THE TENDER FLOOD
Zach Newell knows Patience Abney is far above his touch. But he has been enchanted by her since she raced out of the storm and into the Queen’s Barque with a wagon full of small boys, puppies, and a bag of books. When the two of them make their way across the flooded marsh to her badly damaged school in search of a missing boy, attraction deepens.She risks scandal; he risks his heart.
Waters cannot quench love; neither can floods sweep it away.
Song of Songs 8:7
CHAPTER1
The excruciating pain in Zach Newell’s stump of a leg hurt him less than the humiliation of collapsing short of his objective. He could manage the pain, a familiar adversary since Salamanca, but Zach Newell never shirked duty and never fell short. Well, hardly ever. This night, a fierce storm and mud had brought him to his knees—literally.
The two massive draft horses that brought them to safety through the flooded roads rested under warm blankets in a dry stable, groomed and fed, their reward well deserved. Neither had suffered any harm, for which he thanked the Good Lord. As to Zach himself, he had removed the prosthetic leg as soon as the carriage was led up to the stableyard of The Queen’s Barque and the door closed on his passengers, cutting off the light and warmth of the inn’s interior.
A hired coachman had a duty to his passengers but also responsibility for the well-being of his team and the equipment. In Zach’s case, the carriage belonged to his uncle. Fred Newell’s hired carriages were high-end vehicles, a notch above a typical hired hack, and the one he drove was no exception—well sprung, with a clean, comfortable—if not luxurious—interior. He planned to keep it that way.
With the horses well cared for, the tack inspected, and the carriage carefully stowed in the inn’s cavernous carriage house, he had time to consider what came next in this stretch of foul weather.
The vehicle and tack would be ready in the morning and the horses could manage the rest of the distance to Great Yarmouth easily. The condition of the roads was another matter. Hatless and coat unbuttoned, in one of the stalls that lined the stableyard next to the inn, he mulled over his options. There weren’t many. He leaned his weight on his good leg, his left arm over a crutch, and his head against the neck of one of the great beasts that brought them to safety.
“You served well today, Sergeant Newell.” The quiet voice came from behind him. “You ought to be in bed. Rest that leg.” Major Mallet, one of his passengers, stood at the stall’s gate offering a steaming mug of cider. He stepped in out of the rain.
Zach spun on his crutch, accepted the mug with a nod, and inhaled deeply.Saints be praised—well spiked with rum.He let it burn down his throat and bring welcome fire to his belly.
“Thank you for that.” Zach studied the major carefully. “I suspect you could use the comfort of your bed also.” The major still suffered the effects of time in a French prison. He ought to be spared service, but he seemed fiercely determined to join the forces massing near Brussels, giving a sense of urgency to the journey. Zach didn’t blame him.
“Told him so,” Major James Heyworth boomed from beneath the carriageway, an opening under the grooms’ quarters that provided shelter from the torrent and an outlet to the road. “You, on the other hand, should join me, Newell. The taproom is morose of mood and short on song. We could use one of yours.”
That his passengers were old comrades had been an unexpected blessing, though not all memories of the Peninsular War were pleasant. A smile at the memory of campfires and song many miles away across the sea took Zach by surprise. Jamie Heyworth had a way of cheering a man. “Thank you for leading the team that last quarter mile, sir. I’m sorry I fell short.” Zach almost choked on the words. He downed the rum-soaked cider.
Before Heyworth could respond, he leapt aside when a wagon careened into the relative shelter of the stableyard with rather more speed than was wise, two boys in the box. The driver, a sodden hat pulled down over his eyes, appeared young and inexperienced.
Zach hurried from the stall as swiftly as he was able, waving them into the carriage house and out of the rain. Two things struck him as the wagon lurched to a halt in the shelter of the barn. The wagon’s cargo stirred and shifted under an old patchwork quilt, and the driver, who scrambled down and swept off the ugly hat, was no boy. No lad had eyes so warm and brown, lashes so long, or so glorious a fall of hair; she held him transfixed.
“I need to talk to Mr. Brewster!” The tiny bit of a woman cast wide, frightened eyes up at him as if he could produce the innkeeper. “The road collapsed above town; it gave way and slid down just as we passed.”
“If we were two minutes later, we’d ’ve all been tossed into the sea!” The boy who sat with her jumped down beside her. This one, definitely a lad, looked to be fourteen or so.
Mallet set a hand on Zach’s shoulder. “I’ll alert the innkeeper while Jamie tries to wake a groom. You do what you can for the lady and her, er, cargo.”
Zach nodded without looking at his departing passengers, his attention still transfixed on the woman: rum, exhaustion, and a pair of deep brown eyes making it hard to think. One word finally wormed its way into his consciousness. “All?”
He followed her gaze to where the boy pulled back the wet blanket over the bed of the wagon. Five pairs of eyes stared back at Zach, five boys soaked to the skin, and shaken with terror.
“Are we safe now, Miss Patience?” one asked, his voice quivering.
“We are indeed safe, Walter, as I promised we would be,” the woman said with confidence. Only Zach heard her add “Thank God,” under her breath.
“It’s cold,” one lad said, teeth chattering.
Zach leaned his crutch on the wagon and grabbed a little body that threatened to teeter over the edge attempting to climb down. “I’m Froggy,” the boy told him, with water streaming down his face.
Zach grinned at the lad. “I’m Zach and you are wet.”
“We all are,” the boy said. “The quilt was wet through before we even got to the coast road.”
“Made January pee,” another added as the older boy pulled him out of the wagon.
Another climbed down on his own. “I tried to keep January warm, but he kept scooting into the corner.”
