Love's Fortune (36 page)

She waited in line for a ticket, eyeing the churlish Ohio, its surface marred with bobbing driftwood and the glint of ice. The sight of so many packets drove home the reality of James’s predicament. He’d followed her here and he was in danger. Never had she imagined he’d come so far. Risk so much. She scanned the wooden pathways crisscrossing the muddy landing, expecting him to appear.

Once aboard the
Natchez Pearl
, she cast a last look at the landing, pushing down the stubborn notion that James
should be beside her. She’d grown so used to him during the season—to his voice, his steady, reassuring presence, the uncanny way she had only to glance at him and he would cover her blunders.

“Careful, miss. Mind your step.” An aging steward stood before her, passenger list in hand. “And you would be?”

“Rowena Nancarrow.”

He glanced at her through crooked spectacles. “Bound for Louisville with intermediate ports between?”

She nodded, unsure what intermediate ports meant but afraid it spelled a delay. “How long will it be till we get there?”

“Late this afternoon, barring any mishaps or foul weather.”

The prospect of a boiler explosion or sinking nearly froze her to the stage planks.

“Stay clear of all deck passengers,” he told her. “There’s talk of cholera going round. Best keep to the ladies’ salon.”

She wouldn’t tell him she had a slight fever. The burning behind her eyes was unrelenting, making her woozy and thirsty by turns. As she stepped onto the slippery deck, she looked up at the pilothouse, pelted with bittersweet memories of that first voyage aboard the
Rowena
.

Making her way to the salon, she felt she was taking yet another irreversible step. She’d come so far, yet the memories she’d hoped to move away from remained. Despite the hurt of the past, the sweetness of James’s arms stayed steadfast.

Would it always?

37

Where thou art, that is home.

E
MILY
D
ICKINSON

The signpost at the crooked gate read “Selkirk Macken, Luthier.” Ice coated the rough-hewn letters, and a cardinal perched on the rowan branch above, the only spot of color in the barren Kentucky landscape. Half frozen to the saddle, James reached into his greatcoat and pulled out his watch, a gift from Silas at Christmas. The Edinburgh timepiece was slow, no doubt due to his falling into a frigid ditch along a slippery stretch of road the day before.

The bitterness of twilight seeped into his bones, the light at the end of the lane failing to lift his spirits. After a miserable, emotional journey, he’d pinned all his hopes on finding Wren here. Safe. Sound. Glad to see him. His pulse sped at the thought of her in his arms and Izannah’s parting words.

When you
find her, don’t let her go.

That he would do, if she would have him. He wasn’t sure she would. He’d hurt her deeply. Perhaps irreparably. She’d
left his world without warning, though he was just entering hers.

Ahead the stone house—her old home—stood amid stalwart oaks. He tied his mount to the hitch rail and climbed slick stone steps toward the front door. His knock brought a barking dog bounding from the surrounding woods that simply wagged its tail on sight of him.

“I’m James Sackett,” he said to the tall young man who answered. “A friend of Ansel’s. A pilot of the Ballantyne line.”

“Selkirk Macken,” he replied, extending a hand. “This is my wife Rebecca.”

Mrs. Macken’s face creased in a smile. With a motion of her hand she waved him into a circle of warmth and light, the smell of bread and coffee inviting. Her soft, melodic speech was yet another reminder of Wren. “If you care to sit, I’ll serve you supper.”

He sat, too tired and cold to remove his coat, but he did place his sodden hat and gloves nearer the fire. Though his breathing had settled into a regular rhythm, his ribs seemed to scream from miles in the saddle and his tussle with the thugs at the Park Hotel.

Selkirk took a chair opposite, his own plate scraped clean. “Obviously you’re not here on a social call.”

“I’m looking for Wren.”

Selkirk shook his head. “I haven’t seen Wren since she and her father went upriver last August.”

“I was certain she’d be here.” Though he tried to remain stoic, dismay poked a hole in his surface calm. “My plan is to overtake her at some point.”

Unfazed, Selkirk studied him. “Obviously she’s decided Pittsburgh isn’t to her liking.”

“That’s not the half of it,” James replied, still stunned by all that had happened. “She left eleven days ago, bound for Cincinnati, posing as Rowena Nancarrow. She’s alone, unused to travel. I was sure she’d come here.” He’d never felt so flummoxed, so foolish. Somehow she’d managed to stay one step ahead of him the whole bewildering way.

Selkirk refilled his empty coffee cup. “She might have gone back to Pittsburgh.”

James nearly groaned. He forced a few forkfuls of stew, not wanting to offend, and looked about the comely room. A far cry from the parlors he was used to, it had a simple beauty, an uncluttered appeal. A startling lack of pretense. Again, like Wren.

Selkirk reached for a stack of newspapers on a stool. James watched as he unfolded one, turning it around so James could read the headline.

M
URDER
S
OLVED
FOR
B
ALLANTYNE
L
INE
: S
USPECTS
A
PPREHENDED
.

“I’ve been following the trouble in New Orleans that seems to be following you.” The young man’s eyes showed true concern. “The authorities say they’ve caught the men who ran you down on the streets of Pittsburgh then followed you to Cincinnati. Seems they lured Wren there with a note, something about a violin, but were hoping to waylay you instead.”

“They caught up with me—two of the clan—in the lobby of Wren’s hotel.”

Selkirk’s eyes widened. “You weren’t hurt?”

James shook his bruised head, the memory a bit muddy. “Nothing worth mentioning.” Could they sense his deep thankfulness? His awareness of prayer at work? “The desk clerk took a shot to the shoulder before police arrived and made arrests.”

From her rocking chair Mrs. Macken mumbled a relieved “Amen.”

Selkirk folded up the papers and put them away. “From what I know of the Mystic Clan and their dealings, it might be a good idea for you to stay here a few days. I doubt you’ll be troubled further in these woods. We’ve plenty of feed for your horse and can put you upstairs in Wren’s old room.”

The offer, though hospitable, gnawed a deeper place inside him. He didn’t want Wren’s room. He wanted Wren. Setting his fork down, he looked toward a side door. “I’ll stay tonight. But before I leave in the morning, I’d like to see your workshop, if you don’t mind.” He couldn’t say what compelled him to ask. He simply felt the need to see where Wren and her father had spent so much time.

“Do you play?” Selkirk queried.

“On occasion. But I’m no match for Wren.”

“Few can best a Ballantyne,” he said with a knowing smile.

They moved to a narrow hall and breezeway connected to a large workshop. Lantern held high, Selkirk thrust open a thick door, and light spilled into the airy space. Stringed instruments of all kinds adorned walls and tables, the aroma of wood and varnish thick. Immediately James felt Wren’s sweet presence. Felt her life and spirit. Felt, too, the pain of her having to leave it all behind, her shock at coming into Pittsburgh.

The ache inside him was widening every moment away from her. He’d had so little understanding of her or the life she’d led. She’d looked to him for guidance. Friendship. Affection. And he’d handed her judgments and rules and expectations. Not his heart.

Selkirk passed him an instrument, a gleaming maple fiddle with leaf trim. James took it and tested a string.

“Wren crafted this one herself. I’ve never had the pluck to part with it.”

The wood was warm in his cold hands. The tone sweet. He struck a low G and Selkirk looked surprised. Was he expecting a spritely reel? A jig?

Tonight all James could manage was a lament.

The fever had finally left her. Beneath Molly’s ministering hands, Wren felt almost renewed, whole in body if not in spirit. The Sabbath dawned, the sun chasing chilly shadows from field and forest. Cane Run was a sleepy echo of itself on a Sunday save for the singing coming from the newly built mercantile beside the inn. No one but Molly and her kin knew she was here. Lying abed in their tiny cabin, perched like a bird on the shoulder of a ridge, Wren had to content herself with the view from a narrow window.

She finally shed her traveling clothes, climbing into a wooden tub of warm water, the lye soap scouring her skin. A far cry from New Hope’s copper bath. Thankfully Molly had kept her old dresses. She chose one, the worn, familiar fabric soft against her skin, the mossy green a reminder of James Sackett’s eyes.

“I’m going home now, Molly.”

With a nod of understanding, Molly stood on the sagging porch and watched as Wren slipped into woods as worn and familiar as the dress she wore. The air was sharp and sweet and clear. She drank in her surroundings with a thirst she’d never known. Sure-footed, she followed the low stone fence in crumbling shades of gray, the crevices filled with moss in winter and wild violets come spring. The creek ran full as it cut across the little valley, a boisterous rush of frothy water
between slippery banks. Everything was bare. Unclothed. Awaiting spring. Like a fine lady in need of a fancy dress.

If only her heart could have broken in spring. The sight of blooming dogwood and redbud would have mended it back together again.

The lane to home bore fresh wagon tracks. Her breathing eased. Selkirk and his bride would have gone in to Cane Run for a gathering of praise. She was alone then. Alone with her tattered emotions and her tears.

Her heart twisted anew at first sight of the stone house, her gaze following the stalwart lines of the dogtrot leading to their shop. Everything was hushed. Somewhat forlorn.

What had she expected? A shout of welcome?

The house was no longer hers, nor the shop, so she stepped gingerly onto the porch between. A chill breeze swept by and she pulled her shawl tighter. Leaning into a post, she let her gaze swing wide. Everything looked so . . . small. When it had been larger than life before.

She still felt the Lord’s presence here. She always had. But now, whisper-like, she felt something else. Slowly she turned.

James stood just behind her.

She stared at him, disbelieving, with the same intense yearning she’d felt for these woods. He seemed out of place on this humble porch. But he was here. Safe and sound. Standing tall in his dark wool coat. His handsome face was unsmiling, but his eyes were warm.

“Come home, Wren.”

She swallowed past the catch in her throat. “New Hope is not my home, Jamie.”

“Nor, I take it, is Cameron House?”

She shook her head, too torn to say more.

He took a step nearer, and a floorboard creaked. “I wasn’t
thinking of either of those.” Reaching out, he brushed her face with careful fingers, tracing the gentle curve of her damp cheek. “I was thinking of our own home.”

Ours.

Before she could answer, he took her into his arms. For a few stunned seconds she did nothing but surrender to him in spirit. Her bone-deep weariness, time itself, melted away as he bent his head and pressed his mouth to hers. He tasted as sweet as she remembered, his beloved scent closing about her. Her hands crept to his collar, pulling him closer, her fingers kneading the smooth linen of his shirt before fanning through his dark hair. He kissed her with none of the hesitancy of before but wholly and possessively till she lost her breath.

Nothing else mattered right then. Not the Nightingale. Not the trouble she’d caused back in Pittsburgh. Not the uncertainties of the future or the hurts of the past.

This was coming home.