Joab's Fire

by Lynn Squire

  The albino stranger a religious man? Dixon huffed. He should have known. Probably of the same religion as Riel.

  “Just look at the evidence. Your son dies. Your livestock die. Your crops are destroyed. Even your wife has turned from you.”

  “Enough Nathaniel!” What was the point?

  Nathaniel turned his gaze on Dixon. The man’s eyes seemed filled with pain. Was it possible he thought he was helping Joab? “Yet man is born unto trouble, as the sparks fly upward.”

  “I suppose that’s in the Bible too.”

  “Yes sir. It is.” Nathaniel turned back to Joab and laid his hand on the blanket beside the suffering man. “God is correcting you. You should be happy.” He took a deep breath. “Submit to Him, and He’ll make you whole again.”

  This was maddening. What kind of friend said things like this?

  Nathaniel looked up at Dixon and locked his gaze on the sergeant’s eyes. “My experience has been that when you turn back to God, He’ll bless you.”

  Dixon had enough. He stomped to the soddy’s entrance, jerked open the door, and stormed outside, slamming it behind him.

  The wind rose to meet him, pelting him with snow. He shivered and pulled his serge closer around his neck. God is correcting you. What rubbish.

  Fire coursed through his veins. He barely felt the cold of the night and began to circle the soddy. You should be happy. How could Joab be happy when the very Supernatural Being he trusted turned His back on him? If God existed, then He was a heartless god. No. What Nathaniel said was wrong. But the words echoed in Dixon’s soul, scraping against its sides, and reverberating to the very depths of his heart. Submit to Him, and He will make you whole.

  “No!” He shook his fist at the gray sky. He would not submit to a God who could not keep his mother safe and let wicked men like Riel live.

  He fell to his knees and wept.

  Chapter 19

  As Dixon left, the cold wind from outside swept across Joab’s body, sending him into spasms.

  The door slammed shut, and Joab’s back jolted. Hot pain streaked down his spine. “Aggh!” He coughed and grasped the edge of the blanket. “God’s terrorizing me, though I am innocent.”

  For a fleeting moment the agony of Dixon’s face rose before him. The man looked to be in pain, not physical but a soul sickness. Joab let out a slow breath. Dixon ought not to have heard Nathaniel’s words. He bared his teeth. “If you knew my grief.” He coughed. “If you knew Dixon’s grief …”

  Nathaniel stiffened. Good.

  “Can’t you see my disaster? My life is a wreck.” Joab glanced at the door. “And none of us know Dixon’s past.”

  A cold sweat broke over him. Nathaniel rummaged through the chest, banging its sides as though it were his enemy.

  Dixon shared little except that he lost his mother in the Riel Rebellion, but there must have been more. That look. It revealed a bitterness, and a sorrow so deep—well, Joab understood that.

  A wave of nausea came, and he leaned to the side of the mat and heaved. He rolled back and refrained from wiping his mouth. The sores about it already stung. “I wish God would let me die.”

  Nathaniel laid another blanket on him while Barty shuffled his feet then moved to clean up the vomit. Joab looked away.

  “I have no strength. Why should I go on living? Your words … no pity. You should fear God. You’re deceived.” Joab closed his eyes as the pain silenced him.

  The wind howled outside. Where did Dixon go? Did he desert him? Oh God, how could You do this?

  Opening his eyes, he stared at his friends’ pale faces. Why did these men come? They offered no comfort. He grimaced as he shifted his leg to a more comfortable position. But then, they had never seen such destruction. He must be more compassionate. “You fear.”

  Nathaniel and Barty both looked at him. Both wrapped their arms around their midsections.

  Joab took another breath that rattled in his ribcage. He met Nathaniel’s gaze. If only his friend had kind words. It would ease his pain. But look, the man’s neck was flushed and his lips were pursed. He obviously despised Joab.

  Nathaniel’s gaze left Joab’s and jerked about the soddy. Did Nathaniel come in his hatred so as to inflict more pain?

  Joab turned from Nathaniel and studied Barty. This man gnawed on a splinter and eyed Joab like a cougar eyes his prey.

  Joab sighed. “My skin is broken in horrid sores, I am loathsome.” How could he expect these men to understand? Yet rage pushed against his reason. “God, can You not see my pain?” He closed his eyes again, attempting to settle his spirit.

  A fire exploded. It engulfed his house, his son. He screamed in terror. His eyes burst open. “God, You have done this! Why?”

  “How long will ya blame God?” Barty’s angry voice crashed through Joab’s dream. “Does God pervert judgment?”

  Feet padded in a steady rhythm on the hard dirt floor. Someone paced with a beat that conjured ill will.

  “If you would seek God instead of blaming Him …” Barty spoke through clenched teeth.

  Joab moaned. His throat hurt. Everything hurt.

  “If you were as pure and upright as ya make yerself to be, God would make you rich. He’d make what riches you had in the past look like a pittance.” Barty’s lip curled into a snarl. “You are a hypocrite.”

  Joab took several quick breaths. Tears welled in his eyes. Why such cruel words? He had lived his faith out the best he could, so that he wouldn’t be a hypocrite.

  “God doesn’t cast off perfect men.” Barty leaned over Joab’s face. Tobacco hung on his breath. “Neither does he help evildoers.” He pulled away and punched the wall.

  Tears burned the pussy sores on Joab’s face and his chest collapsed under the weight of Barty’s words. What answer could he give? Barty had already condemned him. If only God would show mercy and take him now.

  Chapter 20

  Sarah slipped across the threshold of Ruth Clumpit’s back door. Voices— distant, surreal—drifted from the restaurant in front, like fog along a river.

  “I’m glad you came.” Ruth drew near and gave her a quick embrace.

  Just like Momma would.

  “I got a room all ready for you.”

  “A room?” Sarah’s voice sounded to her as though she were in a different place, watching but not participating.

  “I’ve got extra blankets on the bed.” The woman guided her through the house, into a small room with a bed and a side table.

  Drab plank walls stared back at Sarah. In her bedroom back home, her mother painted butterflies and flowers above the wainscoting. And on the ceiling, clouds against a blue sky. Her mother. So artistic. Perhaps in her new house she could do the same. But her house burned down.

  Sarah whimpered.

  “I’ll be sleeping in the next room.” Ruth eased Sarah onto the bed. She took a patchwork quilt of pastel colors and wrapped it around Sarah’s shoulders.

  Sarah snuggled into the quilt’s warmth as though she were a child again. … So tired. So empty.

  Ruth moved to the door and tapped the frame with her fingernails, like a woodpecker in a tree by Sarah’s home in Ontario.

  Ontario. Oh, how she longed to return.

  “Would you like something to eat?”

  The smell of her mother’s fresh bread—warm, luscious. Sarah smiled and licked her lips.

  “Perhaps some tea?”

  Tea. Rosehip tea made from the roses in her mother’s garden in Ontario. Sarah closed her eyes to drink in the memory of the aroma. She inhaled lavender. Her mother used lavender water. Momma, I’m coming home.

  The soft bed on which she sat, so much like her bed at home. And she could almost see her dolls on the bench beneath the window sill.

  Ruth tsked. “Perhaps you should sleep.” She pulled Sarah’s boots off.

  Just like Momma would do.

  Sarah could hear Momma’s laughter as she exclaimed over her muddy boots. Did you decide to be a piggy, little on
e? Her mother’s round face lit up the room.

  Ruth lifted Sarah’s legs—Momma did that—and Sarah lay back against fluffy down pillows. Sensing the blankets drawn over her, she burrowed into their warmth.

  “You rest now, dear.”

  “Yes Momma.”

  “I’ll check on you in the morning.” Steps moved to the door. “And bring you breakfast.”

  “With strawberry jam, Momma? You know how I love strawberry jam.”

  “Yes dear.”

  The leaves would just be turning color now. She’d climb a tree in the morning and watch the ducks fly by. Perhaps Daddy would take her for a horse ride along Shanty Bay. Perhaps, in the morning, she’d watch the sunrise.

  Chapter 21

  Dixon ran his hand through his thick hair. The cable from Ontario revealed no crimes with which Joab could be connected. He crunched the paper in his fist. Another dead end. Perhaps it was all just happenstance.

  The office door opened and the scent of lavender wrapped around him. He smiled as he turned. “Mrs. Clumpit.” He motioned for her to come in and sit. “What brings you here?”

  “Concern.” She removed her bonnet and patted her neat bun at the nape of her neck while a frown pulled on her usually bright face.

  Dixon cleared his throat. “Concern about what?”

  Instead of taking a seat, she swept past the chair, her skirts swishing, and stopped in front of him.

  Dixon’s skin tingled. He waited.

  “Sarah won’t talk and won’t eat. She just sits at her window and stares out at the prairie.” She put her hand on Dixon’s arm, pressing the rough wool serge against his skin.

  His jaw locked, but he nodded for her to continue.

  She lifted her eyes, pools of a depth Dixon feared.

  He pulled on his collar.

  “I’m concerned about Joab. Barty came back early this morning, his face as white as the tail of a rabbit. He didn’t say much, except that you stormed out.” She stepped closer. “Clarence …”

  Dixon raised his eyebrows at her use of his first name. She had never used it before.

  “That is so unlike you. What happened?”

  Her hand felt like a hot iron on his arm. He pulled away to the window, his heart pounding like a steam engine. What could he say? Nathaniel hurt his feelings? She’d never accept that for an answer. He closed his eyes. “I needed to get word to Ontario. Something Joab said made me think I had a lead.” Repeating it now made him look foolish. He ran his hand over his face. “I was wrong.”

  Her presence came up hot behind him. Why should it bother him now? Never before had she made him so uncomfortable.

  “Barty seemed to indicate you were upset.”

  Dixon’s fist hit the windowsill. “Yes, I’m upset.”

  Her heel clumped on the floorboard.

  He turned.

  Her eyes were the size of saucers, and her chin trembled.

  Why would this make her so distressed? Women. He’d never figure them out. “My good friend, perhaps the only real friend I have ever had, lies there in pain, tortured by sores. Why wouldn’t I be upset?”

  “Is that all?” She frowned.

  “All?” He huffed. “Isn’t that enough?”

  She stepped closer again. Her lips trembled.

  Was he a rabbit to be trapped? But her eyes … he shook his head. She was only expressing her concern for a friend.

  “Clarence, you have been troubled by something for all the time I have known you.” She touched his arm.

  He liked the feel of her touch, but he shrugged away.

  As she closed her hand, she pressed her lips together. “Whatever it is, it’s made you bitter toward God.”

  He swallowed. The old argument would start again. Why wouldn’t he just believe? Why did he just not accept God’s salvation? “Ruth.” He had never used her first name. It felt good. “I don’t want to get into this right now.”

  She tilted her head. “It’s what has kept us apart since my husband’s death.”

  The blood rushed from his face. He stepped to his desk and picked up some papers. “I’ve work to do—if you are finished.”

  She moved around to the front of the desk, her skirts brushing the back of his legs.

  He locked his knees.

  Her gaze locked on him.

  “Sergeant Dixon, you need to get right with God.”

  He tried to suppress the growl, but it escaped.

  She didn’t flinch.

  “I’ve never been right with God.” He rustled the paper.

  “Then perhaps it is time.” She placed her hand on his. One would think by now she’d know the effect she had on him. “Whatever you’ve done, He’ll forgive you.”

  He pulled his hand away and returned her gaze with fierceness. “You must know that I cannot forgive Him.”

  The muscles in her jaw grew taut, and her lips narrowed to a thin line. “Sergeant Clarence Dixon, God has done nothing for you to forgive, but when you are ready to talk about it, I’m ready to listen.”

  He turned away and moved to his safe.

  The door swung open, letting in a cold gust of air. Dixon looked up; Abbadon’s silhouette filled the frame.

  Ruth stepped away from the desk as Dixon stiffened.

  “Good day, Sergeant.” She floated to the door, blushed at Abbadon, and slipped out.

  Why did she blush? What kind of hold did Abbadon have on her?

  “Any news on Mr. Black?”

  Dixon pinned the man with his gaze. “Why do you ask?”

  Abbadon stepped through the door in one fluid motion. “Merely curious.” He shot Dixon a look from the corner of his eye as he moved to the barred cell at the back of Dixon’s office.

  “Part of my study, you know.”

  There must be something more to it. Why else would Abbadon waltz into Dixon’s office as though he owned the place?

  Abbadon turned and his gaze bored right into Dixon’s soul.

  Dixon’s heart thundered like the hooves of a wild horse. He coughed. “What can I do for you?”

  Abbadon dropped his gaze to his hands, letting Dixon’s soul fall to the floor like a lead weight.

  The stranger removed his white gloves one finger at a time. “This mystery of the Blacks’ ruin is as great a one as who prompted the Métis to ambush the North West Mounted Police at the Duck Lake Massacre.”

  The muscles holding Dixon’s clamped jaw throbbed. “The Métis already held the occupants of Duck Lake hostage.”

  “Your mother being among them.”

  “Yes. But what has that to do with the Blacks?”

  Abbadon lifted his right eyebrow as he walked to the desk. “Nothing. Just another interesting mystery. That is all.”

  Dixon’s mouth went dry. He fiddled with the clasp on his holster. Was it possible Abbadon knew more about Duck Lake than he let on? “If you don’t mind, I have work to do.”

  “God didn’t save your mother. He won’t save Joab.”

  With a quick flip, the clasp over Dixon’s gun shot up, and his hand wrapped around the gun’s handle.

  Abbadon raised his hand. “Why are you upset with me? You know it as well as I do.” He lowered his hand and leaned forward. “Some say God doesn’t exist, but you and I, we know He does.” He straightened and examined his fingernails. “We just both happen to know He’s not the kind, merciful God those Christians want to make Him out to be, else why would bad things happen to good people?”

  Dixon’s hand shook as he straightened his fingers and moved them away from the gun. Did he really think to draw on an innocent man? Well, an unarmed man. He’d lose his job.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll leave now.” Abbadon sauntered to the door. He laid his hand on the latch and looked over his shoulder. “Just remember, no man is one hundred percent innocent. Complete righteousness just doesn’t exist.” He slunk through the door, and Dixon slumped into his chair, shaking from head to toe.

  All his life he had feared so
meone would learn about his role in Duck Lake, but how could Abbadon possibly know? If the truth came out, there would be trials and … he rubbed his neck. There was just no way the man could know, and Dixon certainly was not going to let it out.

  Chapter 22

  Dixon ducked as he stepped through the door and into the soddy. The foul smell of puss and vomit slapped him. He pasted a smile on his face and set his focus on Joab’s agony-filled eyes.

  Nathaniel and Barty stood. A rare show of respect.

  He gave them each a quick nod. Last he saw them, their words of comfort were more like words of scorn. “You two back?”

  “Yeah. Mrs. Black’s in no condition to come.” Nathaniel rubbed the back of his neck and lowered himself to the crate on which he had been sitting. “Joab, he’s— well, he seems confused.”

  Dixon studied his friend. Two days since the fire, and the puss around the burns seemed worse than ever. He pulled his Stetson off and rolled it through his fingers. Would Joab survive?

  “I’ve done nothing to deserve this.” Joab croaked. He lifted his hand as if to extend it, but it dropped to the mat. “I only wish God would answer me.”

  Dixon filled his lungs with the foul air. God did not answer mere men, at least not the God he knew. But then, Joab was a far better man than he. So why wouldn’t God answer him?

  Cold, damp, and dark. Dixon scanned the room. Two boots lay cast in the corner.

  He took a step toward them. One boot had lost its silver tip. Could this be the boot that left the track by what was once the Blacks house? If so, then why had Joab been there? And if he had spilled the kerosene on the tip Dixon discovered there, could the fire have been an accident?

  With his pulse racing, Dixon reached into his pocket. He wrapped his fingers around the tip. Did he really want to acknowledge what might be—the possibility that Joab started his own fire? But for what reason? No. Such a thing was too absurd.

  He ran his index finger along the edge of the tip, as though his finger was his eyes. The edge had two indents. He glared at the boot in the corner. Its tip had one indent. His finger stopped. He held his breath and drew the tip from his pocket.