Margaret Brownley (40 page)

So
that’s
why her father and Doc Myers refused to divulge the name of the fourth person. They were protecting Millard.

It made sense. Following the scandal and corruption of President Grant’s term, anyone running for office was now held to the highest possible standards. The least scandal could derail a political career before it had even begun.

“My husband”—the woman grimaced as if her words tasted bitter—“always harped on what he’d done to the half-breed. Then when that new preacher came to town, Arthur went and got himself all religious. He confessed to Reverend Wells and asked for forgiveness and that ruined everything.”

“How?” Lucy asked. “Anything said to Reverend Wells is held in the strictest of confidence.”

“Arthur said that confession was good for the soul. He was a new man. After years of not being able to hold down a job, he claimed he finally found his calling. He planned to become a preacher. He said that when people heard what he did and how God had forgiven him, they would repent too. I couldn’t let him do that.”

Lucy rubbed her hands up and down her arms to ward off a sudden chill. The woman was obviously out of her mind. “What . . . what did you do with your husband?”

“Don’t worry about him. Once my Millard wins the election, I’ll let him go.”

Lucy stared at her. “You’re holding your husband captive?”

Mrs. Weatherbee shrugged. “Holding him was no big deal. But then Barnes had to put his nose where it didn’t belong—”

Lucy gasped. “You’re holding Barnes too?” That would certainly explain Mrs. Weatherbee’s large food purchases.

“I didn’t have a choice.” Mrs. Weatherbee’s eyes gleamed in triumph. “The fool man tried to blackmail me. Barnes wanted me to pay him to keep quiet. I had no choice but to stop him.”

Shocked, Lucy glanced at her father, who looked as if he’d passed out. Lucy tried not to panic but her mind scrambled.

“Now I’ve got you and your father to worry about,” Mrs. Weatherbee said. “At this rate, I’m gonna have to find a bigger place to hold you all.” She gave her head a sideways nod. “Get in the boat.”

Lucy rubbed damp hands down the sides of her skirt. Obviously, the woman wasn’t thinking clearly, or she’d know that it was too late to save her son’s career. She couldn’t hold them captive forever and Barnes would see to it the moment she let him go. “You don’t need to do this. We’ll find a way to protect Millard. I promise we will and—”

Mrs. Weatherbee waved her gun with impatience. “Shut up and get in the boat.” She indicated the bobbing craft with a toss of her head. “Don’t say another word. You can row.”

“You can’t do this, Mrs. Weatherbee. It’s not right. I know Millard, and he wouldn’t want you to . . .”

“Get in that boat,” she snarled.

Before Lucy could do as she was told, a shadow passed over them. It was the gas balloon. Mrs. Weatherbee’s jaw dropped and her eyes practically popped out of her head.

With not a moment to lose, Lucy ducked through the trees and ran.

“Wait!” Mrs. Weatherbee yelled, giving chase.

Lucy kept her eye on the balloon as she ran. “Redd! Help!” she cried.

“Hel-loooooooo!” Redd called.

“Hel-loooooooo!” Emma Hogg echoed.

Skirt held high, Lucy raced through the woods, leaping over fallen logs and crashing through the brush. The balloon stayed the course just ahead of her, skimming high over the treetops and tracking her progress. That meant that Mrs. Weatherbee knew exactly where she was. Thanks to Redd and his confounded balloon, it would do no good to climb a tree or otherwise try to hide.

Oblivious to her plight, the aerialists continued to wave.

“Help me!” Lucy screamed.

“Hello!” Redd and Emma sang out in unison.

Redd cupped his hands around his mouth. “We’re getting married!”

Lucy ran until she couldn’t run anymore. Her side ached and she was out breath. Hands on her thighs, she stopped and gasped for air. Trust Redd to pick this particular time to announce his wedding plans.

The balloon appeared to be rising.

“Did you hear what I said?” Redd called, his voice growing fainter. “We’re getting mar—”

A bullet whizzed by, hitting a nearby tree. Mrs. Weatherbee fired again and Lucy dropped down on hands and knees. Thinking she was shot, she frantically checked herself, but it was a piece of bark that hit her.

Head held low she scrambled through the brush and ducked behind a fallen tree. Her skirt caught on a branch and she yanked it free, ruining yet another article of clothing, but with a madwoman on her trail that was the least of her worries. Breathing hard, she tried to catch her breath before peering over the trunk.

The balloon was no longer in sight.

“You can’t get away from me, Lucy,” Mrs. Weatherbee called.

Crouching low like a frightened rabbit, Lucy tried to think what to do. There was no place to run. The nearest tree was at least twenty feet away. But she couldn’t stay where she was.

Seconds passed. Minutes. Time was on Mrs. Weatherbee’s side. The sound of a snapping twig made Lucy’s heart pound that much faster.

“Luuu . . . ceee,” Mrs. Weatherbee called at last, sounding alarmingly close.

Searching the ground, Lucy found a rock. She peered over the log, rock in hand. Mrs. Weatherbee was less than fifteen feet away.

A movement caught her eye. A shadow. Had her father escaped?
God, please let it be true.

Mrs. Weatherbee stopped moving. “Who’s there?” She swung around and fired a random shot.

Heart pounding, Lucy threw the rock as hard as she could. It fell short of her target and dropped mere inches from Mrs. Weatherbee’s feet. The woman swung around again and Lucy ducked.

“You think you’re so clever, don’t you, girl? We’ll see how clever you are.”

She fired at the log. Lucy stayed down, hands over her ears, eyes closed, and prayed.

Suddenly the earth seemed to tremble with the sound of hoofbeats, followed by a man’s voice. “Hold it right there.”

It was David’s voice, loud and clear. With a cry of relief Lucy opened her eyes and lifted her head. David had confiscated Mrs. Weatherbee’s weapon and held her at gunpoint. Shadow stood but a few feet away.

With a cry of joy, Lucy leaped up. “Am I ever glad to see you,” she cried. “How did you know?”

He scratched his head as if the whole thing was bizarre. “I heard gunfire and I stepped outside the mission. You’re not going to believe this, but a voice came from the sky. It said someone was shooting at you.” He glanced upward as if he expected to see angels or something.

She grinned. “I do believe it.” Thank God for Redd and his crazy idea to sweep Emma off her feet. She suddenly remembered her father and her smiled died. “Papa! He’s tied up in a boat.”

“Go,” David said. He tossed her his sheathed knife. “I’ll be there as soon as I tie up our friend here.”

Clutching the fabric of her skirt with one hand and the knife in the other, she ran toward the river, her feet barely skimming the ground. She rounded the bend only to find her father’s boat gone. Was she in the wrong place? She didn’t think so, but she couldn’t be sure.

She ran along the riverbank calling his name. She finally spotted the boat.

Caught in the current, the boat moved toward the rapids, bucking up and down like a wild stallion.

“Papa!” she cried, but her voice barely carried over the thunderous sound of cascading water. The boat spun in a circle as if caught in a whirlpool. It snagged in a knot of floating logs before pulling free.

With no time to lose she dropped her skirt and kicked off her shoes. Shoving the sheathed knife into her bloomer waist, she plunged headlong into the water.

Twenty-nine

When sitting for a picture a widow should say “kerchunk” to present
the appropriate mournful expression. To assure adequate sympathy,
compose yourself to look brave or resigned but never happy. A merry
widow will only raise eyebrows.

– M
ISS
G
ERTRUDE
H
ASSLEBRINK, 1878

L
ucy floundered around in circles. Struggling to keep her head above water, she kicked and flailed and thrashed about. A burning pain shot up her spine and she sank, but this time she touched bottom. Sputtering, she rose up on hands and knees, river rocks biting into her flesh. Her hair had fallen from its pins, and she shook the wet strands aside.

Gasping for air, she forced herself to think. She was in a shallow pool. Behind her white water rushed over huge boulders. The roar of rushing water was deafening, the glints of sunlight blinding.

Suddenly it hit her. Papa!

Urgency overcoming the pain that shot down her back, she struggled to her feet. The water was only knee-deep but the moss-covered rocks were slippery, making it difficult to stand, let alone walk. She balanced herself with arms held out to the side.

“Papa!” she called, but the crashing sound of water drowned out her voice.

Splashing around, she spotted her father floating next to what was left of the boat. By some miracle he floated faceup. Slipping and sliding, she worked her way to his side. He was still breathing, but barely.

Grabbing hold of his shirt with bloodied hands, she dragged him to the river’s edge and struck him on the back to dispel any water in his lungs. It took several swats before he coughed a stream of water and gasped for air. She lowered his head to the muddied ground. She’d barely had time to free his hands before she saw, in her peripheral vision, the boat plunging over the rapids.

His feet were still tied together. She felt at her waist for David’s knife but it was gone. She tapped his cheek lightly and his eyes fluttered open. The left side of his face was badly scraped, the gash on his head bleeding.

“Papa, talk to me. Say something.”

“We . . . we made it,” he gasped. “We made it down the rapids alive.” She could barely hear him over the force of the rapids but tears of relief rolled down her cheeks. If he could talk perhaps he wasn’t seriously injured.

“That we did, Papa.” Her gaze traveled along the outcrop of dangerous boulders. She said a prayer of thanksgiving. “That we did.”

Her feet and knees covered in cuts and bruises, her tattered stockings hung down in strips. Her wet bloomers felt clammy next to her body, and her torn shirtwaist fell from one bare shoulder. But they had indeed survived. God was good.

He groaned. “My arm.” A bone protruded just below his elbow.

“I’m afraid it’s broken.” She anxiously scanned the riverbank.
David, where are you?

Her father grimaced before managing a faint smile. “That will make Caleb’s day.”

She returned his smile. “Yes, it will.”

His eyes shimmered. “You saved my life.”

She blinked back another rush of fresh tears. “Oh, Papa, if anything had happened to you—”

“You could have been killed.”

The calm she maintained during the crisis now deserted her. Thinking about what
could
have happened made her words pour out like water through a sieve. “I love you so much and I was so afraid of losing you.” She held his hand, squeezing it tight. “Oh, Papa, I’m so ashamed. How selfish I’ve been. I’ve been so consumed by my photography and trying to obtain employment I fear I’ve neglected you.” How could she even think of moving away and leaving the people she loved most in the whole world? “I promise to be a better daughter to you. I’ll do whatever you want me to do. I will. Just please don’t ask me to marry Crankshaw.”

He gazed at her for several moments before shaking his head. “I thought we were both going to die and I kept thinking about all the things I’ve left undone. Things you’ve left undone.”

“What . . . what things do you mean, Papa?”

“All the things you could do with your camera. You’re an artist, Lucy. Just like your mother.”

A lump rose to her throat. She never thought to hear her father say such a thing and she thought her heart would burst with pleasure.

“You and Caleb . . . you have to follow your own hearts. Your own dreams. That’s what God wants. That’s what your mother would have wanted. I know that now.”

She laid her head on his chest. Her heart was so full of gratitude she could hardly breathe. An artist. He called her an artist.

“Lucy!”

She quickly wiped away her tears. “Over here,” she called, scrambling to her feet. It hurt to lift her arm but she managed to wave.

David slid off his horse and ran down the riverbank toward her and suddenly she was locked in his embrace. His breath warm next to her face, he whispered her name over and over as if saying a prayer. “You’re alive. I thought . . .” His voice sounded husky. “If anything had happened to you . . .”

“Oh, David,” she sobbed, clutching at his sleeve. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

“What a fool I’ve been. There has to be a way we can be together. We’ll find a way.”

She gazed up at him. If she was dreaming at that moment, she prayed that no one would wake her. “I—I don’t know what to say.”

He laughed at her loss for words and pulled her closer. She flinched in pain and he quickly backed away. His eyes soft with concern, he cupped her face between his hands. “You’re hurt and cold.”