“We must each make an inventory of our belongings,” Arran said, relief coursing through him. He gave James a brief nod of thanks and then continued addressing the others. “Grant will come to the fort tomorrow, but he has given us until the day after to finish our inventories. Both he and I—and James—will sign the terms of surrender. Then we will leave for Jack RiverHouse.” He hoped to get away before the men arrived from Fort William. They were coming with plans to annihilate the fort. Who knew if they would let the settlers leave as easily as Grant?
“That could take us days,” said the Irishman.
“We only have one day,” Arran said. “Those of us who can read and write will need to help those who canna.”
More grumbling followed, but Arran didn’t have the time or patience to listen. More than anything, he wanted to go to Eleanor. At sunrise, he would have to ride out to surrender to Grant, but before that, he needed to tell her he was sorry. For everything.
“Everyone should rest,” he said to them. “Tomorrow will be another trying day and we must keep our strength.”
He turned away from the group and they began to talk among themselves.
“Go home to Eleanor,” James said. “She needs you.”
“Thank you.” Arran put his hand on James’s shoulder. “You are a true friend.”
The night would hasten to morning and Arran would have to face his enemy again, but for now, he wanted to be with Eleanor.
Darkness had fallen, and with it, a fierce storm. It blew in with a cold wind from the northwest, arriving with a powerful vengeance upon the prairie. Rain slashed against the windows of the governor’s house and pounded on the roof. Eleanor sat near the fireplace, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Though she sipped the hot tea Nicolette had made for her, and the fire was burning bright, she could not shake the chills that had come over her soon after Old John had returned to the house with news of the massacre.
The storm matched the oppressive mood hovering over the fort. Grief, so intense and overwhelming, had taken root in the hearts of those within the stockade walls. Eleanor had stayed at the house on Old John’s orders, and to attend to Miriam’s needs. The baby was still running a fever and had cried for most of the evening until Eleanor could get her to sleep again.
Though Eleanor could not leave, she had sent Nicolette out to see what might be done. When the woman had returned, she said that some of the slain men had been identified.
And William was one of them.
Tears ran down Eleanor’s cheeks as she stared into the flickering flames, disbelief hovering on the edges of her thoughts. Her tea was growing cold in the mug she held, but she did not take another sip.
She and Miriam had not had time to say goodbye to William. He had left with Semple while Eleanor was changing Miriam’s nappy in the other room. When she had come out, William and Semple were gone. She thought she’d see him again.
It was hard to describe the feelings swirling in her mind and heart concerning William. Grief—yes, but there was an emptiness, also. She had agreed to marry him, and though she did not love him, she did care for him. There had been a part of her that had started to envision what her life might look like as his wife—it was the only way she could cope with the turn of events that had led her to become his fiancée. But that life was now gone. Vanishing in an instant, without warning or permission. It made her future unknown, causing the emptiness.
Even more disheartening was the uncertainty about Arran’s fate. Where was he? Was he among the dead? But wouldn’t he have been easily recognizable to the others, if he was? Had he somehow escaped and was making his way back to her even now? Or was he captured? If so, what might happen to him at the hands of his enemy?
Fear and grief had made her heart numb, and all she could do was sit and stare into the flames.
The house was quiet. Deathly quiet. Semple’s customary snoring would be no more. His life was another loss that left Eleanor numb with grief.
Nicolette slept in the room with Miriam, while Old John and Isla took one of the rooms upstairs. There were watchmen on guard all throughout the fort, and Eleanor almost expected a cry of alarm at any moment.
The handle on the front door wiggled, but Old John had put the crossbar in place before he had gone to bed, so whoever stood outside could not get in.
Alarm filled Eleanor and she stood, clutching the blanket to her chest. “Who is it?”
“Eleanor?” a voice called from outside, though it was muffled and competed with the tempest in the sky. “’Tis Arran.”
“Arran?” Eleanor whispered his name in disbelief.
“Eleanor?” he tried again, pounding on the door. “Eleanor?”
“Arran?” She ran to the door, the blanket falling from her shoulders as she crossed the space. She struggled with the crossbar. Her arms were weak and she was trembling uncontrollably.
He continued to pound on the door, saying her name over and over.
“Arran!” she called back, working to dislodge the bar.
Finally, it came loose and fell to the floor. She yanked the door open. A gust of wind and rain blew into the house, sending the firelight flickering and wetting the front of her gown.
Arran stood, drenched and dearly alive.
