Chapter Sixteen
Faith was nowhere tobe found inside when Beau arrived home at dusk. He set the wrapped slices of pie Mrs. Wendler had sent back with him on the kitchen table, and that was when he saw the back door propped open. He glanced outside, and there sat Faith, in a chair and looking stoically out across the River Road to the darkening trees and riverbank.
“There you are,” he said, pausing outside the door. It was clear she had something on her mind, and he couldn’t yet tell if it was something good or something that might make him wish he’d stayed longer at the Wendlers’ farm. “Your sister sent some pie back with me.”
Faith said nothing. In fact, she didn’t even look at him.
Beau drew in a breath. He’d done something to irritate her. He moved forward to one of the posts at the edge of the porch and tried to figure out what it could be. Had he messed up something in the office? Had he forgotten about a stain on his clothing she had to scrub out?
“Faith?” he ventured. He might as well hear what it was and deal with it rather than wondering.
She handed him a wrinkled sheet of paper without speaking. Beau took it and squinted to read the handwriting in the disappearing light.To Beauregard Landry.
He skimmed the page quickly, his pulse quickening as he read and his stomach turning uncomfortably. He dropped the page to his side and ran a hand through his hair.
“It arrived without an envelope, else I wouldn’t have opened it,” Faith said, with little emotion in her voice. “And it’s old. Look at the date.”
Beau did as she said. This letter was—he did the math in his head—seven weeks old. He tapped the paper against his leg as he stared out over the river. If Desroches’ friends had taken Maman, how could she have written to him recently and said nothing about it? He’d already arranged to have her travel here, and she’d responded by telegram. She ought to be on her way now. And his own friend had kept watch over her house when he’d asked. Wouldn’t he have noticed if she was missing?
None of this made sense at all. And yet . . . anyone could have responded to those telegrams and he would never know the difference. And someone might have watched over Maman’s shoulder as she’d written that letter.
If it was true, and they had her . . .
He pressed a hand to his mouth. He shouldn’t have left. No, he should have insisted she come with him when he left. Why hadn’t he done that? Here he was now, hundreds of miles away, and unable to find out for certain if she was safe. If she was on her way here, or . . . what? A searing sickness rose up the back of his throat. If anything happened to Maman, it would be his fault.
Why had he been so stupid?
“There is one thing I don’t understand,” Faith said, her eyes finally on him, but her voice perfectly even. The tone reminded him of when he’d first arrived and she’d spoken to him as if she were locked away inside a shell of her own grief, instantly suspicious of a man paying her attention. “Why would they want you in exchange? Why don’t they simply ask for money?”
A life for a life. A shiver chased its way up Beau’s spine. He’d killed Desroches. Now his friends wanted to make it even.
“Or perhaps there are two items which confuse me,” Faith continued. “Because I also don’t understand under what sort of law that cheating at cards can be considered a crime.”
It was hard to think, much less to breathe, with her looking at him in that way. Beau pulled at his collar. He should have been entirely truthful with her. He hadn’t—he’d been so afraid to lose her—and now it was all on the verge of unraveling.
She watched him for a moment, the growing darkness turning her green eyes into a hazy color. She stood finally, but didn’t step closer to him. “When I read this, I had a terrible feeling there was something you hadn’t shared with me. And now, judging by your reaction, I’m certain. I can’t abide a liar, Beau Landry.”
