Northwestern Ohio
“Damn that man!”
The wind caught the wooden door, banging it against the side of the farmhouse as Coulter Bancroft stalked into the kitchen and tossed a sheaf of tied papers on the table. The thud of his boots on the wooden floor was as unyielding as the fury in his eyes; the wailing wind echoed his harsh voice as he called for his sister.
His first shout of “Caroline!” brought her running into the room. She came to a dead stop, grabbing a highback kitchen chair for support. Her eyes widened at the fierceness of Coulter’s expression and the tenseness of his stance.
“Why didn’t you tell me about this?” he demanded.
“About what?” Caroline stammered, knitting her hands together.
“This!” Coulter shook the papers at her. “What our father did to us.”
Her hands tightened on the chair back until her knuckles turned white. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Well, then, let me tell you.” Coulter spread the papers across the table. “There’s a lot of fancy lawyer language in there, but here’s what it comes down to: We’re about to be out of a home. That apple orchard out there? Gone. The cows and horses in the barn? Gone, too. Trust me, our father’s good friend, William Cahorn, Esquire, explained it to me in great detail.”
Mimicking the elderly attorney’s mincing tone, he said, “Your father’s will is quite specific, Bancroft, and he was of sound mind when he made the changes. If you do not produce a legitimate heir by the time you are thirty, the entire estate reverts to your cousins in Illinois. In the meantime, I am authorized to provide you with the funds to continue operation of the farm and to allow for the needs of you and your sister.”
Coulter’s tirade stopped as abruptly as it had begun. He dropped into a chair, staring for a long moment at the blank wall opposite him. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, calmer.
“What it means, my dear, is that our father has entailed the estate. If I don’t do as his will demands, our inheritance is gone.” His eyes moved to his sister, and he winced as her face turned pale with his next words. “You, dear Caroline, will become our cousin’s ward until you reach twenty-one years of age or he finds someone for you to marry.”
Her soft gasp wounded Coulter as bitter words could not. His anger eased into compassion. He had never felt so helpless, not even on the battlefields he’d come to know too intimately over the last three years. He wanted to console his sister and tell her everything would be fine, as he had when she was a little girl. He longed to make things right for her again. But it couldn’t be done. Not this time.
Red-hot anger began to well again. He struggled to contain it before it spiraled out of control. He’d scared Caroline enough.
Abruptly rising, he muttered, “Tell Minnie not to wait supper,” stormed into the dwindling afternoon sun and whistled for his black stallion Midnight. He had to stay away until he could discuss this calmly with Caroline. She’d been through enough at the tender age of sixteen. She needed to absorb this revelation in her own way, not through his rants over something neither of them could change.
He swung into the saddle and slapped the reins. Man and horse flew down the long path behind the barn and along the fence line that separated this farm from the next. Low-hanging clouds dimmed the sun, and in the far distance, he could hear the rumble of thunder, driven by the howling wind. He rode hard, mindlessly, losing himself to the smashing of Midnight’s hooves against the ground and the wildness of the oncoming night.
****
The fierce October wind slashed through the thin cotton of the woman’s dress as she stumbled across the rough ground, her swollen and bloody feet too numb to feel the cold mud between her toes. Each inhalation of the frosty air tore at her tortured lungs; each exhalation brought new pain from a broken rib.
It seemed hours since she’d jumped from the rattletrap wagon. Thousands of miles since she’d begun her run for freedom. She longed to rest for one tiny moment. Or risk looking back over her shoulder to see how many men followed. If any man followed. Yet she knew even a split-second’s hesitation could mean the difference between safety and capture.
She gasped as an errant root smashed against her ankle, sending her to her knees. With the last of her strength, she forced herself up and onward. She didn’t know where she was headed; she no longer cared. As she struggled toward the brightness that must surely signal a break in this endless forest, the gray clouds above her loosened and rain began to fall. In seconds the drizzle began to sheet, turning the leaf-covered ground beneath her into a morass of mud and dying vegetation.
She heard the thunder of hooves as she finally reached the light at the edge of the woods. Her soul cried out, for this surely was the angel of death stampeding toward her, swooping down to take her away. She fell to her knees in surrender, caring not whether she was transported to heaven or hell, only that she be freed from the torment awaiting her if she was captured.
****
The storm matched his mood. Coulter rode hard until he caught a movement at the edge of the woods. Cursing into the wind, he pulled hard on Midnight’s reins as a woman stumbled out in front of him, falling onto the muddy trail and into unconsciousness. “Whoa, Midnight! Stop, boy!”
Coulter fought to keep from trampling her, his heart in his throat as the big stallion reared up, halting inches from the silent heap collapsed in the middle of the road. Coulter swung down as the horse’s front hooves touched the ground, and ran to what looked like nothing more than a pile of old clothing. He knelt in the mud, oblivious to the cold rain pouring down his worn hat and across his shoulders. His breath caught at the sight of the young woman.
