He is moving as quickly as circumstances will allow in the black of night in an unfamiliar forest. He nearly cries out as a burr catches painfully against his shin but remembers what is at stake and merely gasps in protest.
He is becoming fatigued and frustrated as his journey drags on. He is a man of the sea, not the woods and he imagines the disorientation he is feeling must be akin to that of those he steers into port each season as they gaze upon the foreign landscape. Was that the 3rd or 4th maple he's passed since he'd headed inland?
For a moment he considers turning back, back to the shore, his comfort zone, the warm gaze of Meg the lovely barmaid. But even as he's imaging Meg's face, he remembers another gaze, and the brown eyes start to turn an electric blue and the auburn curls, blonde and he knows he's powerless to do anything but what the indomitable Prudence Driscoll asks of him.
Not for the first time, he curses himself. It is bad enough having fallen under the spell of another man's wife, but one whose heart belonged to another, who was almost a friend, more brother than rival, this is unbearable.
True, chance had tied himself and Thaddeus Hansen together rather than choice. But ties were ties and he'd learned long ago that they were never really severed no matter how hard or continuously you tried to uncouple the damn things.
So here he found himself, fool that he was, frantically scrambling through a foreign and hostile wood looking for the clearing, the directions to which she'd sobbed into his shoulder as she unburdened her fears to him. "Come if you ever hear of trouble in town. We'll be there. We'll be needing you."
If he were honest he was fearful as well. Life was changing in their small coastal settlement and not for the better. Already, Driscoll and his mob had disparaged the reputations of several of the townspeople with accusations of witchcraft and devilry. And it was looking more and more likely he wouldn't be satisfied till there'd be bodies swinging from gallows. While he secretly admired Thaddeus' vocal defense of the accused, Prudence had good reason to fear he'd be the next target of her husband's wrath, even without knowledge of their love affair.
His thoughts are interrupted by a low wail coming from ahead of him in the darkness. Assuming some animal to be near he removes the rifle from his back and readies it in his arms. As he nears he recognizes the sound as human, a realization that causes him little comfort.
And then he sees her in the clearing ahead, her blonde head shining like a halo in the moonlight. She is stooped over a body and he doesn't need to see the gaping hole in the chest or the pale translucent skin to know Thaddeus is dead. He rushes to her side, but stops just short of reaching out to her.
A million questions race through his mind. How? Why? When? But he voices the only one that matters, the only one that he can do something about, "Who did this?"
"Later," she replies looking up at him. And while her eyes remain red-rimmed and teary she's no longer crying. There's no sign of her wailing sob either, her voice hard and terrifying. "Right now," she continues, "we need to fix this."
His heart breaks for her as he finally does what he wanted to do from the start and places his hand gently on her forearm. "He is gone, Prudence. Thaddeus is gone."
She rises ignoring his words. "Can you carry his body?" She asks, her voice soft and gentle again as she looks down at her beloved.
"Prudence," he begins to reason with her again, hoping to gently get through, even as he lifts the body of his friend from her arms.
"No," she says to him firmly stopping his words before he can begin. "I understand what death is, better than most," she adds softly, "but we can fix this, we will fix this," she finishes fiercely.
"Prudence, you know that I would do anything for you," he says quietly looking deeply into her eyes. "If I could take away all your troubles, everything that troubled those you cared about, take it away for good. I would, no matter the cost. I'd kill for you, Prudence. But we cannot fix this. You cannot fix death."
Then she laughs, an eerie tinkling so out of place with her misery of a few moments ago it raises the hairs on his neck. "No. I cannot fix death," she fixes him with a stare equal parts frantic and wicked, "but I know someone who can."