Hope (9 page)

On the third morning Hope slowly opened her eyes. She lay for a moment, trying to orient herself. She was in some sort of shelter . . . a cave? Was it a cave? She heard the fire pop, and she turned to see her captor’s eyes fixed on her. She groaned, bringing her hand to her fevered forehead. “Grunt?” she murmured.

Grunt closed his eyes. “I thought you were . . .”

She struggled to sit up. “Where am I? . . . Where are the others?”

He was by her side, pressing her back to the pallet. “Lie still. You’ve been sick.”

“Where—where are we?” She ran her tongue over her dry lips, surprised they were cracked and swollen. “I’m so thirsty.”

“Drink this.”

Tilting her head, he held a cup of water to her mouth. She drank deeply.

“So good,” she whispered, then lay weakly back on the pallet. Her eyes scanned the dim interior. “Where are we?”

“I’m not sure—somewhere near the Kentucky line.”

A frown creased her brow. “It was you . . . You were the one—” She coughed, pain distorting her features. “You took me away during the night.”

“I felt it necessary to remove you from the situation.”

“Yes . . . I remember now. Boris found out I’m not Thomas Ferry’s daughter.”

“Yes.”

“So you . . . kidnapped me again?”

“I moved you to safety.”

“But why?” Nothing made sense to her. Grunt was one of the outlaws. Why was he being so kind to her?

Settling her head in the crook of his arm, he said quietly, “Listen to me, Hope.” He took a cool cloth and bathed her forehead. “I’m not a part of Joe’s gang.”

She stared at him blankly for a moment. “I didn’t think so—you’re different.”

“I work for the government.”

“But why—”

“I’m on assignment. I’ve been riding with Joe, Frog, and Boris, trying to learn how they’ve successfully captured a number of army payrolls.”

“Joe and Frog? Those imbeciles have actually done something right?”

“It’s hard to believe, but yes. Actually, they’ve stolen a good deal of money.”

“With your help,” she reminded him. He’d been there the day they took her off the stage and stole the strongbox.

“Not really. I just don’t do anything to stop them. My job is to find out who’s filtering information to them on the payroll shipments.”

She struggled to sit up. The fever must be making her delirious. “I don’t believe you.” But oh, how she wanted to believe him. Though he’d spoken sharply to her at times, she’d sensed it was for her welfare. She tried to focus on him, but his large form was wavy, fading in and out. “You’re not an outlaw?”

He shook his head. He looked very tired, she realized. A dark beard coated his handsome face, making him seem more dangerously appealing. “I don’t expect you to take my word for it, but I’m not.”

No, he wasn’t, she realized with a start. She’d known that in her heart from the moment they met. He wasn’t like the others.

“I’m not an outlaw. A rebel at times, but not on the wrong side of the law.” He smiled, and Hope was reminded how sorely tempted she was to like him.

Closing her eyes, she thanked God for placing her in Grunt’s hands. “I’m glad. I knew you were different.”

A smile touched his eyes. “How could you tell? I’ve treated you badly. I hope you understand—”

“It’s all right,” she whispered. “You were trying to protect me.”

“Speaking of which—exactly whom am I protecting?”

“My name is Hope Kallahan. I was traveling to Medford to meet my husband-to-be, John Jacobs, when the stage was attacked. Mr. Jacobs and I are to be married soon.”

“You’re promised to this man?”

Was there disappointment in his voice? Her heart soared, then plunged. Or did she only want to hear it? Nodding, she motioned toward the cup. He brought the water back to her lips, and she drank thirstily. She pushed the tin aside and met his gaze. “What do we do now?”

“We wait here until you’re stronger, then we’ll move out under cover of darkness.”

“And then?”

“Then I’ll escort you to your fiancé in Medford, and I’ll return to Washington. My cover is blown; there’s nothing more I can do here. Until you’re better, I’ll sleep just outside the doorway. You’ll be safe, for now.”

“I can’t ask you to bother with me.” He’d protected her these past weeks, kept her from certain harm. She couldn’t impose on his generosity any longer. “I’ve inconvenienced you quite enough. If you’ll be so kind as to see me to the next town, I’ll catch a stage.”

“No. No stage.”

“Why not?”

“Because it isn’t safe. Big Joe is still in the area. He’ll be bent on taking you hostage again.”

“But why? I’m worth nothing to him. I’m not Anne Ferry; they’ll get no ransom for me.”

“You’re still of great benefit to these men, Hope. Trust me.”

She pulled the blanket tighter around her. At the moment she had no choice but to trust him with her very life. “They’ll be after you too,” she murmured sleepily, feeling her strength drain. “And they’ll be angry that you took me away from them—furious, should they learn that you’re working for the government.”

He shrugged. “Their anger doesn’t concern me as much as getting you safely to Medford. As far as I can tell, Medford’s still a good fifty miles away. A lot can happen in fifty miles.”

Hope closed her eyes; fatigue was beginning to overtake her. Her mind refused to absorb what he was saying. An incredible peace came over her. Grunt was here, offering to help her. Could she trust him? Was he actually a government official, or was this just another cruel hoax? She sighed. Whether she believed him or not made little difference. God had seen fit to place her earthly life in this man’s hands. They were both in danger from Big Joe, Frog, and Boris. If only she could believe that God would deliver her . . .

The absurd situation suddenly struck her funny, and she burst into laughter.

Grunt glanced at her, frowning. “I’m glad to see that you still have your sense of humor—but what’s funny about our situation?”

“You don’t know?”

“No, I’m afraid I don’t.”

“I’ve spent a month in your company, my life is in your hands at the moment, and I don’t know your name.”

“It’s Grunt.”

Her merriment increased, causing her to break into another fit of coughing. Grunt gently lifted her to a sitting position.

When the spasm subsided, she lay weakly back against his chest. “I’m reasonably sure your name isn’t Grunt. I doubt any mother would do that to her poor, helpless newborn.”

“No?” He grinned. “You don’t like the name Grunt?”

She shook her head. “It’s truly inappropriate.”

He carefully settled her back on the pallet, and she sighed. His blanket smelled of woodsmoke and lye soap. “My name is Dan Sullivan.”

“Dan.” She closed her eyes, testing the feel of his name on her tongue. “Daniel?”

“Daniel.”

It was a good, strong biblical name. And they’d surely both been in the lions’ den.

“How did you know I wasn’t Anne Ferry?”

He reached for a stick of wood and laid it on the fire. “I met Anne Ferry at a Christmas soiree a few years back. Thomas Ferry is a personal friend of my commander.” He moved back to the pallet and knelt beside her, gently smoothing hair back from her face with the cloth. “I knew the moment I saw you that you weren’t Thomas’s daughter. You’re prettier than Anne.”

Prettier than Anne. She felt a pang of envy for Anne, who had probably danced with this handsome man, been held in his arms. She wanted to hold his words close to her heart, but she was so weary she couldn’t think at all. She couldn’t imagine why Dan Sullivan’s flattery meant so much to her. She was betrothed to John Jacobs, and Mr. Jacobs must be worried sick about her whereabouts.

Dan’s voice was solemn now. “Hope, what were you doing with Anne’s bags and her personal effects?”

When she heard uneasiness in his voice, she smiled. “Anne and her companion, Della DeMarco, had been traveling with me earlier. Miss DeMarco took ill, and Anne returned home in order for Miss Della to have the proper care. They left so suddenly that Anne forgot to get her things.”

Hope smiled when she heard him exhale with relief. A moment later, she drifted off, his words tucked neatly inside her heart:
“You’re prettier than Anne.”

She awoke later, aware that she was alone now. Dan? Had he left?
Please, Dan . . . no . . . stay with me.
If he left her, there would be nothing she could do. She had no idea where she was nor one single way to care for herself. He’d surely take the horse.

She lay in the light of the flickering fire, waiting, listening, and praying that he wouldn’t abandon her. He was, after all, a government agent . . . now she was part of that job.

Hot tears slipped from the corners of her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. Her thoughts—about God, about Dan Sullivan—were confused and jumbled.
Lord, please help me trust you like Papa did. Help me to believe—

A sound caught her attention, and she opened her eyes. For one brief, elated moment, she saw Dan standing at the cave’s entrance with two fat rabbits in his hand.

“You’re back.”

“Sorry it took so long. Game’s scarce.”

“It’s okay.” Giving him a smile, she closed her eyes again. Dan hadn’t left her. Perhaps God was still watching out for her after all.

“Dan?”

“Yes, Hope?” His voice seemed to come from a long way off.

“Do you honestly think I’m prettier than Anne?”

The soft, masculine chuckle made her blush. “Well, Miss Kallahan, if I were to say who’s the prettiest . . .”

She drifted off without ever hearing him finish the sentence.

Chapter Five

John Jacobs teetered on a wooden ladder propped against the wall case of the Jacobs Mercantile, straining to reach the top shelves with the feather duster. No one could ever say they’d purchased a single item from Jacobs Mercantile that was the least bit neglected.

No sir. When one bought from Jacobs, one got quality product, down to the last needle and spool of thread. He paused on his perch to glance around the store, mentally cataloging each aisle of merchandise. Fresh goods and perishables were toward the front, where people could see for themselves that Jacobs had nothing but the freshest. Of course, part of his strategy was moving the stock around a bit each day, but that never detracted from quality.

Canned goods were centered on the right; material, spools of thread, cards of ribbons and the finest laces neatly piled on tables—center aisle. Ready-made dresses to the left. Hand tools, men’s pants and shirts were at the back, near the stove, where men were prone to gather while their wives shopped.

Stepping off the ladder, John nodded absently to himself. Yes, he ran a tight ship. He was proud of his accomplishments, and rightfully so. It was a solid start for his soon-to-be family. The family he hoped to build with Hope Kallahan.

Hope. How often he thought about his mail-order bride. Concerns whether she’d like him or could ever care deeply for him were never far from his mind. Betrothal to a man she’d never seen, had only seen a poor likeness of, must be a matter of discomfiture. Nevertheless—and the fact was of no small satisfaction to him—she had answered his ad.

The ad.

Wonder filled him anew. Placing that want ad in the Heart-and-Hand column of the
Kentucky Monthly
—then having that journal miraculously make its way to Michigan and into Miss Kallahan’s possession. . . . He drew a deep, shuddering breath. Well, it was just a miracle, that’s what it was. Just one more of God’s abundant blessings, and there had been many of those in John Jacobs’s life.

The moment he’d placed the ad, he’d been assailed with doubt. What madness had driven him to do so? He was reasonably happy with his life, though admittedly lonely since Mother had passed on two years ago. But life had settled into a comfortable routine. He went to work each morning. Then at night, with his trusty hound, Oliver, he climbed the stairway to his apartment above the store.

He’d told no one about the ad. In fact, he’d been so abashed about having put his private life in the public eye that he’d tried to forget about his impetuosity. But then Hope’s letter arrived.

John shook his head in wonder. He’d been so taken aback by the letter, by the delicate spidery script on the envelope, that he’d waited a whole day and a half to open it. Hope had introduced herself, telling him about her aunt Thalia and about her sisters embarking upon their own mail-order-bride adventures. John had felt encouraged. It took him another two days to compose a letter in return. With mail service between Michigan and Kentucky so slow, it took forever, or so it seemed, to receive her reply to his letter.

If Hope were nearly as beautiful as the picture that had accompanied her third letter, then he was the most fortunate man on earth! That is, unless she took one look at him and got back on the stage.

The picture he’d sent to her had been a poor image, but he wasn’t a handsome man. He was a loyal man, moral, read the Good Book and did his best to live by it. But by no stretch of the imagination was he a handsome swain.

Oh, he knew full well the gamble he was taking, hoping that a woman of Miss Kallahan’s exceptional beauty would agree to travel all the way to Medford to form a union with him, John Jacobs.

John stepped to the front window of the store, trying to see the town as Hope might perceive it. Medford had fared well during the war, with minimal damage from marauders. Like most towns of its size, Medford had a main street with two crossroads. The Basin River ran the length of the community. During heavy rains, it overflowed its banks and caused more than its share of headaches for the townspeople. Most, if not all, of the shop owners in town lived above their businesses. A spattering of town residents, generally the elderly or widowed, resided in small two- or three-room dwellings interspersed between storefronts. The larger portion of the population lived on the outskirts and ventured into town once a month for supplies.

Would Hope find Medford too . . . dull? too confining? There wasn’t much here. Besides the mercantile there were Pierson’s Hotel, Hattie’s Millinery and Sewing, Porter’s Feed and Grain, Grant’s Smithy, the livery where he boarded his own team and buggy, the church, and, of course, the school. Townsfolk took great pride that the school went to the eighth grade.