His heart swelled into his throat. What if he opened the coffin and discovered he was too late?
Stella groaned. The ache in her head bore different qualities than her usual migraines. This time it felt as if someone had stuffed her skull with cotton and set it on fire. She reached to rub her temples, but rough wood grazed the back of her hand, limiting her movements.
Where was she? Gentle rocking lulled her into a sense of safety.
She swallowed past what felt like steel wool in her throat. Light shone before her eyes in dim stripes. The scent of fresh-cut lumber resurrected bits of memory. The cabin. Henry. Oh, how her head throbbed. Snippets of her run into the woods, her fall, flashed in her mind. Why had she run?
Dr. Hazzard with the cloth. “Eliminate! Eliminate!” Stella winced as she replayed the pounding of the doctor’s fists against her back. She sucked in a sharp breath.
“It’s time we eliminated the problem you’ve become.” The words echoed in her brain, adding strength to the pounding behind her eyes.
The coffin. Her heart climbed into her throat.
A creak and the steady movement stopped. The slam of a door.
She tried to scream, but her voice lay dormant in her lungs. Though she rammed her fists against the lid of the casket, her attempt at making her presence known sounded weak to her own ears. How would anyone find her?
And Henry. Was he alive or dead? She choked on a sob.
“You got the hole ready?” She’d never heard that voice before.
“That’s what you told me to do.” Rollie’s tone dripped with its usual sarcasm.
A hole? Stella’s heart clawed at her rib cage. They wouldn’t—they couldn’t—
The coffin lifted and jostled. She scratched the wood holding her prisoner. Splinters stabbed under her fingernails and warmth trickled down her wrists and dripped onto her cheek.
She dug into the depths of her soul and screamed Henry’s name. But could he hear her? Would anyone hear?
The tracks turned left onto a dirt path. Trees pressed in on either side as Henry wound into the heart of a forest. He poked his head out of the open window and scanned for any sign of the Butterworth’s vehicle. The rain had slowed to a drizzle.
Was he headed the right direction? The path looked deserted. If this proved to be nothing more than a hunter’s trail, precious time would be wasted. Time that could make the difference between Stella living or dying. If that old Buzzard and her murderous husband hadn’t killed her already. Maybe if he had been honest with Stella about the letters, about his feelings for her, things could have been different. She might have looked past his lowly position, defied her uncle, and shared happiness with him. Maybe she never would have heard of Linda Hazzard and her so-called clinic in the wilderness.
A scream ripped the air, sending birds flapping from the trees. The syllables of his name hung suspended. Stella. That had to be her. His pulse sped as he pressed hard on the starter. This was the right path. Stella was alive. Determination buzzed through his veins. He drove over a dip, and the motorcar lurched, sending up a spray of mud, but he didn’t slow his pace. She was running out of time, and he must find her.
Hold on a bit longer, Stella. I’m coming.
Somehow the claustrophobic pine box magnified the sound of shovels cutting damp earth above her. Stella shouted until her throat ached, alternating between Henry’s name and primal shrieks. How would anyone hear her when she lay in a box underground? The sickening thump of dirt hitting the coffin ushered a fresh wave of terror. She clawed her wood prison, not caring about the tiny slivers sending pain-filled warnings to her brain.
Thump.
Thump.
With each shovelful of dirt her chances of rescue shrank. She would die out here, and no one would find her. Fear sucked the oxygen from the space, and dirt seeped through the cracks, raining into her eyes and mouth.
She had feared dying alone in a cabin at Wilderness Heights, but with Rollie Burfield and some strange man burying her alive, her former fears sounded more like a happy dream. What she wouldn’t give to be back in her cabin. Margaret Conway might have taken her away once she convinced Dora that Dr. Hazzard meant to harm her as she had Claire. Why hadn’t she waited?
Because there were no guarantees Dora would ever be convinced.
And where was God in all this? Mama had said over and over that He cared, but where was the evidence of that?
The verse played through her mind to the steady beat of dirt hitting wood. “What is man, that thou art mindful of him? and the son of man, that thou visitest him?”
Stella was no better or worse than any other person, yet still, God thought of her. He was the same always. In her quest to break free of Dr. Hazzard, had she shifted her focus from God’s power again? He had commanded His children to stand still on the banks of the Red Sea, and they had seen a miracle that day. The same God who had parted the waters held her in the hollow of His hand. If God hadn’t changed, then the fault lay on her shoulders. Had she truly stood still or waited long enough to see God’s delivering power? No. She had seized every glimmer of opportunity, and her headstrong will had brought her to this point.
The sounds of shoveling muffled into silence. How far underground was she?
Now, trapped in a coffin beneath the dirt, she lay in a position with no other choice but to trust. Her breathing grew shallow. God saw her. He loved her. He hadn’t left, even though loneliness crushed her chest and the earth swallowed her whole.
God, I’m standing still. I have nowhere to look but to You. Help me.
Chapter Thirty-Three
The green automobile with yellow letters appeared in the clearing ahead. Henry killed the motor and stepped from the vehicle. Two men with shovels scooped dirt from a pile. The older man whistled in a tone-deaf manner.
Stella’s scream had faded into memory, followed by sickening silence. Had they killed her then buried her in the middle of the forest?
He blinked away the sting in his eyes. Thoughts like that would only slow him down. If Stella still breathed, she needed him to keep a cool head.
Henry padded closer on the balls of his feet. The element of surprise might be his only weapon. As he approached, he scanned the scene. Both men were strangers, probably Butterworth’s employees. Were they in on Linda Hazzard’s scheme somehow? A pile of shovels in the back of the Butterworth’s auto drew his attention. He wasn’t completely unarmed.
Once at the vehicle, he gripped a shovel. How could he hope to disarm both men? He crouched near the front of the motorcar, waiting for the moment to strike.
“Where’s the water jug?” The younger man swiped a sleeve across his brow, leaving a dirty streak.
The older man paused his whistled tune. “In the back.” He scooped another shovelful of dirt and resumed the mournful melody.
The young man strode toward Henry, and he gripped the shovel’s handle. This was it. When the gravedigger rounded the automobile, Henry stood and raised the shovel. The stranger’s eyes widened and he opened his mouth, but Henry brought the blade down hard before he could alert his accomplice. The man crumpled to the ground, blood trickling from a cut on his forehead.
Henry darted a glance at the other digger. So engrossed in the steady rhythm of his work and the tune on his lips, he didn’t lift his head at the thud of his comrade hitting the ground.
The man lifted a hand toward Henry, not bothering to cast a look his way. “Bring the jug here when you’re done with it,” he hollered from his spot at the edge of the grave.
Henry stepped beside the man, shovel ready to swing.
The digger glanced up, meeting his gaze. “Who are you?” His eyes widened and his nostrils flared.
Henry swung, but the man dodged the blow and countered with one of his own. His shovel’s tapered blade connected with Henry’s head, filling his mouth with grit, but the force wasn’t strong enough to topple him.
Henry fought back with another blow, and while metal struck skul
l, his opponent remained upright. Sweat dripped into Henry’s eyes, but he didn’t bother to wipe it away. He rammed the shovel into the gravedigger’s gut, and the man let out an oof.
The digger growled, tossed his shovel aside, and lunged at Henry, barreling into his middle. The momentum sent Henry sprawling flat on his back and knocked the air from his lungs.
While he gasped for oxygen, the man loomed over him and landed a solid punch to Henry’s jaw. Stars exploded across Henry’s vision.
Why had the Hazzards employed such a behemoth? If only this one had been as easily bested as the young man by the motorcar. Another blow to the nose, and Henry tasted blood. He spat on the dirt.
He cut a glance to the freshly turned earth. Stella might still be alive, but every minute stole a bit more of her air supply. God, help me. If Henry didn’t reach her soon, she’d surely die.
He couldn’t let that happen while he still breathed.
With a primal growl, Henry fought back. Springing to his feet then swinging his fists, he connected with the man’s jaw. The stranger took a wobbly step backward. The shovel the younger man had discarded stood propped in a pile of dirt. If only Henry could reach it—
He closed in on the gravedigger and landed another strike with his left hand.
The man stumbled then fell to the ground.
Henry grappled for the shovel.
Scrambling, the man pushed up on his hands and knees.
Shovel clenched in his palms, Henry raised it above his head.
The man stood, clenched his fists, and dove headfirst for Henry.
Henry brought the shovel down on the back of his head, and the gravedigger collapsed.
Ragged breaths burned Henry’s chest, but he didn’t have time to catch his bearings. How long could Stella hold her breath? What if they’d already killed her? He fought the terror building in his chest like storm clouds.
He drove the shovel into the dirt. With each scoop, he prayed.
Stella couldn’t be dead. Wouldn’t he feel something if she were no longer counted among the living? Some profound sense of loss? Urgency drove him forward. Something trickled from his nose, and he swiped it away with a fist. The back of his hand came away red.
The shovel hit wood. His heart rose into his throat, and he dropped to the ground, reaching his arms into the hole. A brush of his hand over the lid removed stray dirt.
He closed his eyes and breathed a prayer. What would he find inside? The prospect of Stella’s lifeless form tempted him to wait a moment longer. But if she was alive—
He pulled on the lid. Something held it fast. With his heart throbbing in his throat, he pawed at the dirt surrounding the casket, ignoring the pain in his shredded wrists. When he’d cleared enough space, he jumped into the grave and tugged on the lid. Wood creaked as the board lifted. Stella lay thin and frail. Dirt peppered her face and nightgown. Her eyes were closed, and she didn’t stir. Up close, the hollows in her cheeks reminded him of a skeleton. How could the Buzzard have been so cruel to someone as full of life as Stella?
“Stella.” He stroked her cheek with his thumb. “Wake up. Please wake up.”
Nothing.
Other than the emaciated state of her body, no marking spoke of a brutal attack. Had she run out of air? Suffocated? Tears bit his eyes. His throat thickened. He was too late.
He gathered her close, dusting the earth from her cheeks. Face buried against her hair, he whispered in her ear. “I wanted to tell you I was sorry—I am sorry.” His voice tripped over a sob. “For so many things. I lied to you. Pretended to be someone I wasn’t, and if you would have found out, it would have hurt you. I never meant for that to happen. I had hoped you would believe me when I said I’d do anything to keep from causing you pain. Because I love you.”
His muscles stilled. Faint breaths leaked against his neck. She was alive. His nerves hummed. She needed a doctor. He lifted her out of the coffin and climbed out of the grave. She was fragile as spun glass and felt nearly weightless in his arms.
He passed the two gravediggers on his trek to the motorcar. Both lay motionless. He’d get Stella to a hospital and send the police to arrest these men for attempting to kill her.
When he opened the back door, Stella stirred. A low groan. Her eyelids fluttered. Then she squinted to focus on him. A weak smile tugged one corner of her lips. “Henry.”
Though her voice was thick and scratchy, never had his name sounded more melodious. “My darling.” He laid her on the bench seat. “You’re alive. I wasn’t sure. I—”
“I love you,” she rasped, and her words stopped him cold. He couldn’t have heard her correctly. Pleasing her uncle meant everything to her, and such a declaration would bring his wrath on her head. “Aren’t you going to say anything?” Her eyes clouded, and her tongue trailed over cracked lips.
His chest tightened. She still didn’t know the truth, and if she did, her feelings for him might change. “You’re overwrought.” He brushed her hair out of her eyes. “I’m taking you to a hospital. Once we’ve got you on the mend and you’ve had a chat with the police, I’ll get you home.”
A tear slipped from the corner of her eye and dropped onto the leather seat. He resisted the urge to kiss her forehead. Once she learned about the letters he’d written, about the part he’d feigned, she’d never want to see him again.
But for now, she was safe, and that was all that mattered.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Stella plucked at the white sheet. The hospital bed felt like heaven after three long weeks at Wilderness Heights, but a weight had settled on her chest and no amount of counting her blessings or thinking of others would lift it. She’d told Henry she loved him, and he hadn’t said anything. Her throat prickled.
Of course, she’d grown up with her every whim fulfilled. But Henry was an independent man with a mind and wishes of his own. She couldn’t expect him to fall at her feet just because she’d spilled her heart. She squared her shoulders. He didn’t feel the same, and she ought to respect it. Still, the sting of rejection jabbed between her ribs with every breath.
How would she face him again, knowing she’d shared a part of herself with him, and he’d tossed it aside like yesterday’s garbage? But she had to face him eventually. How else would she get home? She could buy a train ticket to be sure, but that would take twice as long. And in the state she was in, she needed Jane’s arms around her and her soothing voice to assure her that all would be well in the end. Even though Jane would disapprove of Stella’s feelings for Henry, she’d understand and help her through the heartache.
If only it would have worked out. Her plans to grow the business after her birthday would keep the company running, hopefully with even more profit. Her employees would have no complaints. In fact, they would thrive once her ideas were enacted. Then she could have married Henry without fear of failing the men and women who counted on her to make wise financial decisions. But Henry didn’t want to marry her. He didn’t love her at all. If she hadn’t convinced him to bring her here under false pretenses, maybe he could have found a way to care for her. But as the matter stood, not even her fortune could entice him to pretend he cared.
Most men would pledge their lives to her inheritance. Not Henry. Grief squeezed Stella’s heart. He was a good man. The best. Not even the promise of wealth could tempt him to be anything less than honorable.
Rustling in the doorway summoned her away from the gloom in her mind. A man in a tweed suit strode in, and Margaret Conway followed. The Australian woman rushed to her bedside and took her hand. “When your young man alerted the police about Wilderness Heights, I came straightaway. This is Detective Martin. You can tell him everything. Dr. Hazzard must pay for all the harm she’s done.”
Stella nodded and glanced at Detective Martin. His jaw was rigid as he sank into a chair beside her bed. He crossed one leg over the other and leaned back as if he had all the time on earth to discuss Starvation Heights and the woman who had wanted her dead.
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When Stella glanced up, Henry leaned against the doorframe. Bandages bound his wrists. She turned her eyes on the detective, avoiding Henry’s gaze. She would’ve liked to ask Henry to wait in the hallway or the visitors’ lounge, but after he had risked his life to save her, that wouldn’t be fair.
“Now, Miss Burke.” The detective pulled a notepad from his pocket. “Why don’t you start at the beginning?”
As he drove toward San Francisco, Henry replayed Stella’s interview with Detective Martin, and his gut twisted. Poor Stella had seen unspeakable things. And she’d insisted on staying in Seattle until her friend Tilda was safely away from Starvation Heights. How Stella could harbor so much concern for the woman who had shared her plan of escape with Sam Hazzard eluded him. Though he’d seen sparks of empathy and selflessness in Stella before the ordeal, he’d never dreamed the depth of character she possessed.
He swallowed, but it did nothing to alleviate the lump in his throat. She loved him. Or at least, she loved the person she thought him to be, honest and brave. He had to tell her about the letters, but the right moment hadn’t presented itself. After all she had suffered, admitting his falsehood would only add to her burden. Her soft snores from the back seat tore at him. She’d been through so much, and he couldn’t withhold his secret forever. How he detested the thought of making matters worse.
He passed a mile marker. In half an hour they’d be home. His grip tightened on the wheel. To be more accurate, Stella would be home. He’d be sent to jail for stealing Weston’s automobile. His conscience smote him. He’d done what he had to do for Stella, but what would happen to Robby, Rose, and Daisy if he went to prison for auto theft?
They would be sent back to the children’s home, even though they hated it. Would they find another chance to run? Go back to stealing bread? Perhaps Jane would see to their welfare. But with Stella home, her job would return to its normal demands.
The Purple Nightgown Page 23