As his world turned upside down, Walker heard Trelayne scream. Swinging to and fro, he fought to orient himself, fought to make sure she was safe. Grimsby doubled over with laughter.
Unbuttoning his hide coat, Walker let it fall to the ground. Now he had room to maneuver. Now he had a chance of reaching the sharp bladed knife attached to his belt at the small of his back. It was hidden by the sheepskin vest he wore. All he needed was for Grimsby to turn his back.
“Now the real fun begins, Captain,” the other man said. He ambled forward, kicked the straw back into a pile, and set a match to it. “I hear you used a similar method of entertainment on one of my lads back in England.”
“Close enough. But not for the same purpose.”
“Nor for the same results,” Grimsby added. “There’ll be no saving you.”
“Please,” Trelayne begged. “Don’t hurt him. This is madness.”
“Madness?” Grimsby spun around to face her. “Madness is me considering to let you live. I sees now the both of you will have to go. But which one first. That’s the questions. Maybe both together.”
Grimsby plucked at the rope holding back the counterweight to the hemp around Trelayne’s neck. The chair rocked and she shrieked, the depth of her fear spearing straight to his heart. Twisting slowly above the flames, Walker fought the panic overtaking his senses. He had to focus on one thing at a time, not worry about what might happen, but deal with what was happening.
The burning straw produced more smoke than fire, and although it blinded and choked him, it also provided cover for his actions. Bending at the waist, he grabbed his pants leg, and hand over hand, hauled himself up. Grasping the rope snared around his ankles, he retrieved his knife with his other hand and sawed at the knot. His feet came free and he righted himself and dropped to the ground.
Straw flew in all directions, sparks hurtling into the air. As Grimsby turned, Walker lunged at the man. Trelayne screamed. The sound cut brutally short as the rope tightened around her throat. To his horror, he saw the chair began to rise into the air.
“No,” he bellowed.
Never missing a step, he slammed his fist into Grimsby’s surprised face. The man went sprawling, his pistol clattered across the floor out of reach. Walker slashed at the rope with his knife. Trelayne and the chair crashed back to the floor. Her head sagged forward. Had she fainted? He prayed it wasn’t anything worse as he slid the noose from her neck.
Hearing a scuffling at his back he turned in time to ward off Grimsby’s renewed attack. The man rushed forward, saber in hand. Deflecting the blow with his knife, metal hit metal as they both fought for their lives.
The ineffectual flames died down, but the smoke billowed around the two of them, adding an apocalyptic touch to the atmosphere, and to an outcome holding certain death for one of them.
The fury of seeing his wife nearly hanged infused Walker with strength beyond measure. Seething with vengeance greater than anything he had ever known, he pursued his quarry. Realizing he’d lost the upper hand, Grimsby retreated. Never lessening the attack, never wavering in his desire to see this man dead, Walker kept going at him. The battle swiftly fell to his favor.
Grimsby staggered backward. His foot caught on the edge of the pit housing near the big wheel. He teetered on the lip, eyes wide, hands grasping at air. Then he fell. His cry of surprise echoed sharply and ended abruptly. Walker peered down the shaft. The ice beneath the mill wasn’t fully formed. Grimsby had fallen through into the water to drown or freeze to death. Either remedy suited Walker.
He ran back to Trelayne. She was still unresponsive. Releasing all her bonds, he bundled her in his coat and left by the side door. He must get her to a doctor, or at least to a warm fire. Hoping the horses were still on the far side of the mill, he headed in that direction.
The snow collected on his shoulders and neck, soaking through his vest. He couldn’t feel his feet or legs. His face was numb, his arms frozen around the only thing in his life that mattered to him. Keep moving, his brain screamed out. If you stop you’re dead. Even worse, Trelayne and his child would be dead.
The wind had returned full force, kicking up the snow on the ground to mingle with the relentless powder falling from the sky.
The effect was disorienting. He glanced back. Big as it was, he could no longer see the mill. He wasn’t sure which way to go. Anger wrapped around his fear and frustration. He glanced down at Trelayne, or was it Katie. Again, the cap and mittens confused him. It had been a night like this in which Kathleen had perished, but this time would be different. He refused to allow history to repeat itself.
Clenching his teeth to keep them from chattering, he staggered on. He thought again of the wee babe growing inside Trelayne. Was it still safe, still warm? How unfair if it were to die before ever drawing a breath.
From the corner of his eye he thought he saw movement. Yes, it was a figure motioning him closer. It was a woman with blond hair. She was smiling, dressed only in a thin fluttering gown. It was impossible. He closed his eyes and shook his head, but when he looked again, she was still there. He made to follow then stopped. It wasn’t the right direction. He should go back the other way. She was leading him closer to the river, away from the horses. Or maybe she was correct, he didn’t know anymore, couldn’t think straight.
She seemed so real, looked a lot like Katie—he really was losing his mind. Now she begged him to follow. Trusting to the memory of the woman who had once shared his life, he lurched toward the apparition. As he drew near she disappeared. He howled with rage at having been so deceived, the sound blunted by the wall of snow and wind. Then he saw a glimmer of light. Following the dim beacon, he came to a shack. With a foot that felt like a block of ice, he kicked at the door.
Chapter Thirty-One
“She looks better this morning,” Hargis said.
“Yes, she does,” Walker agreed from where he sat at Trelayne’s side. “Much better.”
Last night, it had given Walker an unnerving jolt when the door to the snug little shack opened, and he came face to face with Hargis. For a moment it compounded his confusion, then the warmth from the hearth-fire, and the familiar aroma of barley soup, convinced him it wasn’t his imagination.
It was a bit harder convincing himself the woman who had led him to the shack was Katie in spirit form. But what or who else could it have been? It’s what he decided to believe. He was certain if he’d gone any other direction, they wouldn’t have survived the night. And it made him feel good to think she was watching over him from the great beyond. She had helped to save Trelayne, so it seemed she sanctioned his new life, affirming she wished him to be happy.
“I heard on the docks you had come home,” Hargis said, “and I was hoping to see you soon, but not last night in the middle of a blizzard.”
“You’ve done well for yourself,” Walker acknowledged. “I’m glad.”
“I owe much to you,” Hargis said. “When I reached New Bedford, your friend Dr. Robinson honored your note. I set up my shop here in the mill annex, and soon I will purchase a place in town and sell my finer items wrought in silver. Then I can pay you back.”
“You owe me nothing. You’ve saved my life twice now. And Trelayne’s as well. I’m the one who owes you more than I can ever repay.”
Walker studied Trelayne’s peaceful expression. Last evening, before falling back into an exhausted sleep, she awakened long enough to have a bit of soup. Her throat was sore inside and out, but other than that, nothing seemed seriously wrong with her.
“Walker?” she said, in a sleepy voice.
He leaned over and kissed her forehead. “Yes, love. I’m right here.”
“Is it over? Are we safe?”
“Everything is all right now,” he reassured.
“You’re not just saying that, are you?” She rose up on her elbows and glanced around. “But where are we? And who is that man? He looks like a Viking. Am I dreaming?”
Walker smiled. “That’s Hargis, a good friend with an uncanny knack for saving my hide. And in this case, yours, too.”
“I remember. You told me he helped you in Brighton when you were so terribly injured. But that was in England, not America, I’m all befuddled. Oh dear, what of Mother and Father? They must be worried sick, and they are barely recovered.”
“They know you’re safe and we will be home later today. Hargis lives here now, everything is as it should be, you aren’t confused.”
“Has the horrible storm ceased?”
“Oh, ya,” Hargis put in. “The sky is clear and the wind tamed. This was just a little squall. In Norway we have much worse.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” she grinned. “And thank you for helping us.”
“I will always be glad to help you and your husband. I am here in America because of his kindness. He is a good man.”
“Yes,” Trelayne agreed. “A very good man.”
****
Glad to be alive, Trelayne laughed with abandon as they sailed over the snow in a sleigh Hargis had made. Miraculously fit, and anxious for a run, the two horses had weathered the blizzard on the south side of the mill. Now as they flew past the hulking structure, she turned away and slipped her hand into the crook of Walker’s arm.
The authorities had already come and gone. Bartholomew Grimsby’s body had been found, and they could rest assured he would bother no one again. But she didn’t want to think about that. She wanted to marvel at how blue the sky was, and how quickly the weather had changed from near fatal to fantastic.
They didn’t go directly to Walker’s house, instead they skirted the town, and she was captivated by the landscape spreading out before her. Here in America, freedom seemed a tangible spirit, a living entity. She could feel it in the countryside, in the wide-open expanses that seemed to go on forever, in the thick forests promising wild game and firewood and lumber for building a future. This land had helped shape her husband’s spirit, his very essence. She recalled the crowded dirty London backstreets seen on her rounds for Father Woolsey. The sadness and desperation felt a world a way. Here hard work seemed to result in a better way of life. This was a land of hope.
On the crest of a hill overlooking the ocean, Walker brought the sleigh to a halt. The horses stamped their feet, snorting out great puffs of frosty breath as the bells on their traces jangled in the boundless silence. An extraordinary scene, made perfect because Walker was at her side.
She sighed, and offered a quick prayer of thanks then studied his face. “Right now, this very moment, I am happier than I have ever been. I love you, Walker. I love our child yet to be born, and I love all the beautiful possibilities stretching out before us. I even love the thought of growing old with you.”
“Don’t rush us too quickly into rocking chairs on the porch,” he teased.
Slipping his hand inside her cloak, he grazed his hand across the bodice of her dress. Her breasts, made ample by her pregnancy, strained against the fabric, and her nipples hardened and ached for him. Right on queue, the rest of her body reacted hot and ready, responding to his touch, to his need for her, to the knowledge of how much he loved her.
A girlish giggle escaped her. She truly believed he could forever make her feel young and wild and beautiful, so beautiful. But she needed to hear the words. “You promise you will love me even when I’m old and gray?” she pressed, as he nuzzled her neck.
“Yes, always. I am besotted and hopelessly in love with you. And I plan to stay that way. My mission, to fulfill your every dream. Only the good ones, of course,” he corrected.
“Only the good ones,” she murmured against his neck.
Epilogue
New Bedford, Massachusetts
Their son was born midsummer, a strapping young lad, drawing his first breath in the land of the free and the home of the brave.
Rather than returning to England, everyone had agreed to extend their stay in New Bedford. Trelayne’s father was interested in seeing the workings of this exciting foreign country, and her mother was ever happy to be at his side and to be near Trelayne and their first grandchild.
This morning, in a rare quiet moment while they were both still abed, Trelayne yawned and snuggled closer to Walker, seeking his warmth in the early hours before dawn.
“We can’t keep calling him ‘the baby,’” she said languidly. “He really must have a name.”
“You’re right, of course, but regardless of what we choose, someone’s feelings will be hurt.”
“Yes, I know,” she agreed, silently reviewing the possibilities in her head.
There was Phillip for her father, Bertram for his father, Samuel for Walker’s best friend, William who had been sorely injured trying to rescue her while she was pregnant, and of course Hargis.
She toyed with the silver rattle so delicately wrought by the big Scandinavian.
Much as she liked the man, and was grateful to him, she wasn’t about to name her child Hargis. It sounded much too close to haggis.
“We could name him Walker,” she suggested.
“No.” He shook his head, his tone indicating he was adamant about the decision. “I’m not much on saddling a child with the name of the father, or any relative. Let destiny declare who he will be as he follows a journey of his own making.”
He reached over to the nightstand, snared his St. Brendan medal, and made to slip the silver chain over his head.
Before he could follow through, she caught the filigreed strands between her fingers, staying his actions.
“We shall call him Brendan,” she declared, studying the holy figure.
Walker smiled and hugged her. “A perfect choice. If my son is anything like his mother, he will definitely need watching over.”
“And if he’s anything like his father,” she countered, “he will grow up to be a great man, with adventures to follow and grand dreams beyond our imagining.”
“He’s also going to need a brother or sister,” Walker pointed out.
Rather than putting the chain and medallion around his neck, he placed it back upon the bedside table.
“Is that so?” Playfully, she pushed at his chest then glanced over at her son sleeping peacefully nearby. Her sweetest of dreams was coming true. She had her hero of a husband, and was joyfully working on that gaggle of children.