“I have set them up at the old Johnson place.”
Reed didn’t trust his old friend, but fireworks? “No one occupies the old cabin?”
Hugh shook his head. “Abandoned.”
“No animals?”
“No.”
It’d been too rainy and snowy for anything to catch fire. The noise should be reasonably contained so far out. It was closer to home. He could be home in about ten minutes, once he’d seen the display. He was just kidding himself. He’d always wanted to see fireworks. A remote location. No one present. It should be all right.
~*~
Wrong.
The one-room Johnson cabin rested quietly in an overgrown field. Moonlight glittered off tall grasses bent with snow. In the middle of the clearing sat a large box. Hugh approached the box.
Griff pointed to the dark cabin. “Is that?”
A sharp spark lit Hugh’s face, and he ran back to where Reed waited with Griff.
A golden-orange glow blossomed into the sky as though someone had captured the sparks of a bonfire. “Loud” did not describe the continual bangs and pops of the explosion of light.
A baby cried in between the burst of rockets.
A screaming woman ran from the cabin carrying a bundle.
Another rocket flared, and the woman hit the ground curling herself around the bundle.
Griff ran.
Hugh remained where he stood. Fireworks launched behind him as he stared the screaming woman and her child.
“Can ye stop them?” Reed shouted across the distance.
Hugh walked toward the horses silhouetted by the last of the orange sparks.
The baby’s cries settled as night regained its hold on the field.
The woman watched Hugh mount.
“We are sorry for the noise, Ma’am. We did not know ye were here.” Griff offered.
“Ye were not meant to know I was here.” The clip of her voice was that of an educated lady. Not the sound Reed expected to hear. Her gaze stayed trained on Hugh’s path into the darkness.
“I have a better place for you and your baby.” Reed looked to Griff. “Take her to Mother Gibson’s.”
~*~
An explosion rattled the window panes. Deep in the house voices called out in alarm.
“I told ye.” Clementine pierced Ann with her hazel eyes.
The squiggly line of worry that had receded with Mother Gibson’s earlier words sliced like a dagger. Mother Gibson had long since retired for the night. Ann and Clementine remained next to the fire.
“I love my nephew as much as anyone should, but the apple doesn’t fall far from the Archer tree.”
Ann had her doubts about the events that would lead to an explosion like that, but she couldn’t help herself. “Are you not an Archer yourself, Mrs. Foster?”
Clementine had the good grace to laugh. “I knew we would get along the minute I saw ye across the room glaring at my nephew.” She closed the book and glanced toward the footsteps in the hallway. “Let me just say—save yourself the sorrow. My sister’s life has not been an easy one. I wouldn’t like to see you beaten down by the likes of my brother.”
Doubt replaced the certainty Ann had felt earlier while Mother Gibson sat next to her. “What of forgiveness?”
“One is not expected to be kicked around.”
“I agree with Mrs. Foster, Annie.” Her father approached. “Who knows what traumas have been wrought this night on unsuspecting and innocent people?”
An image flashed through her memory of the first time she’d seen Richard Hobson hobbling with his newly fashioned crutch. Ann sheathed her knife and slid it into her pocket. “Should we not wait until he has a chance to explain himself?”
“Normally I would agree with you, daughter, but there is no reason to believe this man has changed his habits. The minute his friend beckons, he leaves, and who knows what has ensued? I was willing to indulge ye mother in her latest wish, but—”
“I am afraid I have to agree with yer father on this one.” Clementine rose. “As I said. I love my nephew, but a rotten apple is a rotten apple. God can forgive such a man, but ye do not have to live with him.”
Mentally, she acceded their point. Did she wish to spend her life wondering about what mischief he might cause? Worrying about her children? He may not be guilty of anything this particular night, but if the past was anything to go by, it wasn’t likely. Especially with Hugh Pollard involved. “Ye’re right, Papa. I do not know what I was thinking.”
“I pray my own son is not to blame for any of this foolishness.” Clementine dropped an arm around Ann’s shoulders and gave a squeeze. “I shall retire and leave his father to deal with him. I shall see ye in the morning.”
“What do ye do when ye think ye’ve got it right and all along ye’ve been wrong?”
