Journey to Bliss (Saskatchewan Saga Book #3) (33 page)

The door, frozen in its hinges, opened with effort. Once inside, it was hard to see, momentarily, having come from the outside glare to the dimness of the soddy. Though many soddies had no windows at all and were nothing but miserable burrows for humans, this one had two windows, one on each side of the door. But being set in walls two feet thick, the light was poor. Still Anne could see that the dirt walls had been hung with felt and that the ceiling, above poles, had been laid with tar paper, and the sod laid over that. Another innovation, perhaps.

Buster saw her looking up and said, “Daddy says the tar paper keeps the bugs and mice from falling through.”

“That’s . . . that’s a good thing, I’m sure.” Anne shivered—bugs and mice!

“I lived here,” Buster said proudly, “when I was a baby.”

“Well, you’re a fine, big laddie now, and that’s for sure,” Anne said and Buster squirmed with pleasure.

The door squeaked open behind them and banged shut. Anne turned.

His back against the closed door, his arms crossed on his chest, his hat tipped rakishly back, and his lips curled in a smile that was colder than the day—Lucian MacDermott.

Anne staggered back a step, looked around wildly. There was nowhere to go, and the thick sod walls would effectively stifle all cries. Buster—could the child bring help, and in time?

“The brat can’t get the door open by himself,” Lucian said with a curl of the lip, as though reading her thoughts. “So he’ll just have to be an onlooker; it will be his first lesson in intimate relations.”

He stepped away from the door, his eyes narrowing. “Forget the brat. Get that heavy coat off, Miss
Fanny!
If you think you’re getting away from me this time, you have another think coming. By the time your hoity-toity Mr. Ketchum goes through his buildings looking for the guest whose cutter sits in his yard, it’ll be over and done. No need to dally, right,
Fanny?
”

Stepping forward, Lucian gave Buster, who had crowded close to Anne’s side, a shove, toppling him onto the dirt floor.

Catatonic until that moment, a feeling as of fury itself arose in Anne’s breast. She didn’t have time to identify it as the rage that surfaces in the maternal breast when her young are threatened; she only knew it came naturally, like a flood. His treatment of Buster was not to be countenanced!

Automatically, without thinking, and hampered though she was with her heavy wraps, Anne flung herself at the weakly handsome face that was now filled with purpose and passion and intent on her and her alone. Surprised at the attack, Lucian spent a few moments defending himself from the spitting fury that was Anne Fraser. Hadn’t he learned a thing? Almost . . . almost it was the Binkiebrae roadside affair all over again.

But this time Lucian had an advantage: Anne’s fingernails, so effective last time, were inside her woolen gloves. Lucian’s swift punch to her face sent her reeling, tripping over something behind her, falling . . .

With an oath and a snarl he was upon her, ripping at the opening to her coat, tearing off the buttons, struggling to tear the garment from her . . . rolling in the dirt, knocking items left and right, his hand going to her throat as she attempted to scream.

There was not a sound necessary, and none was made, when a hand that was calloused and square and strong grabbed Lucian’s
collar and an arm that was muscled and mighty yanked the fop from his prey. Through slitted and already-battered eyelids Anne looked up to see the flaring nostrils and clenched teeth of the man she had spurned to ride home with. The rock-solid, four-square, powerful Frank, the man to whom she had been reluctant to trust herself; Frank the quiet, the stolid, was going about the methodical business of thrashing her attacker.

Frankie, never out of control, knew when to quit. With a final smashing blow he straightened himself, dusted his hands on his pants, and leaned toward Anne. “Can you get up, Annie?” he said practically, his heavy breathing the only sign of his brief display of violence. And he helped her to her feet and moved her out of harm’s way. Moved her into the sheltering arms of Will Ketchum.

For Will, having seen the strange cutter and horse, had made a survey of his outbuildings and found no one there, turned to the soddy and the tracks leading to it and had burst into a scene more terrible than he could have imagined.

While Frankie went about the business of trying to get the beaten Lucian to his feet, Will held a trembling Anne in his arms and felt a thrill all out of kilter with the horror of the moment. Looking over her and beyond to the tar paper roof, he mouthed a prayer more earnest than any uttered thus far this day: “Thank God! Oh, thank God!”

But just what Will was thankful for was not clear. Except, of course, to God, who has all things planned and must rejoice to see His children fulfilled and happy.

But the full understanding of all that was some way off—except to God with whom tomorrow is as today.

Buster came creeping out of the shadows, to be gathered into his father’s arms and Anne’s. For it seemed natural and good to her to slip one arm around Buster and another around Will, while both she and Buster leaned their heads on Will’s shoulders.

Before they stepped out of the soddy—with its moments, its memories, and its madness—Frank had located a length of rope and was trussing the groaning form of Lucian MacDermott tightly, attempting again to yank him to his feet. When that didn’t work
and Lucian collapsed, Frank heaved him over his broad shoulder, through the door, and to the great outside. Here he dumped him into his own cutter, tied him down, covered him up, and left him there, half conscious, and went inside to wash his bleeding knuckles, gather up his belongings, and say his good-byes.

Tierney, with Anne in her arms, her face shocked, was trying to grasp it all. Will set Buster down in a rocking chair and began to remove the child’s overshoes and wraps, his gray eyes fixed on Anne, the light of discovery in them.

“I’ll take this law-breaker to the proper authorities,” Frank was saying. “We don’t put up with things like this in the territories. I can guarantee,” he said, looking at Anne, “that he’ll never bother you again. You need to believe this, Annie. If I haven’t put the fear of death into him, the Mounties will. After he sits in jail for a while—and they’re not comfortable this time of year—he’ll be glad to go back where he came from.”

Anne—and who can blame her—turned from Tierney’s arms and ran into Frank’s. “Oh, Frankie . . . oh . . .” was all that she could say, but so much was said in that broken phrase. Frank patted her shoulder, shook hands with Tierney and Will, and turned to leave.

“I’ll follow you,” Will said. “I need to go to Fielding today anyway, and you may need a witness to corroborate your story. I have a certain standing in the community by now, and they’ll believe me. Yes, Annie, I think you may rest secure from now on. And I trust
and pray
,” he said, looking directly at her, “you’ll be doing that . . . from right here.”

Anne’s puffy eyes looked back, and even the swelling couldn’t hide the answering glow in them. “Yes, Will,” she breathed through equally puffy lips, “I’ll . . . be . . . here.”

Tierney, watching, amazed, believed she had seen and heard as definite a proposal of marriage as a girl might want. And had listened, amazed, to its response. Who’d have thought it! Anne and Will!

Now, what would she, Tierney, do; where would she go?

W
ill returned from Fielding brandishing a letter.

After putting the team away, bringing certain purchased items into the house, and removing his wraps, Will sat at the fireside, the girls gathered around him, and he spread the letter out before them.

“This is from Lavinia’s parents, Herbert and Lydia Bloom, who live in the bush north of here, a place called Bliss.”

To Tierney, it sounded like a state of being rather than a town or district.

“Of course I’ve already read it,” Will said, “but some of it bears reading to you; at least it’ll give you things to think about. It’s written by Lavinia’s father.” Settling in the chair, he began to read:

Will let his eyes roam down the pages.

“What do you say, Tierney?” Will said, looking up from the letter and studying Tierney’s face. “Does it make sense to you? Do you think you could settle for life in the bush?”

Settle for life in the bush, when her heart rebelled daily against the bleakness and barrenness of the prairie? Settle for the bush, when her heart longed and cried out for something that grew higher than herself? Settle for the bush, when she thought of the shade, the beauty, the
greenery?

“I believe,” she said calmly enough, “that I could settle for the bush. I believe also,” the newly praying Christian added, “that it’s an answer to a prayer that I’ve barely put into thought, let alone words. I think it may be an example of ‘before they call, I will answer; and while they are yet speaking, I will hear.’”

Tierney’s eyes were starry. What a marvelous God! She wasn’t afraid to trust herself and her future into His hands. “I’ll go,” she concluded, “jist as soon as you find someone to take my place.”

All unplanned, the gray and gentle eyes of Will Ketchum sought the brown and gentle eyes of Anne Fraser, and what passed between them was enough for him to say, “I think you can begin to get your things in order, Tierney. Anne—unless I’m mistaken—will stay. Annie will stay with Buster and me. Am I right, Annie?”

Tierney may be excused if her mouth fell open. Anne may be excused if hers dimpled and smiled, both shyly and roguishly.

But Anne, being Anne, could only be simple and straightforward. “Ye’re not mistaken, Mr. Ketchum—Will. I’ll . . . stay. An’,” she added, pinking beautifully, “happy to do so.”

And so it was settled.

And so it was that, in the bright and blossoming month of May, Tierney found herself on a train, heading north.

At first the scenery was as she had known for the last three-quarters of a year, although the grasses were greener than she remembered. She had to admit that springtime on the prairie had its beautiful aspects. And though only a hint of it had been seen on the day when Lavinia and her baby had been taken from the small granary that had sheltered them and tenderly laid to rest in the bosom of the earth, it was enough to promise that there would be an awakening—on another day—and to dry the tears of those gathered at the graveside.