspect—for the sake of all that’s decent, keep your secrets to yourself. Don’t draw these good people into anything that will cause them harm.”
The other’s probing gaze unsettled David, but this man knew nothing of the sorrows Rachel and her family—and too many of the other Riverhaven families—had seen. Gant was a stranger, a total outsider who almost certainly wouldn’t care what the consequences of his intrusion into their lives might be.
But David cared.
Still, the Irishman’s tone sounded almost apologetic with his next words. “It wasn’t my intention to barge in on them as I did,” Gant said, his voice low. “I had no wits about me whatsoever at the time, and Asa mistook this place for—for another. My word on it. I have no intention of causing them trouble. None at all.”
“What you intend and what you could actually bring down on them might not be the same thing,” David snapped.
He glanced away, disliking himself for speaking as he had, especially to a patient. But he had to consider Rachel.
And Susan.
“You don’t look Amish, Doc.”
David turned back to him. “I’m not Amish.”
“Then what, you’re their guardian angel or something of the kind?”
David drew a long breath. “I’ve taken care of these people as their doctor for years. I’ve many friends among them. Naturally I care what happens to them.”
Gant raked him with a long, measuring look. “Do you own slaves, Doc?”
“What? No, I don’t own slaves. Ohio’s a free state, man. And I
expect you already knew that.”