Chapter Nineteen
CATHERINE WAS HALFWAYthrough a chapter of a book that Mrs. Bell had lent her when the back door to the boarding house opened with a thud. One of the men must have forgotten something.
She returned to her reading as footsteps passed her doorway. She considered calling out to the person, but figured he must be in a hurry if he had to leave church.
A crash from the dining room made her jump, her book falling to the floor. A word not fit for the ears of ladies followed the sound, and Catherine’s heart thumped.Who was out there?
A series of thumps came echoing down the hallway, almost as if the person were opening and closing drawers. There was a clinking sound, and then the footsteps padded away.
More thumps and another crash and Catherineknewsomething was wrong.
That was no guest rummaging through the parlor.
Were they being robbed? Was this person looking for something in particular? Catherine slid from beneath her bedcovers and stood awkwardly next to the bed, her hand gripping the wooden post by the headboard as she stood on shaky legs and tried to clear her mind.
What should she do?
She could hardly go in there and confront the man, not in her state and certainly not without some sort of weapon. She glanced around the room, and her eyes landed on a splintery piece of wood near the fireplace. Letting go of the bed, she walked slowly toward the fireplace, trying to grow used to the feeling of walking again. Slowly, she scooped up the piece of firewood and stood.
She could wait here, ready in case he tried to enter her room. But if he didn’t and then left, who knew what he’d be leaving with.
No, this was her business as much as it was Jonathan’s, and she wasn’t about to let anyone ruin what he’d worked so hard to build.
And so, with a deep breath and her nails digging into the wood, she used her toe to open her door. It opened silently—thankfully—and she ducked her head out. The hallway was empty, just as she’d suspected. The jolly greenery she, Jonathan, and Mrs. Bell had hung draped its way over doors and down the hallway.
Drawing upon every ounce of courage she had, Catherine stepped into the hallway. She could do this. Shehadto do this for Jonathan. He’d helped her so much, and she wasn’t about to see his life’s work ruined.
Step by step, she inched her way down the hall. She peered into the dining room—it was empty save for the table settings all askew and missing their silverware and the drawers to the china cabinet hanging open.
Catherine swallowed hard as she stared at the mess. Theywerebeing robbed. Someone had waited until this moment, when they believed everyone in the house to be at church, to break in. On Christmas, of all days!
She turned silently toward the entryway. No one was there, and from her vantage point, she saw no one in the parlor either. That meant the man had either left or had retreated down the hall behind the parlor that led to Jonathan’s office and more guest rooms.
Redoubling her grip on the heavy piece of wood, Catherine stepped around the broken china vase in the parlor and past the open drawers of the end tables. Stepping into the hallway, she paused to listen.
When she heard nothing, she gathered every remaining ounce of her bravery and stepped forward. The first room was Jonathan’s office. Just as she was about to peer inside, a bulky figure stepped out, his back to her.
Catherine stifled a gasp. The sandy colored hair that curled at the man’s neck, his broad shoulders, and the hunched way he carried himself was unmistakable.
It was Mr. March.
She was sure of it, even though she couldn’t see his face. As he started to turn, she regretted everything. She ought to have stayed in her room. No, she should have left. She should have gone anywhere but here. All she had was a piece of firewood. What if he had a gun? Or a knife? She was too vulnerable—and so was her baby.
A hundred thoughts crashed through her mind as he faced her, his face going from surprise to recognition to an evil grin.
It was now or never. She could strike now or find out what he might do.
Catherine gripped the piece of firewood and swung—just as the front door slammed open.
