Angel tiptoed across the floor and stood next to her sister. “Sure hope he doesn’t wake up and start yelling like a girl.”
Heaven bit her lip. “So pray, Angel. Pray that he doesn’t wake up until we have him all fixed and bandaged. God have mercy on him, ‘cause if he wakes up while I have a needle in his skin, I’ll most likely end up sticking it in his eye.”
“As long as he still has the one eye, he’d be better off than me.” Angel breathed over Heaven’s shoulder.
A tidal wave of guilt rushed over her, trying to suck her under. She didn’t have time for self-pity right now. “If you aren’t going to commence praying, then please go retrieve Ma’s sewing basket.”
“I’ll pray while I’m getting it. I can do two things at once just like you.” Angel stepped away, “Heavenly Father, Heaven done shot that man.…”
“Angel, God knows what I’ve done. You don’t need to confess my sins to Him. I’ll do that later. Just pray for what I asked, please.” She dabbed at the wound. The blood wasn’t coming out as fast now. She glanced at the stranger’s face and touched the scar, tracing it with her finger. It didn’t detract the least from his handsome face. His cheekbones were chiseled, and yet the scar seemed to soften his look rather than harden it. It was still pink, so it must have happened only a short time ago. She didn’t feel so bad now about shooting him. He must be a troublemaker. Someone else stitched him up not long ago. Wonder what he was after then?
Angel continued praying, “And that’s all we are asking, God—keep Heaven out of jail, and make this man go away.”
She should have been listening to Angel. Who knew what she’d requested from God?
“Here’s the basket.” Angel set the basket on the floor. A log in the fire sizzled and then popped. “Want me to thread the needle?”
Heaven’s head popped up before she could stop it. Hope coursed through her. Had her prayers been answered?
Angel flashed a toothy grin. “Got you.”
Heaven gritted her teeth and choked back a sob. She dropped the cloth back into the water, wiped her hand on her apron, and then picked up the basket.
“Are you mad at me, Heaven?”
“No, I just wish you could see, and for a moment, I thought you could.” Where was that silk string Ma used? “Ouch. Found the needle.”
“So you’re going to stitch him up?”
“There isn’t anyone else, is there?” Her fingertips brushed against the spool of silk thread. She grasped it. Now what? She tried to think. Ma had done something with the needle before she’d started to sew her pa’s torn skin. What was it? “Angel, what did Ma do to the needle?”
“She stuck it in the fire.”
“That’s right.” Heaven stood and hurried to the fireplace. She bent down where the coals were hot and placed the needle as close as she could without getting burned. The fire was hot, and she couldn’t hold it there long. She just hoped it was long enough.
Her hands shook as she tried to wiggle the thread through the eye of the needle. Outside Pete the rooster crowed. He should be locked in the chicken coop away from the wolves. She couldn’t think about him now. She squinted, holding the needle up to the firelight, and shoved the thread at the hole for the third time. This time it glided through.
Bending over her patient, she aimed the needle at his skin. Bile rose in her throat. She swallowed. She’d have to get closer. Her arm wasn’t long enough, and it was dark. She backed away. “I need to light the lamp and bring it over here. I should have thought of that sooner.”
“I could do it without a light. I make good stitches. That’s what you told me—nice and small.” Angel grasped her sister’s elbow.
Heaven yanked her arm away. “No. I can’t let you touch an unmarried man that way. You’re too young.” She spun around and took a few steps to the kitchen table where the oil lamp stood. She pushed the needle through the top of her apron and then lifted the chimney from the lamp and turned up the wick. She struck a match, touched it to the wick, and up shot a flame. She blew out the match and then lowered the wick and replaced the chimney.
She set it on the stool next to the bed where its graceful flame danced across the wall. She knelt on the floor and withdrew the needle from her apron. It was time. She would have to touch his face and again was grateful he wasn’t awake. This was hard enough without having the man stare at her. Her palm rested against his face. Rough whiskers poked her skin. With caution she leaned over the wounded area and squeezed the skin between her thumb and index finger as tightly as she could. “Angel, sing something. Help me get my mind off what I’m doing.”
“Swing low, sweet chariot, comin’ for to carry me home.…” Angel belted out the words.
Heaven cringed. “Never mind, Angel.”
“It’s a good song, and it might comfort him if he can hear us.”
“I think I’ll do better without the song. So don’t sing it.” She held the needle poised to stick it through her patient’s skin.
Angel continued to hum the tune.
Dear Lord, let this man remain ignorant to what went on here tonight. She plunged the needle through the skin and forced herself to think of quilting.
“Mary!”
The sound of thrashing and mumbling startled Heaven, waking her. Disoriented she shoved the blanket she had wrapped over her to the floor. Why was she in the rocking chair? “Mary!”
Her patient. He was awake. She took a step and stumbled, falling to the floor, her feet entangled in the blanket. Righting herself, she hurried to the man’s bedside. “Shh! Shh!” She tried to soothe him while feeling his brow.
His arm shot around her, pulling her close to him. Her face was within kissing distance of his. “Mary.” He mumbled.
“Why?”
Heaven untangled her neck from his arm. He was burning up. A fever. And Heaven knew he was as good as dead, just like her ma.
Heaven hollered up the ladder. “Angel, I need you.”
She ran to the reservoir attached to the stove and ladled the lukewarm water into a bowl. She swiped a clean cloth from the shelf and hurried back to her patient. She set the bowl on the floor and dipped in the rag. She washed his face, hoping to take away the heat. Not wanting him to get chilled, she retrieved the blanket she had been using and covered him with it.
Angel clattered down the ladder. “What’s wrong?”
“He’s got a fever.” She hoped the panic was only in her body and not in her voice.
Angel came over next to her sister. “What do you want me to do?”
“I need you to keep washing his face with this rag.” She put it into her sister’s hand. “I am going to get the willow bark tea brewing.”
“But he ain’t awake. How is he going to drink it?” Angel asked.
Heaven stopped in her tracks. How would she get him to drink it? “I’ll think of something.” Or at least she hoped she would.
She lit a lamp and placed it at the end of the table where the light would shine onto the cabinet. She whipped the curtain covering the lower half to the side, exposing their supplies. She pushed things aside until she uncovered the medicinal basket. She picked through the herbs and medicines her ma had brought along and grabbed the dried willow bark. Her mother’s graceful handwriting danced across the brown package.
She needed to heat the water for the teakettle. While the water warmed, she crossed the cabin floor to the bedside of the man. Angel clearly had done what she could, as there were water drips blossoming across the quilt. She put her palm on his forehead. Still hot.
He thrashed in the bed again. “Mary, why?”
Who was Mary? Heaven faltered. Maybe he did have a wife. If he did, she wanted to make sure he lived.
“Is it working?” Angel nudged her elbow.
“I don’t think so. He’s still hot.”
The teakettle whistled.
Back at the stove, she poured the hot water into a mug and placed a palm full of dried leaves into it. It would have to
steep for at least a quarter of an hour. She collected a clean kitchen cloth. She would dunk it into the liquid and moisten his lips. Maybe she could squeeze drops into his mouth if he called for Mary again.
She thought it had steeped long enough; she didn’t know for sure. She strained the tea into another mug to remove the bits and pieces of willow bark. Collecting the cloth and the tea, she went to her patient.
“Did you add honey?” Angel’s face scrunched. “It tastes awful without it.”
“No, I don’t imagine he’ll notice the bitterness.”
“That stuff’s awful. I’d notice even if I was near death.”
“You were near death. Do you remember what it tasted like?” She moistened her patient’s lips.
“No. I can’t remember.” Angel looked disappointed. “I don’t remember anything about being sick. Only when I woke up, I couldn’t see, and Ma was dead.”
“I’m thankful you’re here, Angel, or I’d be all alone trying to take care of him.”
“Mary?” His eyes fluttered open.
“She’s not here, sir. You need to drink this.”
He closed his eyes and moaned. “Mary?”
Heaven seized the opportunity and squeezed the cloth into his mouth and prayed the willow bark would bring down the fever and that he wouldn’t choke on the liquid.
He spat it out.
“Oh!” Heaven jumped back and wiped her face with the hem of her apron.
“What happened?” Angel’s voice was edged in fear.
“He spit it out, and it landed on my face.”
Angel snorted a donkey laugh. “Told you to put honey in it.”
“I didn’t think he would taste it.” She stared at him. His eyes were closed. He wasn’t aware of her at all. “Guess I’d better add the honey.”
“I’ll get it and a spoon.” Angel hopped off the stool. “Be right back.”
Heaven sighed. It was going to be a long night.
Travis didn’t want to open his eyes if the sunlight hurt his head this much with them closed. What he couldn’t figure out is why his head hurt. Slowly he cracked them open. A finger of sunshine stabbed him in the eye. He covered his eyes with his arm against the assault. His head throbbed, or rather, one side of his head did, not both. What happened to him?
He wasn’t lying on the ground, and he was warm and dry. In a bed. In a bed? He’d been on his way to Caleb’s place. After that he couldn’t remember.
Before slamming his eyelids closed, the brief glimpse of the room he’d seen had offered a view of a chinked wall and a daguerreotype on a dresser of two people he didn’t recognize.
Pieces of images came to him—angels, heaven, and a choir. Had he left this earth and then returned? No, that didn’t happen. It could have been a strange dream, but if felt real, and the pain in his head wasn’t his imagination either.
“Sir, are you awake?” A soft hand brushed against his arm. “You had a fever, but it’s gone now.”
Slowly he dragged his arm away from his eyes. The sunlight kissed the hair of the woman standing next to him. The woman from the store. Holding a rifle. His heart pumped blood through his veins faster than water out of a bucket full of holes. He struggled to sit up. He had to get away from this crazy woman.
“I’m not sure you should do that yet. You have a pretty ugly head wound.” She hoisted the gun, resting it on her shoulder.
He sank his head back into the pillow. He’d try it her way, at least until he was strong enough to wrestle that rifle away from her. “How’d I get that?”
Her face paled, and her stunning blue eyes rounded. “I was aiming over your head.”
“You shot me?”
“I was trying to scare you away. You must be taller than the others. I’m sorry—unless you’re coming here wasn’t honorable.” Her finger snaked into the trigger hole. “Then I won’t be sorry at all.”
“I was on my way to Caleb Wharton’s home.”
“Well, you found it, but why were you coming here? Did someone tell you we were all alone out here?” Her grip on the barrel tightened.
“Caleb told me to come here.”
She withdrew her finger from the trigger and lowered the gun. “Pa? Pa sent you? Did he send passage money with you? Where is he? Did he send a letter with you? Is he okay?” Her face flushed with excitement, making her blue eyes shimmer like sapphires.
Travis had a feeling Caleb had been less than forthcoming. Considering his feverish state, he guessed he could excuse the man. “I’ll tell you everything I know as soon as you put that gun over in the corner.”
She spun around and headed to the corner, seemingly assured he wouldn’t be a danger to her since he brought word of her father. Travis was glad she did as he asked. He didn’t want her holding that gun when he told her about Caleb. “What’s your name anyway?” She turned back and smiled. “Heaven Wharton.” In a flash, he understood what Caleb had done. Travis wanted her far away from the corner before he gave her any information about her father. He watched her almost float across the floor with a Christmas-morning smile. Beautiful. And he was about to hand her a stocking full of nothing. That smile would disappear, and most likely, giving her the news about her father would keep that smile locked away for a long time. He hated to be the one to cause that.
“You didn’t tell me your name.” She stood further from the bed than before. Now that he was awake, he figured she wanted to maintain propriety.
“Travis Logan.”
“Are you from around here, Mr. Logan?” She gathered the side edge of her apron, twisting it between her fingers.
“No I’m not. My family resides in the eastern part of the state in Knoxville.” He could see the impatience in the jiggle of her foot. Still she seemed determined to be the gracious southern hostess.
“What county would that be, Mr. Logan? We’re originally from Davidson County. Nashville.”
“It’s Knox County, Miss Wharton.” His throat was dry. “Could I trouble you for a drink of water before I tell you about your father? I have such a bitter taste in my mouth.” “That’s from the willow bark. I’ll get you some water.” “Why did you give me willow bark?” “You seemed feverish, thrashing about in the bed, and I knew that’s what my ma would have done for you if she were here.”
“That was a good idea. It must not have been a high fever since I’m better this morning. Except for this.” He touched the side of his head and winced.
“That’s going to take some time to heal. I tried stitching you up, but it’s a lot different to pull a needle through skin than through cloth. My stitches aren’t as pretty.” She glanced away, but not before he saw her face scrunch.
“It’s a bit different, that’s true. Have you done that before?”
“No, I tried to watch Ma stitch my father, but I fainted. So it’s a miracle from God that I was able to close your wound.”
Travis knew about miracles, but that he’d been on the receiving end didn’t seem fitting. God should have chosen to save Caleb, not him.
Annabelle finished with the note she’d penned for her father on her last piece of fine foolscap and blew on the ink to dry it. She hadn’t written that she didn’t plan to return to his home, only how much she had to get away, especially after her encounter with William’s wife. William’s wife.
It galled her to write that, and it showed with the blobs of ink she’d left on the paper. Satisfied she’d given him enough information, she placed the pen back in the crystal holder. Her plan was set in motion now, the trunk sat at the station waiting, and she’d found a reliable, perfect, and unexpected chaperone.
She sipped the chamomile tea and nibbled at the small piece of toast she’d brought upstairs with her. She’d been too excited, nervous about the trip to eat her dinner. The tea had cooled and no longer held any appeal. The toast was too dry to consume. She dropped it onto the flowered china plate and pushed her chair back.
Had she forgotten anything? The few things she’d knitted, t
hree dresses, a dress for Heaven, and the jam for Angel were at the top of the list. She’d filled in the trunk with things she needed to start her new life and some that would remind her of home—an embroidered pillowcase her mother had made and one of father’s cigars so she could conjure him in her mind with a sniff.
Anticipation instead of sleep filled her thoughts as she wandered around her bedroom memorizing it, because if her plan worked, she wouldn’t be returning. She stopped at her dressing table and picked up the framed daguerreotype of her mother. It might fit in her reticule. She wanted to bring it with her, but no, if she did, her father would immediately know she had no plans to return. She hoped someday he would send it to her. She hugged the frame to her chest. “I miss you, Ma.”
Chapter 6
The cup Heaven carried shook against its saucer as she walked across the cabin. It was as if her body knew something wasn’t right and didn’t want her asking questions. She couldn’t believe she’d stood there acting like a debutant, asking everyday questions, while all she wanted to do was shout like a little girl, “Where’s my Pa?” Her black skirt rustled as she crossed the floor, as if whispering warnings of unpleasantness to come. She hated that skirt.
“Here you are, Mr. Logan. Do you need help, or do you feel confident that you can hold the cup?” She avoided looking at the stitched side of his head, preferring to concentrate on the curly dark hair mussed from a rough night.
He reached for the cup, brushing his fingers against hers. It caused a tingle to rush through her. How strange. That had never happened when Jake touched her hand. The tremor caused the cup and saucer to tip until it almost slid out of her grip, but she found the strength to hang on until he had a firm grasp on it. She stood at the foot of the bed while he drank. It seemed it took a lifetime for him to drink the contents. When he finished, he didn’t offer her the empty cup.
She held out her hand to take it from him when small taps echoed under the window as something walked across the porch.
Bride's Dilemma in Friendship, Tennessee Page 5