How odd that even in the midst of death, the natural rhythms of life never lessened. One must eat, sleep, pray. Yet so oft of late Selah and her mother had little appetite, sleep allowed them no escape, and their prayers seemed to reach no higher than the ceiling.
Increasingly Selah sought the sanctuary of her room. But here were shadows too. An artificial flower she’d made with Watseka lay atop her dresser, the red paper folds resembling a Rose-n-Vale rose. The window was open, an everlasting reproach. Though she’d shut the door to Shay’s bedchamber across the landing, she could not do the same to hers with Watseka still missing.
Lord, be with her. Comforther. Lead us to her.
A flutter of the curtain caught her eye. In that instant camea sparrow’s insistent chirp. Selah all but held her breath. The sparrow chirped again, perhaps looking to land on Watseka’s small shoulder. The bittersweet sound brought Selah’s hand to her mouth to hold back a sob.
Something more than the bird drew her to the window. The sky, blue as a robin’s egg only a quarter of an hour before, was now besmirched. How had she not noticed the acrid air? Her gaze sharpened and turned to disbelief, all her heartache engulfed by a pluming wall of gray coming from the direction of Rose-n-Vale.
“Fire!” Her feet made a great commotion on the stairs as she hurried down them and all but burst into the parlor. “I fear for Rose-n-Vale.”
Candace emerged from her bedchamber, blinking sleep from her eyes.
“Mother, can you not smell it?”
Without waiting for her answer, Selah ran toward the stable to fetch the old mare. Behind her, Izella was already at the well, filling buckets in case the fire came near. The musketeer joined her, searching the sky with slack-jawed wonder. He said not a word as Selah rode west.
36
Xander had not expected to encounter Selah amid so much smoke and danger. Renick land was indeed aflame, but just how badly was hard to decipher. Every indenture he had was on his feet, even those he’d left ill, trying to fight the fire with whatever means were at their disposal. When they saw him, he read visible relief on their faces. But there was little he could do against such a hellish wall, where the heat and smoke and wind overcame anything in its path within seconds.
Mounting a pastured horse, he rode by fiery tobacco barns that billowed and threw heat so far it seemed to sear him as he passed. He continued toward the main house to ascertain that his aunt and servants there were unharmed. A bucket brigade had formed at the well, indentures watering the lawn lest cinders threaten the main house. Some men had climbed ladders to the roof, giving it a thorough soaking despite the danger to themselves.
He dismounted behind the garden. Almost immediately, Ruby and Jett bounded to his side. There, through the smoke and melee, he saw Selah and her stricken mother. His aunt stood beside them near the summer kitchen as the flamesadvanced uphill toward the house. All was summer scorched, so dry that sparks exploded and crackled. Selah grabbed up a blanket and raced downhill toward a burning wheelbarrow as if intent on smothering it.
He followed on foot, overtaking her easily, and wrested the blanket from her arms. His eyes fell on her bandages, a dozen questions clamoring. “You’re hurt. From the fire?”
She stared at him through bloodshot eyes, her face so drawn he knew at once something else haunted her. “There’s no time for explanations—do what you must to save this place!”
He took her hand when what he wanted was to take her in his arms. “Stay far from the fire, Selah. I’ll not see our future go up in smoke like the rest of Rose-n-Vale. There’s precious little to be done but attempt to save the house. Keep near my aunt. We shall talk soon enough.”
She nodded, turning away, her wounded arm drawn to her chest.
As he worked with the indentures to hedge the encroaching fire, he prayed for the wind to abate. Till it calmed there was no accounting the damage.
“Renick!” McCaskey came alongside him, emptying a bucket on the charred grass at their feet. “Thank heaven yer back. But ye’ve returned to a maelstrom, this fire being but one of several grievous matters.”
Xander emptied his own bucket, and they returned to the bubbling spring that cooled the milk house. “What means you?”
His factor swiped sweat and soot from his brow with a dash of his sleeve. “Ustis Hopewell lies buried, and the Indian girl who lived with them has gone missing. And now this.”
The dire details poured forth, making the scorching all around them fade. Ustis dead? The news left him feeling gut shot. And Watseka ... missing? He stared unseeing as the fire licked closer. What was property—even tobacco—compared to loss of life and a peace child unaccounted for?
Choking on the smoke, Xander drew more water, his mind careening, hardly aware of what he did.
“There’s naught to be done but wait,” McCaskey told him. “We cannot even ride to inspect the damage without doing further damage to our horses and ourselves.”
“Best surround the house then. Wet down the grass. The stables are secured, are they not? The horses removed to safer ground?” Xander listened for answers even though his gaze never settled, probing the smoke and the forms of those who rushed back and forth atop the rise.
“Aye, the horses are secure. Now best be thinking who is to blame.”
“Not lightning from the latest storm.”
“Nay. ’Twas deliberate. I am sure of it. Someone knew ye were away and wasted no time devising all manner of mischief, starting with the Indian girl.”
McCaskey’s plain speaking had never been more appreciated. A wave of smoke billowed between them, acrid and menacing.
“Pray for rain,” Xander shouted to any near enough to hear. He left McCaskey to oversee the containment of the fire, which was thwarted in its uphill trek from the west by nearly a hundred men. Reeking of smoke and sweat and now blackened with soot, he approached Selah as she stood on the portico with the women.
