Daughters of the Summer Storm by Frances Statham (best sci fi novels of all time .TXT) 📗

have to be careful. The two must not suspect that he knew the truth about them.

He would have to find a way to get rid of them both. They would have to pay for their insults to Crane Caldwell—and pay with their lives.

His head began to ache from so much thinking. Crane smoothed the crumpled paper and hid it under his mattress and then left the room to get some fresh air.

Nothing had gone right the entire day for Marigold. Ever since the letters, Crane had watched her like a hawk, as if he suspected her of some witch's planning. And his constant accusing stare frightened her. If it weren't for Feena sleeping in the same house, she did not know what she would do.

She had not felt well for some time, and it was hard on her, trying to maintain her pretense of being happy, with Shaun sitting across the table from her each evening.

Marigold, in the meadow next to the apple tree, now stared down at the broken eggs at her feet. She was so nervous, she could not even trust herself to take eggs from a hen's nest and get them safely to the house. And Juniper was waiting for them, for the cake she planned to bake for supper.

Marigold sat on the fallen log and began to cry. She had kept it inside for so long. And her anger, her fear, her unhappiness spilled out in great sobs, with only the pigs in the nearby pen to hear her. They stood up and brushed against the rough planks that held them in and grunted several times in answer to her sobs. Finally, with their curiosity satisfied, they went away to wallow in the mud on the far side of the pen.

"Marigold."

The voice was Shaun's, and Maranta was embarrassed for him to find her in the meadow, crying her heart out.

With a tear-streaked face, she looked up and said, "Go away, Shaun Banagher."

"What's the matter, Marigold?" he asked gently, ignoring her command.

"I. . . I dropped the eggs," she said, "if you want to know. And now there'll be no cake for supper."

The man's deep laugh startled the pigs, and again they grew curious, pressing their noses against the wire fence and sniffing.

"Is that all?" Shaun asked. "I thought something tragic had happened."

"What else could possibly be the matter?" she retaliated. "Certainly not that I'm pregnant when I don't want to be. Certainly not that I'm married to a man I hate."

He stared at her without speaking. And the log moved as he brought his giant frame down beside her.

"You have told me on several occasions that you loved your husband. Why have you so suddenly changed your mind?"

It was too much to keep up the pretense. "I. . . I've never loved Crane Caldwell."

The man's eyes bored into her. And his voice was fierce. "Then why did you marry him, Marigold? For God's sake, why did you marry the man? Did your father make you do it after all?"

To blame her father when it was all his fault—did she have to spell it out for him?

"I married Crane because you jilted me, Shaun Banagher. And I couldn't stand the thought of staying in Charleston while you bragged about it. To bet that you could get the proudest girl in Charleston to elope with you—I hope you enjoyed your fun that night, Shaun, while I waited in the garden half the night for you to come."

Her angry words stabbed him. Shaun pulled her to her feet, and when she tried to free herself, he held on to her, so that she could not escape. "But the letter—you must have gotten my letter that day. It explained why I couldn't come."

"I received no letter from you, Shaun."

"But Chad said he gave it to your brother at the gate."

"Robbie? He gave it to Robbie?" Marigold frowned at his affirmation. Was that what Robbie had meant when he said goodbye to her on the island? Ask Crane for the letter.

Crane must have taken the letter from Robbie. That was how he knew that she was going to elope. That's how he knew that Shaun was not coming. Now, it was clear. Her cousin had deceived her. And her wounded pride had made her believe him. He must have threatened her little brother to keep him from telling her.

"I think. . . Crane must have taken it from him."

Shaun moaned and pressed his lips to Marigold's golden hair. "Oh, Souci—Why couldn't you have had more faith in me?"

"You didn't really want to elope, Shaun. I knew that. And I guess all the time I was waiting for you in the garden, I was wondering if you would actually come."

Marigold looked back toward the house. "I've got to go, Shaun. Juniper is waiting for me."

"I have to see you again, Souci—alone. There are too many things left unsaid."

"Crane watches me constantly. It won't be easy."

Shaun's fingers touched the small scar near her temple. "Is Crane responsible for this?" he asked.

Marigold nodded and suddenly fled from the meadow.

The workers appeared the next day, with the great wagon loads of equipment—the small rails and the spikes and the cross ties—and the shiny metal cars that would eventually carry the ore from far back inside the tunnels to the openings of the mine.

Marigold and Feena sat on the side porch, watching the procession of men and equipment as they passed by and disappeared over the bridge to the creek. The cooking wagon, with its wooden barrels lashed to the side, stopped at the well. And when the barrels were filled with fresh water, the driver urged the mules on to catch up with the other vehicles.

Into the woods they went, along the quiet stream where rocks glittered in the sunlight and vaguely promised richer treasures farther downstream.

Soon the tents covered the hillside, with the cooking wagon off to itself. A regular camp of brawny men—yet none was so tall as Shaun. It would not be