Patricia Rice (10 page)

Pace's dark shadow had already disappeared into the shrubbery by the time Dora grabbed the child's hand and dragged her toward the cart. He could bleed to death. Frantic with terror, she didn't want to leave him. She didn't want to do this alone. She couldn't let Pace die.

But because he'd told her to save the child, Dora covered the girl under the seat blanket on the floor and backed the horse and cart onto the road again. She spread her heavy wool skirt and petticoat wide to hide the lump in the blanket, keeping her feet off the child beneath them. And she switched the horse to a fast trot.

She bit her lip and shut off her thoughts as she drove the horse. Or she shut off her thoughts about such things as the gunshot in Pace's ribs and the baying hounds and things beyond her control. Instead she focused on the best road to the river, whether or not anyone would be in the cabin on a cold night like this, if she could find any turpentine balls or if she should stop to make one. And then her mind would slip into the rut of wondering if she should go back to look for Pace.

Why had God seen fit to dump this responsibility on her frail shoulders? Surely He knew she wasn't fit. She didn't know what was right. Her experience had taught her that no matter what she did, it came out wrong. They would capture the child. Pace would die. She would end up in jail. Surely there must be someone else more fitting for this task. But Papa John had died and gone to heaven and there was only her.

Resigned, Dora heard the horses pounding up the road behind her. She had known she couldn't escape them. Only one route led to the river from here. They would discover her sooner or later. She might be invisible most of the time, but the cart wasn't. And then they would have to notice her. No one else would roam these roads at this hour.

The horses reared and twisted as their riders brought them to a reckless halt, surrounding the cart. Dora looked up and scanned the bearded faces of the men, looking for some sign of someone she could trust. Charlie and Joe and the others weren't with them, but that didn't surprise her. They had found more lucrative mischief than chasing runaways these last years. Several of the men were strangers to her. They were probably bounty hunters. She doubted that the child beneath her feet came from around here. Pace had smuggled her from somewhere deeper in the state. These men were on the child's trail.

She said nothing. She only looked at them with curiosity from beneath her wide bonnet brim. She thought she recognized Billy John's younger brother, and one of the Howards with the hounds. The bounty hunters had found some locals to guide them.

One of the men leaped into the narrow back of the cart. Too small to carry more than a sack of feed, the cart was obviously empty. Dora didn't have to pretend alarm as she glanced over her shoulder at him, then back to the large men preventing her from driving on.

"What are you doing out here at this hour, ma'am?" one of the younger men asked.

She glanced at the black bag on the seat beside her. "There was a birthing this night. Might I ask what thou lookest for? I have no money."

Howard came forward and gave her a cursory glance. "We're looking for a nigger gal. Where're you hiding her?"

"If I were to hide her, I would not tell where," Dora answered calmly. "But as thou must see, I have nothing to hide. If thou wouldst tell me from which direction she comes, I would happily look for her, but I would not promise to give her over to thee. She must be cold and frightened by now."

Howard scowled and jerked his horse back so he could keep an eye on his dogs. "The hounds don't smell her. We lost her trail back at the Butlers'. Let's get back there."

"What about this Quaker? You know damned well she has something to do with it or she wouldn't be out here on this road," one of the strangers shouted.

"She helped deliver my little sister last winter," the younger man answered. "She takes care of crazy old lady Nicholls. She wouldn't say boo to a fly. We've just taken the wrong road. Maybe they're not aiming for the river tonight."

Grudgingly, the band of men backed away and clattered back the way they came. The young man was the last to go. He tipped his hat politely and said, "Tell Pace he owes me one," before spurring his horse after the others.

Closing her eyes briefly to control her shaking, Dora urged the horses back to a trot. He'd known. Whoever that young man was, he'd known she harbored a fugitive, that Pace had brought her here. She could have been caught at any moment. They could have found Pace and had him arrested.

She murmured something reassuring to the child beneath her feet and continued toward the river.

By the time she delivered the girl to the fishing cabins, saw that she was filled with hot coffee before being ferried across the river, and turned the cart toward home, Dora had reached a state of utter panic. Pace remained out there in the cold night with a gunshot wound in his ribs and a pack of hounds on his trail. She could find him, but her presence would only lead those bounty hunters right to him. Could they do anything to him now that the child was gone?

By the time Dora returned the horse to the barn, the panic had dissipated. An odd calm had descended, and she carried her bag up the front stairs with firm decision. She hoped she knew what her odd calm meant. She sincerely did not wish to go back out into the night again.

She ignored the angry voices from the newlyweds' chambers. Josie objected to Charlie's drinking and hadn't learned yet to control her disappointment. Perhaps there was still hope for their marriage. The sounds emanating from their chamber by the time Dora reached Harriet's room didn't seem argumentative any longer.

Her stomach clenched with ancient buried memories, but this was none of her affair.

Harriet tossed restlessly in laudanum-induced dreams. Dora settled her as best as she could, straightened her covers, filled her water glass, and when she lay still again, slipped back to her own room.

She uttered no gasp of surprise as a large figure loomed out of the darkness when she opened the door.

Pace had made it home.

Chapter 6

It is not known precisely where angels dwell—

whether in the air, the void, or the planets.

It has not been God's pleasure that we should be informed of their abode.

~ Voltaire, "Angels," Philosophical Dictionary (1764)

"You really are an angel," Pace muttered, falling back against the pillows on Dora's narrow bed. "How in hell did you know we were out there?"

"God sent me," she answered simply, lighting a candle and closing her curtains against the darkness. Even as she said it, Dora knew he would take her words as part of the standing jest between them. It didn't matter.

Pace made a grunt that could have been a laugh and began stripping off his shirt in the flickering light. "I don't suppose you're carrying bourbon in that bag."

"No, I don't suppose I am." Dora poured water into the basin and tried not to look too closely at the half-naked man baring himself before her in the flickering candlelight. She usually used her nursing skills on women, not men, but the bloody gash marring his side kept her mind focused.

"Just cover it up with something so it will stop bleeding. I'll see the doc in the morning," Pace winced as she applied cold water to the wound.

He had already lost a lot of blood. His face was pale against the dark auburn of his hair. This close, Dora could see the whiskers sprouting from his jaw, visible proof that he was a man and not the boy she first remembered. She turned her attention to the bleeding. "Thou must have stitches," she murmured, probing the gash.

He grimaced at her touch. "Careful, girl. The flesh is weak."

She laughed softly and reached for the needle and grain alcohol. "Let us hope it is also thin. I do not relish wrestling thread through tough hide."

Pace gave her a mocking look as he sat back on the mattress and raised his hand to grasp the bars of the headboard, leaving his wounded side fully exposed and accessible to her ministrations. "God will guide you, I suppose. Why is it that He speaks to you but not to those who ought to hear a little hellfire and damnation?"

Dora bit her bottom lip as she applied the needle to his torn flesh. She felt his pain and tried not to clench her eyes closed against it. She wondered that he did not scream out. His muscles bulged with the effort of clinging to the bed. She mustn't think about muscles. Pace Nicholls had more than his fair share.

"I assume He speaks to those whose minds are open to Him," she answered more to keep him distracted than because she had any answer.

"That's a damned idiot way of doing things," Pace grumbled through clenched teeth. "If I were God, I'd scream fiery curses at the evildoers and leave the innocent alone."

Dora smiled at this conceit and tied off the thread. Blood still seeped, but the flow was slower. She reached for washrag and bandages. "If thou wert God, thou wouldst not limit thyself to curses. Lightning bolts would fly, and there would be precious few people left inhabiting the earth when thou wert done."

Pace managed a chuckle through his wince as she applied more alcohol. "It's daunting talking to someone who knows me too well. Did the girl make it across the river?"

"Thou wouldst not ask now if thou believest otherwise. I met the bounty hunters and one of the Howards, I think also Billy John's little brother. He said to tell thee that,"—she paused to recall the phrase—"thou owes him one.'"

"Damn." Pace lowered his arm as she applied the last of the bandages. "I don't want him knowing about you. I'll convince him you were only out to save my worthless hide and knew nothing about the girl."

"That would be a waste of time." Dora packed her supplies back in her bag. Pace made no effort to don his ruined shirt or cover himself in any way. She tried very hard not to look at the way the band of muscles rippled beneath the white bandage. She very definitely did not want to see the way whorls of dark hair led down from his navel to the waist of his trousers. These were things of the body and not the mind or spirit. She must hold herself above them. "I am suspect regardless of my guilt or innocence."

The truth of that momentarily silenced him. He reached for his shirt and tugged it over one arm, but he didn't lift the arm on the wounded side. He draped it over that shoulder. He looked at something beyond the room and scarcely noticed Dora. "Don't you have friends or relatives across the river?" he asked, looking at her in the candlelight.

"Few." There was curtness to her murmur. Even after ten years, she remained a stranger to most of the Quakers. Despite all her efforts, she knew she did not blend in as she should. Or perhaps she was just as invisible there as here, and they forgot to include her. "Thou needst not worry. I will be fine."

Pace threw his legs over the side of the bed and waited until the dizziness passed before attempting to stand. When he stood, he towered more than a head over Dora. He looked down at her, searching her face quizzically. "How can you be fine living in a madhouse like this? You should have a life of your own."

She supposed, if she'd stayed in Cornwall with the earl, she would have a life of her own, of some sort. But she had died, and now her life belonged to others. Pace wasn't likely to understand that. She stepped out of his way, leaving the path to the door open. "I am doing as I am called to do," she informed him.

"That's a lot of"—he visibly sought a politer word than his original choice—"nonsense, but I'll postpone this argument until later, before I fall on my face."

Ignoring her look of concern, Pace strode to the door and walked out without looking back.

Dora clasped and unclasped her hands, hands that had touched his bare flesh. She could still feel the heat of him against her fingertips. She might be invisible, but her body was alive. She could still feel. It was a rather daunting knowledge.

* * *

Dora combed the invalid's fine hair into some semblance of neatness, gently chided her into eating some of her breakfast, and busied herself tidying the room while Harriet Nicholls ate. Pace's comment that she deserved a life of her own burned somewhere deep in her chest, but she didn't think about it. She could not imagine what other life she might have except that of wife to David, and it would be another year before they could consider that. With two armies gathering across state lines, she dare not even hope for that much.

As she carried the breakfast tray toward the back stairs, Dora heard the low roar of angry voices drifting up from below, and she cringed. She had hoped they would have sense enough to sleep late and stay out of each other's paths on this first day, but the Nicholls' men weren't known for either their sense or sensibility. She detested conflict, but she couldn't cower on the stairs all day.

Apparently Josie, at least, had kept out of the way. The morning sickness stayed with her even in her fourth month. Dora hoped the angry voices didn't carry behind the closed doors of the master chamber. Josie had enough to bear without her husband's family tearing her apart or crushing her with their various loyalties and angers.