Chapter 14
Sitka; the Next Morning
Yuri swung the ax harder than necessary, splitting the log with a violent crack. He barely paused before grabbing another log, setting it upright, and swinging again. And again. And again.
Wood chips flew and sweat trickled down his back despite the cold wind off the ocean.
He barely felt any of it, barely heard the rhythmic thud of the ax embedding itself in the stump.
All he could hear was Vandermeer’s voice.
All he could see was the smug look on his face as he spoke about Rosalind’s future.
She’ll have a household to run. Guests to entertain. Children to bear and raise. That deep, grating chuckle. As if he were sharing some kind of secret.
As if Yuri was in on it.
A man has to run his household properly. Women can get all sorts of ideas if you don’t set the right expectations.
Yuri’s grip tightened around the ax handle, and he swung harder, the force vibrating up his arms when the ax sliced clean through the piece of wood and landed in the stump. How could she marry a man like that? Didn’t she care that she’d be miserable?
He threw the split log onto the growing pile and balanced the next log on the stump.
“You planning to chop the entire woodpile before breakfast?” Mikhail’s dry voice cut through the air.
He hadn’t even realized his brother had walked up. Yuri swung the ax again, splitting the next log with a single swing. “I don’t mind the extra firewood. Just think how happy Alexei will be when he returns home to find it split and stacked. Maybe I’ll even get a smile out of him.”
Mikhail leaned against the side of the woodshed, which sat just a few feet behind the back door of the house. “But at this rate, you’ll have more than enough for our family. You might even be able to heat the entire town.”
“Maybe we’re in for an unusually long winter.” He positioned a new piece of wood on the stump, then swung the ax.
“If you needed to work off some anger, you could have just gone a few rounds with Mikhail’s punching bag in the warehouse,” Bryony said from where she stood on the stoop outside the kitchen door.
He wasn’t sure how long she’d been there, but a glance at his sister-in-law revealed that she was dressed in a pair of Ilya’s trousers with dampness rimming the neckline of her shirt and sweat trickling down the side of her face.
Yuri just shook his head, then glanced at Mikhail. “I can’t believe you’re forcing your new wife to train with you. Did you make her use the punching bag this morning?”
“I like it,” Bryony said. “But not as much as I like the Indian clubs.”
Yuri tapped the ax into the tree stump, letting it rest there before eyeing his brother. “You’re making her do the Indian clubs too?”
Mikhail merely crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m not making her do anything, but if she’s going to join me on my expeditions, then she needs to be in good shape physically. Surely you don’t expect me to take her into the wilderness unprepared.”
Most people wouldn’t expect a wilderness guide to take his wife with him at all, but Bryony was different.
She seemed genuinely excited about heading into the wilderness with Mikhail this spring, and she didn’t seem to mind the exercises he’d concocted for her either.
If anything, she looked happy standing beside the kitchen door, her cheeks flushed pink and loose strands of copper hair clinging to her temples.
Yuri just shook his head and wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his arm.
“Tell me, Yuri . . .” Bryony leaned an elbow on the railing beside her. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with Rosalind Caldwell, would it?”
“What makes you think that?” Yuri yanked the ax out of the stump and grabbed another log from the pile. Maybe he wasn’t done splitting wood after all.
“Oh, I don’t know.” Bryony cocked her head to the side. “Maybe the fact that there’s a rumor going around town about Rosalind’s recent engagement to some railroad baron. Or maybe it’s that you look like you’re imagining a certain someone’s face on every log you split.”
Yuri brought the ax down harder this time, sending the wood flying once again. “I saw her yesterday.”
Mikhail exchanged a glance with Bryony. “Rosalind Caldwell? Where?”
“The post office.”
Bryony came down the steps. “Did she seem all right?”
“She seemed . . . proper.” Yuri set another log in place. “Polite. The way she always is in public.”
Bryony frowned. “That doesn’t answer the question.”
Yuri blew out a breath. The image of her shrinking under Vandermeer’s grip flashed through his mind. “Like I said, she looked and acted like she usually does. I can’t tell you whether that means she’s fine. I can just tell you she acted normal for the situation.”
“How was her wrist?”
“She said it was fine the other night after the library committee meeting, so I didn’t ask after it further.” He couldn’t even imagine how he would have asked, not with Vandermeer glowering at him each time he glanced at Rosalind.
“Did you look at it the other night?” Bryony sounded even more concerned now.
“No. She said it was fine. Why? Don’t tell me you think she lied.”
Bryony bit the side of her lip.
Yuri narrowed his eyes. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“I was . . . ah, wondering if . . . if her wrist had . . . gotten worse.” Bryony’s words were slow and careful, almost as though she internally debated each one before speaking.
“Why would it get worse? Does she often trip while walking down the stairs? She’s never seemed clumsy to me.” On the contrary. Everything about Rosalind was poised and refined. Always. She was the most graceful person he’d ever met.
Bryony glanced at Mikhail, and something unspoken passed between them. Then she looked at him with an expression that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.
“What’s going on?”
“You really don’t know, do you?”
His hands tightened around the handle of the ax, though he didn’t swing it. “Don’t know what?”
Bryony and Mikhail exchanged another glance.
Yuri found himself gritting his teeth. “What?”
Bryony let out a slow breath. “He hits her.”
The words landed like a punch to his stomach, knocking the air from his lungs.
“He . . .” His voice came out hoarse, so he cleared his throat and tried again. “Who hits who?”
Bryony’s hazel eyes filled with something that made his stomach churn. “Her father. He hits Rosalind.”
He stared at his sister-in-law, the words refusing to take shape in his mind, refusing to make sense. Surely he’d misheard; surely he was missing something.
Preston Caldwell. Owner of the Alaska Commercial Company. He wasn’t a kind man, but surely someone in such a prominent position knew better than to strike his own daughter.
Yet this was the man who was selling her off to Vandermeer like livestock, no doubt in exchange for some sort of business deal that was sure to benefit both parties.
This was the man who had forced her onto the library committee just so the library would bear his name.
The man who kept her controlled, carefully watched, and perfectly in line at all times.
Yuri’s pulse thundered in his ears as the pieces fell into place. “I asked her to come with me to San Francisco. To leave Sitka. I didn’t even know he was hitting her, and I told her I could help her get away. She refused.”
Bryony rested a hand on his arm. “I offered to help her get away as well, before Thanksgiving, when I first saw a bruise on her cheek.”
“She said no then too?”
Bryony nodded. “I leave notes for her from time to time through our mutual friend Millicent, who passes them on, and I always make the same offer.”
“And she always refuses.”
He was going to be sick. Right there. In front of both Bryony and Mikhail. He sucked in a breath, trying to calm the churning in his stomach.
It didn’t work. He turned away from Bryony just in time to empty the contents of his stomach on the base of the wood stump rather than all over her feet.
Mikhail wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “Come on, let’s get you inside.”
He didn’t want to go inside. He wanted to march straight up to Preston Caldwell’s house and demand he hand over his daughter.
Which the man would never do. Not in a thousand years.
“Why won’t she leave?” Yuri gripped the front of Mikhail’s shirt. “Why won’t she do something to get away? Why won’t she fight back?”
“I think it’s because she doesn’t believe she can get away, not really,” Bryony said. “Her father has so many resources, and she’s worried fighting him will only make things worse.”
He hung his head. She’d told him as much the night of Mikhail’s wedding. He was a fool for not putting things together sooner.
“Do you think . . .”—He swallowed, then turned his gaze to Mikhail—“This Vandermeer character . . . How well do you know him? He doesn’t seem like the type to treat Rosalind right either.”
Mikhail dropped his arm from around Yuri’s shoulders. “Alexei invested some money with him a few years ago, then stopped after it became apparent what kind of man he is.”
“And what kind of man is that?” Yuri asked, almost afraid of the answer.
“He seems to be a good enough businessman. But . . .” Mikhail grimaced.
“But what?”
“He’s a little too fond of drinking, and he’s got a reputation for being violent when drunk. He got into a fight in one of the bars when he was here last spring and broke the owner’s nose. Marshal Hibbs got called in, but no charges were filed. You know how money has a way of keeping things quiet.”
“And Rosalind’s supposed to marry him?” Yuri’s breath turned shallow. “She’s supposed to leave Sitka and live with a man like that? No. I won’t allow it.” He made a slashing motion with his hand. “There has to be something we can do.”
He owed it to God to find a way to help. It was his duty as a Christian.
“We’ve offered to help her leave multiple times.” Bryony raised her hands, palms open, then let them drop back to her sides. “There’s nothing else we can do unless she takes us up on it.”
He wanted to retch all over again, never mind his stomach was empty. “What if she marries him, and we never see her again? What if . . .” His voice caught. “What if he’s violent with her like her father is? What if . . . What if she never gets away?”
Mikhail’s expression darkened, and for a moment, neither of them spoke.
“I’ll send her a note through Millicent.” Bryony stepped closer. “If she’s not comfortable with her new fiancé, maybe she’ll change her mind now and accept our help.”
“I’ll talk to her after the next library committee meeting too.” They’d already had one impromptu conversation after the last meeting. Surely they could have another one.
It seemed like so very little, but it was the only thing he knew to do.
“Maybe I will go use that punching bag,” he muttered, then he stalked off toward the warehouse.