River of Mercy (21 page)

Gant was aware of Gideon watching him discreetly as they worked. Impatient and a little touchy with the lad's scrutiny, he finally expelled a long breath and faced his assistant. “You might just as well say what's on your mind.”

Gideon had the grace to look embarrassed. “I'm not…there's nothing on my mind, Captain.”

“I'm thinking there's something,” said Gant, “else you'd be paying more heed to your work and less to me.”

“No, I…well, I was just thinking, I suppose. Sorry if I was staring.” The boy's face was still flushed.

“That you were,” Gant said. “Staring, that is.”

Gideon said nothing else for a moment. “I suppose I was thinking about Mrs. Sawyer. She's a pretty lady. A nice one too.”

Gant nodded but kept his eyes on his work. “She is that. But she has a few years on you, lad.”

“But not on you.”

Now Gant looked at him. “Meaning?”

“Well, anyone can see she's sweet on you, Captain!” The boy clamped his jaws shut, clearly regretting his outburst.

“You think so, eh?” Gant sighed. So maybe he hadn't imagined Ellie's interest after all. He didn't much care for the grin Gideon flashed.

“I'm pretty sure, Captain.”

The boy was way too impudent sometimes. “Well, it's neither here nor there.”

Without warning, the lad took another tack. “So, have you been out to the farm lately?”

His expression was innocence entirely, but Gant wasn't fooled for an instant. “I've not. Why do you ask?”

Gideon gave a seemingly indifferent shrug. “No reason. I know you and Doc are good friends, that's all.”

“That's true.”

“And Mamm's fond of you as well.”

“I'm glad to hear that. Your mother's a grand woman. Naturally, I covet her good opinion of me.”

“And of course Rachel considers you a good friend too.”

“Is that so?” Gant's pique had dampened. Indeed, he was rather enjoying himself by now. “Well, I hold your sister in high regard as well.”

Again the boy took to silence, but not for long. “So…you've probably heard that the new bishop is to be chosen soon?”

He met Gant's eyes straight on. He was no longer smiling but wore a look of utmost seriousness. Gant's mood had also sobered.

“When?” he asked.

“Two weeks is what I've heard.”

Something in Gant's chest squeezed so tightly he almost lost his breath.

“There's a lot riding on the man who becomes bishop,” Gideon went on. “Much can change…or not, depending on a new leader.”

“So I've heard,” Gant said, his reply deliberately short and noncommittal. If the boy was fishing, and Gant believed he was, he had no inclination to respond. Obviously, he was hinting at the fact that a new bishop could make a significant difference for his and Rachel's relationship—a positive difference or a negative one.

As if Gant didn't carry that awareness in his head and in his heart every single day.

He turned back to his work with an expression meant to convey an end to their conversation. After another moment, Gideon took up the plane he'd been using and also carried on with his efforts.

20

We fear the things we think
Instead of the things that are.

J
OHN
B
OYLE
O'R
EILLY

Y
ou know you can't keep this up, man. You're going to end up in jail!” Gant had ridden out to Doc and Susan's early in the evening to take Fannie the new collar he'd made for her dog. Thunder's neck continued to grow and thicken along with the rest of him, and Gant had fashioned a leather collar that would give him some more growing space without allowing him to slip free, as he was wont to do.

When Susan pressed him to stay for a light supper, Gant, always up for her cooking, quickly agreed.

Almost as soon as Fannie and the dog went upstairs, Susan shooed the men to the front room so she could clear the table and do the dishes. Within minutes after settling in the other room, Doc launched into a spiel about Gant's “risky undertakings.” This wasn't the first time Doc had vented his frustration about Gant's involvement with the refugee slaves. Even though he was sympathetic to the plight of the runaways, and although he was the only man besides Asa and Gideon whom Gant trusted enough to confide in, he made no pretense of his concern about the danger in which Gant had placed himself by harboring the slaves in his barn.

“Someone is going to find out,” he warned Gant, not for the first time.

Gant glanced up from his chair to where Doc was standing with his back to the fireplace. “And just who might that someone be? Nobody knows anything except you and Gideon. Are you saying I can't trust the two of you?”

“You're smart enough to know what I mean. The longer you do this, the more you increase your chances of getting caught.” Doc was really steamed this time. He glanced at the door as if to make certain no one was nearby before going on. “You need to get them out of your barn, and the sooner the better.”

Gant shot his friend a wry look. “And just how do you suggest I do that? I already told you we have to keep them where they are until word comes that it's safe for them to move. We can't chance running into slave catchers with that many people.”

“That's exactly my point,” Doc ground out. “You've got too many to hide with any degree of safety this time.” He broke off, studying Gant with a quizzical expression. “Why are you doing this anyway? Why take such foolish chances? Isn't it about time you settled down and stopped risking your stubborn neck?”

He stopped, and Gant sensed he was close to spluttering with exasperation. “And don't give me your usual prattle about the British oppression of the Irish and its similarity to slavery in America. I've heard it all before. Besides, it seems to me you've already done more than your share for the cause of freedom.”

Gant shook his head. “It's not just that.”

“Then what?” Doc came to sit down across from him.

“I can't explain it. Once I got into it, I felt as though I needed to stay. It just doesn't feel right to get out of it. Not now. Not yet.”

“That makes no sense. You do this of your own free will, so of course you have a right to stop…you can stop anytime you want.”

Gant trained a look on him. “No. It's not that simple. The folks involved in this tend to stay involved. For a long time. It's not just something you do for a while and then quit. The runaways know from word of mouth who we are, who they can trust. Not by name, although some of them also know that. But they know there's a place, say, in Marietta, where they can get help. They've heard about a preacher there who shelters them in a safe house.” He paused and then went on. “Or they know about a lame carpenter in Riverhaven who's willing to shelter them until a conductor is available to take them on up the line. Word gets out.”

Gant struggled for words. “It's hard to explain,” he said. “It's like a building. You take even a few stones away, and you weaken the entire structure. Or a railroad. If you unhitch a couple of cars from the others, or if you have a conductor who doesn't show up for work, or if there's a split rail, you'll have a breakdown. Trouble. It's not something you can simply walk away from. People might die if you do.”

Doc regarded him with a measuring look. “So in other words, you'll never quit.”

Gant shrugged. “I don't know about that. But I do know that now's not the time.”

Doc drew a long breath and then gave a nod of resignation, so Gant moved to change the subject. “So…I hear the new bishop will be chosen soon. As soon as two weeks.”

Doc frowned. “Where did you hear that?”

Gant ignored the question, instead asking another. “Did I hear right?”

“Most likely.”

“And are you still of the opinion that a different bishop might make a difference for Rachel and me?”

Doc pressed his lips together. “Yes. But remember, I said
might.
There's no guarantee.”

“I understand that,” Gant said.

He tried to swallow down the surge of hope that invariably accompanied any thought of things working out so he and Rachel could be together. “What about you?” he said. “Is there any possibility a new bishop might have an effect on your doctoring?”

“You mean by denying me the right to practice medicine, even among the People? I hope not. But of course it could happen. I suppose it's only to be expected that the new bishop will make some changes. Only time will tell.”

Gant drew a long breath. “Well, I hope it doesn't take too long before we find out what some of those changes are going to be. I expect you feel the same way.”

Doc glanced away, his only reply a slight nod.

Gant's question had made David uneasy.

In fact, he was tempted to mention some of the changes he'd already been seeing, even though a bishop hadn't been chosen yet. Only the thought that his own concern might serve to increase that of his friend made him hesitate. Was there any point in letting Gant know that he, too, was wont to fret over what the upcoming selection of a new bishop might mean…to them both?

Especially if Samuel Beiler happened to be the one chosen.

They sat in silence for a time, the only sound the hiss and crackle of the fire and the soft clatter of dishes as Susan tidied the kitchen. Finally, on impulse, David ventured a question. “I'm curious—not that it's likely, since you live in town, but you do have contact with a number of the Amish—have you heard anything lately about any…changes…taking place among the People?”

Gant looked at him. “What kind of changes?”

David knew he should choose his words carefully lest he plant ideas. Still, he valued Gant's shrewd power of observation more than that of most any other man he'd ever known. He didn't want to say too much, yet he genuinely wanted the other's insight.

“I'm not sure I can explain. It's mostly little things that taken separately might mean nothing, but everything together—”