Home to Stavewood (Stavewood Saga Book 3) (8 page)

Chapter Twenty-Two

    
 
T
imothy Elgerson stepped off the train in Barite, grabbed his bags hurriedly and rushed to his partner’s office. He had just spent the three longest days of his life trapped in the loud contraption and he was frantic with worry.

      He rushed into the office and Benjamin Neilson froze at the sight of him.

      Timothy said nothing, waiting impatiently for the man to say anything.

      “Hello, Tim. Come with me,” the man said, after what Timothy thought was an inordinate amount of time.

      Neilson led the timberman to the sheriff’s office and indicated that they go inside.

      Sheriff Mason looked up from his desk at the huge man and stood up quickly.

      “John Mason, this here is Timothy Elgerson,” Ben said and stepped back.

      The sheriff offered his hand and Timothy took it impatiently.

      “Come with me, Mr. Elgerson.” The sheriff led Timothy to a back office.

      “Is anyone going to tell me what’s going on?”

      “Mr. Elgerson, please sit down.”

      “No, thank you.” Timothy stood and waited.

      “Please.” Sheriff Mason indicated the seat again.

      Timothy groaned and sat down in the chair. Ben Neilson silently slipped out of the room.

      “Mr. Elgerson,” the sheriff began. “From what we can figure, your son and the boy he was with got into a bit of trouble up in the hills here. There are a couple of families that live in that area up there that have been feuding for a very long time.”

      Timothy sat perfectly still, listening.

      “Like I said, we figured they were going up there and maybe meeting with someone and doin’ a bit of drinking. There are plenty of stills up in there and it’s tempting for a young man, as I’m sure you know.”

      “Go on.” Timothy cleared his throat. He knew that Mark did not care for liquor.

      “They started going up there regularly and one Friday night they just didn’t come back down.”

      Timothy started to rise from his chair. “Has anyone gone up there to look for them?”

      “We’ve been up there, yes. We found one of the boys, Mr. Elgerson. I understand it’s not your boy, but the one he came here with.”

      “Samuel Evens,” Timothy sat back in the chair. “Is he alright? Does he know what happened?”

      “Mr. Elgerson,” the sheriff said and swallowed hard. “Young Mr. Evens is dead. He was shot in the back.”

      The color drained from Timothy’s face and he twisted his hat hard in his hands.

      “And my son?” he choked.

      “We don’t know about your boy, Mr. Elgerson. We can’t find any trace of him anywhere.”

      “My name is Timothy,” the big man furrowed his brow.

      The sheriff nodded his head and paused before he continued. “Timothy,” he continued. “There’s another problem.”

      “What’s that?” He looked the lawman in the eye.

      “We got a man who lives up in those hills that claims that Mr. Evens and your son killed his young daughter.”

      Timothy got to his feet. “Impossible!” he bellowed.

      “I have my doubts myself, frankly. It’s just more reason we need to find your son. The girl that was killed is from one of the feuding families. The last thing anyone needs around here is someone from outside their clans getting in the middle of this.

      “I understand you’re a very good tracker. I have horses and we can ride up that way and I’ll show you where we found the boy.”

      “Where is Sam now?” Timothy cleared his throat and tried to organize his thoughts.

      “I can take you to him.”

      Timothy Elgerson stepped out of the coroner’s office and stood on the walkway looking up into the hills, his heart pounding loudly in his ears. Until he saw Samuel he’d hoped it was all a horrible mistake. Now he knew that his only hope lay in the fact that they had searched but had not found Mark. The boy had plenty of survival skills, but if he had not returned there had to be a reason.

      The sheriff appeared with two horses as Timothy exited the telegraph office. He sent no news home, except that of his safe arrival. He mounted the horse quickly, anxious to begin his search.

      “I’d like to stop by the boarding house where they were staying. Maybe there’s something there that might help us find him,” Elgerson suggested.

      Timothy looked through the boy’s belongings at the house, but found nothing. He was appalled at the conditions in the room. It was apparent that Mark’s room had recently had a good scrubbing. Sam’s had not. To Timothy it meant that Mark was likely cleaning the room himself. The sheets and blankets were new and did not fit in with the rest of the conditions.

      “Did you put this bedding in here?” he asked Lillian Griffin gruffly.

      “They musta changed it themselves,” she coughed.

      “This place is a pig sty,” he muttered under his breath, more angry at himself for sending the boy into the situation than with the woman.

      “Sheriff.” Timothy turned to the lawman. “Could you get someone to get both boys’ belongings out of here immediately and take them over to the Barite Hotel?”

      “I will, Tim.” The sheriff spoke briefly to his deputy and he and Timothy prepared to ride up into the hills. They passed Ben Neilson on the street and Timothy looked at the man, shook his head and then kicked his horse into a run.

Chapter Twenty-Three

     
C
olleen filled the urns behind the inn in the middle of town with fresh milk and nodded a greeting to the newspaper lad as he stacked his papers. The alleyway was loud with the bustling of delivery people and wagons, puddled and muddy, a dark contrast to the placid front facade of the building.

      The lad dropped a stack of his papers at her feet and she glanced down at the headline and stopped suddenly.

Local authorities seek man for murder

      She scanned the article quickly and climbed back into the wagon stunned.

      Shane Muldoon directed the horse back to the farm at a leisurely pace and when they reached the yard Colleen jumped from the wagon hurriedly.

      “What’s gotten into you?” Shane lowered himself from the wagon.

      “I have some things to do and I want to wash out the jars,” she lied.

      She waited until he was in the house, lugged two of the big cans to the pump in the back and skirted the buildings so that she could steal away into the old barn unnoticed.

      “Mark,” she whispered as she closed the door behind her.

      He lifted himself up on one elbow and looked for her in the dim light.

      She hurried to his side and knelt down in the straw.

      “There’s something in the newspaper.” She fought to control her breathing.

      Mark studied her face anxiously.

      “The Catslips are saying that you are part of the McHerlong clan and that you and your friend killed one of their daughters.” She watched his face closely, looking for any hope that the story was wrong.

      Mark sank back into the straw. “Swallow,” he whispered.

      “Yes,” she waited. “Is it true?” she asked finally, terrified of his answer.

      He looked at her sweet face and shook his head. “No, we didn’t kill her.” He sighed in resignation.

      “Mark,” she said softly. “There’s more.” She faced him in the straw and he leaned on his elbow and looked at her face. He watched a single tear roll down her cheek.

      “The newspaper said your friend is dead.” She watched the pain rise up in his face and helped him lay back in the straw. “I’m sorry.”

      He stared up at the rafters and choked.

      Colleen took a handkerchief from her pocket and touched it to the side of his face where a tear fell. He looked up at her, and saw the tears welling up in her eyes. He put his right arm up to her and pulled her to his chest and held her there.

      “Sam,” he whispered. “He was my friend. He was my best friend. I’m so sorry, Sam.”

      Colleen lay against his chest listening to him fight tears, his arm wrapped tightly around her shoulders. He held back his sobs, but she could feel each one, trying to tear itself from him. She lay quietly against him and waited.

      After a time he slept and she ran back to the house.

      “Did you get them all washed?” Her father asked from his chair.

      “I’m going to make you something to eat.” She avoided his question.

      Colleen helped her father into his night shirt and tucked him into the bed, then washed hastily and changed into her nightdress. When his breathing became regular she slipped into her robe and tiptoed out of the house.

      When she put her hand against Mark’s sleeping face it was clear he was burning up with fever. She ran to the house and returned with a bucket of water, several rags and a cup of ginger root tea. Colleen poured the tea into the young man and then pulled off the heavy shirt and rinsed his body with the cool water.

      He called out for his friend in his fever, crying and begging him to forgive him. She spoke to him softly, wishing with all of her heart she could ease his pain.

      When his thrashing ceased she slipped him back into the shirt and as she laid him back he grabbed her shoulders and looked into her face. His eyes were red and he was clearly not coherent.

      “Please,” he begged in his delirium. “I need to go home to Stavewood.”

      Colleen did not know of where he spoke. But she decided that somehow she must get him back there.

Chapter Twenty Four

 
 
R
ebecca Elgerson sat up in her bed in the room alone at Stavewood. She had brushed her hair for an inordinate amount of time, staring blankly into the mirror and thinking of Timothy and Mark. Now both of them were away from home and her heart ached with worry.

      She turned the telegram over and over in her hands anxiously. Upside down, right side up, turning and turning as she stared at the walls. She felt cold in the big empty bed and when she stopped staring she began to cry. Rebecca buried her face in the down pillow where Timothy had always laid his head and the room echoed with her wretched sobs.

      Rebecca was so afraid. Afraid for Mark, afraid for Timothy, afraid for herself. When another cramp bit into her belly she knew. Rebecca knew this pregnancy would not last long. She knew that this child would not continue to grow inside of her.

      She rose from the bed and hurried into the bathroom. The bright streaks on her gown told her all she needed to know. She wrapped a clean robe around herself, walked slowly down the hall and knocked on the door of the guest room.

      When Emma opened it she knew even before her cousin said a word.

      “Roland,” Emma whispered.

      He turned towards her, blinking open his eyes and studied her worried face.

      “Rebecca is losing her baby. We need you to ride out for Isabel.”

      Roland sat up on the bed and took a deep breath. “Alright,” he whispered.

      “There was nothing that could be done.” Isabel stood in the hall outside of Timothy and Rebecca’s room. “It happens sometimes. She will need plenty of rest and love.”

      Roland and Emma assured Isabel that they would do everything they could to keep Rebecca healthy and in a good state of mind.

      “I would not send this information to Tim,” Isabel suggested. “I don’t know what Rebecca’s thoughts are on this, but I can see no good reason for him to hear about this in a wire.”

      Roland nodded in agreement.

      “I have to agree with you,” Emma said. “I’ll talk to her about it when she’s ready.”

      Roland followed Isabel downstairs and assisted her into the wagon.

Chapter Twenty-Five

    
 
C
olleen helped Mark to his feet, surprised at his height as he held onto a beam, and raked away the straw where he had been laying.

      He watched how efficiently she cleared the area, gathering the straw in her apron and taking it out to the back of the barn. She smiled up at him several times. Her face was always so sweet, he thought. He could see that she had circles under her eyes, and he knew she must be getting almost no sleep now that she was caring for him and her father while continuing her milk deliveries nearly every day.

      Colleen spread fresh straw and built the little mattress again, tucking in the blanket.

      “There we go,” she smiled up at him and then stood up to help him back down. She wrapped her arms around his chest and looked up at him expectantly, waiting for him to let go of the post and lower himself down.

      Mark looked into her blue eyes and he saw warmth and kindness. She never complained about caring for him, though he could still do almost nothing for himself. She prepared him such delicious meals that he began to feel that by the time he was healed and active again he’d be too hefty to even move. She carried bed pans, kept him in fresh clothing and risked everything, he thought. If the man who shot him and Sam came here looking for him, he might kill them all. Then there were the authorities who wanted him as a murderer.

      Still, she stood there looking up at him expectantly, her soft curls falling across her face, her lips softly parted.

      “You really are an angel,” his voice was soft and throaty.

       Colleen’s smile broadened. “I don’t know about that,” she laughed. “I expect a real angel might have a much cleaner apron.” Colleen looked down at her clothing, stained with the day’s milk and covered in bits of straw.

      “I expect where you come from the angels might be much finer than me,” she said, supporting him as best she could. He lowered himself down onto the fresh straw.

      He studied her face and she straightened the blankets capably, tucking them comfortably around him.

      “How is your arm today?” She took his left hand gently and began to work the fingers carefully. He had begun to have some feeling again, but he was still unable to lift the arm at all.

      “A little better, I think.” He watched her hands, rough and dry from hard work and parching cold. “I’ve never seen an angel before, so I don’t know what one would look like, except you of course.”

      She looked up and smiled, but he was not smiling back. He looked at her seriously and Colleen blushed.

      “Well,” she began, flustered and looking back to her task. “You don’t usually live in a barn I’m sure. Even just the stockings you were wearing certainly were not made in a barn,” she continued to work his fingers.

      “My mother made them.” He watched her rubbing his wrist.

      “Then she has a fine hand with the needles. But all of your things,” she ventured. “You don’t have clothing like that from farm work.” Colleen wanted so badly to know about him.

      “Timber,” he said frankly. “My family owns timber mills. I came here for the business.”

      “That explains it,” she began on his forearm. “I could see you worked with your hands once.”

      “I prefer that to counting.”

      She looked up at him cautiously, pushing back her hair, and he continued to study her.

      There, she did it again, he thought. She would lift her arm that way and use her wrist to push her hair from her face before she looked at him. Mostly she would tuck it away in that lacy knit cap she wore. But when it was out, like this, and tumbled over her shoulders and fell across her face, she would push it aside that way revealing her honest and delicate features. If she smiled as well it was as sweet as a peach on a summer’s day, soft and elusive.

      “Where does your family have their mills?” She lifted her brows and looked into his eyes.

      “Billington City, Minnesota.” Mark placed his right hand on top of hers.

      “Minnesota?” Colleen pulled away. “Why, you’re a Yankee!” she gasped. “A Minnesota Yankee!”

      “I suppose I am.” He looked at her in surprise.

      “Oh, my.” Colleen jumped to her feet and began pacing the barn, wringing her apron in her hands.

      “Colleen? What’s wrong?”

      “If my Da knew I had you out here he would punish me terribly. But if he knew I had a Minnesota Yankee out in this barn then we wouldn’t have to worry about any feuding clans or lawmen. My father would kill you himself!”

      She leaned towards him, her face white with panic.

      “Because I’m from Minnesota?”

      “He’s told me the stories a thousand times. All those stories about the war. ‘If we’d have stopped those damn Minnesota Yankees at Manassas they would never have had us at Gettysburg. Those damn Yankees from Minnesota, we should have killed them all. We’d have won that war if it hadn’t been for the Minnesota Yankees!’ He said that if he ever laid eyes on another Minnesota Yankee he’d kill him on sight.” She paced back and forth in front of him and then stopped and looked at him, her face dark with concern.

      “Do you think he would actually do that?” he asked her with surprise.

      “I was certain he would throw you out anyway, but this…” She dropped to her knees facing him. “You can’t ever tell anyone that you’re from Minnesota. No one!”

      “Colleen,” he took her hand. “Who on earth would I tell?”

      “Well, I mean when you…” her voice trailed off. Colleen didn’t know what to say. “When you… go.” Suddenly it came to her that sooner or later she would have to get him out of the barn safely. Once he was away he would be gone from her life. She looked up at him and swallowed hard.

      “Oh, I don’t know what I’m thinking.” She brushed off her apron self-consciously. “I’ll find a way to get you out of here. I will.” She looked at him and nodded. “I’m working on a plan.” She sighed.

      “Colleen.” He could see she was genuinely upset and the beginning of tears sparkled in her eyes. “When I’m up, we’ll figure it out.”

      She lowered her eyes and her hair fell across her face.

      Colleen got to her feet, gathered the dirty clothing and walked towards the barn door.

      She turned and looked at him sitting there, on the barn floor. She took a deep breath and walked back to him.

      “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’ll get you home to your family, somehow.” Colleen looked down and left the barn.

      Mark watched her set the bundle of clothing down outside of the opening and pull hard to drag the big door closed. He knew she’d be back later, in the darkness, her arms filled with hot food, fresh bread, her amazing butter and a sweet smile on her face. He wished that instead of telling her where he was from he had run his fingers through her tumble of curls.

      Mark scooted down onto his makeshift mattress and laid quietly, his mind traveling back to memories of Stavewood and pictures of Colleen pushing back her hair.