by Lyn Cote
“Glad you’re here, preacher,” a man Rachel didn’t know said. “Mrs. Ashford’s mother is dying.”
Noah turned to her. “I’ll drive you home and come back.”
“No, I’ll stay. I might be of help.” And I might as well be miserable here among the mourning instead of miserable alone. Rachel shook off this self-pity. These were her neighbors and they needed her as much as she needed them.
Chapter Fourteen
When Jacque nearly stumbled, Brennan realized the hour had come to set up camp for the night. He’d been distracted, watching the gleamings of fire that still appeared, scattered in the distance. He’d also been aware of a large stream nearby, hearing it run over the rocks. He wanted, needed to be near water.
Gripping the boy’s shoulder, he stopped to listen for the subtle sound. “This way, son,” he said, leading the boy through the thick evergreens and scarlet maples.
About a quarter of a mile from the military road, Brennan and Jacque arrived at the creek. Its creekbed was unusually deep, but after the dry summer the water ran low. While Jacque gathered dried twigs and branches, Brennan quickly gathered rocks, lining a small hollow for their campfire.
Soon Brennan had started a small fire and was brewing coffee in his battered kettle. With a knife, he opened two cans of beans and set them to warm on rocks edging the fire.
“How much farther we got to walk?” Jacque complained.
“I don’t know. I guess we’ll get there when we get there,” Brennan said, still scanning the surrounding forest, fear simmering in the pit of his stomach. “Why don’t we cool off in the creek while the beans warm?”
Jacque sent the two cans of beans a sour look.
Brennan didn’t blame him. Both of them had become accustomed to Miss Rachel’s fine fare. At the thought of leaving her, Brennan’s heart squeezed so tightly, he almost gasped. “Into the creek, boy. We’ll wash the day’s dust off.”
The dip in the creek did refresh them and they sat down and ate their beans and coffee. Then Jacque dug into his knapsack and pulled out a wax paper bag. He opened it and offered it to Brennan. “Want one?”
The sweet fragrance of caramel hit Brennan full in the heart. Miss Rachel’s caramels. The scent caused his mouth to water and his knees to soften. Why had he hurt her? “No, thanks.” He looked down.
“I’m going to make them last,” the boy confided. He unrolled just one from wax paper and popped it into his mouth, then he sat, not chewing, just letting the caramel melt on his tongue.
Brennan didn’t blame the boy. Miss Rachel’s caramels should be savored. He banished her face from his mind. Or attempted to.
The wind began to blow harder. Brennan glanced up, watching the tops of the trees sway. He stacked more rocks on the windward side of the campfire to keep it from being spread or blown out.
He didn’t have to tell the boy to go to bed. Jacque rolled himself into his blanket and fell sound asleep within minutes.
Brennan sipped the last of his bitter coffee, feeling the rushing wind strong on his face. He’d walked all day; he would sleep tonight. He added wood to the fire, then rolled into his blanket and closed his eyes.
Sleep came, but also dreams. He woke with a start. “Rachel…” The darkness was relieved by scant moonlight. He heard the trees around him swaying with the wind. He rolled onto his back and stared at the blackness, listening to the trees creaking, and felt leaves falling onto his face, covering his eyes wet with regret. Rachel…
*
Dawn had come. Rachel tried to eat breakfast and ended up giving it to the cat. She then had punched down the dough that had risen overnight in her cool root cellar. She rolled out the dough and formed the cinnamon rolls and set them to rise a second time. When she went out to preheat her oven, the wind stirred up swirls of dry leaves, whispering around her ankles.
She looked up. The birds were having trouble flying. The wind drove at them and they beat their wings, fighting to keep from being blown away. Her robin managed to get back into her nest in the deep crook on the leeward side of the wide oak trunk. Rachel hadn’t felt strong wind like this here in Wisconsin. A sense of foreboding tried to wrap itself around her. She resisted it and went on with her tasks.
The ache over losing Brennan and Jacque had not lifted. As she headed back to her kitchen, sudden tears splashed down her cheeks. She pressed a hand over her mouth, suppressing a sob. How long would this wrenching loss torment her? A week, a month, a year, the rest of her life?
*
Brennan rose with the sun. All around the wind gusted and birds squawked and flew in bunches like waves overhead. He set coffee to brew and stared at the fire, listening to the bubbling, boiling water. The sound mimicked his inner unease.
Dreams of Rachel had interrupted his sleep over and over last night, rendering him less able to face what the day might bring. He rubbed his eyes and watched the boy still sleeping.
The fir trees around them shuddered with the force of the wind. The flames under the kettle danced with the stiff draft in spite of the ledge of rocks he’d stacked to protect it. Brennan tried to keep his balance mentally, not let fear get a toehold. Everything within him shouted, Go back! But he couldn’t. He couldn’t face her.
He shook Jacque awake and they ate a breakfast of hardtack and hot coffee. Jacque’s dislike of the hard, tasteless bread and unsugared coffee blazed on his face. He looked at Brennan with accusation in his eyes. Or was Brennan just imagining it since he felt so guilty for obliging them to leave Miss Rachel?
The wind bumped up another notch and then another. The trees around them swayed lower. Squirrels and chipmunks and other small creatures raced past as if fleeing the wind.
After finishing the coffee, Brennan scooped up wet sand from the creek bank and threw it onto the fire. The flames sizzled and died. He caved the rocks into the fire site. He looked around. In vain he wished this hard wind would blow out the flames in the forest he’d seen yesterday.
*
Rachel heard no boat whistle but when the cinnamon rolls had baked, cooled and been frosted, she started to roll her cart toward town. If she couldn’t sell them, she’d give them away. Food must never go to waste.
The wind gusted against her, trying to lift the hem of her skirt immodestly high. She turned back and found a length of string and tied it loosely but securely just below her knees to keep her skirt from flying. Then she gripped the cart handles and headed for town, walking like a hobbled horse.
The birds that often flew with her and chattered to her must have all taken cover. An ominous sign. She glanced high and saw how the treetops of the high pines swayed above her. When she reached town, she did hear a boat whistle.
But before she reached the dock, the boat was already pulling away. The one passenger that had been let off held on to his hat and bent into the wind. He paused to pull his hat brim politely to her and then headed toward the land agent’s office.
Rachel realized as she watched why the boat had left so quickly. It fought against the west wind as it wended its way out into the current away from the shore. Did the captain fear it might have been battered against the eastern shore?
A gust hit Rachel and nearly knocked her from her feet. She saved herself by holding on to the cart handles. She rolled the cart toward the Ashfords’ store and parked it in back. Dust swirled up into her face and she shut her eyes and mouth till it passed.
Then Rachel lifted the first of two trays of rolls from the cart and carried them up the back stairs to the Ashfords’ living quarters. The wind wanted to grab the tray from her and fling it into the trees. She hurried up the last few steps and kicked the door hard, asking for entrance.
Posey opened the door.
Rachel handed her the tray and stepped inside, grabbing the door as it tried to bang against the side of the building. She dragged it back and secured it. “The wind is wild today.”
Posey looked crestfallen.
Rachel suddenly hoped she hadn’t blund
ered into a scene of mourning. “Thy grandmother?”
“She lingers, sleeping but restless,” Posey said.
Rachel reclaimed the tray from her and carried it to the large dining room table and set it down. “I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do?”
Posey shook her head tearfully.
Mrs. Ashford stepped into the hall and saw her. “Miss Rachel.”
“I brought rolls,” Rachel said lamely.
Mrs. Ashford hurried forward and grasped both Rachel’s hands. “Thank you for your thoughtfulness. I’m so distracted I don’t think I did more than make coffee this morning.”
“I have another tray I’m going to give Mr. Ashford. I’ll take them to him now.”
“Then please come back,” Posey implored.
Rachel did not want to come back to this house that no doubt would soon be plunged into mourning, but staying alone would be worse.
“I’ll put on some tea,” Mrs. Ashford invited.
“I’ll be right back.” Rachel hurried to deliver the rolls to Mr. Ashford, telling him to give them away to anyone who wanted them. Then she gripped the railing outside and climbed back up to the Ashfords’ door. She heard a bump. Looking down, she saw that her cart had been blown over and it hit the side of the log store.
She ducked inside. She began to think of her root cellar at home. She would stay for a while and then go home and prepare for whatever this storm brought. Her fear billowed like the wind. Where were Brennan and Jacque? Had they found shelter?
*
The wind knocked Jacque off his feet. The orange sun had risen higher and the gusts had become harder to resist. Brennan stopped and helped the boy up. Jacque clung to him, his arms around Brennan’s waist. The boy looked up, fear plain on his face. Far in the sky high above the treetops, an eerie red glow flickered.
“We’d better…” Brennan said, the wind snatching at his words, “find a low spot…and wait this storm out.” He gripped the boy’s hand and led him back into the woods toward the creek they had been near all day.
In a sudden gust, the trees bent nearly double. Brennan dropped to his knees, shoving the boy under him. He resisted the wind, huddling to the ground. When the gust ended, he hurried the boy between the swaying trees and flying twigs and branches.
They found the creek again and Brennan, bent protectively over the boy, guided him to an area of rock, carved out by higher water, a shallow cave. He pushed the boy back under the ledge. Just a few feet from them, even the creek’s low water leaped in whitecaps.
“What’s happening? A tornado?” Jacque cried out.
In the din, Brennan crawled under the ledge and pulled the boy near, speaking into his ear, “I don’t think so. There’s no rain. Just a windstorm.” Turning his back to the wind, he wrapped his arms around the boy, grateful for the narrow outcropping and its protection. What was coming? Had this hit Pepin? Was Rachel safe or hurt?
*
Unable to maneuver it in the wind, Rachel left her cart wedged between the Ashfords’ store and their shed. The wind tore away the string and whipped up her skirts. Holding them down, she stumbled, head bent, to her cabin. When she arrived, she found Mrs. Cat huddled by her door, mewing. She let the cat in.
And then she hurried around her place, moving her cow and shooing her frantic chickens into the small barn—the coop seemed a dangerous shelter for them in the high wind. After carrying water and feed to the barn, she shut the door and tested the latch and found it secure. The water bucket banged against her side so she carried it into her cabin with her.
As the wind tried to snatch them from her, she shut and latched her shutters. Then she bolted the door after herself and said a prayer for the safety of her animals, her birds. Mrs. Cat rubbed against her ankles. In the dim light, Rachel scanned the stout, full-log walls around her. Would they stand against this storm?
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Cat. We’ll be safe inside.” Her heart thumped at the perilous wind, loudly buffeting the walls around her. But what of Brennan and Jacque? Had they found shelter? Or were they on the open road without stout log walls and a root cellar for protection? Oh, Father, protect them in this storm.
*
The wind gusted harder, harder, and then flames blew past them. Brennan had been looking east but now he saw another burning branch fly by. He gasped and pulled Jacque more tightly to him. The wind wasn’t extinguishing the fire that had shimmered in the distance; it was fanning it to leap higher. Higher into the trees, into a vast forest as dry as tinder.
A thought occurred to him. He tried to let go of Jacque, but the boy clung to him.
He put his mouth next to the boy’s ear. “I need to wet a blanket to put over us. There’s fire in the air.” He’d seen this in the war, in the midst of cannon barrages in battle.
“Fire?” Jacque tore from him and tried to bolt.
Brennan gripped him. “Don’t run! We’re safe here by the water! Under cover!” As safe as we can be. The wind kept snatching away his words. “I’m going to soak a blanket in the water.”
Jacque looked wild-eyed, but he nodded.
“Stay in the cave, son.” Brennan shoved the boy as far back as he could into the shallow protection. Then he tore a blanket from his backpack and waded into the creek, pushing the blanket under the water. The wind knocked him to his knees. He was able to grab a protruding rock with one hand, fighting against the wind and current.
The howling and whistling of the wind deafened him. He crawled out of the creek, dragging the wet blanket behind him. He saw Jacque’s mouth open as if he were crying out, but the word was carried away.
He slid close to the boy and wrapped the blanket around them loosely. But the wind dragged at it—even heavy with water—and he found he had to sit on the edge of it and tuck it around Jacque.
More burning branches, many large enough to knock a man out, blew past them. The shallow cave below ground level wasn’t much but it was enough to keep them from the worst. He hoped. A noise assaulted his ears and he realized it was the crackling of the fire.
It surged into a roaring. He craned his neck and in the distance saw the fire begin to devour the forest—flames leaping from treetop to treetop, racing toward them. Yanking the sopping blanket overhead, he wrapped himself around the boy. Dear God, help. Save us. Rachel.
*
The wind buffeted the cabin without cease. Rachel rocked in her chair. She’d been forced to move away from the chimney because strong gusts of air blasted down it and into the room, flaring ash and bringing the smell of soot. To escape, she had moved to the far wall near the end of her bed.
Mrs. Cat had—for the first time—leaped up onto her lap and sat huddled there. Rachel was grateful for the cat’s company. She stroked the soft fur and murmured comforting words that soothed the cat and herself. Her pulse raced with the wind.
She prayed silently. She imagined everyone at worship in the town school and went through the rows, naming those she knew and praying for those she didn’t by description. But the faces of Brennan and Jacque lay like a transparent photograph over all the other faces. The thought of them out in this… She blanched and prayed more fervently. Save them, God—even if I never see them again. Save them.
Something large slammed the side of the cabin. She cried out and the cat jumped and raced under the bed. Rachel sat, shaking, hearing something like a locomotive outside. She reached under the bed, grabbed the cat by her scruff and was down in the root cellar within moments.
She clung to the cat who yodeled with fear. Her heart pounded. “Oh, Lord, do not forget thy servant here! And keep Jacque and Brennan safe and oh, Lord, bring them back—alive!”
*
“Rachel! Rachel!”
She roused in her bed and rolled out and blinked in the sunshine seeping in around the shuttered windows. She had not undressed the night before, fearing her cabin might break under the wind’s assault and she would be forced to flee. Early in the morning when the wind had finally ebbed, s
he’d crawled out of the cramped, hard-dirt root cellar and fallen into bed.
“Rachel!”
For a moment her mind tried to transform it into Brennan’s voice. But it was Noah’s.
She ran to the door and unbolted it. “Cousin!” She ran and threw her arms around him, gratitude flooding her.
He held her close. “Thank God. You’re safe. I couldn’t come until the wind died and the sun came out.”
Then Sunny ran over, carrying their little son. “Rachel! Oh, thank God!”
The three of them drew together with little Dawn squeezing in their midst, clinging to their knees. The embrace released Rachel’s tears. She couldn’t hold back her fear. “I’m so worried about Brennan and Jacque.”
Noah and Sunny stepped back. “We are, too.” Noah claimed her hand. “But there is no way of knowing where they are.”
“We’ll just have to trust God,” Sunny said, jiggling her son on her hip, but looking somber.
Dear Sunny. Dear Noah. Rachel gazed at them, knowing there was no other recourse. Then she scanned her familiar clearing. Leaves, pinecones and downed branches littered her yard. Part of a tree had slammed her west wall. “What was it? A tornado?”
“We never got any rain,” Noah said. “It was some terrible cyclone is all I can figure.”
“Did you look outside last night?” Sunny asked.
“No, why?”
“The sky to the far east was red,” Noah said grimly.
“Fire?” she whispered.
Noah nodded, looking sickened. “I’m afraid so. The forest was so dry…”
To the east—the direction Brennan and Jacque had gone. Fire vast enough to turn the sky red. Her throat constricted. She turned to look east, but saw only the fresh dawn.
“I’m driving around, checking on my flock,” Noah said. “So far no one has been seriously hurt. But many will need repairs to their roofs.”
“Rachel, if you’re up to it,” Sunny said, “Posey wanted you to come to town. Her grandmother passed away last night.”