by Lori Wick
“The people here love you and so do I.”
There was not another person on the earth at that moment. Nothing else existed or mattered. Abby looked at the man across from her whose expression was tenderness itself and felt like she was drowning.
Paul was glad he said the words, but could see she still needed time. “It’s okay. I’m not going to rush you, but I want you to know how I feel. Also know this: I would marry you today, and I’ll be here when you need me.”
Paul rowed them back to shore, and Abby spent the rest of the day and the evening in her room.
Paul missed her and wanted very much to go to her, but he comforted himself with the knowledge that she would be there in the morning and they could talk then.
But it was not to be. In the morning Abigail Finlayson was not to be found.
44
“Gone! What do you mean gone?”
“Her room is empty. I don’t know where she is.”
Paul looked thunderstruck by May’s words as she stood by the dining room table. He looked to the faces of Lloyd and Ross and saw that their shock was as great as his own.
“When did she leave?”
“I don’t know.”
“Has her bed been slept in?”
“I don’t know, Lloyd,” May wrung her hands in frustration as she answered. “She always leaves her room as neat as a pin, and I just don’t know.”
Paul looked down at his plate without seeing it. His mind wouldn’t function. She was gone. He had pushed her, and she had fled. The thought of her traveling alone sent pain pulsing through him even as he thought it was so unlike her to do this. He knew she was self-sufficient; he had seen that firsthand. Yet Paul couldn’t bear the thought of her going unprotected.
“Excuse me.” Paul’s words were mumbled as he escaped the sorrow he saw in everyone’s eyes.
“It just isn’t like her,” he heard Ross say as he exited the room.
“No, it isn’t like her,” Paul repeated again to himself as he found his feet taking him toward her room as though they had a mind of their own. He stepped within and found no comfort. It smelled like her—her jasmine bath oil.
Paul walked toward the dresser to where the small vial sat and the aroma grew stronger. His brows knitted together even as the scent floated to him. His eyes quickly scanned the room. On the table beside the bed sat Abby’s Bible. With a quick reach of his arm, Paul threw open the wardrobe doors. He stared in growing horror at Abby’s few dresses.
The bath oil, her clothes, her brush and comb were all here. Paul’s breath quickened in fear. Someone had taken her. As though God had leaned down and whispered in his ear, he knew that someone was Ian Finlayson Sr. Until that moment the man had not really been a threat in Paul’s mind, not having understood how much hate the man harbored for Abby.
Paul charged down the stairs to the dining room where the rest of the house was still gathered.
“All of her things are still in the room.”
“Maybe she went for a walk,” May offered, her voice small.
“Abby wouldn’t go off without telling us,” Ross said with conviction.
“Exactly!”
“So you think she’s been abducted?”
“There are no signs of a struggle in her room, but yes, I do.” Paul’s face was grim.
May looked as though she was going to faint, and Ross’ features reddened with anger.
“But who would take her—and how?” Lloyd asked, not wanting to believe what he was hearing.
“Her father-in-law, and I don’t know how. It’s a long story, but Abby told me he hated her after his son died. When we were still in Hayward, my grandmother wrote that an older man had been in Baxter asking for Abby.”
“Where would he have taken her?”
“I don’t know, but I’m headed out now to see if I can pick up their trail.”
“We’ll go with you. Come on, Ross.”
The three men ran from the house leaving May in tears at the table. Over an hour later they were back at the house. Ross had gone to the train station, but no one had seen a woman of Abby’s description. When he asked at the livery in town, the man said no one but the regulars had been in.
Paul and Lloyd had headed to the docks, and Paul was convinced that Abby and her father-in-law had left on a ship reported to be heading for Canada. It had gone out the night before, just after sunset.
Things had been quiet during the evening, and several men reported seeing a man with what appeared to be a small woman in an oversized cloak. He had purchased passage for two and kept a very close hold on his companion.
“Lloyd, will you please gather as much of the congregation as you can? I’ll meet you all at the church in an hour.”
The Templetons with Ross’ help set off to see who they could find, and Paul went upstairs to his room. Once inside, he knelt slowly by the edge of the bed.
For nearly an hour Paul prayed. And when he rose, there wasn’t a doubt in his mind about what he was to tell the people of his church.
He could tell when he arrived that Lloyd had informed everyone of the situation. “Thank you for coming. I think Lloyd has told you what’s happened. Once I left here without a word to anyone, and I never plan to do that again. I’m leaving today, and I won’t be back until I can find Abby.
“There is one other thing I want you to know. Before Abby was taken, I asked her to be my wife.” The grim faces in the pews broke into smiles, and Paul felt as though a burden had been lifted from his shoulders. “Please cover us with your prayers.”
Lloyd then led in a word of prayer for God’s safekeeping on their pastor and Abby. Paul bought passage and left Bayfield that afternoon, confident of his course of action. It was no mistake that Abby entered his life when he needed her most, and now she needed him. With God’s help, he wouldn’t let her down.
45
“Be anxious for nothing, but in everything, by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known unto God.” The words came to Paul’s mind, and he wondered if there would ever be an instance when these words would be harder to obey.
“Abby, where will I find you?”
Paul whispered into the wind that blew over the deck of the ship that winged its way toward Canada. In his mind there was a plan, but even as he figured to disembark, get a train, and ride straight for Bruce Mines, he knew that Ian Sr. would not be sitting in his home simply waiting for someone to come.
Maybe he’s taken her to their home and Mrs. Finlayson is taking care of her. The thought comforted Paul for a few moments, and then he thought of all the things a person can do when grieving or enraged. A shiver ran over him and he repeated Philippians 4:6 again.
Paul felt tears clog his throat when his mind conjured up the image of Abby sitting across from him in the boat. He doubted she was at all aware of the way her eyes pleaded with him to love and accept her just as she was. Well, he did love her, and even if it were in his power he wouldn’t change a thing about her.
“Just keep her safe, Lord, and let me find her. I need her, and I promise to cherish her as we build a life in You.”
Paul’s words were once again snatched away by the wind, followed quickly by the single tear that streamed down his cheek.
Abby flexed her shoulders and bit her lip against the pain. She ached from head to foot.
Without moving from her place against the wall, she could see the sun was setting. He hadn’t brought her anything to eat that day, and she wondered if that was his plan now—to starve her to death. He certainly hated her enough.
She speculated as to what day it might be. It had taken a day to get back on land, or maybe it was two. She had lost all sense of time in that tiny room on the ship with no window and very little air. Although the trip to the farm hadn’t taken that long, Abby panicked when he brought her out to this remote shed and not to the house.
Abby’s hand went to the lump on her forehead where she had hit the ground and been
knocked unconscious. She shouldn’t have fought him, but when she saw that old shed nearly hidden by a windbreak of trees and way out in the field, she knew she had to get away because no one was going to find her.
If only she could have convinced him that what he was doing was wrong. It wasn’t until they arrived in Canada that she realized he was sorry for what he was doing. Oh, his talk on the ship was angry and hateful, but once he had gotten her alone he seemed unable to carry out any of his threats. At one point he almost listened to her.
“You say you love your son, but can you honestly think that he would be pleased with the way you’re treating his widow?” Abby’s voice was pleading, and she saw his face soften some. “I loved Ian, but my death won’t bring him back. If I thought that, I would gladly give you my life.”
Abby really believed he was going to relent, but in the next instant he had a hold of her wrist and was once again dragging her along. He carefully avoided towns and farms where Abby could have asked for help. Now that she had sat here bruised and hurting for an undeterminable time, she wished she had fought against him at the Templetons. In a daze she tried to concentrate on how it had happened.
It was such an innocent desire—to want a breath of fresh air before bed, but there had been no fresh air as a meaty hand was clamped over her mouth. Before she knew it, she was in the backyard putting on a cloak at knife-point and following his commands without question.
Despair was quickly setting in as Abby prayed and sang herself into a fitful sleep.
The next morning she looked through blurry eyes to the small patch of sun streaming through the barred door that looked like part of an old prison cell. It had rained in the night, pouring down from the leaky roof, and not a single inch of the six-foot-square room had remained dry.
Abby’s dress hung in wet folds as she crawled toward the door and into the sunlight. The breeze was stronger in front of the door, and she wondered if she had the strength to move back out of the way. Curling into a ball, Abby leaned against the bars of the door. She shivered almost violently even as sleep came back to claim her.
Ian Finlayson Sr. took another drink from the bottle in his hand. It was beginning to work—the pain was beginning to dull. A little bit longer and he wouldn’t be able to visualize his son’s face at all or picture his daughter-in-law as he’d left her.
His daughter-in-law—it was all her fault. But even as the thought occurred to him, he knew it wasn’t true. She had loved Ian too, and nothing—certainly not her death—was going to bring him back.
Shame washed over him that he had actually wished her dead, and suddenly all interest in the drink was gone. He laid his head back against the wall and cried out for what must have been the millionth time, “Why did Ian have to die?” As usual, no answer came from the air, and the emptiness returned.
He was so sure if he could just get his hands on Abby that his fury would be appeased, but it hadn’t worked that way at all. She had been hurting just like he was, and was very vulnerable in the face of his anger.
He put the bottle down and staggered to his feet. The morning sun outside the barn nearly blinded him, but he squinted at the house and moved toward it.
Mrs. Finlayson heard the back door open and turned from the stove in surprise. She stared at her husband as he moved laboriously to the table and dropped heavily into his seat. His clothing was filthy, and she could smell the alcohol on him from across the room. Her hand trembled at her throat and fear nearly overcame her at the thought of asking the questions she knew had to be voiced.
“Ian, where have you been? You left without a word and you were gone so long that I began to worry.”
He didn’t answer, but just looked at her through blood-shot eyes.
“A man by the name of Paul Cameron is here, staying in town. He says Abby’s missing and he’s here to find her. Ian, do you know where Abby is?” Her voice broke on the last words.
For a moment there was silence in the room.
“Taking her didn’t work you know. Nothing is going to bring him back.” The words were slurred, and Mrs. Finlayson’s heart quickened in fear.
“Ian! What have you done? Where is she?”
Mrs. Finlayson’s breath caught in her throat when he answered, and in the next instant she was running for the barn.
In record time she had their horse hitched to the wagon and had climbed into the seat. She had just slapped the reins on the horse’s back when Paul rode into the yard.
“Follow me!” she shouted to him as the surprised animal broke into a run and headed across the field.
“Abby, Abby.” There were strong hands touching her face, and Abby turned into their warmth. She opened her eyes to see Paul’s face swimming above hers, and in the next instant his hands were gently slapping her cheeks and a voice was ordering firmly.
“Don’t go out on me, Red. Come on—stay with me. We’ve got to get you out of here.”
“What’s wrong?”
“You nearly fainted.”
“I never faint.”
“We’ll argue that another time.”
“You’re really here? I didn’t dream you?”
“I’m here alright, and I’m going to get you out of there.”
Watching Paul move away, Abby nearly called out to him in alarm, thinking he was leaving her. But he was right back with a large rock and, after telling her to back away, he began beating on the lock. Abby used the last vestige of her strength to walk out of that shed when the door was open. It was her pride that kept her on her feet. She hated for Paul to see her like this.
He reached for her immediately. “I’m all wet,” she protested weakly, and frantically clung to him.
“I don’t care” were the words spoken into her hair.
“I prayed you would come.”
“And I’m here.”
They held one another close before Paul began to lead Abby to the wagon. It was then she saw her mother-in-law. She wanted to call a greeting to her, but everything was growing fuzzy again and the wagon looked a little farther away than it had a second ago. She felt Paul’s arms around her and found herself being lifted into the wagon. She was vaguely aware of Paul tying his horse to the back and getting in beside her.
“Where are we going?” Abby’s teeth chattered as the wagon lurched forward.
“Back to the house.”
“Will Ian be there?” Abby began to struggle in her near panic, but Paul held her tightly.
“Abby, I’m not going to let anything happen to you. But your dress is soaked and your skin is burning up. We need to get you back to the house.”
“I’m not sick.”
“Of course you’re not,” he agreed with her as the wagon dropped into a rut, thinking he would say anything to see her safely back to the house.
She relaxed against him suddenly, and Paul worried that she might have fainted. Her face was so pale against his shirt, her lips bluish from the cold.
“Please, Lord,” his heart pleaded, “don’t take her away from me.”
46
“I kept my promise, Ian.”
“It’s all your fault he’s dead. I wish you were dead, too.” “No, that’s not true. I have to stay here and keep my
promise.”
“It’s so hot in here.”
“No one will ever find me.”
“Oh, Ian, I’ve fallen in love with Paul.”
“How dare he call me Red. Oh, but I love his voice.” “Corrine was so slim. He won’t want to touch me.”
For two days Abby tossed on her bed and cried out in feverish delirium. Mrs. Finlayson never left her side, bathing her fever as best she could. Paul was on hand and helped any way he could.
As Paul listened to her ranting, his mind returned again and again to the way she had cared for him: her tenderness, her professionalism, even her demands. When she had first come to him, she hadn’t even known him, but still gave of herself to see him up on his feet again. Shame engulfed him as he t
hought of the way he had treated her. He apologized to her even as she slept, hoping that somewhere in her mind she could hear and understand him.
Paul petitioned God constantly that she would open her eyes in recognition of her surroundings. He had something to tell her, and all he could do was pray that she would not reject him.
Abby’s sleep was deep at the moment, but her skin was finally cool and had been for several hours. Mrs. Finlayson was taking a nap. Paul sat at the kitchen table trying to stay awake long enough to eat his eggs.
So much had happened in such a short time. But even as emotional and physical exhaustion were crowding in on him, his mind went back to when he arrived in town.
Paul had taken a room at the hotel, sure that Abby was somewhere in Bruce Mines. He had gotten directions to the farm and talked with Mrs. Finlayson after settling in, explaining who he was and about the last time he’d seen Abby. He closed his eyes in a prayer of thanksgiving that he had decided to visit Mrs. Finlayson the very morning Ian came home. Paul had never actually seen the man—by the time they had arrived back at the house with Abby, he was gone—but she was safe, and for now that was all that mattered.
Paul moved to the door a minute later when someone knocked. He stepped quickly aside for the woman on the stoop to enter. It was Abby’s mother—he would have known her anywhere.
He saw instantly where Abby got her small frame and full figure and, even though her hair was brown, the eyes regarding him with open curiosity were just as gray as another pair he loved so well.
“I’m Paul Cameron. You must be Abby’s mother.”
“Yes, I am. She is here, isn’t she?”
“Upstairs.”
He watched her eyes move anxiously to the doorway leading to the stairs.
“She’s sleeping right now, but she’s going to be fine.”
“I think,” she said slowly, taking deep breaths to steady her voice, “I want you to tell me all you can before I see her. You are the Paul Cameron who was in her care?”
