Daughter of the Sword (31 page)

“But—”

He shook his head bullishly. Melissa, picking up the tray, smiled and shot Deborah a glance of amused triumph. That touched off an explosion, searing white fire igniting in Deborah's brain. She screamed wordlessly and sprang at Melissa, reaching for her white, slender throat, knowing only that she burned to change that mocking smile to fear.

The tray clattered to the floor, with dishes shattering and rolling. Deborah's fingers grasped for Melissa's throat, missing as she was dragged backward, pinioned so close to the burly man that she sickened at the smell of sweat and tobacco.

“There, Miss Whitlaw,” he soothed. “It's all right, just calm down—”

Sobbing, she writhed in his grip, kicking and hitting at him, though one part of her mind knew this made her case worse. “You—you fool!” she choked. “If you'd tell Johnny—”

Townsend shook his head regretfully. “Plumb daft,” he muttered. “Is it safe to let her loose, ma'am?”

Melissa sighed. “I hate to tie her up but it may be the only way to keep her from hurting herself. Will you hold her, sir, while I find something that'll confine her without chafing the skin?”

The thought of being tied, left helpless in the room with torturing memories and fears, paralyzed Deborah for a moment, then sent her into a frantic struggle, desperately gasping when she tried to speak and couldn't.

“Can you keep her jaws apart so I can give her these drops?” said Melissa from what seemed far away. “It'll help her sleep.”

“Had to do it for my poor sister.”

The man's thumb and finger pressed her jaws, forcing them open. She tasted bitterness disguised as sweet. She felt strangled, then involuntarily swallowed the water poured down her throat.

“If you'll put her on the bed, Mr. Townsend, I suppose I'd better tie her, much as I hate it.”

“It's the best way to keep her from doing herself a mischief,” he consoled. “She'll thank you later. Why, maybe after a good sleep or two, she'll start coming around.”

“You're comforting as well as mightily helpful,” Melissa said.

Shocked into quiet, Deborah lay still, eyes closed, as broad pieces of cloth were fastened around her wrists and her ankles. The quilts were brought up beneath her chin.

“There!” Melissa's satisfaction should have stung like salt on a new wound, but Deborah was exhausted past caring. “She can't get into any trouble now.”

“She's so—quiet.” Townsend's rough voice was troubled. “Sure she's all right? Maybe I should get the doctor.”

“He's out east of town delivering a baby,” said Melissa. “Rest is the medicine for what ails this girl.”

“That's right, ma'am. Rest and good care, which you'll surely give her.” They were moving to the door. “You call me if I can help at all.”

The door shut on Melissa's gratitude. The key grated, as if turning in Deborah's head. She had to control herself or her nerves would snap. Her futile outburst had confirmed the story that she was unbalanced; Townsend would spread his account. Even if, for appearances' sake, Melissa called the doctor, he knew Deborah only by sight and would probably concur that her mind was unhinged. It was simpler, after all, to let rich, popular Rolf Hunter take care of his fiancée.

Johnny would help, or Sara—or Judith, if she could. But by the time they learned of her imprisonment, Rolf might have somehow smuggled her away. Besides, she feared what Rolf might do if Johnny interfered.

In a frenzy of impotence, Deborah wrung her wrists, trying to loosen the cotton strips, but her efforts only tightened the knots and forced the strips into more constricting bands. If her feet weren't tied, she could have walked around, at least, gone over to the lamp and knocked it over. She probably still could roll off the bed and worm her way to the chest, then struggle up and break the lamp. But she didn't want to burn to death, and, with her feet encumbered, that could certainly happen.

Her mind was hazing. Images formed and vanished against her closed eyelids, swelled and darkened like giant waves. These toppled, closer each time. They closed over her.

She must have awakened at the sound of the opening of the door. By the time she was drowsily aware of where she was in spite of a dull oppressive ache that increased to throbbing as she opened her eyes, Melissa was gazing down at her.

Placing a tray on the stand, she pulled up the chair. “It's evening, dear. Time passed quickly, didn't it?” I've brought some nice chicken soup.”

“I don't want it.”

“You have to eat.”

Deborah said nothing and closed her eyes. Melissa's voice took on an edge. “Mr. Townsend came in a little while ago. Shall I call him?”

The memory of his hairy-tufted knuckles and strong odor made Deborah sit up reluctantly and accept the spooned, creamy liquid.

“That's better,” approved Melissa. “It'll taste good if you'll let it.”

It did warm Deborah. “Is Reverend Cordley back?” she asked.

“Yes. Everything's being taken care of.”

“The—the funeral?'”

“It'll be tomorrow. Rolf's paying for the best black walnut coffins, all covered with black alpaca. Naturally, disturbed as you are, no one expects you to come.”

“But I have to!”

“And start your raving hysterics?” Melissa shook her head, full mouth tightening. “Indeed, you won't. Rolf entrusted you to me. Apparently the only way to be sure you don't run off or cause trouble is to keep you in this room. That's what I'm going to do.”

Black and crimson swirled before Deborah, coalescing into shapes: her parents' bodies, blood and fire, a dead tree on the river. But worse, what she felt she could not bear, were the crowding ordinary flashes: Thos's eyes merry as he said, “Cross your heart?”; the way he'd cut the wheat, or gazed tenderly at Sara; her mother at the pianoforte or in the kitchen; Father saying grace or reading aloud some passage he wanted them all to hear.…

Never to happen again? Never, any of them, to breathe or smile or move? How could it be? Deborah felt as if great parts had been ripped from her body and she was bleeding to death, but it was so cold that she bled slowly.

“I can't stay here like this,” she said through numb lips. “It will really drive me mad.”

“What can I do?” Melissa demanded angrily. “It's your own fault you're tied up. I'm sorry about it, but I can't have you throttling me every time I bring you food.”

Battling to keep from begging or crying, Deborah finally got command of herself enough to say, “The Bible—it ought to be buried with my parents.”

“I'll give it to Reverend Cordley,” Melissa said eagerly, glad to find one point of conciliation. “I'll read to you, or talk if you'd rather. Truly, Deborah, I'm trying to help. When Rolf gets back—”

Deborah averted her face. “I'll appreciate your taking the Bible to the minister. And I want to talk to him, though you and Rolf probably have him thinking me insane.”

“Take some more of these soothing drops,” said Melissa, pouring them into a spoon.

“I've slept enough. All that's left are nightmares.”

“Shall I fetch Townsend?”

Deborah opened her mouth and swallowed the drops and the milk Melissa offered.

“Shall I read till you sleep?” Melissa asked.

“No.”

“Suit yourself,” said Melissa. Flouncing over to the chest, she picked up the Bible, then hesitated a moment. “I don't like to leave you in the dark, but crazy as you're acting, you might manage to set things afire. I'll put the bell here on the stand where you can reach it.”

“Aren't you going to ask Reverend Cordley to come?”

“Yes, of course, but if you're asleep he won't want to disturb you.”

Deborah laughed mirthlessly. “What'll you do, Mrs. Eden, when these drops don't work anymore?”

“Long before that, Rolf'll be back,” said Melissa with feeling. “And I'll be glad to give you over to him! I'm doing my best, but you haven't a speck of gratitude or sense, either!”

She blew out the light. Quick steps, door opening, closing. Deborah was sure Melissa would keep the minister away as long as possible, keep her tied and drugged.

Her parents and twin were in their coffins and would be buried in the morning before the unembalmed bodies began to disintegrate. She really didn't want to see them buried, but she clung to being near what was left of them as long as she could. In an agony of loss, she beat at the pillow with her bound hands, then gave way to wrenching sobs. If only Dane were here! But no, damn him, he'd gone away and left his brother!

Of course, the Missourians Rolf meant to kill might get him, instead. If he didn't come back in a few weeks, Melissa couldn't keep up this deception. She'd have to let Deborah go and insist that she'd believed Rolf's story and carried out his orders in good faith.

But tonight there were bonds and darkness, tormenting familiar images of Father, Mother, and Thos as they would never be again. Like a treadmill, Deborah's thoughts kept grinding, grooving deeper into her spirit with each monotonous circling.

If what had happened was God's will, she couldn't trust or worship Him. If it wasn't God's will, then what was God? The whirlwind's answers to Job didn't ease her. She didn't care who'd laid the foundations of earth, shut up the seas, commanded the morning, or divided the watercourses. She only knew the heavenly Father she'd been taught to revere had let her earthly father perish terribly.

Cruel as it was, she could accept Thos's death. By breaking man-made law, he'd done what he knew could bring killing. It was a volunteer's risk. But her parents had died in their own yard. They'd sheltered runaways, helped them escape northward, but they hadn't used or believed in violence.

No. She couldn't believe, ever again, that good was stronger than evil. She couldn't pray. She rebelled against her family's death as she did against her bonds, uselessly, hurting only herself. But the laudanum was misting her senses. At last she slept.

She awoke to a firm hand across her mouth, an arm cradling her head. “Deborah, it's Sara!” came the soft whisper. “Are you all right? Do you remember me?”

“I haven't lost my mind,” answered Deborah as Sara's palm relaxed. She sat up and resisted the instant throbbing in her temples as Sara untied her. “Let's get out of here!”

Questions could wait.

Deborah's head felt swollen with pounding blood, but she located the new shoes and stockings and fumbled them on. Faint light came through the window, from which the lower boards had been removed. She groped and got her coat and scarf from a peg, then picked up the sketch pad from the bottom of the bed. Her gauntlets were in her coat pocket. Rolf had her Bowie. She wished she could have traded Melissa's good clothes for her old ones, but they hadn't been returned.

Sara waited, a shadow in deeper shadows. Did she know about Thos? She must. Wordlessly, Deborah put her arms around her friend, but Sara gave her a strong push toward the window.

Scooping up her skirts, Deborah cautiously put a leg over the sill, found hard earth, then climbed all the way out. Sara had joined her in an instant, then was tugging her toward some trees not far from the street. No lights burned in the town and the sky was dark except for stars.

“Chica must be in the livery,” Deborah whispered.

“She was. Judith's got her down by the river. Don't talk now,
meshemah
. We don't want dogs barking.”

They circled out of town and back to the river well beyond the ferry, Sara leading, Deborah just behind. Soon she heard the faint creaking of saddle leather, the shifting of restive horses.

“Judith?” whispered Sara.

“You find Deborah?” came the low-pitched response.

“Wouldn't be back if I hadn't.”

A hand searched, closed on Deborah's arm, found her hand, and squeezed fiercely. “You ain't crazy? Ain't marryin' that Rolf like they say?”

“No and no!”

They hugged each other and this time Sara was in the embrace, though she quickly broke it. “Come on, let's get out of here!” she urged.

Deborah hung back. “The funeral—it's tomorrow.”

“So? Will it help your family to leave Rolf a clear trail to follow?” Sara thrust Chica's reins into Deborah's fingers. “These Lawrence people think you're mad. You can't take shelter with them.”

“But if I stay at the smithy, Rolf's already threatened to make trouble!”

“You won't be at the smithy,” Sara replied. “Hurry! We can talk once we're well away.”

xiv

They picked up the road along the Kaw, and when they were far enough away for talking, Sara and Judith explained.

Belshazzar, still saddled and bridled, had wandered to the smithy yesterday morning. Probably he'd gone home first, smelled blood and smoke, and retreated to the nearest place of which he had good memories. Johnny and Maccabee were gone, summoned early from their beds to help a wagon that had mired at a ford some miles upriver and broken a wheel.

Alarmed, Judith had wanted to ride with Sara to the Whitlaws', but Sara pointed out that the Whitlaws had risked much to help Judith to freedom, and if she got caught now it would undo their efforts. Promising to come back as soon as she could, Sara rode fast to the farm and encountered Reverend Cordley and his party as they carried out their grim task of exhuming the bodies.

Cordley had told the horrified Sara Rolf's version of the raid and about Thos's death, along with the news that Deborah, at least temporarily out of her mind with shock and grief, was under Melissa Eden's protective care.

“I told Reverend Cordley that you weren't engaged to Rolf and that I didn't believe, either, that you'd gone mad.” Sara's tone was bitter. “But he doesn't really know me, and I suppose, having just heard about Thos, that I sounded crazy myself. Anyway, when he went on being pityingly kind, I told him he was a fool and rode back to the smithy. Johnny and Maccabee still weren't home. After we talked it over, Judith and I decided it might be best if she and I got you out.”