Finding the Runaway (Keepers of the Light Book 4)

by C. T. Worth

  Finding the Runaway

  By

  C.T. Worth

  Keepers of the Light Series, Book #3

  Copyright © 2020 Cinnamon Worth

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without written permission of the author, Cinnamon Worth, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Disclaimer

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are the product of the author’s imagination. While the author has tried to be historically correct, her goals in this book are great characters and storytelling. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales, is purely coincidental.

  Dedicated to my dear sister Anne. I’m very lucky to have you in my life. It seems fitting to dedicate the ninth book to you.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Other Works by Cinnamon Worth

  Author’s Notes

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Henry Forester stood on his back porch, his favorite brand of cigar in hand, and watched as the bits of sky peeking out from behind the trees burst into vibrant colors while the sun touched the horizon. It was a warm evening. The orioles were calling to each other filling the air with a sense of life. He closed his eyes, allowing himself to indulge in the serenity. But, as it frequently is, the peace was short-lived. The spell was broken by the sound of a pair of boots approaching. One of his guests had arrived, and there was no mistaking which one.

  “Evening, Troy.”

  “Evening, Mr. Forester.”

  Henry turned toward the younger man whose stiff posture provided him with ample evidence that the boy had something he needed to get off his chest.

  “Bethany’s just run down to Densley’s, but she’ll be back shortly,” Henry said.

  “I was actually hoping to catch a word with you alone,” Troy replied.

  Henry motioned to a pair of seats before crossing the verandah. “What’s on your mind, son?” He settled into a seat and waited for Troy Spencer to get comfortable.

  Troy sat down and crossed one leg over the other. Apparently dissatisfied with this pose, he repositioned himself. With both feet firmly planted on the floor, he leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “Sir, I don't mean to tell you who you can invite to your home, but it doesn't sit right with me having a Johnny Reb sleeping down the hall from Bethany.”

  “It’s only temporary — till he gets settled. And what’s done is done.” Henry didn’t need to hear more to know that Troy’s true concern had less to do with the man’s roots and more to do with his marital status.

  “But you don't know anything about him,” Troy protested.

  “I know he’s got a boy of seven. That is just two years older than my Bethany was when we lost her mother. I know how hard it is trying to pull the pieces of your life together after something like that, and out here — where we’re so cut off from everything — well, sometimes, a man needs a helping hand.”

  “No disrespect, but I’ve known you all my life, Mr. Forester, and those words are not ones I’d expect to hear coming from you.”

  It was a stinging observation, but it brought a smile to Henry’s lips. If he had any doubts that this boy could manage his daughter, they had just been put to rest. “Well, my little girl is going to be leaving me soon, and it's got me to thinking. A man needs something or someone to make his life meaningful. Maybe I’ve been a bit of a hypocrite over the years — what with believing myself to be a Christian but not acting like one.” He stood and reached into his pocket.

  Troy nodded slowly. “Is that why you decided to donate to the orphanage?”

  “Partly, although, I also knew it would please my Bethany.” He stopped and gave Troy Spencer a long, hard look. “I haven't done enough to bring that girl happiness in her life. I hope the next man who watches over her doesn't make the same mistake.”

  Henry withdrew his watch and checked the time. The freight wagon must have arrived in Astoria by now. They would probably be staying the night in the city, considering how hard it would be to find a driver who could take them the rest of the way to Spruce Hill. He should let Jane know she needn't make up the rooms tonight.

  With irritation, Troy protested yet again. “Why would a college man be coming out here to take over for Wernicke unless he’s hiding something?”

  Henry shrugged. “Sometimes a man sees things so horrible, he needs a fresh start.” He walked toward the door and called over his shoulder, “You’re welcome to stay for dinner if you like. I’m going to find Jane.” As he entered the house, Henry silently prayed his newest house guest was a plain, sturdy fellow — or, at the very least, that he had a war scar marring his face. Such a thing would aid greatly in easing his future son-in-law’s over-anxious mind.

  ***

  The cart pulled into Spruce Hill and came to a stop.

  The driver looked over his shoulder, “We’re here.”

  The sun had set not ten minutes earlier, and they had avoided the need to use lanterns for a protracted period. It was a small blessing in an otherwise difficult journey. For Hunter Winfield, this had been a trying day. He glanced down and gently lifted his son’s head off his lap. Leland had fallen asleep. He didn’t want to risk lifting the boy until he’d secured lodging.

  “Mind if I leave him here for a few minutes?”

  “Can’t see why not,” the driver responded as he hopped to the ground and began unhitching the horse.

  Hunter climbed out the back and stretched. In the distance, he could hear the sounds of the sea crashing against the earth in an infernal battle to wash it clean. He turned and saw what had to be the lighthouse at Lookout Rock. Forster had mentioned it in his letters. Wisps of light curled away from the ocean, accounting for his ability to see what little he could. Still, he wished they had reached town when it was still light enough to properly take stock of his surroundings. The war had made him leery of new environments, and the darkness only heightened his anxiety. “Does this town have a hotel?”

  Pausing in his work, the young man turned toward him. “Yep. But didn’t you say you’d be staying with the Foresters?”

  Hunter nodded.

  “Everyone knows they own that big house just up the road. I can drop you there.”

  Hunter was weary and not in the best of moods. Instinct told him to wait until he was refreshed and cleaned before meeting his new employer for the first time. “If you don’t mind, you can drop our things off in front of the house. But to be honest, I’d rather not disturb them at this hour.”

  The driver resumed his work, and with a nod of the head, said, “Head that way, and it’ll be on your left.”

  “Mind if I take one of these?” Hunter asked, lifting one of the lanterns from the hook protruding from the cart.

  “Nope.”

  Hunter walked away, grateful that the driver wasn't the talkative type. While not being one to enjoy being left alone with his thoughts, he’d take that over idle conversation any day. T
he Noble Hotel came into view on his left. As soon as he stepped through the door, a cozy warmth greeted him, and he breathed in the delicious scent of baking fruit pies. Tempting as it was to investigate the source of that aroma, the notion of sleeping in a bed again was even more enticing.

  “Well, hello there. You must be Mr. Winfield. I was told you’d be coming today.” A woman holding a candle approached. “My name is Hilde Portly.”

  She reached out her hand as if she expected him to shake it. He looked at it and was unable to stop himself from thinking of her. Mildred would never have offered her hand in this manner to a man she had just met. He reached out — accepting the unusually friendly greeting.

  Mrs. Portly stood still, apparently waiting for something before finally clearing her throat and saying, “I was told you would be bringing a child?”

  “I left him sleeping. I’ll bring him in once we have a room.”

  Mrs. Portly’s lips pulled into a tight line, and she pulled her shoulders back. “This way,” she said with far less enthusiasm.

  Before the war, he had been the very picture of the charming Southern gentleman. His younger self would have been very disturbed by his hostess's swift change in demeanor and even more appalled by his own lack of manners. But losing your home, family, friends, and way of life can cause a man to lose himself, and Hunter Winfield was no exception.

  The room he was shown to was small and sparsely furnished. There was nothing to distinguish it from the many other accommodations he had occupied since crossing the Mississippi. While some travelers might bemoan the sacrifice of comforts the West had to offer, Hunter appreciated that he was no longer likely to encounter the grandeur and opulence of his youth. These people had nothing. That should make it easier to avoid holding them responsible for robbing him of everything and everyone he loved. But even if the West was filled with rich Yankees, it was decidedly short on unattached females. And that was a virtue that Hunter would never again discount.

  He set his hat down on the bed and walked back to the cart to collect Leland. As he lifted the child, the boy stirred and tried to open his eyes, but fatigue won out over curiosity and his body quickly went limp. Hunter buried his head in his son’s curls and held him tight. This child was the only thing that still mattered. He had to find a way to move on. Tomorrow he would be the father he needed to be; they would begin their new life. But for now, he would allow himself to touch the soft curls so much like the child’s mother’s, and he would indulge in his memories.

  Chapter 2

  Lily Alderman stood on the deck watching the waves lick the side of the boat. The port had come into view, and that meant her plan had run its course. A heavy lump settled in her stomach. She could feel her heartbeat pounding against her ribcage.

  Stay calm. Nothing can be gained by panicking. Despite the wisdom of these words, her mind had not settled the matter. And why should I listen to my own advice? Last time I did that, I wound up here.

  Her knuckles grew white as her grasp of the railing tightened.

  “Will you require assistance with your luggage, miss?”

  I need assistance with my life. She smiled weakly and nodded at the porter.

  Forty minutes later, she sat on top of her trunk on the edge of a wooden dock. She could not name the town, for she was lost in this strange place with absolutely no clue where to go or what to do next.

  A smattering of fishermen hurried about conducting their business. At first, a few had approached her and asked if she needed help. Now she was just another part of the scenery, attracting about as much notice as one of the wooden pilings behind her.

  “Angus, why don't you join me at Mallory’s for a drink?” A weathered old man asked in a scratchy voice. These people were far more rough than she was accustomed to, but she could tell they were good-natured.

  “Sorry, Jack. I can’t. I need to head down to Spruce Hill. It's crab season — gotta check the traps.”

  Jack chuckled and patted Angus on the shoulder. “Don’t go saying that too loud. My Molly hears ya, and you might find yourself with a stowaway.”

  Angus stood up straight and rubbed his beard. “Why’s she interested in Spruce Hill? Does she have her eye on one of the lumberjacks?”

  “No. She’s keen on Tim, the reverend’s son. But if it weren't for that boy, she might leave me and her mother to live there. Says it's so far from everything else, it's like its own little world. And because there’s so few women, they all treat her like she's the queen.”

  “Well, the crabs certainly like it.” Angus bent back down and continued to fiddle with his equipment, while Jack walked toward town whistling.

  Lily needed to get as far away as possible. She wouldn't be safe until she was somewhere she knew they’d never find her. She thought for five minutes on the matter before standing up and crossing to Angus.

  “Sir, I happened to overhear you are going to Spruce Hill. I myself am going there and was hoping you might be willing to drop me off.”

  Angus scanned her. A look of amusement passed over his features but was quickly hidden. He pointed toward the end of the dock. “That there is my boat. As you can see, it’s just for fishing. I don't have one of those fancy steamships.”

  The boat was indeed far smaller than she had expected. It was not a vessel designed for long adventures out at sea. Angus must make his living fishing locally.

  Lily swallowed her doubt and trepidation. “It looks marvelously comfortable, and if you would take me, I would be eternally grateful.”

  He covered his mouth, clearly attempting to stifle a laugh.

  “I…I can pay you,” she added hastily.

  “Eternally grateful?” he asked, his eyes twinkling. “Alright then…if it means that much to you.” He snorted, shook his head, and said, “But I won’t be dropping you off at the docks. I ain’t paying no fee to use those berths.”

  Her forehead creased with concern. “Then how am I to get to land?”

  “There is a little beach, with a path that will take you into town. I can take you there with my dinghy. But whoever you are meeting will need to get you the rest of the way.”

  Lily rewarded the man with a dazzling smile.

  “Go on… get your things.”

  Lily looked back at her sturdy wooden chest.

  “Alright, just go make yourself ‘marvelously comfortable’ and I’ll load your trunk.”

  She exhaled and smiled brightly. “Thank you.” She took several steps toward his boat before turning back. “How long did you say the journey to Spruce Hill will be?”

  Angus laughed. “I didn’t. But it's a good five hours.” He dropped his head back down and shook it several times before resuming his work.

  She wasn't sure what she had been expecting but it had certainly not been five hours. She said a little prayer that the water wasn't too choppy and tried to consider the bright side. At least she now had five hours to figure out her next step.

  ***

  “Daddy?”

  Leland must be having one of his nightmares. Hunter lifted his tired eyes. His mind raced to keep up with his body. He reminded himself he was in Spruce Hill — at The Noble. A pale morning glow had filled the room, and the only explanation was that it was already morning.

  “Daddy? I’m hungry. Can we get breakfast?”

  Hunter’s eyes lids fell back down, but he nodded his head against the pillow. “Yes, just give me ten more minutes, buddy.”

  Leland’s small hands pushed against his arm. “But I’m hungry, and I’ve already been waiting forever.”

  With a groan, he rolled onto his side and pulled his body into a sitting position. His muscles, stiff from the prior day’s long ride in the back of a cart, protested. Leland appeared to have no such issue. If anything, the boy needed to expend some energy.

  Hunter placed a hand on his son’s head and tousled his hair. “Why don’t you go outside and have a look around while I get ready? I’ll come find you.”

  Wi
th wide eyes, the child nodded, then bolted from the room. As the door shut, Hunter smiled. He had wanted to give his son the freedom he’d had as a child. Growing up on a large plantation, Hunter had spent whole days exploring the woods and fields without encountering a soul. He believed this experience had given him his independence and a sense of curiosity, things he very much wanted for his child. It had also given him something he had never expected to need but now knew would prove to be invaluable —it had prepared him for his new life of isolation and solitude.

  He walked to the corner of the room. There lay a table which held a basin and pitcher. He was pleased to see that the pitcher was already filled with water. After washing his face, he pulled out his knife and used the silver blade to examine himself. He needed to shave. Although he recognized such an act was ludicrous considering his departure from civilization, it was a habit so ingrained in him, he never considered skipping it.

  Twenty minutes later, as a freshly shorn man, he walked into the lobby of the hotel. Had it not been for his quick movements, he might have collided with two women who were exiting the restaurant.

  “Pardon,” he said politely.

  The older woman was Mrs. Portly. She was carrying a plate of food, which she nearly dropped when she saw him.

  “Mr. Winfield? I…I didn’t recognize you.”

  A night’s rest having refreshed his manners, Hunter tipped his hat and gave the innkeeper a proper greeting.

  Her friendly smile returned, and she introduced him to her companion, Miss Selene Grande, who was apparently the daughter of the town’s tailor. She then asked, “Will you be joining us for breakfast?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I will be in shortly. I just need to collect my boy.” He bowed slightly and walked to the front doors. He thought of the looks on the women’s faces as he’d bowed. If I want to fit in here, I should stop doing that. He pushed the doors open, squinted, and raised a hand to shield his eyes from the bright sunlight.