Kaki Warner (6 page)

“I’m telling you, the guy’s a loon,” Tom muttered.

“I’m not listening.”

“Answering the door half-naked like that.”

“It’s obvious we woke him.”

“This late? Crazy
and
lazy.”

The door opened again. By the look of relief on Mr. Hobart’s face, Lacy wondered if he had expected them to have disappeared while he dressed.

Or partially dressed. He was buttoned all wrong, his braces were twisted over the bunched folds of his untucked shirt, and he was balanced on one foot, still wrestling with his boot. He had even made a halfhearted attempt to slick back his unruly black hair. Not a vast improvement, but at least he seemed marginally more aware of his surroundings.

Finally getting the boot on, he straightened. “Come in,” he said to Lacy with a tentative smile that completely changed his face. Then, seeing Tom behind her, his expression dropped back into his familiar scowl.

The one-room cabin was functional to the point of austerity. In the center stood a square table with two chairs at opposite ends. On the side wall below the window was a rope-strung bed. Built into the corner beside the hearth was a cookstove with a worktable beside it, above which hung open cupboards holding crockery, pots, and canned goods. A single rocker sat beside the fireplace.

It was apparent Mr. Hobart wasn’t possessed of an acquisitive nature, for there was almost nothing in the room to identify it as belonging to him. There were no photographs, mementos, or knickknacks that might have given a clue to the nature of the man. Although by no means spotless, only three things seemed out of place in the room—the empty whiskey bottle on the floor beside the rumpled bed, the array of odd-shaped knives on a small table beside a large quilt-covered structure in the corner, and books. Stacked on the floor, in the corners, on the sills, under the sagging bed. Quite a reader, Mr. Hobart.

“Would you care to sit?”

Pulled from her perusal of the room, Lacy turned to see their host motioning to one of the chairs at the table. Tom had already taken the rocker by the hearth. Lacy didn’t blame him. The room was freezing. It was obvious by the logs piled haphazardly in the fireplace and the tiny kindling fire smoking beneath them that Mr. Hobart had probably started the fire while he dressed. “Thank you,” she said, and moved to the chair closest to the hearth.

“Would you like something to drink? I have . . . ” The word trailed off as he stood scratching his head and studying the cluttered cupboard shelves. “No tea, but I could make coffee . . . or . . . something.”

“This isn’t a social visit, Hobart,” Tom growled from his rocker. “She has questions. Answer them and we’ll be gone.”

“Okay. Sure.” Taking the chair opposite Lacy, he sat, his big hands resting on the scarred tabletop. One long index finger thumped a nervous tattoo against the wood. His knuckles showed the effects of his recent battle with her brothers, and there was also a bruise on his jaw, a scrape on his cheekbone, and a small cut through one dark brow. Tom looked worse, sporting an angry welt under his left eye, and a split lip. Served them both right, scuffling like children.

She studied the man sitting across from her in wary silence, trying to see evidence of the craziness Tom insisted was there. But as always, when she looked at Mr. Hobart, she was more struck by that melancholy cast in his pewter-gray eyes, and the furrowed scar that ran down one side of his face. It stretched from temple to chin in a jagged, puckered, discolored line, as if his flesh had been ripped open and then sewn back in place by an unsteady hand. It marred what might otherwise have been an arresting countenance. The damage was more noticeable—yet somehow less frightening—now that he had cut his hair and shaved the beard, although he did have a fine stubble going this morning.

“Doc told me about your daughter’s disappearance. I’m sorry, ma’am.”

Lacy nodded. After removing her bonnet and gloves and setting them on the table, she clasped her hands in her lap, took a deep breath, and posed the question she had come to ask. “Why do you think she’s still alive, Mr. Hobart?”

He answered without hesitation. “Because I’ve talked to her. The first time, when I was trapped under the snow. Then later, here. And I’ve seen her.”

She had heard him say the same thing last evening. But hearing those words spoken now—in his calm, sure voice—took her breath away. It was a moment before she could draw in enough air to speak again. “How did she look?”

That tentative smile again. “A lot like you, only smaller.”

“What was she wearing?” Tom asked from his rocker.

“A slouch hat,” he answered, his gaze never leaving hers. “A brown coat that was too small. Mittens, a scarf. Big boots that made her legs look skinny, and a dark blue dress she was about to outgrow. She appeared well tended.”

Lacy felt like someone had punched her in the chest. Except for the hat and boots, he had just described the clothing Hannah had been wearing when she had disappeared from Volker’s Crossing. How could he know that?

“You say she talked to you,” Tom pressed. “What did she say?”

“That she’d been waiting for a long time, and she wanted to go home.”

“She actually said that?” Tom snorted in disbelief. “I don’t believe you.”

A red flush spread over Hobart’s face, but he just shrugged. “Your choice.”

Oh, God
.
What if it’s all true?
Lacy pressed a hand over her mouth, afraid she might cry out, or break into sobs, or vomit. What if they had stopped looking too soon?
Hannah . . . oh Hannah, forgive me.

“She wasn’t afraid, Mrs. Ellis,” Mr. Hobart said, watching her. “I wouldn’t want you to think that. More sad, I think, that no one had come to find her.”

“She say anything else?” Tom demanded.

“Only that there was a man—”

Lacy gasped.

“But he hasn’t hurt her,” Mr. Hobart quickly assured her. “I asked, and she said he wasn’t mean to her. Just that he might not want her to leave.”

“Why not?” her brother asked.

Mr. Hobart continued to direct his answers to Lacy. “Because it would make someone—a woman, I think—sad. She wouldn’t say who.”

Lacy struggled to breathe. As crushing as it was to have Hannah gone, the thought of someone hurting her . . . a man, even a woman . . . doing terrible things . . .

“You’re lying.”

Hobart finally turned his attention to Tom. His scarred face showed no expression, although his voice took on an edge of menace. “Say that again, Jackson, and I’ll take you outside.”

Tom opened his mouth to respond, but Lacy held up a shaking hand. “No. No more.” She wanted to scream. Flee. Shut out the horror building inside.

“Don’t listen to him, Sis. You know she didn’t say any of that.”

“She did,” Hobart insisted. “Stood right there by the woodshed and—”

“Hell you say!” Tom bolted from the rocker, fists clenched. “Hannah couldn’t have said any of those things. She—”

“Stop!” Lacy shot to her feet so abruptly her chair toppled to the floor behind her. “Both of you! Just stop.” Afraid her shaking legs wouldn’t hold her, she braced her hands on the table and turned to her brother. “Tom, wait outside.”

“I’m not leaving you alone in here with him.”

“Just go! I won’t be long.”

Grim-faced, her brother righted her chair, then with a last glare at Mr. Hobart, stomped from the cabin, slamming the door so hard that snow cascaded off the back roof to thud onto the ground below the side window.

Lacy sank into her chair, her body trembling. She took a deep breath, but it didn’t seem to dispel the emotion still churning inside. “I’m sorry for that, Mr. Hobart. Tom is distressed. We all are. And what you say about . . . about Hannah . . . is rather difficult to believe.”

“I agree.” With a sigh, Mr. Hobart settled into his own chair. “Everything about this is hard to believe.”

“Why do you say that?”

He spread his big hands in helpless confusion. “Her calling out to me while under the snow, even though Doc says she wasn’t there. Hearing her at the cabin. Then, yesterday, her showing up by the woodshed. None of it makes sense.”

“And she spoke to you each time?”

Mr. Hobart nodded. He made a vague gesture at his scarred face. “I was injured in an explosion and don’t hear so well. But I heard her as plain as if she was as close to me as you are right now.”

Injured . . . explosion . . . don’t hear well . . .

Had he damaged his mind, too? Heard bits and pieces and woven it into whole cloth? If so . . . sudden realization took her breath away. None of it was true. It was all a fabrication in an impaired mind.
Oh God.
What had she done?

Something shriveled inside her. Faith. Hope. She felt flayed and raw, and was so furious that she had opened herself to this pain again that she could scarcely think.
Hannah . . .forgive me.

Pressing the heels of her hands against her stinging eyes, she fought back a wave of anguish.
I can’t do this. I can’t go through this again.

“Mrs. Ellis?”

Something brushed her sleeve. She took her hands away and, blinking through a blur of tears, found Mr. Hobart studying her with a worried expression, as if he actually cared that he had just ripped out her heart with his false words. It made her so angry her teeth clenched together.

But that anger gave her strength. Helped her think again. Opened a path away from the pain.

“Are you all right, ma’am?”

“No, Mr. Hobart, I’m not. Nor, I fear, are you.” Unable to even look at the man, she snatched her gloves from the table. But her hands shook so badly she couldn’t pull them on, and instead, wadded them into clenched fists in her lap.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“No?” She jerked her head up, saw pity in his eyes, and wanted to strike him. “Then why are you doing this? After endless struggle and heartache, I have finally come to accept that my daughter is dead. Then you show up with your absurd fabrications. Why? To what purpose?” Fearing she might burst into tears, or start shrieking, or act on the rage burning inside, she grabbed her bonnet and lurched to her feet. “Your cruelty is beyond belief.”

Mr. Hobart rose, too. “I’m sorry for your pain, ma’am. But I’m not making this up. I saw your daughter. She’s alive. I have no doubt of it.”

The effort to hold back tears made her throat constrict. “Then I pity you, sir, for you must be insane. Even if my daughter is alive, she would never have called out to you.”

“I swear—”

“Hannah doesn’t speak, Mr. Hobart. And hasn’t, ever since her father died.”

***

After the door closed behind her, Daniel slammed his fist down on the tabletop.
Damn it!
What the hell was wrong with him?

Words he wished he could call back rang in his ears, and the image of her stricken face stayed in his mind even as her sleigh swept past the window. How could he have done that to a woman who had already suffered so much? Why couldn’t he have just kept his mouth shut?

Because he had wanted to believe it was true, had wanted to erase that empty expression from her wounded blue-green eyes and restore her hope.

Instead, he had crushed it.

Stupid bastard.

Sinking into his chair, he gripped his aching head in his hands as her voice circled in his mind.
Your cruelty is beyond belief. I pity you. You must be insane.

Maybe she was right. Maybe she wasn’t. But the only way to prove it to her, or himself, would be to bring Hannah home.

And if he didn’t find her?

Then he’d know his mind had failed him. And that would be the end of it.

With grim determination, he rose and began gathering what he would need for the long, cold days ahead. He would start at Volker’s Crossing. Then go from there. And keep going until he learned the truth, one way or the other.

***

Lacy scarcely remembered the trip back to New Hope. It was a struggle simply to breathe, to keep her body functioning from one moment to the next, to hold back the screams that clogged her throat.

It’s over. Hannah’s gone. Forever.

She repeated those words again and again, hammering them into her mind, desperate to crush the last spark of hope so she could sink back into that dark, safe place where she didn’t have to think, or remember, or want.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Wait for the numbness to come.

But one tiny ember wouldn’t die. Like a distant flame on a foggy night, it pierced the darkness, setting other thoughts alight until her mind was afire with possibility once again.

What if Daniel Hobart was telling the truth?

How could he have known what her daughter was wearing unless he had seen her? Had he overheard someone talking about her? Or had he participated in Hannah’s disappearance?

Could he have done something to her daughter?

Fury flashed through her, then, just as quickly, drained away. She had talked to the man, had seen in his eyes an empathy that would have been impossible to feign had he been the one to steal away her child. No, Daniel Hobart hadn’t taken Hannah. He had either heard someone talking about her or had seen her somewhere in the past or, as Doc Halstead said, was simply confused. With the extent of his old injury, it wouldn’t be surprising if his thoughts and memories had been damaged in the explosion.

And yet . . .

What if he wasn’t confused? What if there was even a sliver of truth in what he said? For the sake of her child, could she afford to ignore even the slightest chance that he might know something that could lead her to Hannah? It would be a miracle, to be sure . . . but miracles happened sometimes, didn’t they?

***

The next morning, she knocked on Doctor Halstead’s kitchen door, a basket of fried chicken in her hand and questions about Daniel Hobart in her mind.

“Why, good morning, Lacy,” the doctor said, opening the door wide and gazing hopefully at the pan. “You’re out early.”

“I wanted to catch you before you left to visit patients. And ask you a few questions, if you have time.”

“I always have time for you, Lacy. And your fine cooking.”