by Jody Hedlund
“Help!” he shouted, hoping his voice would rise over the crumbling wall. If anyone was out in the woods, they would have a difficult time hearing his call for help. Still, he had to try.
“Help me!” he cried with all the strength he could muster. “I’m here in the old windmill.”
More silence.
“Help! Please help!” For several minutes he kept up his calling, until his voice turned hoarse. Finally he slumped back and listened for any sign he’d been heard.
The only sound was the faint whining of the wind. He expelled a sigh of exhaustion.
Where was Caroline now? Was she already married? Not only did he abhor the idea of her marrying Arnie, he felt the same about her marrying anyone else . . . except for him.
A new kind of pain speared his chest. “Oh, God,” he breathed, leaning his head back and staring up at the clouds that blanketed the sky. Now that the effects of the alcohol were wearing thin, the reality of the situation hit him with full force.
He’d fallen in love with Caroline.
Aye. He loved her more than any other woman he’d ever known. He loved her enough to die for her. The realization brought an ache to his throat.
That was why he’d been so desperate yesterday after the fire to stop her from running to Arnie. And that was partly why he felt so miserable now. He still wanted to marry her, even though he didn’t deserve her, even though he was pledged to marry Tessa.
“Oh, God, what have I gotten myself into?” he said through bruised lips.
He’d thrown away the opportunity to marry Caroline, to have her love, and now he would spend his life trying not to think about her. If he allowed himself to desire her in even the slightest way, it wouldn’t be fair to Tessa. He had to try to care for Tessa. He had to give their relationship his best effort. But it was going to be one of the hardest things he’d ever done.
“I’m tired of being a weak man, God,” he whispered. “I don’t want to live this way anymore.”
He didn’t want to rely on medicine or alcohol or even another person for strength. Doing so only weakened him, just like it had weakened his dad.
But what could he do? How could he be strong? He just didn’t have it within himself.
“I need you, God,” he admitted.
The strains of an old hymn played in the dusty corners of his mind. “I need thee, oh, I need thee. Every hour I need thee . . .”
He hummed the tune and searched for the words to one of the stanzas. “I need thee every hour, stay thou nearby. Temptations lose their power when thou art nigh.”
Temptations lose their power . . .
“Yes. I need you, God,” he said again, digesting the truth. He’d been turning to everything else to cope with his pain, to the things that could never heal him or give him strength. Maybe for a time they could ease his inner demons, but ultimately if he hoped to heal, he needed to start turning to God, every hour. And once he did, God would fill him with strength. He’d be able to turn his back on the temptations.
“I need thee, oh, I need thee. Every hour I need thee . . .” The chorus played in his mind until it became his prayer. He couldn’t think of much else to say, but somehow in the process of making the song his inner cry, he sensed a moving of grace flowing over the depths of his sin.
He closed his eyes as tears of gratefulness pressed for release. During the war, the agony of all he’d experienced had driven him from his true source of strength. But since he’d arrived at the lighthouse, God had been gently drawing him back to himself.
Another gunshot sounded in the distance, this time echoing louder. Maybe the hunter was drawing closer. He sat forward with a start that sent a burning ripple up and down his arm.
“Help!” he shouted. “Somebody, please help!”
He made as much ruckus as he could for several minutes, but to no avail. No one came running to his rescue.
He would have to accept that he was stuck, at least until after Caroline married Arnie. After that, perhaps Arnie would come back and let him go. And if Arnie didn’t, he knew Caroline would find a way to help him. She wouldn’t neglect him if she could help it, especially not when Tessa and the boys needed him now more than ever.
He leaned back and closed his eyes again, letting his heart return to the prayer of earlier.
“What is the meaning of all this shouting?” an ornery voice said from the doorway.
At the sight of Monsieur Poupard’s red flannel coat and coonskin hat, Ryan pushed himself up straighter. “Here! I’m over here!”
“I see you,” the old man said, limping forward. “I’m neither blind nor deaf. Yet.”
The Frenchman dropped a lifeless turkey by the door and propped his rifle against the wall, all while muttering under his breath in French.
“What is going on?” Poupard asked, unsheathing the hunting knife belted under his coat. “Why are you sitting out here in the windmill tied up? Did those wild twins do this to you?”
“Nay.” Ryan twisted to give Poupard access to his wrists. “Arnie did it in order to trap Caroline into marrying him.”
“Arnie Simmons?” The Frenchman used the knife to cut the rope and free Ryan’s hands. The muskiness of tobacco and woodsmoke hung in the air around the old trapper. Even though the man came across as abrasive, Ryan had noticed a softer side to him, especially after the fire when he’d treated Sarah with tenderness, covering her with extra blankets, giving her sips of water when everyone else was too busy, and finally carrying her back to her sickbed and laying her there as gently as a porcelain doll.
He wouldn’t have guessed Poupard to have such a gentle side, just as he hadn’t expected Arnie to have such a cruel side.
“Believe it or not,” Ryan said, “Arnie Simmons has a monster living inside him.”
“I believe it,” Poupard said.
Ryan flexed his numb hands and moved his injured arm gingerly. “I suppose every son has a little of his dad in him.” That was what he’d learned about himself. He hadn’t wanted to struggle with drinking the same way his dad had. For years he’d prided himself on being a better and stronger man. But now he’d learned the truth, the truth that he was just as sinful.
Poupard bent over Ryan’s feet, wedged in the knife and began sawing at the rope. “That boy has a twisted side to him. A couple weeks ago I saw him driving nails through a duck.”
Ryan sat back as if the old man had just thrown a cold bucket of water in his face.
“The poor bird was squawking in pain. But that boy tortured it anyway.”
Ryan’s chest turned to ice. “That means Arnie’s the one behind all the mishaps at the lighthouse.”
“Mishaps?”
“The hole in the boat, the fire, the destruction of Caroline’s garden.” Maybe he’d even been the one to lock Caroline in the cellar. How else would he have known to look there?
Poupard paused in his sawing. The gravity in his expression sent chills into Ryan’s limbs. “I would not doubt he’s responsible for those things.”
“But why would he try to hurt Caroline if he cares about her and wants to marry her?”
“Perhaps he thought he could scare her away from the lighthouse and into his arms.”
Ryan nodded. “Aye. Unless his father or Mr. Finick put him up to the task of driving Caroline away from the light.”
The Frenchman finished cutting the rope. “Mr. Simmons wouldn’t have asked his son to scare anyone for him. He takes too much pleasure in scaring folks himself.”
“You’re probably right. Arnie is desperate for Caroline to marry him. Maybe he thought that by creating danger at the lighthouse, she’d want to leave so she could protect her family. And by rescuing her from the cellar, he thought she’d admire him for being the hero and fall more easily into his arms.”
The Frenchman grunted his agreement.
Ryan scrambled to his feet, almost falling in his attempt to make his legs work. He stumbled toward the door. He had to save Caroline from Arnie, now
more than ever.
“Here. Take my rifle,” Poupard called after him. “You may need it.”
Ryan grabbed the weapon and said over his shoulder, “Tell Tessa to stay with Sarah until I get back. And go find the sheriff and ask him to meet me at the inn.”
He didn’t wait for an acknowledgment from Poupard but instead forced himself to move faster.
She was going to die.
Her soul cried out from the darkness creeping into her consciousness. God, you’re good. You’re good all the time. Even in the bad times.
Her father’s prayer sifted through her mind, the prayer he’d shouted during the brightest sunshine and whispered during the fiercest storms. He’d never wavered in his faith, had clung to the promise of God’s goodness as if it were the buoy keeping him afloat.
Caroline’s cheek pressed against her knee, her tears dampening her skirt. Her hair stuck to her face and neck in the cramped heat of the cage. She’d lost all feeling in her arms and legs except for a painful numbness. Dizzying blackness threatened to pull her under completely.
She’d always given in to her worry, had always let it control her.
“Cast your cares on Him, honey,” her father had always told her.
But had she ever really followed his instruction? Had she ever cast her cares on the Lord?
She pictured the twins casting their fishing lines, tossing the bait as deep and as far as they possibly could. Was that what it was like to cast her cares? Did she need to mentally throw them as far away from herself as she could and let God swallow them up?
God, I cast my cares on you, she silently prayed. I’m tired of hanging on to all my concerns and worries. I want to give them to you to hold. I cast my cares on you. . . .
The prayer echoed quietly in her heart until it touched her lungs. She drew in a life-giving breath past the gag. As sour and stale as that breath was, she somehow knew His presence was with her.
She couldn’t be sure that Ryan would be safe. She couldn’t be sure her sisters and brothers would be safe either. But she had to keep casting her worries on God.
The door on the coop rattled, rousing her from her drowsiness.
“Caroline?” came Arnie’s voice as the door opened.
Relief swept over with the fresh air and the light.
“I’ve g-got the preacher,” he said, his fingers wrapping around her bound arms. “It’s t-time to get m-married.” He dragged her out of the cage, wrenching her arms painfully in the process. He yanked her to her feet impatiently, and she couldn’t keep from crying out.
When she was finally standing, she swayed, the darkness still hovering and threatening to overwhelm her.
Arnie’s eager smile faded, and his eyes flickered with anger. “Aren’t y-you excited?”
Excited? She almost laughed, except the rag in her mouth stopped it. How could Arnie possibly think she’d be excited after he’d kidnapped and beaten Ryan and then bound and gagged her, forcing her into a filthy chicken coop?
Arnie had changed into clean trousers and a fresh shirt. He wore the black bowler hat he donned when he went visiting. It was obvious he was taking the marriage ceremony seriously and that he expected her to do the same.
A chill rippled up her back and warned her that she couldn’t stop placating him. Not yet. She tried to smile and hoped it reached her eyes. “Of course I’m excited,” she said into the rag.
At her mumbling, he reached over and removed the gag. She sucked in a shuddering breath while he used his knife to cut the rope binding her hands.
When she was finally free, her first thought was to bolt, to get away from Arnie as fast as she could. She glanced toward the back of the inn where the door stood wide open. Arnie must have rushed out and forgotten to close it.
Then she examined the road and the woods beyond, searching for an escape route or for anyone she could run to and plead for help. But even as the thought of fleeing came, she saw right away that she wouldn’t get far and would only anger Arnie all the more.
As if sensing her thoughts, his fingers snaked around her upper arm and turned into a chain. “Be h-happy, Caroline.” His voice was hard. “If you’re n-not happy, then . . . then I w-won’t be happy.”
He crossed the cockpit, leaving her little choice but to stumble to keep up with him. Her legs were weak from the cramped coop and lack of oxygen. And whenever she tripped over her feet, he’d yank her up with a bruising strength.
She wanted to protest, but instead she gritted her teeth. She’d have to resign herself to marrying him, though her dread of doing so had grown into a mountain.
He led her through the inn’s back door into a small storage room. She had to step around beer barrels and stacks of crates containing an assortment of bottles. At the sight of a long, red cloak hanging from a peg near the door, she gave a start. Was it Arnie’s or Mr. Simmons’s?
As he tugged her into the large kitchen, the smell of boiled chicken filled the room, along with the tantalizing scent of several potpies steaming on the sideboard.
An old woman was stirring a bubbling kettle on the cast-iron stove. The woman paused and glanced at Caroline with a blank expression, but then quickly focused again on her task. She turned her back as if to send the message that she was too busy to pay attention to anything but her work.
A young girl was sitting on a stool in the corner, paring potatoes. The floor around her was covered with slimy peels and plucked chicken feathers. Wariness filled the girl’s dirty face, and her sullen eyes followed them across the kitchen.
Caroline’s hope sank. She’d thought perhaps she could elicit help from someone inside the inn, but her chances of doing that were looking bleak.
Once in the hallway that led to the front, Arnie stopped. His fingers dug deeper into her arm, making her flinch.
“You m-must cooperate,” he said, his foul breath too near her cheek, “or I’ll p-punish the children.”
Her insides quaked. It had been bad enough for Arnie to hurt Ryan. But she couldn’t bear the thought that he’d do anything to harm her siblings. I cast my cares on you, God, she cried silently. She couldn’t drag her worries back or she’d sink under the weight of them.
“Don’t worry, Arnie,” she said in a strangely calm tone. “I’ll cooperate.”
And she knew then she had no choice. She had to do whatever he asked. She wouldn’t be able to plot an escape. She wouldn’t be able to plead to the pastor or anyone else for help.
She was stuck marrying Arnie.
As if sensing her resignation, Arnie continued into the dimly lit tavern. Through the haze of cigar smoke she could see several men sitting at tables. They paused in their conversation to stare at her.
She could only imagine how she looked, her hair askew, her face and clothes dirty from her time in the smelly coop. Would they question what had happened to her? She could only pray they would sense something wasn’t right and step in to defend her.
She saw Mr. Finick sipping from a beer glass. His lips crooked into a smile at the sight of her with Arnie. Had it been only hours ago that he was out at the lighthouse, witnessing Ryan and Tessa in bed together? It seemed like weeks had passed.
Reverend Blackwell stood near the door. He was talking with Mr. Simmons, who had a towel in his big hands that he was twisting and then snapping. She was surprised the reverend had stepped into the tavern. Esther had recruited him early in her campaign against cockfighting, and it was no secret that he preached the benefits of temperance.
Arnie wound through the tables, his grip on her arm unwavering.
When he stopped in front of his father and the preacher, she gulped in a breath trying to still her trembling.
Mr. Simmons flicked the towel at Arnie. It snapped against his chest with a sharp crack. “I never thought I’d see the day when my boy would get married,” Mr. Simmons said with a grin. “But wouldn’t you know, here he is with his bride-to-be.”
Reverend Blackwell glanced at Caroline. At the sight of her
disheveled appearance, his eyes widened and filled with questions, questions she wanted to answer.
But Arnie’s fingers squeezed her arm, reminding her of his threat. She smiled, praying the reverend could read the despair in her eyes.
“I figure any woman who wants Arnie must be pretty desperate,” Mr. Simmons continued in his smooth voice, followed by a laugh.
Arnie’s hand flexed, and his eyes narrowed. But the angry look was gone before Mr. Simmons finished laughing. Instead, Arnie shuffled and stared at his shoes.
“So, Caroline,” Reverend Blackwell said, “was Arnie speaking the truth when he told me you’re agreeable to the union?”
Now was her chance to shout her protest, to put an end to this charade. Yet at Arnie’s slight shift next to her, she knew his threat to hurt her siblings wasn’t empty. After seeing what he’d done to Ryan, she couldn’t take any more chances. “Yes, Arnie is correct. I’ve agreed to marry him.”
Reverend Blackwell stared at her intently for a moment.
Did he doubt her? She prayed he would.
“Arnie might be able to perform for the wedding,” Mr. Simmons said with a widening grin, “but I don’t think he has what it takes to perform later—if you know what I mean.” He laughed again, as did several of the patrons nearby.
Mortification poured into Caroline, and she wanted to slink under the nearest table and hide. She hadn’t really considered what being married to Arnie would be like. She’d simply thought to survive. But Mr. Simmons’s lewd comment only served to repulse her even more.
Arnie’s ears turned bright red, and he kept his gaze fixed on his shoes. Were his eyes filled with the deadly anger again? Maybe staring at his feet was his way of hiding his true feelings, keeping him from lashing out at his father. Caroline could only imagine all the teasing Arnie had endured over his life from his father. Perhaps he’d once tried to defend himself, only to find the retribution severe.
And now, after years of holding in the resentment, had it grown into a raging storm capable of destroying anyone who got in its path, namely her and her family?
The reverend cleared his throat. “Caroline, if you’re truly in agreement to the union . . .” He waited for her reply, giving her another chance to escape.
