by Gini Rifkin
“Just be careful,” Walker reiterated, trying to stem the verbal tidal wave Willie was wont to unleash when he was wound up and heading into danger or adventure.
Dressed for foul weather, and armed sufficiently, they led the horses to the street and mounted up. The packed snow on the road had turned to ice, and as the animals fought for purchase, the going was slow.
“Let’s see if the footing’s any more stable off the road,” he hollered, over the wind.
They swung to the right. The sun dropped low, playing tricks with the shadows. His horse found solid ground, but Willie’s mount stumbled in a ditch, sending Willie flying. A tree stump abruptly stopped his trajectory.
Walker vaulted out of the saddle, and crouched at his friend’s side.
“Dammit to hell,” Willie gritted, “caught me in the ribs. I’m guessing I broke two or three, but I can still ride.”
“No you can’t, and no you won’t”
As gently as possibly he helped Willie to his feet. Each step was an agony, and his old friend couldn’t stifle the groans of pain.
“Just a little farther, Willie. You can do it. I don’t have time to take you all the way back to the house, and I’m not about to leave you to freeze in the snow. That nearby church will have to do.”
He settled his friend in the back pew. “Looks like there’s an evening meeting going on. When it’s over, someone ought to be kind enough to fetch Dr. Robinson, or at least get you back home.”
“You can’t abandon me in a dad-blamed church. I ain’t a Methodist. Why, this is worse then the time you left me sittin’ at that temperance meeting so’s you could sweet talk that gal handing out fliers. She was the only one around young enough not to remember the Revolutionary War.”
“I’ll make it up to you when this is over.”
“Oh, get on with you then,” he gritted, “and watch your back.”
Willie offered up his pistol. Walker took it, and hurried back into the storm. Going it alone would be dicey, but maybe it was for the best. He glanced at the clock tower, barely able to make out the hands on the face. The 5 P.M. deadline was drawing close. He pushed his horse as fast as he dared. Ever optimistic, he led Willie’s mount for Trelayne to ride home.
He slowed his pace and squinted. The mill came into sight, grim and looming in the muted glow of the setting sun. The river, where it wasn’t frozen, ran along the back of the building, the north side was piled high with drifted snow. Not even considering a frontal approach, he headed for the south wall.
Reduced to an opaque disk, the sun dropped out of sight. The cold increased, but the wind died down. It was so dead silent, he felt as if he’d gone deaf. No matter, the snow would muffle his movements. Riding as close to the building as he dared, he dismounted and tried to tie up the horses, but couldn’t. Frozen solid, the reins were useless. He herded the pair behind a tall thicket, and hoped they would stay put.
Pistol at the ready, he broke a trail through the deep snow, exertion soon taking its toll. Halfway there, he could feel his heart pounding in his chest, and the air whooshed through his lungs with the sound of a forge bellows.
Why did this keep happening to the two of them? Every time he thought they were finally safe with only happiness ahead, something extraordinary waylaid their plans. Their road to happiness had been repeatedly sidetracked by misadventure and mortal danger. It was a hell of a way to start their life together. Please, God, he prayed, let their future be boring and mundane, littered only with children, good times, and good friends.
Reaching the building, he pressed his back flat against the rough boards, held a moment to catch his breath, then edged sideways until he was even with a crack leaking light from within. Peering through the opening, he gritted his teeth and choked back a growl of rage. Trelayne was trussed up and tied to a chair. With a start, he realized she was wearing Katie’s mittens and wool cap. The sight threw him for a moment. Memories of Kathleen rushed at him, confusing him, yet giving him strength. At least Trelayne appeared alert and uninjured.
Grimsby, a portrait of evil framed by brute determination, sat at a table contentedly smoking a pipe and biding his time He wouldn’t underestimate the man. Although not a genius, he was crafty. And if not solid brains, he was solid muscle—mean and strong as a corn-fed bull.
His gaze tripped around the shadowed interior. There didn’t seem to be any of Grimsby’s henchmen in attendance. It was too easy. Quickly, he surveyed the area outside. Other than his, there were no footprints in the pristine carpet of white. He must be missing something. Grimsby liked to play games, outsmart his quarry, devise uncommon methods of accomplishing his dirty deeds. There was something more here than met the eye.
Regardless of whatever the blackguard was up to, Walker needed to do something quickly. He was cold to the bone, and could only imagine Trelayne was, too. Trelayne and the child she carried. He imagined the poor little mite shivering inside her.
He studied her again, wishing he could somehow let her know he was here, and she was going to be all right. Then he saw it. There was a rope around Trelayne’s throat, the tail end disappearing upward. It was probably tied to the hoist used to move grain to the sack floor in the top of the mill. But the building was derelict and long out of commission. Could parts of it still be operational? Maybe Grimsby planned to use counterweights or gravity. If he rushed in, it might set something into motion he’d not be able to stop.
It seemed he had little choice but to surrender, giving Grimsby what he wanted in exchange for what Walker couldn’t live without.
****
Ever since this horrid man had placed the rope around her neck, she’d been afraid to move, afraid to take a deep breath. It escaped her how the apparatus to which it was attached worked, but she had no doubt it was designed to efficiently end her life. Carefully, she licked her lips, and tried not to shudder. This waiting was agony, yet its culmination promised to be worse.
Maybe she should tell him about the baby, maybe he would take pity on her. Moving only her eyes, she glanced in his direction. Grimsby checked his pocket watch and grinned, the image sent a chill down her spine. He would show no pity.
Why hadn’t she had a dream of forewarning about this, one of her standard hideous nightmares? Lately there had only been those splendid visions of babies and happiness. Maybe that meant everything was going to turn out all right. She had to cling to that, had to have faith Walker would rescue her yet once again.
The main door creaked open. With great caution, she canted her head. Walker’s outline filled the opening, a dark visage against the backdrop of white snow. Relief for salvation smashed headfirst into fear for his safety. Should she warn him Grimsby was intent on killing him? Her mouth felt dry as dust; besides, Walker would assume the man was armed and deadly. A wave of nausea slogged through her stomach. She’d best remain quiet, and try not to be sick
Their nemesis gained his feet and rattled forth the small saber he carried at his side. With a pistol in his other hand he strode toward her. “Do come in, Captain. Nice of you to be on time.”
“Untie her,” Walker demanded, taking a menacing step forward.
“All in good time, Captain. Hold where you are and drop your weapon.”
Walker’s pistol clattered to the floor.
“And your other one,” Grimsby ordered, positioning the saber crosswise on a separate rope near the one wrapped around her throat. “One cut of this and the hoist takes her up by that slender white neck.”
As if weighing rage against logic, Walker clenched and unclenched his fists. Then he produced a second gun and tossed it aside.
“Excellent. Now over to the pit wheel if you please.”
“I’ll not move an inch until you release my wife.”
“You’re hardly in a position to make demands,” Grimsby sneered. He sawed through a few strands of rope. Unable to suppress an involuntary whimper, she sat up taller as if it might somehow aid her condition.
With a curse,
Walker complied, striding toward the massive intermeshing of wheels and cogs. A small heap of straw littered the floor, and he took his place in the center of it.
Grimsby sprinted forward. Walker braced for an attack but none came. Howling with glee, Bartholomew muscled a large stone over the edge of the pit leading to the river. A rope attached to the stone, looped up over a rafter, the other end lay hidden beneath the hay. Drawing tight, the hemp encircled Walker’s ankles jerking him off his feet and up into the air.
****
As his world turned upside down, Walker heard Trelayne scream. Swinging to and fro, he fought to orient himself, fought to make sure she was safe. Grimsby doubled over with laughter.
Unbuttoning his hide coat, Walker let it fall to the ground. Now he had room to maneuver. Now he had a chance of reaching the sharp bladed knife attached to his belt at the small of his back. It was hidden by the sheepskin vest he wore. All he needed was for Grimsby to turn his back.
“Now the real fun begins, Captain,” the other man said. He ambled forward, kicked the straw back into a pile, and set a match to it. “I hear you used a similar method of entertainment on one of my lads back in England.”
“Close enough. But not for the same purpose.”
“Nor for the same results,” Grimsby added. “There’ll be no saving you.”
“Please,” Trelayne begged. “Don’t hurt him. This is madness.”
“Madness?” Grimsby spun around to face her. “Madness is me considering to let you live. I sees now the both of you will have to go. But which one first. That’s the questions. Maybe both together.”
Grimsby plucked at the rope holding back the counterweight to the hemp around Trelayne’s neck. The chair rocked and she shrieked, the depth of her fear spearing straight to his heart. Twisting slowly above the flames, Walker fought the panic overtaking his senses. He had to focus on one thing at a time, not worry about what might happen, but deal with what was happening.
The burning straw produced more smoke than fire, and although it blinded and choked him, it also provided cover for his actions. Bending at the waist, he grabbed his pants leg, and hand over hand, hauled himself up. Grasping the rope snared around his ankles, he retrieved his knife with his other hand and sawed at the knot. His feet came free and he righted himself and dropped to the ground.
Straw flew in all directions, sparks hurtling into the air. As Grimsby turned, Walker lunged at the man. Trelayne screamed. The sound cut brutally short as the rope tightened around her throat. To his horror, he saw the chair began to rise into the air.
“No,” he bellowed.
Never missing a step, he slammed his fist into Grimsby’s surprised face. The man went sprawling, his pistol clattered across the floor out of reach. Walker slashed at the rope with his knife. Trelayne and the chair crashed back to the floor. Her head sagged forward. Had she fainted? He prayed it wasn’t anything worse as he slid the noose from her neck.
Hearing a scuffling at his back he turned in time to ward off Grimsby’s renewed attack. The man rushed forward, saber in hand. Deflecting the blow with his knife, metal hit metal as they both fought for their lives.
The ineffectual flames died down, but the smoke billowed around the two of them, adding an apocalyptic touch to the atmosphere, and to an outcome holding certain death for one of them.
The fury of seeing his wife nearly hanged infused Walker with strength beyond measure. Seething with vengeance greater than anything he had ever known, he pursued his quarry. Realizing he’d lost the upper hand, Grimsby retreated. Never lessening the attack, never wavering in his desire to see this man dead, Walker kept going at him. The battle swiftly fell to his favor.
Grimsby staggered backward. His foot caught on the edge of the pit housing near the big wheel. He teetered on the lip, eyes wide, hands grasping at air. Then he fell. His cry of surprise echoed sharply and ended abruptly. Walker peered down the shaft. The ice beneath the mill wasn’t fully formed. Grimsby had fallen through into the water to drown or freeze to death. Either remedy suited Walker.
He ran back to Trelayne. She was still unresponsive. Releasing all her bonds, he bundled her in his coat and left by the side door. He must get her to a doctor, or at least to a warm fire. Hoping the horses were still on the far side of the mill, he headed in that direction.
The snow collected on his shoulders and neck, soaking through his vest. He couldn’t feel his feet or legs. His face was numb, his arms frozen around the only thing in his life that mattered to him. Keep moving, his brain screamed out. If you stop you’re dead. Even worse, Trelayne and his child would be dead.
The wind had returned full force, kicking up the snow on the ground to mingle with the relentless powder falling from the sky.
The effect was disorienting. He glanced back. Big as it was, he could no longer see the mill. He wasn’t sure which way to go. Anger wrapped around his fear and frustration. He glanced down at Trelayne, or was it Katie. Again, the cap and mittens confused him. It had been a night like this in which Kathleen had perished, but this time would be different. He refused to allow history to repeat itself.
Clenching his teeth to keep them from chattering, he staggered on. He thought again of the wee babe growing inside Trelayne. Was it still safe, still warm? How unfair if it were to die before ever drawing a breath.
From the corner of his eye he thought he saw movement. Yes, it was a figure motioning him closer. It was a woman with blond hair. She was smiling, dressed only in a thin fluttering gown. It was impossible. He closed his eyes and shook his head, but when he looked again, she was still there. He made to follow then stopped. It wasn’t the right direction. He should go back the other way. She was leading him closer to the river, away from the horses. Or maybe she was correct, he didn’t know anymore, couldn’t think straight.
She seemed so real, looked a lot like Katie—he really was losing his mind. Now she begged him to follow. Trusting to the memory of the woman who had once shared his life, he lurched toward the apparition. As he drew near she disappeared. He howled with rage at having been so deceived, the sound blunted by the wall of snow and wind. Then he saw a glimmer of light. Following the dim beacon, he came to a shack. With a foot that felt like a block of ice, he kicked at the door.
Chapter Thirty-One
“She looks better this morning,” Hargis said.
“Yes, she does,” Walker agreed from where he sat at Trelayne’s side. “Much better.”
Last night, it had given Walker an unnerving jolt when the door to the snug little shack opened, and he came face to face with Hargis. For a moment it compounded his confusion, then the warmth from the hearth-fire, and the familiar aroma of barley soup, convinced him it wasn’t his imagination.
It was a bit harder convincing himself the woman who had led him to the shack was Katie in spirit form. But what or who else could it have been? It’s what he decided to believe. He was certain if he’d gone any other direction, they wouldn’t have survived the night. And it made him feel good to think she was watching over him from the great beyond. She had helped to save Trelayne, so it seemed she sanctioned his new life, affirming she wished him to be happy.
“I heard on the docks you had come home,” Hargis said, “and I was hoping to see you soon, but not last night in the middle of a blizzard.”
“You’ve done well for yourself,” Walker acknowledged. “I’m glad.”
“I owe much to you,” Hargis said. “When I reached New Bedford, your friend Dr. Robinson honored your note. I set up my shop here in the mill annex, and soon I will purchase a place in town and sell my finer items wrought in silver. Then I can pay you back.”
“You owe me nothing. You’ve saved my life twice now. And Trelayne’s as well. I’m the one who owes you more than I can ever repay.”
Walker studied Trelayne’s peaceful expression. Last evening, before falling back into an exhausted sleep, she awakened long enough to have a bit of soup. Her throat was sore inside and out, but other
than that, nothing seemed seriously wrong with her.
“Walker?” she said, in a sleepy voice.
He leaned over and kissed her forehead. “Yes, love. I’m right here.”
“Is it over? Are we safe?”
“Everything is all right now,” he reassured.
“You’re not just saying that, are you?” She rose up on her elbows and glanced around. “But where are we? And who is that man? He looks like a Viking. Am I dreaming?”
Walker smiled. “That’s Hargis, a good friend with an uncanny knack for saving my hide. And in this case, yours, too.”
“I remember. You told me he helped you in Brighton when you were so terribly injured. But that was in England, not America, I’m all befuddled. Oh dear, what of Mother and Father? They must be worried sick, and they are barely recovered.”
“They know you’re safe and we will be home later today. Hargis lives here now, everything is as it should be, you aren’t confused.”
“Has the horrible storm ceased?”
“Oh, ya,” Hargis put in. “The sky is clear and the wind tamed. This was just a little squall. In Norway we have much worse.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” she grinned. “And thank you for helping us.”
“I will always be glad to help you and your husband. I am here in America because of his kindness. He is a good man.”
“Yes,” Trelayne agreed. “A very good man.”
****
Glad to be alive, Trelayne laughed with abandon as they sailed over the snow in a sleigh Hargis had made. Miraculously fit, and anxious for a run, the two horses had weathered the blizzard on the south side of the mill. Now as they flew past the hulking structure, she turned away and slipped her hand into the crook of Walker’s arm.
The authorities had already come and gone. Bartholomew Grimsby’s body had been found, and they could rest assured he would bother no one again. But she didn’t want to think about that. She wanted to marvel at how blue the sky was, and how quickly the weather had changed from near fatal to fantastic.
