The Thorn Bearer Read online

  The shop lights drew Stephen from his frightened posture and he lifted a curious gaze green gaze to the room. His father’s eyes.

  “Oh, darlin’, you’ve come just in time.” A woman, hair aflame with orange and red, drew Ashleigh into her arms. “I’ve but one room left and it goes to you and the sweet lad here.”

  “How kind of you.” Ashleigh’s smile pierced into her sun-scorched face. “Would you have a bit of food as well? I can pay.”

  “Pay?” The woman’s grey eyes softened. “I think you’ve paid enough today. Sweet saints above, this tragedy’s struck at the heart of our town. Many of the townsfolk heard the explosion from the beach, and watched the ship go down. It’s a miracle any of you are standin’ here.”

  Ashleigh fought for composure, and the woman shook her head. Another miracle? “Thank you for your kindness.”

  “Ah, but the good Lord would ask nothing else, would he? Who knows if the lot of you is angels in disguise?” The woman teased a grin from Stephen with a tickle to his chin. “My name’s Elsa Roop, and this is my father’s bakery, but we have three bedrooms for hire upstairs.” She guided Ashleigh to a table. “Sit here with Mrs. Dunby and have some biscuits while I fetch more tea.”

  Ashleigh stopped the woman with a touch. “Do you know if there are more boats to come in tonight?”

  “I can’t say, miss. There’ve been all sorts comin’ to the wharf for hours.” Her expression took on a knowing look. “Looking for someone?”

  “Two young American men.”

  The woman’s brow creased. “I shall put a word out and see what I can find.”

  “Thank you.” Ashleigh eased into the chair and broke a biscuit in half for Stephen. His navy suit twisted with wrinkles. The simple act of kindness encouraged more tears. She couldn’t seem to stop them and she hated crying.

  The tragedy. The loss. Neither words nor thoughts could wrap around it.

  She’d wanted Michael to suffer, but not like this. And Sam? She’d rather him know the truth and reject her than lose him at the bottom of the sea. Dear God, please save him. Save them both.

  It was almost eleven o’clock when Ashleigh finally placed Stephen in bed, clean pajamas snug on his little body. Mrs. Roop worked another miracle in sending for fresh clothes. Her own new shirtwaist and skirt sagged a little from being too large, but they were dry. She tucked the blankets around Stephen; his deep and even breaths whispered of a restful sleep and peaceful memories. The sweetness of his golden curls framing his cherub face caught her breath. Dear, motherless boy. Her sigh quivered. Was he an orphan now? Her fingers glided over his soft cheek. What were they going to do?

  She stood and slipped from the room, leaving the door ajar to hear him from below.

  Ashleigh followed Elsa’s humming to the kitchen.

  “You’re not asleep?” Elsa stared at Ashleigh, then understanding filled her eyes. “Ah, your heart is restless for your sweetheart, is it? Go on.” She waved a spoon toward the door. “I’ll see to the lad while you’re gone.” She stepped over and touched Ashleigh’s arm. “Me brother just got back from the wharf and it’s none too easy to look upon, he says.”

  Ashleigh straightened her shoulders, readied for the battle. “No.” Visions of their arrival a few hours earlier flashed through her mind in heart wrenching detail. “But I must try to find him.” She cleared her throat. “Them.”

  Elsa nodded. “Of course you must. Take the lantern by the door and my coat to keep you from the evenin’ chill.” Elsa gestured forward. “And no worries about the wee babe. You’ve enough on your mind.”

  Ashleigh nodded, unwilling to tempt her voice again, and stepped from the house.

  The scene on the street mirrored the one from hours before. Men and women roamed about, many with vacant expressions and soiled clothes, so caught up in the visions of the past day they had difficulty seeing the present. She knew. Screams and silence still echoed in her ears and she wasn’t certain which one was worse.

  She followed the trail of lanterns to the crowded wharves, where men continued to unload their boats. The eerie pale glow of the gas torches added haunting solemnity to their task. Her throat tightened. Most of the people being brought from the boats came in horizontal form, not walking…or breathing.

  She approached a man in uniform. “Hello, sir. I’m looking for…” The word caught in her throat. “The morgue, if you please.”

  He gave her a keen examination and his gaze softened. “Which one, Miss?”

  Which one? She steadied her breathing, eyes burning. “How many are there?”

  “Four, as far as I know.”

  Ashleigh looked away to gain her composure, her fist pressed against her chest. “I see.”

  “And two hospitals.” His voice perked up a little, more hopeful than her heart. “One private. Have you checked those yet?”

  She pushed her fear down deep. No, she would not imagine the worst first. Her gaze, and a touch of hope, steadied on him. “Might you point me in the direction of the nearest one?”

  She took his instructions and made her way through the night to the first place. Moans greeted her in the doorway, followed by the sickeningly sweet scent of morphine combined with whisky. People lined the walls, half on cots, half spread across the floor in a patchwork array of wounded, dead, or dying. She assessed the patients nearby, mentally cataloging those who might see the light of another day, and those whose wounds suggested a nearer end to their sufferings. Of course, appearances were never an assurance.

  A woman, arm limp at her side, moaned to the nun who attended the scratches on her face. A man lay still and pale, scarlet seeping through the bandage about his head. On and on the rows grew, no respecter of class, race, or age.

  Ashleigh walked among them, nursing instincts rising to cover her pain. The cool numbness of logic stole away the chaos of feeling. Each room opened into another, filled with rows upon rows of strangers.

  The second hospital yielded the same results. No one had seen a light-haired man fitting Sam or Michael’s description. Gone? A sharp sting sliced through her deadened senses. Not Sam, Lord? Please, not Sam. I’ll give You every part of my life, but spare him. Please.

  She grabbed the doorframe for support, as the ache in her heart swelled through her chest, stealing her breath. He couldn’t be gone. Tears came, blurring her vision. How would she make it through the morgues? All four of them? Searching for the one face she ached to see alive.

  “Ashleigh?”

  She wiped a palm across her face and turned away from the room. Now she was hearing things.

  “Ashleigh.”

  She stopped at the sound of her name. Was God calling her again? She looked around. A nun walked by, sending her a cursory glance, but nothing else. Was she still hearing Sam’s voice, even beyond the grave?

  “Ashleigh,” the voice repeated, raspy, weak, but wonderfully familiar.

  Ashleigh pushed away from the doorway and searched the faces nearby, frantic to find the owner of the voice.

  Across the small crowded room, a cerulean blue gaze came into focus, blurring out every other sound or sight around it. Was it Sam? The face, head…the entire upper body was covered in some sort of gray ash. His hair lay matted against his head in a heap of black soot. The black lips spread into a white smile and those piercing blue eyes cut out all uncertainty. Sam. She stumbled forward with a sob. Alive.

  She fairly ran across the room and collapsed to her knees at his bedside. “Sam. You’re alive.” She took his lifeless hand into hers and kissed it, tears dropping from her cheeks to wash against his gray skin. “I thought…”

  The possibility muted her words. She couldn’t speak it. She pressed her lips back against his hand, afraid to let go. Thank the Lord. The prayer slipped out unbidden, but what else was she to do when her heart beat so full with gratitude? Her tears left trails on his hand. She swept her fingers over them to reveal some sort of gray powder.

  “Coal dust,” Sam rasped. “F
unnel.”

  It took a few seconds for his words to register. Her lips came unhinged. “You were pulled down into a funnel?”

  He nodded and offered a weak smile. “Spit out.”

  She touched his face, her thumb wiping back one of his tears to show skin underneath. “Oh, thank heavens.”

  He raised a brow. “Miracle?”

  She couldn’t help but smile. “It would seem so, wouldn’t it? Are you going to force me to admit you were right about something?”

  “Always right.” His gaze caressed her face. “You okay?”

  Ashleigh brushed back a strand of his soot-covered hair. “After the boat collapsed, I was pulled atop an overturned lifeboat.” She laughed and squeezed his hand again. “You’re alive.” She took a handkerchief from her pocket and began to wipe at his face, her pulse slowing. “The ship sank so fast. The loss...”

  His weak smile softened. “You’re safe.” He whispered the words as if that was enough for him. “Michael?”

  “I don’t know.” She lowered her eyes to the tattered blanket draped over his lap, her thoughts darkening. “I haven’t checked everywhere yet, however.”

  He sighed his regret.

  “I have his son, Stephen.”

  His eyes widened. “How?”

  “I caught him in my arms as we fell. His mother didn’t—”

  Sam gave the slightest squeeze to her hand and the bond between them forged deeper. “Can you walk?”

  He gave his head a slight shake and pushed himself up to a taller sitting position. “Not without help. Weak.”

  Side effects of hypothermia. Hopefully it would be temporary weakness and no permanent nerve damage. She stiffened her shoulders to keep a cringe away. Four hours or more in those cold waters didn’t promise full recovery. Muscles pulled taut against his soiled shirt. Sam was young and healthy. Her throat went dry. Two facts she wasn’t likely to forget.

  “If I support you, do you think you could walk?”

  He lifted a brow and a corner of his mouth in challenge.

  “If I didn’t know you better, my dear Sam, I would suspect you of doubting my abilities.”

  His smile spread to a full white grin, a striking contrast to his gray-hued face.

  “Let me check with your nurse and see if I can take you with me.”

  His hand tightened around hers, stopping her from leaving. She turned back to him, twin trails of tears making paths down his coal-covered cheeks.

  “You’re safe.”

  His words whispered with the same relief pumping in her heart, but safe? Until her emotions cooled to indifference, she was anything but safe in Sam’s presence.

  Chapter Nine

  Sam thought we would never have full feeling in his arms and legs again…until Ashleigh informed him they were sharing a room. Pinpricks of heat spiked up his legs jolting his heart to life. Not that there was any fear of impropriety. His arms drooped as limp as a string and his fingers barely moved at all.

  But his thoughts worked perfectly fine. Too well, in fact, probably making up for his general numbness from the chin down at present.

  Lamplight from the street lanterns haloed Ashleigh’s pale face as they made their way along the cobblestone path. Lying weak and useless in the hospital for hours gave him time to pray and worry, fearing the worst. He relived their trip over in his mind, a whole ream of new feelings waking. Ashleigh? When he recognized her as she walked from patient to patient in the hospital, energy surged through his weakened body like heat to a furnace. She was alive. Though her dark hair hung in tangled webs about her shoulders, and her face and lips were discolored from exposure, there was no other sight more beautiful than Ashleigh Dougall in her shapeless, oversized gown and dark hair falling loose around her shoulders.

  “Oh, praise be, you found your man.” A middle-aged woman, red hair barely contained in a bun, bustled forward.

  Sam shot Ashleigh a look for clarification, but she only nodded.

  “Ms. Roop, this is Sam.” Ashleigh’s gaze didn’t meet his. “Sam, this is our gracious hostess, Ms. Elsa Roop.”

  Elsa laughed. “Well, now that sounds a bit more high and mighty than what I am.” She examined Sam closely, grey eyes atwinkle. “But what’s this, laddie? You look like you jumped into a barrel of pitch.”

  “Coal dust.” Sam forced his voice above a whisper.

  Elsa’s eyebrows shot northward. “Well, no doubt there’s a story to be told in that, but from the looks of you both, it needs to wait for a good night’s rest.” Elsa reached to the counter and handed Ashleigh a small loaf of bread. “Take this for your man and I’ll bring up some tea.”

  “And Elsa, could I trouble you for some warm water? I’ll need to help clean Sam up a bit.”

  Sam’s body stiffened.

  Elsa’s brows shot high again and her gaze swept him from shoeless feet to his forehead. “You’ll have your job cut out for you, and that’s a fact.” She snapped a towel on her thigh. “I’ll bring up some good hot water for you.”

  “Thank you.” Ashleigh shot a sassy grin to him. “He’s certainly a mess, isn’t he?”

  Her gaze softened with uncovered admiration. He never remembered feeling love like this from Catherine. Was it time’s hand or something much more basic which drove his doubt about Catherine deeper?

  “So, Sam, do you think you can make it up a flight of stairs?”

  He stared ahead at the narrow, wooden stairs and willed strength into his legs. He wasn’t too sure he could make it, but he wouldn’t admit it to Ashleigh, not after all she’d endured. He nodded.

  With slow and labored movements, they mounted the steps. “We need to get you cleaned up and in bed. The more rest, the better. I went out and bought an extra pair of thick socks, in the hopes I’d find you.”

  “Socks?”

  The concern etched in her brow softened into a small smile as they paused on the stair landing. “To save those big feet of yours from the ill effects of the Atlantic.”

  Tenderness swelled up in him, warm and alive. His sweet friend. Now bound to him by another tragedy. “More flattery.” His raw voice barely worked, throat contracting with a combination of exposure and emotion.

  Ashleigh helped him up the next short flight and then offered him a triumphant grin. “Whatever it takes to make it up the stairs, my dear Sam.” She drew in a deep breath, as if to prepare herself, and stopped in front of a door. “Here we are.”

  The small room offered little as far as decoration or space. Only a large bed, wooden posts carved with homespun charm, a wash stand of similar style, and a spindled chair with a pillowed seat. Ashleigh led him to the chair. He collapsed, exhausted, his body screaming for rest.

  Ashleigh rubbed the back of her neck and smiled, her eyes tired. “Stay with me for a few minutes yet, Sam.” She lifted one of Sam’s hands and began to rub his fingers. “I need to tend to you before you nod off to sleep.”

  Sam pulled his eyes away from her hands and met her gaze. “You need sleep?”

  Her brows bent. “I thought about going out to see if I can find Michael.”

  Sam shook his head and tried to sit up straighter to reinforce his objection. “No. You rest too.”

  “Calm down, Mr. Miller.” Her voice soothed with the same effectiveness as her warm hands on his skin. She massaged his hands to life and moved to his wrists.

  “Maybe a few hours of sleep would help.” She touched her forehead a moment and then moved her hands up his arm, friction building under his cool skin. “Morning will bring more clarity, I’m sure.”

  More clarity of loss and devastation. He’d only caught a glimpse of the row of bodies lined up along the dock to know the sunlight wouldn’t make the massive loss prettier or less heart wrenching. The same ache he’d felt since being pulled from the sea crashed against the confusing warmth in her touch. His last words to Michael, harsh and angry, still hung in the air, in memory. His memory. Was it worth it? No. Regret aged him, weakened him, but Ashle
igh’s hands on his shoulders jerked his foggy brain to full alert.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Waking up your skin.” It was working. Her hands wrapped around his upper arm. He flexed against her touch, or because of her touch, and residual warmth poured through him. “Hypothermia can cause temporary or permanent damage to the nerves under your skin. We must assist the circulation to work properly again.”

  She moved to his other hand and began the same ritual, her gaze fixed on her task. He wanted to study her, sort out these new emotions pumping from her touch to his heart, but his eyelids drifted to a close. Her methodical movements drew him deeper into sleep. The pinpricks of discomfort in his fingers subsided. She wrapped something warm around his hands and placed them in his lap. He sighed into a comfortable sleep…until something touched his feet.

  “What?” Only his weakness kept him from jumping clear out of the chair.

  The glint in Ashleigh’s eyes turned impish. “Ticklish is a good sign.” Her brow raised in mock warning. “No nonsense now; you’re my patient.”

  “Not my fault. You.”

  “I’ll have no excuses, Mr. Miller. We must save these big feet of yours.” She pinched his big toe. “Even unsightly things such as these.”

  He tried to squirm away, his jaw tightened to hold in a laugh or scream. “Leave feet alone.”

  She grabbed at his foot, her bottom lip clamped between her teeth in a grin. She was enjoying his torture a little too much. So was he. It brought a welcome distraction from the dark thoughts at the edge of his consciousness.

  “Your arms and legs, especially fingers and toes, are most susceptible to nerve damage because they are the farthest from your heart and least likely to have appropriate blood.” Her hands covered his foot and began rubbing hard. Warmth spiked up his leg.

  “Stop. Please.” He cringed, laughed, and almost cried altogether.

  Ashleigh released an exaggerated sigh. “One more foot, Sam. Be a big boy about it, will you?”