by Jo Robertson
Meghan eased past him, but stopped at the door. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Nolan. I did not mean to intrude on your privacy."
He grabbed her upper arm in a brutal grip that would leave bruises on the morrow as he pinched the tender flesh with his huge hand. For the second time today she'd been manhandled by a seriously disturbed man.
"Do not cross me, Miss Bailey." His voice was a bare whisper and when Meghan looked up at him, she saw pure hatred in his pale cold eyes. "If you do, you'll live to regret it."
Meghan jerked away and fled to the foyer.
At that moment young Emily skipped down the stairs. "Are you leaving, Miss Bailey?" As soon as she saw her father, the girl clamped a hand over her mouth as if she'd spoken too loudly or out of turn.
Mr. Nolan stared at his daughter with narrowed eyes. "Go upstairs, Emily," he said with ugly menace in his voice.
The girl's eyes widened and she stepped backward until her heels clunked against the bottom stair step. She turned around and raced up the stairs as if a demon were chasing her.
When Meghan saw the fury in Mr. Nolan's face, she could believe Emily had good reason to fear her father.
#
By four o'clock in the afternoon, Gage had checked every place he could think of and found no one who'd spoken to Meghan or seen her that day. By the time early evening descended on Tuscarora City, an irrational and paralyzing fear gripped him.
Where had Bailey disappeared to? Who was she with?
Shortly before five he reached for the voice amplifier in the corner of his office. He'd have to make a general announcement to the town, send out a search party. She'd been gone nearly the entire day and even thoughtless Bailey wouldn't worry her father so.
As he reached the top of the stairs, Bailey strolled into the outer doors of the building as casually as if she hadn't a care in the world. To her credit, she put a soulful expression on her face as she climbed the stairs. "Sorry I'm late, Gage."
She walked straight into his office, ignoring the glower he aimed at her, and collapsed into the guest chair with a loud sigh. "You wouldn't believe what a difficult day it's been."
She removed her hat and patted ineffectually at the straggly strands of coal that crossed her brow and curled around her ears.
Gage wanted to shake her. He wanted to throttle her. He wanted to gather her in his arms and run his hands over her small body to assure himself she was all right.
Instead he blinked furiously at her, too angry to speak, too afraid of his violent feelings to chastise her. He inhaled slow deep breaths and expelled them in agitation.
"You are not a little late, Bailey," he ground out through gritted teeth. "You're nearly an entire day late. And – "
"Don't be silly," she interrupted and then frowned, looking at the clock. She blinked those absurdly long sooty lashes as if she read the time wrong. "Surely not an entire day," she protested uncertainly.
"And," he continued pointedly, "your father and I have had half the town looking for you."
This was an exaggeration, but his voice remained level, and he credited himself that he didn't manhandle her violently in order to make her realize what she'd done. How afraid they'd been for her safety.
She stood now, looking a little shaky, but still unrepentant. "I'm sorry if I caused Papa to worry. Where is he?"
"At home. Waiting for you to return."
He rose and firmly held her upper arm as he ushered her out the office door and down the Station House steps. He noticed her wince as she tried to pull away from him.
"I'll return in an hour," he barked at the duty sergeant.
After they'd settled in the gig, he turned to her. "What's wrong with your arm?"
"Nothing," she muttered and rubbed her arms through the thickness of her coat.
Gage decided silence was the safest route to take as he drove his gig to the Bailey house. Meghan sat quietly beside him the entire way, alternately fidgeting with the handle on her purse and rubbing her arm.
She'd injured herself, he thought, longing to find out how, but not daring to speak lest his temper take over.
When they arrived, Dr. Bailey rushed out to greet them, apparently watching from the window. He assisted his daughter down from the gig before Gage could steady the reins.
Bailey threw herself into her father's arms. "Oh, Papa," she cried, "I'm so sorry. I didn't think – I didn't know you'd worry about me."
He held her tightly, patted her hair, and when he spoke, his voice quavered. "You mustn't run off like that, Meggie, when the whole town's looking for a murderer and imagining the worst." He caught Gage's eye over her shoulder. "We searched everywhere for you."
"I went to the schoolhouse and then to visit the Nolans again. The time passed so quickly."
"Thank you for bringing her home, Tucker," Dr. Bailey said as he led her toward the porch.
Gage nodded curtly, but remained at the edge of the lawn long moments after Meghan's father took her inside. His hands still shook so he shoved them into his pockets.
Damn, Bailey. He'd thought – he'd imagined, damn her – that she was grievously hurt or, worse, dead. He slammed into the gig and startled the horse by using the whip for the first time since he'd owned it.
Chapter 23
After a long talk with her father, Meghan retired to her room, threw herself on her bed, and cried like a baby. Remorse and shame so deep she couldn't breathe clutched at her lungs, and the weight of unshed tears nearly burst her head. And for Gage to have been witness to it all!
How could she have been so careless? She hadn't given a thought to the whittling away of time, to the fact she'd been alone all day and hadn't seen her father since last night. Had galloped off like a foolish child, intent on her own purpose, without a care for those who loved her. Who worried over her.
She'd made peace with her father, and good-hearted man that he was, he forgave her impetuosity. Next she needed to speak with Gage. Tomorrow, first thing, she'd see him. Although the words of contrition came painfully for her, she'd apologize. Her damned pride, she thought, frequently got in the way, but she'd tell Gage she was sorry, for she truly was.
Gage. Tucker. She tasted the warmth of his name on her tongue. She'd never seen him so frantic, so ... unsettled. The blush of shame swept through her body.
Finally exhausted from crying, she asked Abby to draw a bath and sunk into the hot, fragrant warmth of the water. She dressed in nightclothes and fell into bed, flushed and warm, anticipating an immediate fall into deep sleep.
Nearly two hours later, however, she stared at the wainscoting, the frescoes, the paintings, all the lovely decorations of her bedroom. Sleep seemed a desert mirage that shimmered tantalizingly in the distance but which she never reached.
Throwing back the coverlet, she fetched her robe and crept through the quiet house. She wouldn't sleep, she knew, until she'd given Gage her apology. Until she'd groveled at his feet and begged him his forgiveness, she thought wryly, positive Tucker would exact no less remuneration for the worry she'd caused him.
The clock in the parlor chimed midnight. Her father was long abed, Clara gone home to her own family, and Abby asleep in her small room at the back of the kitchen. Meghan thought of rousing the girl to accompany her, but quickly discarded the notion. Abby would heartily disapprove of Meghan's intention.
She'd leave a note this time, on the off chance that she didn't return before her father realized she'd left. A tiny squiggle of guilt ran through her.
She didn't wish to add more white hairs to her father's shaggy head, but the urgent need to reconcile with Gage plagued her. She'd never been able to bear his cold disapproval of her, wanted his forgiveness no matter the cost.
She dressed according in a cast-off pair of her father's trousers, a thick warm coat, and her hair pinned beneath a cap one of her students had left behind in the classroom. Even if she were seen, no one would recognize her dressed as she was.
Creeping from her room, she heard her father's l
ight snoring as it sounded down the corridor. She stole from the house and wheeled the bicycle from the shed. She didn't often ride the machine. Although it was good exercise, she found her cumbersome skirts tangled in the wheels.
But tonight the bicycle served its purpose. She supposed she ought to be afraid to ride the streets so late at night when, supposedly, a murderer roamed loose, but instead she felt a wild sense of adventure.
She met not a solitary soul as she biked along the river. Main Street was locked up quiet and dark for the night, the only noise the faint sounds emanating from the tavern at the far end of the street.
By the time she arrived at Mrs. Church's Boarding House, her enthusiasm waned as she realized gaining ingress would be difficult. The place was tightly boarded up and the residents along abed.
She hid the bike by the side of the house where Mrs. Church's garden flourished, then stepped across the road to examine the windows at the front of the building. All were dark except for one where a solitary lamp – she could tell from the small glow – burned near the window at the end of the second floor.
That was Gage's room. He'd once pointed out the window to her, mentioning his view overlooked Main Street. The burning light so late at night could mean only one thing. He was in his room and was still awake.
Suddenly her palms felt sweaty. She wiped them on her pants. The idea of knocking on a single man's door pumped a strange kind of thrill, tinged with apprehension, through her blood.
Deciding directness was the best course of action, she crossed the street and climbed the short porch to the landing. She rattled the door handle. Locked.
She tiptoed the length of the porch which ran around to the left side of the house. If she remembered correctly, a side door opened directly into the kitchen. Yes, there it was.
She tested the knob and was pleasantly surprised when it gave way beneath her hand. Mrs. Church apparently had no fears of would-be murderers roaming the streets of Tuscarora.
Breathing deeply to calm her jagged nerves, she stepped back into the shadows. She looked around for a moment to assure herself she was alone. The night was as dark as pitch and her ragged breath resounded like bellows in the stillness.
The enormity of what she was about to do overwhelmed her. The consequences of her actions would be far reaching and irreclaimable. But only if she were found out, a small daring voice whispered in her ear.
If she were caught here, at an unmarried man's residence, she'd be disgraced. Even if she were discovered inside the kitchen of Mrs. Church's Boarding House, she'd be hard put to explain her presence in the middle of the night.
She was quite sure she was breaking some kind of law.
But only if she were caught.
She inhaled a deep, shaky breath and blew it out slowly before reaching for the knob again. A noise, so faint she hardly believed she heard it, sounded to her left. She froze, pressed her body against the clapboard siding.
Several agonizing moments passed while she clung to the side of the house, not daring to move, terrified of being discovered. Her mind raced with excuses, stories she might spin to explain why she was here, dressed like a boy, in the dead of the night.
Good God, why was she so impetuous?
Gradually, she made out the indistinct shadow of a figure hovering among the branches of the oak trees that flanked the boarding house. She couldn't tell if it were a man or woman and strained to see more clearly.
As she waited for the form to morph into a definite shape, it stood fixed, almost as though a person were watching her. Waiting for her to move and reveal herself.
She thought of her unfortunate encounter with Reverend Jolly this morning, of his dignified drunkenness. Was it possible that he'd been imbibing again, wandering the woods close to Main Street?
She remembered the nasty encounter with Mr. Nolan, the dangerous hatred in his eyes. She didn't want to cross paths with him again.
Endless moments passed as her feet grew icy in the borrowed boots and her fingers froze because she'd yet again forgotten her gloves. Finally, on the point of giving up and running like the devil toward any sort of safety, she blinked once and the shadow melded into the surrounding shades.
Had the person gone? She strained to see any sort of shape among the gray and black shades of the woods. Nothing. Had trepidation merely conjured someone there?
Her imagination playing tricks on her, she decided at last, and damned if she'd leave without doing what she'd come here for. Twisting the knob, she gave a gentle push and crept into the interior of the kitchen.
The spacious room gleamed in the light from the moon, the counters and large stove spotless. Pans dangled from overhead a large working counter around which Meg crept to the door.
The stairs lay to the right, the dining area to the left. Testing each step carefully for squeaks, Meg made her way to the top of the stairs and oriented herself. To the right again, she believed, at the end of the long carpeted corridor. It was the only room at that end of the hall.
The wooden door shone with careful polishing. Mrs. Church kept a clean and respectable boarding house. More guilt shot through Meghan at the import of her daring venture. More than her reputation would be damaged if she were discovered tonight.
On cautious toes she slipped down the hall. At Gage's door she raised her fist to knock. She hesitated. What if she'd calculated incorrectly? What if this door belonged to another lodger? She lowered her hand and glanced downward.
No light escaped from beneath the door. Had Gage retired in the time she'd taken to enter and climb the stairs? She crouched down to listen through the door for signs of movement.
In doing so, she noticed a tip of white shoved nearly beneath the door. What was it? She hadn't a thought of invading Gage's privacy. Curiosity prevailed.
She stooped to pick up the paper and straightened again as a noise sounded from downstairs. Horrified, she clambered down the steps much more noisily than she'd ascended and sped out the kitchen door.
As she fled, from the corner of her eye she could've sworn she saw a shadowy figure. Had someone seen her enter earlier?
Not waiting for the truth of the matter, she scrambled for the bicycle and pedaled swiftly home. She lost the cap on the way, her hair pins loosened, and her hair flew behind her like wild streamers in the breeze.
#
"Why must you always quarrel with me, Gage? You'd think I was a younger sister, a veritable nuisance who'd given you nothing but a world of trouble."
A world of trouble, yes, Gage thought. A sister, most definitely not. That was his dilemma.
Bailey had approached him as he emerged from the boarding house early this morning. She wanted to apologize, she explained, and she looked so abject and sincere he nearly forgot the hell she'd put him, and her father, through yesterday.
He'd expected her to be sorry for her heedless actions, for he'd never known her to be deliberately cruel. Impetuous, careless, yes, but she never knowingly hurt others. For all her outward abrasiveness, Bailey had the most tender of hearts.
Today she appeared more repentant than warranted. And deep in serious concentration, he thought. He shot a glance at her while she appeared to screw up her courage to say something more.
The two of them walked along the Pasquotank River toward the Narrows in a rare moment of leisure. Gage was still waiting for the laboratory report on the blood found on the purported murder weapon. Bailey claimed she intended to relax during the few days she had before the Christmas holiday ended.
And yet she fiddled with her purse and worried her bottom lip with perfectly beautiful teeth. Not relaxed at all, he mused.
They made their way to the squat, neatly painted gazebo which sat at the edge of the river and overlooked the dark blue waters. There they could sit on the wooden benches and talk of her intemperate visits and she would apologize further.
Today the area was empty, a rare occasion, but the day was windy and blustery and this close to the river, one felt al
most as if the Atlantic's iciness seeped all the way from the ocean to the fingers of the Outer Banks.
Bailey hugged herself tightly. She'd forgotten her gloves again, Gage noted. Her head, too, was uncovered and he imagined she felt nearly frozen.
He thought briefly of letting her suffer as a lesson for her negligence, but she looked so miserable he instead pulled his scarf from around his coat collar and draped it about her neck several times, piling it up under her cold-tipped chin and chaffed cheeks. Her pert nose had the look of a snowman, red as a button, and her eyes had begun to water from the frosty air.
"Good grief, Bailey, must someone dress you each morning to assure you're properly attired when you venture out of doors?" he asked in humorous frustration.
His fingers lingered at her covered throat, less than an inch from the smooth, clean line of her jaw. Almost against his will, his knuckles brushed across her chin. He'd intended to pretend he was giving her a gentle knock of reprimand, but found himself smoothing the back of his fingers upward, over her chapped cheeks to hover around one small, perfectly shaped ear.
He drew his hand back as if burned. Christ, this was Bailey whom he'd known since she was a baby! The infant he'd rocked in a cradle when he was nine or ten, so mesmerized by the tiny perfection of her that he'd made a complete nuisance of himself around the Bailey household.
She was the little girl he'd carried around on his shoulders when he was twelve and she a miniature two-year-old terror. He'd cradled her like a baby when her mother died when she was four. Hugged her like a lost and forlorn soul when she'd locked herself out of the house during the hurricane season right before he left for West Point.
He'd loved her like a younger sister and watched her grow up to behave sometimes rashly, but demonstrate a more clever mind than most men. Then he'd left and forgotten all about her.
Of course, he had. He was a young man with a fine destiny ahead of him – West Point, and then the Army.
The Battle of Sugar Hill had changed everything for him.