Winner of the 2017 READERS' CHOICE AWARD from the Faith, Hope and Love Chapter of Romance Writers of America.
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A blur of white raced along the grounds to the beach. Sofi froze at the second story window. Set against the tattered sky of an incoming squall, her sister’s nightgown billowed in the dark. For the past six weeks Trina kept as much distance as she could from the sight and sound of the surf. Sofi raised a shaking hand to her throat, turned and tore along the upper hall. “Mattie, she’s outside.”
Ten minutes
ago Trina had been in the nursery, huddling on the window seat. Though nearly
grown she was always in the nursery since that night when. . .Trina even slept
in the nursery instead of her bedroom, crying for Papa, with Sofi holding her
close.
Matilda huffed. “I only left Trina
to collect her supper.”
A yelping Odin
found Sofi at the kitchen hallway. The Springer Spaniel bounded, his cold nose
nudging her hand. Thank goodness one thing in this house had stayed the same. With
Odin barking, she pushed through the green baize door. The dog darted past her. Inga, their cook,
swung around to face her. Frida, the
housemaid, dropped whatever she held in her hand. A man Sofi
could swear she’d never seen before sat at the table, and shot to his feet as
she hurtled through the kitchen.
She reached
the outer door when the man—the gardener, she remembered now—pushed past her
and flung the door wide. He charged across the lawn. The dog yowled and leapt
after him. With Inga, Frida, and Matilda running behind, Sofi fled in the wake
of the gardener down the trail to the beach.
The man reached
the sand. Odin bolted past,
across the beach as Trina rushed along the dock. Sofi scrambled
to keep up, each ragged breath a prayer. Matilda shrieked,
and behind, Frida’s and Inga’s calls, “Trina!”
Sofi reached
the beach in time to see Trina slip into the skiff at the end of the dock. Her
sister pulled on the oars, and made swift progress out on Puget Sound. At the
edge of the dock, the dog pawed the planks, whining.
“Trina!” The
wind snatched her cries as Sofi tripped over the shore strewn with rocks and driftwood.
Dear God, please keep her safe. She
had failed in looking after her sister.
The gardener
reached the end of the thirty-foot dock and dove. It was hard to see anything other
than green phosphorous as he swam toward the small skiff. Cold brine
swirled at Sofi’s knees as she waded to the dock. She ran to the end of the wooden
planks. It should be her saving Trina. It was her job to look after her family. Twenty yards
out, Trina stood up in the skiff. Her nightgown streamed in the wind, a white
sail against the squalling night.
Sit down, Trina. Oh, please sit down.
Swells
buffeted the small craft as Trina stood, peering into the depths. Sofi cried
out, but the wind swallowed her words, until a wave nudged the boat, and Trina fell.
Sofi screeched.
One moment
Trina was there, the next the sea had taken her. Just like Papa.
She wrenched
open the buttons of her bodice. She would not remain frozen, but get out of
this wretched gown and bring her sister out of the depths.
“No, Sofi!”
Matilda gripped her arm. “You’re not as strong a swimmer as Trina. She has a
better chance than you.”
She thrust
off Matilda’s hand. She couldn’t lose her sister. She’d swim in her petticoat if
need be. But Inga and Frida had made it to the end of the dock, and now three
sets of hands held Sofi, as the rising tempest droned. Captive, Sofi
counted the strokes of the man swimming to Trina. Then he dove, and the night
went quiet. Sofi couldn’t breathe. All that she’d kept
dammed up since Papa’s death cascaded over her.
Waves pummeled
the pilings and beach. Odin whimpered
at her knee. A moment
later the gardener came up, gasped for air and dove again. Sofi pressed
the heel of her hand against her tight chest. Dear God, don’t take her from me.
At last the
waters broke. The gardener surfaced with Trina coughing in his arms. Pins and
needles flared over Sofi’s skin. At last, she could do something. She reached
for the life ring, tossing it to the man. It landed on the waves near his head. Trina batted
at him, and he ducked beneath her. Seconds passed. He emerged to take hold of
the life ring. He kicked, towing Trina with his arm across her chest. Until he lost
his grip on the ring.
The wind and
waves flailed at him and Trina. Hand over
hand, Sofi pulled in the rope, and threw the ring out again. He caught it. The tide fought
to drag him and Trina, but with Frida’s help, Sofi hauled them in.
As they
neared the dock, Sofi and the women reached down to lift Trina from the waves.
Sofi pressed on her sister’s back to expel the water she’d taken in. The man hoisted
himself to the dock. Dripping wet, he pushed Sofi away, and rolled Trina on her
back.
“What are
you doing?” She slapped his hands. If anyone would take life-preserving
measures it would be her.
But he
shoved her and pried Trina’s mouth open. After searching her mouth and throat, he
flipped Trina on her front and thumped her back.
A moment
later, Trina coughed and spat, and the man stood, leaning down to lift Trina
into his arms
Sofi gave
him a shove. “I’ll carry her.”
“Don’t be
foolish, miss.”
“You can’t
possibly carry her up to the house after that swim. We’ll carry her together.”
He swiped his
wet hair out of his eyes. “It’ll be quicker if I carry her. She’s worn out and
she needs—” He scooped Trina up.
“Please...hurry.”
Sofi turned and ordered Matilda. “Water on to boil. Get blankets.” Buffeted by
the wind, Sofi walked beside him as he carried Trina up the incline with the squall
whistling.
He kept his gaze
on the lights shining across the lawns from the kitchen. She kept
turning to watch the rise and fall of her sister’s chest, those pale eyelids
that remained closed, that long blond hair straggling like seaweed over the bodice
of the white nightgown.
When they
reached the kitchen stoop, Trina opened her eyes and looked at the man holding
her. Sofi gasped. For a moment
a spark of the real Trina—sixteen-year-old Trina—shone in the depths of her blue
eyes.
Inside the kitchen
was a warm hive of activity. The gardener
settled a shivering Trina in Inga’s armchair next to the stove.
“A towel,” Sofi
said to Frida. She dried Trina’s arms and legs, and wrapped her in a quilt as Matilda
barged in with dry clothing.
Kneeling
before her sister, she’d been prepared to take charge, have the man fade to the
background as a servant of his standing should, but just as he’d done on the
dock, he pushed her away. Ignoring his dripping clothes, he leaned close,
listening to Trina’s breathing.
And Trina latched
her blue gaze with his. In rigid
silence, Sofi stood.
Matilda pierced
her with a look that asked if she’d lost her mind. Sofi put a
hand to her head. Was it giddiness at Trina being alive that sapped her of her
usual verve? No. There was something about this man that calmed her sister like
none of them had been able to do for weeks.
“Take your
hands off her, ye shameless oaf,” Matilda shouted. She’d cared for Trina since
she’d been a baby as if she’d been her own.
The gardener
fended her off with a pained look. “Matilda, do you honestly think I’d want to
hurt her?” He took hold of Trina’s wrist, as if he counted her pulse, and hunched
down to examine her feet. Rocks on the beach had gashed the inside of one arch.
With a tea towel, he wiped away a trace of blood.
Sofi reached
out to help, but Trina shirked from her, and focused on the fire burning in the
grate.
Inga, Frida,
and Matilda began to talk at once while Sofi stood aside, alone in the eye of
the storm. It wasn’t that Trina rejected her help—she was getting used to being
rebuffed by her young sister lately. But this stranger
had taken control.
Frida and
Inga submitted to his orders as if they’d known him for years instead of a
month. Even the dog sat, his tail thumping as he shifted his gaze between the
gardener and Trina.
Only Matilda
eyed the man as though he were a hooligan. The desire
to cry crept up on Sofi, but she shoved it deep. She must be exhausted from
carrying the weight of what was left of her family, to let him take charge. Everything
had changed since Papa’s death. She spoke to the man in a level tone. “You’ll
need iodine. Bandages.”
“Hot water
too.” He smiled his thanks when she brought him the basin. “She’ll be fine,
stop your worrying.” His voice flowed in rhythmic Irish cadence.
With a calm Sofi
did not feel, she retrieved the tin box, opened the bottle of iodine while
Matilda ripped a clean white cloth into strips. Sofi would let him see to Trina’s
superficial abrasions. He obviously had first aid training. But more than
simple medicine was needed to heal her sister’s mind and heart. To think...only
a few months ago Trina had been at the yacht club, laughing, challenging the
young men to a race. Her sister’s teeth chattered. But her gaze was more clear than
since the day they’d brought her home without Papa. “Leave me...alone. It’s my…”
The man’s eyes
crinkled with a smile. “You’re all right. Your few wee cuts and bruises don’t
worry me at all.”
Trina moaned
as her shivering eased, and pulled the quilt around her. Then that heavy
curtain came down behind her eyes. It seemed she grew smaller, shrinking away
from them all. At least Trina was safe for now. Sofi pressed
a hand to her stomach.
A frown
replaced the gardener’s smile as he scrutinized Trina. “Is any tea ready? She
needs a cup. With plenty of sugar and milk.” He cupped Trina’s chin, but she
avoided his eyes. “It’ll do you good,” he murmured, “whether or not you want to
talk to me.” His brows creased at Trina’s lack of response, and he cupped her
shoulder. “You’ll be fine, so I’m handing you over to Matilda’s care before she
tears me limb from limb.” His smile matched the lilt in his voice.
Matilda
needed no further encouragement. She, Frida and Inga, began to cluck over their
one chick, Matilda’s Scottish ‘R’s rolling, the two other women elongating their
Swedish vowels.
For now,
Sofi would leave Trina in their capable hands. Her sister
was locked away in one of her moods. Later, tonight, Trina would need her. Setting her
jaw, Sofi studied the gardener in an attempt to remember his name. She and this
man had hardly spoken until tonight. Inga laid
out his duties from the time he arrived on their grounds just days before Papa...
Emptiness
swelled inside. With Papa’s drowning so shortly after this man started to work
for them, she’d not had the heart to get to know him. She dammed up the
memories of her father again, before grief sluiced through her—a grief she had
no time to indulge. Not now when Trina needed her so much. And Mama too.
This
gardener’s name was...Neil Macpherson. And his manner, his confidence...too
controlled to be a mere laborer. His abilities hinted at some training, but he
was still the gardener. A man who thought he knew what was best, as Charles thought.
But then Charles, as Papa’s business partner, always thought he knew best.
Her voice
shook. “You’re quite handy at first aid, Mr. Macpherson.”
“Sure anyone
could do this. Even me, hired to trim the grass and prune the shrubs.” He
flinched, so slight, she almost missed it.
Matilda held
a cup of tea to Trina’s lips. Trina sipped
and leaned her head against the back of the chair, her eyelids drooping.
Sofi felt Neil
Macpherson’s gaze. “You don’t look so well yourself, miss. Take that cuppa that
Frida’s bringing you.”
She rubbed
her arms, and shook her head. Her soaking clothes clung. Weariness of heart must
be spurring this unfamiliar perversity within her. This need to fight, to
protect Trina and Mama.
“Well, if
it’s not a cup of tea you want,” he said, “then perhaps coffee, as long as it
has plenty of sugar to counteract the shock.” He led her away from Trina, and
for a second she wanted to lean against him, like Mama used to lean against
Papa.
But this was
her family. She must rally herself.
“It’s plain
your sister’s suffering from a prolonged sense of trauma,” he said, lowering his
voice.
“It’s
nothing more than a nervous malady.”
His brow
winged upward. “It’s far more than that. She needs help.”
She turned
away from his all-too-inquisitive eyes. Of course, her sister needed help.
Trina just
didn’t need the kind of help Charles was suggesting.
Inga and
Frida whisked away the first aid materials, and Matilda raced upstairs for an
item of Trina’s clothing she’d forgotten. Sofi hunched
down in front of Trina. She traced a finger down her sister’s cheekbone, along
the delicate line of jaw. She turned the young face toward her only to be met
by Trina’s vacant stare. Sofi choked back a sob. “Where are you, älskling?
Where are you?”
No response came from Papa’s
favorite endearment. And really, there was no need for Sofi to ask. She knew exactly where the soul of her sister lay. Six weeks ago, it floated downward with Papa’s body to the dark and sandy
bottom of the Juan de Fuca Strait.
What the
gardener said was true. She didn’t need anyone to tell her that her sister
suffered from trauma, but there had to be a way to bring her sister back to
health other than what Charles was arranging.
Neil Macpherson’s
officious manner wasn’t what angered her. As a simple laborer, he must only
mean well.
But as for
Charles...she would fight him with everything she had before she’d allow her
sister to go to a hospital for the mentally insane.
~*~
Purchase Sofi's Bridge at these links:
Pelican Book Group (Ebook format)
Pelican Book Group (Soft-Cover Paper)
Read another short scene from Sofi's Bridge below:
“Sometimes I think it would be easier,” Sofi said, “if I didn’t feel the
urge to use these natural abilities—I think God-given abilities—but to do the
more expected tasks of a woman in my social position. Strangely, my father
considered it more socially acceptable for my sister to enter yacht races than
for me to consider a career.”
Sofi raised her gaze. “But what about you, Neil? With all this talk
about life’s purposes and the toil of one’s brow, what are you doing with your
life?” The sun nestled between two peaks as she tensed her weight against the
sun-warmed granite.
Her natural perfume intoxicated him—not the overpowering colognes of
society, but the scent of soap, apples she been paring earlier—stirring the
desire to touch her cheek, her hands, her arms. What if he closed the gap
between them?
How would the softness of her cheek feel against the roughness of
his? What would her lips taste like?
His breath quickened.
Sofi’s eyes widened.
He couldn’t tear his gaze from her softly parting mouth. A muscle tapped
at the base of her throat.
Had one of them moved closer?
He pulled in a breath. When a man and a woman cared for each other, they
should speak the truth. He wanted to tell her about the thrift clinic he’d
partnered in for the poor back home. Tell her of the work he’d done in the
hospital. If he shared his pride in those accomplishments, he knew her eyes
would shine in understanding.
Aye, right, ye fool. Then tell
her you left the clinic and your position in Belfast City Hospital, as well as
all your patients, to run to Washington State to be a gardener. How could he possibly tell her about the night
that stole his life from him, and all with one slash of a knife? He rubbed the
pressure between his brows. “Time we were getting back to the cabin.”
“Right. Of course.” In a fluster, she smoothed her shirtwaist. Her eyes
that moments ago were shining turned a dull slate. She set her profile to him.
“Foolish for the two of us to stand here any longer.”
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