Hope Springs (40 page)

“Have them come tomorrow after supper,” Joseph said. “There’s no point putting this off, not when we could use help getting supplies over the river. And you are right: If we can convince even a few to let go of their hatred, we might change the course of this entire thing.”

Reverend Ford agreed, though tension and worry clouded the small ray of optimism in his eyes. Joseph understood the feeling. They were facing an uphill battle.

The preacher walked slowly back toward the road, looking across the river more than once. Joseph hoped this was the beginning of a much-needed change in Hope Springs.

A chilling blast of wind penetrated his thick coat. The temperature would drop drastically once the sun fully set.

Joseph knelt down on the blanket, facing Emma. “You have to go back inside now, Emma. It is far too cold.”

“But I want to hear Katie play. We can’t go to her house so I never hear her anymore.”

“Have you found the tune the two of you have been looking for all these months?”

Emma’s gaze dropped in something very much like guilt.

“Emma?”

“I don’t remember it anymore,” she admitted in a whisper. “I didn’t tell Katie, though, because I didn’t want her to stop playing for us.”

“My sweet Emma,” Joseph said. “Katie knows you love the music. She knows we all do; that’s why she plays for us. She won’t stop giving you her music no matter that you’re not searching for something in particular.”

She looked up at him, her eyes both hopeful and pleading. “Do you really think so?”

“I am absolutely certain of it.”

Emma’s shoulders rose and fell with a deep breath. “I wish she wasn’t so far away.”

Joseph chucked her under the chin. “You miss Katie, do you?”

Emma nodded.

“So do I,” he quietly admitted. “But eventually the river will freeze thick enough, and we’ll go fetch her. Then we’ll see if we can’t convince her and Mrs. Claire to come spend the rest of the winter at our house.”

“What if they won’t come?” Emma looked worried.

“Then we will take them all the food they could possibly need and plenty of wood for burning.”

Emma pondered that a minute. “I wish she would come live with us again, Papa. I liked it when she lived with us.”

He glanced at Finbarr. The boy was trying hard to appear as though he couldn’t hear them.

Joseph kept his response light. “I think you miss her cookies and cakes most of all.”

Emma smiled. “No. I miss
her
most of all.”

“Go along, sweetie,” he said. “Go warm up in the house and get ready for bed.”

“But, Papa—”

“Come along, sweet girl,” Finbarr cut in. “I’ll walk back up with you.”

Emma agreed. Bless Finbarr for stepping in and helping out. Finbarr walked back with her, keeping her close to him and her blanket firmly wrapped around her shoulders. He was a fine young man, one Joseph was proud to watch growing up.

Katie had stopped playing. She was only just closing her violin case, the instrument stowed away inside. She and Tavish were having a conversation punctuated with smiles. Was she really as happy with Tavish as she seemed? Joseph knew she could be happy with him as well if he were only given the chance to show her as much.

Tavish walked off with Katie’s violin. She pulled her coat more tightly around herself as she turned to look across at Joseph.

“Did Emma go inside?” she called out.

Joseph nodded. “It’s too cold.”

“Aye, and that’s the truth with no twists about it.”

Her Irish turns of phrase made him smile.

“My fiddle keeps losing its tune from the cold, and my fingers hurt so bad I can’t hardly stand to move them about.” She rubbed her arms. “I need to go check on Granny. It looks to be a bitter night, and she isn’t always careful to gather enough blankets before going to bed.”

“Good night, Katie.” How he wished they had even a little privacy so he could tell her how much he admired the care she took of her neighbors. He might even have worked up the courage to tell her more of his feelings. But those things shouldn’t be shouted.

She was gone quickly, the cold speeding her steps. As soon as the river was crossable, he told himself, he would find a moment to lay his heart out to her. She might reject it. She might have already given hers irretrievably to Tavish O’Connor. But he would try. Come what may, he would try.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Word spread quickly down the Irish Road the next day that there would be no meeting at the riverbank that night. The day had been too cold, with the air only growing more frigid. Everyone had agreed it would be for the best if they kept to the warmth of their houses.

Katie buttoned up Joseph’s coat, more grateful for it the past nights than she could say. Katie was bound for the river. None of the Irish would be there. But if there was even a chance Emma or Ivy or Joseph—she wanted to see him most of all—meant to go out that night, Katie wanted to be there. She needed to see them again.

She made certain Mrs. Claire had a warm fire and an adequate supply of blankets before leaving. She left her fiddle behind. As much as she would have liked to play for them, her fingers couldn’t bear another night in the cold. The fiddle itself likely couldn’t either.

The biting air hit her like a slap.
Heavens, but it’s cold tonight.
She secured her scarf over her face. She’d been warned not to breathe in through her nose without it. Only her feet were even the tiniest bit warm.
Thank you for that, Joseph.
She’d worried that night months ago when he saw her bare feet that he’d be disgusted by the sight of them, that he’d think less of her. But he’d understood. He’d understood enough to give her stockings to keep her feet warm and safe.

Katie had nearly reached the spot where the bridge had stood. The Irish were, of course, nowhere to be seen. But across the river, lights shone in the lower level of the Archer home. Silhouettes filled the windows.

Was Joseph having a party? She doubted it. More likely a gathering or meeting of some kind.

Wagons sat around the house. Horses stood about, draped with thick blankets, their breath clouding in front of them. This was no small affair.

A light flickered in the barn. Perhaps some of the guests were searching for a place in the barn for their horses.

Except why would they be searching in the loft?

Katie debated turning back. Joseph wouldn’t be waiting for her down at the river with a house full of people. The girls wouldn’t be out alone.

Unless Finbarr has brought them.

The least she could do was check. Her teeth chattered so hard her jaw hurt. Though she’d miss seeing the girls, Katie hoped they hadn’t come out in this weather.

The rope Joseph and Ian had looped from one side of the river to the other was still in place. They’d managed to tie it to Ciara’s fence but couldn’t anchor it in quite the right way for getting supplies across the water.

Crunching snow pulled her gaze and her thoughts toward Joseph’s barn. The shutter over the window facing her was closed, but she could see an outline of light, flickering like a single candle. Who would be in a barn loft in such cold weather?

She saw movement in the shadows at the base of the barn, then a sudden burst of flame. As always, the sight made her breath catch.

Someone had lit a torch. ’Twas a man, she could see that much. He was stocky, with broad shoulders. Katie watched as the man stepped from the shadows. He turned the tiniest bit, just enough for his face to be illuminated by the torchlight.

Bob Archibald.

A weight settled in her stomach. Katie had never seen the man without an evil glint in his eye. What trouble was he about this time?

Bob Archibald moved around the barn and out of sight. Katie inched to the edge of the river, watching for him to come back into sight. Minutes passed. She argued with herself, first insisting he wasn’t doing anything untoward. After all, there was a gathering just across the way at Joseph’s house, a gathering of the Red Road, she was certain. Mr. Archibald wasn’t likely to be up to tricks when amongst
his
side of this feud. And yet, the sick feeling in her stomach only grew.

He suddenly reappeared, moving quickly toward the house. He was nothing more than a shadow again. What had he done in the barn?

A more worrisome question occurred to her:
Where’s his torch?

Bob disappeared into the house. He didn’t look back.

She ran down the list in her mind of the many fires the town had seen in the past weeks. A small one at the smithy, followed by the larger one that destroyed it completely. The bridge burning to nothing but charred posts sticking out of the river.

She knew, even without smoke or flame, that he’d left the torch inside the barn, that he’d lit something on fire. She looked around frantically. There was someone in the loft. She’d seen the light up there. Someone was in the barn, and Bob Archibald more likely than not had set a fire inside.

“Help!” she called out. “Someone! Help!”

Nothing answered but the wind.

What could she possibly do? Someone was in danger. She couldn’t simply walk away.

Perhaps whoever was there would think to get down. But who would be hiding in the loft anyway?

Hiding. In the loft.

“Merciful heavens.” Ivy hid in the loft. Emma said she did it all the time. “Oh, sweet heavens.”

Katie looked out frantically over the river at the rope hanging there. She had to cross it. She simply had to.

She hooked her arm over the rope, holding it with both hands and stepped out onto the ice.

Please let this hold. Please. My baby girl’s in danger.

Her mind could think of nothing but Ivy.

She moved one step at a time along the slick ice, leaning heavily on the rope to keep her balance. How she hoped Joseph and Ian knew how to tie a good knot. If the ice broke underneath her, would the rope be enough to hold her? Would she fall through the ice? She held desperately to the rope, looking around while her mind spun. Was there any other way to do this? Was she panicking for no reason?

’Twas then she saw the first wisps of smoke rising from the barn. One of her girls was in danger. She would cross the river no matter what it took.

Afraid the force of a step would crack the fragile ice, Katie slid carefully but quickly. She held her breath as she reached the middle of the river.

One step at a time. Just one. Just one.

Without warning, the ice beneath her right foot gave way. The rope dug painfully into her armpit with the weight of her falling body. She desperately clung to the rope as her feet sought for something solid. Freezing water rushed into her boot, soaking through her stocking. She couldn’t find the ice, couldn’t find anywhere to put her foot.

Help me, please.

Smoke continued inching out of a lower window of the barn. No one was coming from the house. She’d seen no one leave the barn. With every bit of strength she could muster, she pulled herself forward on the rope, sliding the foot that still had contact with the ice and praying she wouldn’t slip. Her arms burned with the effort of keeping herself out of the water. Finally, she had both feet on the ice. There was no time for relief or rest.

On she moved. The ice gave again. Fear clutched her heart. Not fear for herself, but the horrifying possibility that she wouldn’t make it to Ivy in time. She reached her leg out as far she dared and set her toes on the ice. The rope tore at the sleeve of her coat as she dragged herself forward. Both her feet were soaked. She shook with cold and effort.

“I’m nearly there, Ivy,” she said. “I’m nearly there.”

The moment her feet reached the far bank, she ran.

“Help!” she shouted. “Someone!”

She threw open the barn doors. The air inside was far warmer than it was outside. She could smell smoke.

A flood of memories washed over her. Her mother’s screams. Her sister sobbing in fear. A rain of fire as the thatch roof of her childhood home fell down around her. The searing pain of her feet and legs burning beneath her.

You cannot stop now, Katie Macauley.

“Iv—”

Someone rushed passed her into the barn. After a quick moment, she realized it was Finbarr.

“Help me put this out,” he called back over his shoulder.

She moved to the back corner, where the smoke was thickest. The wall had begun smoldering, though there were no flames yet. The bits of hay on the floor were, thankfully, wet enough to be smoking more than burning.

Finbarr tossed a wool horse blanket to her. He beat at the heap of smoking hay with a blanket of his own. She understood without instruction. If they could beat down the fire before it got out of hand, they could save the barn—and Ivy.

Together they beat frantically at the cinders. The smoke grew ever thicker.

Just as she swung the blanket again, flames erupted on the wooden back wall. She stepped back.

I hate fire. I hate fire.

“I’ll let the animals out.” Finbarr rushed in that direction. “Get to the house.”