Ship of Dreams (37 page)

"Hello!" he called to a uniformed man near the tracks. "You there! May I speak with you a moment?"

The man ambled over to the gig. "Can I help you?"

"I fervently hope so," Kent replied. "Have you seen a young woman within the past hour or so? Red hair, probably dressed in black." He hadn't thought to ask what Della wore, but as his supposed widow, black seemed a good guess.

The man tilted back his head to peer up at Kent from under the brim of his hat. "Yep, she was here. Tried to talk me into lettin' her board the next train, saying she'd pay at the other end of the line. Felt sorry for her, young widow and all, but rules are rules. Can't afford to lose my job."

Kent let out a breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding, feeling suddenly weak with relief. "Can you tell me where she went?"

Scratching his chin, the man considered. "I wasn't paying real close attention. There were other folks in line to buy tickets, you see. Perhaps one of them will remember." He motioned to the group on the platform.

"Would you mind asking them?" Kent asked. "I'm—" he gestured to his wrapped leg.

"No problem at all." Walking over to the others, the man asked a few questions, then came back. "Gent there says he seen her walking off down the tracks, westward." He pointed. "If she's hoping to reach the next station that way, she's a ways to go. It's near twenty miles away."

Kent peered down the track, but saw no sign of anyone. A path beside the tracks was wide enough for his gig, however. "Thank you, sir. Thank you very much." He reached into his pocket, only belatedly realizing that he had no money with him. So intead, he tipped his hat, then snapped the reins to head after Della. In a few minutes, a very few minutes, they would be together!

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Della pulled out her handkerchief to mop her brow again. What was the matter with her? Back in California, she had often walked ten or fifteen miles in a day, simply because it was the cheapest way to get anywhere. Had she lost all her stamina?

No, she had just lost heart, she realized. She had no real goal in mind now, but was simply trudging west along the railroad track with the vague plan of establishing herself somewhere else, under a new name. What else was left for her to do?

Briefly, her disobedient mind lingered over the bright plans she and Kent had woven together—plans she had vowed she would never think of again. She should have known such a life was not for her. Love, stability, knowing what tomorrow might bring ... "I'd have been bored inside of a month," she told herself fiercely.

But even as she spoke the words aloud, her nose began to tingle, that too-familiar prickle started behind her eyes, and a tear slipped down her cheek, followed by another. She quickened her pace, as though she could outrun her grief, sobbing as she went.

Why? Why did life have to be so
hard?
Some people—like Caroline Cadbury—never seemed to face hardship. Why did she? Again, she mopped her brow, then blew her nose defiantly, rejecting her self-pity.

She had no desire whatsoever to be like Caroline, she reminded herself. Vain, shallow, hypocritical, petty and cruel. At least Kent hadn't died without knowing real love—something he never would have received from his fiancée. Della had given him that much.

The tears threatened again, but just then she heard the crunch of wheels on the graveled path behind her. Without a backward glance, she slipped into the trees to her left, hoping whoever it was hadn't seen her. She'd been foolish to argue with the railroad station attendant. He would remember her now, if anyone asked, and might even have seen which way she went.

The trees weren't thick here, but a large oak several yards from the path offered a reasonable hiding place. Ducking behind it, she squashed down her hoops with her hands and turned to watch the vehicle that approached. It was a one-horse gig, with a single driver. He had been moving quickly, but now he was slowing. He must have seen her.

She pulled back behind the tree and held very still, though she knew the spread of her black skirt must be visible. Though she hadn't gotten a good look at the driver, she thought it might be Charles Bradford, in which case he would be looking specifically for her, under his mother's direction. If he followed her on foot, she'd never escape him. She thought quickly, trying to formulate an argument that might convince him to let her go.

"Della?"

Yes, it must be Charles, for the voice sounded heart-wrenchingly like Kent's. She pressed her lips firmly together and remained where she was. Maybe he would drive on.

"Della, please come out," came the voice again, so familiar it made her vitals contract in sudden pain. Maybe she should dare a quick peek, just in case ... No! That was foolishness—mere wishful thinking.

"I don't think I can get out of this thing by myself," her pursuer continued, "and I'd hate for our reunion to occur with me flat on my face."

She began to shake, wanting to believe, afraid to believe, but completely unable to resist looking, even knowing it was probably a trick. "Kent?" she whispered, peering back toward the gig.

He saw her at once, but instead of leaping down, he waved, then motioned her to approach. She did, one disbelieving step at a time, poised for flight the moment the illusion dissipated. But it did not. With every step, the man in the gig looked less like Charles and more like ...

"Kent?" she repeated, her voice rising with hope and emotion that threatened to overflow into rapture.

"Yes, Della, it's really me. I'm alive. And you're safe now." He smiled, and it was really, truly Kent's smile.

"Oh! Oh!" She began to run toward him, faster and faster, heedless of her hoops. Then, just a step or two from the gig, she tripped over her skirts and fell face-first into the dust and gravel. Even that could not dampen her spirits, however, and she pushed herself up at once. "Oh, Kent!" she sputtered happily.

"I guess I should have tried to climb down after all," said the familiar, beloved voice. "Now you've ended up flat on your face, instead." She looked up to find his arms outstretched, to help her up by his side.

Ignoring the dirt and scrapes on her hands, she gladly put them into his, and lightly sprang up into the gig. He folded her against him in a tight embrace, and then she was kissing him, hugging him, things she'd despaired of ever doing again. "Kent! Oh, Kent!" was all she could manage to say between kisses.

Not until he released her did she notice his leg. "What—?" she began, but he silenced her with another kiss. For a long moment she could only revel in being transported so abruptly from purgatory to paradise, but finally reality intruded again.

"How?" she asked wonderingly. "How can you be here? It's been weeks ..."

Kent held her face between his hands, gazing deeply, lovingly, into her eyes with his own dear golden brown ones. "And I spent every minute of that time dreaming of you—of this moment. It's the only thing that kept me alive, Della. You kept me alive."

She gazed back rapturously, still barely able to believe any of this could be true. Looking at him more closely now, she realized how gaunt he was, his cheeks sunken and his arms thinner than she remembered. And his poor, maimed leg. "It's a miracle," she breathed. "But what happened?"

He pulled her to him again, draping one arm around her shoulders so that she could nestle against his side. "It's a long story, and even I don't remember all of it. After the wreck, I drifted for days—nine days, they tell me—along with three others. There were more of us, at first, but ... "

His voice trailed off, and he swallowed hard before he continued. "Finally we were rescued, and after changing to another ship, we eventually reached New York just before dawn this morning. The details you can read in the papers, for I'm sure every reporter in the city has heard them twenty times by now." He grinned, repudiating the undoubted horrors of his experience.

Della gazed up at him, her heart too full for words. Addie's prayers had been answered, and then Virginia's, and now hers. Ten minutes ago she had cursed her ill-fortune, but now she knew she must be the luckiest woman alive. Luck of the Irish.

Kent's next words sobered her a bit, however. "Now let's get you home so we can pick up where we left off, shall we?" He released her so that he could have both hands on the reins, carefully turning the gig around on the narrow path.

"Home? You mean ... your mother's house?" Though she tried, she could not keep the apprehension from her voice.

The turn accomplished, he flicked the horse into a trot, then pulled her against him again, protectively. "I won't let them mistreat you," he promised. "With me there, they won't dare."

Dusk was falling, and Della realized that though she'd been gone two hours, Kent could not have been home for long. He must have set out after her almost the moment he arrived. She would not mar his homecoming with her fears. So instead of speaking, she snuggled against him for the brief drive back to the house she had sworn she would never enter again.

Several people erupted from the house as they pulled to a stop. Della saw Mrs. Bradford, Kent's two sisters— and Caroline Cadbury and her mother. Della stiffened, but Kent only tightened his clasp about her shoulders.

Charles rode up just then, and jumped down from his horse so that he could help Kent disembark from the gig. Then he swung Della down with an encouraging wink. She smiled back uncertainly, grateful that at least one person other than Kent might not condemn her. Then she turned to face the others, forcing herself to meet their eyes.

Of the group assembled on the wide front step, only Judy's face held any trace of sympathy. The expressions of the others ranged from distaste to outrage. Della's heart, so recently soaring, began a faltering descent. Still, she would not let them see that they intimidated her. Holding first Caroline's gaze, then Mrs. Bradford's, she lifted her chin.

Kent took her hand firmly in his. "I believe you all know Della Gilliland Bradford—my wife."

Mrs. Bradford's lips tightened into a thin, implacable line as her eyes met Della's. "We'll discuss her true name and status later," she snapped. "Right now, Kent, you must come inside and rest. Dinner will be served in an hour."

Della realized that Kent's mother was on the verge of collapse, for all the uncompromising front she put on. And no wonder. In one day, her long-lost younger son had returned, she had mourned her elder son, heard Della's confession, then had her dead son abruptly raised to life. Now Della, by her very presence, was adding to the woman's strain.

"I'll go upstairs and change," she suggested, as the others headed for the parlor. "Black no longer seems appropriate."

Kent gripped her hand for a moment, unwilling to let her go. His eyes held a question.

"I'll be fine," she whispered. "Go join your family."

Though he still frowned, she slipped away from him and hurried up the wide, curving staircase, her satchel in her hand. Though hope had reentered her life with Kent's reappearance, she had no more idea now of what her future might hold than she had an hour before. One thing she was still sure of—she would never survive in Kent's world.

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CHAPTER 23

And now 'twas like all instruments,

Now like a lonely flute;

And now it is an angel's song,

That makes the heavens be mute.

—Samuel Taylor Coleridge

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

Reluctantly, with one last glance up the stairway where Della had disappeared, Kent allowed his sisters to lead him into the parlor. He couldn't blame her for wanting to change out of her black dress, especially as it had been dirtied when she fell, but he hated to let her out of his sight for even a few minutes.

"It seems the girl has
some
sense," his mother remarked sourly as Judy again arranged Kent's injured leg on the divan. "Now we have a chance to talk, without the awkwardness that would attend her presence. Kenton, I beg you not to do anything rash."

He glared at her. "When have you ever known me to do anything rash, Mother? I'm not—" He broke off with a glance at Charles, who appeared not at all offended.

"You're not me," his brother finished for him with a grin. "But it looks as though you may finally be coming to your senses, if Miss, er, Della is any indication."

Kent wasn't sure whether he wanted Charles' support or not. "Just why did you decide to return home after all these years?"

Charles shrugged. "I've had enough of the roving life. I'm almost thirty years old, after all, and have seen half the cities in the world by now—and made myself unwelcome in most of them," he added with another grin. "It's time I thought about settling down. This seemed the obvious place."