Vestige of Legacy

by Sara Blackard

  “Beatrice, I’d like you to meet my talented, caring, and beautiful wife, Samara.” Orlando stared into Samara’s eyes as he talked, watching the shock upon Samara’s face as her eyes widened. “Samara, that’s my cranky baby sister, Beatrice.”

  A shocked gasp followed by a sharp whip of reins upon his back preceded the shove Beatrice gave him, knocking him away from Samara. “I’ll have you know, I’m in no way cranky, Orlando Charles Thomas. I’m perfectly pleasant. If I’m ill-tempered, it’s because of you, dear brother.” Beatrice turned to Samara, an instant smile plastered upon her face. “Welcome to the family, Samara. How did you end up hitched to this lug?”

  Samara’s eyes twinkled in amusement at the exchange, but at the question of their marriage, a shadow crossed her face. Did she already regret marrying him? Had he already lost her?

  Orlando put an arm around Samara’s shoulders and felt her body tense. He kissed her on the head before turning to Beatrice. “We have a great yarn to spin if you’ll help with the horses, Bea. Did you happen to make yourself useful and make supper?”

  Beatrice glared at Orlando. A sharp elbow rammed into his gut, rushing the air out of his lungs with a whoosh. Orlando laughed at the looks of outrage upon the women’s faces.

  “I’m teasing.” Orlando rubbed his gut. “Little Bit always makes herself useful, just not normally in the kitchen.”

  Orlando dodged Beatrice’s slap, grabbing her arm and pulling her in for a hug. He tweaked her nose and pulled her braid like he knew she hated. She laughed and hugged him back.

  “You’re ornery as a bear with no teeth, brother. I’ll have you know, Onootee stopped by late yesterday evening and let me know you’d be coming. I have a stew bubbling and biscuits baked.” Beatrice pushed him playfully and turned to Samara. “Come on, Samara. Since all Orlando wants to do is play around, we’ll have to take care of the horses before the stew scorches.”

  Orlando jogged to catch up to them and took the reins from Samara’s hand, threading his fingers in replacement. She glanced up at him, a question he didn’t understand written upon her face. He squeezed her hand and smiled down at her and winked.

  “So, where are you from, Samara?” Beatrice tied Orlando’s horse up to the corral fence and uncinched the saddle.

  “Philadelphia,” Samara answered as she took the reins back and tied Midnight to the fence.

  “2019,” Orlando added smugly.

  Beatrice’s gasp preceded a light squeak as the saddle she was lifting off the horse fell on her. Orlando rushed to her side, stifling his laughter as Beatrice struggled to push the saddle off her.

  “You okay, Little Bit?” Orlando sniggered.

  Beatrice glared at him, then turned to Samara in amazement. “You’re from the future, too?”

  At Samara’s nod, Beatrice whooped. Grabbing onto the saddle Orlando was lifting, Beatrice pulled herself up, shoved Orlando a bit, unbalancing him even more, and rushed to Samara’s side. Orlando caught the twinkle in Samara’s eyes as he barely avoided landing on his backside. Maybe this is what Samara needed to find a sense of home. He prayed Beatrice’s visit would lift Samara’s spirit and prove to her that she belonged. That she was family. His family. The rightness of that thought settled on him, and he returned her smile with a grin.

  “Orlando, take care of the horses and hurry up with it. Samara and I are going to go get the table set. I want to hear this story, and I’m not waiting on you as you stand there staring at your wife.” Beatrice looped her arm through Samara’s and dragged her to the cabin.

  Orlando heard Beatrice peppering Samara with questions of eye phones and photos. He sighed contently as Samara’s airy laugh floated across the yard and landed on his ears. Rushing through the work, yet making sure the horses were well cared for, Orlando walked into the cabin to find Samara telling the end of that horrifying moment when he’d found her, and then almost lost her to the pack of wolves.

  “They just kept coming, yet Orlando never flinched, never hesitated. There I sat cowering in front of him, clinging to Loco’s mane for dear life while Orlando shot so fast the blasts sounded like the finale of a fireworks show. I’ve never witnessed anything like it before, and I hope I never do again.” A shudder visibly raced up her body. “But your brother was amazing.”

  Samara’s awe embarrassed Orlando as he strode into the cabin and both women looked at him in respect. Why was it that he secretly prayed to be more than a vestige of his father’s legacy, to step fully into the footsteps left behind? Yet when faced with stories a legend like that entailed, he shied away from the accolades, wishing more to remain in the shadows of ambiguity. Maybe Orlando’s identity didn’t lie in living up to the image of his father but more in the legacy Orlando would leave behind, a heritage built on the love his parents had for each other and the people their lives touched. Orlando’s mind stuttered at that thought, his gaze glued to Samara. That would be his goal. Not to follow in the stories that filled the mountains and circled the campfires like his father’s escapades did, but for the generations to come to experience and embrace the legacy of love he determined to build with the beautiful woman God tossed back through time for him.

  The following morning, Samara meandered down the rows of vegetables that had grown in the four days that she and Orlando had been gone to the agency. Though the sun had worked its way up and was well into morning, the heat of summer hadn’t landed on the day yet. The bees buzzed and danced among the medicinal flowers and herbs, and Samara wondered if there was honey hiding somewhere in the woods. A slight breeze swirled the smell of thriving life around her. Samara breathed it in deeply, wishing her life could flourish like the garden planted by Orlando did. A horse whinnied from the barn causing Samara’s shoulders to sag.

  Beatrice talked with Orlando as he readied to leave to check the flock and make sure Onootee and his brother were settling in. Samara should go see him off, but her contradicting emotions tore at her. She needed to keep distance between them. Needed the space her defenses required to remain intact around Orlando. Yet her heart screamed to lean in to his embrace, to turn in the arms that pulled her back close at night, and accept the love he whispered into her hair. That love couldn’t be trusted though. He’d realize she wasn’t worth the trouble, probably already did with her colossal screw-up the other day at the agency. Hadn’t he already proven that he’d desert those he called his friends without much of a fight?

  Samara trailed her fingers along the pea trellis, the soft leaves tickling her skin, and glanced toward the barn as the door opened and Orlando emerged. Though the space between them was great, Samara saw Orlando’s disappointment in the drop of his shoulders and the dip of his head. His shoulders lifted as he sighed deeply before his stare returned to hers, his gaze so intense she thought it might burn her alive where she stood. She wondered what he would do. Would he cross the distance between them and drink her in with a kiss as desperate as the one they’d shared under the willow? She hoped so. God, what’s wrong with me? The question she meant as a joke came out as a prayer, and she left it hanging there, wondering if God would answer. Knowing that He wouldn’t. Just like Orlando wouldn’t seal her with a farewell kiss, but rather mount his horse and ride off with a nod of goodbye tilted her way. Pieces of her dried heart crumbled within her.

  As she continued to work her way to the medicinal section of the garden, Samara chided herself for expecting anything different. She stopped short at the sight of a small bouquet of Indian paintbrush laying in the path. Its stems were tied together with grass. Samara bent down to pick it up. As she stood with the flowers cradled softly in her hands, she sought out Orlando’s retreating form. He stopped and turned. They stared at each other across the distance, breath halting within her as time froze. Orlando raised his hand. Samara returned the gesture, wishing she could reverse time to a minute ago and kiss him properly before he left. He turned toward the forest, but stopped mid-turn.

  Samara’s heart began to beat wildly in her ches
t as Orlando’s shoulders heaved and his head bowed. “Please, please come back,” she whispered to his back.

  He whipped Loco around and thundered across the meadow. The pounding hooves and determined look on Orlando’s face had Samara’s belly performing somersaults. He stopped Loco in a skid on the outside of the fence and leaped off the horse over the simple border. He stalked right up to her and pulled her close, kissing her thoroughly. He’d come back. Samara choked on a sob as she wrapped her arms around his neck.

  Much too soon, Orlando pulled away and sighed. “I’m sorry, Samara. I had no right to put that guilt on you at the agency like I did. I’ve felt horrible.”

  “No, you were right. I should’ve been watching my words more closely. I keep forgetting where I am.”

  “Samara, you were just looking out for that poor girl. I admire your desire to help others.” Orlando kissed her again before pulling away. “I don’t want to, but I need to go.”

  “I know.” Samara trailed her hands down his arms and clasped his hands.

  “Are we fine?” Orlando squeezed her hands.

  Samara nodded and took a step back. She tucked her hands under her arms to keep them warm in the chill the absence of his touch created. She swallowed the hope and joy that clogged her throat. “I’ll see you soon.”

  Orlando traced her face with his eyes before turning and rushing to the horse placidly grazing on the opposite side of the fence. He mounted, waved one last time, and raced off into the forest.

  “You’ve done an amazing job with this garden,” Beatrice said as she approached.

  Samara turned to Beatrice with a shrug. “Orlando’s the one who planted it. I’ve just been caring for it, trying not to rip out something that’s not a weed.”

  “That’s not what Orlando told me.” Beatrice plucked an herbal flower and lifted it to her nose. “According to him, the garden was nothing but a shriveled, slowly dying mess until you turned up. That ‘under your loving care, the garden blossomed to life.’ His words, not mine.”

  Samara smiled sweetly. How could she ever think that he’d leave her like all the others? She couldn’t wait for him to get back home to show him just how much she loved him.

  Orlando berated himself the entire ride. Maybe he should’ve stayed behind and waited one more day to visit the flock. He was glad he’d given in to his desire, crossed the distance separating him and Samara, and kissed her with everything he was worth. He finally felt like he had busted through the barrier she’d been slowly building back up since the fateful day he’d let her down only to leave again. What were you thinking?

  The ride to where the sheep were located had been a torturous one. Try as he might, he couldn’t stop replaying his goodbye in his head. He thought of the memories of their wedding night that had burned with passion only to be replaced by the chill of the last few nights when he’d pulled her close and held her tight. That she never turned into him and returned the kisses he delicately placed upon her hair and neck carved a hole within his heart. That she didn’t pull away filled the hole with hope. And now with that good-bye, hope soared. Yet how was he to woo his wife with him off wrestling stinky sheep? Orlando determined he’d only be gone for one night. He’d make sure Onootee and his brother were good, the sheep were frolicking happily, and then race home to Samara.

  He rode into the meadow to the sounds of bleating ewes and laughed at the now mostly grown lambs that still danced and kicked around like babies. Onootee waved and approached, a grave look upon his face.

  “We have problems, brother.” Onootee’s greeting dropped Orlando’s heart into his stomach. “The dogs are not taking our directions, and we have found some sheep dead, with no apparent cause for death.”

  “Alright. Let’s see what we can do. I need to get back to the cabin soon though, so Beatrice can head over to the other homestead.” Orlando tried not to let his frustration show in his voice.

  Onootee nodded and motioned for Orlando to follow him. Orlando took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He’d deal with the problems as quickly as he could. Understanding these issues would be the turning point of whether this experiment succeeded or failed, whether he could help the Utes and other settlers flocking in. He needed to push his impatience to the side and focus. Samara wasn’t going anywhere. He had a lifetime to prove his love and devotion to her, while the window of triumph for this venture was limited to one, maybe two summers. He couldn’t afford to not solve these problems when it could mean survival or failure to someone in the future. So with great effort, he pushed his desire to rush home aside and focused on the problem at hand.

  Chapter 19

  Samara fought the tears that threatened to spill from her eyes as Beatrice packed her gear to leave. It had been a week since Orlando and Samara returned from their trip to the agency. An amazing week filled with laughter and a sense of sisterhood she’d never imagined possible. Now Beatrice would go back to the cabin she lived in with Hunter and Viola, and Samara might not see her new, charismatic friend until spring. Samara turned from the table and crossed to the bed Beatrice had slept on to grab the last of the items laying there.

  Samara had told Beatrice stories of living on the streets, the crazy things she’d seen and done to survive. They’d cried when she’d described the horror of moving from foster home to foster home, only to be almost assaulted by the person who was supposed to protect her. They’d laughed so hard they’d lost their breath when Samara told Beatrice about stealing a hotdog from a vendor only to somehow unlock the wheels and have the entire wiener cart chase her down the street. When Samara had told Beatrice about her latest job playing music for wannabe pioneers, Beatrice couldn’t fathom people paying thousands of dollars for such a foolish thing. Samara smiled, remembering how Beatrice had exclaimed if she lived during that time, she’d let those people determined to spend their money pay her thousands of dollars and give them a real Wild West experience they’d never forget.

  But the moments that solidified in Samara’s heart and bonded her to this fiery young woman were the times they revealed their hopes. Beatrice’s longing for something more in life, a life outside of the solitude of the mountains tugged at Samara’s intense desire she’d buried deep inside, the desire for a family so she wouldn’t be so alone. Samara could tell Beatrice fiercely loved her siblings and loved the freedom she had living in the wilderness of Colorado, by the stories she told and the smile she constantly had when talking about her family. Yet Samara also heard in the whispers of the what-ifs: Beatrice’s desire of belonging, which blew Samara’s mind since Beatrice was firmly encased within a loving and devoted family.

  How could this vibrant and strong woman, who never knew the hurt of abandonment, have the same doubts? How could Beatrice also worry she’d never find a love that filled the hollow spots within, pushing out the loneliness and despair that settled there just like Samara had? She was glad Beatrice wasn’t as jaded as Samara and still had a hope lighting her eyes as she talked about somehow traveling the world.

  Samara sighed as Beatrice rolled another garment and shoved it into her pack. The kitchen table was filled with Beatrice’s things as she packed to head to her home. Samara wondered if Beatrice leaving would make things strained again with Samara and Orlando. It had been amazing since he got home three days before, greeting her as enthusiastically as his farewell. Her doubts had been chased away as he had pulled her close and whispered how much he’d missed her. The sense of family had continued as Orlando and Beatrice had joked about how ridiculous their sister, Viola, and her husband, Hunter, were and the antics of their nephew, who seemed too young for antics. They discussed the new family Beatrice had helped and the problems boiling with the Utes. Samara worried that when Beatrice left, conversation between Samara and Orlando would become strained like a dulcimer string tightened so tight that one wrong strum would snap it. Would conversation that used to flow like legato, smooth and continuous, blending from one conversation to another, become staccato, stilted
and choppy?

  Samara peeked at Orlando, who bundled herbs for Beatrice to take home. As much as Samara loved hearing stories of family and having a house full of laughter, she yearned for the nights Orlando would pull her close and show just how much he loved her. But this happiness couldn’t last. History had repeatedly proved that in her life. Samara kept anticipating when this too would be ripped away. She shook her head at herself. She needed to stop obsessing, but worry burned in her gut. If history would eventually repeat itself, and she’d be left with her heart ripped from her chest, why dare to love?

  Samara grabbed the rest of Beatrice’s items and brought them to her. “I’m going to head outside and check on the chickens.” She knew it was a flimsy excuse, but she couldn’t stay in the cabin any longer where her worries settled heavy on her shoulders, closing the walls around her.

  “I’m almost done here.” Beatrice shoved the last of her items into her pack.

  Samara took a deep breath as she plodded outside. The clean mountain air helped her mind to focus, to clear. She knew she couldn’t live with this weight of fretfulness she had piled on her. Knew she couldn’t keep waiting for the rug to be pulled from under her. She took another deep breath and blew it out with a huff. She wasn’t going to allow the what-ifs to ruin the now anymore. If she could determine to survive the streets of Philly, she could determine to not let worry paralyze her.

  Samara turned toward the cabin as Beatrice approached and laced her arm through Samara’s. Beatrice dragged Samara to where Beatrice’s horse, Firestorm, stood waiting.