Chapter 38
Sierra Foothills
August 1854
The river rushed below Isabelle as she ran, but she didn’t see the water. All she could see was the baby boy swaddled in her arms, his eyes gazing up at her with complete abandon. Like she would never leave him. He’d trusted her to care for him, and she’d left him to fend for himself with a man who was mad. And a woman who hated him.
She stumbled on a rock, hidden under the grass, and picked herself back up, the image in her mind shifting from the calmness in her baby’s eyes to chaos. Crying. Mrs. Duvall arched over her bed, yanking her arm.
Blood streamed from a gash in her hand—a wound from the rock—but Isabelle didn’t stop to tend to it. Her heart—it beat so fast that she felt as if it might explode into a thousand pieces.
She hadn’t suspected Mrs. Duvall or the midwife of lying to her. In her heart, she’d thought she had failed her baby. It was her milk or her youth or something she’d done wrong during the delivery that took him.
All along, she’d believed what Mrs. Duvall had told her, that her son was dead.
But Isaac had survived.
And he’d been forced to grow up in a snare of lies too. He thought his mother had abandoned him.
Isaac’s mother wasn’t a princess. She was a simple, broken woman, masquerading as the niece of the French couple who had rescued her.
At the time, she’d thought her mistress had done a rare kindness in helping her escape Victor’s grasp, but really she’d stolen away Isabelle’s son.
Oh, why had the woman lied to her?
But even as she ran along the bank, dodging the mesh of driftwood, Isabelle knew exactly why Mrs. Duvall had lied. Her hatred was venomous. Victor had abused Isabelle with his warped view of love, torturing her in the night hours that she feared. Instead of helping Isabelle, Mrs. Duvall had blamed her for her husband’s obsession.
And that’s what Victor had been. Completely obsessed. As if he would somehow find happiness if he humiliated her and then conquered her body, mind, and the depths of her soul.
Her hand traveled up to the pale pink lawn of her dress, and she cupped it over her right shoulder. The senior Master Duvall once promised that he’d set her free, but after his father’s death, Victor made it quite clear that there would be no freedom for her. Ever. Then he’d branded her so she would never leave him.
The pain of losing her baby had seared her heart, but the branding iron scarred her in a different way. It was the constant reminder—long after her shoulder healed—that no matter where she went, she could never fully get away from the man who owned her. Even though she’d tried for years, the cucumber-and-lemon cream had done nothing to fade the brand of his rose.
Her toe caught another rock, and she stumbled again, collapsing onto a bed of grass along the bank. The rush of river had quieted to a gentle hum here, giving life to the crimson columbine that blossomed on each side.
Had Mrs. Duvall thought that by getting rid of the slave girl, her husband’s affection would turn toward her? Or had Mrs. Duvall hoped to raise Isaac as her own?
The guilt that plagued Isabelle, haunting her dreams, was all based on a lie. She’d done nothing wrong. It was the Duvalls who’d conspired against her.
For so many years, she’d wondered what her son would have been like if he’d lived. What kind of man he would have become. Now it felt as if her baby had come back from the dead. Her stolen dream, the only person who’d ever really belonged to her, returned.
What a gift to see Isaac as a strong, smart, kind boy thriving under the care of a man who wanted the best for him. It was God’s gift to discover that Isaac had circumvented the cruelty of his father and gained freedom as well.
She tugged on the ends of her loose hair, as if it would help her brain make sense of all that had transpired.
Alden had said their situation was complicated. Had he helped Isaac run away? Perhaps that was the reason Victor had traveled to Sacramento—to make a grand display of his power, taking both her and Isaac back to Virginia with him.
She shuddered at the thought of what he would do if he found them.
As the sun began to settle beyond the willow trees, she wrapped her arms around her knees.
No matter what happened, she would never let Victor take Isaac away from her again. She’d protect him from the Duvalls with her life, if she must.
Soon, after Victor was gone, she and Isaac would return to the city, and she’d take him up to safety on Vancouver Island. Until then, she couldn’t risk telling him or anyone that she was a runaway slave. As long as Victor didn’t find them, her façade would protect both herself and her son from harm. And keep them together for the rest of their lives.
A rustle in the grasses startled her, and she jumped, thinking it might be a wildcat, but when she looked up, she saw Alden walking toward her.
She sat up, wiping her eyes on her sleeves before climbing up onto the flat edge of a rock.
He studied her for a moment. “Are you ill?”
She contemplated his words. Her body was well, but everything inside her felt sick.
He found a seat on a rock near her, his head resting in his hands. “It’s horrific what some slave owners do.”
She nodded, wanting him to think her tears were for the horror of the branding alone. He could never know about the rose and letter that marked her shoulder as well.
“Isaac thought you were mad at him.”
Her heart clenched. “Oh, no—”
“I told him that you just needed to exercise your legs since you weren’t able to swim. He seemed satisfied with that answer.”
She looked up into the swell of compassion in Alden’s eyes. “Why are you different?” she asked.
“I’ve never tried to be different.”
“I mean—” She had to tread cautiously, taking care not to reveal too much. “You said your family owns slaves.”
He picked up a stick and threw it into the river. “Unfortunately.”
“Yet you helped Persila escape from her owner. And you said you want Isaac to be free.”
“I’ve never been a proponent of slavery.”
“What would your family say?”
His gaze settled on the water. “My father would say that I’m a coward. That I’m weak-willed and pitiful for entangling my emotions with people he considers to be property.”
“I don’t think you’re a coward.”
His eyes found her again, and he flashed a wry smile. “That’s because you don’t know me very well.”
She wiped her eyes again, wishing she could tell him that she did indeed know him, back when she wore a linsey-woolsey dress and a cotton cap and spoke with the timid voice of a slave girl. “I think it’s quite brave of you to bring Isaac west.”
“I ran away from home,” he said. “It wasn’t the least bit brave.”
She shook her head. “Running takes a lot of courage, especially when you choose to do it for the right reason.”
His gaze fell to the blood still trickling on her hand. “You’ve hurt yourself.”
“I’ll be fine,” she said. It stung a little, nothing else.
“We have to clean it.”
“No.”
Standing up, he reached for her good hand. If she were thinking clearly, she would have refused, but she followed him to the edge of the bank. He scooped cool water from the river and gently washed her palm. After the blood was gone, he wrapped his dry handkerchief around the wound and stepped back.
She stared at the gray cloth around her hand before looking back up at him. “Thank you.”
“Isabelle,” he started, locking her gaze. “If I were a gambling man, I’d bet a pile of gold that I’ve seen you before, long before Isaac and I came to California.”
Her gaze returned to the handkerchief. “Have you been to Baltimore?”
“No—did you ever visit Boston before you came west?”
She shook her head. “I’m sure there are plenty of women who look like me.”
“I don’t think there’s anyone else in this whole country quite as lovely as you,” he said tenderly.
Her heart seemed to flip with his words, her fingers trembling. She didn’t dare glance back up at him.
He cleared his throat. “I think it’s very courageous of you to not only run a hotel on your own but help Persila escape as well.”
She put her hands back down at her sides, hiding them in the folds of her dress so he couldn’t see them shaking. Plenty of men back in Sacramento City had called her beautiful—men desperate for female attention—but no one had ever called her courageous.
“I wish you would have met my aunt before she died. She was a truly brave woman.”
When she looked back up at him, his gaze was still intense. “I wish I could have met her too.”
“She would have liked you.”
When Alden smiled back at her, it seemed as if everything would be fine now. As if he could take care of her and Isaac alike. She nodded back toward the camp. “I’ve never eaten antelope before.”
“Me either, and I’m starving.” He laughed. “There will be plenty of new things for us to try out here.”
She trekked back through the rocks and grass, Alden at her side. It seemed like they both had run away from their pasts. Just as she’d worked to break free from the Duvalls, she needed to offer him the same grace if he sought redemption from the sins of his family.
It was a new season for both her and Alden now. And a new season, she hoped, for the boy back at the camp too.
No matter what happened, she would do anything she could to rescue her son.