He had the strongest urge to learn his whereabouts. Nothing felt familiar, least of all the firm, narrow surface he lay upon. Somebody’s sofa, perhaps.
Little by little, his head started clearing as waves of remembrance rolled over in his mind—scorching flames extending out at him like a thousand vicious snake tongues; the tortured cries of children. Yes, there had been a massive fire. He recalled it now—the two-story structure on the corner of Caldwell and Washington, with orange flames spewing from its upstairs windows.
Without a moment’s hesitation, he slammed the weight of his body against the front door and stormed inside. He took the steps two at a time, rounded the corner at the top, and came face-to-face with fiery, hissing balls of orange and yellow that churned out blinding black clouds. He couldn’t fight his way through the raging wave of red-hot flame, so he turned away. Smoke, thick and rancid, invaded his lungs, rapidly stealing his breath. He tried not to suck in the poisonous fumes, but his head soon went dizzy from lack of air. Hot, so hot. Was this what hell was like? Flames licking at one’s feet, scorching the face and neck, and reaching out to steal the last second of life? Frantic, he felt his way back to the stairs, blackness encasing him like a tomb. Then came the heart-wrenching screams—from the first floor, it seemed—which gave him a new sense of purpose. He stretched out his hand and found the railing, eyes mostly shut, save for a tiny slit, to ward off the searing sting of smoke. Grasping hold, he gingerly took the first step, then the next, and the next. About halfway down, a board gave way with a loud crack. Instinctively he leaped forward, losing his footing; he tumbled until his body landed in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the staircase. He gathered his senses, found a bit of air to suck in, and determined he hadn’t broken anything. Another wolfish howl drove him to his feet again. Staggering through the pungent smoke, he turned a corner and passed through the kitchen, then found a closed door and flung it wide. In the room, he found two small boys huddled together on a single bed. Thank God, the smoke had not yet found them. He scooped them up, tossed a blanket over each of their screaming heads, and then wasted a few seconds looking for a back door. When he couldn’t locate one in the smoke, he raced back through the kitchen and into a room now engulfed in flames. “Oh, Lord,” he cried, “if You hear me, please get us through this nightmare.” Dodging flames and falling planks, he found the open front door and, putting his head to his chest, dashed through it.
And that was as far as his memory took him. What of the boys? Had they survived? Had someone else managed to find their parents?
“Mr. Connors, can you hear me?” The female voice pulled at him, and he felt like that mouse again, careening off the walls toward a dim shaft of light. His brow muscles worked hard, but to no avail.
“I think he’s comin’ around,” said a man with a deep, raspy voice. “Look! He’s tryin’ to open ’is eyes.”
A cough building in his chest burst out of its own accord and brought him to partial consciousness. He opened his burning eyes a crack and looked into a pair of dark brown ones with golden flecks belonging to…belonging to…. He recognized her, but his fuzzy brain couldn’t call up her name. Another cough barreled out of him, one he was sure would make his heart stop. He had no control over the spasm, no ability to hold it at bay. His head continued to pound, his throat burned, and his scorched lungs still couldn’t seem to take in enough air.
“Here, Mr. Connors, try a sip of water. It will soothe your throat.”
He felt a cool hand come around his neck and lift his head. He tried to help but hadn’t the strength, although the need for water urged him to give it his all. Another hand came around his shoulder—a stronger, firmer one—and gave him the boost he needed. The rim of a cup touched his lips, and then the taste of cool water met his tongue. He started to gulp, but the woman stopped him.
“Mustn’t drink too fast, sir, or you’ll give way to another of those spasms—not that it’s a bad thing you’re coughing. It’s important you get all that soot out of your lungs.”
His head hammered so hard and loud, he could barely make out the voice, but he did know it to be calm and controlled. “My head’s killin’ me,” he managed in a hoarse whisper.
“Hey, did y’ hear that? He spoke!” some fellow shouted. “That’s a good sign, ain’t it, Miz Evans?”
Evans? Sam’s mind whirled. Mercy Evans? He wanted to get another look at those deep-set, chestnut eyes. He could envision her face now, a perfect oval, delicately carved, and with a mesmerizing smile that had the power to knock a man off his feet. She always wore her dark hair pulled up in a proper bun, but anytime he ever happened upon her, it seemed several stubborn strands wanted to fall around her cheeks. Probably went with her personality. After all, weren’t the Evanses all a hardheaded bunch? Granted, he didn’t pay much mind to his relatives’ rants against them. In fact, he rather took pride in distancing himself from all the bickering.
“Yes, it’s a very good sign.” He felt her breath on his face, cool and wispy. “You took in a lot of smoke, Mr. Connors. That’s why you’ve got that awful headache.”
He tried to respond, but then a swell of blackness engulfed him, and he drifted into another dizzying slumber.
***
Unbelievably, Samuel Connors showed few outward signs of burns, with the exception of some minor blisters on his arms and whiskered cheeks. They would heal, of course. Mercy’s biggest concern was his lungs, which whistled and hissed whenever she put the stethoscope to his broad chest. He needed to cough, but he didn’t stay awake long enough for her to instruct him, and she wished Doc Trumble would hurry up and deliver that DeLass baby so he could take over Mr. Connors’ care.
She glanced across the room at John Roy and Joseph, huddled together on a single chair, their eyes as big as saucepans and as red as cherries. The weight of the world plunked down hard upon her shoulders, and she wanted nothing more than to escape the awful reality threatening to squeeze the breath right out of her. How could everything change so dramatically in a matter of moments—sitting around her supper table, enjoying the company of her friends, only to find out a few hours later they’d perished in a house fire? Moreover, how would she ever find the strength or the right words to comfort their children?
A pounding at the door commanded the attention of everyone in the room. Mercy glanced at Abner Stockton, who worked for the local lumberyard, and he made for the entryway.
“I want my son removed from the premises at once!” came the shrill female voice that could belong to only one person—Flora Connors. “What on earth possessed you to bring him here? He should be at Dr. Trumble’s clinic. Where is he? Where is Samuel?”
“He’s thataway, ma’am, but he shouldn’t be moved till Doc Trumble arrives to assess the situation,” Abner Stockton explained. “He’s out at the DeLass farm deliverin’ a baby.”
“Humph! I’m taking my son home this minute. You will instruct Dr. Trumble to come to my place when he returns to town. George, Frank, kindly retrieve your cousin.”
“Yes, Aunt Flora.”
Thunderous footfall like that of a band of soldiers on a mission drew ever nearer, until the stern-faced, gray-haired woman came around the corner, her equally solemn nephews in tow. “Ah, there he is.” She marched into the room, her eyes gleaming with cold, hard purpose, and gave her son a quick appraisal, then cast Mercy a hateful glare. “I trust you haven’t done him any further harm.”
Mercy might have lashed out, were it not for the hand of God clamping down on her mouth. Flora Connors had despised her for as long as Mercy could recall, even though it had been her husband who’d killed Mercy’s father. By all accounts, Mercy should have been the one carrying the grudge, but she’d decided long ago to leave the bad blood to her relatives. “As Mr. Stockton suggested, your son should stay put till Doc Trumble arrives,” Mercy replied politely. “You’ll notice his breathing is a bit labored.”
The woman sniffed. “My son will breathe much better once he’s removed f
rom this…this stale abode.”
Ire chased up her spine, but she held it in check. “You should be quite proud of your son, ma’am. He rescued those two fine boys over there.” She nodded at little John Roy and Joseph, whose watery eyes had widened at the woman’s daunting presence.
Mercy detected the slightest thaw in her icy demeanor. “Yes, I heard.” But then she lifted one corner of the sheet covering her son’s shirtless body, and the cold chill returned, along with a loud gasp. “Who disrobed my son?”
“We did, ma’am,” said Mr. Stockton, leaning forward. “Weren’t Miz Evans, here, although she is a nurse, and she’s no doubt seen a good share of men.” With his chin, he indicated two other fellows whose faces looked only vaguely familiar to Mercy. She figured them to be barkeeps, as both wore aprons and carried the smell of ale. “We had to see if Sam had any burns needin’ tendin’. He’s a right lucky fellow. Seems the Man Upstairs had His eye on ’im.”
Flora Connors pursed her thin, crinkly lips and fixed Mercy with another frigid stare. “He oughtn’t suffer much if we move him, then. Frank, George, carry Samuel to the carriage out front.”
The men stepped forward, prepared to lift their cousin, but then a coughing fit overtook Sam with such force that his face went as purple as a cluster of grapes as he flailed and gasped for air.
Stepping in front of his cousins, Mercy put her hands under her patient’s shoulders to heft him up. “Lend me a hand, Mr. Stockton.” The man moved forward to help sit him up, and Mercy gave Mr. Connors a few good pounds on the back to loosen the mucus in his lungs, causing him to spew forth a black, tar-like substance.
Flora Connors gave a sharp gasp and jumped back, her nose crinkled in a show of revulsion. “Good gracious! Is that soot he’s coughing up?”
Had the situation not been so perilous, Mercy might have laughed at the woman’s weak stomach. One would think she’d never cleaned up after a sick person—much less her own flesh and blood. “Indeed it is, ma’am.” Once the coughing quieted, she and Mr. Stockton lowered him to the pillow again, and she reached for a nearby towel to dab around his mouth and throat. The poor man hadn’t a clue of his whereabouts, having awakened for only a short moment before slipping back into a deep sleep. “I’m afraid burned particles have deposited themselves in his lungs and trachea,” Mercy explained. “The coughing, while it sounds quite terrible, is actually a healthy thing. The more he expels, the better off he’ll be. He’s very sick, though, and it would be dangerous to move him before the doctor has a chance to evaluate him. He appears to be unconscious, probably due to his lack of proper oxygen while he was in that burning house.”
“Yes, yes, I can see he’s sick,” his mother sputtered, “but I will not have him staying here, regardless of what the doctor says. In light of who you are, it wouldn’t be…appropriate.”
Mercy’s ire shot up another notch. Folks like Flora Connors made living the Christian life a real chore. She cleared her throat, carefully considering her next words. “It’s not as if I asked to have him delivered to my house, ma’am. I have no more desire to care for your son than I do a grizzly bear. But, being a nurse, I make it a point to give care where care is needed. You would do well to lay aside your ill feelings, even if just for one evening.”
The woman raised her chin and looked down her nose at Mercy, eyes glowing like two hot coals. She had once been an attractive woman, to Mercy’s recollection, but years of bitterness had done quite a number on her face. The men at her sides stood waiting like territorial militia ready to do her bidding. “And you would do well not to lecture your elders.”
Cantankerous meddler, she wanted to spout.
Thankfully, Sheriff Marshall intervened. “It might be best if you left, Mrs. Connors. Seems to me your presence is causin’ some dissension. I’ll send one of my deputies over to let you know what Doc Trumble says pertainin’ to Sam’s condition.”
Several heads nodded in agreement, but Flora Connors didn’t budge; she just stood there stubbornly, chin jutting out, shoulders drawn back. “I will not leave my son in this woman’s care.”
“This isn’t your house, you know,” said Wayne Lamar, one of Mercy’s neighbors. “Miss Mercy, here, could tell you to leave, and you’d have no choice.”
“That’s right,” said his wife, Rhoda. “She’s merely trying to help your son. Seems you ought to show a little gratitude.”
Most knew Flora Connors as a hardened soul, demanding and difficult to like, so it came as no surprise to Mercy that she didn’t soften at Rhoda’s words. If anything, she gathered more resolve. “I am removing my son from the premises.”
“Is he goin’ t’ die?” came a tiny voice from behind.
Mercy recognized John Roy’s shaky speech. Keeping her eyes trained on the coldhearted woman, she said, “Not if we can help it, dearest.”
Flora Connors gave the boy a fleeting glance. Could she not even acknowledge the child whose life her son had saved?
“He’ll be okay,” Joseph piped up with confidence. “Angels don’t die.”
3
A shrill voice like a bothersome parrot kept thumping at Sam’s senses, calling him back to consciousness. “I’m not wasting another minute here. Frank, help Sam to a sitting position!” the parrot squawked. A scuffling sound erupted. As if crawling up the sides of a deep, dark well, Sam mentally searched for something to grasp hold of and continued the ascent, clawing to the surface, determined not to give in to the blackness again. Gotta hang on this time, he told himself. Gotta find my way back. Confusion clogged his throbbing head, and, once more, air seemed hard to find. A coughing fit wracked his body, stole his breath, and rattled his brain. God, help me, he prayed. At long last, the spasm ended, and a small voice near his ear drew him closer to the surface.
“Wake up, angel man.”
Angel man? Surely, he hadn’t passed on into glory. He wasn’t quite ready for that, nor did he expect to find God’s welcoming arms at the gate. Lately, he hadn’t been leading what one would term a holy life. Oh, he’d invited the Lord into his heart as a boy, but as a man, he’d grown lax in his commitment. He’d stopped attending church a few years back, often let his temper get the better of him, enjoyed a little imbibing on occasion, and cut loose a colorful word on more occasions than he should. No, he had serious doubts that God was any too eager to see him.
“Like the sheriff said, Mrs. Connors, it’d be best all around if you left.” The female voice held a definite edge.
“I’m not leaving my son with an Evans, least of all you.”
Mother? He clawed faster, desperate to awaken.
“What are you implying, Mrs. Connors? That I will inflict further injury?”
“I’m implying nothing. What I’m stating plainly, young lady, is that I don’t trust you.”
“Now, settle down there, Flora.” The frenzied male voice was unfamiliar. “Nobody’s said anything about leaving Sam alone with Mercy.”
“And they’d better not.” He caught the rising fury in Mercy Evans’ tone and decided his mother had met her match. “I didn’t ask to take care of your son, but Doc Trumble would expect me to do everything in my power to help him.”
“Humph. Isn’t that nice. I’m still taking him home.”
“Now, Flora, let’s be reasonable.”
“Sheriff, you know good and well Connors and Evans blood don’t mix.”
Although his eyes burned like the flames he’d dodged earlier, Sam managed to open them just wide enough to see through. “Mother.” Instant quiet seized the room as he tried to make sense of his own voice, so hoarse and gravelly. “What’re…you…doin’?”
“Samuel?” His mother lowered her face to within inches of his, then brushed several strands of hair from his eyes. “I’m taking you home. You don’t want to stay here.”
What he wanted was to push her hand away, but with all the eyes looking on, he had no desire to make an even bigger scene. He cared for his mother, but she had a knack for pulling o
n his last nerve, especially when she treated him like a helpless youngster. Not only that, but her loathing for the Evans clan had long been a thorn to his side, and his father’s recent passing in prison had only intensified her hatred. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d told her to just let it go.
She cleared her throat. “I’ve brought your cousins. They’re going to help you to the carriage.”
He feebly raised a hand. “I don’t need help.”
“Nonsense! Of course you do.”
With effort, he craned his neck to glance around. Standing in the doorway was Abner Stockton, as well as Jeb Finnegan and Gil Stone from Finnegan’s Tavern. All three eyed him with obvious concern. At the foot of his bed were Tom Edwards, Charles Shears, and a man and woman he didn’t know. To his left, his nuisance of a mother and his cousins Frank and George hovered, and at his right stood Sheriff Phil Marshall and the beautiful Mercy Evans. He could hardly wait to find out how he’d wound up under her roof. Clinging to Mercy’s side were two little sooty-faced boys with saucer-shaped blue eyes and disheveled brown hair. “Are these…the boys?” he asked, ignoring his mother and cousins.
The taller of the two boys nodded. “You comed into ar room and saved us from the fire.” He noticed how Mercy drew them possessively to her side, and wondered about her connection to them. Had she known their parents?
“My brother says you’re a angel,” piped the younger one. “Are you a real angel?”
His throat stung with a mix of smoke and emotion, and he shook his head. “’Fraid not.” He looked at the sheriff. “Was…was there anyone else…?”
“Yes, the boys’ parents. I’m afraid they didn’t….”
Sam’s heart sank. If he had gotten there sooner, they might have made it out.
The sheriff shifted his weight and rubbed the back of his neck. “Glad you came out alive, Sam, and with them boys intact. That took a great deal of courage.”
Heart of Mercy (Tennessee Dreams) Page 2