Authors: Tracy Sumner
"Surely, he will be fine," Savannah whispered. Or maybe she simply thought it. A strapping man like Zachariah Garrett didn't get hurt from a bump on the head. Head wounds bled notoriously; even she knew that.
Moving to his side, she took his hand as the men placed him on a wide plank at least seven feet long. Her head pounded; her throat felt flinty, as if she had swallowed a mouthful of sand.
His hair lay in a dark scramble on his brow, a clump of it tangled and bloody. Drawing a breath, she told herself that she must be strong. A constable's wife, a life-saving captain's wife, must be strong.
A jacket slipped over her shoulders. Turning, she gazed into Noah's face. "Can't have you getting sick out here," he said. "Zach would kill me."
"He'll be fine, of course." Neither a statement nor a question, perhaps it was a plea. "Simply fine."
Noah nodded, looking less than certain. His eyes moved to Zach, focusing on the bleeding gash, the ashen skin. He drew a long breath, a parched click of his throat. "He has to be."
* * *
Savannah walked to the window and gripped the sill. A brilliant sunrise had painted the horizon in shades of gold and amber, a lovely promise of a new day. Pressing her brow to the damp pane, she watched the town come to life on the street below and realized with a shock that life was marching forward.
While in this house, in this bedroom, her life had ground to a halt.
She glanced back, recording the rise and fall of Zach's chest beneath the thin sheet, as she had a thousand times since they brought him home. If she placed her ear next to his mouth, she could hear him breathe. Yet that also sent warm air rushing inside the canal of her ear, reminding her of them whispering to each other as they made slow, tender love.
Gripping the sill harder, she promised herself she wouldn't cry. Couldn't cry anymore. It had frightened Rory, whom they'd spirited away after carrying Zach inside.
She would like to tell Zach she loved him before he slipped away. Dr. Leland had communicated what he could: either Zach would pull out of this deep sleep or he would not. Head injuries were a great unknown in medical science.
Noah had told her about lightning striking the tree beside them. A limb had toppled from the sky, knocking them to the ground. He hadn't thought anyone was seriously injured until he got a look at Zach's lifeless form.
He had also related the tale of the young sailor who'd died and Zach's subsequent fit of rage.
How terrible, the burden placed upon his shoulders. It had angered Savannah straight to the bone to record the unmitigated confusion and devastation as the men carried Zach along the street and into the house. Townspeople had trudged along behind them like a line of mourners. Sodden hats and bonnets in hand as if they had come to pay their respects. She had shoved her bedroom window as high as she could and leaned out, screaming at them to leave Zach in peace. Someone, she didn't have a clear recollection of who, had pulled her inside and slammed the window shut.
After that, they had refused to leave her.
Savannah crossed to the bed, leaning in close to his lips, ignoring the memory his hot breath called forth. She couldn't expect anyone, even Zach's family, to understand his circumstances. Not as fully as she did. After all, they had laughed about this very matter many times: how no one truly knew him. They thought he was a saint and stronger than any man could be. In her mind, he was like a bridge overloaded with weight. He had finally buckled.
Again, fury shot through her veins, but it was his hand that clenched in the sheet, fingers drawing into a weak fist.
Savannah gasped and dropped to her knees by the bed. "Zachariah, can you hear me?" She willed him to answer as she checked his temperature. Hot to the touch. Dipping a rag into the basin at her side, she smoothed it over his face and neck. His face looked odd, unnatural. A flush stacked atop pale, pale skin darkened by at least two days' stubble. Moving the sheet lower, she bathed him to the waist, wrung the rag, and repeated the process.
When she hit a bruise she hadn't noticed beneath his armpit, he groaned.
"Zach?" She brushed his hair from his face.
His hand seized her wrist, more quickly than she suspected he could move in his condition. His eyes flew open. They were fever-filled, glassy and red. "Hannah?"
Every trace of air left Savannah's lungs, a veritable collapse. The blood in her face seeped away, leaving her dizzy and breathless. She struggled, reminding herself that he was out of his mind. "I'm here," she answered.
Because she was.
"You've been away," he stated feebly, his arm falling to the bed.
She paused a beat, debating what she should do.
Soothe him, Savannah
. So she did, splintering her heart into a thousand jagged pieces in the process. "I have."
His lids fluttered, too heavy to stay open. "Happy?"
Savannah glanced at the ceiling, wishing she could see through the clouds and into heaven so she could answer honestly. Was Hannah happy? She had sounded like an angel or closer to one than Savannah would ever be.
Angels were always happy.
"Yes." She bathed his face, feeling as if she had stepped into someone else's body, someone else's marriage. Surely this was not her own. "I'm happy."
"Good." He sighed, sinking into the mattress. "Will you help me...." The words died though his lips continued to move.
She leaned in. "Help you what, darling?"
He didn't answer, having returned to his cavernous stupor.
Tears falling freely, she sat in his bedroom, morning sunshine scattering across the heart pine floor. The room she had foolishly come to think of as
theirs
.
The pain nearly broke her in two.
It was simply unbearable to be second in Zach's heart, if she resided there at all.
* * *
Zach struggled to awaken, desperation driving him. His body felt battered, his limbs so heavy he couldn't lift them.
Foggy, muddled. Everything muddled.
He wanted to tell Savannah before it was too late. He had asked Hannah to help him find her.
Was she there? A spurt of panic had his heart thumping, every movement, every breath, painful.
He tried saying it. Maybe that would be enough.
I love you, Irish
. Consciousness faded as the words lay unspoken on his lips.
* * *
Savannah peeked through the window of the seamstresses' shop. She scanned the brightly lit room, pleased to see it was empty. After her tantrum yesterday morning, everyone in town seemed to be giving her a wide berth. The bell above the door tinkled, a mixture of fragrances drifting past, testament to the varied tastes of the shop's customers.
Lilian Quinn's voice rang from the back, "Just a minute."
Savannah crossed to the counter, tracing her finger along the yellow embroidery decorating the instep of a pair of black-and-white stripped stockings.
"Lovely, aren't they?"
She curled her fingers into a fist, flushing as a knowing smile crossed Lilian's face. Caleb had told her that the town seamstress had the face of a horse and the body of an angel, one her husband mightily enjoyed when the lights were off. Hearing the comment while preparing dinner last week, Zach had elbowed his brother in the ribs as Elle and Savannah burst into shameless laughter.
Zach had bounced them all out on their ears: relegated to the yard until dinner was ready.
"They'd look right pretty with one of those riding costumes of yours, Miss Savannah." The comment brought her back.
"No, no. Too"—hesitantly, she fingered the silk—"fancy for me." Too feminine, she wanted to say. With her decision made, who in the world would she wear them for now?
"Zach would love them. I hear he's doing better," Lilian said with a soft smile. Her hair, pulled into a close knot on her head, shone yellow-brown in the warm gas glow. Of average looks, yes. However, she had the sweetest voice ever to grace a church choir, and her skill with a needle provided a handsome income for her family. Too, she was blessed with a husband who worshipped her.
Savannah would have traded places with Lilian Quinn in a minute.
If Lilian's husband traded places with Zach, that is.
"The clothes, are they ready?" Savannah asked, ready to be gone from this place.
From this town.
Lilian slipped a pad of paper from her apron pocket, eyes flitting over the page. "Everything but the divided skirt with the braid edging. My fingers can't edge as quickly as they used to. I could have my Elmo bring it by Friday afternoon if that'll do."
"Can he drop off what you have ready this afternoon? The skirt I can wait for." She wouldn't be in town Friday; she would have Elle ship the skirt to her.
Lilian tilted her head, gazing quizzically at Savannah. "Any reason for the hurry? A special event coming up?"
"None at all. Just, well, it's been months since I've purchased new garments." This much was true. Yet she could not stop her hand from straying to the pocket of her cycling trousers and the train ticket to New York folded in a neat square.
The bell above the door tinkled. Savannah released an explosive sigh, knowing a wretched stroke of luck when she saw one. Or smelled one. The distinctive scent could only mean that Caroline Bartram had entered the shop.
Oh hell
, she thought. She had deliberately traveled into town when most people were having supper, only to run into the one person who looked through any façade she presented as if it were made of glass.
Caroline halted by Savannah's side, lifting shining blue eyes to her. Eyes brimming with compassion and understanding. "How is Zach? Woke up this morning briefly, I heard. Christabel says he's on the mend, thank goodness."
"He's better. Not coherent yet, but his fever is down." The wound pained him a great deal, and the powder Dr. Leland had prescribed kept him far from reach. Savannah's hand trembled. She bit the inside of her cheek.
At least he hadn't called out for Hannah again.
Caroline knotted her fingers together over her draped belt of white satin. "He'll be fine. A tough buck, that boy." She ducked, trying to look into Savannah's eyes. "But what about you? How are
you
doing?"
Tears pricked Savannah's eyes. She blinked them back. For some reason, this woman's tender air always reminded her of her mother. Fighting the absurd feeling, she spoke calmly. "I'm fine, Caroline. Why, what could be the matter? Zach is getting better."
She was the one getting worse.
* * *
Zach blinked into the bright sunlight, a tiny drummer beating away in his brain. "Lord help," he groaned and dragged the sheet over his head.
"He isn't going to help, Constance. You're all on your own in this mess."
"Shut up, Cale. Give him a moment to remember where he is, will you? We just stopped giving him the pain medicine a few hours ago. He's got to be groggy."
Groggy
barely covered it. Inching the sheet down, Zach peered out at his brothers. A shaft of pain nearly made his eyes cross. Caleb sat in a chair someone had pulled beside the bed. Noah paced back and forth behind him. "Christ, what happened? It feels like someone took a hammer to my head."
Caleb slid forward in the chair, rocking it precariously on its front legs. Noah tried to pull him back, but Caleb knocked his hand away. "A tree limb hit you in the head."
Zach frowned, remembering being on Devil Island and seeing his men sailing in... and not much else. He searched each corner of the room, a little disappointed to see Savannah wasn't there.
"Don't go looking for her in here," Caleb said, his lips sliding into a frown.
"Cale," Noah warned.
Zach felt a stirring of alarm. "Is she all right? Did she go out even when I told her not to?"
Oh, no
. He sat up, nearly passing out from the effort. "The baby?"
Noah moved in front of Caleb, elbowing his brother aside. "Savannah's fine. The baby's fine. Or they were this morning."
Zach's eyes narrowed. "This morning?"
"That's when Savannah left on a train bound for New York City."
* * *
Five days later, Zach stood in the telegraph office in Morehead City, sweating beneath a suit coat he only wore when he traveled. Shifting from one foot to another, he reread the message. Twice. Then he slid it through the bars separating him from the telegraph operator, a boy no older than sixteen who regarded him with the attentive enthusiasm of a new employee.
"Finished, mister?"
Zach nodded. Forced a smile. "That's it."
The boy returned the smile and began reading aloud, "Daniel Webster Morgan, New York, New York. Sir—"
"Really, there's no need."
The boy glanced up, wiped the back of his hand across his nose. "Don't worry, mister. I'm a crack hand with the telegraph."
"Yeah, well, good. No need to—"
"Have to read every message to the customer before it goes. Western Union policy."
Zach rubbed the back of his neck, willing away the headache he had carried around with him since the accident. "Fine. Policy."
The young man nodded and bowed his head. "Dear Sir. Stop. If your daughter is in your po-po—"
"Possession."
"Possession, hold her. Stop. I arrive on the thirteenth. Stop. Keep this between us. Stop. She may not be—" The boy glanced up sheepishly. Apparently, reading skills were low on the list for crack hands with a telegraph.
Zach sighed. "Receptive."
"That's a new one." The paper shook in the boy's hand as he chuckled. "Receptive to my visit." He turned the sheet over and back. "No name attached, mister."
Zach conquered the urge to look over his shoulder. Ridiculous, really. No one in Morehead City knew him. Not in town, anyway, a full mile from the docks. He gestured for the paper, found he still clutched a pencil in his hand, and scribbled furiously. Guilt, hot and fierce, swept through him.
Savannah would never forgive him for involving her father in this.
What choice did he have? She had left him without giving him a reason—giving anyone a damned reason. Did she think he would let her live in New York and raise his child without him? The thought made the ache in his head almost more than he could stand and stay on his feet.