by Jamie Carie
She could only stare back with all the horror she felt.
He laughed and walked out the door saying, “You’ll learn to like it, I promise. You’ll be begging for it by the end of the week.”
She heard the key turn the lock on the outside of the door and looked desperately around the darkening room. Struggling, she rolled on to her stomach and pushed up onto her knees. She had to get out, had to get out, had to get out—a desperate litany that was now her existence. She twisted and turned her hands, frantically fighting the rope. Pulling against it as hard as she could, she tried to stretch some space between her wrists. It was impossible. She felt like an animal caught in a trap and thought of how some chose to chew off an arm or leg to save themselves. She realized now it would be worth it.
With renewed effort, she pulled on one side and then the other. She couldn’t bear the thought of what might await her if she didn’t escape. She had to get out no matter how much it cost her. Gritting her teeth and with a low growl, she pulled on one arm as hard as she could, the threads of the rope like a dull knife on the outsides of her wrists. Sweat dripped from her hairline as the rope cut into her flesh. Taking quick breaths, she pulled relentlessly. A steady drip of red spotted the white sheet behind her, adding to the other smears of blood, a virgin’s blood that should have been her husband’s.
She pulled harder, starting to cry and whimper from the pain, but still the rope didn’t give. Collapsing onto the bed, she wept in earnest. All was lost. He would come back and how would she endure it? She knew, from the depths of her being, that she couldn’t let him do it again. She would rather die.
Rubbing her face into the blanket, she gritted her teeth, then curled toward her knees and rocked up to a sitting position. She wanted to live.
“God, help me. Help me.” It came out as a cry and a whisper. She never dared ask anything of God—she didn’t deserve His help, but she was too terrified to care now. If He struck her dead for asking, it would be better than what was to come with Ross.
Desperately, she looked up and saw the flickering shadows dancing across the ceiling from the only light in the room. Her gaze swung to the burning candle on the bedside table. Long strands of loose hair hung in her face, but her eyes held an intense determination. For a breath in time everything seemed to slow to a stop inside of her as she wondered how brave she really was, then she thought of it no more.
Slowly, she scooted to the edge of the bed, swung her legs to the floor, stood, and gained her balance. With little hops, her feet inched toward the candle, her eyes never leaving it. Upon reaching the table, she turned her back toward it and stretched out her arms. Looking over her shoulder, she strained to position the rope over the flame. Her immediate reaction was to jerk her hands away from the blue blaze.
Silent tears fell in the silent room as she took a deep breath, felt an odd calm overtake her, and then replaced her hands. Her breathing quickened, became a pant, as the flame danced across the delicate skin of her wrist. She bit her bottom lip until she tasted her own blood. Beads of sweat broke out on her temples, but she was able to keep the rope steady over the flame. She could see the thin band of smoke curling up from the candle, like a snake dancing for its charmer. She could smell the rope and her own flesh burning. She pulled to either side with all of her strength, waiting … waiting … for the rope to break and free her from this hellish nightmare.
With a loud sob, her head to the side, her eyes tightly clenched, she felt the cord finally give. Her arms hung limply at her sides, her wrists strangely numb. Her whole body shook, her arms quivering as she raised her hands out in front of her. Ugly, bloody welts from the rope were on the outsides, but worse by far was the raw flesh of her inner wrist where the flame had worked. A queasy dizziness overwhelmed her and she was forced to sit on the bed and put her head between her knees. She had always had a strange propensity to faint, but she knew she couldn’t allow that to happen now. She had to get out of the hotel before Ross returned.
After slowly untying her feet, she groped about until she found a linen handkerchief and tore it into two halves with her teeth. New tears stung her eyes as she wrapped her wrists, the cloth sticking to the bloody places, and then she bolted toward the door. Tears of panic and frustration rose, blinding her, as she turned the knob over and over. “No, no … please no.”
It was locked; she should have remembered that. She wanted to beat on the door and scream, but thought better of it.
Instead, she took a deep, fortifying breath and glared at the room. There weren’t any windows, nothing, save the locked door. Pacing for a moment, she thought hard, trying not to think about Ross’s promise, trying to ignore the screaming pain from her wrists. Scrambling over to the dresser, she started going through the drawers, pulling clothes out willy-nilly, looking for what, she wasn’t sure, but there had to be something. Her head jerked up as she dropped a handful of socks and heard the sound of a heavy thud as one hit the floor. Dropping to her knees, she frantically felt around until her hands wrapped around the full toe of a sock. Her hands trembled as she shook out the contents. Her breath whooshed out of her. Money, a fat roll of it, lay beside a shiny black pistol.
She smiled, mirroring his earlier victorious leer. He’d been a fool to underestimate her. Her thoughts were crystal clear now. She knew exactly what to do.
With teeth set, she shoved the wad of bills in the pocket of her dress and tucked the pistol in her other pocket. Taking the discarded bag, she looped it on her forearm, picked up the porcelain water pitcher, and blew out the candle, letting darkness flood the room. Whoever opened that door, whoever proved her innocent savior, they would not get a good look at her.
Walking steadily over to the door, she pounded firmly on it, pain radiating up her arm and into her shoulder. “Hello, hello!” she called out in as bright a voice as she could manage. It was a hotel and she was sure someone would hear her. Her only worry was that it wouldn’t happen soon enough. She had no idea how long Ross would be, which was why she was armed with the pitcher. She would like to shoot him, but that wouldn’t be wise. The shot would be heard, and much as she would like to hold it to his head and watch him squirm, she didn’t need to add a murder to her list of troubles.
There was a moment of terror when she heard a key scrape in the lock. She had just raised the pitcher over her head, breath held, when she heard a woman’s voice. “Mr. Brandon?”
Elizabeth lowered the pitcher and waited as still and watchful as a cat with its prey in sight while the woman turned the knob. When the door opened, Elizabeth shoved the pitcher into the woman’s chest and rushed out into the lighted hall. She fled down the stairs, stumbling once, then ran out the door and across the dirt street to the uneven boardwalk, hearing the lady calling after her, “Miss! Wait, miss!”
The cool night air had never felt so good, a freedom breeze encouraging her, blowing her in the right direction. It was as if some source of inner strength had risen up and taken charge. She wasn’t frightened; she was in control. Back at her room, she put salve and proper bandages on her wrists, packed one small bag with precious essentials, then moved into a distant hotel under a new name, Elizabeth Smith, a name she’d used before when first escaping the Dunnings, a name she thought to use from now on. The next day she found it easy to procure passage aboard the first ship sailing to Alaska—now that she had money. But it hadn’t gone as far as she had expected, only enough to buy her passage ticket with a little to spare. But she had to get out of Seattle as soon as possible. She knew Ross would be looking for her. She didn’t know if he would be desperate enough to try to track her all the way to Alaska, but if he did … God help her …
It had worked beautifully. It had been the middle of October, but she was finally on her way. With a rush of adventure pumping through her veins, she’d kept a confident iron control over her emotions the entire trip. She hadn’t let herself think of the incident at all. Coming to Juneau had been an unexpected side trip, but she didn’t re
gret it. It was further off the beaten path and therefore safer. She had been an emotionally strong fortress, until the blizzard … and Noah. Until this safety net of love had encompassed her. Now the memories flooded back. They were relentless, and tonight she had remembered it all.
She jerked as a hand touched her shoulder. Turning her head, she gazed blankly into Noah’s questioning stare.
* * *
NOAH’S HAND DROPPED away with shock. Her skin felt like ice, but it was flushed with the heat of the fire. Her porcelain looks appeared chiseled of stone, her eyes, like those of the dead. She was as unfeeling and cold as granite. God, he prayed silently as panic gripped him, help her. I don’t know what to do. He wanted to hold her, but he was afraid. She looked like she would crumble into a thousand pieces if he touched her. Floundering about, he finally remembered the steaming mug of coffee in his other hand. Holding it out to her, he said in even, quiet tones, “Drink this. It will warm you.”
He breathed a sigh of relief when she stiffly took the cup and turned back to the fire. Glancing around, he spotted the discarded quilt that he’d been using and picked it up. He spread it over her shoulders, draping it around her stiff, regal back, the quilt in all its patchwork humility a poor excuse for a queen’s cape. Noah struggled to speak, say the right words. “Sit down for a while, Elizabeth. I’ll make up a bed for you by the fire and when you’re warm enough you can sleep.”
She nodded but said nothing, didn’t move, her eyes staring into the dancing flames.
Noah cast about for more bedding and busied himself setting out the blankets, feeling desperate to banish the ghosts in her eyes. God, how can I help her? he pleaded silently as he worked. It startled him suddenly that he expected an answer. He realized that he hadn’t talked to God in weeks. He used to talk to God all the time. Like breathing almost, it was, an ongoing conversation with a friend who was always there, waiting to be asked and be heard, to know and be known. And yet “friend” wasn’t quite right either. More like a father who knew everything about him and loved him so unconditionally that He let Noah discover things on his own. Like an all-knowing presence that, on the best days, guided his every move. Since Elizabeth had come to him, things had shifted a bit. He’d begun to spend more time with her, have more thoughts about her, and, he realized with a sudden stab of sadness, have more love for her. She had waltzed into his life on snowflakes and wind and turned his heart and his home upside down. Was that why Adam had sinned and eaten of the fruit? Noah had never understood that, but now …
While smoothing away unseen wrinkles from the sheet, Noah confronted man’s ancient weakness. He faced his own weakness where Elizabeth was concerned—that it was easier, could seem more fulfilling, thrilling even, to love the seen and the touchable than an invisible God. That if he didn’t keep his bearings he could become consumed by her.
But what was he to do now?
Sing her a song.
Immediately his heart lifted within him. His God was still there. Thank you, his heart beat out the words. Thank you, thank you. Later, he would pray and talk to his God-Father. He would make things right.
Sing her a song. OK, sing to her. He knew better than to argue or question the command. Slowly, as quiet as his deep voice could manage, he began to hum, a little self-consciously, a song as old as time to him and as natural as breathing. He didn’t look at Elizabeth. Part of him was afraid to, her intensity so frightened him. Finally, as he laid the pillow at one end of the bed, he glanced up. He felt his heart jerk as he saw the glistening tracks of tears on Elizabeth’s still face and abruptly quit.
She turned toward him, her face once again that of a real woman. “Don’t stop,” she whispered.
Noah went over to her and pulled her into his arms, her face nuzzled below his neck, her body pressed close to his. He held on, but her thin shoulders refused to relax, as though more than flesh and bone held her erect.
He began singing again, this time the song he had sung in the cabin when he’d first cooked for her. It did something to her, that song, just as it had before. Noah didn’t understand the power behind a simple song, and yet he could feel himself singing it as he never had before. It was richer, fuller, quiet and yet bursting with feeling. It was more real than anything he was capable of, and he realized with a swelling in his heart that the song wasn’t from him. It was from God; He was trying to reach her through music. He wanted to tell her how much He loved her.
Elizabeth’s hands were resting on Noah’s chest in small fists. At first there was no response, just the closed stiffness of self-protection. Then slowly, against her will, she began to beat a fist against his solid chest.
“Tell me,” Noah said softly. “What is it, Elizabeth?”
She only shook her head, crying now.
It was as if he was a tiny boat being wildly tossed by the tempest of her emotions and she needed him to be strong and not allow the storm to overtake them. The depth of her suffering seeped into him, overwhelming in its intensity. He could feel the anger … the pain with its razor-edged guilt … the hopelessness. She was so alone inside herself.
“You’re not alone,” he heard himself saying. “You’re not alone anymore. You are well loved.”
The crying finally subsided into long, slow breaths. Wordlessly, Noah sank down on the makeshift bed, pulling her with him. He cradled her body, softly humming as he would to a child, stroking her hair. Gradually, he felt her relax into his body. The soft rise and fall of her breathing told him that she was asleep. He stayed like that for a long time, past the point that his muscles were screaming at him and his throat was raw from singing, past the point of wondering what had caused her so much pain. He just held her and accepted her suffering as his own. And now he knew for certain: He loved her. He would always love her. It was his place in life to love this woman. Finally, he eased her to the blankets and pulled them up to her shoulders. Abandoning his own bed, he sat down in the rocker, but he couldn’t sleep.
The air seemed alive and the hairs on the back of his neck rose as he peered sharply into the darkness. He felt the need to stand guard over her, as if some great evil stalked about the room and only he could keep it from her.
* * *
September 12, 1887
Dear Mrs. Rhodes,
After months of correspondence with several Illinois orphanages, schools, and even a few mental institutions, I am pleased to report a possible break in the case. But alas, bad luck has struck. In my enthusiasm to bring you good news, I proposed to travel to an orphanage in Illinois and locate Elizabeth before writing to you. After several days on board a train, I arrived at the small town of Normal (which in my experience is anything but). I regret to inform you that as I left my hotel, setting out in direction of the orphanage, I was run down by a farm wagon. It appears I have broken both legs and am writing to you while recuperating at a local boarding house. Please pray for my protection, ma’am. As I said in a previous letter, something dark precludes us, watching our efforts. I plan to overcome it.
Please know that even while convalescing, I am working for your cause, asking questions of the townspeople and in general making myself friendly. I’ll not make the same mistake I did in New York. This town will never know my real purpose here.
I shall write as soon as I learn anything more.
I remain your devoted servant.
Sincerely yours,
Jeremiah Hoglesby
Private Detective for Hire
Nine
Elizabeth, could you climb up and get me two tins of crackers, four cans of beans, and some Mertle’s Tea, please?” Cara asked, one hand on her aching lower back.
Elizabeth smiled. “Only if you promise to sit down after this customer.” Whispering, she added, “You’re looking swollen again.”
Cara nodded with obvious relief. The place was packed with men preparing for the mad rush to the Klondike, but Elizabeth could tell that Cara had had enough. With only two weeks to go, she was round as a melon an
d swelling around the feet and ankles. The doctor had been in to see her yesterday and warned her to take it easy.
Elizabeth brought the required items to the counter. She wrapped the bundle in brown paper, tying it with twine with practiced speed before turning it over to Cara. After taking the man’s money, Cara slowly waddled to the back room and plopped down in the rocker. Waving to Elizabeth, she said, “I’ll be looking at this new mail-order catalog, but if you need me, just call, OK?”
“We won’t need you,” Elizabeth and Will said together. They exchanged glances and smiled at each other.
In truth they wouldn’t. Elizabeth was a shopkeeper’s dream come true, or so Will had said once in his gruff way over the last five months. In no time she had learned how to trade goods for the large variety of furs brought in, mostly by Indians, and the ever-present gold dust. She had even picked up a little of the Tlingit language, which she knew impressed Will more than he would let on. Praise from Will was rare, and Elizabeth couldn’t help but relish it when it came. She tried so hard to please him. It had been easy to gain Cara’s trust and friendship, but Will was cautious and had remained closed toward her for a long time. He was serious and uncommunicative most times, and even though she had gained ground with him, she knew he was still suspicious of her. She caught him watching her occasionally with a thoughtful frown.
