by Ward, Marsha
She looked at Hannah, then back to George. “Hannah needs me more,” she said, her voice cracking.
Jessie knew that was not an easy thing for her sister to say. Heppie whispered to her each night before they fell asleep about her growing affection for George Heizer. Leaving him behind was no trifling act on Heppie’s part. But what else could they do?
“Ma,” Jessie said. “I’m goin’ too. There’s been nothing here for me since …” She stopped herself, unwilling to say it out loud. The wound of James Owen’s leaving her to go west with his family was still raw, even if it had been almost a year ago. “What about you and Luke?”
Ma clasped her hands together. Jessie saw her knuckles turn white with the pressure. Her shoulders hunched together. At last she sighed and let them relax. “Lucas, cut your pa’s picture from the frame. We’re going to New Mexico.”
~~~
Heppie sat with George on the floor of the darkened bakery, her knees drawn up to her chin. The others were still packing, but he had insisted they take a little break and talk one more time.
George lifted her hand and stroked it. “Stay here with me, Heppie,” he whispered. “We’ll get married and you can help me run the farm. I’ll keep you safe from the Yankees.”
Tears ran down Heppie’s cheeks as she blinked her eyes. What should she do? Hannah needed her so desperately. Besides, she was Hannah’s twin. Hannah’s marriage had caused the greatest parting they’d ever experienced, but they still managed to see each other almost every day. George was complicating her life with his plea. If she married him and stayed here, she’d never see Hannah or her family again.
“My family needs me. I want to be with them. They love me.” She swiped at the tears.
“I love you, Heppie. I’ve loved you for years.”
She shook her head and took her hand away from George’s fingers. “You never said that before. You talked of us marrying but never declared yourself to love me. Maybe that’s why I didn’t give you an answer.” Her words trailed off into the void between them.
George hung his head. “That was wrong of me. I meant not to pressure you.” He looked up at her, his blue eyes pleading. “Heppie, don’t go off and leave me alone.”
“You won’t be alone for long. You said your brother’s comin’ home. You said that’s why you can’t leave.” Her voice sounded flat, expressionless, devoid of hope.
“Heppie, please. He’s still not recovered. How can I up and take off when he expects me to welcome him home? And the cows. I wouldn’t do them a service to leave ‘em without someone to take care of them.”
Heppie waited for a long time before she spoke in a terse voice. “I need to be with my family. You need to take care of your brother and your cows. I reckon that puts us on different paths, Mr. Heizer.”
“Heppie, don’t say that.”
She struggled to her feet, and he also arose. “Good-bye, George,” she managed to say, and walked back into the kitchen.
Chapter 4
George headed back to the farm in the milk wagon. He’d had a busy morning making deliveries, just barely busy enough to keep him from thinking too much about Heppie. She and her family had been gone for several days, and every single one of those days had been an agony of despair to him. He should have told her a long time ago that he loved her. He should have insisted that he needed her more than her sister did. He should have, he should have, he should have.
Hoofbeats drummed on the road behind him. His baleful thoughts faded into the protective recesses of his mind as he wondered who was coming down the Valley Pike in such a hurry. Whoever they were, they were riding hard and quick, not sparing their horses. He craned his neck to see around the box of the milk wagon, and spotted three men, lashing their mounts unmercifully.
I’d best get out of their way, he thought, and guided the team to the side of the road and halted them. He waited for the riders to pass by, but instead, he heard rough voices yelling as they drew near.
“It’s him,” one said. “Catch up that team.”
A man rode up and grabbed hold of the harness. Another, whose dirty blond hair flew around his face, circled his mount in front of the team, blocking their way. The third, wearing a full black beard that covered the collar front of his Union uniform blouse, reined to a stop beside the seat and hit George in the face with his fist. “Where are they, rebel scum?”
George recoiled from the blow, almost toppling off the other side of the seat. “Who?” he grunted, trying to catch his breath.
The black-bearded man swore. “You know who. That bastard banker, that’s who, and his whore of a wife.” The man struck George again, then hauled him off the seat and dropped him in the road. He dismounted and kicked George, who curled into a ball to absorb the blow.
By this time, all three men were off their horses. The one with the blond hair unhooked the team from the wagon, and gave the horses a swat on their rumps so they ran off, dragging the lines behind them.
“Don’t kill him, Bull,” said the man who had grabbed the team. “He knows where they are.”
“Where did they go, you miserable rebel dog? Tell me now.” Bull kicked George again, reached down, and pulled him to his feet.
“Where’s that bakery lady at?” asked the man with the blond hair. “Did they all go off together?” He punched George over the kidney, and he reeled across the roadbed, moaning with the pain that radiated throughout his body.
“Cal, let me beat him some,” whined the third man to the blond.
“No, you grab him and hold him, Foster,” said Bull. Foster shrugged, then caught George by the arms. He wrestled him back to Bull, who hit George in the jaw, muttering “Where is Fletcher? We know he killed Red.” His black beard twitched as he clouted George again.
“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” George mumbled through the pain, just before Cal hit him in the eye.
“We know different,” said Bull. “People saw you making a late delivery to the bakery. We figure it wasn’t milk.”
“Bull’s right, Heizer,” said Foster, twisting George’s arms. “You helped him get away.”
“We want to know where they went,” Cal said, and followed his words with a punch to George’s belly.
George yelled, “I don’t know where they are,” and tried to keep himself upright, tried to raise a foot to kick one of his tormenters. He failed, as another fist plowed into his face. The blows came without much talk from the riders. His mind focused on trying to blank out the pain. At last it overwhelmed him, and he wished for death before he betrayed his friend … and Heppie. These men would treat her as their crony had treated Robert’s wife.
Bull planted another blow on George’s other kidney, and he sagged in Foster’s grip. “Where did they go?” the lout asked again.
“I don’t know,” he shouted with the last of his strength. “I don’t know.” He heard sobs and, after a few more punches landed, realized they were his own. His lips were swollen from the blows that had split them. He could barely breathe, but he sucked in air and forced out a word. “Richmond.”
“Ha,” Cal said, with another jab. “If you’re lying, we’ll come kill you.” He turned away, then back again, “We’re done, Foster. Let him loose.”
Foster released his grasp, and George staggered forward and collapsed in the dust. He dimly heard the creak of leather when the men climbed into their saddles. The sound of hoofbeats on the hard pike receded as they rode back the way they’d come.
He didn’t know how long he lay there before he mastered the pain enough to get to his hands and knees. His face throbbed. His ribs ached where he’d been kicked. His kidneys burned. A question flitted through his mind. Would he pee blood? Anger roiled into his body, and it gave him the strength to get one foot flat on the road. He couldn’t get the other under him, and he fell back onto his knees, feeble from the pain.
At least I bought Heppie a few more days, he thought. They’ll look in the wrong direction.
/> He crawled to the side of the road, wondering if he had the strength to get home. Probably not, but he’d be damned if he didn’t try. The cows would need milking by the time he could get there. The infernal cows he’d chosen over Heppie. No, it wasn’t only the cows. Ned was coming home. Ned, who would need tending to finish healing up. Ned, who had gone North at the beginning of the war. Ned, the Yankee officer.
~~~
“Hannah love, you have to eat,” Robert said, holding a spoonful of gruel to his wife’s lips.
Hannah moaned, closed her eyes, then opened them. “I’ll just lose it again,” she whispered.
“Heppie tells me you haven’t eaten much of anything for three days.” Robert found Hannah’s mouth by the light of the campfire and tried to put the spoon inside her lips.
She shook her head. “Don’t make me.”
“You’re so weak, darlin’. You won’t mend if you don’t eat something.”
Hannah gave a tiny negative shake of her head. “Who cares if I mend? I don’t. God don’t. If He cared I wouldn’t have … That man … I killed him, Robert.”
Robert swallowed down the bitter gall that rose in his throat as his mind flashed over that horrible day. He put down the bowl and started to cup his hands around Hannah’s face, but she turned away. He looked at his scabbed-over knuckles and dropped them to his sides. When he tried to speak, his voice seemed to choke on a lump in his throat, but he pushed the words through, noting how hoarse they sounded in his ears. “He deserved to die,” he said. “If God was there, He had you pick up the fork. You were defending me.”
“I should be sorry I killed him.” Hannah was sobbing, gulping for breath. “I’m not. It’s all mixed up. He hurt me so much!”
Robert reached out to gather Hannah into his arms, but she froze with her arms crossed over her chest. Again, he dropped his hands, wondering how long she would lock him out, rejecting his consolation. She didn’t want his comfort.
No, she doesn’t want your touch, he thought. You’re a man. Her mind was hurt as badly as her body, and a man did that to her. His stomach churned. How long will it take for Hannah’s mind to heal? He took a deep breath, remembering his wedding vows. In sickness or in health. He let out a long, shuddering sigh. However long it is, however long it takes, I’ve got to stand alongside her, ready to help her fight the trouble in her mind.
~~~
Hannah choked back her sobs as Robert walked away, banging one fist into the other. She longed with all her heart to feel his arms around her, but she couldn’t bear that. Not now. The violation of her body had damaged her spirit and her mind, as well. Perhaps that was the worst part. She couldn’t abide the comfort that she needed the most.
She flinched, gagging, and turned on her side to locate the basin Heppie had placed there. Hannah brought it to her mouth, but her heaving stomach was empty. She had nothing to throw up, not even bile.
Finished, Hannah dropped the basin. Retching had left her too weak to hold it. Am I dying? Has that wicked man mortally wounded me? Her eyes leaked tears that she had no strength to wipe away. I don’t want to leave Robert alone. What will he do without me? Who will take care of him? No one can cherish him as I do.
As she lay there, exhausted and feeble, a seed of determination grew in her heart. I won’t let that evil Yankee kill me, she thought. I must hold on for Robert’s sake. With a jolt, she realized she had made similar oaths on the day she had been attacked. I had the strength at that time. I’ll find it again.
She rolled onto her back and slid her hand toward the bowl with the gruel Robert had tried to feed her. She knew if she tried to raise it, she would spill the contents, so she located the spoon, filled it, and lifted it toward her mouth. The nearer the spoon came, the more she feared she would drop it, but when she did, most of the gruel ended up in her open mouth.
She closed it, holding the cold, mushy liquid on her tongue until she dared to swallow. Her hand fell to her side as her body shook from the effort she had made. The spoon slid down her cheek to her bosom. She ignored it and the gobs of gruel on her face and in her hair. They didn’t matter. Someone would come back soon, and they would clean her up. All that mattered was that she had eaten a bite of food. She was not going to die.
~~~
George made it to the narrow road leading to the farmhouse after dark had fallen. He’d rolled into the ditch beside the Pike every time someone came along. Crawling up the lane on bleeding hands and elbows, and knees that poked through his trousers, he saw lamplight streaming through a crack in the shutters covering the kitchen window.
He stopped. What on earth? He blinked, not trusting the sight of his injured eyes. Yes, that was light, not an illusion. Someone was in the house. Who is it? The Yankees didn’t come back down here by the pike.
There was no ditch to roll into for protection. Only trees lined the path. He hunkered down to the ground, not knowing what else to do to. He waited for an eternity.
At length, a hunched figure carrying a lantern stepped out the side door and limped toward the barn. He stopped once, turned toward the lane, and held the light high. Then he continued on his original path, whistling a few bars of a tune.
Ned!
If the fleeting look at the man’s face hadn’t been enough for George, the tune was confirmation. His brother had made up that melody years ago when they were boys playing games in the dusk. Ned is home.
George pursed his swollen lips, but couldn’t manage a whistle. He tried again, but it was useless. He’d have to cry out, if he had enough strength. He tried breathing deeply, and pain penalized his efforts. Busted ribs.
“Ned,” he exhaled, and thought he saw his brother pause. “Ned,” he tried again, with a little more force.
This time Ned turned around and held up the light again. “Who’s there?” he asked, his other arm sliding down to a holstered weapon.
“George. Come get me,” he whispered, rising to his hands and knees.
“Who’s out there?” Ned asked again, setting down the lantern and drawing his pistol. George heard the click of the hammer being pulled back.
Weakness overwhelmed George, and a sob came out of his throat. “Help … me,” he tried again. Unable to look up, he heard Ned’s hesitant footfalls as he approached. They stopped a fair distance away.
“Friend or foe?” Ned challenged.
“Friend,” he moaned, trying to raise his face out of the dust.
Footsteps. Ned had gained courage. George sensed, rather than saw, a circle of light through his closed eyelids. Ned must be carrying the lantern. Something settled into the dust nearby. Maybe the lantern. A hand turned him over. He heard the creak of the lantern’s handle and the light rose above him.
“George!” Ned exclaimed, and swore. “What happened?” George heard him ease down the hammer on his pistol and holster it.
“Riders,” he said, trying to open his eyes. “The occupiers.” He coughed, and his ribs flamed with pain.
“Why?”
George shook his head a fraction. This was his brother, but the war might have changed him into someone he couldn’t trust. “Can you … get me … to the house?” he gasped.
“I can try.” Ned blew out the lantern and set it down. “No point in borrowing trouble,” he said, and knelt on one knee, grunting as he got his hands under George’s shoulders. “Hold on, brother. This is going to hurt.”
“Me, or you?” George could see the shape above him dimly outlined against the dark.
“Ha!” Ned barked a laugh. “Both of us, I reckon.” He began to haul George slowly toward the house, stopping every few paces to catch his breath.
When he reached the stoop at the house, Ned stopped and stood up. He swiveled his neck and shook his arms, then opened the door and bent to help George to his feet. “Come on up. Lean on me.”
George shook his head and said, “I’ll have to crawl. I don’t reckon I can stay on my feet, even with help. Go fetch the lantern, but hold off lightin’ it u
ntil you’re inside.”
Ned went back down the lane to get the lamp, and George got into the house and was working at getting onto a chair in the kitchen when his brother returned. Ned put the lantern on the table, tugged George onto the chair, and lit the lamp. He said, “You weren’t around when I got here and I was some worried. Then the team came trottin’ into the yard by itself, and I worried a lot more.” He positioned the lantern on a hook hanging from the ceiling of the kitchen and began to examine George’s wounds. “I put up the horses, but was tryin’ to decide which way I should go to look for you when the cows started making a fuss to be milked.”
George sighed. “You chose right.” He gasped in pain as Ned’s fingers probed his side.
“These ribs is busted, brother.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” George said, his breath rasping.
Ned frowned. “Here’s the news from town. I reported to the commander of the occupiers, as you call them, before I came here. There’s a big fuss about a cavalryman who got killed a few days back. Looked like he was in a fight. He died quick from a pitchfork in his back.” He eyed George. “They’re searching for his murderer.”
George said nothing. He fingered his swollen eye.
“I reckon the war is past business. I’m home now. You’re my brother. Those are the two things that matter to me.” He found a rag and water, and began to clean George’s face. “Why’d they beat you up?”
George swallowed and breathed through his mouth while Ned worked on his nose. Could he trust Ned? Tell him why he’d been beaten? No. It was too early to settle on where his loyalties lay. He had to let Heppie and the Bingham family get clear out of the South.
“They must have had a reason.”
George groaned as Ned found a tender spot—split skin over his cheekbone. “Do they need one?”
Ned grimaced. “It’s a wonder you’re alive. Whatever their reckoning, they didn’t care if they killed you or not.”
“No. I don’t guess they did.”
Ned suddenly sat down.