by Judith Pella
“Not you.”
He could not fathom how she could say such kind things about him. He just shook his head in disbelief. “Lucie, I don’t know how you can say that when you know the kind of man I am. I am still completely befuddled that you took me in after what I did. Nothing I ever did was out of courage. You hinted at it the last time we saw each other. Anything I’ve done was from pure orneriness and hate, too. Honor, courage—they just have nothing to do with me.”
“I’ll agree you are ornery, and you have more than your share of hate in you, but it’s only part of you. You have good in you, Micah. You’ll never convince me otherwise.” She finished her work and tugged the blanket back in place.
Micah smiled at her. He just didn’t feel like doing any soul-searching at the moment. “You bring it out of me, if it’s there.”
“And don’t you forget it!” she said with a tart smile, then gathered up her things and moved to the door. “I’ll bring you some broth if you feel up to eating it.”
“Yes, thank you.” He didn’t know if he could eat, but he’d take any excuse to have her return.
The fever hit hard in the night. Micah faded in and out of consciousness for two days. Nightmares assailed him. Goliad, San Jacinto, battle, slaughter, death. And, as nightmares will, his made no sense at all. The victims were not always soldiers, Mexican or Texan. Sometimes his father was one of the victims, sometimes even Micah was cut down. But the worst nightmare was the one in which Lucie was hewn down on the battlefield.
Yet woven into and around the horror were moments that did not fit. He realized later that these were the moments when he came out of the nightmares into reality, a reality that seemed even less real than the nightmares. For they were moments of sweetness and peace. In them Lucie figured strongly, sitting at his bedside with her head bowed and her dear voice murmuring over him.
“Dear Lord, spare Micah that he might know you, that he might truly see you for the loving, merciful God that you are. . . .”
Micah never thought prayer could be so good. He never thought he might actually desire to reach out for it. It was like an island of calm in the midst of a hurricane. Was it just Lucie, or was it the words she was saying?
Finally the fever passed, and he woke again with a clear mind. Lucie was there at his bedside, and he wondered if she’d ever left. She wiped a cool damp cloth across his forehead.
“You were praying for me,” he breathed.
“I have been praying for two days. I couldn’t help it.”
He smiled at the hint of apology in her tone. “Thank you.”
“Really?”
“I just remembered something. . . .” He spoke dreamily, his eyes half-closed so as not to break the wonderful spell of the moment. “When I was a boy, before I came to Texas, I caught a bad fever. My mother sat by my bed as you are doing now, and she wiped me with a cool cloth and . . . and she prayed over me. I had forgotten how many times she . . .” He turned his head away as sudden tears sprang to his eyes. “I had forgotten . . .” he murmured, then he closed his eyes, his speech exhausting him. In a moment sleep engulfed him. A sleep without dreams, without nightmares.
He awoke a while later, and Lucie was still there. He gave her a weak smile but could not speak. He slept again, and when he awoke, she was still there. He continued thus for two more days, waking for a few moments, then sleeping. He had never slept so much in his life, nor had he ever lain still for so long, especially without a gun at his side, ever alert to danger. Yet he never grew restless, and he was never afraid. The sleep was delicious. And when he was awake he often did not talk, nor did Lucie talk much to him. They were simply quietly aware of each other. Sometimes she held his hand. But she required nothing more of him.
When he finally woke and felt truly rested, Lucie was gone. His disappointment went deep to his core, but he chided himself for his selfishness. It was probably the first time in days she’d left his side. He told himself this was for the best because he feared he was becoming far too dependent on her, on seeing her dear face each moment on waking. He could easily desire a lifetime of that.
She returned a few minutes later and seemed to immediately perceive that this waking was different from the others.
“So you have decided to join us for a while,” she said.
“How long did I sleep?”
“Two days.”
“And no nightmares,” he said, amazed.
“Not after the fever passed.”
“You knew—about the nightmares, I mean?”
“You talked a lot. They must have been terrible.” She reached out and adjusted his pillow behind him. “Are you hungry?”
His stomach rumbled as if in response. Surprised, he said, “I am . . . mighty hungry.”
“Juana has been dying to fatten you up. I’ll tell her you are ready.
Though we should start slowly. Some broth and a glass of milk, perhaps.”h She turned to go.
Micah laid a hand on her arm. “I wasn’t dreaming, was I, about you praying for me?”
“No.”
“I guess you have a captive audience now,” he said.
“What do you mean by that, Micah?”
“Only that . . . well, I ain’t going nowhere if you get the urge to talk religion to me, that’s all.” He smiled, abashed at his own words.
“I do declare, Micah! Maybe you are still delirious after all!”
Then she grinned, and he smiled, too, with abandon. And it felt good.
CHAPTER
33
LUCIE DID NOT TAKE FULL advantage of Micah’s offer. Oh, she had thought about doing just that at first. In fact, when he had first regained consciousness, she had even thought that now God had him where He could knock some sense into him—a captive audience, as Micah had put it. And then when he had actually given her leave to talk about God, well, she nearly attacked him with her zeal. But she remembered what he’d said once, that he knew a lot about religion. He had many Scriptures memorized and probably knew the Bible even better than he would admit to. She knew Micah did not need to be told anything about faith.
However, Lucie wasn’t exactly sure what he did need or how to go about directing him. She prayed about it and realized that the best approach was to leave it in Micah’s hands, let him do the reaching out.
And he did so, but slowly. A question here or there woven into a conversation. Often it was nothing deep or earth shattering. It seemed right now that Micah needed most of all to relax, to enjoy the moment, to rest from all intensity. God seemed to sense this as well. The talk was casual and even fun. They told each other stories of their adventures. Of course Micah had more exciting adventures. Lucie just had little tales of her growing up, but Micah listened as if hearing The Arabian Nights. They learned much about each other during this time, the kinds of things Lucie always wanted to know about Micah. And often matters of faith just flowed naturally from this.
Once Lucie brought Micah his supper and watched his eyes widen with wonder at the contents of the tray.
“Is that pecan pie?” he asked, indicating the dish next to his stew.
“Yes, and I made it myself.”
“I thought Juana did all the cooking.”
“Well, I confess I don’t enjoy cooking.” Lucie blushed at having to make such an admission to the man she loved, but she had to be truthful. “However, Juana has insisted I learn. Still, the men shouldn’t be made to suffer more than once or twice a week.”
“You can’t be all that bad,” he said.
“I’ll cook for you tomorrow, and you can judge. But I do have one specialty—pecan pie. I love it and Juana hates it, so if I want it, I must make it, or so she says. Knowing Juana, she would make it if I pouted a bit.”
Lifting his eyes from his tray, Micah gave her a sidelong perusal. “Somehow I just don’t think you are the pouting type.”
Blushing a bit, she shrugged. “I guess I’ve been known to use such methods to get my way. But in this case, I d
on’t have to. I hate to cook, but I like to bake pies and cookies and pastries. I suppose it is my sweet tooth that drives me.”
“Now, a sweet tooth, I can believe.” He picked up his fork and impaled the pie, bringing a chunk to his mouth. He ate the pie with a look of deep scrutiny on his face.
She watched with breath more bated than she cared to admit.
Swallowing, he finally said, “I’ve had pecan pie only one other time in my life. My neighbor up in Cooksburg made it, and I fell in love with pecan pie. I asked my ma to make it, but she never got around to it. Those days she was feeling so poorly that we were lucky to have the basics to eat.” He grew momentarily melancholy, then shaking it off, continued. “Well, I’m in love again! Lucie, this pie is even better than Mrs. Hunter’s.”
Lucie grinned. Micah liked pecan pie. He liked her pecan pie! There was something so wonderfully ordinary about it that it nearly made her weep.
Micah was attacking the rest of the pie.
“Micah,” she scolded halfheartedly, “you need to eat your stew first.”
“Who says?”
She screwed up her lips in thought about this. “It is just the right thing to do.”
“It was only yesterday you were telling me that some things were just opposite of what we think they should be,” he countered.
“We were talking about how the Bible says that with God our weaknesses can be our strengths, and how God’s ways are often the exact opposite of the way people think things should be.”
“Yes, and the order of my meal tonight is a perfect way to illustrate how I’ve learned that spiritual truth,” he replied smugly.
Lucie picked up the napkin lying next to his plate and tossed it into his face. With incredibly quick reflexes for a man recuperating from near mortal injuries, Micah snatched the napkin and tossed it back at her.
Giggling, she said, “I think you are much too strong to fully grasp that notion.”
“No,” he said more solemnly, “I’m not.” He lifted his gaze, smiling faintly. “When I was strong physically, I was very weak in my soul, my heart. Now I can’t even walk. I guess I am not much stronger spiritually or emotionally, but I can see it now. My eyes are so much more open.”
“That is a good place to be.” Tenderly, she laid the napkin across his shirtfront.
“I don’t know where I’m going,” he confessed.
“It will come to you, Micah,” she encouraged. “I’m sure it will.”
Not long after that, Lucie began helping Micah get up. His wounds, the loss of blood, and the fever had taken a hard toll on him. He became exhausted walking just a few steps to the chair next to his bed. But within a week he was strong enough to venture outside. He asked Lucie to take him to the stable to see Stew.
“I just gotta make sure he’s all right, with my own eyes, you know?” he said.
“I understand. But I have made sure that mule has been treated like a king. I personally give him a lump of sugar every day.” She took Micah’s arm as they walked outside. He probably did not need such assistance, but he didn’t protest.
“How do you do it all, Lucie? You’ve been caring for me day and night, but I know your father needs help also. Then you have your chores. And still you take time for my old mule. You amaze me!”
“I don’t consider a minute of it work,” she explained simply. How could she tell him that every moment caring for him was sheer pleasure?
He was out of breath when they reached the stable, but he doggedly continued to the stall Lucie indicated was Stew’s. He unlatched the door and went inside. Running a hand along the animal’s flanks, he murmured affectionate words to the mule.
“You know,” he said to Lucie, “I hate to admit it, but this ornery beast saved my life. It ain’t nothing short of a miracle that he showed up when he did out there.”
“I didn’t know you believed in miracles,” she said lightly.
“Don’t think it doesn’t make me angry that I just might have to change my perspective.” He spoke with mock affront, then grinned. “A man can change, you know.”
“I suppose anything is possible,” she replied noncommittally.
Micah was sure he’d never been happier in his life. Sometimes he felt a little guilty about this, considering the loss of his two dearest friends. But he also thought that perhaps they, more than anyone, would understand. This was the first time in years that Micah was so completely removed from violence and strife. He didn’t have to sleep lightly with a gun near at hand. He didn’t have to move through the day in a constant vigil for danger. When he dressed for the first time—in some spares of the ranch hands because his own clothes had been tattered to shreds during his trek—he had momentarily felt naked without pistols tucked into his belt.
Yes, he had grieved the death of Tom, but it had simply not wrenched at the core of him as Jed’s death had. Lucie said it was God’s peace. Maybe so. Or maybe he just did not want to face the questions and deep down anger Tom’s death would surely bring if he thought too intensely about it. Maybe it was hard to accept Tom being dead because he hadn’t seen it for himself. That’s what Reid Maccallum thought.
Micah smiled as he sat in the chair by the window in what had once been Juana’s room. The housekeeper had vacated and was now sharing Lucie’s room. Anyway, the thought of Reid was a pleasant one. The two men suddenly had much in common. Both were once strapping, strong men who were now invalids. Once Reid realized he was welcome, he often came and passed the time with Micah. And Micah enjoyed the visits almost as much as he enjoyed Lucie’s visits.
Not a naturally verbose man, Reid could talk at great length if given encouragement. And he was knowledgeable about many varied subjects. Not a formally educated man, he still was well-read, interesting, and wise. It wasn’t long before they became comfortable enough to talk about personal things. Reid talked about his son one day. This was another area Micah and Reid had in common, but from different perspectives.
“It wasn’t easy for the boy,” Reid said, “growing up as he did caught between two cultures. Unfortunately, I didn’t see the depth of the problem until it was too late.”
“Lucie doesn’t seem to have problems in that area,” Micah said.
“I can’t exactly say why that is.” Reid gazed a moment out the window. Lucie had moved another chair into Micah’s room and placed it adjacent to Micah’s. There was even a small table between the two chairs so the two convalescents could take refreshment together. “Maybe it was my doing. Fathers are different with sons than they are with daughters. I love them both to the depths of my soul, but I think a man expects more of a son. A son is an extension of a man far more than a daughter is. He has the potential to be everything the father could not be. It is a heavy burden to be laid on a boy. On the other hand, a son expects more from a father than a daughter does.”
“A son wants to worship his father,” interjected Micah. “I guess a daughter does, too, but only a son can hope to take that worship to the obvious conclusion of true imitation.”
“Is that what you wanted to do? Imitate your father?”
Micah laughed dryly. “If I did, I failed miserably!”
“I guess that’s really what I’m trying to say. All those high expectations fathers and sons have for one another—well, we are all doomed to fail. And it’s probably just as well that we do!” He shook his head and, steepling his fingers, tapped them thoughtfully against his lips. “Joaquin did not feel he could ever be a respectable rancher, so he did just the opposite—became an outlaw, and worse, a bandit politically opposed to all I and the other ranchers stood for. I know it isn’t quite that simple, and there were other factors involved, but the end was the same. My son and I were driven further and further apart. We, who loved each other very deeply, became enemies of a sort. It tears me apart inside. I don’t doubt it has been part of the cause of my heart going bad.”
“Do you . . .” Micah paused, his eyes flickering to the window. Outside, the sky was
a clean blue and the sun was glaring. The stableboy was chasing a couple of dogs around in the yard. Again, Micah felt life was too sweet now to sully with deep introspection, especially of painful topics. Yet he was curious about Reid and his son. Clearly there were many parallels between them and Micah and his father. Micah knew that sooner or later he must confront his own difficulties in this area or relinquish all the peace he was now experiencing.
He took a breath and went on. “Mr. Maccallum, do you still love Joaquin?”
“Of course!” the man said simply without hesitation.
“Why? He defied you during the war by fighting on the other side. He defies you every day by harassing the borders of your land. Surely his actions are a shame to both you and Lucie.”
“I love him because he is part of me, Micah. Just as I am sure he loves me for the same reason. That kind of love does not die easily. It would be like hating yourself.”
“Sometimes I do hate myself,” Micah said flatly.
“And sometimes you love yourself. Life is not black and white.”
“I’ve often wondered if my father loves me,” Micah mused, only realizing he said the words out loud when they were spoken.
“I’m sure he loves you.”
“How can you know that?”
“It was clear when I met him.”
Micah blinked with surprise. “You met him?”
“He came last year after Lucie wrote to him about your being in prison in Mexico.”
“Lucie wrote him?”
Reid smiled. “What do you and my daughter talk about all those hours I’ve heard your voices from my room?”
“Everything and nothing,” Micah answered. “But that never came up.”
“I expect Lucie is reticent about broaching such a tender subject.”
“Probably.” Micah considered Reid’s astounding words again. “He came here?”