He lifted his head slowly but did not turn around.
“I would have been a fool not to have admired you.”
When she crossed the threshold, Sarah gave him one more parting glance, hoping he would soften his stance and call her back, but he was staring out the window again, so she opened the door, stepped out into the night, and left him.
Chapter 27
Better is it that thou shouldest not vow, than that thou shouldest vow and not pay.
—Ecclesiastes 5:5
Benton more or less found his way back to his chair and sat there blindly staring at nothing, trying to erase her image from his mind. There were campaigns to plan and battles to win, with thousands of lives at stake.
But when her sullen face flashed before his eyes again, it hit him with brilliant clarity that the only life that had really mattered he had failed to protect. And though he had thought himself possessed of her before, he knew what he had felt back then was nothing to what he felt for her now. She who had so strangely influenced his future was now so intricately entangled with his past and his present that he could not decipher where one stopped and the other began.
Staring contemplatively into space while drumming his fingers against the desktop, Benton came to the conclusion that Connelly was right. He could not continue to hurt her, not when she was so frail and didn’t understand why. Surely she would accept his reasoning if he explained himself, and then she could go on living her life as God meant it to be.
Grabbing his coat off of the chair, Benton headed for the tree-covered paths that led down to the river to clear his mind. It was cold—too cold for anyone to be out—and he pulled his great coat around him to shield himself from the chill. With his thoughts churning and his gaze intent on the narrow path before him, Benton almost failed to notice the billowing folds of a skirt directly in front of him until it was too late.
He stopped abruptly and slowly lifted his gaze, though he already knew to whom the silken layers belonged. They were standing so close when their eyes met that he took an involuntary step back and lifted his hands in the air as if suddenly finding himself being held at gunpoint.
Sarah smiled shyly at his reaction. “I’m unarmed, Colonel Benton.”
Benton swallowed hard. Her eyes, so full of innocence and devotion, aroused and tortured his heart. He had not expected to meet her like this so soon and so close. He sucked in his breath as he tried to prepare for a duty which he had no desire to carry out. “I’m sorry,” he said gravely. “It’s just…I thought I was alone.”
When he said nothing more, Sarah stared at him intently. “You can be if you wish.”
Tell her. Tell her all. She stood there, waiting for him to say something, a mixture of confusion and hurt spreading across her countenance. Benton felt robbed of breath as he gazed down at her upturned face, at the wind playing in her hair, and said nothing of what he wished to say. “You came to me earlier to ask a personal question,” he finally said in a voice that cracked with emotion. “Might I ask one of my own?”
Sarah gazed up at him, then at the ground. “It would seem rude not to return the favor,” she murmured.
Between asking the question and saying the words, Benton forgot what he wished to say entirely and utterly. The lines he had been rehearsing on his walk left him in an instant, and he blurted out something completely different. “The spring campaign is about to begin, and I was wondering if you’ve thought about where you’d like to go.” He paused a moment. “When you’re stronger, of course.”
Sarah blinked and her cheeks blossomed red. He thought he saw a look of hurt flick across her eyes at his words, but it was so fleeting he could not be sure. “If you wish me to leave, Colonel Benton, you need only ask.” She turned with a fling of her head and picked up her skirts, but he grabbed her arm to stop her. With raging eyes, she shook him off. “You seem to dislike being in my presence, Colonel,” she said, stepping out of his reach. “Why can you not be grateful that I am sparing you the encounter?”
“You are mistaken.” He could feel the beads of sweat gathering on his temple despite the cool temperature. If she only knew the terrible images that burdened his mind. If she only knew that the impulse to love her was stronger than the inclination to push her away and that the things she couldn’t remember were things he could never forget. “I believe I told you earlier of my high regard for you, Sarah.”
“And I thought you spoke the truth.” Her head was bowed, and her lashes sparkled with teardrops. “Yet it is altogether obvious that you abhor me.”
Benton stared at her long and hard, desiring to tell her a heartfelt secret, yet unsure of how to do so. Finally he shook his head and took a step toward her. “If I give you that impression, it is only that…that…”
“Yes, I know…” She turned her head away. “It is very complicated.”
Even with her back to him and in her obvious weakened state, Benton could see there was something suggestive of defiance and pride in her deportment, just like the Sarah of old. “No.” he said, louder than necessary. He reached out and turned her around, holding her arms and shaking her gently. “No, it is not that.”
He wondered what was reflected in his own countenance as he gazed at the pale, upturned face before him and saw the hopeless, agonized expression that swept over it. He felt his heart breaking at the look of pain, and so with fixed and steady scrutiny he told her. “I regret that what I most desired to say to you has been left unsaid. It is a promise I made. That is all.”
“A promise?” Her expression held a look of surprise. “To whom?”
He looked at her face, awash with grief and disappointment, and the tear that had let loose and spilled down her cheek.
He longed then and there to draw her in his arms and reassure her, but the thought of his promise made him keep her at arm’s length instead. In the time it takes a heart to beat, he rejected and repulsed every expression of his devoted heart. He couldn’t bear to see hope kindled in her eyes, not after what he’d done to her.
“I made a promise to God,” he said, letting her go and pulling his coat more closely around him to keep his hands occupied. “And as he kept his end of the bargain, I intend to keep mine… though it be the hardest thing I have ever done.” The words seemed senseless, even to him, and he could tell that each one he spoke was a rivet of pain driven into the depth of her.
Sarah tentatively raised her hand to her face, and wiped away a tear. “But I don’t understand. What does a pact between you and God have to do with me?”
He stared deeply into her eyes. “It is my fault,” he whispered, his lips trembling. “All of it.”
“It is in the past,” Sarah said, repeating words that had been spoken to her. “Why must you recall it?”
He held his hand up to stop her. “I must.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “There was a time when I…when we believed that it was impossible that you were ever coming back—” He took a short choking sob and turned away, his shoulders heaving as he attempted to regain his self-control.
Sarah placed her hand on his arm. “If you do not wish to tell me…”
He turned at last with measured determination to face her. “No, I shall tell you all. You deserve to know. When it appeared your fate was all but certain, I prayed to God.” He looked absently over her shoulder as he spoke. “I pleaded, I begged, I beseeched him to let you live. And in return, I promised to make a sacrifice that was equal to yours.”
He brought his gaze down to hers. “You were willing to give up your life for me, and I was willing to give up that which meant more than anything to me. If God allowed you to live, I promised—” He paused and swallowed hard. “I promised God I would let you go.”
Sarah stood silent blinking in the moonlight, obviously trying to process his words, to understand how very much she had once meant to him.
“God brought you back, and now I must honor my pledge.”
“But surely I would never have asked i
t of you,” she said disbelievingly. “And it is not what I wish now.”
“It is done,” he said, “though I’d give my immortal soul to change it.”
She remained defiant despite the confused look upon her face. “But what about me? Have I no say?”
Benton lifted his gaze, unable to look into her tortured eyes. “I fear it is out of both our hands now. It is this promise—not my will—that compels me to comply.”
“What if I do not wish to honor this pledge?” Her voice was low and measured now.
He turned away. “You only make it harder for me.”
She grabbed his arm angrily. “But God would not have brought us together if he meant for us to be apart! He would not warrant we both be unhappy.”
“I do not ask you to understand it,” he said hoarsely, “only to honor it.
“So you will stand by this pledge,” she said somberly. “And in so doing, deny me that which I most desire?”
He turned slowly. “You remember caring for me?”
She threw her arms around his neck and laid her head upon his chest. “I do not remember, but I feel it,” she sobbed.
When she lifted her head, he gazed down at her pale, agonized face that spoke volumes of regret and tortured love. Slowly he bent down and tentatively pressed his lips upon hers, but it was more like a farewell kiss to a loved one than a display of deep passion.
“Sarah, think of me as one whose love for you was so unbounded and unselfish that he chose to be worthy of you rather than to possess you unworthily.”
She put her face in her hands and sobbed. “Oh, Doug can you not be more merciful than a bullet? This is worse than death.”
Benton’s jaw tightened and he turned away. “Nothing you say can increase the blame I put upon myself. I beg of you to believe me when I say that, be your grief what it may, it can never equal mine.”
When she did not respond, Benton took a deep breath and willed himself to be strong. He turned back around and tried to keep his voice from cracking. “Sarah, please know that your memory will be ever sacred to me, but…”
“But?” Her eyes glistened unnaturally in the muted light of the moon.
“But I must honor the promise…Good night.”
Sarah did not speak, yet there was something exquisitely painful in her silence as she stared at him with a mournful gaze. For a long moment she did not move, though she searched his eyes as if seeking a sign that he would surrender his principles to his passion. Apparently seeing none, she sighed deeply, turned, and walked away.
For the pain in his heart, she may as well have shot him. And for the pain in his soul, he’d much rather she had. “A thousand times I would give my life to change it, Sarah,” he murmured. “A thousand times.”
Chapter 28
He is no fool who gives what he cannot keep to gain that which he cannot lose.
—Jim Elliot
Colonel Benton stayed occupied the next couple of days and was actually glad for the outlet that planning and preparing for war provided. He’d been up most of the night with his officers discussing the upcoming move, and welcomed the weariness that now consumed him. Barely awake at this early hour, he headed to the barn.
The sun had just begun to cast a brilliant glow on the landscape, but had not yet gained sufficient strength to melt away the light snowfall that had fallen overnight. Benton wrapped both hands around his cup of coffee, the heat from the liquid doing little to penetrate the bone-chilling cold. Saluting the soldiers he passed at the doorway, he continued into the warmer confines of the barn and inhaled its rich scent.
“Good morning, Kul-nel.”
Benton nodded toward the soldier who greeted him. “Good morning. Quiet night?”
“Yes sir. All quiet here.”
Benton continued walking, but stopped abruptly in front of one of the stalls. “Where’s Chance?” He opened the door of the stall to convince himself there was no horse inside. “Has he been turned out?” Benton had taken the horse into his stable from the beginning, but never allowed it to be ridden even in the smallest skirmish. Everyone knew that if Chance were to be killed or even wounded, the loss would be too much to bear.
“No.” The soldier walked up beside him and gazed casually at the empty stall. “Miss Sarah took him with her.”
“Took him where?” Benton could feel his pulse begin to throb hard against his ribcage. Before his brain could even compute what was happening, his heart had already recognized that this abrupt departure, without a word and at such a time, boded ill.
“Wherever she went, I reckon,” the soldier said. “I didn’t get no details on that. Figured Mrs. Ramsey would have told you. She was down here boo-hooing all morning.”
The soldier lowered his gaze to Benton’s cup, which had begun to slosh coffee over the sides in his shaking hand, while Benton continued to stare into the empty stall, unable to move or speak.
He had wanted to take her to the stable to reunite her with her horse some weeks ago, but the surgeon had thought it better to wait and not overwhelm her with too many images of her past. In the end, Benton had agreed, not wishing to harm her recovery when she was at last beginning to recover bits and pieces of her memory.
“Funny how that horse remembered her and all.” The soldier apparently decided to ignore the colonel’s silence. “I think Miss Sarah might even have remembered him too.”
Benton thought back to the look on her face during their last conversation when she had stared so intently at him, appearing to see images he could not see. Perhaps she had remembered all.
“I need to talk to Mrs. Ramsey.” Benton turned and headed to the house; his body suddenly seemed so heavy that he could barely find the energy to place one foot in front of the other for the short walk to the house. Concern, despair, and a feeling of complete detachment seemed determined to pull his legs out from under him.
“Colonel Benton, have you heard?” Mrs. Ramsey came rushing out of the house with her skirts flying wildly before he had even reached the steps to the veranda.
“She’s left us. Poor dear child.” She patted her eyes with a handkerchief that appeared damp enough to wring.
Benton stood rigid and silent, incapable of accepting the fact she was really gone. “Where did she go?” His voice was low as if he didn’t wish anyone to overhear the conversation, despite no one being around to do so. He continued to stare in the direction of Mrs. Ramsey’s voice, but could not make out her features through the blur of pain that clouded his eyes.
“I don’t know. She didn’t say. Or she wouldn’t say. Or maybe she didn’t even know.” Mrs. Ramsey began sobbing again. “She just said it was time to go. Why would she do it, Colonel Benton?”
Benton had a feeling she knew as well as he did, and so he did not answer. Instead he worked hard to suppress the powerful emotions that consumed him. “The spring campaign is set to begin,” he heard himself telling Mrs. Ramsey. “There is little I can do to seek her out, I’m afraid. We will be moving out in two days.”
Mrs. Ramsey brought the handkerchief back to her eyes and dabbed profusely. “Oh, why would she leave now,” she whimpered. “Why?”
Benton took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “She felt it was time I suppose. We cannot question, only accept.”
Mrs. Ramsey grabbed his arm. “Do you think she’ll come back? I barely had time to say good-bye!”
“Perhaps in good time,” Benton said, almost choking on the reply because he knew it was not true. “Perhaps in good time.”
Although he spoke calmly and remained casually polite in front of Mrs. Ramsey, inwardly his heart writhed and ached and moaned. Benton had known he would be leaving and that he may never see her again—but he could barely stand the thought of losing her for good. He had not expected this ending so abruptly and so soon.
Benton bowed to Mrs. Ramsey and turned back toward the barn for his horse. They were starting the spring campaign early, and he would be leaving this place of peace and tra
nquility in two days. He had to move forward and forget the past. There was nothing else he could do.
Surely the move would bring some sort of peace—or at least a respite from the hard ordeal of thinking about the loss. It would force him to live each day and to take each hour as it came. Planning, riding, and fighting would take all he had to give and demand even more. He would allow nothing to stop him from giving his full attention to his duties. But as he made his way to the barn, Benton was haunted by the face that continued to rise unbidden before his eyes.
The frozen ground crunched beneath his footsteps as he walked; the muted sound came as waves over him and echoed in his mind like a crushing headache. How ironic that he could have any woman he desired, yet the one thing on earth he madly craved, was the one thing he would never possess.
Benton looked heavenward and thanked God that at least he had known its value before it was lost to him forever. And though he tried to console himself that he had done the right thing, the knowledge that he had kept his promise to the Almighty provided little solace.
By honoring that vow, he had failed to keep another—the one he had made to himself. No amount of hopes or wishes could repair the pain he’d caused her, and no amount of appeals or prayers could possibly make her think of him as the greatest man she had ever known.
Chapter 29
Your God shall be my God. Where you live I will live and
where you die, there will I die, and be buried by your side.
—From Life of General Francis Marion
May 1865
Sarah rode slowly through the bramble of the overgrown path, the low-lying mist making it impossible to see the ground. It had been more than seven months since she’d been here last, and now that the war was over, she had to come back. Necessity, not nostalgia, brought her here. After spending the last few months of the war at field hospitals and even on the field, she was exhausted and penniless. She had nowhere else to go.
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