Be Still My Soul

by Joanne Bischof

  After the look she’d given him earlier, he was certain there was more to it. A muscle clenched in his jaw. Using his fingertips, he twirled two eggs across his open palm, willing himself not to crush the delicate shells under the weight of his irritation. “Suit yourself,” he mumbled into the fire.

  “We could have them for breakfast.”

  Gideon drew in a slow steady breath. “Sure, that’d be fine.” He carefully wrapped the eggs and tucked the precious bundle in the pack. They might break, and it would have all been a waste. He shook his head.

  Lonnie stretched out her legs and crossed her ankles. She placed a tender hand on her stomach and closed her eyes. Gideon studied her pale face. He had noticed that her steps had slowed, and her breathing sounded strained as they walked.

  His stomach grumbled, and he worked his way through what remained of the beans. He cleaned the last cold bite out before realizing he should have rationed them. But the comfort of a full stomach had blurred his judgment. His spoon clanged when he dropped it into the empty tin. Gnawing on the inside of his cheek, Gideon glanced at Lonnie. With her eyes closed, she seemed more at peace than she had in days. Annoyed with himself, and still hungry, he worked his jaw and stared into the flames.

  Lonnie blinked against the early morning light. She sat up slowly and glanced down at Gideon, whose face rested atop his outstretched arm. Careful not to disturb him, she rose and checked the fire. She stirred the ashes with a brittle stick and, blowing on the last remaining embers, managed to revive it.

  With her husband still snoring, she snatched up the water jug to fill in the creek. She didn’t know how Gideon managed to find water nearly every day, but she counted it a blessing. She pulled his shirt from the pack and shook out his dirty socks. Stacking her own things on top, she carried the bundle to the water’s edge, where she dunked Gideon’s shirt below the chilly surface before slapping it against a rock. Dunking and scrubbing alternately, she took care to turn the fabric to clean it all over. Her hands were red and numb by the time she finished, and spotting a sunny cluster of bushes downstream, she laid the wet shirt out to dry.

  She smiled to herself and, with a song on her heart, made quick work of the rest of his clothes. When she finished with Gideon’s things, she turned to her own, content at the sight of the fresh, clean clothes in the sun. By the time she was finished, she smelled eggs cooking. Her empty stomach spurred her to finish the task. She rinsed her last stocking and neatly tossed it onto the bush before clutching her skirt and scrambling up the bank to get back to camp.

  Gideon sat on a rock, his back to her, staring blankly into the flames.

  “I see you made breakfast,” she said, wiping her cold, damp hands on her skirt.

  He nodded so softly she hardly noticed the motion. His flannel shirt hung open, allowing the thin undershirt to peek out. He stared at the fire, his eyes as blank as his expression.

  “There’s a fork in the bottom of the pack.” She bent and opened the leather flap. “I grabbed it when I took the pan.”

  “No need,” he said with a faint shake of his head. “I found it.”

  “Oh.” Lonnie glanced at the fire and saw the pan. Then she looked at Gideon. Her mouth fell in a silent gasp, and her eyes widened. “You … ate them?”

  Gideon stuck up his lower lip and dipped his chin in a single nod.

  Lonnie drew in a shaky breath, then let it out.

  His eyes met hers. “You said you weren’t hungry, so I ate them.” His tone was not apologetic. “I didn’t know you would want any. Seems to me you can’t make up your mind lately.”

  Lonnie opened her mouth to speak, then closed it. When tears stung the backs of her eyes, she glanced up at the canopy of trees overhead and blinked into the cool air. Her stomach groaned.

  Gideon’s gaze, still pinned to the flames, never wavered.

  He didn’t move. She picked up the pan, resisting the urge to smack the stupid look off his face. She dropped it in the dirt by his boots. “Don’t for one minute think I’m gonna clean up after you.”

  She strode down to the creek and, as she collected his things, wished she’d laid them under a flock of birds. She wadded everything into a heap, not bothering to fold it. She willed her heart to harden. To ice over so she wouldn’t have to hurt anymore. But when her vision blurred, she knew it was useless to try.

  Fourteen

  Lonnie tugged on her pack. It seemed heavier than usual, and with each step she took, the damp socks hanging from the top strap padded behind her, a muted taunt. All the laundry had dried, and she had tucked it away. But those darn socks. Her shoulders slumped forward as she trudged along. Her stomach knotted, and she tried not to think about food. When her shoelace unraveled, Lonnie hobbled along and tugged it into place without stopping. She stumbled but kept her footing. With a grunt, she heaved the pack higher and bent beneath the weight of it.

  The land rose, and Gideon’s boots stomped out a rhythm that was anything but joyful.

  He had the energy of a stallion. Lonnie felt more like a tired mule. She struggled up the steep grade, slipping more than once on the loose soil. She caught hold of a branch and tried to pull herself along, but her grip shook and she stumbled just the same.

  Gideon glanced at her, and she straightened. “C’mon’, Lonnie. I want to get over this hill before it rains. We need to hurry.”

  Disheartened, she looked up at the sky, where a tumble of gray clouds inched closer. She said a silent prayer, then dug the toes of her boots into the dirt and scaled the hill with surprising speed. When she reached the top, she collapsed at Gideon’s feet.

  God, I don’t know if I can go on.

  Gideon grabbed hold of her arm and tugged her up. When he released her, she rubbed the tender skin. She fought the urge to glare at him and, with a set of her jaw, remembered God’s promise.

  His eye is on the sparrow.

  The words touched her heart but did not fill it as they once had. She did her best to cling to the promise as she walked on. The wind shifted, slowing the clouds’ approach, and relief washed over her when Gideon announced they would make camp early.

  The first hint of dusk settled around a clearing along the trail. Lonnie untied the bedroll, and as soon as her head hit the soft mat, sleep beckoned. With her eyes closed, she listened to Gideon rustle about. Before long, flames crackled and popped beside her, and she sighed as their warmth spread through her thin sweater.

  She shuffled through the pack and lifted a small cube wrapped in cheesecloth. She looked pleadingly at Gideon.

  “I was hoping to save that. It’s the only piece of pork we’ve got.”

  Lonnie turned the package in her hand, and Gideon sighed.

  “I s’pose there’s no sense trying to make it last. I’m starvin’.”

  “My thoughts exactly.” She tugged the pan from the pack. Gideon pulled a knife from his pocket, flicked it open, and sliced the meat into thin pieces. She ledged the pan on a rock near the flames, and Lonnie knew it wouldn’t be long before the smells of pork filled the air. It was nearly the last of their food.

  Gideon scrambled to his feet.

  Lonnie jolted upright. “What is it?” she whispered.

  “I dunno. Thought I heard somebody.” He crouched beside her.

  A twig snapped.

  He pulled his rifle close. “Who’s there?” He lifted the butt of the gun to his shoulder.

  “Don’t be alarmed.” A man stepped forward, hands aloft, palms lit by the light of the fire.

  Gideon’s shoulder slumped, but he did not lower the gun.

  The man drew closer, pushing a cart in front of him.

  “Name’s Bert.” He glanced from Lonnie to Gideon. “And unless you’re a man of the law or a preacher, I come bringin’ white whiskey.” His lips parted, revealing a snaggle-toothed grin.

  Lonnie grimaced.

  A faint chuckle escaped Gideon’s lips.

  Lonnie bristled even as her heart sank.

  “Per
-cise-ly,” Bert pronounced.

  Gideon lowered his rifle until the butt of it sat on the toe of his boot. “Settle on down.”

  The stout man lowered the handles of his cart. He tugged off his sun-faded hat and tossed it in the cart. He ran a hand through dark, matted hair.

  “Live around here?” Gideon perched on the edge of a small log and shook the pan.

  “You could say that.” Bert rested stubby hands on a tree trunk of a waist. He raised a jug, and it caught the light of the fire. The glazed crock glistened.

  Gideon’s eyes flickered, and he yanked his shirttails loose. Bert settled himself on the ground, closer to Lonnie’s makeshift seat than she liked.

  Gideon motioned toward the fire. “Care for something to eat? We’ve got a pan of salted pork frying up here.” He shook the skillet again, and the meat danced across the sizzling iron.

  Bert shook his head. “Naw, I got food.” He motioned toward his cart. “Sure do appreciate you letting me share in your fire.” His jug rested between his feet, and he tapped on the cork, his fingernail so worn down it almost didn’t exist. “Can I offer you a drink?” He uncorked it with a hollow thump.

  Firelight danced across Gideon’s collarbone. “Sure.” Gideon moistened his lips and tugged his top button free. Lonnie watched as his demeanor changed from the quiet man he had been to another person altogether. A person she didn’t care to know. A man too much like her pa.

  Turning to Lonnie, Bert smirked. “What about you?” He slid the jug toward Gideon.

  “I’m sorry.” Gideon’s finger hooked through the crook of the roughly formed crock, and after lifting it to his lips, he swallowed with a satisfied sigh. “My name’s Gideon and this …” His eyes failed to meet hers. “This here is … Lonnie.”

  She fiddled with a dry leaf. Just “Lonnie.” Not “Lonnie, my wife”? She crushed the leaf, and the pieces fell.

  “Right. How ’bout you?”

  She looked up. “No, thank you.”

  Gideon tipped the jug back and held it to his lips longer than before. His Adam’s apple bobbed and rose.

  Take it easy, Gid. She pulled her legs up and rested her chin on her knees. This is … uh, Lonnie. Just Lonnie. Plain, little, old, slow Lonnie.

  The pan hissed. Using the edge of his shirt, Gideon pulled it away from the flame. He and Lonnie shared the meat, burning both fingers and tongues, but she was too hungry to care.

  “You play that thing?” Bert mumbled. The words were nearly indecipherable with his mouth half full of the bread he’d unwrapped from a handkerchief.

  Gideon flicked his head toward the mandolin peeking out of its sack and nodded.

  “Let’s hear, then.” Bert licked his thumb.

  Rising, Gideon stepped toward the shadows and returned with his instrument. The oiled wood gleamed mahogany in the firelight.

  “You sing, little lady?”

  “I—”

  “She doesn’t like to sing for people,” Gideon said softly. His eyes nearly found hers over the flames.

  “Don’t sing for people?” Bert licked the tip of his pinkie.

  But Lonnie was too distracted by Gideon to respond. How did he know? She’d never told him as much. Realizing Bert was still watching her, Lonnie struggled to find the words. “I prefer not to.”

  “Shy, then, eh?” Bert poked a stubby finger into her side, and Lonnie nearly yelped.

  A muscle flexed in Gideon’s jaw.

  The color rose in her cheeks, and she inched farther away. Gideon twisted the keys of his mandolin, his broad hand dwarfing the small spruce neck. Sour notes sharpened.

  Bert rubbed his palms together hastily. “All right, then. Whatcha got?”

  With a slow, seemingly measured breath, Gideon began. He played softly, his gaze fixed on the ground at Lonnie’s feet. Bert studied her, and trying to ignore the chill it gave her, Lonnie stared at the smoldering coals. As Bert chattered about making moonshine, Gideon seemed to listen halfheartedly. The jug passed from man to man, Bert pausing only long enough to swig. When he slid closer to Lonnie, Gideon drank heavily—his face shadowed, eyes filled with an emotion she couldn’t pin down. Lonnie crossed her ankles and folded her hands in her lap. Anything to become as small as possible.

  If only she could disappear completely. She nearly got up and walked away when Bert elbowed her, his arm lingering against her side, but it would do little good to wander around in the coal-black night.

  At a joke she hadn’t paid attention to, Bert elbowed her again. Lonnie gulped. She felt Gideon watching her. When she glanced at him, his attention shifted to Bert. A glint of anger passed through his green eyes.

  The reaction surprised her. He seemed to have read her thoughts, for Gideon shifted all his attention to the instrument he clutched to his chest.

  Bert rose and slapped his knee. Spinning, he danced toward the shadows, hooting and hollering loud enough to startle a family of birds nestled down for the night.

  Then he came back toward Lonnie. His hand gripped her arm, and in one swift motion, he pulled her to her feet. His fingers dug into her flesh, and Lonnie planted her feet to keep from being pulled into him. He swung his other arm around her, his grip painfully tight.

  The music silenced.

  Gideon gripped Bert behind the neck and pulled him back. The drunk man opened his eyes to half-mast. Gideon’s other hand found Lonnie’s wrist. His fingers were firm but trembling.

  “Aw, come on. Just havin’ some fun with the little lady.”

  “Get out of here, Lonnie.” Gideon’s voice was so low it startled her.

  Without argument, she reached for the pan and carried it to the water’s edge. Moonlight lit her path. Glancing back, she saw Gideon release Bert and shove him toward his cart. She couldn’t hear his words, but his meaning was clear.

  Needing to busy her hands, she plunged the skillet into the creek. Relief washed through her as she scrubbed the cast-iron pan in the dark, frigid water. And despite her best efforts, hope burned in her heart. Perhaps he cared after all. If he cared even a little, it was a start. And in time, it could grow. Moonlight carried her shadow forward as Lonnie returned to camp. She found Gideon lying on his back, hands folded behind his head, feet crossed.

  “Thank you.” She sat down softly beside him. “I’m glad you saw …” Her voice trailed off when he let out a sigh, his annoyance clear.

  “Don’t ever make me do that again,” he said gruffly.

  Her eyebrows fell.

  “You should be more careful.” His voice, void of emotion, was as cold as the air that seeped through her stockings. “You could have been hurt.” His throat worked.

  She fiddled with a tattered corner of the bedroll. “You should pick better company, then.” Her tone came out as cool as his.

  “I do just fine.” Moonshine reeked on his breath.

  “You could have told him I was your wife.” Lonnie blinked up at the star-studded sky. “But I suppose you try and not think about that, right?” Her voice faltered, and she chided herself for caring.

  “I do well enough to get by.”

  His words pierced her, and setting her jaw, Lonnie lay down, lest she give him the satisfaction of seeing. She pulled her knees into her chest. “This marriage wasn’t my idea,” she whispered. Her heart, having clung to the frailest thread of hope, now broke as the thread severed. She closed her eyes, the mat rough against her cheek. Twenty-five. Her count was climbing. Gideon rolled to his side, facing away. She had no Bible, though, and suddenly wished she knew all the psalms by heart.

  Fifteen

  Lonnie awoke shivering. A rock poked into the cold bedroll beneath her, and she fumbled for the blanket. When her hand grazed nothing but air, she sat up and pushed her unruly hair from her face. She found herself staring at the cold, gray ashes of last night’s fire.

  Having abandoned the bedroll sometime in the night, Gideon slept on the other side of the fire. His knees were pulled into his chest. His shoulders and boots stuck
out from under the tangled blanket.

  “Gideon.”

  His hand swatted at a fly.

  “Gideon,” she said louder.

  He stirred and lifted his head, and when his glazed eyes found her, he struggled to stand. “What’s the matter?” He stumbled over to her. With one hand covering an eye, he squinted through the other.

  “I ain’t feelin’ so good.” She wished she had a better answer. She ached. Her feet tingled and her skin crawled. With the tips of her ears as cold as her toes, everything in between was chilled through. “Could we stay here for the day and rest? I don’t know if I can go on.”

  He hovered over her, his eyes roving. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  A frown creased his lips and he lowered his hand. “No.” His voice was sharp—final.

  After eating several handfuls, Gideon picked enough blackberries from the prickly bush to fill his palm, then slid them into his pocket. He massaged the ridge between his eyes. His head throbbed, and he could not get his vision into focus. A berry ran down the inside of his pants leg and struck the ground. He pulled the berries out and found the hole. He slid the plump fruit into a handkerchief and shifted the bundle into the other pocket but didn’t bother to pick up the one he had dropped.

  He ran his fingers through tangled hair and tried to set it in the right direction. He glanced at Lonnie. Her unbound hair fell to one side, unruly in the morning dew. A bare shoulder peeked out where her dress had slid down, and her left stocking sank around her ankle. Nearly a week on the trail and the dark circles under her large brown eyes mirrored the shadows in her cheeks.

  He straightened his collar and crossed his arms over his chest. At least he was wearing a clean shirt.

  Gideon turned and took off. Lonnie fumbled the last things into her pack.

  “I’m coming,” she called, as if he had questioned whether she was.

  He glanced behind him. She was yanking a loose shoelace into place.

  Gideon kicked at a clump of dirt and waited for her to catch up.