Vestige of Legacy

by Sara Blackard

  “Tell Chief Johnson I’ll come.” Orlando leaned back in his chair. “I’ll leave tomorrow morning.”

  “Brother, I thank you.” Onootee stood up. He gave a quick nod to Samara and headed out the door.

  Orlando stood and followed him. “Onootee, what do you think about you and your brother coming up to work the sheep? You would get to spend your days out in the wilderness instead of tilling land. I want to see if it’s something the Utes might enjoy more than farming; show Meeker that there are other options.”

  Onootee whistled for his horse, which trotted up. He mounted and turned to Orlando. “I would not be opposed to coming up, and I’m sure that quiet brother of mine would rather be here with the sheep than in the crowded village. Get Meeker’s approval, and we’ll be here. I’ll see you in a few days.” Onootee waved.

  Orlando returned the wave with a nod and smile. He leaned on the doorframe as he watched Onootee gallop away. He prayed he could reason with Meeker and help him understand the Ute people so they could find a balance. He didn’t hold out much hope though, since Meeker seemed to be an arrogant man whose way was gospel when Orlando had met him last fall.

  “Orlando?” Samara’s soft voice turned his head to where she stood behind him.

  He moved fully outside and leaned on the cabin so she could join him. She leaned against the opposite side of the doorjamb and looked past him to where Onootee’s form disappeared into the forest. Her gaze turned to him.

  “I’d like to go with you, if you think that would be okay,” Samara said.

  “If that’s what you want, you can come with me. I’ll enjoy the company,” Orlando answered with a small smile before continuing. “But I have to warn you, I’m worried this meeting will prove tense and could escalate. Also, the white women living at the agency might not approve of us being alone for so long.”

  “I could care less what some stuffy old biddy thinks of me.” Samara crossed her arms over her chest with a huff.

  “That may be, but if Meeker’s wife is anything like Meeker, she won’t be pleasant for you to be around.”

  Samara looked at him with strength and resignation. “I can handle myself just fine.”

  “I know,” Orlando murmured.

  Samara nodded and turned into the cabin. He remained where he stood and surveyed his meadow. He scanned the purple mountains in the distance and the aspen trees fully clothed in their summer garments, searching for the peace that usually resided deep within him. As the sound of Samara stacking bowls and dropping them in the sink clanked in the cabin, discord clanked within his soul. He feared this trip would change much and prepared himself to remain extra alert.

  Samara breathed in the crisp, early morning air from where she rode Midnight. Samara would be lying if she believed she wasn’t anxious about the trip, but she pushed that aside and determined to enjoy the ride. Even though the forest remained dark with dawn, Samara enjoyed the scenery. They’d packed their saddlebags the night before and left early, before the sun had even crested the ridge. Orlando had explained that they would arrive at the White River Agency sometime tomorrow morning if they made good time today.

  So the easy pace Orlando set surprised Samara, though she didn’t complain. She took in the forest that closed her in tightly like a mother swaddling a baby. She supposed some might find the weight of the trees constricting, but to her, the forest tight around her gave her comfort, and always had, now that she thought about it.

  Samara remembered flourishing in the wilderness. When her family lived in the Philippines, she’d hated living in Manila, but when they travelled to villages to work with churches, the jungles had called to her. The years she spent on the streets of Philadelphia had been the hardest, with no way to leave the city. Yet, she had found every park she could and would lay beneath the trees and pretend she lay deep within a forest somewhere. Once she’d scraped up enough money playing music on the streets to purchase her beater car, she spent every weekend she could driving into the Poconos and camping under the trees in the tent and sleeping bag she’d purchased at the Goodwill for twenty bucks. She’d been free in those moments, free from the pain and stress of always staying on guard. The trees had swaddled her, given her rest so she could survive the next stretch of time she’d be away.

  Samara wondered at that, the possibility that if God was how she had arrived here, it may have been for more reasons than just to escape Harry. He could’ve just as easily dropped her back at the ranch or at the police station in Meeker. Shoot, He could’ve answered all her dreams and beamed her onto the lap of some Scottish highlander living in a castle beside a loch. She wouldn’t have minded the haggis and brogue since it’d come with all those muscles wrapped in a kilt.

  Yet God had placed her here, where she’d live within the wilderness that had always brought her such serenity. Where the mountains reached high into the sky as if they held it up along their jagged backs and the wind played a sweet symphony as it blew gently through the meadow and trees. Where the sky painted a glorious picture each evening as the sun finished its trek across the expanse only to slowly reveal the sparkling marvel that graced the dark sky with such opulence. Where the press of people that caused her heart rate to soar and her nerves to fry disappeared to a dog, some sheep, and a man unlike any man she’d ever known. Maybe God really did care and wanted her happy.

  There she went again, thinking this arrangement would last, that this existence of peace could become her new norm. She was an idiot. She huffed and adjusted the dulcimer case hanging on her back. Why did her heart seem bent on entrenching her deep within this place? The constant inner argument wore on her and worried her that one day her heart would win over reason.

  Midnight jerked her head and snorted, and Samara leaned over with a chuckle as she patted her neck. “I know, girl, I’m pathetic.”

  A slight rustle above her was the only warning before a weight slammed into her back, pushing her flat against Midnight’s neck. The shriek of the horse almost drowned out the sound of something sharp attempting to rip into her dulcimer case. Samara changed her mind. This forest would be the death of her.

  Chapter 12

  Orlando’s hand palmed his gun before he realized the horrifying scream came from the horse behind him. He spun in the saddle and choked at the sight of a mountain lion pinning Samara to the horse. This woman was going to be the death of him.

  Orlando aimed and shot the lion. The bullet slammed into the animal’s side, causing it to fall off the horse. Unfortunately, it took Samara with it. She screamed, and Orlando prayed the horse didn’t trample her in its attempt to escape. Orlando jumped from his horse and raced over to Midnight, grabbing the horse’s reins and pulling the mare away from crushing Samara with her hooves.

  Orlando then rushed to Samara where she’d rolled off the lion, crawled some distance away, and had curled on her side sobbing. He leaned over, threading his fingers through her hair. He buried his face in her hair and inhaled, calming his heart that threatened to beat out of his chest.

  “Shh, its okay. You’re okay,” Orlando whispered into her ear.

  “Is it dead?” She shuddered.

  “It’s dead. You’re safe.” He cupped her body and pulled her up to him.

  She kneeled beside him, her face buried in his neck as she took deep breaths, slowing the sobs that ripped from her. Orlando felt her hands shake where they clutched his shirt. When her sobs had mostly stopped, she pushed back and pointed those beautiful amber eyes at him, still glistening with tears.

  “You’re not hurt, are you?”

  She shook her head and whispered. “I don’t think so.”

  Orlando pulled away from her and brushed the hair from her face. He couldn’t believe he’d missed that lion perched in the tree. If he’d focused his mind on the surroundings rather than the woman behind him, he probably would’ve seen the cat where it crouched.

  A hard lump formed in his throat, causing his voice to come out garbled and rough. “I’m
so sorry, Samara. I should’ve seen it.”

  “It’s all right, Orlando,” she replied, placing a shaky hand upon his cheek. “You can’t see everything. I didn’t even know it was there until it landed on me.”

  He leaned his cheek into her hand, asking in a whisper. “How are you not hurt?”

  She laughed and shrugged until her case came loose. “The mountain lion landed on the case. I could hear it gnawing away as Midnight and I screamed.”

  Orlando grabbed the case and ran his hand over the thick gouges that now covered it. Teeth marks marred the wide end of the case she had sitting by her head. If she hadn’t been stubborn and demanded she wear the thing, he probably would’ve lost her.

  Orlando cleared his throat of the emotion that threatened to close it. “Thank you, Lord, for this case that protected Samara’s life.”

  “Shouldn’t you be thanking me for insisting that I carry the thing instead of strapping it down like you suggested? God had nothing to do with that.” Samara crossed her arms over her chest.

  “Thank You Lord for making Samara such a strong-willed, hardheaded woman and for bringing her to me,” Orlando prayed, smiling big and pulling her to him before landing a kiss on her cheek. “Life’s much more exciting with her around.”

  Samara gasped in shock and smacked him on the shoulder. The mountain lion twitched, causing Samara to shriek and grab onto Orlando’s arm. He laughed as he rubbed her hand that threatened to leave marks where it clung to him.

  “Don’t worry. It’s just the muscles twitching.”

  Samara sighed and released her death grip. She scooted a little closer to the animal and looked at it. The lion had a bullet wound right through the heart. Orlando had never been so thankful to be a great shot as he was since Samara had shown up.

  “Why’d it attack? I didn’t think they’d attack something as large as us,” Samara asked.

  Orlando looked at the lion and then glanced at the sky where the last traces of night burned off with the colorful sunrise. “It’s a little late for hunting, but not completely out of character. This lion looks young, though, maybe only a year. It just didn’t know any better.”

  “Aw, poor baby,” Samara crooned, scooting over to the carcass and petting its side.

  Orlando rolled his eyes and groaned. “For goodness sake, Samara. It’s still old enough to tear you to pieces.”

  Samara turned and glared at him before sticking out her tongue. He stood and moved to Loco, who’d remained ground hitched where Orlando had left him. He patted the pony on the side in affection and grabbed the meat bags he kept in his pack.

  “We need to take care of this carcass and get down the trail before any other predator decides to come take a bite out of you.” Orlando tossed the game bags next to Samara.

  Samara’s eyes opened wide and her mouth hung in an adorable O. Orlando watched as her shock turned to indignation, and she squinted her eyes at him, one eyebrow raised higher than the other. He knelt down beside her and turned to her.

  “Ready for your first lesson in butchering?” Humor laced Orlando’s words.

  Samara shook her head at the same time she said, “Yes.”

  Orlando laughed at her timidity as he got started on the animal. The strong-willed woman had disappeared, but he knew the timid one wouldn’t stay for long.

  Samara sat by the crystal clear lake they’d stopped at. Never had she seen a view more beautiful than the one that lay out before her. The lake wasn’t all that large, but lazily circled through the forest. Several mountain peaks lined the sky on the opposite side of the lake and reflected perfectly within the flat water. The blue sky, slowly turning shades of apricot, rose, and lavender, filled the space around and above her with a surreal glow. The air smelled of crisp water and campfire. The only sounds meeting her ears were the playful tone of the creek as it left the lake behind, the trilling song of some birds floating down from the trees, and the fire crackling merrily behind her.

  Samara almost hesitated adding her own strand to the symphony playing around her, but she found her fingers strumming and moving in response. A squirrel chattered in protest at her interruption, causing her to consider stopping. However, her fingers continued the song of her heart that played out across the strings.

  Samara thought back to Orlando’s prayer earlier today, him thanking God for bringing her to him. Her lips tweaked up at the memory of the quick kiss Orlando had placed upon her cheek. Nothing Earth-shattering or toe-curling, but the quick touch tickled with his whiskers and had sent warmth racing to her gut. She thought of the weight of the lion pressing into her back, the funky musk that had filled her nose, and the crunch of teeth on her case sent chills skating up and down her spine. The memory proved as frightening as the encounter.

  Yet, Samara’s mind kept going back to that prayer. Life’s much more exciting with her around. How could Orlando think that? He’d obviously been teasing, because she’d brought nothing but danger and painful memories with her.

  She thought about Orlando’s penchant for prayer. How quick he praised and thanked God for things God could’ve stopped to begin with. If God truly found her worthy of His thoughts and time, of His protection and provision, then why had He allowed such horrible things to happen to her? How was she to trust a God who could hurt her so completely? It all circled back to the fact that she wasn’t worth it. Her parents realized it. Her friends on the street and ex-fiancé realized it. Even God realized it. Eventually, Orlando would realize it too.

  “My name is graven on His hands. My name is written on His heart,” Orlando’s deep voice sang low as he sat down beside her.

  Samara jerked to a stop and looked at him. “What did you just say?”

  “I was just singing the hymn you were playing, ‘Before the Throne of God Above.’ It’s one of my favorites, though it’s newer,” Orlando answered, looking at her in confusion. “You didn’t know what you were playing?”

  Samara looked down at her fingers where they laid across the instrument. She shook her head and squeezed her eyes shut. Why would that song have to find its way to her fingers? Could God not let her be?

  Orlando watched as Samara looked pained by his question. He’d heard her playing while he finished taking care of the lion pelt. The song had drifted in and out of the air around them, floating playfully down the creek and trilling with the warblers in the trees. He stood transfixed as it became part of nature, not overpowering or taking away from it, but melding as if it had always been.

  When the music had morphed into the hymn he’d heard in church on his trip to Denver last summer, he’d been drawn to join her. The hymn had left such a mark upon him when he’d first heard it, forcing him to look at his grief and selfishness. He’d left for home the next day, but not before he’d tracked down a copy of the author’s hymnal so he could remember it. He often sang it within the wilderness, lifting his voice in worship. But he never thought he’d hear it emerging from Samara’s heart.

  “That song means something to you, doesn’t it?” Orlando studied her face for signs of her thoughts.

  Samara’s shoulders lifted high in a heavy sigh. “It was a favorite of my mother’s, of mine too, I guess. We used to sing it every night before I went to bed. She sang it before the men killed her.”

  A breath shuddered from Samara’s mouth as Orlando’s mind galloped away. “I’ve been wondering about something, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Ask away.”

  “I’ve been thinking about your parents’ deaths and wondering why there were three shots and not just two?” Orlando asked with hesitation, not wanting to cause her more pain but needing to understand.

  Samara laughed without humor. “Yes, God’s miraculous third shot.”

  Samara rubbed her fingers through her hair, scrubbing the heels of her hands into her eyes. Orlando could tell she didn’t want to share the story with him and almost told her she didn’t need to. But he wondered if telling him would flush out some of the hurt t
hat infected her. That possibly God might use the telling to expose her darkness to the light of God’s love for Samara.

  She placed her fingers upon the strings and softly plucked at them. “I never thought much about that shot, never thought about the entire incident except when I woke screaming from the nightmares. One fall while I was in the Curtis Institute of Music, the symphony travelled to Manila to play in a charity series to help the impoverished of the city. I wanted to prove that I could go there. That I could face my ghosts and come away intact.

  “So I traveled all the way back to the Philippines, played pretty music for the wretched masses living there. I contacted the Navigators, the missionary group my parents were a part of, and talked them into taking me back to my old house. My fiancé and I loaded into the car, made the trip across town with the director of Navigators, and pulled up to my old house.”

  Orlando’s heart stopped at the word fiancé. Why hadn’t she said anything about someone waiting for her back in her time? He almost interrupted her but held his tongue. She seemed to get pulled into the story, her fingers plucking nonsense and her look far away as it stared across the lake. So he bit the inside of his cheek to keep his questions in and let her story continue.

  “The neighborhood looked exactly the same, like it had frozen in time, though I’m not sure why I expected it to be different. When I got out of the car, I noticed a lady across the street tending her flowers. I called out without thinking, ‘Tita Fhil?’ She turned, a look of surprise crossing her face, and I took off across the street in a run and almost tackled the poor lady. She embraced me. Kept repeating my name as she patted my head. After we calmed ourselves, she invited the three of us in for coffee and cookies.

  “Tita Fhil and the director told a pretty fantastic story about how three shots had been fired, two that killed my parents and one shot into the ground beside my mother. The men responsible claimed to have killed the American family, while the people of the neighborhood knew I’d survived. They called it a miracle. That God had somehow made them believe I was there beside my parents. I remember laughing in contempt, saying the terrorists just must’ve misfired, but they insisted. Claimed the miracle bolstered the faith of the believers there and now the church grows stronger and larger despite constant threat. So there’s the story of the three shots. The last one bolstered a community. The first two shattered my life.”