Fairer than Morning (23 page)

The one with spectacles looked familiar, and Will met his gaze. In a split second, he remembered. The last time he saw that face, it was under a white, curled wig. It was the judge.

He looked away and kept walking, panic rising. He turned his steps to the bridge. When he passed into its shifting shadows, he breathed more easily. The judge had not recognized him, or surely he would have known that this apprentice from Allegheny City must be a runaway.

He continued to go as fast as he dared across the bridge. He was at the halfway point.

And then the cry went up behind him. “Stop! Runaway! Stop him!”

He ran for the other side of the bridge, his feet thudding against the wood. Behind him, his pursuers' footsteps sent a rapid drumbeat echoing down the tunnel. They were gaining on him. His lungs strained to take in enough breath. The lantern on the far end of the bridge created a circle of light like a halo on the riverbank. If he could just get past that light and disappear into the woods
 
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Fragments of curses and threats flew past him like bullets. He dared not look back when they were so close. He redoubled his efforts, legs scissoring as fast as they could, fists pumping. In a flash, he passed under the lantern and into the welcoming darkness.

The woods were too thin here. Even in the dark of night, there might not be enough brush to hide him. He cast about wildly for another route. The din on the bridge was growing louder; they would be upon him at any moment.

He jumped to the side of the bridge and slid down the bank, feet first, scrambling for purchase through loose rock. His palms stung as they skidded over the gravel, then his shoes plunged into a thin layer of mud and icy water. Pushing himself up to a half crouch, he crept into the total blackness under the bridge itself. He felt his way up and wedged himself prone in the crevice where the bank met the underside of the bridge. Footsteps pounded inches over his head, half-deafening him as they passed.

“Which way?” a man yelled, voice strained.

“He can't have gone far!” another shouted.

“Check behind that house!” A different voice.

“You go over into these trees!”

Will had lost track of how many were shouting—four or five. He tried not to wheeze for breath and prayed they would not think to check the bridge.

The middle of his back stung as much as his abraded palms. He must have torn some of the scabs from the whip.

It seemed like half an hour before he heard their voices again.

“Fast as a rabbit! Blast it!”

“He kicked up his heels like the devil himself was behind him!”

Laughter.

Will laid his cheek on the dirt in the blackness. A few feet away, a slice of moonlight revealed broken, dead reeds where he had slid down the bank. He stared straight ahead, praying they would not notice the marks of his passage.

“Ain't much of a reward, anyhow.”

“No, not for a starveling apprentice.”

“And the master might be too cheap, besides.”

The sound of someone clearing his throat and spitting. “The next round's on me.”

There was a shout of approval.

“Aye, the game's up for tonight.”

Their feet clunked overhead and back across to the Pittsburgh side.

He did not know how long he remained there, collapsed boneless against the hard pebbles.

At last he inched back down from the bridge, wincing at the pressure on his hands. He moved crab-like over the mud at the edge of the river toward the swath of moonlight. He peered up the bank. Empty and quiet. This side of the river was less traveled, less populated. There would be only a few dwellings to pass.

He would have to make it to the National Road. It would be a journey so long he did not know if he could do it, alone on foot as he was. In a few hours, Master Good would be sure to discover his absence and send out notices far and wide. He might even come in pursuit himself, on horseback. So Will had no choice but to walk without stopping.

But he was free. And he would remain free. His determination stormed through him, stronger than his weakened body. Moving his stiffened limbs, he pulled himself up the bank. Still no sign of life around the scattered dwellings.

He did not think he could find his way by the stars, and he had no way to defend himself from wild creatures deeper in the forest. There was no choice but to stay close to the dirt roads.

But he would not rest until he found the saddler and his daughter.

Twenty-Two

A
NN HAD FINISHED CARING FOR THE ANIMALS AND
was preparing supper when her father returned. She let him in; he was travel worn and his hair in need of a trim.

He crossed to the kitchen bench and sat down, leaning back and closing his eyes. After a moment, he fished in his vest pocket.

“I have a letter from Pittsburgh.” Handing her the sealed parchment, he bent over and began to unlace one boot.

She glanced at the address. “But it's addressed to you.”

“Will you read it to me?” he asked. “All I want is to remove my boots. They aren't yet broken in.” He huffed with the effort of pulling off the first boot.

She broke the red seal and unfolded it. “It's from Enoch Washington.”

“Yes, I recognized his hand.” Dropping the boot on the floor, he set to work on the other.

“Dear Samuel,” she read aloud. “I hope this letter finds you well and your farm prospering. I have had some unsettling news that I must share with you. The bounty hunter—” She stopped.
Jack Rumkin
, spelled the cramped, neat handwriting. The man in the beaver hat.

“Let me see.” He father stopped working on his boot and held out his hand.

She shook her head. She would not give in to the fear that crept through her and made the letter quiver in her hand. She steadied it to read again. “The bounty hunter Jack Rumkin has been making inquiries in all the taverns about town. My contacts tell me that he is looking for the Simons, who have sheltered with me here since your departure.” She swallowed and continued reading. “We had intended to send them on to Canada, but Clara fell ill and we thought it best to wait. Rumkin's efforts have been so assiduous that I fear that it will not be long until he finds a man who will barter information for liquor.”

Her father had disposed of the other boot, and now he stood in his stocking feet and gently took the letter from her. “Bravely done. I'll read the rest.” He was quiet, his head bent over the paper, then he looked up. “Enoch says he is sending the Simons here.”

“Why?” Her question was soft, but her thoughts veered in several directions.

“He doesn't think Rumkin will expect them to come west. He will be watching for them along the northern road. But if they come this way, we can send them north, to a farmer Enoch knows in Mount Vernon.”

“But what if—” She hated the catch in her voice. “What if Rumkin follows them here?”

“I will take care of Rumkin.”

The flatness of her father's reply made her uneasy. Would he kill the bounty hunter if he saw him? Surely not. He had been as upset by the death of Mr. Holmes as Ann herself.

But her next thought was too unsettling to speak aloud.
What if he comes here and you are not at home?

She turned away to hide her disquiet and walked to the hearth. If Mr. Washington had chosen this course, she could not argue. He must know the ways of the bounty hunters better than she did, and she could not advocate some other route that might condemn the Simons to recapture. Back in Tennessee, their punishment would be dire beyond her will to imagine. Their enraged former master would hold them responsible for the death of Mr. Holmes.

She forced herself to think of something else. “Eli Bowen came by.”

“Indeed?”

“He wants me to go with him to a party tomorrow. A bonfire at the Murdoch place, for the young people.”

“That seems pleasant.” He sounded surprised. “Would you like to go?”

“I suppose.”

“Then of course you may.”

Thank heaven he had asked no further questions about Eli.

His expression was nonchalant as he removed plates from the hutch and set them on the table. “Where are the girls?” he asked at last.

“Playing in their room.”

“I'll call them to dinner.”

After he walked to the back, it was only a minute before the girls came tumbling out of the hallway. Mabel talked without pause for breath about a wild panther in the woods, and Susan occasionally added a detail to the story.

“Its eyes glowed like fire! And it was black.”

“I don't think we have panthers in these parts, girls,” their father said, his mouth quirking.

“It was a panther, it was!” Mabel said.

“Perhaps it was a very large turkey.” Her father always spoke with the greatest seriousness when he was teasing them.

The debate on the features of panthers and turkeys began in earnest, and Ann spooned potatoes and ham onto the plates.

She did not mind dreaming a little of Eli, as the good-natured wrangling continued. Their earlier courtship now took on the golden cast of a more innocent time. Perhaps she could take his hand and walk right back into that time. There would be no ugliness and no cruelty. It would be just Eli, Ann, and endless talk of wonderful books in their own private world. It would be a perfect union, unmarked by the trouble and sin that ruined everything else.

When Eli arrived to escort her to the bonfire, everything promised to be just as she had imagined. They rode beside each other, she sidesaddle on Bayberry, he on his bay gelding. Even their horses were perfectly suited. She had to guard against looking at him too long or too frequently; it was hard not to admire the strong, fine cut of his cheekbones, the lean but poised lines of his figure on horseback. The pleasure she took in his company was the same as ever and left her in an elevated mood as if she stood before a painting by one of the masters. She was slightly awed that such a man was actually beside her.

As they arrived at the Murdochs' farm, the dark smoke of the bonfire was already rising in the clearing behind the barn. It was still cold and gray, but the orange fire crackled merrily in the center of a circle of young people who sat on makeshift benches formed from hewn logs. James Murdoch noticed them ride up and came to help with their horses.

Eli supported Ann by the hand and steadied her at the waist as she cleared her skirts from the pommel and slid down. He stood very close and a thrill rippled up her arms from where their gloved hands touched as she remembered the feel of his ungloved hand. She pulled away and took his elbow instead.

He led her over to the fire, and they greeted some of the others they knew—their old schoolmates, their faces rosy with the heat. As they made their way to a free log, Ann saw over the wavering heat of the fire that David Crawford sat with Phoebe Vanderlick only a few yards away.

Ann dreaded the moment when Phoebe would look around and see them. She had no love for Phoebe, but she would not wish on her the pain of losing a cherished suitor.

After a while, the black curls bobbed and Phoebe's dark eyes flicked in their direction.

The hardness of Phoebe's stare made it clear that the girl was no more fond of Ann than ever. And probably less, given the circumstances. Phoebe presented her back to Ann and Eli and engaged in animated conversation with David, who gave them a perfunctory wave over her head.

James and his mother emerged from the house with mugs of cider. When Mrs. Murdoch, large and genial, handed Ann and Eli their mugs, Ann cradled hers in both hands, inhaling the sweet-smelling steam.

“Did you enjoy your time in Pittsburgh?” Eli's question was low and intimate.

“Most of it. The architecture and the music were wonderful.”

“But there were some things that were less enjoyable?” He half smiled. He had always told her he liked her frankness.

“I wasn't enamored of the smoke,” she said.

He grinned more broadly. “And the citizens?”

She fell silent. Will the apprentice came to her mind, as she had seen him last, skinny as a starved yearling and dressed in little more than rags. “Some of them are very piteous, and some are cruel.”

He had stopped smiling. He must have sensed her sadness. “It's the way of the world, I'm afraid.”

“I do not like it.”

“Well, I am very glad that you are back. I did not know how much I would miss your sweet face.” He took her hand unobtrusively, so the others would not see. “The heart went out of the town for me.”

The flush in her face was not an effect of the fire, though she hoped it seemed so. She had nothing to say, but gazing at him was quite enough to occupy her attention. His eyes glinted a more crystalline blue in the firelight, the planes of his face sharpened in the shadow.

He looked down at the bare ground. “I must humbly beg your pardon for my treatment of you. I was hurt when you refused me. I did not want to wait. I behaved badly.”