Owen Family Saga Box Set: Books 1-3

by Ward, Marsha

  Robert approached the Heizer place. From the lane he could see two men standing by a wagon in the barnyard, talking. They seemed calm, not looking over their shoulders or fidgeting. No Yankee’s been there, he decided, and continued down the pike. I’ll try at McNeely’s.

  Robert ran another two hundred yards, turned into McNeely’s farmyard, skidded to a stop at the door of the house and rapped. His windpipe wheezed and his lungs burned as he sucked breath into them. After a moment, Mistress Maude moved the curtain to one side and peered out. She opened the door a crack, her white face telling of her fear.

  Before he could say a word, the woman began.

  “Mr. Fletcher! Oh, please, can you look? My Patrick won’t be home until after dark.”

  “Look where, Mrs. McNeely?”

  “Oh my! Out in the stable. There’s been the most horrid sounds coming from out there for such a long time. Screams, very terrible sounds, they were.”

  He ground his teeth. “Do you have a gun?”

  “A gun? Oh, no, Mr. Fletcher. We had to give it up.”

  “A knife, then. Lend me your butcher knife.”

  Her gasp told Robert how she felt about that idea as she closed the door in his face. He heard the lock snapping into place.

  He found a stout stick of firewood he could wrap his fingers around, not thinking what he would do with it, but somehow needing to feel the wood’s heft, needing to have a weapon. He strode toward the stable.

  The door stood open enough to let him through, and he stopped a moment to let his eyes adjust to the semidarkness. The Yankee’s horse munched straw to one side, still saddled, reins hanging loose. A rack of farm implements hung on the wall, next to a couple of saddle blankets arranged over a rail. The burly redheaded Yankee knelt over Hannah in a stall, pants at his ankles.

  Hannah! What has he done? I’m too late to spare you that—

  Robert swallowed hard, his thoughts a torment. The sight of Hannah’s bare knees being forced apart for the brute’s pleasure enraged him, pushing him past reason, past honor, and he ran toward the man, raising his bludgeon to strike him from behind.

  Hannah opened her eyes. With his last vestige of wits, Robert saw hope spring into them, then she turned her head away, but not before he recognized the look of shame on her face.

  Robert swung his club down toward the Yankee’s head, but Hannah shrieked at his attack. The sound startled him, causing him to miss his target. The blow glanced off the side of the man’s skull, and he fell on top of Hannah. Robert threw away his club, grasped the back of the man’s jacket, and hauled him to his feet.

  Robert turned the Yankee around. Hannah had done damage with her nails. One of the man’s cheeks was striped with raw lesions.

  The Yankee groaned, wagged his head, and then spat in Robert’s face. “I’ll kill you, rebel scum,” the man rasped through his patchy beard. He threw a punch at Robert, striking him on the chin and knocking him backward. Robert crumpled to the floor. The Yankee loomed over him, and gave a gargling laugh as he pulled up and buttoned his trousers. “She wasn’t even that good,” he said, and stomped on Robert’s cheek. “I’ve had better times with a whore.”

  A red blur swam before Robert’s eyes. My sweet Hannah, compared to a whore? He cried out, “She was good at defending herself.” Rage flashed through his body, giving him strength he didn’t know he possessed. He leaped up and connected with a blow that sent the man staggering into the aisle of the stable. Robert followed, punching him time and again until his knuckles bled. He jabbed the man’s ribbon-slashed cheek with a thumb. The man yowled.

  Robert’s fingers closed around the man’s throat. “I’m here to finish the job.”

  The Yankee clawed at Robert’s fingers, finally breaking their hold. Then he retreated, stumbling backward until he found a pitchfork and jabbed it toward Robert, murderous intent glittering in his bloodshot eyes. “You’ll finish nothing, you slimy reb. I ain’t through with you, nor with her.”

  Robert lunged back in time to avoid the lethal tines. If he kills me, he’ll continue with Hannah until she’s dead. I can’t let that happen.

  The man came at him again, and Robert’s hand closed over the handle of an ax that he swung blindly at the oncoming fork. The clash of metal on metal split the air. The pitchfork flew from the man’s hands and landed against a partition near where Hannah crouched with her hands covering her ears, shrieking.

  Robert swung the ax once more to keep the Yankee at a distance, but underestimated his strength and turned himself half around.

  The man rushed Robert, grabbing him by an arm and a leg, then spun and threw him against a wall. Momentum carried the man in another circle, until he screamed in agony and fell silent.

  Robert lay in a heap, wondering at the cessation of the man’s cry. He pushed himself to his knees, his own panting sounding loud in his ears, louder than Hannah’s hysterical sobs. The Yankee hadn’t returned to the fray. Robert staggered to his feet, wary, looking for his enemy.

  The man stood close to a partition, bent over a bit, his face a mask of astonishment. His mouth gaped open, and his arms hung at his sides, but he didn’t move.

  Robert could hear Hannah, weeping uncontrollably, but he couldn’t see her anywhere. I’ve got to deal with him first, he told himself, struggling with his instinct to find her, to gather her into his arms and console her.

  Robert searched for a weapon, located and picked up the ax from where it had fallen, and approached the man, on guard. “You ain’t through with me, you say?” he challenged. Hannah’s cries filled his ears, louder than ever, but the Yankee made no reply. A fly buzzed down from the ceiling and settled on the man’s eye. He didn’t blink.

  Robert did blink, finally seeing the streams of blood trailing down the front of the Yankee’s chest from where small black iron points emerged from his shirt. Hannah squatted behind him against the partition, the handle of the pitchfork clutched in her hands.

  Almost stuttering between crying and speech, Hannah gasped out, “Is … he … dead?”

  Robert nodded. He dropped the ax, reached behind the man and forcibly uncurled Hannah’s fingers from the pitchfork so he could push the Yankee aside. He pulled her to her feet, dragging her away from the sight. As they reached the other side of the stable, he snatched up a saddle blanket, and drew her into his arms.

  “Hannah,” he crooned in her ear. “Hannah love.” He pulled her blouse closed and covered her with the blanket.

  His wife shook in his embrace, sobbing out, “I wanted him to stop hurting you.”

  He stroked her hair. “I … Hannah, he can’t hurt anybody anymore.”

  “I killed him.” Hannah’s cry came out strangled.

  Robert swallowed, wishing he could take her burden upon himself. He glanced over at the dead Yankee, face down in the straw. Bile rose in his throat, and he wanted to vomit. Instead, he steeled himself and said, “We have to leave.”

  He stood up and helped Hannah to her feet. She stopped crying, but swayed against him, at the point of collapse. He picked her up, but his own strength was spent and he staggered, almost dropping her. How would he get her home?

  The Yankee’s horse.

  Robert set Hannah down and went to the wild-eyed animal. “Hey, boy, quiet now. Come here.” He mounted with some effort, then kneed the animal forward to where his wife stood. “Put your arms up, love,” he murmured, and as she did, he reached down and, grunting, pulled her onto the horse.

  As Hannah settled against him, he stiffened involuntarily. Hannah whimpered, “You’re hurt, ain’t you?”

  Robert bit his lip against the pain throbbing through his head and body. “Some little bit,” he agreed. “But I reckon we can make it as far as the Heizer place.”

  Chapter 3

  George Heizer leaned his head against the warm flank of the cow, his fingers squeezing in the age-old rhythm of milking. When the knock came on the barn door, he paused, not sure he’d heard it. When it came again, he sto
od up and grabbed his pitchfork. Who knocked on the door of a barn?

  Before he had sorted out in his mind whether the visitor could be a customer or someone bent on doing harm, the knock came again. He waited a moment, but no one spoke to offer him a greeting.

  George crept out of the stall, stepping as quietly as he could. “Who’s there?’ he called.

  “Robert Fletcher. George, I need your help.”

  Robert Fletcher was his good friend. They’d seen action in the same company during the war. Robert had come home unwounded, but George’s right ear was half gone from a close shave with a Yankee bullet. Robert had tied his own handkerchief around the bleeding ear. Later, in the same battle, he had saved George’s bacon when he was wounded in the leg.

  George went to the small door and wrenched it open. A horse stood in the shade before the opening, two people hunched over its withers. One slid to the ground, fell to one knee, and struggled to get to his feet. It was indeed Robert, his brown hair darkened by sweat, and—was that blood?

  Robert held out his hands to the other figure, still sitting on the horse. That person half fell into his arms, and the two of them went to the ground.

  The horse moved aside. Again, Robert climbed to his feet, stooped, and tried to raise the other person. At length he stood, his arms around what was clearly a woman in a high state of disarray. Robert had married not long ago, and George finally recognized the second person as Robert’s wife, Hannah.

  George cried out in dismay. Robert had taken a beating, and Hannah had obviously suffered a great deal of misuse. Her pale yellow hair was matted to her head. Her face was bloodied. Her clothing was torn. Although she tried to clasp the pieces about her, she was having difficulty remaining covered. George stared at her, knowing he should look away, but unable to do so.

  He finally shook himself free of the fascination and asked, “What happened to you? Yankees?” The mere thought of the occupation forces made him shudder and look down the lane. “Come inside,” he said, backing through the door.

  Robert bent to retrieve a saddle blanket on the ground. When he straightened up and draped it around Hannah, he grimaced in pain. “Yes. I had a set-to with one of those riders.” He shepherded Hannah through the door, paused and coughed, then examined a spot on his head with careful fingers.

  George slammed the door shut. “I hope you killed him.”

  “He’s dead,” Robert said, and spat out a gob of blood. “Can you help us get to Mrs. Bingham’s bakery?” He paused, wiped the blood from his lips, and blurted out, “I hate getting you involved in this, George, but I don’t know where else to go.” After a moment, Robert continued, “Unless you can’t see your way clear.”

  George swore to himself. Yes, helping Robert was risky. The Yankees would find their crony dead. If they discovered Robert had killed him, then learned that George helped Robert, who knew what they would do in reprisal.

  Hannah moaned in Robert’s arms.

  Robert had pulled George off the battlefield when he’d been shot in the leg and lay bleeding and stunned by the force of the blow and the pain. No matter what happened, he owed Robert a debt.

  “I’ll hitch the team to the milk wagon. It’s covered, so no one will see you.”

  “Thank you,” Robert said.

  George said nothing, but shook his head as he hurried to get the harness.

  ~~~

  A hard knock on the back door made Jessie jump. She looked through the curtain of the back window. “Oh, thank God,” she said, unlocking the door and throwing it wide. “Hurry in,” she whispered, unable to take her eyes off her bedraggled sister, who sagged between Robert Fletcher and George Heizer. “Hannah?” she asked as she locked the door behind them. But she couldn’t continue. She didn’t know what words to use in asking what had happened.

  Jessie followed the group into the kitchen. Her younger brother Luke sat at the table, fiddling with a half-eaten plate of food. George said to him, “Give Hannah your chair,” and Luke hopped up as Heppie screamed. George and Robert get Hannah into the seat, then George stepped away and went to Heppie. “Shhh,” he said, putting his hand on her shoulder.

  Jessie heard her mother gasp repeatedly behind her. Ma isn’t dealing well, she thought. George is distracting Heppie. Who’s going to tend to Hannah? She threw back her shoulders. Me, she told herself, and went to her sister’s side. Hannah’s head hung low, but her hand flew up and gripped Jessie’s forearm.

  “Steady,” Jessie said. “You’re home safe.”

  “There’s nowhere safe,” Hannah got out through lips crusted with blood. “Nowhere in Virginia.”

  “Oh, my dear daughter,” Ma said, breathing in great rasping breaths. She elbowed Jessie to one side, and hugged Hannah around her head.

  Jessie peeled Hannah’s fingers from her arm and went to find a cloth to wet. She heard her mother’s wild questions to Robert, and his soft answers.

  “She was in McNeely’s barn. I pulled the Yankee off her, and he’s still there.”

  “Still there?” Luke asked. “Didn’t you fight him?”

  Jessie came back with the wet cloth and caught Robert nodding in answer to Luke’s question. Luke’s stupid question, she thought. Anyone with eyes can see Robert’s been in a fight! She said a quiet word to her mother and got her to release Hannah. She started cleaning the blood from her sister’s face. Her eyes smarted as she struggled to hold back tears. What kind of monster had done this? Her stomach lurched as she cleaned a clot of blood off Hannah’s ear. She’d always had an aversion to blood. This isn’t so bad, she told herself, trying to contain her tendency to gag. It’s dried, not flowing.

  “How come he’s still there? Isn’t he looking for you?” Ma’s voice soared, and Jessie wanted to hush her as she would a wailing child.

  “He’s dead.”

  “Thank the Lord. Thank the Lord.” Ma stood by the stove, rocking back and forth, her voice uplifted in prayer.

  “Ma, softly now,” Jessie said. She glanced at Heppie. “Can you get some water for Mr. Fletcher to clean up?” What an impossible event, having to prompt her older sister into action. The whole world was coming apart.

  Ma finally stopped praying, came back to Jessie, and took the cloth from her. Jessie began to pace, rubbing her arm where Hannah had clasped it so hard, wondering what would happen to them, how they would go on.

  “Now everything will be fine,” Ma said.

  Robert shook his head as he took a basin of water that Heppie gave him. “I have to leave, Mrs. Bingham. As soon as someone finds that dead Yankee, the commander will investigate. Mrs. McNeely knew I was there, and with so many Yankees still around—”

  “No. We’ll be safe now that the Yankee is dead.” Ma said. “You did the right thing, Mr. Fletcher, exactly the right thing.” Her voice broke, and she blinked back tears, wiping Hannah’s face vigorously.

  “That hurts, Ma.” Hannah’s voice was feeble.

  “Ma’am, folks will remember Mrs. Fletcher was kidnapped. When Miss Jessie fetched me, the bank was full of people. They all saw us leave in a hurry.” Robert put one of his hands into the water to soak and with the other scrubbed his face with a cloth. “Folks are frightened. Someone’s going to say something.”

  “But what of Hannah?” Mrs. Bingham asked.

  Robert looked up, his face hard with offense. “I’ll not leave her behind!”

  As the buzz of the discussion continued behind her, Jessie paced between the stove and the back door, trying to wrap her mind around how different her world was from what it had been when she woke up this morning. Hannah had been carried off in broad daylight. From the looks of her, she had been terribly abused by the Yankee. Could Heppie, could Jessie herself expect any better treatment in the months to come? Jessie kneaded her hands together. What could they do to keep safe? Nothing. Hannah was right. There was no safety for women in Virginia. They were all subject to Yankee whims and carpetbagger tricks. If the Yankees didn’t leave Mount Jackson, why co
uldn’t the whole family leave instead? She stopped pacing and stood still. She held her breath. What if they left with Mr. Fletcher and Hannah? Yes. Yes! That was the answer.

  “Ma!” she interrupted. “Do you have that letter Max sent you?”

  Mrs. Bingham turned her head sharply. “What?”

  “The letter. Didn’t Max ask us to join him in”—Jessie made circles beside her head, frustrated with the mental fog the day had brought to her mind—“that town with the strange name?”

  “Oh Jessie, you don’t mean—”

  “Ma, let’s all go. George, I mean Mr. Heizer too, if he wants—if he must.”

  “Albuquerque is far away, Jessie,” her mother argued. “It’s almost to California.”

  “Isn’t that a good thing? We’ll get lost to these troublesome, hateful—” She couldn’t think of a word bad enough to describe their tormentors. Her eyes settled on Hannah, her broken countenance. “Conquerors!” she spat.

  “Miss Jessie,” George began. He stopped and pursed his lips for a moment. “I’d like that better than anything, but I can’t leave. I’ve had a letter from my brother Ned. He was in the hospital for a long time, but they finally released him. He’s not very strong, but he’s on his way home.” He glanced over at Heppie with a somber expression on his face.

  Jessie looked from George to Robert, who was bent over Hannah, patting her on the arm and murmuring soothing words to her. He straightened up when George finished speaking. One of his eyes was swollen and blackened. His lips were cracked.

  “As many of you as wants to go with us can do so, but if you’re coming, you need to pack up right away. We’re leaving tonight. Miss Jessie’s right. After all—” He looked at Hannah again, and Jessie thought she might have seen tears in his eyes before he regained control. “After all that’s happened, leaving this place, leaving all of this behind is the only way to go on.”

  Heppie gave a little shrug. “I’m goin’ with you. Hannah needs nursing, and I can do that.”

  “Heppie,” George said, disappointment strong in his voice.