Family of the Heart

by Dorothy Clark

  Lightning flickered in the distance. Thunder rumbled in on a gust of wind. Something rustled behind him. Clayton turned. The opened umbrella he had discarded was trapped between the house wall and the table. He picked it up, grabbed the lantern and trotted down the porch steps and strode to the gate, slipped through it onto the gravel way.

  Sarah had run into him right here—headfirst. Knocked the wind out of him.

  We runned fast!

  A smile tugged at his lips. The child was a brave one. Clayton scowled, squelched the frisson of pride that zipped through him. But the fact remained, dogged his footsteps—the child had been not fearful of the storm, only excited by the adventure. And she liked horses. He had always liked horses. Had never feared them.

  Enough of that sort of thinking! Clayton leaned into the wind and picked up his pace. He had come outside to forget about tonight’s events—not dissect them. He crowded under the stable’s overhang, closed the umbrella and opened a door. The hinges squeaked. The roan snorted, neighed a challenge. “Easy, boy, it is only me.” There was an answering whicker, low and welcoming.

  The tension in his body eased. Clayton grabbed a handful of carrots from the barrel beside the door and crossed to the stalls. Both horses stretched out their necks, nostrils twitching. “Yes, I have carrots. Here, girl.” He fed Sassy, stroked her velvety muzzle, patted her neck and moved on while she munched contentedly on her treat.

  Pacer thudded his hoof, stretched out his head and bumped him in the chest. “I have not forgotten you, fella.” Clayton scratched beneath the roan’s throat latch and gave him his carrot.

  Silence.

  The sound of it surrounded him, emphasized by the drumming rain, the crunch of the horses’ chewing. He opened the door and slipped into Pacer’s stall, scratched beneath the black mane then slid his hand down over the roan’s withers and back. Pacer turned his head, nudged him in the shoulder and went back to his munching.

  Pain caught at his chest. This was the sum of the affection in his life, a nudge from a horse. Clayton patted the powerful shoulder and stepped back out of the stall. He gave each horse another carrot, walked to the grain box and sat, leaning back against the wall and studying the Wellingtons on his feet. A knot in a log pushed against his shoulder blade. He shifted his position, crossed his arms over his chest and listened to the rain.

  And why would I think you would care enough to come for us, Mr. Bainbridge? You will not even look at your daughter! And, as you refuse to allow her in your presence, how would you know we were missing? We could have been trapped in that carriage house all night!

  Clayton scowled. Could he find no peace from Sarah Randolph? Must thoughts of her intrude even here? It was his last haven.

  Clayton jerked to his feet and paced across the carriage house. He could not escape the woman. Images of her appeared to him everywhere in the house, in the yard, even at his special, private place at the pond. Usually with her chin lifted and eyes snapping as she confronted him with some offense or other on behalf of the child. But there were those other few moments, when her eyes were warm and—

  Clayton sucked in a breath and erased the vision by staring at his reflection in the window in front of him. The woman was an annoyance. But she was excellent with the child. And she cared deeply for her—it. The way she had faced her fear of the storm to bring the child back to the house proved that. But she was also a temptation he should put out of his life. His attraction to her was growing and he did not want or need that complication. He wanted no part of love. There was too much pain, too much hurt when you let your heart become involved with someone. And he had already proven himself unworthy of a woman’s trust.

  He pivoted from the window, paced back across the dusty, puncheon floor and picked up the lantern. Trying to avoid her was not working. He had tried that this afternoon and she had ended up in his arms. He had to dismiss her. Be rid of her. It was the only answer. He reached for the door.

  Nora is my charge and I am not so selfish as to put my fear above her needs.

  The words stabbed deep. Clayton stiffened, tightened his grip on the bar. That was exactly what he was doing—putting his fears above the child’s needs. What sort of man was he? Had he no strength of will? No honor? Sarah Randolph stayed.

  He shoved the door open, stepped out, slammed it shut, dropped the bar into place and stalked toward the house, oblivious to the rain, the wind, everything but the turmoil inside him.

  Wind slapped at her long, sodden skirts, whipped them into a frenzied flapping that knocked her off her feet. The planking of the deck beneath her heaved, shuddered. The ship tilted. She groped for something to cling to, found only emptiness, slid. Lightning flashed, threw flickering light over a gaping hole where the ship’s rail had been, over Aaron clinging to the broken end and reaching for her. She stretched out her hand.

  The world exploded. Brilliant light blinded her. Thunder deafened her. She fell—

  Strong arms clasped her, lifted her, held her tight and secure against a solid chest.

  Sarah opened her eyes, stared into the dimly lit room, disoriented…confused. Her heart pounded, her pulse raced, but something was different. She felt strangely calm. Why should that be? Usually the nightmare left her in a state bordering on panic. Perhaps she was finally getting over her fear—the terror that gripped her when she had almost drowned.

  Shivers shook her. The calm disappeared. She would never forget the feeling of the icy-cold Atlantic waters closing over her head. Never.

  Sarah pushed to a sitting position, slid her legs over the side of the bed and shoved her feet into her slippers. The storm had diminished. She could hear rain tapping at the window, but the pounding on the roof had ceased. She rose and pulled on her robe, watched for a telltale glint of light through the shutter slats, listened for the sound of thunder. There was only the rain. She took a deep breath, walked to the nursery door and peeked in at Nora. The little girl was sound asleep, her thumb in her mouth, her bandaged finger curled on her cheek.

  She is so proud of that bandage. Sarah’s chest filled. Her future was uncertain, but she would always treasure this time with Nora. She turned back to her bedroom, rolled up the wick on her bedside lamp and carried it to the desk. The letter from her parents Quincy had brought home with him earlier that evening lay on the polished wood. She picked it up and unfolded it, smiling as she caught sight of the salutation.

  “Our dearest daughter,”

  Sarah sat in the chair, pulled the lamp close and began to read. She knew what it said, had already read it three times, but tonight she needed the reassurance of their love.

  The door at the bottom of the winder stairs opened, closed. Sarah lifted her head and listened, but heard no one calling. She rose, picked up her lamp and opened her door. “Did you want me, Eldor—”

  She stopped, stared down into Clayton Bainbridge’s upturned face. His features hardened. Her stomach flopped. “Forgive me, I heard the door and thought perhaps Eldora wanted me.” She stepped back, closed her door and leaned against it, listening to Clayton’s footsteps as he climbed the stairs. They paused on the landing. Her heart leaped into her throat. Would he knock? Tell her to pack and leave, that she was no longer wanted in her post in spite of the canal celebration? The door opposite hers on the landing opened, closed.

  She released the air trapped in her lungs, crossed to the bed, adjusted the lamp and removed her robe and slippers. It was difficult to tell in the shadowy light from the lamp, but Clayton Bainbridge had looked angry. Was it only the late hour that had saved her from dismissal? She would know tomorrow.

  Sarah sighed, slipped beneath the covers and nestled down into her pillows. She closed her eyes, sat bolt upright and stared at the stairway door. That was it! That was the difference in the nightmare. Clayton Bainbridge had kept her from falling in the water—had held her safe in his arms.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Clayton rode past the railed pens holding the mules and horses resting f
rom yesterday’s hard labor, stopped in front of the handler’s shed and dismounted. “Unsaddle Pacer and put him in his pen and give him some hay, Murphy. I will be here the rest of the day.” He handed over the reins, patted the roan’s neck, then grabbed his leather pouch from behind his saddle and hurried toward the work hut. The work at this site would be finished today. Tomorrow afternoon at the latest. And then they would move to the next job.

  Clayton glanced around. Workers were already hard at work cleaning up the site. Men were throwing construction debris from the bottom of the canal into skid wagons to be hauled up the high, sloping bank. On the towpath across the ditch, men with scrapers were lining up to smooth the surface. Things were moving apace.

  He nodded to the men loading unused timbers onto a wagon to be moved to the aqueduct that was their next work site and quickened his steps. The canal repairs were progressing faster than he dared hope, thanks to his good fortune in hiring John Wexford. The man had proved himself wholly capable of bossing the easier jobs—and of controlling the hot-tempered, quick-fisted workers. He still had to check on Wexford’s sites every couple of days, and his accelerated workload—dawn to dusk every day—was exhausting, but that was welcome. He had not had a glimpse of Sarah Randolph or the child in weeks. He left before they rose and came home after they were abed. Of course that would stop after the July first deadline. And then he would have to act.

  Clayton frowned, stepped into the temporary, collapsible hut and tossed the pouch on the scarred tabletop. It still seemed the best solution would be to have Sarah take the child home to Philadelphia and care for it there. It would be well cared for—and they would both be out of his life. The only flaw in the plan was Sarah Randolph. She had not taken the nanny position to earn her living, so offering her increased wages to rear the child might not influence her to agree. If he knew why she—

  Wild whoops split the air. Clayton pivoted and rushed back outside. Across the canal, the four men guiding the wooden scrapers were each urging their horses to greater speed, fighting for the lead position. In the dirt behind them were crooked grooves and ridges gouged out of the ground by the corners and edges of the wildly tipping scrapers.

  Activity around him ceased as the workers stopped to cheer on their favorites in the impromptu race.

  “Stop!” Clayton cupped his hands around his mouth. “You men on the far towpath—stop your horses!” His effort was useless, his order lost in the whooping, shouting din. The wild race went on. One of the scrapers slammed into another, sending it careening toward the edge of the bank. The worker hooted and urged his horse to greater speed, passing the worker trying to steady his wobbling scraper and get back in the race.

  Fools. They were going to kill someone! Clayton ran to the edge of the canal and dropped over the side. Half running, half sliding, he charged down the sloping bank, hit the base running and sprinted across the canal bottom at an angle to intercept the racers, the workers he passed laughing and exhorting him to run faster. Heart pumping, breath coming in short gasps, he attacked the opposite bank, scrabbling for footing on the sloping ground, losing momentum as he neared the top.

  The sound of pounding hoofs broke through the roar of laughing, shouting voices. He looked up, saw a worker rolling head over heels in the dirt, his wild-eyed horse panicked by the uncontrolled, crazily bumping and swaying scraper he pulled, bearing down on him. The scraper tilted, dropped over the edge. Clayton threw himself sideways. He flopped onto his stomach and hugged the ground. The scraper bounced, hit him in the back, grazed his head. Pain stabbed through him. Lights exploded behind his eyelids. The strength left his body, thought dissolved. Everything went dark and silent.

  “Kitties are soft.” Nora patted the black-and-gray-striped kitten in her lap, bent forward and placed her ear against the fluffy fur. “An’ they go rrrrr-rrrrr.”

  Sarah laughed at the child’s imitation. “That is called a purr. It means the kitty is happy.” She reached over and removed Nora’s bonnet. The ties were proving too much of a temptation for the kitten. One of the swipes of those tiny sharp claws might catch Nora’s face instead of the bow beneath her chin.

  The gray kitten, stalking imagined prey through the grass, jumped for the ribbon tie dangling in the air as Sarah placed the bonnet on the bench behind her. She laughed and lifted the wiggling kitten into the air, holding it so she could see its face. “I think these fluffy little bundles of energy need names.” She looked over at Nora. “What do you think? What shall we call them?”

  “Kitty!”

  Sarah looked down at Nora’s beaming face. How much Clayton Bainbridge was missing. For the past month he had left for work at dawn and came home after sunset. There had been no opportunity to bring father and daughter together. And it would probably continue that way until after that July fourth anniversary celebration. Three more weeks.

  She sighed, pulled her attention back to Nora. “That is a good suggestion, but they are all kitties. They each need a special name—one only for them.” Confusion clouded the toddler’s shining eyes. “It is the same as Mrs. Quincy and I. We are both ladies, but her special name is Eldora, and mine is Sarah. And you are a little girl, but your special name is Nora.” She looked back at the squirming kitten. “And I think this kitty’s special name should be Wiggles.”

  Nora giggled. “I like Wiggles.”

  “So do I.” Sarah pulled the kitten close and scratched behind its ears. It arched its back and rubbed against her hand. “And what about your kitty? What do you think its name should be?”

  “Happy.”

  Sarah smiled at the quick response. “That is a very nice name.” She glanced toward the other two kittens wrestling each other on the lawn. “And what about those two kitties? What shall we name the black one?”

  “Fluffy.”

  “And the black-and-white one?”

  “Bun’le.”

  “Bundle?”

  Nora gave an emphatic nod. “Fluffy bun’les of engerny.”

  Oh. Of course. “Very clever. Bundle it is.” Sarah laughed, leaned over and dropped a kiss on top of Nora’s golden curls. The little girl was so intelligent, so eager to learn and to please. She was an absolute delight. Her family would adore the little sweetheart. And so would Clayton Bainbridge if he would—

  A sudden screech of metal against metal jangled her nerves. Sarah tilted her head to the side, listening to the bump and creak of a wagon coming slowly up the road toward the house. And a rider with it. The wagon stopped out front, but the horse’s hoofbeats grew louder, turned into the gravel way. Clayton Bainbridge must be home.

  Sarah set the cat on the grass, rose to her feet, gave her long skirt a quick shake to rid it of any clinging grass or fur and reached for Nora’s bonnet.

  “Horsy!” Nora flopped over onto her hands and knees, pushed herself erect and ran toward the gate.

  “Nora, wait!” Sarah rushed after her, stopped, stared. It was Clayton’s horse, but there was a strange man leading him. Where was—

  “Sarah.”

  There was urgency in the call. She jerked her head around toward the porch. “What is it, Eldora?”

  “Come in, please. I need you.” The housekeeper turned and hurried back into the house.

  Sarah glanced from the still-open door to the riderless horse. A sick feeling settled in the pit of her stomach. She turned and scooped Nora into her arms.

  “Horse.” Nora twisted round and pointed a tiny finger toward Clayton’s mount.

  The sick feeling worsened. “We will go see the horses later, Nora. Right now we have to go in the house.” Sarah rushed up the brick path, climbed the steps and crossed the porch, uneasiness growing with every step. Maybe she was wrong. Yes, she was being foolish, allowing her imagination to run amok. She hurried through the library and into the hallway. “Eldora?”

  “She said yer t’ come up here, miss.”

  Sarah looked up. A dusty, dirty man stood at the top of the stairs. One of Clayton’s workers
? She wasn’t wrong. Her heart lurched. Her legs wobbled. Not now! Please, knees, do not give out on me now. She shifted Nora onto her hip, took hold of the banister with her free hand and pulled herself upward.

  “Would ya like I should carry the young’un up fer ya?” The man started down the stairs.

  Nora stuck her thumb in her mouth and burrowed into the hollow of her neck. Sarah met the man’s gaze and shook her head. The tightness in her chest made her too winded to speak. She continued to climb, every step making her more terrified of what awaited.

  “In there.” The man jerked his thumb toward Clayton’s bedroom, doffed his dirty cap and clumped down the stairs.

  Sarah stared at the gaping opening of Clayton’s bedroom door, heard Eldora issuing orders but could not comprehend the words. Did not know who answered. She could not face another death. She could not. She tried to take a breath, gave up and forced her shaking legs to carry her through the doorway. Quincy was bent over a bed, a pile of dirty, bloodstained clothes at his feet. She closed her eyes, swayed, felt movement. Nora. She opened her eyes, forced away the light-headedness.

  “There you are!” Eldora stepped out of a doorway on her left and waddled toward the bed. She put the large wash bowl she was carrying on the bedside table beside a stack of cloths, turned and fixed her with a look that said she would stand for no foolishness. “I need you to wash Mr. Bainbridge’s wounds. Alfred has to care for the horse, and I have bakin’ in the oven and food on the stove to tend.” She held out her arms. “Give me the child, I’ll keep her with me—leastways till Dr. Parker comes. He should be on his way if that man we sent to fetch him found him at home.” The housekeeper took Nora into her arms and looked over her shoulder. “Bring them dirty clothes down to the wash room, Alfred, and I’ll set ’em to soakin’. That blood’ll never come out, elsewise.” She padded out the door. Quincy gathered up the clothes and followed her.