She let go of him. “My husband—he is not here. But we will help you if we can.”
Her speech came to naught. No kindling lit his restless eyes. No sign that he understood the slightest word. A chill passed through her that had naught to do with the wind’s battering. Was this Laurent’s slave? Had Laurent made those heinous scars? Was he even now searching for his property?
Time was against them. She sensed it to her marrow. The four of them hovered in agonizing suspension, precious seconds ticking by. When the hall clock struck ten, Selah seized a fire bucket full of sand along one wall and dumped it onto the floor. Her brother and the African gaped.
Selah looked at Shay. “Fetch me an iron poker from the hearth.”
At her summons he moved quickly. Praying for clarity, Selah took the poker and drew a dog in the sand with the tip. Her poor attempt gave her pause, but immediately the man’s face cleared. As he gestured to Ruby and Jett, Selah nearly wilted with relief. A blessed start. She held out the poker to him. He took it without hesitation.
Shay raised the lantern higher as the man began drawingin the sand. Lines emerged. An outline. Bars? A rude drawing of a ... cage. Xander seemed to whisper in her ear.“He and the nurse caged her ...”
She startled as both dogs set up a tremendous barking and charged past them, their nails clicking on the hall floor.
“Someone comes.” Shay looked toward the locked front door, which was seldom used.
Xander? Selah’s fleeting hope faded. Ruby and Jett never barked at their master.
Shay’s eyes narrowed. “I fear ’tis Laurent.”
“Stay here and hold your ground, then. Say nothing of what has happened tonight.” Selah looked to Meihtawk and the African. “Jett shall go with us three.”
Resistance replaced Meihtawk’s usual mask. “You stay,” he told Selah, no doubt thinking of Xander.
“Nay, I cannot in good conscience,” she told him, then followed him and the African to the riverfront door.
43
Something ominous settled in Xander’s spirit at the onset of the storm that had nothing to do with the weather. Although all of James Towne and the coastline had gone tapsalteerie, he’d seen worse. As Rose-n-Vale’s shallop tugged at its moorings, confirming his return upriver was futile, he sought a different route.
His business with the tobacco inspector done, he sought refuge at Swan’s to sit out the tumult. The ordinary’s four rooms were mostly empty, a few lone travelers happening by.
A serving of oysters and two pints of ale later, Xander stared out the window as barrels careened down streets and brush and leaves whipped past along with a hat or two.
“You look on tenterhooks, Renick.” The proprietor stood at table’s end as a serving girl cleared away his empty dishes. “Shall I ready a room?”
“Rather a bold horse.”
Swan scratched his head. “You’ve never been one for flinching at shadows, but falling trees are another matter. Gaining Rose-n-Vale without injury to you or your mount is chancy.”
“At least there’s no rain,” Xander told him. “And the dark is a way off yet.”
With a nod, Swan turned aside. “I’ll send word to the stables, then.”
Xander paid his bill and stood at the back door to wait for a mount, the wind tugging at his hat and yanking at his coattails with fierce talons. Northeasters wreaked special havoc on the coast, as ships and piers were oft dashed to pieces. Inland would be less fractious, or so he hoped. Selah was in good company, thus he had no fear on that score.
As he swung himself into the saddle, a Scripture leapt to mind, chilling in its force if comforting in its promise.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.
Meihtawk could lead blindfolded, even in the dark. Never had Selah seen so capable a woodsman. Wisely he kept to open ground, well away from the trees shuddering and cracking at the forest’s fringes. In the dark their reverberating upon the ground sent a tremor through her. She’d tied her neckerchief about her bent head as sand and twigs stung her exposed skin. Betimes she clutched a fence to stay upright, the raw wood driving splinters into her ungloved hands. All the while she clung to one verse like a rope, an anchor.
And a man shall be as an hiding place from the wind, and a covert from the tempest...
She would not lose heart. The African had not hazarded so dangerous a mission to let fear have sway. Too much was at stake. A great deal to be gained.
Unless he was a pawn of the enemy, luring them into a trap.
Surely this scarred, gaunt man had no guile, even at Laurent’s behest. His face was too beseeching, his eyes too haunted. His crude drawing of a cage struck her to the heart. It could lead to none other than Watseka.
