A Patchwork Family

by Charlotte Hubbard

  And yet Reverend Larsen was reading about how God took care of those who loved Him. Where was God when those Cheyenne attacked?

  “ ‘Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night, nor for the arrow that flieth by day; nor for the pestilence that walketh in the darkness, nor for the destruction that wasteth at noonday . . .’ ”

  Now, there was a sore point! Arrows and destruction were exactly what this burial was all about, yet the circuit rider had chosen those passages to read over the bodies of men who’d fallen to them! Surely other Psalms and chapters would bring better comfort to folks who’d just lost the mainstay of their family. Billy intended to tell the preacher just how he felt about it, too.

  Shielding his eyes from the late-summer sun, Billy glanced around him. Asa looked a hundred years old, hunched and hugging himself, while Mike Malloy stood with his feet apart and his head bowed in stoic respect. On the other side of Billy, Mercy cried quietly into her handkerchief, her face shielded by a brown coal scuttle bonnet. Spot and Snowy sat at Billy’s feet, panting and alert, yet subdued by the weight of everyone’s sorrow.

  Mama had been so helpless at Daddy’s service, they’d had to hold her on either side while she walked to and from the grave and the church, sniffling loudly and inhaling her smelling salts. Yet he sensed that Mercedes Monroe grieved more deeply. While Malloy had been cleaning up the bodies, it was this woman in loose brown calico who’d finished digging Judd’s grave—until Asa wrestled the shovel from her hands, on account of the baby.

  “ ‘For He shall give His angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways. They shall bear thee up in their hands, lest thou dash thy foot against a stone.’ ”

  He shall give His angels charge over thee? So where were they, these angels?

  Billy scowled, scrunching his bare toes in the dirt. Something seemed desperately wrong about services for a man like Judd Monroe, loved and respected by everyone along this stretch of the Smoky Hill River, when only the four of them marked his passing. The heat had forced them to bury Judd and Nathaniel quickly, before neighbors could all be notified. Elizabeth Barstow had asked Reverend Larsen to bring Iry back with him for a service at their own home. Mercy had offered to provide a grave—to share in her friend’s sorrow—but the persnickety Elizabeth refused to bury her husband so close to a Negro.

  For that remark, Billy had suggested they leave Iry in his messy, mangled state. He would miss Nathaniel Horne fiercely, because the dark giant had a wise, gentle hand with horses and had so patiently taught him to play the guitar. But Mercy had insisted on giving Ira the same respect Judd received, since he would still be alive if he hadn’t helped them with their harvest.

  Billy didn’t see it that way. And only his affection for the woman who’d taken him in kept him from lashing out even now. The circuit rider seemed hideously ignorant of their pain as he mouthed the same useless phrases about God’s providence that the preacher back home had pronounced over Daddy.

  Such sermons hadn’t kept the ranch running then, and he saw no future in them now. Would pretty words get the rest of the corn crop harvested? Would poetic phrases feed the stage passengers—or, more importantly, assure Mercy they’d have enough food to survive the winter?

  “I’m so sorry,” Reverend Larsen was murmuring, holding Mercy’s hands between his own. “Judd was a fine man. An example to us all of how to live out the Lord’s words and ways.”

  Mercy nodded, mumbling her thanks.

  But when the circuit rider turned to him, Billy refused to meet his eyes. “If you know anybody who can be real help, send him our way, will ya?” he challenged. “Seems to me God lets the strongest and the best get killed, leavin’ us weak ones tryin’ to get by without them.”

  His arrow hit its mark—he’d actually left the preacher speechless. “Young man, I understand your frustration with—”

  “No, sir, you don’t understand nothin’!” Billy jerked away from the preacher’s touch. “After I lost my own folks—when nobody else would take us in—Judd treated me like I mattered! Called me son, even! And when Injuns would come around, needin’ food or just curious about us white folks, neither he nor Nathaniel ever did anything to provoke an attack! So don’t tell me God was watchin’ out for ’em—or for us!”

  He bolted then. Couldn’t stand the pain he’d increased in Mercy’s red-rimmed eyes. Didn’t want to hear Malloy’s explanations, either, when they both reached out to comfort him. Into the shadowy barn he raced, with the two dogs following, even as he climbed the ladder to the hot, silent hayloft. Spot and Snowy leaned into him, whimpering as they gazed at him with their soft brown eyes.

  Only then did his emptiness overwhelm him. Slinging an arm around each dog, Billy shook with his sobs.

  “It certainly wasn’t my intent to upset the boy,” Reverend Larsen mumbled as he stood beside his wagon.

  Mercy glanced sadly toward the barn, knowing exactly how Billy felt. She, too, had trouble reconciling scriptural promises of care and protection with the realities she now faced. “He and Judd were close,” she said softly. “And Billy’s old enough now to be embarrassed by tears.”

  “And why wouldn’t he be upset?” Malloy added. “Only twelve, and already he’s watched two fathers die of violence. It isn’t fair that Judd and Nathaniel died. And no amount of faith or reassurance makes it easier for any of us.”

  Reverend Larsen’s narrowed eyes suggested he was about to launch into a sermon, so Mercy mustered a smile. “Thank you so much for being here when we needed you, Gregor,” she said. “And please express my sorrow to Elizabeth. I hate it that Iry died while he was helping with our harvest. I imagine she feels we’re partly to blame.”

  With that, the circuit rider climbed to the seat of his wagon and turned to Mike Malloy. “It was kind of you to prepare Ira’s body and build his coffin. I’m sure she’ll appreciate that, even if she won’t say so.”

  He clucked to his horse, and as the wagon approached the road, Mercy winced at the crude box containing Ira Barstow’s remains. Michael had done his best, but by the time he’d constructed Judd’s and Nathaniel’s coffins, he was piecing together slats from old crates and their Sunday service benches. Nothing was easy out here.

  And it was about to get a lot more difficult.

  “You go along and see to Mr. Billy, now.” Asa’s gentle voice interrupted her thoughts.

  She blinked. The kind old man was giving her a reason to leave while he and Mike filled in the two gaping graves. “All right. Thank you—thank you both, for all you’ve done for me—”

  “There’s nothing I can do to repay you and Mr. Judd for your kindness,” Asa replied with a sad smile. “You’d best be getting out of this hot sun now, Miss Mercy. Mr. Judd knew what he was saying when he told you to take care of yourself, and I intend to see to that.”

  It felt exceptionally warm for late September, and she couldn’t wait to take off her bonnet. On the way to the barn, she dipped up water from the rain barrel and drank deeply, wondering what she could say to set things right for Billy. Pausing inside the door, she listened . . . heard the faint rustling of hay as the two dogs came to peer over the edge of the loft. Very carefully she climbed the ladder, stopping when she caught sight of Billy.

  He’d cried himself to sleep. He was curled into a half-sitting position, with his arm on a bale and his head resting on it, his breathing deep and even. A shaft of sunlight came through a crack in the roof to make his coppery hair glow like an ember. His face shone with the radiance of an angel in a sacred painting.

  Mercy held her breath, for as she gazed at this fortuitous scene, she knew exactly what she needed to say. Exactly what this burdened young man needed to hear.

  She eased herself onto a bale near him, quietly murmuring to the dogs. They were compact black-and-white packages of compassion, aware that the scent of blood in the yard had changed everything while they’d huddled in the cellar. They could love Billy in a way she could not, and for that she was g
rateful.

  He stirred, and she put on a smile. She let him stretch and regain his bearings—which quickly put a frown on his face.

  “I s’pose you come up here to get after me for the way I gave Reverend Larsen the what-for,” he began, his blue eyes wet and defiant. “But it was true! He had no call to read those verses about not bein’ hit by arrows and destruction! About angels takin’ such good care of us!”

  His voice cracked, and Mercy’s heart went out to him. No longer the boy who would allow her to hold him, he was not yet a man. Not only had he lost his family, he’d forfeited his childhood.

  As he swatted straw from his auburn hair, she made a vow: In the weeks ahead, when she saw no other reason to go on, Billy Bristol would become her purpose. Her reason for going forward, no matter how badly she wanted to retreat into the darkness of her grief.

  “You’re absolutely right,” she said in a low voice. “Everything inside me railed against the words he read. Because, in our situation, they were very hard to draw comfort from. Judd would’ve chosen better. He had a way of knowing just what people needed to hear, didn’t he?”

  Billy swallowed so hard, his Adam’s apple bobbed. “Yes, ma’am, he did. Now that you mention it, I don’t reckon he liked hearin’ those passages any better’n we did.”

  “And I’m sure Gregor chose them to make us stronger. To reassure us of God’s love and protection, now that we don’t have Judd and Nathaniel looking out for us,” she continued. “He’s grieving, too, you know. Every time he comes here for services, he’ll remember how Judd read aloud with such power and conviction. He feels humbled by that. Confidence isn’t Gregor’s strong suit.”

  As she’d hoped, Billy sat staring ahead of him, fondling the dogs as he considered this.

  “But the part about giving His angels charge over us?” Mercy took a deep breath, hoping she expressed this part effectively—knowing she would never possess Judd’s unstudied eloquence. “I’ve heard that passage for years, but today I finally realized what it means. It has nothing to do with round-faced cherubs coming down through the clouds with a flutter of their wings. It’s about real live people. You and me, Michael and Asa—and even these dogs.”

  Billy was looking doubtful, so she disregarded the lump in her throat to make her point.

  “We are angels for each other, Billy. Just as Judd was the angel who took you and your sister in, and Michael was the one who brought Christine home,” she said, her voice barely a whisper now. “And you will be the angel who takes charge of me. When I stumble and just can’t make it up one more time, Judd will whisper in your ear and you’ll know what to do. Am I right?”

  His eyes widened in the dimness. And then he nodded. Tears made two shiny trails down his face as comprehension dawned: the promise she and Judd entered into the day he came here had just been enlarged. She had asked Billy to become a man, and he had agreed.

  She stood up, brushing her skirt. “Take all the time you need with your sadness, sweetheart. It’s going to be a long, hard winter. I have no idea how we’ll harvest the rest of that corn, or supply the stagecoaches with fresh horses, but I know we’ll get by somehow. We simply must.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  A few days later Mercy looked out to see horses—half a dozen or more! And they were tethered to a wagon George Clark was driving with Rachel and Emma and Gabriel. Behind them came Clyde and Nell Fergus, with three more Morgans trotting proudly behind their buckboard. Mercy’s heart pounded at the sight of the animals, for the empty, silent corrals had been a painful reminder of Judd’s death.

  But then she clutched herself. Did they know about the attack? Had they survived it themselves?

  And what would she say to them? While she’d always enjoyed their company, it was quite a different thing to accept their condolences—especially now that she couldn’t hide her swelling belly.

  Asa looked up from the turnips he was peeling. “Well, now—there’s a sight for sore eyes! We’d best get on out there—”

  “But I look frightful,” she whimpered. “I’m just getting used to Judd being gone, and now they’ll dredge the attack up all over again. Asking questions, and feeling sorry for me—”

  “Missy, it’s too soon for you to be used to anything.” He looked at her with wise old eyes that conveyed a deep sadness. “That’s part of the package when somebody dies. You just get the wound to stop bleedin’—just get accustomed to the pain—and then somebody scratches off the scab. They don’t mean to make you feel bad again, that’s just how it works.”

  He opened the kitchen door, giving her no chance to hang back as her neighbors climbed down from their wagons. “And as for the baby, well, isn’t that just about the happiest thing they’ve heard in a while? Far as we know, they barely escaped with their own lives, and it’s time to hear their stories.”

  She took a deep breath. She hadn’t combed her hair today, and it was too late to remedy her neglect. It took all her energy to step outside behind Asa, who immediately went to open the corral gates.

  “Mighty fine to see you folks—and these horses!” he sang out.

  Clyde Fergus was untying the tethers, looking around the yard. “Yeah, when we found them grazing along the river, we figured they had to belong here. Guess those Southern Cheyenne found your place, too, eh?”

  “Yessir. They killed Mr. Judd and Nathaniel. If Mercy and Billy and I hadn’t scrambled into the cellar, we’d be gone, too.”

  Everything went so quiet, Mercy felt she’d been rendered invisible. The Ferguses and the Clarks slowly looked over to where she was standing, but they didn’t seem to see her. Billy came around from behind the barn, carrying a crock of butter from the springhouse. He froze when he saw the small flock of neighbors wearing the dazed expressions of mute, confused sheep. When he caught sight of his colt among the horses, however, he ran to grab the lead ropes from George’s hand.

  In slow motion, George removed his hat and glanced at Clyde. “That explains why Judd didn’t come looking for those horses,” he mumbled. “We had to fix a hole in the roof where the Cheyenne’s fiery arrows landed, and—”

  “Had to butcher what hogs we could, after those savages shot ’em up—”

  “Oh, would you listen to yourselves!” Nell cried as she rushed forward. “Mercy just lost her husband and you’re babbling on about hogs and—oh, honey, I’m so sorry! So very, very sorry.”

  “And there’s a baby!” Emma exclaimed. “She’s in the family way, Gabriel! Didn’t I betcha?”

  Was she suddenly caught up in a three-ringed circus? Nell and Rachel were crying, both talking at once about how awful it must be to lose such a devoted man, while their husbands quietly conferred with Asa at the corral gate. Hattie and Boots had spotted Billy’s dogs and were barking gleefully, chasing them across the yard. Emma bounded up beside Mercy to gawk at the way her dress stuck out in front.

  Mercy felt like a freak in a side show. Maybe now that they knew about Judd, they’d go home and leave her to her quiet house and her desperate thoughts. And her messy hair.

  “We brought dinner,” Nell said somberly, “because we suspected you’d had trouble. And, quite frankly, we thought it might be best to cancel the services and party next week, in case those savages are still watching us. Waiting to catch us on the road after dark.”

  “You’re absolutely right,” Mercy managed. “Bad enough Iry Barstow was killed here while he was helping Judd harvest the corn.”

  The women’s jaws dropped. “Ira, too? And Elizabeth with four children—”

  “Five,” Emma piped up. “She’s got a bun in the oven, too!”

  “Where are your manners, young lady?” Scowling, Rachel Clark planted her hands on her daughter’s shoulders. “If you’re going to act like a child, you can just go play in the caves—you and your smart mouth! Billy’s in a bad way, too, with Judd gone. You be kind to that poor boy.”

  Emma’s face crumpled. Then she pivoted and stalked toward the barn.
/>
  “It’s good those three have each other,” Mercy remarked, watching the sway of the girl’s calico dress. “They’re at an awkward age. Acting like adults one moment, and then saying something childish the next.”

  Emma’s mother nodded, looking pale and exasperated. “I’m sorry about the way she was staring. She’s been fascinated by babies and how they’re made, of late. It’s downright embarrassing.”

  Nell Fergus, a swarthy, stalwart woman who’d never had children, smiled sympathetically. “And how will you raise this baby all by yourself, Mercy?”

  Mercy longed for another of Emma’s eruptions of curiosity, or for Billy to come over with that butter—anything to distract them from Nell’s pointed question. For as she looked at these two women, who still had husbands and families intact, Mercy suddenly had nothing to say.

  “I better warn you that Emma made the pie we brought,” Gabe said as he and Billy sat against the barn, chewing blades of grass. He chuckled as Hattie nipped Spot, which started the dogs tussling in the dust. “The pumpkin filling’s not bad, but you might as well toss the crust up in the air to use for target practice. Half an inch thick, I’m thinking.”

  Billy groaned, and then noticed the cook in question coming their way. “Guess I’m lucky Christine never went through that, since Beulah Mae wanted nobody in her kitchen. Maybe I just won’t eat no pie today.”

  “Emma might shove it down your throat, then. She made that pie to remember your birthday next week.” Billy’s slender friend elbowed him, rolling his eyes. “She’s sweet on you, Billy.”

  “Sweet on me?” He spat in the dirt to emphasize his disgust. “Well, I ain’t sweet on her! Whatever possessed her to—”

  “Yes, you are, Mr. Bristol. You don’t realize how moony you act—”

  “Do not!”

  “Do, too!

  “Do not, not, NOT! Ya hear me?”