Dorothy Clark (3 page)

Chapter Four

I
ce spilled down her spine, flowed into her arms and legs and froze her in place. Sadie stared at Cole Aylward, saw the image that haunted her nights. His black beard bobbed and his lips moved, but no words penetrated the glacial wall of fear.

“Did you hear me, Miss Spencer? Your poppa sent me to bring you to the house.”

His raised voice crumbled the ice, broke through her numbed senses.
Poppa?
How dare he use her pet name for her grandfather! A quaking took her, so strong, so furious in intensity her long skirts shook. “Don’t you call him that!”

“Look, Miss Spencer—” He took a step toward her. A towering shadow in the dim light.

She gasped and jerked back, her spurt of defiance dead.

He jolted to a halt and a heavy breath escaped him.

Light flashed on something in his hand. She caught a glimpse of a knob on the object he held before he turned and leaned it against the wall, shrugged out of his rubber jacket and tossed it on top of a nearby feed chest.

No, Almighty God, no! Not again.
Her heart thudded. She stared at his hands, raised hers to cover her arms where his brother’s hard fingers had dug into her flesh as he threw her to the ground. Memory froze her lungs. A prickly warmth flooded her body, and the room swam in a slow, sickening circle, the edges turning dark, closing in.

Lightning snapped, startled her from the encroaching darkness. Thunder shook the building and rattled the windowpanes. She shook her head to clear away the fuzziness, forced strength into her quivering legs and edged backward, not daring to take her gaze off Cole.

“I came back because the storm worsened and I wanted to get Manning inside before he got soaked by the driving rain. He sent me after you—told me to tell you your poppa had sent me so you wouldn’t be frightened. That was his word, not mine.”

Did he think her a fool? If that were true, why would he remove his rain jacket? She needed a weapon. Something. Anything! She stretched her right hand backward, groped through the space behind her.

“Obviously, that didn’t work.” He turned toward her, lifted his hands.

She whirled to run, spotted a hay fork and snatched it from its place in the corner then spun back, the wooden tines extended toward him. Rain beat on the roof. Lightning flickered, and thunder rumbled. The horse in the stall behind her snorted and pawed at the floor.

Tension quivered on the air. Cole stared at her, silent and still, slowly tugged his shirt collar up around his neck and lowered his hands. “I’ve told you, I am not my brother, Miss Spencer. I abhor what he did to you. But I am at a loss as to how to convince you of that. Perhaps time is the only answer.” His voice, deep and quiet, blended with the drumming overhead. He turned, gestured toward his rain jacket. “That should keep you dry. Please hurry back to the house. Your grandmother is worried about you.”

She watched, wary and disbelieving, as he shoved open the door, ducked his head and stepped out into the gray deluge. What was he doing? She stared at the door, waited. It remained closed. The heavy thudding of her heart eased. Her racing pulse slowed. She dropped the hay rake, moved forward on shaky legs and stared down at the object he’d left behind. A furled umbrella with a brass knob in the form of a drake’s head.

Your grandfather sent me after you.

Was it true? She picked up her grandfather’s umbrella, held it against her chest and sagged back against the wall. Why would her grandfather do such a thing when he knew what had happened to her? Why would he send Cole Aylward, of all people, to come after her when she was alone and defenseless? Had her grandfather’s reason, also, been affected by his seizure? Or was Cole lying?

She closed her eyes, fought the clinging fog of weariness and fear. What could she do? She was helpless against Cole Aylward’s strength and unequal to an Aylward’s cunning ways. She tightened her grip on the umbrella and wrapped her arms around herself in a futile effort to stop the inward quivering, the outward shivering. “Heavenly Father, You know I’m not strong enough or brave enough to fight him. I can’t do this. Give me strength and courage and wisdom, I pray.”

Her choked, whispered plea was swallowed by the sound of the rain that pounded on the shakes overhead and slapped against the outside of the wall behind her. She opened her eyes and stared down at the rainwater that seeped under the door and trickled across the thick puncheons into the dark interior, trying to understand, to grasp what Cole was after. He had to have a reason for the care he was giving her grandfather. Was it money? Payne had stolen the money from her grandfather’s desk at the mill before he had—

A shudder passed through her. She shoved the memory away and thought about the conversation she’d overheard. Cole wanted her grandfather to buy something. It
had
to be Poppa’s money he wanted. That would explain why he was working to gain her grandfather’s trust—or knowledge of where he kept his money.

Her face tightened. The thought of her grandfather being duped because of his weakened state brought strength. She shoved away from the wall, partially opened the umbrella and waited for another lull in the wind, then slipped outside and slammed the door closed again, leaving Cole’s raincoat lying on the chest. She would rather be soaked to the bone than touch a garment that belonged to him.

* * *

The stable door banged.

At last.
Cole pressed back into the darkness against the wall and watched Sadie run for the house, the umbrella she held bucking and flapping in the buffeting wind, the pouring rain soaking into her dress, turning the fabric black in the dim, stormy light.

No rain jacket. He needn’t have bothered leaving it for her. He should have simply left her the umbrella and gone home. He scowled and drew back as she gained the porch. There was no need; she didn’t even glance toward the end where he stood, merely hurried inside.

He pulled his wet collar tight against the back of his neck, crossed the porch and trotted down the steps. The wind plastered his wet pants to his legs, blew his shirt flat against his chest and fluttered and slapped the sides of it against his ribs. Rain soaked through the fabric and chilled his skin. He shivered and sprinted to the stable, water splashing from beneath his boots.

The wind wrestled him for the door. He forced it open, stepped through and eased it closed, then stood just inside to catch his breath. The smells of grain, hay and dust mingled on the moist air he drew in. A cold drop of water slid down his neck. He snatched his hat from his head, twisted the knit fabric and watched the water flow off his knuckles and splash on the floor.

The horse sniffed, extended its neck over the stall door and whickered.

“Later, girl. It’s not time for your feed.” White light flickered through the windows, gleaming on the garment draped across the feed chest. His jaw clenched. For a frightened, fragile-appearing woman, Sadie Spencer had a strong defiant streak.

He looked down at his hands twisting the knitted cap, eased their grip, tugged the hat back on his head and lifted his raincoat off the chest, his fingers digging into the rubber cloth. His mother had also been defiant and strong—in her own way. And that defiance had cost her her life at his father’s hands. Would Sadie have died by Payne’s hands if that logger hadn’t heard her scream and come running to her aid?

His stomach clenched at a sudden roll of nausea. The look of stark terror on Sadie’s face when he’d stepped through the door and turned toward her was chilling. And the anger of injured innocence, of a person who has had her sense of peace and security torn from her, lurked in the depths of her brown eyes. It was heartrending. How could he ever hope to make that up to her?

A lightning bolt crackled through the rain. Thunder clapped. He stared down at the rubber fabric dangling from his clenched hands and wished it were Payne in his grip.

* * *

They should be asleep by now. Sadie took a firm hold on the oil lamp and walked to the top of the stairs, listened but heard no sound. She thrust the lamp behind her, leaned around the corner and peeked over the railing. The trimmed lamp on the center table spread dim light through the empty entrance hall. The way was clear.

She gripped the railing and eased down the four steps to the landing, turned and started down the longer flight, glanced to her left. The morning-room door was closed, her grandfather’s snoring coming muted through its wood panels. Good. She could check the money box without interruption or explanation.

The soft tap of her slippers blended with the whispered brush of her dressing-gown hem against the polished oak steps as she descended. A loud snort from the morning room froze her at the bottom of the staircase. She held her breath, waited until the snoring resumed, then hurried across the hall into the library. The light from the lamp fell in a golden circle onto the braided rag rug her grandmother had made as a bride. A lump formed in her throat, swelled as she lifted her gaze. This was her favorite room. Poppa’s room.

She sniffed the air, smiled at the remembered blend of candle wax, wood smoke and leather, with a hint of bayberry cologne. Her gaze went to the window where she and Willa and Callie and Daniel had crouched beside the lilac bush and watched her grandfather take the flat box from the desk drawer, count money he pulled from his pocket, write something on a small piece of paper, put it all in the box and then return the box to the drawer. She had made the others promise, then and there, that they would never tell anyone about Poppa’s money box, especially Ellen, who could never keep a secret.

The light flickered over the settle where she’d curled up on the cushion and looked at books while Poppa worked, then settled to a steady burn as she placed the lamp on the game table where she’d learned to play checkers.

She thrust her childhood memories away and crossed to the tall bookshelf desk that sat between the two windows on the front wall and opened the drawer that held the flat wooden box. She brushed her fingers over the smooth, waxed top, then flipped it open.
Empty.

Her breath caught. Her grandfather always kept his money in the box. Did he know it was gone? Or had Cole found the box and taken the money on the sly?

She put the box back in the drawer and looked up at the bookshelves behind the glass-fronted doors, stared at a gaping space. Her grandfather’s green leather bookkeeping ledgers were gone as well. They were always—
Nanna.
Had her grandmother misplaced them while cleaning? Nanna would never take the ledgers from Poppa’s desk if she were thinking straight, but in her confused moments...

That horrible feeling of loss struck her anew. Heartsick, she looked behind the desk’s drop-down slant front and in the drawer again. No ledgers. A quick scan of the books on the shelves in the alcoves on either side of the stone fireplace showed no green leather bindings among them.

Where else could the books be? She lifted the hinged seat on the settle and searched through the box it covered. Two old pillows, a quilt, a dented flask, a pair of worn boots and her torn rag doll. She lowered the lid, straightened, wrapped her arms about herself and slowly rubbed her upper left arm as she gazed about. There was no place left to search. Suspicion wormed its way into her thoughts and took root. Her hand stilled.
He
had them. Cole must have slipped into the room and taken the ledgers along with the money. There was no one to prevent him from doing what he would.

Until now.

She whirled and strode to the table, picked up the lamp and carried it across the entrance hall into the sitting room. She would tell her grandfather what she had discovered and her suspicions, but first she must be certain that what she suspected was true. Her grandmother
could
have misplaced the books and even the money.

Her grandfather’s occasional snore was the only sound that disturbed the silence as she searched every cupboard and drawer for the books then moved on to the dining room and butler’s pantry. The lamp chased away the darkness, lit every nook and cranny she hunted through. The ledgers were nowhere to be found. Her suspicion solidified into certainty. Cole had the books—but why? She could not go to her grandfather until she knew the answer to that question. Cole had so ingratiated himself into her grandparents’ affections, she wasn’t sure her grandfather would believe her without proof.

Fatigue dragged at her. She climbed the stairs, her steps firmed by determination. She might have been helpless to stop his brother’s attack on her—and she did not come close to matching Cole’s physical strength—but God had given her a good mind, and she had taken her turn at tending the books at the ladies’ seminary. She would be her grandfather’s eyes, and she would find out what scheme Cole was about. But first she had to find those business ledgers.

She entered her bedroom, set the oil lamp in its place and untied the fastening on her dressing gown. She would watch Cole’s every move, and when she had discovered what he was about and why, she would tell her grandfather, and he would order Cole from his home. They would be safe then.
She
would be safe then.

Memories pressed upon her. She glanced at her bed and gave up the idea of retiring. Her agitated state would surely bring the nightmare.

The dimmed lamplight reflected off the raindrops falling against the window. She opened the sash and stood listening to the now-gentle rain pattering on the porch roof and on the plants in her grandmother’s garden below. Where would Cole have taken the ledgers? The most likely place was his shingle mill at Payne’s cabin.

A chill coursed through her that had nothing to do with the cool breeze riffling the curtains and fluttering the edges of her dressing gown. She looked through the darkness toward the trees that sheltered the path leading to the sawmill and wrapped her arms about herself. Payne’s cabin was a short distance beyond the sawmill. How would she ever find the courage to walk that path?

So many questions with no answers. She left the window, too exhausted by her confrontation with Cole in the stable and her worries over her grandparents to resist the lure of her bed any longer. The soft sound of the rain dancing on the porch roof calmed her nerves and lulled her to a place of peace. Her eyelids slid closed. She struggled to open them, then sighed and yielded to her weariness. It would be all right. It wasn’t Payne Aylward’s face she saw against the darkness. It was Cole’s raincoat on top of the grain chest in the stable.