Hannah's Promise

by Cheryl Anne Porter

  Oh, why hadn’t she paid more attention when the few other women out in the territory were talking about babies? Then, she sighted on … her lady’s maid. Why, she’d had Colette less than a year ago. She’d ask her, acting as if she were just wondering what to expect. But not now, not tonight. Because tonight, she had some unfinished business to attend to. Next door at Cloister Point.

  * * *

  Hannah didn’t exhale until, in her stocking feet, she slipped out a back door and closed it softly behind her. The first miracle was that she hadn’t encountered any Yankees on her way downstairs. The second one was she hadn’t awakened Slade, who was suddenly so cooperative in light of her … delicate condition. He hadn’t even insisted they sleep together when she feigned tiredness and said she wanted to turn in early—and alone.

  In fact, he’d agreed readily, had even shooed Esmerelda, asking Isabel to close the mastiff in with her. And that was the third miracle. Esmerelda hadn’t awakened to raise the alarm as Hannah’d tiptoed past Isabel’s room.

  Hannah sat now on the top step of the narrow landing, slipping on high-topped, lace-up boots—so ridiculously dainty in light of her masculine getup. A huge yawn escaped her, coming out a vaporish cloud in the cold night air. She’d darn near fallen asleep waiting for the household to turn in. But now, all was darkness. All was quiet.

  Hannah tugged at the gunbelt strapped around her waist. And felt the cold metal of the two Peacemakers and her peashooter weighing her down. She tucked her braided hair up under Rigby’s slouch hat and pulled it securely around her ears. Right now she would have killed for her split skirt and sheepskin coat. But no, Slade had seen to it that her wardrobe held only ladified clothes of no practical value. Hannah shifted around in the uncomfortable getup, settled her guns low on her hips. Jacey, lend me some of your bravery, girl.

  With that, and holding up her baggy pants as if they were the finest of skirts, she tiptoed down the stairs to step onto the grass, avoiding the crunchy gravel. Crouching in stealth, and keeping an eye out for the posted guards, she crept along the white stone walls of the mansion.

  Once she lost the building’s protection, she skittered over to the shrubberied edges of the formal gardens and worked her way almost to the summer cabin. At a spot she deemed perfect, she got down on all fours and pushed her way between the entwined branches of two tall and precisely trimmed bushes. She then stood up and faced the narrowly spaced iron rods of the fence that separated Woodbridge Pond from Cloister Point.

  Sweating despite the cold, she edged her arm and leg between two bars and tried to shove through. But no amount of grunting and straining or just plain wanting through seemed to matter. Her doggone breasts and backside held her prisoner on this side of the fence. Dammit. Now what?

  Just then, the crunching of gravel behind her turned her head in that direction. She backed out from between the two bars and flattened herself on the hard ground. She then rolled until her back met the cold fence. Listening intently, her cheeks stinging from the bite of November, her nose running, she sniffed. And froze in place. But no one called out. No one challenged the noise, so loud to her in the quiet night air.

  Wondering now if she’d even heard the gravelly sound, Hannah pulled herself up to her hands and knees and crawled forward a space, rising up to squat there for a better look. She lightly brushed her hands together as she looked around. Earlier she’d cursed the full moon for its revealing light, but now she was grateful for it. Or would be, if the someone who was also outside would show himself.

  And he did. A streak of surprised terror shot through Hannah. She clasped her hands over her mouth, locking them there forcefully. Afraid the whites of her very rounded eyes would give her away, she closed them for a long second. When she next peeked out through the thick tangle of her hiding place, she saw him—a big man with a rifle held at the ready—walking slowly toward the back of the property. In a line with her. The man looked all around himself, even straight at her hiding place. Hannah went rigidly still, ignoring the cold sweat drizzling down between her breasts and over her pounding heart.

  The man moved on. Hannah let out her held breath. She watched him until he rounded the path to the summer cabin. Listening another moment more, just to be sure he didn’t double back, Hannah cocked her head, sure she’d just heard more male voices—she pushed branches aside to raise up some—coming from the cabin. Could be he was checking in with another guard. If so, and they were distracted with each other, then now was her chance—

  Was that Slade’s voice? She listened, heard his voice again. Yes. What was he doing out here—and what was he up to? As if in answer to her own questions, certain things fell into place in her mind. Such as his cooperative attitude this evening. And his agreeing with her that she should retire early and sleep alone. The man had wanted her out of the way and not aware of his absence. He was a fine one to talk about trust, out here sneaking around in the dark.

  Perhaps he was just checking on the guards. No, she discarded that notion immediately. Why would he need to do that in the middle of the night and out in the cabin, as if their being here were a big secret? These damned Yankees trampling up the place had been the after-dinner conversation this evening with the entire household present. So, it was more than that. But what?

  Hannah pulled aside a particularly sharp branch that poked at her cheek and figured she had the time to find out. Just then, something wet and cold pressed against the back of her neck. Startled beyond caution, she squawked and sprang forward froglike—right into the shrubs, entangling her arms and scratching her face.

  Desperately fighting her way free, expecting at any moment to be hauled up or shot without a question being asked, she frantically tore away from the prickly shrub. Only to hit her back against an iron bar and plop bottom first onto the hard dirt. Stunned, her cheeks stinging from the fresh scratches, she sat there blinking. And stared up at Esmerelda with her ears pricked and her head tilted. Hannah didn’t know whether to hug the dog or chunk a dirt clod at her.

  “What are you doing out here, girl?” she whispered, and then came up with her own answer. Oh, no. This is Esmerelda’s last trip outdoors for the night. Which means someone will quickly miss her and come looking for her. Great. Hannah scooted forward and shoved at the mastiff. “Go away. Shoo! Scat!”

  The dog didn’t budge. Defeated, Hannah sat back on her haunches. The pony-sized canine sat back on her haunches too and cocked her head to the other side. Hannah whimpered. “Go away, Esmerelda.”

  Esmerelda frowned. And didn’t budge. Completely put out, Hannah warned in a level voice, “Don’t make me shoot you, you big cow.”

  Esmerelda crouched forward and licked Hannah’s face. Her tail-thumping beat the bushes soundly as she affectionately rubbed against Hannah. And knocked her hat off. “Dammit, Esmerelda, go away. You’ll bark and give me away. Now, go on”—Hannah shoved ineffectually at the mastiff’s shoulder—“I’m not your playmate. I don’t even like you. Now, scat.”

  Esmerelda folded into a pathetic heap, lying down sphinx-like. Her expression could only be called mournful. Hannah wilted, hugging the great head to her chest. “I didn’t mean it. You know I love you. Now, go catch a rat! That’s it—a rat. Look, Essie, a rat! Go get it, girl. Get the rat.” Hannah looked around, found a good-sized stone and chunked it out onto the lawn.

  Essie merely raised an eyebrow … and stayed where she was. Hannah flopped limply on top of the dog. She could still be out here tomorrow at high noon trying to get Essie to go. “Fine. Go with me. But just be quiet, okay?”

  Esmerelda whuffed … very quietly … and turned to bite at the seat of Hannah’s pants. Hannah jerked herself off the dog’s warm, furry body and scooted around until she found her hat. Tucking her braid up under it, she tugged it down firmly, and turned to her partner. “You ready?”

  Esmerelda stood up, slobbering and panting, her dark, intelligent eyes shining in the moonlight. Hannah came to a crouch, bracing herself with her finge
rs tented on the ground. “Now, stay close to me. I can’t get through the bars here, so we’re—” She looked at her partner. “I’m talking to a dog.”

  She turned to work her way back through the prickly branches and out onto the lawn’s boundary. Esmerelda stayed close behind. Except for the one time Hannah looked back to see her squatting and relieving herself. Once at the end of the long hedgerow, Hannah tested the bushy boundary and found it too tightly interwoven to allow her to slip through. She and Esmerelda were forced to turn to their left and follow the configuration around to the gravel path. Scooting to its edge, the mastiff on her heels, Hannah risked a peek around the corner.

  And was struck by the black and silver picture laid out for her. The full moon cast its white light on the still waters of the pond. Light and shadow alternated through the bare branches of the towering elms, throwing long fingers up the cabin’s walls and in through the windows. The ghostly claws, shifting with the wind, grasped at but couldn’t capture the tall, muscular figures moving around inside the cabin.

  As Hannah watched, holding on to Esmerelda’s collar with stiff, cold fingers, she saw Slade light a candle and then unfold a large square of paper. A map, perhaps. The men with him gathered around to stare at it and nod as Slade spoke and ran his finger over various parts of it. But a map of what? Woodbridge Pond? Or Cloister Point?

  Frowning now, Hannah picked out details. Slade was dressed in dark clothes, like the other men. Like them, he was also heavily armed. And wore an expression of righteous intent. She looked at some of the other faces. Why, they all had that same expression—grim, determined. As sure as she was standing here, they were planning some sort of clandestine mission. And her husband, the father of her possible child, was obviously going to go right along with them. The direct approach.

  The phrase took on a concrete meaning now. Slade meant to confront his enemies. Tonight. Personally. He could be killed. Hannah decided she couldn’t allow that. Cyrus and Patience were her family, her enemies. If anyone was going to put himself—herself—in peril, it would be her. After all, she was already out here and on her way over there. She wasn’t waiting for Isabel’s entertainment to confront the Wilton-Humeses. No, tonight was the night. And it all came down to her.

  Hannah took deep breath after deep breath, trying to buoy up her courage. She’d promised her sisters to exact revenge for Mama and Papa and then to come home, and she would. She’d promised Slade to get the hell out of Boston and never let him see her face again once this was over, and she would. It would break her heart, but she would go.

  There it was, the reason for her hesitations up to this point. Slade wouldn’t be in her life once she dealt with Cyrus and Patience. Hannah stared through the window at the man she loved. Now she understood. He was the reason she hadn’t acted yet—because once she did, there would be nothing keeping her from leaving for No Man’s Land.

  Instantly, she saw her sisters’ faces before her. She should kick herself for thinking only of herself all these weeks. She should be thinking of them. She should be thinking of their blood oath. She should be thinking of the people who’d died at Cyrus and Patience’s hands. Hannah firmed up her mouth and her courage. She had to act, and then move on with her life.

  She backed around the corner of the hedges, dragging Esmerelda with her. Once they were on the secure side of the hedge, the dog looked up at her, as if to ask What now? Staring at her, Hannah put her finger to her mouth, biting thoughtfully at the nail. The direct approach. She raised her head and saw the roofline of Cloister Point. She focused on her partner. “Let’s go.”

  Just then, Esmerelda’s name was called in the wind. Hannah froze, as did the mastiff. They exchanged a look and then turned to the source. Hammonds stood on the back landing, in a long nightshirt and with a blanket around his shoulders, calling out for the dog to come. Hannah raised an eyebrow at Esmerelda. She raised an eyebrow at Hannah, who drawled, “Well, pardner, it’s your call.”

  Esmerelda perked up her ears when Hannah spoke. Then she drooped her head and her tail. Immediately, she padded off, sticking to the long shadows, only to disappear through the hedges by the iron fence. A moment later she poked her head back through, as if to say You coming or not?

  Hammonds again called for the dog. This time his voice sounded a little closer. Hannah knew it was now or never. Crouching, she skittered to the hedge and, keeping her arms up protectively around her face, pushed her way through to the iron fence. Only to see Esmerelda already on Wilton-Humes property, her large head turned back to peer at Hannah.

  How in the world did that huge dog get through these narrowly spaced rods? Hannah gripped them, tugging on them, testing them. None of them was loose. Then she tried again—inching, worming, squirming, groping. Nothing. Just like before, she couldn’t get through. Which was strange because there Esmerelda stood. Hannah knew she was bigger than Olivia, but she wasn’t as big as the mastiff.

  Frustrated, she looked again to Esmerelda. The bright moonlight revealed her padding back to the fence. Hannah reached through the bar to her partner, thinking she was coming to her. But the mastiff veered off to Hannah’s left. Maybe … Hannah poked and edged her way through the bushes, staying on all fours. And nearly fell into her answer. She jerked up short and then reached a hand out to pat at the shadowed depression in front of her.

  Yes! Essie had dug a huge hole right under the fence. The sides were worn smooth from long use. And rooted grass edged the perimeter. Apparently, Esmerelda had enjoyed the grounds of both properties for quite some time. Bless her. Hannah went headfirst, belly down into the hole, kicking and scrambling with her booted feet until she was on the other side. Pushing up to her feet, she brushed herself off, checked to be sure she still had both of her guns, and hugged Esmerelda to her. “Good dog.”

  Esmerelda grinned hugely, wriggling her entire body as she wagged her tail, finally woofing out her agreement.

  “Esmerelda, is that you over there? Get over here. Bad girl!”

  Hannah spun around. Hammonds’s voice placed him mere feet away on the other side of the hedges. She looked back to Esmerelda—and found her gone. Where—? There—loping toward the mansion at Cloister Point. Taking her cue from the mastiff, Hannah tore out after her.

  * * *

  Slade rolled up his map of Woodbridge Pond’s grounds. “That should cover it. I’ve staggered the shifts, so we’re not vulnerable at any one time. Just be alert and investigate anything out of the ordinary. Temple, Hardy, Bekins, and myself will take this next outside shift. The rest of you get some sleep. Be back here at seven in the morning. And let’s hope everything stays this quiet.”

  The men nodded and turned, heading for the cabin’s door. Just then, they all heard “Esmerelda! Is that you over there? Get over here. Bad girl!” And stopped. Metal clicked as rifles were cocked.

  Slade held up a hand. “It’s okay. That’s Hammonds—my butler from my brownstone. He’s calling for the mastiff.” The men relaxed, letting out held breath, releasing the catches on their weapons. Slade grinned, satisfied with their alertness. “Go on to your posts or your beds. I’ll see to Hammonds.”

  The men nodded, muttered, and began filing out. Slade snuffed out the candle. Suddenly, his shoulders bowed under the weight of his guilt. He’d promised Olivia only last week that if she’d cooperate, he’d keep her mother and baby safe. And look what had happened. Damn Cyrus and Patience! Never again would he let them get the upper hand on him. They’d have to kill him to get to anyone in his house.

  Immediately, Hannah’s sweet face and that thick tangle of chocolate-colored hair popped into his mind’s eye. She was carrying his child. His child. He blanched with knee-weakening fear when he realized that Cyrus could just as easily have sent Jones after Hannah—or Isabel—as he had Mrs. O’Toole and the Hills.

  When a jolt of cold wind snapped Slade out of his thoughts, he stepped outside, closing the door behind him. His men’s booted feet crunched the gravel, and their low vo
ices carried on the wind. They burned as much as he did over Jones’s defection. They felt they had something to prove because of the one bad apple in their midst. One bad apple bought off with money. But one bad apple killed off by his own. There was a certain justice in that.

  Slade heard Hammonds speaking with Bekins. Sounded pretty irritated with Essie. A grin came to his lips. Who wasn’t at some point in the day?

  And what a hell of a day it had been. Thank God it was almost over. Glancing off to his right, catching the moon’s reflection on the pond, Slade strode to its edge. In the still water, he imagined he saw a reflection of Olivia’s brown eyes. He’d pay until the day he died every time he looked into those eyes. That was his burden, and he accepted it. He could shoulder it.

  But he knew he wouldn’t survive the loss of Isabel or Hannah to those thieving murderers next door. Having to harbor his loved ones this close to them made his nights sleepless, even though they were well guarded. Slade felt a pain in his chest, a pain born of his murderously fierce love for all the lives in his care. He’d let them all down. But never again. He’d die first.

  “Mr. Garrett, sir? Are you back here?”

  Slade jumped. He hadn’t even heard Hammonds approach. Some sentry he was. “Right here, Hammonds.”

  Facing the darkened cabin, Hammonds whipped around, his hand going to his heart. “You startled me, sir.”

  Slade smiled, hearing Hannah’s voice saying those same words. “I do that to a lot of people. Is Esmerelda giving you the chase?”

  “I’m afraid she is. Forgive me, sir, but she’s such a spoiled beast.”

  “Aptly put.” Slade looked the man up and down. Under a blanket, he wore a nightshirt that came to his knees. And knobby knees they were. “Where did you last see her?”

  “Well, it is dark and I might be seeing shadows, but I could swear she was on that first rise there beyond the fence.”