by Amity Green
Six days later Charlie hung the painting over the couch. The mountain lion gazed out from his perch above, swirling fog pooling deep in the crag below. Rebecca beamed with pride. The painting wouldn’t be sold; it would hang for the family to enjoy. The children hugged her and told her it was brilliant. Charlie and his wife shook their heads, smiling at her talent. Soon, everyone went back to their preoccupations, leaving Rebecca standing in front of the painting, tears streaming her cheeks as she gazed into the feline eyes and saw herself looking back. Paul would have loved it.
* * *
Two days later Rebecca backed away from the door as her oldest niece sprinted through, sobbing, holding the hem of her skirts high as she ran. Charlie ducked through the door behind her, a switch poised in his huge right hand, but the girl continued through the room, quickly making herself lost in the sprawling house. He snapped the willow in half, bending it back once to sever the moist bark holding it together and flung it to the floor.
Not wanting to show the look of incrimination, one that she knew would reveal her shock, Rebecca dropped her gaze and said nothing, the only sound in the room the drawing of Charlie’s ragged breath.
“Don’t you say a bloody word,” he growled.
“I wouldn’t,” she whispered, eyes still averted.
He stomped back outside, slamming the door.
Rebecca charged through the house, searching for the girl to see what could have prompted Charlie to act in such a manner. He was kind and patient as he was tall, and she’d never heard him raise his voice at one of his children, let alone whip one. Following the sound of the girl’s sobs, she came to a closed door and pushed it open, intent on consoling the child. She stopped, hands falling limp to her sides.
Two of the girls had come to aid the child, having helped her out of her clothes. Tears streaked all the young women’s faces. Their mother held an open tin of salve, eyes wide, surveying like she didn’t know where to begin.
Welts rose on tender flesh at the backs of the girl’s pale thighs, some to the point of tearing the skin. Bruising had begun in places, creating blotches of blackness scattered down a thin back, bottom and legs. The girl was in shock, hugging her frock against her chest, trembling as if she might freeze. She stared at Rebecca, teeth chattering.
“I left the gate open,” she admitted.
“Has he ever—” Rebecca managed.
“No, he’s never hit anyone,” one of the distraught girls wailed, throwing her hands over her face.
Rebecca did the only thing she could think to do. She threw her arms around her bloodied niece and held her as she cried from the pain when her mother started slathering on the salve.
* * *
Charlie apologized. He wept. Promised he’d never lose his temper again. Days went by, and one night when Rebecca couldn’t hold her bladder until morning, she passed Charlie as he slept on the couch, the mountain lion in the painting watching him breathe. She didn’t want to think of the trouble that could be between Charlie and his wife, but after such an occurrence, it was likely. He’d probably been stuck out on the couch since that day. Carefully and quiet so she didn’t wake him, she made her way out to relieve herself and back inside before he’d turned over.
Although apologies continued to flow, the mood around the ranch was somber. Children didn’t chase. If conversation took place, it stopped when Charlie came around. Rebecca couldn’t help but feel bad for him, and she ached for the family that had lost trust. She didn’t get involved, but she offered smiles, continued to help manage her niece’s wounds with her sister-in-law and sketched from the scenes she found outside.
She’d started a new drawing of a big,bull elk she seen and heard bugling just down the draw. The picture came along nicely, although she’d been working on it for hours and her drawing hand cramped painfully. Setting her supplies aside, she changed for bed, and climbed beneath a thick cover of quilts.
Floorboards creaked on the other side of the door. Rebecca couldn’t remember anyone being up as late as she was, but discounted the footsteps, deciding someone must have needed to go to the outhouse. A wind kicked up, screaming through trees out back. She closed her eyes.
Moments later a shrill scream tore through the slumbering ranch house. Rebecca ran from her room, listening, trying to control her own panic as she attempted to discern which child the horrible noise came from. Others ran about in the house, and she ran toward the sounds they made. Two girls stood in their open doorway.
“Back to bed,” Rebecca commanded. The girls ran inside and closed their door. The boys’ room was lit by a hand lantern, one child standing upright on his bed, a finger held out toward the doorway Rebecca had just stepped through.
The moment she was inside the room, bile rose in her throat when she inhaled. The smell of death coated the air like tar over a hot fencepost. She placed a hand over her mouth and nose, trying not to gag.
Charlie stood next to his son, rubbing his back.
“It’s okay, we’re all here,” he said, with a calming tone. “It was just a nightmare.”
“There was a man,” the child said, voice shaking.
“Who?” Rebecca asked.
He jabbed a small finger at the dark hall. “He was a cat-man,” he said, breaking down. He hid his face, embarrassed at his show of emotion.
His mother picked him off the bed, cradling him against her chest and hip as if he was a toddler. The boy melted against her, crying like he’d been beaten.
“Charlie, please go look outside to see if the dogs drug something dead up by the house,” she said.
He nodded and left the room.
“Is there anything I can do?” Rebecca asked.
Her sister-in-law just shook her head, rocking her son. “I’ll get him settled in. Go on to sleep, Becca.”
Rebecca nodded and went to the door, grateful to get into some fresh air. Taking a turn down the hall, she stepped into the girls’ room. Moonlight shone through a window, showing the scared girls were all lumped into two beds together, bodies huddled under covers. They peeked out, wide-eyed and fearful, but tucked firmly in their bunks.
“All’s well. Just a bad dream.” She smiled and left.
* * *
Thankfully, October brought peace to the Caleman ranch. Normalcy claimed its place, and Rebecca tried to get back to healing from her loss. Her children continued to do well on the ranch, and chores had expanded to include stacking wood for the winter and counting cattle before snow began to fly. Preserves were stored in the pantry. Lard was hauled into the kitchen in buckets, and the household waited out winter at the ready.
Days shortened and nights chilled at sundown. Out of need for something to do when it was dark just past afternoon, the children at the ranch fashioned a wind chime from the old birdcage their father had brought from the mine the day of the fatality. The dehydrated corpse of the yellow mining bird was discarded into the trees in back of the hen house.
Charlie hung the gift from a hook on the porch the next morning. The bars hung askew, creating an imbalanced tone, although the love with which it was created melded the notes into beautiful harmonies that charmed the wind on the lawn and gardens.
Rebecca was comfortable with letting her mind wander to better days and times when her heart was whole. She imagined her husband’s deep, soothing voice before bed, his words masking the way she was the only person in the house that slept in a room by herself. Charlie and his wife went back to sharing their marriage bed. All the boys slept in grand beds in a cozy room, as did the girls. Charlie had said she would need privacy. It was a nice gesture. She hated it.
Each night was long, and she would sketch and paint until her hand ached and back was stiff from standing or hunching, depending on the size of the canvas. Working deep into each night, she tried to exhaust herself, because that was the only way she could fall asleep. She’d get changed, climb into bed, and think good, warm thoughts about her husband. Her mind relaxed as she thought of him, her body
slackened, and she entered the comfort of sleep.
The sound of her bedroom door should have fully awakened her, but instead of being awake and alarmed when Charlie stepped in, she was confused and half asleep. He closed the door behind him and knelt beside her bed, peering into her face with a tender gaze. The potent smell of decay followed on his heels. One hand moved to her cheek, tracing the line of her jaw with a gentle touch. He lowered his face to barely an inch above hers, and just when she was about to say something— she didn’t know what, exactly— but certainly something in protest, he clamped a big hand tightly over her mouth.
A man could do a lot with one hand. He tugged his belt loose from his britches. Tears contorted her vision in the low light as she searched his face for reason. Just a year apart, Charlie shared many features with her husband, Paul. They were the same height, and just as strong as one another, as well. He bared her quickly, and she continued to watch him as he worked to free their bodies for access. She tore at his skin, determined to leave marks, attempting to hurt him if even a little. His muscular chest hovered, touching her nose, and since she was forced to breathe only through one nostril that wasn’t crushed closed, her senses filled with the scent of death. Eyes, black as hell itself, neared her own as he entered her. She wept, thinking how she knew she’d weep silently, even if his hand wasn’t over her mouth. He moved slowly, iris-less eyes on hers, one free hand caressing parts of her like they were lovers. He kissed tears from her cheeks, closing her eyes with his lips.
“You’ve got my heart, girl,” he whispered.
“Why?” she cried out, the wail smothered against his palm.
He stilled. “Because I love you. You wouldn’t accept me if I didn’t come to you with this man.” He let his gaze take in the curve of her jaw, the deep pools of tears in her eyes. “I regard you as you wander. You call me forth.”
Rebecca searched Charlie’s eyes but found only blackness, the likes of a deep, light-forbidding cave. Whatever crept above her then wasn’t her brother-in-law, or her beloved Paul. Lord God, why? Heavenly Father … please help me ….
But he touched her like her husband, felt just like him everywhere. He moved as her Paul did, touching the places she loved to be touched, relentlessly. Rebecca wondered if it was her mind doing it all, masking him, giving her a sickening parody of intimacy she knew she would never have again.
Exhaustion from straining and fighting won out and her grip relaxed on his forearm, fingernails sliding from the bloodied grooves in the flesh there. Charlie removed his hand and replaced it with his lips, her husband’s lips, quickening his pace with frantic thrusts.
When Charlie left Rebecca, she pulled her quilts up to her chin, closed her eyes, and prayed to continue to dream.
***
Chapter 2
May Day, 1923
Jim Witcher was a man of passions, and above all others that drove him was the deep, Christian love he had for his wife, Marybelle. Sickly from childhood, Marybelle never bore children, which, contrary to most couples of the times, made them closer. It was just the two of them, her tuberculosis, and plenty of old Witcher money to get them close to Pikes Peak in the arid, high altitudes of Colorado in America.
“We’ll beat the odds,” Marybelle stated through her mask.
“Yes, love.” The body of his frail wife held a heart worthy of ten lions.
Jim was amazed at how easily British society moved on after news struck of the sinking of the mammoth ship, the Titanic, over a decade ago. There was no blame to place, for he, himself again lent faith in steamship travel when he put his mate aboard a passenger liner for America. The three week jaunt was emotionally draining, for although unspoken, the fact that the gamble was Marybelle’s last hope of beating the infection in her lungs weighed heavy. Anticipation and dread warred in heart, but hope and love won out, keeping them in check.
The ship’s physician stayed close and delivered reports on the hour. Being paid handsomely, the doctor kept news of her condition unknown to the other passengers. Twice during the trip, the doctor woke Jim, insisting Marybelle’s lungs would fail at any moment. Despite crimson-soaked bed sheets, she hung on.
They landed at Boston and wasted no time making way across the Midwest, high into the rocky, treed mountains of Victor, Colorado.
Marybelle squinted into the pale sky. “Oh, James do you see? We’re so very close to heaven.” She squeezed his hand best she could in her weakened state. Jim kissed her forehead and carried her toward their new house.
Jim’s confidence grew, knowing he had made the right decision. The dry air worked wonders for Marybelle, and she made a decent but slow-coming recovery. The new Witcher Estate claimed land far into the outlying district, southeast of Victor. His wife needed peace to heal, and Jim made it life’s purpose to provide all Marybelle needed. His heart soared each time he noted another way she became herself again. Her spirits lifted, and she removed her mask each morning with a smile that fueled his very soul.
Merely providing the best environment known for his wife’s recovery wasn’t the only step it would take to ensure Marybelle would live. Jim took great care in choosing the services of a highly-recommended physician in Cripple Creek. Keeping a second office in Victor, the doctor stopped by twice weekly unless the weather was bad, which was not a common occurrence for the bespectacled, mousy man who talked too much. The doctor was older, not a widower, and remained unmarried. Jim didn’t trust a gentleman when a wife couldn’t, either. He worked hard to keep his distaste for the man’s appearance from creating doubt in his abilities as a physician. Handsome or not, the doctor came with the best recommendations, which spoke clearly enough to earn Jim’s trust.
Jim held Marybelle’s tiny hand tight, walking around the yard. She loved the aspen trees and wildflowers of the region. Shaking loose of his grip, she paced ahead while he leaned in the shade. His heart swelled, watching the tiny chipmunks that skittered to the hem of her gown to collect scattered bits of dry bread she dropped for them. She glanced over a shoulder, blue eyes sparkling.
“Thank you, love.” Wind swept a wave of hair beneath her chin, which she cheated away behind an ear.
He need not ask for what. She was thankful for her extended life, as was he. “I love you, Mary.”
She remained too weak to bind her hair, leaving twisting tresses to fall in youthful, blonde lengths about her shoulders. Jim rested easier. His beautiful wife was right. They’d beaten the odds. She leaned against a large, mica-speckled boulder, smiling. “Let’s begin living once more. God graces me with breath. I want to go to Sunday service.”
“Mary, I—”
“Please, James. What good is this new life without the Lord?”
He sighed, scrubbing his chin. “That will cause you pain, Mary. The lesions are healing, but you’re not steady—”
“I grow strong again. You worry for naught.”
“We’ll ask what the doctor thinks best.” He shook his head, not surprised at all by her defiance in the face of certain agony. Mary was a good woman, and those of such heart sacrificed for the Heavenly Father. “Certainly, the Lord knows the risk is great.”
She stepped close, pulling one of his hands free from where he’d clenched his arms across his chest. “As is the reward of being back in His house.”
He nodded, pulling her in. “We have much to thank Him for.” Jim’s ability to deny his wife wasn’t on the list.
* * *
Midsummer brought chill, and just as the wives at the congregation predicted, hemmed, and hawed, the snow flew on Hall-o-ween. Jim bundled Mary tightly for their trips into town. Despite his assertions that the cold air could cause a relapse, the physician continued to insist Marybelle had made a respectable recovery and was well enough to travel to church on Sundays.
Jim watched closely, finally warming to the idea that the sparkle had returned to her eyes, and she laughed easily, the way she had before the sickness took her. The ladies took her in, drawn by her charm and p
urity of soul.
She reclaimed the position as lady of the house, sewing beside her favorite window and tatting new lace curtains for their home. She sang like an angel. Jim’s heart mended and he relaxed his protective grip, allowing her to take on life as she wished.
Mary boiled a rich, fatty stew for supper one night, and she carried the small boiling pot to the dining table, letting go a bit too soon. The cast iron clacked down hard and thick broth exploded upward, spraying the table.
Jim shot from his chair, pulling her into view. Her cheeks were flushed. “Mary?”
She dropped a potholder to the table, leaning for support. “It’s terribly hot in here.” She took a corner seat at their huge table, breath coming too fast.
“Perhaps you shouldn’t do so much, Mary. It is likely too soon for these mundane tasks.”
“If I’m not able to do things for you, to show I adore you in the ways a wife wants, what good is life at all?” Her lower lip trembled. She looked away.
“You should have told me you weren’t feeling well. Your smile is all I need.”
She sighed, gathered herself, and ladled their bowls full.
* * *
Marybelle didn’t eat again after that night. Scarred lungs again filled and she began to suffocate, her tiny body racked with croup that produced growing spatters of bloody phlegm. Frost-laced wind howled, beating against the windows as she struggled for air.
Jim held her Bible and one fevered hand, praying for God’s mercy. Mary went unresponsive. He removed his own mask, bowing his head.
She didn’t make it through another storm. Jim tucked her into bed, placing a kiss on her forehead. Her fever had finally broken, for good this time. His heart shattered, shards stabbing deep. He wept, rocking, grieving for uncounted hours.