Code of Honor (Australian Destiny Book #1) (31 page)

If the fire destroyed her now as it was destroying the house, no one would know until tomorrow, after the ashes cooled. Her mind was warning her “Don’t panic!” even as her feet raced wildly down the hall toward the front door. Any moment her groping hands would fi—

She lay on the floor and the world churned, full of black smoke. The side of her head throbbed. What was … ? The stone face! She had run squarely into that stone pillar. All was not lost. It looked out the front window. She would find the face on it by touch and escape by following its nose. Where was … ?

Here. Kicking and groping, she found the cold stone, but it lay on its side. It had toppled and rolled. It offered her no clue, no hint in which direction safety lay.

The fire in the ceiling was igniting fresh tinder now in a room to Samantha’s left. No doubt it found more kerosene to feed upon. Gardell had doused the rooms liberally with his jugs thrown through windows. She heard the wild flames crackling close by and overhead.

God, help me, please! Send someone … do something!

Her own prayer startled her. She was no good—at least, not good enough to warrant divine help. She was no good at all. Her heart was as black as Mr. Sloan’s, in its own way. She knew it and God knew it. Honor merely for its own sake was not enough, not if God wasn’t included in it. Hours ago she had doubted His very existence. That surely must be some sort of flagrant sin. She knew now. Yes, He was up there, and probably snickering at her ineptitude.

God, please help me anyway … please!

“Sam? Sam! Where are you?” The baritone boomed from … from somewhere in the thick and horrifying darkness.

“Here, Mr. Sloan! I’m here. Ye’re alive! Thank God ye’re alive!”

Oh, yes, God, I mean that; thank you!

She tried to untangle her legs and stand erect. No! The smoke and heat were much denser up there; she must stay down close to the floor.

“Can you move? Can you come to my voice?” That way! He was over that way!

She crawled clumsily, trying to keep her skirts from dragging her down, but her knees kept pinning them to the floor. “Keep talking! Where are ye?”

“Sam! Here.” He was closer…. He started coughing.

A window shattered and a rush of hot air swooped past her. She heard tin popping on the roof, buckled by the heat. Her lungs were properly full now; she couldn’t stop coughing; she inhaled deeply without really meaning to and coughed all the worse.

A hand slapped the top of her head. It grabbed her hair and hauled her to her feet. Strong arms locked around her and pulled her in powerful strides through the darkness. They were in the other ell now; through the murky haze she saw a line of orange light under the office door.

He slammed his shoulder against his bedroom door and they lurched into the room almost without a pause. With a muffled
fwump!
the office door ignited behind them. The yellow light flared bright; the whole room in there was afire. She could smell the black and oily kerosene smoke.

One arm let go of her long enough to fling a chair through the window. Howling fire and smoke gushed in the door at their back. He snatched her up in brawny arms and threw her feet first out the window. She hit the bottle-brush bushes, fell forward into the cold, rain-soaked grass, and rolled aside to her feet.

She heard him hit the grass near her. He was at her side again in the darkness, dragging her into the cool black air away from the horror.

They stopped. She turned to see. Tin roofing peeled back and lifted up into the air, illuminated from below. Metal sheets near the open holes in the roof glowed pink. Flames leaped treetop high back by the kitchen. Red light danced in the windows. The big front window with all its tiny panes shattered and spewed flame out across the wreckage of that wagon, across the poor dead horse. A minute ago she had been in that room, right there.

With a mighty roar the roof collapsed into the parlor and dining room. A brilliant spray of sparks and firebrands danced skyward on the billowing smoke.

His arm remained wrapped around her. She could feel him breathe and sigh. “There go my dreams.”

She clung to him and sobbed, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It’s all gone.”

“No,” he murmured, “it’s not all gone. You’re safe.”

Chapter Twenty-five

In Ashes

The sky was murky, overcast, obscuring the morning sun, but Samantha didn’t care. At least it wasn’t raining. She walked stiffly, every bone and muscle in her body aching. How fortunate she was that she could feel all those parts! Her hair was a little frizzled, one eyebrow scorched off, but she had escaped unscathed.

She paused near the south side of what had been one of Mossman’s better homes. The black heap smoldered and stank. The ruins would probably harbor hotspots for days yet. Here were the bottle-brush bushes, shriveled black stumps in the loose dirt.

The west office wall had collapsed outward and reduced itself to fine gray ash. Mr. Sloan picked mechanically through the pile, poking here and there with a stick. He stood erect as she approached and cautiously worked his way, one step at a time, to her side.

She sighed. “Yesterday, after they left, I couldnae just sit while yerself and the others were … ye know. I was going to start cleaning up all that spilled kerosene, starting with the kitchen and just working back, room by room. He threw kerosene jugs through half the windows at least. It was something for me to do. I went out to the dunny first; wasn’t gone but a couple minutes. When I came back in the house, the kitchen was …” She shrugged.

“That’s when you should have run outside.”

“I thought I could put it out before it spread. Sure’n I could stop it, aye? For the fire was aught but a few minutes old. And then some of the kerosene caught, and whoosh. I threw the dishwater on it, dishes and all, and the kettle … But it burnt so hot with the coal oil; it went up so fast and furious.”

“Which is to say, if Gardell hadn’t—” He chuckled bitterly. “You told me I couldn’t get away from history, and I said I wasn’t worried about it. Remember? You were wiser than I gave you credit for. My short little history got me after all, just as surely as your long history took your brother.” He waved a hand across the ruins. “Hit me where it hurts most.”

“We’ll never know whether Mr. Gardell was at all justified in hating ye; whether yer father really did those things.”

“We know.” His voice rumbled, sad and quiet. “He told me, not long before he—what’s the fancy word you used? Defenst—that.”

“Defenestration.”

“Yeah. Winston Gardell’s death was accidental. McGonigan’s was not. And my father was certain to the very end that he had buried Abner alive. That he’d left the boy to die a slow, agonizing death. I think that was what put him over the edge—what drove him to suicide. I’m sure he could have coped with the financial reverses if it hadn’t been for the guilt.”

“Mr. Vinson lectured Meg extensively on the subject of guilt and how to rid oneself of it. He discussed a commitment to God by accepting Jesus as … I be nae sure of the words, but the end of it is that Jesus alone can erase guilt. I dinnae understand it except to know that apparently there be a way out of guilt.”

He frowned at her. “Thought you said you’re not sure God exists.”

“I wasn’t, then, but I am now.” She turned to look at him more squarely. Ashes smudged his cheek, and probably her face was just as dirty. “The storm, those months ago; ’twas God I called out to, even though I didn’t directly think of doing so. And when ’twas yerself and Abner Gardell out in the forest somewhere, and each intent on killing the other, me heart was begging God to take a hand and preserve ye; keep ye safe. I pleaded with Him to save me from the fire, and moments later I hear yer voice. Aye, He exists. Me head may doubt, but me heart knows, and I’ve learned to listen to me heart.”

“Good. Then you—” He turned, scowling, to look.

A freight dray behind two heavy horses came rattling up the lane toward them. On its bright red slab sides was lettered
J. Wiggins, Shipping
in vivid yellow. Luke Vinson drove and Meg, in the clothes she was wearing yesterday, pressed close beside him in the box. Martin Frobel was still around. He hopped out of the back to hold the uneasy horses as Luke climbed down. The pastoralist wore his pistol at his belt; perhaps he was not so sure the war was over.

Luke extended a hand. “Cole. Meg and I’ve set the date—this Saturday—and you’re invited to the wedding.”

Sloan declined the handshake. “Sam thinks you weren’t the one who sent the notes or set the courts on me, so I suppose I should offer congratulations.”

Samantha stepped into the silence. “Ye have me warmest blessing and congratulations, Luke. Meself will be by later this morning—aye, Meg?” She looked past the pastor.

Meg was beaming, a ray of sunshine on a dreary day. “I’ll be at Luke’s. I hope ye’ll come along shopping with me. Trousseau.”

“For a trousseau? In Mossman? Heh! But aye, I’ll be along.”

Luke’s gray eyes met Sloan’s fairly. “I was mad at God, the state, the federation and everyone else, because I couldn’t act legally on behalf of John Butts or Byron Vickers. Now I’m coming to understand it’s for the best if a third party can’t intervene. My motives were misguided; I would have acted wrongly.”

Mr. Sloan sniffed. “You apologizing for something?”

“No. Yes. For my attitude. It’s a long business, and I won’t bore you with details. I’ve examined my reasons for coming here, and I’ve decided they weren’t very pure.” The boyish smile looked pure enough.

“Just why did you come here, anyway?” Was Mr. Sloan’s voice softening a little? It almost seemed so.

“To Australia? To serve Jesus. Found myself in a little ministry out by Torrens Creek, near Martin here. But there were problems and I got restless. I wanted to conquer injustice in big gulps, not little bits.”

“So you came to pester me. Whacko.” Mr. Sloan snorted.

The boy-face grinned sheepishly. “Aborigines, Kanakas, Orientals—Queensland has high numbers of such. And I was out to put the world to rights, so I decided to rip myself up from where I was planted, so to speak, and come here, to the sugar fields. You’re about the biggest sugar grower around. I thought that if I could bring you into compliance …” His lips formed a thin flat line for a moment. “What I failed to see until just recently was my true motives. Christ acted from compassion. I acted because this sort of thing is fashionable at the moment. So I’m backing away—retrenching—as I realign myself. I want to be more like Christ himself, however that takes me.”

Samantha smiled. “A sweet taste.”

“A sweet taste. Sweet savor. Acerbic hatred is hardly sweet. I’m sorry, Cole.”

The man obviously hadn’t understood a bit of it. He nodded as if he did. “I’ll be needing a housekeeper, assuming I get a house built again. Meg gonna be around?”

“No. We’re moving to Torrens Creek. God put me there in the first place. I’ll work there.” Luke nodded toward Samantha. “On our way.” He took a deep breath. “God bless you, Cole Sloan.” He turned quickly and climbed back into the wagon. Mr. Frobel hopped up behind and off they went. Meg waved furiously. Samantha envied the glow in Meg’s heart that so copiously spilled out into her face.

Mr. Sloan voiced her own thoughts: “Looks happy enough, doesn’t she?”

“Aye. She’s found her man. I daresay it appeared when I saw Amena that she found hers as well.”

“And you?”

Samantha drew a deep breath.

Mr. Sloan turned her around to him, his hands on her shoulders. He laughed suddenly. “Your face is dirty, you lack an eyebrow and your nose is peeling. And you know what? You’re still a beautiful woman, Sam. Also strong, honorable, loyal—all the things I knew I wanted in a woman. Besides that, I love you. I think I’ve loved you for quite some time, but last night was the first time I admitted it to myself. I don’t have much to offer, and most of that’s in ashes, but will you marry me?”

She must have hesitated a moment too long, for he closed his warm hands around the sides of her face and kissed her. That kiss in Cairns had been wonderful; this one was unbelievable. His fingertips traveled down her throat. His powerful arms, the arms that had dragged her bodily out of the fiery house, wrapped around her and fused her to himself. When at last he moved away, she felt so giddy and weak she could not let go.

She buried her head in his shoulder and clung to him. “Eh, Cole Sloan, sure’n ye be the world’s most magnificent man. I find meself infatuated with ye. Mayhap ’tis love, as yerself admits.”

“I’ve been infatuated before. This is different.”

She stood erect and stepped back. “I told ye moments ago that I’ve learnt to listen to me heart. But me head doesn’t do too badly either. Me heart would join itself to yer own in a wink, but me head cries ‘Pause!’ I cannae trust ye. Meself has seen yer devious ways and I’ve told meself lots of reasons to excuse them away. But in the end of it, me head tells me I’ve seen the man, the true man; beware.”

“Sam … I told you you’re different. I’d never hurt you or betray you.”

She licked her lips and she could feel her eyes get hot. “’Tis the hardest word that ever will leave me lips, but I say it now. Nae.”

“That’s why you came to Australia, to find a man and marry. Admit it.”

“Aye. And here I’ve found the best, ’twould appear to most. But nae. I cannae marry ye when I cannae put me full trust in ye. I’m sorry.” She whispered it again. “I’m sorry.”

“I won’t take that as a final answer.”

“’Tis the only answer I can give for now, or in the future that I can see.”

His deep, dark eyes studied hers, and she could not tell if that was sadness or anger in the depths of them. Perhaps she saw both. He stepped back and nodded grimly. “I’m going into Mossman with the wagon. I’ll drop you off at the chapel.”

“I thank ye.”

For the longest time he gazed at the smoldering ruins. “Tomorrow.” Suddenly the lilt was back. “Tomorrow!”

“Aye! Tomorrow.”

She watched him turn away from her. As he walked up the path to the stable, the old verve was back in his stride. She watched him disappear in the trees.