Sally Duffield parted the drape with her hand, and leaned over the back of the lounge to gaze outside through the window. The final group of searchers had not yet returned, and darkness had fallen, giving cause for concern for the woman who kept vigil at the parlor window, waiting for news of her friend. The other groups of searchers had ridden in just before sunset, preferring to return home to do their chores and to spend the night in the warmth of their own beds, and then resume the search on fresh mounts the next morning.
Sally did not blame them. The night was going to be cold, as it had been the night before, and they had taken little or no food with them. Besides, Clive had insisted that Marie and Jack could not have gone far. Wherever Marie had been summoned, it would have to have been somewhere close enough to town to be reached by her in a reasonable amount of time.
Upstairs, Lucy had lain down across her bed, exhausted from the previous sleepless night and a full day of worry, and she had promptly dozed off. After covering her with a quilt, Sally had left her there, glad that at least one of them was obtaining some much-needed rest.
Sally allowed the drape to fall back into place. Restlessly, she rose from the lounge and made her way to the foyer. Taking her shawl from the peg, she opened the door and stepped outside on Marie's front porch. She wished there was something she could do to help. The waiting and the not-knowing were fraying her nerves.
The chill of the night sent a shudder through her, and she clutched the shawl beneath her chin, praying silently that wherever Marie was, she had found shelter. She hated to think of her being outdoors without sufficient wraps to keep her warm.
Lanterns had been lit throughout the town, as they were every night, and they cast eerie, ghostly shadows through the ground mist that had rolled into town shortly after sundown. Sally tried not to be a superstitious woman, but the gloomy mood set by the fog had left her with a greater sense of apprehension and an irrational feeling of impending doom.
Finally, she heard the clopping of horses' hooves on the hard packed road. The final group of searchers was approachiing the house from the northeast road, and she hurried down the path to the front tate to meet them. After a moment, she saw the horses and riders emerge from the fog.
Clive, Dom, and Archie rode toward the stable, slumped in their saddles, fatigued and discouraged. Their horses plodded with heads lowered, as weary as their riders. The lead horse pricked it ears, eager to reach the stable, but it was too tired to increase its pace. It was immediately apparently to Sally that they were not accompanied by two extra riders, as she had hoped.
Dom stopped his sorrel Appaloosa in front of the gate while the others rode on ahead.
"Nothing?" Saly asked, anxiously.
"No. Not a trace of them anywhere. We spread out to cover more ground in the hills and forests north of town, but we didn't find anything. It's almost like they just vanished."
Channeling her worry into concern for her beau, Sally patted his leg, affectionately. "Come on inside," she urded. "I'll heat some dinner for you."
He shook his head. "I'm too tired to eat anything. Corporal Bennett will want to get an early start in the morning, so I'll need to turn in early."
"Dom, you must eat something to keep up your strength," she insisted. "If I know you men, you didn't even stop for lunch."
"I brought along some jerky and corndodgers, and we ate those."
"Hardly a nourishing meal. You won't be of any use to anyone if you ruin your own health!"
He rubbed his weary eyes, too tired to argue with her. "All right. Let me get my horse put up first, and then I'll come in. Are you staying at Marie's again tonight?"
"Yes. I can't leave Lucy by herself. I'll go on inside and start warming something up for you. Don't bother knocking, just come on inside. Lucy's upstairs asleep."
"All right." Nudging his horse with his heel, he rode to the stable and dismounted. Clive had lit the stable lanterns, illuminating the building with its yellow glow, and Sally watched from the gate as Dom led his horse inside. Turning, she hurried back up the path to the house.
Wendell had retired for the night, uncertain whether or not the last group of searchers would camp out that night, or if they would return to town, so he had not lingered after dark. The riders unsaddled their own horses, rubbed them down, and placed them in their stalls. When the animals were fed and watered, Clive and Archie trudged to their own residences. Dom crossed the street to Marie's house, and entered without knocking, as Sally had requested.
Entering the kitchen, he sat down at the table while Sally filled a plate for him, and placed it before him. She could see the weariness in his eyes and his somber expression as he picked up his fork.
"You're planning on going back out with the others in the morning?" she asked, sinking into the chair across the table from him.
He nodded. "Probably shortly after sunup."
"I'm really worried about Marie. It's so cold," Sally told him with an involuntary shudder. "She didn't take her wraps with her."
"It probably won't be quite as cold tonight as it was last night," he told her. "There's a cloud cover tonight, and that should keep the temperatures slightly warmer." He did not add that a difference of a few degrees probably would make little difference to someone outside without a coat or a shawl to keep them warm.
"It still feels awful cold to me," she told him.
He did not answer, concentrating instead on the meal she had prepared for him. He was hungrier than he had realized, and the food was excellent. "This is good, Sally. I'm glad you convinced me to come in."
"You're most welcome," she replied, pleased to see that he was eating heartily. Then, she asked, "Dom, what do you suppose could have happened to them?"
"Well, we can't be certain, but Corporal Bennett feels pretty certain that that Englishman had something to do with it. Judging by the way he was constantly asking her to dinner and wanting to spend time with her, he was apparently infatuated with her. She obviously did not return those feelings, so Bennett thinks he probably kidnapped her. He may be intending to take her to Vancouver with him." He reached for another slice of bread, and used it to wipe his plate of the last of the gravy. "We stopped at a telegraph station on the way back, and the corporal wired the towns between here and Vancouver to ask law enforcement to be on the lookout for them."
"And to think, I had that man living right under my roof?" she exclaimed. "If only I had realized the kind of man he was, I never would have let him stay in my boarding house. You know, Marshal Craddock was suspicious of him from the very beginning. That very first day he arrived on the stage, the marshal knew there was something about him that was not right. No one else saw it. We were too impressed with the way he dressed and the way he talked. I thought he was a real gentleman, but he proved he was no gentleman at all." She fell silent for several minutes as another concern came to mind. "Dom, would he have kidnapped Marshal Craddock as well?"
Dom hesitated before answering. "Probably not."
Her heart constricted with the unspoken implication. "You think that Englishman killed him, don't you?"
"It doesn't look good, Sally. The marshal would not have allowed her to be kidnapped if he was physically able to prevent it. It seems obvious that something must have happened to him. Knapp tried to kill him once before, remember. Corporal Bennett thinks they were probably ambushed, and Marie taken."
Sally fell silent, thinking about that. "I shudder to think what that man might be doing to her," she said, at last.
Dom understood what she was implying. "Well, the one good thing is that Bennett thinks she's probably still alive. If we get to her in time, she should recover from any harm he may have caused her."
"Physically, yes, but what about emotionally?"
Dom reached across the table to grasp her hand. "Sally, we can't jump to conclusions about any of this. We may be completely wrong."
"I wish there was something I could do to help them."
"There is," he said, softly. "You can pray for them."
After spending the afternoon shoring up the ceiling, an effort that had taken a physical toll on both of them, Jack and Marie had spent the rest of the day napping, while it was warm enough to be reasonably comfortable. The only interruption had been when Oliver Knapp had disturbed them, but that had been hours ago. Now, it was nighttime again, and so dark that they could barely see the other's image. They were once again huddled together for warmth.
For a long time, neither of them spoke. As the temperatures dropped, their moods became more somber as each one faced the fact that they would be spending yet another night in the cellar. At this point, both were wondering just how long it would take for the townspeople to put together the connection between the explosion and their disappearance. Obviously, that clue had been overlooked due to the fact that they had grown accustomed to old Harvey's prospecting habits. The occasional distant explosion rumbling through the hills and forests was hardly noticed by anyone, any more.
As the evening wore on, Jack, why typically had little trouble sleeping wherever he was, laid his head back against the hard wall behind him, and allowed the peaceful oblivion of slumber to carry him away from his troubles.
For Marie, unable to sleep in the uncomfortable chill, the time was spent in quiet reflection, thinking about the things that she had neglected due to lack of time. Foremost in her thoughts was the matter of Lucy being sent to boarding school. It had been her intent to bring the matter to Clive's attention before now, but because his apparent infatuation with Miss Upton had prevented them from sharing a private moment, the conversation had not taken place.
She was uncertain which annoyed her the most; his interest in the young schoolteacher, or the fact that he had taken liberties regarding Lucy's education. She had debated the question in her mind for a long time before the idea occurred to her that Jack might also have been aware of Clive's attentions. She knew the two men frequently discussed matters as they sat at their desks, so it made sense to her that they might have discussed this as well.
"Jack," she said, abruptly, breaking the intense silence. She felt him flinch, brought half awake by the sound of her voice.
"Hm?" he grunted in response.
"You and Clive talk a lot, don't you?"
He yawned, wondering why she considered the question important enough to wake him up. "Some. When we ain't arguin' 'bout somethin'."
"Did he say anything to you about sending Lucy to a boarding school?"
That brought him fully awake, and he raised his head. "You ain't considerin' it, are ya?"
"Of course, I'm not considering it!" she said, sharply. "I didn't even know about it until Lucy asked me about it last week. She said she had found a brochure on Clive's desk from a school for girls. She believed it was for her."
"Lucy found it?" Jack asked, putting the pieces together of the incident he had all but forgotten. "Well, that explains how it got on my desk. She must have dropped it there."
A moment of shocked silence ensued as Marie realized that Jack was aware of it. With an annoyed clip to her voice, she asked, "You're part of this scheme?"
"Scheme? I weren't part o' no scheme, Marie. You should know better'n anyone that Clive 'n me don't see eye to eye on many things, but especially somethin' like this. I was as much in the dark about it as Lucy was, when I found it on my desk."
"On your desk . . . . where Lucy had dropped it?"
"Yup. I guess that's how it got there, anyhow."
Her heart went out to the girl as she considered the fear and the shock she much have felt when she believed she was being sent away. "She must have been very upset. She didn't remember what she had done with it."
"I was kinda surprised when I saw that it was from some finishin' school fer girls back in Toronto." He chuckled. "I thought Clive'd been holdin' out on us! When I asked about it, he told me he ordered it for you, so's you can send Lucy there next year. For the record, I told him it should be your decision, and you'd never agree to it."
"And what did he say to that?"
Jack hesitated. Should he tell her what Clive had told him? Oh, what the hell . . . . "He said you two'd be married by then, and you'd do whatever he said."
She pushed away from him, raising up slightly to stare at him, although she could barely see his features in the dark. "He actually said that?"
"Sorry, Marie. Sometimes I say too much. My ma once told me that loose tongues ---"
"It's all right, Jack," she interrupted, impatiently. "I asked you to tell me. I'm just very annoyed that he would go behind my back that way! Why did he think he had the right to make my decisions for me?"
"He said she's a ward of Canada."
"And I am her guardian! I should think that would give me some say in what happens to her! I just can't believe that my opinion would mean so little to him! Where did he get this ridiculous notion, anyway?"
"Maybe you should be talkin' to him about this," Jack suggested.
"I've been intending to do that, but I've hardly seen him since Grace Upton came to town."
He heard the jealousy in her voice, and felt a twinge in his heart. "Yeah, he has been rather preoccupied, ain't he? Well, I wouldn't worry too much about it. She weren't none too pleased with the fact that he jumped to the same conclusions that everyone else did in town durin' that meetin'. I heard tell she don't wannna see so much of him, least ways for awhile. That means he'll be fillin' in his time with you."
So, he just thinks he can come back when it suits him, she thought, irritated. "I really have nothing to say to him on the subject, except that Lucy is my ward, and I defy anyone to say differently! If Lucy ever comes to me and asks to go, that would be another matter, but that girl has been through enough hardship and heartache without adding to it! She is staying with me, and I will tell him so."
"I was hopin' you'd say that."
"Why didn't you tell me about this?" she asked, accusingly.
"We've had so many things goin' on, what with that Oliver Knapp fella comin' to town, gettin' shot at, trackin' him all over the countryside, 'n gettin' accused of havin' an illicit affair with that young lady, it plumb slipped my mind."
Her annoyance slipped away. "I'm sorry I jumped to conclusions, Jack. You have had a lot on your mind, lately."
"Ain't worth mentionin', Marie."
"Still, I had no right to assume that you were part of it. Given the way you feel about children, I should have known you would want her to remain with me, where she is loved."
"I care about her too, Marie."
"She reminds you of your little girl, doesn't she?"
Jack was quiet for a moment, concentrating on the impish little face he had loved so much, then said, "It's strange, but I cain't much remember what she looked like, no more."
"Time does that. The pain fades, and so does the images."
"I just cain't help wonderin' what she'd look like, now; how she would'a turned out. The last time I saw her alive before I left the house that day, she had chocolate all over her face."
"I bet you spoiled her, mercilessly."
She could sense his smile without seeing it. "Juanita would have agreed with you about that." He sighed, heavily. "I don't think I'll ever stop missin' 'em, Marie."
She lay back against him again, and felt his arms go around her again. "I know. I feel the same way about Jacques, but I can't even begin to imagine the agony of losing a little one."
"There ain't no other pain like it. It was hard enough losin' Juanita, but losin' both of them like that, and knowin' that it was on my account . . . ." He drew a deep breath. "Sarah Anne's life was just beginnin'. How could anyone murder an innocent little child, Marie? My mind just cain't grasp it."
She patted his shoulder, comfortingly. "I know, Jack. I don't understand it, either. She couldn't have been any threat to him."
"He had them killed to make a point to me -- that he wanted my land, and he would do anything to get me off of it."
"Why did Don Carlos think he owned your land?"
"He refused to honor the border. My land was in Texas, but he claimed that the border was farther north, and that he owned the land Juanita and I had settled on. He made threats, but I thought that was all they were. I never thought he'd have my family murdered. If I'd'a known that was gonna happen, I never would'a left 'em alone that day. I cain't even describe how I felt when I found their dead bodies. Part of me died that day, too."
"Your situation down there kind of reminds me of what has been going on here, with farmers and ranchers refusing to accept that the border has been changed."
"Yeah, I guess there are similarities."
"You and Clive have to make sure that what happened to your family doesn't happen here."
"We're doin' our best, Marie. I think things are startin' to simmer down in regards to that. We ain't had no border violence in awhile, now."
"I'm glad."
"Me, too. Marie, since you've grow'd so fond of Lucy, I was wonderin' why you and Doctor Dumont never had no youngin's o' yer own?"
She was briefly taken aback by the unexpected question, and found herself at a loss for words.
Jack misinterpreted her sudden silence. "I'm sorry. I'm gettin' in to somethin' that ain't none of my affair."
"No, that's all right, Jack," she responded, quickly. "No one has ever asked about that."
"Well, it's a personal question that I had no right to ask."
"I wanted children, and I think Jacques wanted them, but it wasn't a good time. Soon after we were married, we started making plans to come here, and then we had a very long journey. When we got here, we had to build the house and get settled in and get our practice going. There just wasn't time."
"But you was married, what? Three years before he passed on?"
Marie fell silent. She knew what he was alluding to, that three years should have been plenty of time to get a family started. Curiously, she took no offense to what some have regarded as a prying question. Strange, she thought, how comfortable she felt discussing such private matters with him.
"I suppose it should have been enough time to start a family, but . . ." She lifted her shoulders in a bewildered shrug. "I don't know why it never happened. I suppose it wasn't meant to be. I'm in my thirties, now. I suppose I will never have a child of my own."
"It ain't too late, yet, Marie."
"No, I suppose not," she said, absently. "Not yet."
They fell silent again, lost in their own thoughts.
GO TO CHAPTER EIGHTEEN