Now and Forever (95 page)

"Drop in? You make it sound like I'm living in an apartment on the next block."

You're going to have to make a decision soon, honey. I hope you'll be ready for it.

"A decision? What kind of decision?"

I can't tell you that. But I can say that if you follow your heart, you won't be sorry.

"How are you, Ma? Is everyone all right?"

You've only been gone two days, honey. Everyone's just fine.

"I miss you all so much," she said, blinking back tears.

You sound surprised.

"I am. Who would've thought I'd turn out to be such a wimp?"

He loves you, you know.

"Oh, my God!" Ginny Wylie, a Peeping Tom? "You didn't—?"

I'm insulted.

"Can't blame me for asking, Ma. You did read my diary when I was thirteen."

This is different.

Dakota laughed out loud. "You don't know the half of it . . . ."

Listen with your heart, honey, as well as your head, and everything will be just fine.

Dakota shivered as if a cold wind had moved across her skin. "What do you mean, he loves me?"

Silence.

"Ma?" Her voice rose in alarm. "I'm coming home as soon as I find Andrew and Shannon and the balloon. This was all some kind of cosmic mistake. I really wasn't meant to be here. Say something, Ma!"

Wouldn't you know it? The first time in her life that Dakota actually wanted romantic advice from her mother and Ginny vanished without a trace.

She fondled the silky skirt of the blue moiré between her fingers and sighed. She'd look like a flat-chested female impersonator in it. The rose made her look like a new red potato.

She hated it when her mother was right.

"Yellow it is," she said, struggling to ease the garment over her head and not suffocate beneath the weight of the skirts. Dozens of tiny pearl buttons ran down her back and for the life of her she couldn't think of a way to fasten them other than throwing herself on the mercy of a parlormaid.

She was considering changing into the blue dress with the buttons in the front when Abigail's scream split the air.

"What on earth--?" She'd seen the child not more than twenty minutes ago and, except for the sore throat, everything had been fine.

Gown still undone, she hurried down the hallway to the child's bedroom, where she found Abigail huddled near the window in the fetal position.

"Abby!" She ran to her side. "What's wrong?"

The child lifted her eyes to Dakota, but it was clear Abigail saw something—or someone—else standing before her. The child clutched her throat, pulling at the collar of her plain cotton dress as if it were choking the very life from her.

Dakota unfastened the top two buttons, but it didn't help. Abigail pushed Dakota's hands away and struggled for breath. She ahd the same look in her eyes she'd had last night when Dakota had comforted her after her bad dream.

"Abby, can you speak to me?" Dakota asked as she tried to hold the girl in her arms. "Please say something!"

A sheen of sweat broke out over the child's upper lip as she struggled to form a word.

"What was that?" Dakota leaned closer, straining to hear. "Say it again!"

"An-Andrew."

The hairs on the back of her neck rose. "What about Andrew?"

"The hangman," she said, same as she had last night. "The tree by the grey house—"

"What house?" Her head was buzzing and the sound grew louder with each word Abigail uttered. "Where is the tree, Abby?"

"The mountains," Abigail said, erupting into noisy tears. "The big red ball can't save him!"

Abigail's words seemed to be traveling toward her through a wind tunnel. "Abby, please, you have to tell me what you see! Where is the big red ball? Is anybody on it? What—"

"Papa!" Abigail cried out, looking past Dakota. "Papa!"

Dakota turned toward the door in time to see Devane cross the threshold. Before he could say a word, the child hurled herself at him, crying as if her heart would break.

He pulled back, his spine stiffening noticeably, but Abigail would not be denied. She hung on to him for dear life, her words lost amid the tears, but his hands remained resolutely at his sides.

His eyes met Dakota's. The world and everything in it seemed to come into sharp focus. His expression remained impassive but this time it was different. This time she could see beneath the surface, past his anger and his pain, to the part of his soul he hid from the world.

You have a heart,
she thought, willing him to hear her plea.
Does it matter whose blood runs through her veins? Even if you must send her away tomorrow, hold her close today while you still can. She's only a little girl and she loves you so much.

Devane looked down at Abigail. The child's shoulders shook with her sobs. She was so tiny, so fragile despite the enormity of her spirit, and once upon a time she'd been the most important thing in the world to him.

Remember
! Dakota pleaded silently.
Remember how much you loved her.

Whether or not Susannah's parting words had been true, the fact remained that in all the ways that mattered Abigail was Devane's daughter and always would be. He was the one who had held her when she cried. He was the one who had stood over her cradle and dreamed of her future. Nothing Susannah had done mattered compared to that.

Touch her, Patrick! Just reach out and touch her and it will all fall into place.

Dakota held her breath as he lifted his right hand, then slowly brought it to rest atop the child's head.

#

The child's hair was cool to the touch. The shiny brown strands were soft as the finest silk, and a powerful flood of memories, long buried, welled up deep inside Patrick's chest as he cupped her head with his hand.

Not that long ago he'd held her in his arms, terrified he might hurt her. She'd been an infant then, a tiny slip of a thing, helpless as a baby bird fallen from the nest. He'd trembled when the nursemaid placed her in his arms, and had tried to hand the blanket-wrapped bundle back to the woman, but then the infant had looked up at him with her serious grey eyes and he'd felt the walls around his heart crumble and fall at his feet.

Same as they were right now.

He cleared his throat, aware of the intensity of Dakota Wylie's gaze.

"What is the problem here?" His tone was gruff but he did not break the connection between himself and Abigail.

"The hangman!" Abigail cried out in a voice he'd never heard before. She sounded terrified, as if she'd witnessed something unspeakable.

"A bad dream?" he asked.

Dakota shook her head.

"I do not understand," he said cautiously, wondering what had become of the straight path his life had been. "What is this talk of the hangman?"

"The two men," Abigail cried, tugging at his sleeve. He could see some of the terror giving way to a determination far beyond her years. "The tree by the grey house. . . . " Her words drifted into soft sobs and he let his hand slip from her head to her shoulders and held her close.

"It's a premonition," Dakota said., "Your daughter also has second sight."

"I hardly think Abigail is a seer."

"Think again, Patrick. She has the gift."

It would explain so much about the child. How many times had Abigail surprised him with a bit of knowledge or information that seemed out of keeping with her tender years?

"You believe this to be true?" he asked Dakota.

She nodded. "Absolutely."

He knelt in front of the child and, without thinking, brushed the tears from her cheeks with the tip of his forefinger. It was the first spontaneous gesture he had allowed himself toward her since Susannah had shattered his dreams.

Awkwardly he placed his arm about her fragile shoulders, and the child seemed to blossom before his eyes. A wave of guilt assailed him. It took so little to make her happy and for the first time he wondered if he had made the wrong choices.

"The hangman is at the ready," Abigail said. "Now that the snow has stopped they can hang the rope from the big tree behind the house."

Patrick's eyes locked with Dakota's. Every house in the Colony of New Jersey had at least one big tree behind it.

Dakota crouched down in front of Abigail. "Honey, your papa and I are going to go for a carriage ride. Would you like to come with us?" And if she saw a grey house. . .

The elation on the child's face was painful to his eyes. "May I, Papa?"

He cleared his throat then said gruffly, "Yes, yes, of course you may. Two o'clock, Abigail. In the front parlor."

He turned toward the door but not before Dakota saw the glint of tears in his eyes.

#

Abigail clutched Lucy to her chest as she sat on the edge of the top step and waited for the hall clock to toll two times. Her heart was beating so loudly inside her chest that it hurt her ears.

"Oh, Lucy!" she whispered. "Papa wants me to ride with him in the carriage." And even better than that, better than anything in the world, he had hugged her just like her friend Mary's papa hugged his children.

She leaped to her feet as the clock began to toll. Dakota had helped her put on her very best dress, a green-sprigged muslin that made her feel almost pretty. She smoothed the skirt and brushed a fleck of dust from her scuffed kid slippers, then flew down the stairs as if she had wings.

Papa stood near the door. He looked so handsome in his pale breeches and dark brown wool cape, and his hair scraped back and tied with a strip of leather.

"Abigail." His mouth quirked up at the sides as he turned toward her. "You look very pretty in that dress."

She buried her face against Lucy's yarn hair. "Thank you, Papa."

"Your hair," he said, looking at her closely. "Is it different somehow?"

"Dakota combed it smooth then tied it with a piece of velvet ribbon."

"It becomes you," he said, nodding. "You should comb it that way all the time."

She would! She would comb her hair and tie it with a velvet ribbon every single day of her life if it meant papa would smile at her like that, as if he loved her and was glad she was his little girl.

#

Jacob Wentworth, one of the good citizens of Franklin Ridge, watched their departure from his front door, his face taut with silent disapproval. If he had a shotgun, Dakota had no doubt the three of them—Patrick, Abigail and herself—would resemble Swiss cheese by now.

"You were right," Dakota said as she accompanied Patrick and Abigail back to their waiting carriage. "Everybody
does
hate you."

Patrick gave her a sidelong glance in the gathering dusk. "'Tis as I thought it would be."

"Ten houses and nobody would open their door to us," she continued. "They wouldn't even invite us in when Abby asked."

"Will you now allow me to obtain information in my own way?"

"I can't believe people would be so rude," Dakota went on, ignoring him. "Whatever happened to hospitality? It's freezing out here. Wouldn't you think someone would at least offer us a cup of hot cider?"

"Mayhap if the cider were laced with poison."

She couldn't argue with that. The withering hatred they'd encountered had put a new spin on everything.
So, you're not the heartless monster you pretend to be with Abby,
she thought. She began to understand why he had made the decision to send Abby away. There could be no future for the little girl as long as Patrick was ostracized by the townspeople. The only hope for the little girl was to send her to the Girls' School of the Sacred Heart where she would be accepted into the fold in a way she could never be here in Franklin Ridge.

Abigail ran ahead through the snow to investigate a fallen bird's nest at the edge of the woods.