The Heiress of Winterwood - By Sarah Ladd Page 0,93
of discipline?
“You are a good man, Graham, a strong one. I believe God has a path for you, but how can you find it under the shadow of guilt? Instead of succumbing to guilt every time you look at that scar, you can be reminded of God’s forgiveness. When you’re tempted to dwell on past failures, you can pray. Ask God to continue to show you your path. He has one, I assure you.”
Graham could not meet his mentor’s eyes. He knew all of this. Indeed, he had asked for forgiveness many times. He had just been unwilling to accept it.
How different would his story now be if he had relied on God these many months instead of relying on his own strength to see him through?
After all, where had his strength gotten him?
Graham and Sulter were about to depart when a burly, fair-haired man approached their table. The pounding of his dusty boots on the planked floor could be heard over the noisy patrons, and the scar marring the man’s cheek made the one on Graham’s own hand pale in comparison.
Sulter’s face flashed recognition. “Ah, Cyrus Kingston. Just the man we need to see.”
The man tugged a wide-brimmed hat from his head and cast a glance at Graham before answering. “Heard ye lads have yerselves a bit of a situation.”
“Aye, we do. Kingston, meet Captain Graham Sterling, recently returned from activity off the coast of Halifax.”
Kingston nodded in Graham’s direction, his black eyes wild and intense. “You the bairn’s father?”
Graham nodded. He eyed the man, assessing every detail and searching for clues as to his character. A scruffy, reddish beard darkened his chin. Dingy clothes hung limp on his massive frame. Graham kept his voice low. “Sulter tells me you’re familiar with George’s Dock.”
The man lifted his hand to order ale before turning his attention back to Graham. “Aye. Worked the waterfront since I was a lad meself.” Kingston sat down and leaned against the table. “Got a letter, do ye?”
Graham pulled the worn letter from his pocket and slid it over the table.
Kingston’s expression was stone as he read. “Ye know who done it?”
“I have my suspicions.” Graham was reluctant to say too much. But what had he to lose? If Sulter trusted the man, he should too. “Ever heard of the Barrett Trading Company?”
Kingston took a swig of ale and leaned with his elbows on the table. “I know it.”
“Do they do much business in these docks?”
“They’ve contracted the Perseverance. Setting sail any day.”
At the ship’s name, Graham exchanged a glance with Sulter. The question smoldered on his lips, begging for release. “Do you know George Barrett or Edward Littleton?”
“Nay.”
Graham showed no reaction to the answer and took the letter from Kingston. “You’re sure it’s the Perseverance?”
“Aye.”
Graham tucked the letter back in his pocket. “I believe we are dealing with one of three scenarios. One, the kidnapper is using the dock as a decoy. Two, the kidnapper will use a ship in George’s Dock to make his escape. Or three, he plans on using a ship to dispose of my daughter and her nurse should we refuse to meet his demands.”
Kingston’s face showed nothing but blank indifference. “Could be. Or could be he jus’ knows the dock and where to hide out there. Anyways, what’s it got to do wit’ me?”
The stranger’s disinterest irked Graham. He glanced at Sulter—again. He’d never known the older captain to steer him wrong. He took a drink of ale before continuing. “I’ll wager if there is an exchange planned at the dock, then someone employed there knows about it.”
Kingston sneered. “Aye, but getting ’em to talk about it is a horse of ’nother color.”
Graham raised his eyebrow. “That’s where you come in.”
Kingston cocked his head in response. “What ye got in mind, Cap’n?”
Graham pulled a leather pouch from his pocket and dropped it on the table. “One hundred pounds to the man who gives me information that leads to the safe retrieval of my daughter and her nurse. The same to you for your assistance.”
The dim candlelight flickered off the worn surface. Kingston eyed the pouch and extended his paw-like hand. With rough fingers he opened it, peered inside, glanced over his shoulder like a greedy thief with a treasure, and leaned in toward Graham. “You got my attention, sir.” A smile cracked his chapped lips, exposing crooked, discolored teeth, and a jeer, more like a hiss than a laugh, wheezed from him.
Graham snatched the pouch from Kingston’s hand. “Good. Find