“If it ain’t worth dyin’ for, if it ain’t worth livin’ for.” She groaned behind her fist. Oh, Lord, I promised my husband I’d not leave this place. But what if he’s hurt or…or—
She couldn’t say it. Not even in the silence of her thoughts could she utter the words that would mean an end to her world.
The babe kicked against her ribs and she wrapped her arms around her stomach.“I know, little one. I want to kick, too. Kick and scream and fight my way down this mountain to see if your papa needs help.”
What if someone else, not Lafe, needed help? She’d taken risks many times before, but those risks never included the life of anyone other than herself. Did she dare risk the life of this babe—the one thing that would remain of Lafe should he not return? If he did come back and she’d been foolish and lost the babe, he would know she defied his orders and her promise.
She leaned against the crude broomstick to help her to her feet, then with one last look to make sure her footprints were obscured, she made her way to the inner safety of the cave. She changed into her brown muslin dress and lowered herself to the rough mattress. How would she ever survive the terrible hours of fear and worry?
Oh, Lafe. Please come back.
Robert stumbled to the safety of the timber and leaned against a tree. He’d been in battle often enough to recognize the odor of blood, gunpowder, and smoke. But not until he’d attempted to sit up did he realize the blood was his own. That revelation brought the happenings of the day fresh to his mind.
Judging from his cracked lips, the congealed blood on the front of his uniform, and the smoldering remains of what at one time had been a thriving homestead Garvey had torched despite his command, he must have lain in the open at the mercy of the scorching sun for several hours. How could he have been so careless as to let a brash, undisciplined, hotheaded private take him down?
Anger, that’s what.
He rubbed his wrinkled forehead. He’d always prided himself in his ability to stay calm and levelheaded while others around him allowed anger or fear or any other number of emotions distract them from the reality of the moment. But here he was, pain throbbing through his left shoulder with each pump of his heart—that arm useless—and nothing but a Bible he’d found lying in the dirt beside him with which to defend himself against whatever might be in the surrounding timber, man or beast. All because he was so blinded by anger he didn’t see what was coming.
His legs trembled with the effort to remain standing. He slid down the trunk of the tree until his rear met the forest floor, then he drew his knees to his chest and laid the Bible on top of them. He’d gotten himself into this mess by sending his men ahead of him so he could scope out the lone woman. If he’d stayed with his men, he’d have maintained his charge instead of setting up Garvey to take control.
Or would he have stayed in charge? While the orders did say to give the occupants of any given property fifteen days to vacate, he knew the likelihood of that happening was slim. It was like being handed the keys to a candy store, only it wasn’t the want of something sweet that motivated the soldiers. Fear and hate and a taste of power heretofore unknown to the men—boys really—who made up his company drove them. Maybe, had he not taken the time to warn the woman, he could have prevented his present situation. Then again, maybe taking the time to warn her would be his salvation. He couldn’t stay here. If sympathizers hid in the timber, they’d find him long before he knew they were there. If a man didn’t find him, the scent of blood would be an invitation to wild animals. He needed to get somewhere safe, and the cave was his best choice.
But what if the woman he’d seen wasn’t alone? What if she had a gun? Surely, if she was hidden there by a loving husband, he’d have given her a firearm with orders to use it against any intruder. What if the babe she was carrying wasn’t her first? What if there were other children safely ensconced in the belly of that hillside? His mother would have fought like a mama bear if anything or anyone threatened her children. Could he convince this woman he meant no harm? If there was a husband hiding somewhere, as Garvey intimated, he’d not blame him to shoot first and ask questions later.
Robert opened the Bible. His mama penned all things important in the pages of the family Bible—names of those married and when, who was born and who had passed. Maybe this was something all women did.
He tried to raise his left arm to help steady the Bible while he turned the pages but was met with searing pain. He bit his lower lip to keep from yelling and prayed he would stay conscious. He drew slow, deep breaths and leaned his head against the tree. Eyes closed, he battled a wave of nausea, and his heartbeat swooshed in his ears like wind whistling through the timber.
Finally he opened his eyes and settled his gaze on the Bible. Even after finding the page he was looking for, it took a bit for his eyes to focus. At last he made out the inscription.
Presented to: Charlotte Mae Bowers. By: Isabelle Miller
On this date: September 23, 1855.
A childish scrawl added 12 years old after the date. On the next page, he found only one entry—the marriage of Charlotte Mae Bowers to Lafe Adam Teasdale on January 1, 1860. Nothing was recorded on the pages that had space to list births or deaths.
Robert scrunched his forehead. If the woman at the cave was this Charlotte Mae Bowers Teasdale, and she was twelve years old in September of 1855, that would make her—he counted on his fingers—twenty next month. Since no births were listed, he assumed the child she carried was her first. Only the sacrifices of war would entice a man who loved his wife to leave her and their unborn child in a hole in the side of a hill.
Now the same sacri fices left him with no choice but to seek shelter among the same rocks. He unbuttoned his shirt and slipped the Bible inside, then groaned as he grabbed the nearest branches of a bush to pull himself to his feet. The top of the hill might as well have been a day’s march into enemy territory. Both were senseless to try to achieve. But the climb to safety of the rocks was essential if he was going to survive.
CHAPTER 5
Darkness set in early on this side of the hill, and while the shadows gave Robert needed cover, they also impeded his climb. He grimaced in pain as he grabbed yet another branch laden with thorns in his effort to reach the cave and hoped-for refuge. How safe he’d be would depend on one Charlotte Mae Teasdale—if indeed she was the woman he’d observed—and his ability to convince her he meant no harm. He could only pray he’d not encounter an enemy on the way, or find one already entrenched within. But then, who was the enemy? His own men had left him for dead.
A shaft of light caught his attention as it swayed toward him—above him, to the left, now to the right. Was someone coming, swinging a lantern? He threw himself prostrate among the brush, ignoring the thorns and praying he’d not encounter a snake. His shoulder throbbed with the sudden impact on the ground, and he feared it would cause new bleeding, which would only serve to further weaken him and make him more vulnerable to the nocturnal hunters roaming the hills.
He burrowed his face into his bent arm and forced himself to take deep breaths. The Bible in his shirt dug into his ribs, but to roll away from it now would cause movement he didn’t want detected. How easy it would be to just lie where he was and succumb to fatigue and perhaps death. What difference would it make how he died? For that matter, who would care?
He fought against the image stalking through the shadows of his mind— one gravestone which bore the names of all he loved and had left behind. Margaret Elizabeth Stallings, beloved wife of Robert Andrew Stallings. Underneath Molly’s name, the chiseled replica of a lamb and Robert Andrew Stallings, Jr. He’d buried the stillborn babe in Molly’s arms, then rode away from his ranch where even the walls cried out her name and the hills echoed the lament.
Some would call him a coward, leaving like he did. If coward could be described as pain with every breath, every minute of the day, from the memories that were so bittersweet he could hardly bear to think, then he’d
agree—a coward he was. The ranch would still be there. He’d left it in good hands with his brother, Luke. But whether he returned remained to be seen. He’d joined the army not caring if he lived or died. Now, three years later, he still didn’t care.
He swallowed. He could give it all up right there and no one would know it was by his own choice. Some might even think he’d died a hero, with the gunshot wound as evidence. So why was he trying to find refuge now?
He had no answer for the question that reverberated like a shot in the hills. Perhaps the will to survive was stronger than the desire to die, even when he didn’t care one way or another. Or was it seeing the young pregnant woman seemingly alone that somehow resurrected his past, buried so deep he’d not recognized the implication, urging him forward?
He turned his head and rested it on his arm. The light that swayed back and forth continued to throb through the trees, but didn’t appear to be advancing. He squinted, hoping he could get a clearer view. He did, and he collapsed in relief. He was a military man and should know better, although caution was the better part of valor. The light was no more than the full moon, now high in the sky, shining through the timber. The wind swaying the branches made it seem to dart hither and thither.
He’d identi fied the enemy, and it was his imagination. He’d viewed the light as something from which to hide. God sent it to show him the path. Taking a deep breath, he pushed himself to his feet with his good arm. Weak…so weak… The effort of standing brought a new round of dizziness, but if God provided the light, then it was up to him to follow it even though more light, however slight and patchy, would also make him more vulnerable.
One step at a time, Robert. Go with the light, one step at a time. A faint lightening of the eastern horizon and the occasional twitter of an early bird signaled morning by the time Robert reached the rocky outcrop that overshadowed the entrance to the cave he sought. His hand was raw from pulling himself forward by tugging on rough tree trunks or various underbrush that surrounded him. He’d lost count of how many times he’d ripped his sleeve away from thorny branches that seemed intent on thwarting him. His ribs were sore from the Bible jabbing into them every time he tripped and fell over hidden tree roots among the debris of the timber floor.
As far as he could ascertain, the mouth of the cave was only a few yards above him, but now a bigger dilemma faced him. Was the woman alone? Did she have a gun? If she did, would she use it? Of course she would use it. He would have told Molly to use hers in such a situation.
Molly had seldom been left alone, but each time he had given her clear instructions concerning strangers arriving at her door. He’d taught her how to use a gun. He had learned—after she inadvertently mistook him for an intruder and sent a warning shot way too close to his ear—to call her name. Neighbors knew her as Molly Stallings. Only he knew her real name was Margaret Elizabeth O’Brien Stallings. Calling it out saved him injury on other occasions, and he smiled at the recollection.
Charlotte Mae Teasdale. Maybe—even if her husband was present—calling her name might indicate he meant no harm. It was worth a try. If he got shot in the doing? Well, at least he’d see Molly again sooner than expected.
Th e last few steps took nearly all his strength. Once inside the cave, he stayed on his feet long enough to pull the Bible from his shirt, then his knees buckled and he slid down the rock wall.
A lump caught in his throat. He’d made it. His shoulder throbbed. His hands were raw and bleeding. His legs were too weak to hold him upright. And he must smell like a goat. But for the time being—even if only for a short time—he was still alive…and safe.
Fear prickled along Charlotte’s spine, and she curled her fingers around the shotgun. She’d grown somewhat accustomed to the skittering of rock lizards across the walls and the squeaks and scratches from beneath the makeshift table. This sound was different. There was no mistaking the thud she’d heard, as though something or someone dropped to the floor inside the cavern entrance. She blew out the candle and aimed the shotgun at the opening to her refuge, ready to shoot should there be real danger present.
“Charlotte? Charlotte Mae Teasdale?” Lafe! Lafe said he would call her full name. If he had been the target of the shots she’d heard yesterday, then he was injured and needed her help. Yet it wasn’t his voice. Why did it sound like a question, as if whoever called was not sure?
She shu ffled slowly toward the opening to the passageway. “Lafe?” There was no answer, but perhaps he was too hurt to reply. She kept both hands on the gun and used her hip to trail along the rock wall until she reached the narrow opening that would require her to leave the safety of her interior cave to enter the larger chamber.
“Who’s there? Lafe? Is it you? Whoever it is, I have a gun and I’m not afraid to use it.”
“No, ma’am. Please…don’t shoot. I—I need help. I’ve been shot.”
Charlotte’s heart beat faster. “Who are you? How did you find this place?”
“Sergeant Robert Stallings, ma’am. I saw you through my field glasses yesterday. I left you a note.”
She gripped the gun even tighter. An injured man… Was he friend or foe? Should it matter? Didn’t God’s Word say that whatever one did unto the least of these, they were also doing it unto Him? How could she refuse to help? But what if it was a ploy? Now she understood why Lafe wouldn’t tell her where he was going or who he was with. “How did you know my name? Did Lafe send you?”
“I found your name in a Bible, yours and your husband’s.”
“How do I know you’re telling me the truth?”
“Please. I need help.”
“Who shot you?” Could it have been Lafe?
“A man by the name of Garvey shot me, ma’am. If you’re not going to help me, could I please at least have some water?”
It was against everything Lafe warned her about, but she’d been in need of help too many times to ignore this man’s plea. Besides, he sounded weak, and she had a gun. “I’ll get a light.”
“No. No light.”
“Water then. I’ll go for water. Don’t move.”
He groaned. “Don’t have the strength to move, ma’am.”
Charlotte held a cup of water to the man’s lips. Morning light was beginning to seep through the entrance, and she was able to get a better look at him. He was a soldier, and judging by his uniform, a Union soldier at that. However, his obvious weakness gave her a small measure of confidence that he’d not harm her. “Do you think you can stand and walk? It’s not safe to stay here.” She moved the cup away. “Not too much at one time or you’ll be sick.”
“How far?”
“Not far, but you have to squirm around a boulder.”
He motioned to the gun. “Can I use that to lean on?”
She rolled her lips. What if he turned it on her? Yet nothing in the man’s
demeanor suggested he would do such a thing.
He shook his head and a faint smile crossed his lips. “Won’t shoot you.”
He picked the Bible from the floor and held it toward her. “I promise.” Her Bible. She took it from him. The cover was crusted with blood, but
otherwise it appeared unharmed. She held it against her breast. This was one
of the reasons she’d been tempted to go against Lafe’s orders. Now this man,
a supposed enemy, had brought it to her. How could she refuse him help? She handed him the gun. “I don’t reckon shooting me would help you
any.”
He struggled to his feet, and beads of perspiration gathered on his forehead. “Lead the way.”
Charlotte made sure he was still on his feet when they entered the safer
interior, then hurried to light a candle. “You better lie down.” She motioned
to her bed. “I need to look at that wound.”
He leaned against the near rock wall. “Can’t take your bed, ma’am. I’m
dirty, and there’s blood—”
“Please. Don�
�t argue. That blood is the very reason you need to be on
something besides a dirt floor.”
“I—”
Sergeant Stallings slumped and fell sideways onto the bed before Charlotte could catch him.
She folded her arms across her stomach and prayed the man would stay
unconscious long enough for her to assess the wound. She could move his
feet to the bed—could even pull his boots off while he was awake. But except
for Lafe, she’d never looked on another man’s bare torso, and she certainly
didn’t care to do it if he could watch her.
Charlotte straightened and gave her shoulders a shake. She’d do what she
had to do. The same as she’d want someone to do for Lafe.
CHAPTER 6
Stalling’s hand closed around Charlotte’s wrist. “The broom.” Th e broom? Was he delirious? He’d not even twitched when she pulled his blood-crusted shirt away from the wound, bringing a fresh flow of blood with it. He’d remained unconscious while she probed and scrubbed. All the while she’d made every effort to focus only on the man’s injury. She’d even kept her eyes from his face, telling herself over and over that it was Lafe she was helping and not the enemy. But now his grip was so strong it hurt, and she found herself staring into eyes black as coffee—very strong coffee—and she couldn’t look away.
“Please, let me go. You’re hurting me.” A frown creased his forehead, and his grip loosened. “I’m sorry. But you can’t forget the broom.” His gaze never wavered.
She rubbed her wrist. Were his eyes always this dark? Except for those eyes and a dark, whiskery stubble, his face was devoid of color. She nodded toward the wall. “The broom is right here. I didn’t forget it.”
He licked his lips. “But you didn’t use it, did you? ”
Was he scolding her? “Since you can remember the broom, then you will also remember there were more important things to tend to at the time.”
Destination: Romance: Five Inspirational Love Stories Spanning the Globe Page 21