Chapter Eight

A sturdy wind keened through the birch and oaks. Overhead, the sun had disappeared, darkening the sky in muted shades of gray and indigo. Lost in thought of memories of Dawson, Rory urged Charmer through a narrow path in the woods. She would never pass this way again without thinking of the day Hiram hijacked her carriage and took her captive. A shiver rattled her bones but she would never allow fear to dictate her life again. She faced an uncertain future but would not let it paralyze her, even if her mouth went dry and her brain commanded her breaths to slip into panting mode. This time, she would listen to her prophetic heart and not be swayed from her mission.

She found Isabelle in the kitchen stocking the pantry with the last of the summer squash. Her sister looked up; her brow creased in an expression of worry. "Lass, has something happened?"

Rory offered her sister a dismissive wave. "All is well. Anne's looking after Haven and Aaron was doing whatever he does in the barn when I left."

Isabelle seemed to release a breath she didn't know she'd been holding.

"What? I can't call on my sister on the spur of the moment?"

Her brother-in-law materialized beside her, his calm voice bolstering her courage. "I saw you ride in, and you know you can call on us anytime without an invitation."

"I'm glad you're here, Jon. I want to speak to you too."

Isabelle grabbed something from a shelf in the pantry and motioned them both toward the table. "I made a pound cake this morning. Let's have a slice or two with a cup of coffee."

Rory looked at the sky overhead and realized soon the landscape would be blanketed with ice and snow. She wouldn’t be able to make this journey again until spring. "I could use a hot mug of coffee about now."

Isabelle sliced the cake and poured the coffee while Rory wondered how best to broach the subject that hadn't been well received on a prior occasion. At the onset, Rory fostered hope Dawson had lived through the attack by renegades. Jon and Isabelle, believing they had her best interests at heart, did their best to lead her away from that train of thought. But then Jon and Isabelle didn't possess the impenetrable bond she shared with Dawson.

When at last Isabelle settled into a chair, Rory pulled Clark's letter from her reticule and placed it on the table. "Your son sends his love. Allow me to share his letter with you."

Jon nodded and Isabelle smiled. When Rory finished, they exchanged glances before turning to her again.

"I know you don't want me to go down this road again," Rory began. "But I'm having great difficulty accepting Dawson is gone—"

"Understandably, lass." Jon's expression softened. "Everyone deals with death and grieves in different ways."

"No, that's not what I mean." Rory's tone escalated. "I could, no, let me rephrase. I would accept his passing if my own eyes could dispel the truth."

Tears pooled in Isabelle's eyes. "As hard as it is, we will never have a body to view. I'm sure the army would prefer to bring their casualties home, or at the least, conduct a proper burial, but—"

"Stop. Both of you please stop." Rory blew air through her lips and tempered her words. "He's not dead, I tell you. I would know, here." She placed a hand over her heart. "I know you don't understand any of what I'm saying and I'm not sure I understand." Her voice dropped. "I'm not so overwhelmed with grief that I won't accept the finality. It's that I don't feel the finality. Every cell, every fiber in my body tells me he's still here, breathing the same air, walking the same earth."

Her sister shook her head. "We understand you want that to be true more than anything in the world but the army isn't accustomed to sending letters willy-nilly."

"I don't care about General Sibley's letter." She tapped her finger against the envelope on the table. "Read Clark's missive again. He said, 'I wasn't with him when he fell'. He didn't say, 'I saw him die.'

"Rory, this has to stop. If it doesn't, you'll lose your mind."

Jon put a hand in the air. "All right, my bonnie lassies, let's calm down." Locking gazes with Rory, he continued. "Darlin' if it's true that everyone is wrong and by some miracle he lived, why hasn't he contacted you in the last several months?"

"Don't you think I've asked myself that very thing a thousand times? I cannot explain that any more than I can explain how I know he is not dead . . . gone to us forever."

Isabelle shook her head and closed her eyes. "Dreams, you've been having dreams about him, that's all."

Anger smoldered in her heart. "I don't dream now, Isabelle, I nightmare."

"What does that mean?"

"In dreams, Dawson walked toward me, whispering my name. In nightmares, he's a wandering apparition with blackened eyes and arms flailing."

Isabelle opened her eyes. "I understand messages sent while we sleep, and I know all about premonitions, even murky visions, but in this case, I think you're misguided."

"My connection to him has not been severed." The air pulsed with tension. "Not in this life; and I'm telling you, I would know deep down in my bones."

"Look," Jon said, turning to his wife. "What harm is done if she needs to . . . I mean wishes to, harbor the notion?"

Isabelle blew a disgusted puff of air.

"Tell you what." He focused on Rory again. "Until spring, lass. If it goes on beyond that, your sister and I will have to insist you stop with this train of thought." His voice sterner now, he added, "At some time you have to come to grips with the fact that we lost Dawson. We want you to be happy, get on with your life. Can we all agree we'll not discuss this again then until spring?"

Isabelle gave a reluctant nod. "Perhaps Jon is right. There's no harm in giving everyone a little time to deal with it in their own way."

Eager to change the topic and bring normalcy back to the special bond she shared with Jon and Isabelle, Rory changed the subject. "Speaking of getting on with my life, Markham stopped by this morning, before Mister Hardy delivered Clark's letter."

Isabelle raised an inquisitive brow. "Is that a possibility, a future for you and Markham?"

Rory brushed a hand across her lips. "I cannot imagine it right now. He seems to think it makes sense." For the first time since she'd arrived at their house, she gave a brief smile. "He said Haven and I would be no trouble. Said nothing about love."

Isabelle reached across the table and squeezed her hand. "He's always cared about you, lass."

She shrugged. "Like I said, I cannot allow myself to think about Markham or a future with another man. Yet, maybe caring is enough from now on." Rory gripped the edge of the table and found her feet. "I must get going, promised Anne I'd be back to see to supper."

Jon and Isabelle also rose and embraced her. "Somehow we'll get through this." Her sister cupped her face. "We come from strong Scottish stock, remember that."

Rory nodded. "And I'll remember how lucky I am to have you both."

Jon walked her to Charmer, waited until she mounted and then bid her goodbye.

On the ride home, Rory's mind was a jumbled mass of chaotic thoughts. Only one kept her sane: Somehow Dawson did not die that day on the dust-ridden plains of Dakota Territory.

* * *

Hands on hips, Rory stood in the garden. A few short weeks ago, the rows strained under the weight of harvest, but now the garden was empty. Like her heart. Anne had helped with the goose-necked squash, the plump pumpkins, and both had diced and sliced until their fingers were blistered. After boiling everything in salt water, they stuffed the vegetables into jars and shelved them in the pantry.

A handsome young man at fourteen, Aaron now took full responsibility for the care of the livestock, mended broken fences and chinked the holes and cracks in the outbuildings. Anne, at seventeen, not only helped with putting up the winter stores, but cooked meals and assisted in caring for Haven.

Appreciated most of all, her niece and nephew sat beside her near the hearth through the long, lonely evenings, their thoughts or opinions about the missing, presumed dead Dawson hidden beneath masks of concern and compassion. When spring arrived, Anne and Aaron would return home. In the meantime, Rory thanked the heavens for their presence.

Rory tried hard to be thankful when Thanksgiving arrived but the effort was futile. Night and day, she thought about Dawson, and the belief he still lived, refused to abandon her. She donned a joyous demeanor through the Christmas holiday, for Haven's sake and because Jon and Isabelle would expect nothing less. It didn't help that both her sister and Jon watched her like hawks, their inner thoughts indiscernible. As promised, they didn't speak of Dawson again, but Rory knew when spring arrived, one of them would broach the subject again . . . or expect to see her making plans for a new future. The journal kept her sane, the one where she wrote to Dawson, jotted down Haven's every accomplishment—when she began to crawl, her first step, her first word. How comforting it was to peruse the entries and know that one day he'd return and read them too.

It's not merely wishful thinking, it's not. I know it with every beat of my desolate heart.