Vestige of Legacy

by Sara Blackard

  Of course, God could’ve just wanted her rescued from the madman who had attacked her. With that thought springing to his brain, Orlando found himself asking before he could stop, “Want to tell me who this Harry is, and why he did this to you?”

  Orlando glanced up and watched as Samara’s face turned red with anger. He remembered the fist she’d clenched when he first found her and wondered if he should prepare to duck. Life had definitely taken a turn toward the more exciting since he woke up that morning

  Chapter 3

  Of course Orlando had to ask Samara the question that sent instant shudders of fear skittering up her spine, which made her madder than a nest of angry hornets. She’d fought her whole life to be strong, to survive and show others she wasn’t one to mess with. When she’d lived in homes that shadowed the wards in constant fear, she’d pulled her invisible armor of contempt and trouble-making on. When that proved ineffective, she’d run away and struggle to make it on the streets of Philadelphia. A scrawny, redheaded punk girl made for an easy target. But she’d survived it.

  Only all that Samara had survived hadn’t kept her from Harry’s hands. She supposed Orlando needed to know what he was up against, because, despite his assurance Harry would never hurt her again, she didn’t think they’d traveled so far that he couldn’t track them down. It wasn’t like Harry would leave her alive, especially since she knew who he was.

  Samara sighed. “I had just finished performing at the weekly barbecue our dude ranch puts on. We were loading all the guests up on horses or the wagon, and the next thing I knew, it’s just me and Harry left to load up the last of the chairs and whatnot into the pick-up and head back to the ranch. I was so busy helping clean up, I didn’t realize we were alone until everyone was already down the trail. Harry and I had everything loaded, and I had grabbed my case to get in the truck when everything started to get all wonky. He must’ve used ketamine or something to knock me out, because the next thing I knew I was waking up in a nightmare.”

  Samara shuddered at the heavy memory of waking in the forest, Harry’s sinister whispers slinking in her ears and down her spine. She didn’t know if the nausea that assaulted her stomach was from remembering the horrid event or the pain radiating from where Orlando touched. She didn’t want to continue her tale but found the words tumbling out on their own as her fingers rhythmically rubbed Zeus’s fur. She related waking up in the forest and then escaping from Harry, perhaps as a distraction from the burning and aching radiating from the cut Orlando was trying to treat.

  Orlando’s face had gotten darker and darker the more she retold the event. Samara guessed it wouldn’t do anyone a bit of good to make him upset. Yet, no matter the anger that vibrated from his body, surprisingly, his touch never turned rough.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t hear him with all the hollering he was doing.”

  “I wish I had run across him so he’d get the justice he deserves. Women are precious, to be treated with respect and care. It’s unscrupulous what that man did.” Orlando’s voice quivered with controlled rage, and though Samara had never heard anyone describe women the way he did, it ridiculously made her go all mushy inside. Keep it together, Samara.

  “We’ll need to go to the authorities and tell them about Harry. I can draw a picture they can send out and put on the news and across Facebook and Twitter. This wasn’t the first time he’d done this. I think the psycho is a serial killer. I might be the only one who’s ever gotten away.” Samara needed to make sure Harry didn’t kill again.

  Orlando’s rage faded with a non-committal sound as he busied himself with her wound. It stung like crazy and brought tears to her eyes that she quickly blinked away. When all the exposed cuts were cleaned, he freshened the water and looked at her uncomfortably. He grabbed a rolled blanket from where his gear lay.

  Orlando approached Samara and cleared his throat. “To get this cut stitched up, we’ll need your dress off. You can place the blanket over you to keep you as covered as possible. I have an extra pair of clothes in my saddlebags. You can slip the pants on before you take your dress off. Once I’m done, you can wear the shirt, though it will be huge on you. I’m afraid your dress will be irreparable, but I’m sure my sister Beatrice has something she left behind you can wear when we get to the cabin.”

  “It’s okay, Orlando. I don’t even like this old-fashioned get-up they make me wear when I’m performing. Give me leggings and a sweatshirt any day,” Samara answered.

  Orlando approached her, shook out the blanket and rushed back to his saddlebags, bringing a stack of clothes and setting them next to her. “I’ll just go gather some more firewood while you change.”

  Samara’s hands shook as she attempted to unbutton her dress. The smooth, round disks slipped through her fingers. She huffed out a breath and tried again, hating how her body wouldn’t calm down enough to do a simple task. She glanced at the cave entrance, wondering how much longer she had before he returned. Growling in frustration, she took the dress and ripped it open. They couldn’t save the stupid thing anyway. She hurriedly put on the buckskin pants and wrapped herself in the blanket.

  “Samara, are you ready for me to come in?” Orlando’s voice called into the cave.

  “Yeah.” Samara cleared her throat when her voice cracked. “I’m good.”

  Orlando came in, quickly glanced at her, then tucked his head and piled the wood next to the fire. She inwardly chuckled when his neck and face beneath his beard started pinking in a blush. He cleared his throat and knelt before her. She lowered the blanket, revealing her cut and the top of her bra. Orlando stared in confusion at her bra, tentatively fingering the material of the strap. She chuckled.

  “What? You’ve never seen a bra or something?” Samara joked.

  “Nope,” Orlando answered as he cleared his throat again.

  “You’re joking. Where’ve you been living, under a rock? They’re everywhere, in magazines, on billboards, in the mall, and on TV multiple times a night. Shoot, I even get advertisements in my Facebook feed.”

  Orlando got that distracted look on his face and turned away from her. “Well, I haven’t seen one.”

  He rushed to his saddlebag and started rummaging through it. His avoidance of the conversation sat wrong with Samara. She looked at his rough clothes, they appeared handmade, and began to wonder exactly who he was. What he was doing out here in the national wilderness where motorized equipment was forbidden and people rarely ventured? Exhaustion pulled at her, begging her to put down her guard and relax. Though it went against her very spirit, she figured she’d listen to the begging and let Orlando’s dodging go until she felt more up to diving into the mystery.

  The fire flickered and threw beautiful shadows that danced upon the cave walls. If she had her sketch pad, she’d try to capture the sense of safety and possibly even joy at watching them twirl. She’d have to remember to paint it when she got back to civilization, because her summer in the wilderness had officially ended, despite still having months of guests. There was no way she’d be able to stay here after the ordeal she’d been through. It was time to move on again, possibly change her name so the sociopath couldn’t hunt her down.

  Orlando had evaded her questions like a fish evading a hook. He’d have to tell her that she wasn’t in her own time at some point, but with her being kidnapped and the wolf attack, he figured any more shocks might push her system over the edge. He couldn’t save her from the truth for very long. Besides, it seemed like she spoke a different language with her bra, face book, and twitting. He wanted her to trust him, not be another person to let her down.

  “Before I start working on that cut, I want you to drink the tea. It’ll help ease the pain and might even put you to sleep. I think I’ll need to stitch your cut up, which is going to hurt something fierce. If I leave it, you’ll have a nasty scar, plus it increases the chance of infection setting in.”

  “Are you some kind of doctor or something?” Samara questioned.

 
; “Something,” Orlando answered, smiling up at her to ease her discomfort. It didn’t help, by the look of doubt plastered on her face.

  “Shouldn’t we wait until you can get me to the clinic down in Meeker?”

  Orlando smirked at the knowledge that the arrogant Nathan Meeker ended up with a town named after him. Orlando’s forehead creased in concern with what that might mean for the Utes. They had let Orlando know of their anxiety concerning Meeker’s governing last time Orlando had visited. It didn’t sound promising if the man’s name remained connected forever to the area. Orlando would have to make a point to visit again as soon as Samara got settled.

  Before he could wonder too much on why his mind assumed his plans now depended on Samara, he answered her question about going to a doctor in a way he hoped didn’t raise her suspicions. “By the time we get you into a facility, it’ll be too late to stitch. I promise you, I’ve done this more times than I can even remember and have been told I stitch better than most people’s grandmothers.”

  Samara gingerly touched the largest gash and faltered. “I guess that’s okay.”

  Orlando checked if the tea had steeped enough. He knew she’d probably had nothing like the concoction before. He wondered how he would explain his lack of medicines that, in her time, she would have available at most shops.

  “This tea is going to be nasty. I’m not gonna lie. It’s a mixture of coffee, willow bark, chamomile, and sugar. I try and make it a little more palatable with the sugar, but I’m not sure it’s successful.” Orlando shrugged as he strode over to her and handed her the mug.

  “Your very own designer coffee, huh? Are you into natural remedies, like a homeopathic or functional medicine doctor?” Samara sniffed the tea and took a tentative sip.

  She shuddered, and Orlando chuckled. “I believe God has given us the things we need on the earth to heal us. The natives have proven that for years. I also know there’s advances happening in medicine every day that will help people survive.”

  “I’m all for doing things naturally, but I’m not against a bottle of ibuprofen either.” Samara downed the rest of the tea with another violent shudder. “I hate to tell you this, but your designer coffee probably won’t be making the seasonal menu at Starbucks anytime soon. I’ve heard of people drinking willow bark tea in the past, but never with coffee.”

  Orlando grabbed the mug as she adjusted the blanket she’d wrapped around her shoulders. He placed the mug aside with a clunk, the weight of the pain he was about to cause Samara making the mug heavy as a boulder. He rolled the worry from his shoulders and threaded the needle, placing both needle and thread in a small tray of whiskey to clean it.

  He grabbed the cloth and warm water and turned back to Samara. “It’s definitely the worst coffee I’ve ever drunk, except maybe for Ed’s at the post. Most folks avoid his coffee if possible. I found out, by accident actually, that the willow bark seems to work better when added to coffee. I’m not sure why, but it does.”

  “Might be the caffeine in the coffee works like the caffeine in migraine and PMS medicine.” Samara shrugged, laying her head back against the cave wall and closing her eyes. “Yours is just a nastier tasting version.”

  Orlando adjusted so the fire shone onto her cut and began the arduous process of cleaning it thoroughly. She flinched and sucked in a breath. He wished there could be some way to make this less painful.

  “So you’re a performer? What do you do?” Orlando hoped to distract her.

  “I’m a singer, and I play the mountain dulcimer. Well, I also play the violin, guitar, piano, and cello, but my favorite is the dulcimer. I get different gigs, usually long-term jobs at different resorts or camps for the tourist season,” Samara answered.

  “You play all those instruments? How’d you learn them all?” Orlando asked in amazement.

  “I worked my butt off, that’s how.” Samara shrugged. “I’ve always had a musical bent. I was playing the dulcimer and piano by the time I was three. The others I picked up on the streets and after I attended the Curtis Institute of Music in Philly.”

  “That sounds prestigious.”

  “It’s one of the top music academies in the world. I’m still surprised I got in, but tuition is free for those who are accepted, so I figured, why not try? I could’ve played with any orchestra I wanted after I graduated, but I was always drawn back to the dulcimer. It’s not really an orchestra kind of instrument, so me and my stringed beauty took to the road, finding work where we can.”

  Orlando peered into her face, her eyes closed and mouth strained around the edge. Her nonchalant attitude toward something that must be a great success intrigued him. It also amused him that she talked of her instrument like a friend. He desired to hear her play.

  “Well, do you think you’d want to play after I get you stitched up? It might take your mind off the pain.”

  Samara opened her eyes and stared into his face, her butterscotch eyes intense as they scrutinized him. He held her gaze, praying his desire to help and not hurt shone through. Her eyes widened and the tension softened a bit around her mouth.

  “I can probably play while you’re stitching. It’ll help distract me from the pokes and pulls.”

  Orlando stood and rushed to her case. He brought it to her and laid the case across her cross-legged lap. He watched in awe as she opened it with a reverence that spoke to more than a simple instrument. It was beautiful, full of cut-outs flowers, vines, and even a bird carved into the surface. It was a bit shorter than a guitar and skinnier too, the body curving all the way up the fret.

  “It’s beautiful,” Orlando stated.

  “It was my mother’s.” Samara took it out of its case and cradled it in her arms.

  Orlando moved the case out of the way and knelt beside her. He watched as Samara placed the instrument flat on her lap and played a few chords. She closed her eyes, her lips curving up slightly. With the way she held the instrument, he’d be able to stitch her up. It might be a bit awkward, but he’d twist himself into a knot if playing made the doctoring easier on her.

  “I’m going to start stitching if you think you’re ready,” Orlando whispered as the music tinkled against the cave walls.

  He bent over her and worked to the most ethereal music he’d ever heard. It surrounded him until he felt as if angels danced within the cave. He never imagined music could affect a person at their core, but it did. The expressive rising and falling of notes filled him with the aching truth of God’s mercy and love, and he communed with the Holy Spirit who warmed his soul to the point that he teared up and had to sniff. He ducked his head and thanked God for the undeserved privilege of His presence and the woman whose playing ushered it in.

  Samara awoke to warmth crackling on one side and warmth snoring on the other. She slid her fingers through butter soft fur. Zeus moaned low and long and started to thump his tail. She sighed in comfort despite the pain that pulled on her chest. She couldn’t believe she’d slept so hard.

  The bitter smell of coffee hit her nose, causing her stomach to rumble with hunger. She heard a chuckle from the other side of the cave. She rolled her head and looked into Orlando’s eyes. The bright blue sparked with laughter and warmth. Samara noticed how rugged and handsome he was with his full blond beard and long hair tied behind him. She normally didn’t go for the wannabe mountain man image that had become popular in the last few years, but he made her rethink that decision.

  “It sounds like you’re hungry.” Orlando smirked.

  “Starved, but you already heard that.” Samara laughed.

  “I have a stew simmering. Let me get you a cup of coffee while it cools.” Orlando poured her a mug of coffee.

  Samara started to scoot up and winced. Orlando hurried over, set the mug down, and put his arm around her. As he leaned over her, a woodsy scent enveloped her. She turned her nose into his neck and breathed deep. He leaned back and looked into her eyes, his face so close she smelled coffee on his breath. It tempted her to lean for
ward and take a taste.

  “Ready?” His deep and rich voice melted over her.

  More than you know, Samara thought, shaking her head at her silly thought.

  “No?” Confusion crossed Orlando’s his handsome face.

  “Ready.” She cleared her throat, her face warming in a blush she hadn’t felt since freshman year in high school.

  As he helped her sit up, Samara attempted to keep her thoughts out of the gutter. She succeeded, mostly. He smiled, then handed her the mug.

  Samara took a quick sniff. “No designer coffee this morning?”

  Orlando moved back to the fire. “Not unless you want it. I can make you some plain willow bark tea without the chamomile if you think you need it.”

  “No, I’ll be okay for now.”

  Samara watched as he pulled a small pot from the fire. When he stirred it, Samara noticed he had wrapped his arm. She looked down at Zeus still lying beside her. Orlando also had wrapped a bandage around the dog’s torso and front leg.

  “How bad did the wolves hurt you two?” she asked as she petted Zeus.

  “Not too bad.” Orlando shrugged. “Zeus had some pretty deep gashes, and his paw will keep him out of the field for a bit. I just had some bite marks that needed cleaned.”

  Samara nodded as she sipped the coffee, letting the warmth and taste dance around her tongue, then soothe into her belly. She found it ironic that with one hand curled around the mug, the other scratching Zeus’s ear, and a cozy fire burning close, she felt more at ease than she had in years. She should be concerned about getting to a clinic, alerting the authorities, and heck, even worried about the man by the fire. She couldn’t dredge up any of those feelings though, and that concerned her. She’d have to snap out of it and keep her wits about her. There was no way she would be caught unawares again.