The Marshal held his pencil to his notebook, the tin star she hadn’t noticed before now catching the light from the window. “Did Mr. Amos do anything to single your fiancé out or make him feel inadequate on the trip?”
“No. He was endlessly patient, even when Richard almost caused Heath to fall off the side of the mountain.”
The Marshal stopped writing and looked up at Heath. “Mr. Caldwell nearly caused you to fall?”
Heath sent her a furious glare, then looked at the Marshal. “You’ll have to excuse my sister. She’s being a bit dramatic. Female nerves, I’m afraid. There was an incident on one of the mountains, but I was never that close to falling.”
No. That wasn’t right. She remembered the incident clearly. Heath had slid over the side of a cliff. She’d held onto his arm and looked down while his feet dangled over nothing for an instant, then scrambled to find traction on the side of the rock face.
He would have died had Mikhail not been strong enough to heave him back onto the trail.
So what was going on? Why had Heath just downplayed the seriousness of the situation? She looked at her brother, but his blank face gave nothing away. Then she moved her gaze to her father. “Is that your memory of it too?”
Her father shifted in his chair. “Come now, we’re losing sight of the main purpose for this conversation. Your brother slipping has nothing to do with Richard’s death. That incident took place several days prior.”
“I wasn’t close enough to the edge to see what happened with certainty,” Dr. Ottingford said from his spot in the corner. “I recall there was a rather steep drop, but both Miss Wetherby and Mr. Amos were there to give assistance.”
No. Something was off. She didn’t recall her father and Dr. Ottingford being too far away to realize just how perilous the situation had been, but even if they’d been farther from the edge than she remembered, Heath wasn’t. She knew he remembered.
The Marshal cleared his throat. “It seems that there were several instances where people came close to dying on this expedition, more so than is usual for Mr. Amos’s reputation as a guide.”
Bryony blinked. That was the part about Heath almost falling that the Marshal felt was most important? They’d been lost in the wilderness on the cusp of winter. Of course people came close to dying. It was Alaska, for goodness’ sake. No part of this land was tamed and sedate.
The Marshal tapped the end of his pencil against the nearly blank page of his notebook. “It’s our duty to fully investigate each of those incidents, including the one that killed your fiancé.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “If you’re after information about Richard’s death, then you should know that Mikhail didn’t have anything to do with it. He tried to save Richard, but as usual, Richard wouldn’t listen. He didn’t listen to anything Mikhail said from the beginning.”
“What about when you almost drowned?” The Marshal held his pencil over his notebook once more, as though finally ready to start recording what she said. “What role did Mr. Amos play in that?”
“What role did he play?” She shot up from her chair. “He saved me. That was his role. Heath and I had trouble controlling the canoe through the rapids. Then it hit a rock, and we couldn’t maintain our direction. Once the wave crashed into the canoe...” She shook her head, raising her arms for a moment, then lowered them to her side. “There was nothing that could have prevented me from going overboard.”
“I see.” Thankfully, the Marshal scrawled some notes in his notebook.
But she wasn’t sure how much he understood. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be asking such inane questions. “Did anyone tell you that Richard pulled a gun from his waistband and threatened to shoot Mikhail if he didn’t tell Richard where to find gold?”
The Marshal sent her a blank look. “I’m afraid I can’t discuss other interviews with you, Miss Wetherby. It might sway your answers.”
“Well, Richard did pull a gun, so make sure you write that down.” She shoved a hand toward the man’s notebook, but once again, he’d stopped writing. “You can also write down that the only reason we needed to be rescued in the first place was Richard’s determination to find gold. He left us for too long in that valley, and it was almost impossible to get out. We would have all faced less danger had Richard and Heath not lied about us being lost and returned when they were supposed to.”
She leveled another glare at her brother, but his eyes were even harder now than they’d been before, his face an emotionless mask beneath his red beard.
The Marshal closed his notebook with a thud.
Had he written down anything other than the fact she’d fallen out of that dratted canoe?
“Thank you for your time, Miss Wetherby.” Mr. Caldwell nodded at her from behind his desk, his voice cool. “You can return to the library now.”
She whirled around and stalked from the room without a hint of Rosalind’s grace or manners. But she didn’t care.
She didn’t know what kinds of things had been discussed in Mr. Caldwell’s office since they’d returned, but she was starting to think they were all lies. Every last one of them.
32
Alexei inhaled deeply, drawing in the rich scent of incense curling through the nave of St. Michael’s Cathedral. Candlelight flickered over the gilded icons, casting a soft glow on the walls as the priest intoned the Moleben of Thanksgiving. Mikhail sat beside him, his head bowed, brow furrowed in concentration as he listened to the familiar words of the prayer. Beyond Mikhail, Sacha sat upright, his massive frame nearly dwarfing the pew, while Maggie nestled close to his side, her two younger half siblings flanking her. Behind them, Alexei could hear the gentle rustle of skirts and shifting boots as Kate, Nathan, Jonas, Evelina, Inessa, and Ilya listened in the row behind them.
Two full rows. That was what it took to hold his family now. But he wasn’t complaining about it. Nor was he complaining about coming to church on a Wednesday evening, not considering this was one of his favorite services of the year.
It might not be a liturgical holiday, but on the night before Thanksgiving, their priest held a special service to offer a Moleben of Thanksgiving. It was a unique way their current priest—and the priest before him—opted to embrace American culture since the transition of power.
