Hope Springs (29 page)

She stepped off the porch and onto the path. The wind pushed and pressed at her, as if trying to convince her to return to the shelter of the porch. But she couldn’t hide forever. The safety it offered was a ruse. So long as she was outside the house, there was no real protection there.

A show of confidence couldn’t hurt, though she wasn’t convinced it would help. She held tight to her woolen shawl. It had been woefully inadequate against the cold of the past week, but it was all she had.

One step at a time she moved closer to the bridge and to Mr. Archibald.

Where are you, Joseph? I need you.

Mr. Archibald stopped—he’d reached the bridge—and leaned against a post, watching her approach.

Her feet stopped. ’Twould be foolish to simply walk directly into the trap he was clearly setting for her. But where could she go?

She was closer to the barn than Mr. Archibald was. She might be able to beat him there. Her first night in Hope Springs, she’d hidden in Biddy and Ian’s barn. Tavish had found her there. Perhaps if she ducked inside Joseph’s barn, someone would come to her aid. Or she’d simply trap herself inside with no way out.

Aye, but you might find a pitchfork or something.

It wasn’t the best plan, but it was all she could think of. She set herself to a faster pace, heading directly toward the barn. Mr. Archibald seemed to realize her destination after a moment and moved that way himself.

She walked faster. So did he.

So she ran.

He was likely only steps behind her. She ducked inside the barn. The dimness inside forced her to slow down.

“Joseph?” she called out, hoping against hope to find him there. Only silence answered.

She stumbled about as her eyes tried to adjust to the low light. She’d not spent a lot of time in Joseph’s barn. Where did he keep his tools? She couldn’t remember.

“What have we here?” Mr. Archibald stood in the doorway. “A little Irish mouse that’s wandered too far from home.”

She took a frantic step backward and lost her footing. Her shoulder slammed into the wooden wall of an animal stall. Her face scraped up against it before she could entirely right herself. She could likely see better in the dimness than he could yet. That was her only advantage.

She slipped farther back into the barn, looking about for anything she might use to defend herself.

“There is only one way out of here.” Mr. Archibald hadn’t left the doorway.

Find a pitchfork. A shovel. Anything.

“What is it you want, Mr. Archibald?” She searched around her as she spoke, her eyes settling on a gardening hoe. That would have to do.

“Only to give you a word of advice.”

“And what would that be?” She wrapped her hand around the hoe handle, holding it out in front of her.

Mr. Archibald hadn’t taken a single step inside. That didn’t make her feel any safer. “You keep to your side of the river. It’s safer there.”

“I’ve a job to do and the perfect right to come and go as need be.” She tightened her grip.

“We don’t take kindly to the vermin infesting our town, Paddy. Further, we know how to smoke out the rats, send them running from their own sinking ship.”

“We’re none of us running.”

“Yet,” he added without hesitation. “You and your kind stay on your side of the river or we’ll see to it you don’t have a choice.”

“I have to cross the river to do my job.”

Mr. Archibald shook his head, giving a humorless laugh. “You won’t have a job come morning. A few of us will be talking sense into Jeremiah this afternoon. Maybe you ought to try doing the same with your fellow Paddies.”

She kept her gaze on him, watching for even the slightest movement in her direction. “You had to follow me all the way into this barn simply to tell me that?”

“Think of me as the tomcat seeing that the mouse scurried back home.”

She didn’t care for that image. “I’ve never known a cat that
herded
mice.” They generally
ate
them.

Mr. Archibald grinned, the oily, worrisome smile she hated so much.

A second figure appeared in the doorway. Was she to be set upon by more than one Red like Ian had been? If so, the hoe would do her very little good.

“Pardon me, Mr. Archibald.” Finbarr turned slightly, enough for a burst of sunlight to glint off the axe he held over his shoulder. There was a lad who knew how to pick a last-minute weapon. No hoes or shovels for him. “I’ve been sent to chop wood and need to fetch my gloves from inside the barn.”

She felt the tiniest bit of relief.

Mr. Archibald gave Finbarr a long look before letting his gaze return to Katie. “Don’t bother coming to the mercantile tomorrow. You won’t be welcome.” He shot her a satisfied smile and slipped out of the doorway.

Katie let her shoulders drop. She set the hoe against the wall.

“Did he hurt you, Miss Macauley?” Finbarr asked, taking a single step inside the barn.

She shook her head. “He blew a great deal of smoke, but he didn’t hurt me.”

His eyes narrowed as he studied her. “Your face is bleeding.”

She touched the tender spot on her cheek where she’d hit the stall wall. Her fingers came up wet. In her fear she hadn’t noticed she’d cut herself. “I slipped,” she said.

“Mr. Archer will want to see that,” Finbarr said.

Katie shook her head. “It isn’t bad. I’d much rather get back to Mrs. Claire’s and forget this whole thing ever happened.” Fine words, those, but empty. She’d not be forgetting the fear any time soon.

She stepped out of the barn and once more into the biting wind.

“Can I walk you to Mrs. Claire’s house?” Finbarr asked.

“You needn’t do that.”

He walked at her side. “I know you don’t need me to, but Mr. Archer would wring my neck if he knew I didn’t after what you’ve been through.”

Finbarr swung the axe into the chopping block as they passed it. He explained almost sheepishly, “I wasn’t actually supposed to chop wood. I just thought Mr. Archibald might leave you alone if I stood there with an axe.”

“Did Joseph send you to rescue me, then?”

Finbarr secured the top button of his coat. “He’s out repairing a fence and sent me in for some wire. I saw Mr. Archibald follow you into the barn. I assumed he was up to no good.”

“Apparently you know him well.” Katie tucked her hands under her shawl. The day was growing colder instead of warmer.

“I know
the feud
well,” Finbarr corrected. “It makes people vicious.”

“’Tis a full-on shame the town can’t put this hatred behind them.”

Finbarr nodded. “Part of me is convinced someone will have to die before they do.”

Katie opened her mouth to argue against such a drastic prediction, but the words wouldn’t come. Suddenly part of her was equally certain, and the realization frightened her.

Chapter Twenty-Five

The sudden drop in temperature sent Tavish to Granny’s house to split logs. The night would likely be a cold one, and he didn’t want them to find themselves out of firewood. The pile of wood behind the house was alarmingly low. Everyone’s firewood supply was dwindling. The annual pre-winter wood run would have to be scheduled soon. Very few trees grew in Hope Springs—they had to go out and cut as much wood as a few wagons would hold to see them through the cold months to come. Depending on how bitter the winter grew, they sometimes went out again with sleds. But the forest was far away, more than a day’s drive. ’Twas a dangerous thing to be out in the winter, given the unpredictable nature of Wyoming weather.

He carried an armload of wood inside, speaking to Granny as he made his way through the kitchen. “Let Katie know that I can cut more in the morning if you’ve run out.”

“Tell her your own self, Tavish.”

Sure enough, Katie stood near Granny, tucking a quilt about the dear old woman’s legs. She must have arrived home while he was out chopping.

“You’re back early,” he said.

“I told Mr. Johnson that Granny was ailing, and he gave me the rest of the day to look after her.”

Tavish could hardly have been more surprised if Katie had said Mr. Johnson had offered to lower the Irish prices to match the Red Road’s.

“That is unexpectedly human of him, all things considered.” He laid his armful of wood in the basket near the fireplace and set himself to the task of lighting a fire.

“I’ll say this for Mr. Johnson,” Katie said, “he has proven himself less of a monster than I at first feared him to be.”

Tavish had seen and heard for himself the unkindness Mr. Johnson heaped on Katie, yet she had kind words for the man?

“I’m not saying he’s a saint, so you can both quit looking at me like I’ve lost my mind.” Katie offered a tiny, fleeting smile.

“Leave it to our Katie to work a miracle with one of the meanest men in town.” Granny smiled, patting Katie’s cheek. “Before long you’ll have him walking up and down this road just friendly as can be with all of us.”

Katie shook her head. “No one could manage that. I think we’d all agree the Reds staying on their side of the river would be best.”

She had never been one to truly advocate for the separation in town. What had brought that comment on?

“Can you get along without me for a bit?” she asked Granny. “I’d like to change into some warm stockings and take a moment for myself.”

“Of course, child.”

Tavish took her hand as she passed. She stopped and looked back at him. He hadn’t noticed until just then, but Katie was pale, her features drawn and tense. And, more concerning yet, she had a cut just below one eye.

“What happened? You’ve a cut on your face.”

“I slipped on my walk home. It hardly hurts anymore,” she insisted. “I need a moment to myself is all. I’ll be grand in a bit.”

He studied her expression and the stiff set of her shoulders. Something was worrying Katie, there was no denying it. He’d give her a moment, but once he had the fire set, he meant to do what he could to coax a smile or a laugh from her.

She slipped down the small corridor. An instant later, he heard the sound of her door closing.

“Our Katie keeps things tucked inside,” Granny observed in her usual sage way.

“Aye, that she does.”

He had the kindling laid and the beginnings of a flame started when the first strains of an air played expertly on a fiddle floated out of Katie’s room. He stopped a moment and simply listened. No one could pull music from a fiddle quite like she could.

“She plays every day,” Granny said. “Sometimes more than once. Always when she first returns from the mercantile, and often at night before we go to bed.”

“That is a fine treat for the both of you.” Tavish thought about his own quiet and lonely evenings and felt more than a twinge of envy.

“And for the Archers,” Granny added.

“The Archers?” He hadn’t expected that.

“Aye. Joseph comes by regularly with his wee ones to visit. Katie always plays for them so the girls can dance and sing.”

“How often are they here?”

“Three or four times a week.”

Three or four times a week?
That was more often than
he
was there. Where in the world did Joseph find the time? “I suppose if I had a hired hand and a housekeeper, I could spend my evenings visiting as well.”

“Oh, pish.” Granny looked on the verge of rolling her eyes at him. “If you wanted to come more often, you’d find a moment here or there.”

“I am not neglecting her, Granny.” He set a log on the fire, watching to make certain the flames took. “I have been running Ian’s farm as well as my own. I was off making my deliveries. Every free minute I have goes to building a room onto my house. A room
for her.
”

“And is that what she wants most from you, lad? A room?”

He added another log. “She’s spoken of wishing for a room to herself all these years.”

“But is it what she wants
most?
That’s the question you ought to be asking yourself.”

The fire was burning small and steady. Tavish stood and took a step back. “What does Katie want most?” he asked quietly. “She is not an easy one to understand.”

“And I’d wager you are entirely unaccustomed to difficulty in courting.”

“Difficulty?” He shot Granny an amused grin. Surely she was teasing him. “We’re moving slowly, I suppose, but things aren’t falling to ruin between the two of us.”

Granny rocked back and forth, her gaze narrowed on him. “I remember your courtship with Bridget. At this point in your acquaintance, the two of you were driving the lot of us out of our minds with all the sweetness and loving between you.”

Granny was near about the only person he could ever bear to discuss Bridget with. So much regret and sadness still clung to his memories of his young sweetheart. He’d put that behind him, he often reminded himself, but that didn’t mean he wished to talk about her.

The plaintive air echoing from Katie’s room gave way to another. She was choosing slow, sad tunes. Did that mean she was upset, or was it simply what came to mind?

“Perhaps I ought to go talk to Katie.” He spoke the thought out loud, but before he’d taken one step in the direction of Katie’s room, a knock sounded on the front door.