Chapter 34 #2
She chuckled at that, just barely. The knot of anxiety in my chest unraveled just a fraction at that sound. Her eyes had drifted shut. But her fingers curled into the fabric of my shirt.
“I love you,” she murmured, tucking herself closer.
I tightened my arms around her, rubbing circles on her back—hands against her skin beneath the fabric of Ansel’s spare shirt.
“She’s still shivering, right?” Ansel asked.
I nodded. “Not as much as I’d like though.”
“And you’re still shivering?” Ansel pressed.
“I will be fine,” I snapped. Then, turning to Sorcha, said, “You cold?”
She nodded. “Very.”
Shivering and accurately aware of temperature—good signs as far as hypothermia was concerned.
“So long as she knows she’s too cold she should be fine,” Ansel said. “You two both get some sleep. I’ll stay up. Keep watch.”
“For what, more ghosts?” I muttered.
“Worse,” Ansel said. “Locals.”
The rain had faded into a gentle mist by dawn.
Ansel sat against the back wall, watching out through the iron grates, checking over his guns.
Sorcha was fast asleep in my arms, not even stirring.
I dozed fitfully, occasionally adjusting her in my lap—admittedly more for my own comfort and sanity than hers.
The first rays of light were just barely creeping above the horizon and dissipating the mist when I heard footsteps. I opened my eyes enough to watch Ansel holster his weapon and get to his feet. A young municipal police officer was heading straight for us.
Not a sheriff. No. Some kind of low-level cop—too young, too confident, clearly never been punched in the face, likely never been shot at either.
And also likely to be entirely insufferable.
“Can I help you?” Ansel asked casually, pushing aside the mausoleum’s iron grate like he was answering the door at his own house.
“You’re trespassing,” the officer said bluntly, “and we’ve got laws against vagrancy.”
“See we’re not vagrants,” Ansel said casually. “Just passing through. Got caught in the rain. My friend’s wife is sick. You wouldn’t have her sleep out in the damp, now would you, officer?”
“You’re not gonna leave her here, right?
” the officer asked, eyes locking on me and Sorcha.
She was still hard asleep against my chest, cuddled into my coat, breathing finally slow and even, body finally warm.
I shifted slightly, slipping an arm under her knees in case we needed to make a quick exit.
“Why would we do that?” Ansel asked, tone genuinely baffled.
“It happens.” The young man’s tone was defensive now. “People come into town with a girl. But she’s caught yellow fever or cholera or some other shit. They don’t want to deal with it. She’s not useful to them anymore. And they leave her here. Go ask the church. I’m not lying.”
“Is that so?” Ansel asked, smirking.
But I didn’t take kindly to the accusation. I got to my feet, keeping Sorcha pulled close against my chest, and walked slowly toward the iron grating, glaring daggers at the young policeman.
“What are you implying?” I asked, voice quiet, clear, dangerous.
The officer swallowed hard, shook his head like he was trying to clear it.
“Just be out before the sergeant makes his rounds at eight,” he said, backing down and stalking away.
Ansel checked his watch as I leaned back against the stone wall of the mausoleum, kissing Sorcha’s forehead.
“It’s almost seven,” Ansel said. “I think you have to wake her.”
“I know,” I agreed. “I just . . . she’s finally warm.”
Ansel shrugged and went to pick up Sorcha’s discarded clothes from the night before but found them still soaking wet.
“That may be a problem,” he muttered.
“Is her other dress dry?” I asked.
Ansel shook his head. “Something leaked.”
“I’ve got a spare pair of trousers in my pack,” I said. “We’ll find a way to make them fit. Keep a coat on her. It won’t be the most respectable thing but . . .”
“What is lately?” Ansel mumbled.
I shifted Sorcha in my arms, shaking her a bit, repeating her name, but she barely stirred.
She was warm—safe finally, hard asleep. And I felt completely awful having to wake her, but I also didn’t want another run in with Fredericksburg police.
So, when talking and nudging failed, I decided to just put her down on her feet and crossed my fingers she’d rouse.
And she did. Sorcha’s bare feet hit the ground and her knees nearly gave out, my hands under her arms the only thing keeping her from landing on the stone floor. She was annoyed, sleepy, swatting at me in protest, but awake.
“What was that for?” Sorcha mumbled, pressing her face into my chest as though she could will herself back to sleep.
“We’ve got to head out,” I said, kissing her hair, cuddling her gently, not giving in for a second to the frustration in her tone.
“Where are my clothes?” Sorcha asked, rousing more now, looking around. “And where are we?”
“When exactly do you think you fell asleep last night?” Ansel asked, passing her my trousers and a belt.
“I don’t know,” Sorcha muttered. “Sometime after you shot the lock off a grate.”
Ansel just gestured at the broken grating. Sorcha huffed but took the proffered clothes and didn’t press for details.
“Do I not have a clean dress?” she asked.
“Both are soaked through,” Ansel admitted as I belted my greatcoat over the shirt and trousers, just above the curve of her belly. It wasn’t proper but it was decent.
“Is traveling always like this?” Sorcha asked, looking between us with something akin to desperation in her eyes.
“No,” I assured her immediately.
Ansel shrugged and made a noncommittal sound. “Now, breakfast?”
“Yes please,” Sorcha agreed immediately, grabbing my hand and looking more energetic than she had since we got kicked off the train.
The town was just waking up as we headed to Main Street. Ansel found a quiet little bakery with round wooden tables and air that smelled like cinnamon. I hadn’t seen Sorcha this genuinely excited about food in months, not since before the baby.
“You’re not gonna get sick on me now, are you?” I asked at one point. “You haven’t eaten this much since Santa Fe.”
Sorcha shook her head. “Baby likes tea and cinnamon apparently, also blueberries. We haven’t had decent food until now.”
“And who are we to argue with their taste?” Ansel chuckled.
“I’ll make a note,” I said, smiling for what felt like the first time in weeks. And there, for almost an hour, it felt like things were just going to be okay—no threats, no problems, eating happily together.
And then the police officer reappeared. Ansel clocked him through the front window, made brief eye contact, and nodded to catch my attention. My gaze followed, and I saw the deputy’s face immediately turn red. He stalked into the shop, scowling at everyone.
“I told you to leave,” he snapped.
“You told us to leave the cemetery,” Ansel corrected. “Nothing about not patronizing your town’s delightful bakery.”
“Our vagrancy laws are clear,” the officer said, crossing his arms.
“And we’re not vagrants,” Ansel said simply, “so those laws aren’t an issue.”
“You show up in my town in the middle of the night,” the officer continued, “two older men, younger woman.”
I bristled a bit.
“Sleep in a damned tomb!” the officer snapped. “And tell me you’re not vagrants. Then what are you? Grave robbers? Escaped convicts?”
“We’re traveling,” Ansel said calmly. “We’re family.”
“Family?” The officer scowled. “How exactly?”
“She’s my wife,” I said simply, “and that’s her uncle.”
“Oh really?” the officer said. “Nice young girl like her—
“I’m twenty-seven,” Sorcha cut in, but the officer didn’t even pause for breath.
“—with an older man—”
“I’m not that much older,” I muttered.
“—showing up in the middle of the night. Sick. Ragged. With another much older man as company, no chaperone, no real family,” the officer blustered. “And you two clearly drifters.”
“I’m not a drifter,” I said, raking a hand over my face and trying very hard not to lose my temper.
“You think you can just show up in my town without anyone asking what you’re really here for?” the officer snapped.
“We’re just having breakfast and finding new horses,” Sorcha said calmly, stealing an uneaten muffin from Ansel’s plate.
“And last night?” The officer scowled harder.
“We got caught in the rain,” Sorcha replied. “Baby makes me tired, and I took the cold and the wet hard. We’ll be on the road north in an hour if you let us be.”
“Baby?” The policeman looked ready to explode. “What baby?”
“Our baby.” Sorcha nodded in my direction.
The officer pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know what kind of sick little game you all are playing, but you leave my town right now.”
And that’s when Ansel stepped in.
“First of all,” he said, voice eerily calm, “it’s not your town. You’re a low-level patrol officer. You’re not even carrying a gun. And you’re making insinuations for no reason. Insinuations no proper member of society would even think of.”
“I want proof they’re married,” the officer said in a huff. “It’s indecency otherwise.”
“Fine,” I snapped, my preparedness paying off for once on this damn trip. I pulled out my wallet and handed the patrolman a folded document. “Proof.”
Our marriage license—notarized, signed, near impossible to argue with.
“Happy?” Ansel asked, taking the document back and passing it to me.
“Just get on your way,” the officer grumbled as he stalked out the door.