Robin Lee Hatcher (32 page)

Remington regained consciousness in the dank, stinking hold of a ship.

He staggered to his feet, feeling his way in the darkness. Although the floor rocked beneath him, he knew the ship was tied to the pier. He could hear it knocking against the dock as it tugged on its moorings.

How long had he been out? He touched the back of his head, wincing as he felt the lump and dried blood. Next he felt the bruised places on his side and stomach. A cracked rib, maybe, but no permanent damage.

He stood and explored his prison. The exit was barred, the hold windowless. There was no way out. No way he could get to Libby. No way he could help her. No way he could help himself.

He sank to the floor, holding his head in his hands, helplessness flooding through him. “God, I can’t do it without You. Father, my life—and Libby’s—are in Your hands.”

The ship creaked and moaned.

Disjointed thoughts drifted through Remington’s mind. He thought of Libby, of Sawyer, of his boyhood home, of his father. He thought of the years he’d lost to his quest for revenge. He thought of the faith he’d lost, then found again. He’d wasted so much of his life in hate and bitterness. Was this to be where it ended?

“You should have learned something from Jefferson. He
got in my way too. And now you’ll share his fate.”

As Northrop’s words echoed in Remington’s memory, he felt a strange calm overtake him. He couldn’t have explained it, but somehow he knew in his spirit that his father hadn’t taken his own life. Jefferson Walker hadn’t turned his back on his God or on his son. No matter how deeply he had despaired, he wouldn’t have committed suicide.

Remington wondered if this certainty in his heart was God’s gift to him before he died. If so—

Something crashed to the deck overhead. The sound was followed by footsteps, then the creak of a door as it opened. Remington raised an arm against the light spilling into the hold.

“’Tis poor company you’re keeping, Mr. Walker. Might you be in need of assistance?”

“O’Reilly?”

“Aye.
So it is.”

Remington got to his feet. “What are you doing here?”

“’Tis a strange story, best saved ’til we’re off this boat, I’m thinkin’.”

God sent you, O’Reilly. Whether you know it or not.
Thank You, Lord.

Remington moved as quickly as his bruised body allowed. Once on deck, he saw Caswell being led away by a police officer.

O’Reilly chuckled. “He’ll not be tellin’ Mr. Vanderhoff what happened here today. Me friend, Officer O’Hara, will be seein’ to that. I’m thinkin’ that will help you get to the wee lass with less trouble.”

“I don’t understand.” Remington rubbed the sore spot on his head. “This isn’t your fight, O’Reilly.”

The Irishman shook his head as he guided Remington to a waiting coach. “’Tis sorry I am for the part I played in Miss Vanderhoff’s troubles. I saw the way it was when we come back from Idaho, and me heart nearly broke for her. Count this as me way of askin’ your forgiveness. Hers too. This and me offer to help you get the wee lass away from her father.” He opened the coach door for Remington. “Sure and I’m thinkin’ we’ve got little to fight Vanderhoff with but our wits. We’d best be makin’ plans. Her wedding’s not long off.”

Thirty-Two

LIBBY WOULD MARRY THE VISCOUNT, but she would not cower before her father. Not ever again. If there had been only herself to think about, she would have refused to do his bidding. If he killed her, so be it. After all, Remington was dead, so her own life mattered little now. But in order to protect her mother, she would go through with this sham of a marriage.

Every day the dressmaker came to Rosegate, to Libby’s room, for the fittings of her wedding gown. Mrs. Davenport never let on if she thought the bride’s behavior odd. She chattered about the Parisian gown made of ivory satin, draped with Brussels lace, and trimmed with orange blossoms. She said how wonderful it was that Libby would marry an English lord. “Never has Manhattan seen such a beautiful bride as you will be, Miss Vanderhoff. You’ll take England by storm. Mark my words.”

But Libby cared nothing about England, nothing about her wedding—except that to marry Spencer meant protecting her mother. And it meant putting an ocean between her and her father, too. The one thing it could not do was separate her from her memories of Remington. Her father could not succeed in doing that.

In those moments when sorrow threatened to overwhelm her, she clung to her belief in God’s love and ultimate goodness. Evil might swirl around her on this earth, but she wouldn’t let go of her faith. She wouldn’t allow herself to sink into apathetic lethargy. Not again.

Her wedding day arrived with gray skies and cold October winds. At dawn, Libby watched from her bedchamber window as the sky turned from onyx to pewter. Leaves tumbled from tree limbs, rolling along the street, slipping beneath the wheels of delivery wagons, where they were crushed into dust. Extra servants hired for the wedding festivities leaned into the wind and held on to their hats as they made their way toward the rear entrance of the Vanderhoff house.

She pressed her forehead against the cool glass, wishing for a moment that she could open the window and let the wind blow her away like the autumn leaves.

Father God, keep me strong. If it be Your will, stop this
wedding. Help me find another way to protect my mother.
Your will be done, Lord.

Remington kept his cap pulled low and his head bent forward as he carted chairs into the Vanderhoff ballroom, ever watchful for a chance to slip away from the other temporary help and make his way up the stairs. And he prayed. Prayed harder than he’d ever prayed in his life.

Show me the way, Lord. Show me the way.

Wedding guests had begun to arrive before Remington found the opportunity he’d prayed for. In an unprecedented moment when no one else was near, he slipped away from the other workers and climbed the back staircase to the third floor.

Just as he reached the top of the stairs, the door to Libby’s room opened and a maid stepped into the hall. Remington watched until she walked down the hall and disappeared into another room, then strode toward his destination.

The door wasn’t locked. He opened it and stepped inside.

His gaze found Libby at once. She stood before the cheval glass, clad in a wedding gown. Two women fussed about her, an older matron fastening the pearl buttons up the back of the gown—the other, a young maid about Libby’s age, kneeling on the floor, doing something to the hem.

The older woman turned her head when she heard the door click shut. She let out a tiny gasp of surprise when she saw Remington. “What are you doing here, sir?”

He ignored her as he started forward.

The woman stepped into his path. “Get out of here at once, or I shall be forced to—”

“Libby.”

He saw her stiffen, then she turned around. Color drained from her face. Her lips moved, but no sound came out.

“Jeanette, send for Mr. Vanderhoff,” the older woman ordered. “Quickly. Tell him—”

“No.” Libby stopped the seamstress with a hand on her arm. “No, please. It’s all right, Mrs. Davenport.” She came toward him, stepping around Mrs. Davenport, who hadn’t budged an inch. “You’re here.”

“I’m here. I’ve come to take you home.”

“I thought you were dead.”

“No. I’m alive.”

“You’re alive.” She reached up, touching his face with her fingertips. Her eyes were wide, unblinking, as if she were afraid he might disappear. “You really are alive.”

He grabbed one of her hands, turned it, and brought it to his lips, kissing her palm. “Very much so.”

“Thank God. Oh, thank God.”

“Yes, it’s the Lord we have to thank.”

“Father said—”

“He lied. Are you ready to marry me and return to the Blue Springs? Sawyer’s waiting for us.”

“I’m ready.” She almost smiled. “I’ve been ready to marry you for quite some time.”

Mrs. Davenport gasped.

Remington reached into his pocket and withdrew the bank draft he’d brought with him. “This is to leave for your father.” He handed it to Libby.

Libby stared at the draft. It was made out to Northrop Vanderhoff.

“That’s every penny he’s paid me. I thought we should leave it for him.”

Her vision blurred with unshed tears. “You don’t have to give this back.”

“I don’t want his money, Libby. I want only his daughter. Let’s get your mother and go home.”

Home. We’re going home . . .

“You’ll need to change out of that wedding gown,” Remington said, a hint of humor in his voice, “or we’ll never slip out this house unnoticed.”

She turned, prepared to tell Mrs. Davenport to unfasten the buttons up the back of the gown. But then she stopped. “No, Remington. We can’t go that way.”

“What do you mean? I’ve got help waiting—”

“We can’t sneak away. I can’t keep running from him.”
She stared into his beloved eyes, beseeching him to understand. “I’ve run away too often in the past. I can’t run again. We’ve got to face him together, Remington. If we don’t, he’ll have won.”

Thirty-Three

NORTHROP BECAME AWARE OF A hush rippling across the crowd of guests. He looked up to find his daughter standing in the ballroom doorway. She looked spectacular in her wedding gown, every inch a countess. But with her, dressed like one of the servants, stood Remington Walker, holding her arm with fierce protectiveness.

“Who is that with Olivia?” someone whispered.

Someone else answered, “That’s Remington Walker. Why’s he dressed like that?”

Other voices murmured throughout the room.

Then Northrop saw Anna standing behind their daughter. His wife wore a yellow silk gown. Yellow, the color he’d forbidden her to wear because he knew it was her favorite.

Northrop realized in that instant that his daughter would never be a countess.

Unafraid, Libby stared at her father. She felt free, like an eagle soaring high above the rugged Idaho mountains.

Stand fast therefore in the liberty wherewith Christ hath
made us free, and be not entangled again with the yoke of
bondage.

She and Remington, followed by her mother, moved through the throng of guests who parted like water before a ship’s bow. She heard their whispers but ignored them. She didn’t care what was said or by whom. She had come to say good-bye to her father—and to Olivia Vanderhoff.