by Marian Wells
Daniel was holding her shawl. With one last glance at the broken doll lying on the mantel, they walked out of the boardinghouse.
That evening they told Father Dyer. As Daniel talked, Amy searched the man’s face, expecting ridicule, even disbelief. But he nodded, saying, “It seems to be the only thing to do. If you’re serious about this, Amy, the Lord will either make a way for you to contact her, or lift the burden to do so. I’ll come with you if you wish.” They both shook their heads, declining his gesture.
After supper dishes were washed and placed back on their shelf, after the embers in the stove were cherry red and Father Dyer had poked in the big chunk of wood and set the damper, Daniel said, “Let’s go now.”
There wasn’t a full moon, but the light reflecting off the snowbanks filled the bowl of the gulch with light. When they reached the road, Daniel took her arm and pulled her close. “Will you be warm enough?”
“I’ve put on an extra jacket under this shawl.” He nodded and moved out ahead of her. Striding quickly to the well-traveled road, they turned and headed down the cut to the cemetery.
“Hear the owl?” Daniel murmured. Amy nodded and shivered. The cemetery was a cleared space in the midst of the trees. By the light of the moon, it was a glistening expanse of white. Daniel whispered, “A mouse can’t cross that without being seen.”
They moved back into the shadows of the trees. She shivered and Daniel came close to wrap his arms around her.
She felt her spine stiffen in response even as she guessed he wanted to talk. “There’s movement over there in the trees. It’s either a doe or a coyote; I didn’t want you to scream.” She resisted the impulse to snuggle against him. It seemed as if they had waited forever in silence when he began to speak. She heard the strain in his voice. “Amy, please, I—” They both heard the crack of twigs.
They held their breath and waited. A buck moved into the clearing and began to paw at the snow. “Look at that set of antlers,” Daniel murmured. As they watched him feed, Amy felt Daniel relax and she leaned back into his arms.
A cloud drifted across the moon and he sighed and moved. “I’m guessing we might as well forget it for the night. We’re both half frozen.” She waited a moment longer; finally he bent and kissed her, gently, lightly. “We better hurry before we freeze.”
The next evening a swift storm moved through, filling the air with icy snow. The following night, as Daniel shrugged into his coat, he addressed John Dyer. “Might as well come along with us, unless you’re too old for the game of standing in the snow.”
“Maybe Amy should stay in and keep warm,” Father Dyer suggested.
“It’s mostly because of Amy that we’re here.” Daniel answered firmly. “She probably won’t have another chance to talk to Silverheels.”
“Daniel, do you think she’ll refuse to have anything to do with us?” Amy asked.
Daniel considered, then said, “If the story is true, there are a lot of unanswered questions. A normal healthy person just doesn’t wander around in cemeteries at night; neither do they hide away from people they have associated with in the past.”
“I want to go with you,” Amy urged.
It was very late when they saw her. The snap of breaking branches alerted them. Amy heard Daniel’s whisper. “That isn’t an animal.”
By moonlight her dark cloak was easy to identify against the lighter wood. Soon she left the trees and began to walk slowly up and down between the line of headstones.
Amy stood transfixed, watching her slow movement. Unexpectedly she found herself responding to that lonely figure. Wiping at her eyes, Amy tried to guess the reason for the zigzag course, the stooping, the way her hand moved to touch each stone.
The stark black and white scene, the rhythm of it all, pulled her spirit down. She was trembling now, trying to hold back the sobs.
Daniel bent close to whisper, “We’re going to move around to the other side while you walk up to her. If she runs, we’ll try to stop her.” His flat words brought her back to reality. Shivering now with cold, she nodded.
The men started off together. When they disappeared from sight, Amy hesitantly stepped out.
She approached slowly, creeping close enough to hear the murmur of Silverheels’ voice, the sobs. And then the next step plunged Amy’s foot into an icy snowdrift.
At the sound the woman turned. As Amy caught her balance, the shock of that black-swathed figure held her motionless and shivering. Silverheels’ face was invisible. There was nothing to be seen except the slender column of black.
For a soundless moment, they stood facing each other. Then the dark figure spun around and ran toward the trees.
It took Daniel’s shout to break Amy free, and send her stumbling through the snow after them. It seemed to go on forever, the lurching, plunging, churning through snow, into trees, pitching into snags and tearing free. Only the shouts of the men in front of her marked the way.
At last, when she thought another step was impossible, Daniel and Father Dyer were beside her.
They linked their arms about her, pushing her back up to the road. She was sobbing with cold and frustration when they reached the cabin.
Daniel knelt and stripped off her soaked boots and handed her the towel. “Start rubbing those feet and legs as hard as you can or I’ll do it for you.” She heard him say something about frostbite, but it didn’t seem to matter.
The stove was glowing nearly cherry red and Father Dyer brought hot tea while Daniel spread the blankets on the floor. “Let Amy have my bed,” Father Dyer said.
Daniel shook his head. “She’ll be better off here with her feet close to the fire. I’ll make certain she’s warm enough.”
Amy had only begun to wonder how when he carried hot stones to her and piled on some of his blankets. She shook her head but couldn’t find voice to protest. He took her empty mug and pushed her down. “If you get cold, tell me.” But that was the last she remembered.
Chapter 35
Over breakfast the next morning, Daniel said, “We’re certain now that the story is true. The woman has got to be Silverheels. We also know where she is living.” He paused to sip his coffee and then glanced at Amy. “By the time we reached the cabin, she had barricaded herself and wouldn’t answer our shouts.”
Father Dyer sat, elbows on table, cradling his mug of coffee. Slowly he said, “This whole business is getting to me. Sure, I’d heard the stories, but there was no evidence they were true. Now that I’ve seen her, I’m feeling my responsibility to her. Also, I’m seeing her as a needy soul. I didn’t before. Something must be done.”
Amy turned away from the question in his eyes, whispering, “Please, I don’t know what to think about all your talk. I only know I must see her. What happens then—well, I guess that’s up to you.”
John Dyer looked at Daniel. “I think I’d better go with you. I’d intended to head up the gulch today, but that’ll have to wait.”
“If that’s what you think needs to be done,” Daniel said slowly. The man nodded.
By midmorning when they started out, the sun had broken through the last of the clouds, and even Amy’s heart lifted in response. Again they were afoot. Father Dyer had mentioned a horse for Amy, but Daniel had shaken his head, saying, “There’ll be no chance to slip up that way.”
The snow had been churned into ruts on the road, but when they reached the trail leading to the cemetery, Amy looked at the unbroken expanse in dismay. Daniel pointed to the tracks cutting across the field. “That’s the path we took last night.”
“What a sad place it is.” Amy spoke in a whisper. “When we came for Lizzie’s funeral, there were only a few headstones. Now look, line upon line; those markers show how many have lost their lives.”
In silence they looked across the cemetery. Father Dyer shook his head, settled his hat lower on his forehead and slowly turned.
“Seems different in daylight,” he murmured. Shading his eyes, he continued, “I’m guessing
the cabin is right through there, due north of where we stand now. Here’s hoping she lets us in. Amy’s feet can’t take much more of this.”
They started out single file, with Father Dyer cutting the trail and Daniel behind Amy. Amy tried to forget about Silverheels and concentrate on the beauty of the willows. Each branch offered a delicate wand of fluffy snow. Against the bright sky the whole forest seemed angel pure.
On the far edge of the clearing, she could see the buck. Antlered head high, he followed their movements.
The trail they had taken last night cut into the drifts, suddenly appearing like a canyon gouged through the snow. They stood in the snow at the side of the road while Daniel shaded his eyes. “There’s plenty of tracks through here, but I’m inclined to believe it’s deer and elk. Too delicate for human or bear.”
Father Dyer murmured, “I smell woodsmoke now. The wind is coming down out of the north, so it isn’t from Buckskin.”
“Think we need to separate?” Daniel asked. Dyer shook his head and Amy sighed with relief. But she couldn’t help noticing the men’s faces were grim as they again moved out on the trail.
When Father Dyer stopped, Amy slid into him. Daniel’s restraining arm was around her. “There it is,” Daniel whispered softly. “No wonder townspeople don’t know about it. The person who built the place liked solitude—see how it’s hidden?”
As they looked down on the house snuggled in the cup of trees and rock, the door opened. Briefly they saw the figure of a woman and then the door was closed. “Hope she didn’t see us,” Daniel murmured anxiously.
Amy shifted her aching feet and said, “I’ve an idea. Why don’t I go down alone? After all, this is for my sake.”
The two considered and then shook their heads. “It just doesn’t feel right,” Dyer said, and Daniel’s dark eyes agreed.
She shivered and said, “Then let’s go—now before I turn and run.” Daniel took her hand and the gesture brought tears to her eyes. Slowly and as quietly as possible, they worked their way down the incline behind the cabin.
When Father Dyer knocked, Amy discovered she was holding her breath. Their fears were all for nothing.
Silverheels simply opened the door. She studied each one in turn and grudgingly pushed the door wide open. “Never kicked a dog in my life; no sense in doing it now. I guess you’re not lost, you are the ones who followed me last night.”
“Begging your pardon if we frightened you.” Father Dyer pulled off his hat and bobbed his head. Amy still couldn’t speak. Moving like a wooden toy, she followed them, unable to look away from Silverheels.
Gone was the cascade of curls. The knot of hair on her neck was frankly middle-aged. But then that was to be expected. Amy was staring at the skin exposed above the rough collar of her dark dress. What had been porcelain perfection was now red, deeply pocked scar tissue, spreading across her neck, face and even her hands.
When they faced each other, Silverheels’ eyes challenged Amy’s quivering lips with contempt. Amy turned away, fighting desperately the need to express the outrage and pain she was feeling.
With only that icy look, Silverheels turned to Father Dyer. “I’m sorry I can’t offer you coffee. I’ve been without for months. I don’t go into town for supplies.”
“What are you living on?” Daniel asked.
She glanced at him, quickly letting her eyes dart to another part of the room. In a moment she said, “I took all the canned goods and flour and beans from the boardinghouse. It’s sufficient.”
They stood awkwardly waiting. Finally she gestured toward the crude benches beside the fireplace. Amy could see Daniel looking at her, and she couldn’t avoid the question in his eyes.
Father Dyer’s voice was not the usual cannonball blast. Softly he said, “We’ve been hearing about your nursing activities during the epidemic.”
“It’s no more than anyone would have done. It was there in front of me. I was well, and there was no one else to do the job.”
The silence became awkward under Silverheels’ stoic stare. Daniel’s eyes were imploring Amy. She got to her feet. It was impossible to control her trembling lips, the tears, her shaking knees. She sank down beside Silverheels’ chair and reached imploringly for the hands that eluded her.
“Mother! Please, I’ve felt—I’ve come to beg your forgiveness. I’m sorry for the ugly things I said, all the—please.”
“And now, like the good little pious Christian, who’s been to revival meeting and had her head reamed out, you’ll pour your emotions on me.” The cold words slashed into Amy, making her rock back on her heels. “I want no part of it. I told you I didn’t want to see you again. My situation now doesn’t change any of that.
“I don’t want your pity or tears. Get out of my life with your contemptible whining. I want no part of a religion that sets itself up above the common man, that sets a mealy-mouthed standard you pretenders must cling to in order to win the approval of God.”
Amy jumped to her feet, sobbing as she screamed out her rage, “What a detestable mother you are! What corruption moved you to abandon us? How dare you drag me in the dirt now! I’ve tramped through the snow to make things right with you. What an ugly, ugly—prostitute you are! I’ve suffered and suffered over you for years, and now you throw all that in my face. I—”
She stopped. Daniel saw one brief flash of horror on her face before she snatched up her shawl and fled. “John!” he begged, glancing at the woman in the chair. Father Dyer nodded and went after Amy.
Daniel knelt beside the rocking chair. The woman’s head rested against the back. He saw the waxen cast to her skin, the tear sliding down. Carefully he bit back the questions. “Mother,” he whispered. She was shaking her head, moving her lips.
“I’m not leaving until you sit up and answer my questions.” A spot of color appeared in her cheeks, and then she opened her eyes and sat up.
“Young man, you’ve no right—”
“To try to keep you from sitting here until you die? Can’t you understand? We are fearful for you. It’s no desire to make you miserable. Amy’s confession was sincere.”
The tears were streaming down her face as she whispered, “You called me Mother, but I’m not. I’ve never deserved the title. I don’t want it now. You’re that preacher boy, her husband. I will talk to you if you’ll promise me you’ll go away afterwards and keep her away.”
“Maybe I’ll promise. If you answer my questions.” She waited. Daniel hesitated. There seemed no right question. “You love her, don’t you? The picture.”
She nodded, weeping soundlessly, and then saying, “It was my decision; there was no turning back. Young man, you’ve no idea how the heart can hurt when it’s all boxed in with no way to back out.”
“Why did you chase her away from Buckskin Joe? Was it because of smallpox?” Her reaction gave her away. “Tell me about it.”
“One of the girls. I’d just discovered it when Amy came. I was hoping to hide it, hoping we could keep it from spreading. Oh, Daniel, how badly I wanted to keep her from catching the disease! I would have cut my soul out to prevent it. Much as I wanted her love, I had to chase her away!”
He watched her shrink into brooding silence. Finally he moved, looking at the waxen face, her bloodshot eyes, he bit his lip and pondered. It seemed wrong to push at her. But how much he wanted to offer a hope.
She was speaking again. “I should never have married Eli. A mere baby myself, I made life miserable for him. I wanted. At least I thought I did. The church was a noose around my neck. I didn’t understand then. I only wanted freedom.”
She looked up now. “Always I’ve carried the picture of Amy. Bittersweet. Once I tried to reach out to them. After he left.”
“He?”
She nodded. “There was a man who offered me freedom, money, a good time. It only lasted until he tired of me.” She was rubbing her pocked hands slowly, speaking softly. He knew she was revealing the deep places in her heart.
�
�It’s hard enough to back down from what you’ve chosen and admit you’re wrong. It’s impossible when life’s squeezed you into a corner. Now it’s totally out of the question.” Her voice was flat, leaving no room for argument.
“Is that why you couldn’t accept Amy’s apology?”
She thought for a moment and then nodded.
“Pride?” he asked.
When she didn’t acknowledge hearing him, he added thoughtfully. “Is it possible God allows second chances through the most difficult trials of life? Like the epidemic?”
She was still unresponsive, but he continued. “And isn’t a circumstance like this redemptive?”
“What do you mean?”
“That you’ve proven to yourself the fiber’s good.”
“I don’t understand. Please explain.”
“If you were capable of acting in genuine love, sticking with the fearsome ugliness of life when the others ran out, then doesn’t this tell you something?”
“That all’s not lost?”
“That God has poured out a grace gift—a genuine enablement. Just maybe His reaching out to make you strong when you wanted nothing to do with Him is the picture of the same kind of God He’s always been. Reaching out, taking our insults and rejection. Being used by us for our purposes yet still waiting in love.”
He got to his feet and paced to the fireplace and back. There were tears running down her cheeks. She sat up and leaned toward him. “Daniel Gerrett, can you answer me truthfully? Don’t give me false hope. Is it possible to find some way—peace, freedom from soul ugliness? For me?”
“Why would you think otherwise? You have a Bible on that shelf; surely you know what is in it.”
“I’ve prayed, begged,” she admitted. “I’m down to the bottom of the barrel. It’s a terrible place to be, and it leaves me with nothing else. I don’t have anything to offer, so how can I have faith?”
“What makes you think that any of us have a suitable offering? After all, He’s God. What does that make us? From that angle, I suppose we all look like the same lump of clay. Except He doesn’t talk like that. He says He loves with an everlasting love. Enough to die for us, without a guarantee we’d ever take advantage of the grace of His suffering.”