by Jamie Craig
He was debating how best to bring up the subject when the front door slammed.
“Micah!”
Footsteps echoed down the hall, and he straightened from where he’d been lacing his boot in time for Ewan to shove the bedroom door open. His nose was red from the cold, his thick brows drawn into a line, but it was the dark worry in his eyes that lanced through Micah’s gut.
“What’s wrong?”
Ewan jerked his head towards the front of the cottage. “The church. They’re burning it down.”
There was no reason to say anything further. If the church was in danger, Micah knew exactly where Jefferson was going to be.
As soon as he stepped outside, the biting air made his eyes water, but it was the acrid scent of smoke that spurred Micah into a run. His footsteps crunched against the packed snow, his heel only occasionally slipping, and at his side, Ewan matched his pace. He didn’t have to look for the evidence of what was going on. Thick, black clouds already darkened the treetops. Faint singing grew louder with each pounding yard, and the sound of crackling flames snapped along his skin.
His steps only slowed when he reached the edge of the throng. It looked like everybody in the village had shown up for the burning, and Micah shouldered his way through the fringes to try and find a familiar face.
He spotted Mrs. Ruark near the front steps. She turned at the call of her name.
“What happened?” he panted, ignoring niceties such as a proper greeting. “Have you seen Mr. Dering?”
“The reverend passed along this morning. Something needed to be done about this church.”
Micah paused, waiting for her to answer his second question. When she didn’t, he grabbed her arm and forced her to face him.
“Mr. Dering,” he repeated, with as much fervor in his voice as was in his grip. “Does he know?”
“He’s inside.”
His head whipped around to see a short, elderly woman he didn’t recognize glaring at him. “What do you mean, he’s inside?”
She sniffed. “Are you addled? I mean what I said. He tried to tell us we were making a mistake, and then ran inside on his own.” She turned away to watch the conflagration, the light flickering over her lined face. “He’s a fool if he thinks it’s not evil. The reverend didn’t deserve to die like he did.”
Micah’s gaze jumped to the burning church, while everything inside him tightened. Jefferson was inside. Of course, he’d tried to save the church. Of course, he didn’t consider it evil. Even with Micah, he’d refused to see the malevolence in what Joseph had done to him.
The steeple crumpled to the side, the crash of burning wood as its path was arrested echoing through the crowd.
Jefferson was inside.
Micah leapt forward without any further thought.
A strong hand grabbed his arm and yanked him back. He whirled to see Ewan restraining his flight.
“You’ll both die,” he said before Micah could protest.
“Or we’ll both live.” Micah twisted free. “I have to do this.”
He fully expected Ewan to try and stop him again. He had never been so grateful as he was when his feet hit the splintering front steps, and he was allowed to shove the doors open with his shoulder unencumbered.
A wall of heat rushed forward, wrapping around him like a cocoon ready to smother. Micah bowed his head, blinking against the smoke, and fumbled in his pocket for his handkerchief to cover his mouth. How long had Jefferson been in here? How could the town have simply let him enter on his own? Did they not care what happened to one of their own?
But the elderly woman’s words came back to him, and Micah was suddenly uncertain that he could continue to trust the people of Wroxham. It was the same sort of narrow-minded thinking that he’d found so infuriating with his father. If Jefferson died as a result of it, Micah would be sure to have charges brought up against them.
Except he refused to let it get that far. Jefferson wasn’t going to die. He wasn’t going to let that happen.
“Jefferson!” His shout sounded weak to his ears, so he tried again, venturing forward through the billowing smoke to the center aisle. The walls were ablaze, the fire creeping inward. Pieces of the ceiling had already fallen through onto the altar, feeding the flames, but it was impossible to see the sky beyond the openings for all the smoke filling the air.
Already, his lungs felt scorched, and he covered his mouth again to try and filter his air. He wouldn’t be able to hear Jefferson anyway, not over the roar of the fire. It had a music all its own, deadly and sharp. Under other circumstances, he might have stopped to appreciate its natural rhythms. Now, he only wished to find his beloved.
Floorboards were starting to burn away, leaving gaping holes through which more flames jumped. The fire had spread to the basement as well; it wouldn’t be long before the entire building collapsed in on itself. Micah had to weave along, to avoid any portion that appeared like it might give way, but he knew the path he needed to take. There was only one place within the church’s walls that drew Jefferson, time and time again.
For a moment, Micah thought he miscounted. Eighth row. It was the eighth row. That was where they always sat. That was the pew Jefferson thought of as special. But when Micah looked along its length, he saw nothing. The floor was clear. The fire hadn’t even reached this far in yet.
“Jefferson!” He was closer now. He had to be. Perhaps he would hear Jefferson now. Or Jefferson would hear him.
He saw the shadow out of the corner of his eye. Hastening to the next row, he craned his neck in order to peer beneath the pew, and there it was again. A foot.
Jefferson’s foot.
Micah released the handkerchief as he bolted forward. Smoke immediately made him choke, but he kept his head low, dropping to his knees in order to reach Jefferson’s side. He was curled into a ball, but when Micah touched his forehead, it was ice-cold, not raging as his own skin was.
“Jefferson,” he hissed, shaking his shoulder.
There was no response, but the slight movement behind his closed eyelids was enough to prove that at least he was still alive.
Micah didn’t think. There was no time for it. He slid his arms beneath Jefferson’s long frame and pulled him free of the pew, cradling him against his chest as he struggled to catch his breath. Behind him, something crashed to the floor, making the boards reverberate beneath his boots. It was the only impetus he needed to straighten, though the dead weight of his lover made the task far from easy.
Soot streaked across Jefferson’s brow, and there was a fresh cut on his temple. Scarlet droplets were stark against his pale skin, but Micah didn’t allow himself the luxury of worrying about it as he struggled to get back out to the center aisle. He couldn’t see the floor anymore. He would have to be very careful about where he trod.
Flames danced overhead. Biting back the instinct to look up, Micah covered Jefferson as much as he could with his own body as he angled towards the front door. When the snap came, his nerves jumped, only to leap again when a segment of the ceiling crashed to the floor in front of him.
Micah stumbled to his knees. In his arms, Jefferson stirred, but didn’t wake.
Up. Must get up. Must not fail him.
An unexpected blast of cold air cooled the beads of sweat on his brow, and Micah glanced up to see the door open. The crowd still mingled outside; it was Ewan filling the frame, Ewan racing around the perimeter, Ewan crouching at his side and bolstering his strength by lending his strong arms.
Micah followed his lead back to the entrance, wincing at the sound of more rafters falling. He sucked in fresh air as soon as it hit his lungs, grateful for the way it sliced through the smoke. He was even more grateful for the way Ewan shoved the villagers out of his path, clearing the way for him to get Jefferson away from the inferno.
“Send the doctor,” he barked at Mrs. Ruark as he passed her. He didn’t slow, or curb his sharp tone. In his mind, they no longer deserved any politeness. If something happ
ened to Jefferson at this point, it would all be on their heads.
Chapter 21
Don’t make me leave. Don’t let me go. I don’t want to…I don’t want to leave you.
Joseph’s desperate cry echoed in Jefferson’s dreams, chasing him through the night, until he finally opened his eyes to December’s mellow sunshine. The words spun in his mind, like a particularly alluring line of verse. Even when his gaze focused on Micah’s dear face. His dear, worried face. Jefferson reached for his hand, and opened his mouth to speak, but only a whisper of sound escaped from his hoarse throat.
Micah’s frown deepened at the attempt, and Jefferson shook his head. Please don’t worry. Jefferson didn’t remember a great deal about the previous night, but he did remember waking in his own bed. He remembered Dr. Browning’s familiar green eyes, remembered his calloused hands checking his body for broken bones, for burns, for any open wounds. He remembered Browning’s deep voice assuring them that Jefferson would be fine with rest.
Jefferson glanced at the pitcher on the nightstand, then gestured at his throat. Micah moved quickly, pouring a glass of the cool liquid. He helped Jefferson into a sitting position, before lifting the water to Jefferson’s lips. Once his throat felt better, he tried to smile again.
“Did you get any sleep?”
Micah hesitated. “A few minutes here and there.” The shadows beneath his eyes suggested the moments were even fewer than that, but Jefferson didn’t press. “The important thing is, how do you feel?”
“Fine.” He rubbed his eyes, then studied the back of his hand. His clean hand. He didn’t feel sooty or sweaty, and he didn’t smell any smoke clinging to his skin. “Did I miss the sponge bath?”
Some of the lines in Micah’s brow eased as he glanced guiltily down the length of Jefferson’s body. “I thought it would help you sleep. And I couldn’t bear the scent of it. If you promise to behave and do as Dr. Browning says, I might be persuaded to give you another one.”
“Remind me. What were Dr. Browning’s instructions? Am I to remain in bed?”
“Rest. And more rest. And if I see fit, more rest on top of that.”
Jefferson nodded. “I plan to do just that. Later. After I visit the church.”
He caught the slight ducking of Micah’s lashes before he settled on the edge of the bed, his hands smoothing down the blankets. “I did not wish to tell you this way. But I’m afraid the church is gone. All that remains is ashes.”
Micah’s statement didn’t surprise him. He knew the church would be destroyed quickly, and the thought of it was enough to make his chest hurt, like his lungs were full of smoke once again. “I would like to see what’s left of it.”
“Later.” His fingers moved to Jefferson’s jaw, his gaze somber. “Remember when I said seeing you unconscious was the most terrifying thing I’d ever experienced? I was wrong.”
Jefferson looked down. “I’m sorry, Micah. I shouldn’t have run into the church. I didn’t think Joseph…” He stopped. “I didn’t expect to…pass out.”
Micah stilled. “You didn’t think Joseph…what?”
Jefferson took Micah’s hand and caressed his wrist with the pad of his thumb. “I heard Joseph, screaming in my head. I don’t know what I thought I could do to help him. I just knew I couldn’t ignore his pain. And whatever Joseph was experiencing…I didn’t think he’d make me experience it too.”
“But he did. And that’s why you were unconscious when I found you?”
“It was just like before.” Jefferson swallowed hard. When he spoke again, his voice sounded smoke damaged. “Joseph dying in my grandfather’s arms again.”
Micah closed his eyes for long seconds, but the haunting still lingered long after he opened them again. “I shudder to think what might have happened if I hadn’t arrived when I did.” He took a deep breath. “That’s why I’d like you to consider leaving Wroxham with me.”
Jefferson sought his face for any sign that he might be less than serious, but Micah had never looked so solemn.
“Do you want to leave Wroxham because of what Ewan said about your father?”
“That’s part of it,” he conceded. “He has the power to make things very difficult for us. He could even have charges brought against you. If we’re not here, if we…went west, for instance, he wouldn’t be able to separate us.” His gaze ducked. “I realize that I’ll then be affirming his belief I’ve run away, but I don’t know how else to be with you, to be free of fear. And if that makes me a coward, so be it.”
Jefferson knew that Micah’s fear of his father was real, and justified. He also did not disagree that it would be a relief to be beyond his grasp, and beyond the grasp of everybody who would pry them apart. But that didn’t mean Jefferson wanted to leave his home.
“Your father is only part of it? What is the other part of it?”
Seconds ticked by. The conflict warred across Micah’s fine features, and Jefferson tucked his hand more securely into his while he waited for him to respond.
“They would have let you die,” Micah finally admitted. “I arrived at the church, and nobody was attempting to go in and help you, and…” When he lifted his head again, the ache in his clear eyes even affected Jefferson. “How can I live somewhere people could allow such things to happen? I understand that they were afraid, but you are a member of this community as much as Reverend Deem was. And you were still alive. How dare they turn their backs on that?”
Jefferson wanted to deny it. The people in Wroxham would not let him die. They were not strangers to him. Many of them had known him his entire life. Many of them were his relatives—cousins, aunts, uncles. Some of them had been close friends of his mother’s. What Micah suggested was beyond absurd.
And yet…
“Nobody helped you when you went into the church?”
“They’re ruled by their fear,” Micah replied. “And they have never valued you the way you’re meant to be valued. Look at how dismissive they were of your writing! What will they do should they learn of our relationship? How fearful will they be then?”
“Well, they can’t learn of our relationship, of course,” Jefferson murmured automatically. His mind was in a tumult. Micah’s argument was sound. Logical. The sort of thing he would expect from Micah. “How far west would you like to go?”
“Only as far as we must,” he was quick to say. “Though…wouldn’t it be grand to see the Pacific? Imagine the adventure. Our writing would be absolutely splendid then.”
The Pacific? Mexican territory? Jefferson thought if they tried that, writing would be the last thing on their mind. But Micah’s eyes were bright, and his tone eager.
“Micah…are you sure you want to move that far away from civilization? Every week, the newspapers report on the latest Indian massacres. Even here in Wroxham we have the convenience of Boston.”
“You mean the civilization that turned its back on you? On us? Family that would rather I was miserable? I would brave Hell itself to see a life that is just ours, Jefferson.”
“And I would journey to Hell itself to fulfill your wishes. It will take some preparation, but we cannot travel safely until after the thaw.”
Micah nodded, as if he hadn’t expected to hear anything less. “Ewan has actually given this quite a bit of thought already. He’s more than ready to help in any way that he can.” He hesitated. “He asked to come with us, and I…I said yes. He’ll be a tremendous asset, I’m sure of it.”
A part of Jefferson resented the thought of somebody taking Micah’s attention. He had never lived with his own personal valet, and thought Ewan would definitely risk getting under foot. On the other hand, Jefferson could not begrudge Micah this small thing. Ultimately, Micah would need his friend. Of that, Jefferson had no doubt.
“I’m sure he will be,” Jefferson murmured. Micah smiled at him, and the warmth there did something to combat the coldness of Micah’s revelation. “But if you meant to distract me from visiting the church, it has not worked.�
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“But there is no church. Going there will accomplish nothing but tiring you out.”
“I want to see it,” Jefferson insisted. “And Joseph.”
“Joseph might not be there.”
Jefferson looked out the bedroom window. “He’s there. I’m sure he is. Maybe I can still help him.”
Following his gaze, Micah remained still for long moments before nodding with a sigh. “All right. But not until after lunch. It’ll be warmest then, and you’ll have a full meal in you.” He flashed a smile, though it was obvious his heart wasn’t fully in it. “Mrs. Ruark sent over soup. I believe her guilty conscience is manifesting in food.”
Jefferson tugged on Micah’s hand, forcing him closer, until his mouth was within kissing distance. He inhaled deeply, and realized Micah must have bathed himself as well. There wasn’t a hint of smoke on his skin. He smelled fresh and warm. Jefferson curled his free hand in Micah’s shirt. “Thank you. Those words seem weak when thanking a person for saving your life. But I…thank you.”
“I did not save yours.” Their lips grazed with each word, Micah’s breath honeyed and hot. “I saved ours.”
“You weren’t harmed yourself, were you? Should you join me in bed?”
He felt his lover’s smile. “Clearly, you are recovering quite nicely. By all rights, I should make you eat now.”
“By all rights, you should.” Jefferson moved his hand across Micah’s chest and over his shoulder. “But I’m not hungry. And you…” He kissed the corner of Micah’s mouth. What would have happened if he had died? Would he be like Joseph now? Doomed to spend a lifetime watching his lover, but never able to touch him? “You feel so amazing.”
