Saving Marina

Earl Burrows wasn’t remembered for his friendships or deeds of goodwill. However, Richard owed the man for everything he had, including his very life, and would forever remain devoted. At this point in time, he moved beyond whatever William might think of Earl and repeated, “Where is my daughter?”

William nodded toward the woman. “Marina, take the good captain up to see Gracie.”

Without a word, the woman turned about and headed toward the staircase on the far side of the room. Richard followed but eyed his surroundings. The furniture was sparse considering the size of the room. A long wooden bench and a couple of chairs with high backs and tapestry seat cushions, a desk with another chair. Several small tables were positioned throughout the area holding vases of wildflowers or candles. A Bible sat upon the table near the fireplace, pages open. The intricate carvings on the bulky furniture said it wasn’t homemade. Most likely the pieces had been hauled to the colonies on one of the ships William used to captain. If recollection served right, Birmingham had sailed passenger ships, people bound for the New World, but the holds would have been full of cargo, all the items those same passengers would need to start their new lives.

Richard glanced down a hallway as he started up the steps. A table surrounded by chairs suggested the kitchen was at the end of the hall. Again, the furniture wasn’t built of square wooden planks like that in the home he’d once visited in Salem Village. Briefly, for he really didn’t care, he wondered about all the furniture he’d had delivered to his wife’s family’s home. Expensive, solid pieces, for he’d never shied away from providing for his daughter.

The open-beam ceiling supporting the floor above grew near as he climbed the steps. The stairs turned a corner then, blocking the ground floor. Richard’s gaze landed on the skirt trailing each step ahead of him. The dull gray of homespun cloth went all the way up to her waist, where it was gathered and disappeared beneath the black formfitting sleeveless waistcoat over her white peasant shirt. The fashionable gowns worn elsewhere, including parts of America, were not welcome in this community. He’d discovered that on his last trip here. Just as he’d discovered he wasn’t welcome.

“I beg you to keep your voice soft,” the woman stated after they’d climbed the stairs and traversed a narrow hall with windows at both ends. She paused near a door, her hand on the knob. “Gracie frightens easily.”

He’d known the child had been given the name Grace upon birth but, until this moment, hadn’t thought of her as anything other than his daughter. Growing impatient with himself—and everything else, for that matter—Richard gestured for the door to be opened.

A beam of sunlight shone directly upon a bed of such a large size that the tiny child lying upon it was almost invisible. Her body was so small the blankets looked merely wrinkled. If not for the dark hair on the pillow, he’d have thought the bed empty.

The woman walked to the side of the bed. Richard followed, choosing the opposite side.

“Gracie,” the woman whispered, leaning down and brushing tendrils of hair off the child’s face. “Your papa’s here.”

There was a shift beneath the bedcovers as the child rolled onto her back. Her eyelids, which were edged by long, dark lashes, lifted, exposing big brown eyes. Other than her eyes and her hair, the child was as white as the pillow she rested upon. A tiny smile tugged at her lips as her sleepy gaze settled on him.

The twinge that crossed his chest momentarily stole his breath. This was his child. The life of his loins. A miniature person as real as he himself.

“I prayed you were real.”

Richard knelt down, questioning if he’d heard her weak whisper or if it had been his own thoughts repeating themselves. “What?”

The girl pulled an arm from beneath the cover and lifted it so her tiny fingertips brushed his cheek. “I prayed you were real,” she repeated.

Her fingertips were cool, her hand shaking. As he curled his much larger fingers around hers, something happened inside him. An opening, a warmth as unique and precious as a sunrise the morning after a hurricane. “Of course I’m real,” he answered, wanting to offer some sort of assurance to this tiny being. His throat burned, an unusual occurrence, and grew thick. Almost too thick for him to whisper, “I’m your papa.”

Her tiny smile disappeared as she closed her eyes again and the thin arm connected to the hand he held went limp. His heart thudded and he shot his attention toward the woman on the other side of the bed.

Chapter Two (#ulink_bf4f83a1-8ea1-54aa-a000-9ed859ada3c9)

Marina Lindqvist closed her eyes and willed her heart to slide back down into her chest before it strangled her. Gracie was so tiny, so fragile. Turning the little girl’s welfare, her very life, over to a stranger tore at Marina’s very soul. It was what had to be done. She understood that, as unsettling as it was, as badly as it hurt. Soon she’d be unable to care for the child, to offer her protection.

The sigh that built in her lungs burned. She’d fought, she’d prayed, she’d begged for things to be different, to be like they used to be, but that wasn’t about to happen. There’d been no choice but to accept, so that was what she’d done and would have to again.

Perhaps it would be easier if Captain Tarr wasn’t so frightening to look upon. The moment she’d opened the front door, the terror she’d known once before filled her. If not for the innocent little child lying upon the bed, she’d never have led this black-haired man upstairs. Never have let him into the house. She had, though, let him in. She’d been the one to summon him to Salem Village. Therefore, for Gracie’s sake, she’d willed her mind to understand the difference between the past and present and did so again.

“Sleep is what Gracie needs,” Marina whispered, holding her gaze on the angelic little girl. The horror of what could happen to unprotected children was something else she’d never forget. At times it was hard to differentiate between memories and the visions that appeared in her mind, the very ones that left her with no choice but to accept they would become realities. Too many had already come true for doubt to linger.

It was a curse of who she was. Of what she’d become.

A loud sigh penetrated her musing, and for a moment, she wondered if the captain had feared Gracie had perished rather than fallen back asleep. Unable to look upon him, for he so closely resembled the heathens who’d shattered her life it made her tremble, Marina brushed aside yet another strand of Gracie’s dark hair. “I’m sorry you traveled so far, but as you can see, Gracie is in no condition for the ride to Boston.”

“Why is she so—so tired?”

“She’s been gravely ill,” Marina pointed out. “Hopefully, she can travel in a few days.” Upon sending the note to Boston, she’d assumed it would be a length of time before the message reached him. Not a great length, but longer than a single day. Uncle William hadn’t known when one of Captain Tarr’s ships would port, and they’d agreed sending a personal note to the captain was better than sending for an agent on his behalf at the seaport.

She should be glad he’d responded so quickly, but she wasn’t. Strangers were not welcome in the village, and the presence of this man wouldn’t go unnoticed.

“The pox?”

“No,” she answered. “She was spared the outbreak that took so many.” Her note had briefly mentioned his wife had died of smallpox last winter. Those were terrible messages to pen, ones of death and dying, things that had become too commonplace.

“Then what’s wrong with her?”

Gracie stirred slightly. Marina stepped back and gestured toward the door as she started in that direction.

“What’s wrong with her?” he repeated once they were in the hallway with the door closed behind them.

“I’m not a physician,” Marina said, “but I believe Gracie was close to dying from starvation.”

“Starvation?”

“Shh,” she said as his voice echoed off the walls.

“Why was my daughter starving to death?” he asked more quietly but just as harshly.

Marina started down the hallway so Gracie’s nap wouldn’t be further interrupted. The child was on the mend, but just days ago she had barely been able to hold up her head and Marina had feared it was already too late. An unexplainable instinct had told her where to find the child, but she’d been shocked by Gracie’s condition—and infuriated. Her refusal to turn Gracie over to the authorities angered many, but that was also when she’d completely understood why she’d been chosen. The ability to save this child had been bestowed upon her, and at that moment, while defying Hickman, it truly had felt like a gift rather than the curse she’d believed it to be since awakening in Maine.

“And why is she here?” the captain continued. “Where are her grandparents?”

Marina was still trying to understand why she’d been chosen. Gracie, too. Why had this child had to suffer so? Answers weren’t easy to find, and right now, the captain’s massive bulk and looming presence had the walls of the narrow passageway closing in around her, making it difficult to breathe. Haunting memories started flashing in her mind, and she hurried toward the stairs. “My uncle will provide answers to your questions.”

A solid hand grasped her arm. “I want answers now.”

Her heart stalled and her throat tightened while the images flashing behind her eyes grew stronger. Indians with blood-covered tomahawks. Shoving her back and forth between them, pulling at her hair and clothes. She could almost feel how they’d torn little Gunther from her arms before—

“Captain Tarr!”

The shout echoing up the stairway shattered the dark memories, but fear still had her trembling.

“I am the man of the house,” Uncle William shouted, “and will answer all of your questions.”

Her uncle’s voice penetrated the pounding in Marina’s ears and gave her enough sense to know this wasn’t Maine. It wasn’t the dark of the night. It wasn’t cold or raining. However, the panic clawing at her insides remained, and she rushed forward, barely slowing her speed to maneuver the steep steps.

Uncle William stood near the bottom step. “Are you all right, child?” he asked softly.

“He must leave until Gracie is well enough to travel,” she whispered while hurrying off the steps.

Marina didn’t stop until she was in the kitchen. Standing there, trembling and clutching the edge of the table with both hands, she silently recited the Lord’s Prayer.

Asking for salvation from the very God who’d forsaken her had become the only thing that took away the pain.

In case God’s grace didn’t come soon enough, Marina silently told herself, Richard Tarr is not an Indian. He is Gracie’s father, and she needs him. Needs him as strongly as I needed Papa when small and scared.