For the Brave (The Gentrys of Paradise Book 2)

by Holly Bush

  “What? What’s the matter?”

  “Ben just squeezed my hand!”

  He ran into the cabin and stopped behind her. She picked up Ben’s hand and stroked his arm with her other hand. She was speaking softly and smiling.

  “I told you he was still here with you,” she whispered. “Matt’s here.”

  “Can you hear me, Ben?”

  Ben Littleship’s eyelids fluttered, and his lip trembled. Matt held his hand, now cool and bony and slack.

  “Squeeze my hand if you can, Ben,” he said.

  Annie continued to whisper nonsense, telling Ben that it had been a beautiful day and that she had made more chicken stew, while she straightened his blankets and touched his legs. Just as Matt was about to lay Ben’s hand on the mattress, he felt it. Just a quick bit of pressure but not a random act, he was certain. He pulled the rocker beside the bed and sat down while Annie spooned some water and broth into Ben’s mouth.

  “Look,” she said, “I’m not just dribbling this in his mouth. He’s swallowing it on his own.”

  Matt’s throat closed as he blinked back tears and fought an overwhelming urge to cry. He lost that battle when Annie walked away from the bed. He dropped his head in his hands and wept, not sure if he was weeping for Ben or for himself.

  She touched his shoulder and crouched down beside him. “You’re an awfully sad man. Why are you crying? Your friend squeezed your hand. He was awake there for a few moments. Aren’t you glad?”

  He wiped his tears on his shirt and swallowed the lump in his throat. “Of course I’m glad. Of course I am.”

  “But you’re still crying.”

  Maybe this was why he drank. When he was sober for any stretch of time, he felt sad, and not just unhappy as a passing notion, but rather the gut-wrenching sort of despondency that made day to day living a painful reminder of what he’d done and not done and the weight of regret on his back feel as if he carried a boulder there as big as the one that had broken Ben’s leg.

  “I’m like this when I’m sober,” he said with a harsh laugh.

  “You’re a drinker then?”

  “Didn’t have the means for it even if I’d have found it during the war. But these last four years, well, it started out as a celebration of being out of the army, and that the war was finally over, and some other things, but then it was just what I did. It kept me from feeling like I do right now.”

  “Why do you hate yourself so much?”

  Hate myself? How does she know? Matt looked at her and tried to understand why he was even talking to this woman. He’d never talked to anyone about it, and the thought of facing his mother and knowing that eventually she’d wheedle it out of him was half the reason he hadn’t wanted to go home all these years.

  “Lots of reasons. There’s plenty to hate.”

  She sat down cross-legged on the floor in front of him, near the fire. “I’ve been sad and angry, too.” She looked up at him. “I didn’t want to live with so much hate in my heart. I’ve let it go, mostly.”

  “When did you lose your father?” he asked her.

  “The spring of sixty-two,” she said and stared into the crackling fire. “He was never popular around here and was the kind of fellow who always said the wrong thing at the wrong time. But he loved us and did his best, even though I think losing Momma was more than he could bear.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “The Thurmans happened to him.”

  “The Thurmans?”

  “They own the mill where the North River runs through the other side of town. The Confederates set up camp near the mill, and the Thurmans supplied them with food for the soldiers and their animals and blankets from the houses all around Bridgewater, including this one. Daddy let it go for so long, but then he just got so mad. He went to the camp to complain that we wouldn’t have enough to get through the winter and saw them beating a colored man, Tom Henry. They shot Daddy in the street.”

  “I was a Confederate soldier,” he said.

  “I knew you were before you told me.”

  “How’s that?”

  “The winners went home to celebrate. The losers kept killing or wandering ’cause they didn’t want to go home.”

  He was staring at her in a strange way that made her uneasy. His eyes were pleading and searching hers for answers or comfort or something she didn’t understand and perhaps he didn’t, either. She could picture him shooting another man dead on the battlefield, or off for that matter, but she could also picture him mending a fence as she’d seen him do that morning. Even as broken as she sensed he was, he was still a man looking to do right after his path had strayed from the straight and narrow. He was gentle, even tender, with Ben Littleship when he fed, talked to, and teased the old man. She could see Littleship meant something to him, that people mattered to him.

  “I’ve done things, horrible things,” he said and looked down at her. “Things I can’t even bear to repeat.”

  “Is that why you don’t want to go home?”

  “I never said I don’t want to go home.” Gentry leaned forward and rested his forearms on his knees and stared straight into the fire. “My family is . . .”

  Annie watched him stare into the fire and open his mouth as if to speak several times. He was lost to her, and to the here and now, in those moments. “Tell me about your mother.”

  He turned his head sharply, bringing his face close to hers. “My mother? She’s a saint among women. Her mother and father and sisters were murdered by outlaws who then kidnapped her. She was on her way to being sold off as a slave when my father rescued her, killing all her attackers. He carried her to an abandoned cabin and let her heal. Mother’s daddy was a preacher, and he was taking his family farther west to build a church. That was back in forty-two.”

  “And then they got married?”

  “She was supposed to marry a young preacher, but he didn’t treat her right; in fact, Daddy laid him out flat. Mother told me Daddy asked her to marry him shortly after and she insisted they get married right away.”

  “She was that in love with him?”

  “Well, I think it was more that she wanted to observe the proprieties. They were working on Paradise, our family property, fixing it up, and Mother would have been alone with Daddy and not married to him.”

  “What would she have thought about you staying here?”

  He shook his head. “It would not be happening. In fact, now that I’m well, I’ll be sleeping elsewhere.”

  Annie sat down on the hearth, still warm from the cooking fire, and set her head on her knees. “Don’t be sleeping in the barn on my account.”

  “Why not?” he asked as he turned his head to look at her. “You’ll have to live here when we leave. You won’t want folks talking about you or thinking less of you.”

  “Won’t be any different than it is now.”

  “But I won’t have it be on my account.”

  Matthew had stood up from Ben’s bedside after rubbing his hand one more time. The man had drifted in and out of consciousness over the last week or so after he woke up the first time, but each day he was awake for longer periods and more lucid. Matt had gone back outside to work, digging a new fence hole, taking the better part of an hour to do it, sweat running down his face and back. There was something calming about doing the labor and living where he was. His tension and bleakness seemed less with each day and he was glad of it.

  Annie walked toward him down the slope. “Here. I thought you might need a drink.”

  “Thank you,” he said and drank every bit of water in the jar. He handed it back to her and wiped his mouth. “How far is Bridgewater from here?”

  “A little over a mile. Not far,” she said and shaded her eyes to look at him.

  “I’ve got to get myself some clothes. Much of my pack that had been strapped across Chester’s rump must have washed away that day. I don’t even have a clean shirt to change into.”

  “There’s a general store
where you can get some ready-made things.”

  “And I want to talk to someone about the closest rail line. I’ve got to decide whether I can even get Ben on a train or whether I should buy a wagon and take him home overland.”

  “How will you ever do it alone?”

  “I don’t know. I just don’t know. But I do know that I’ve got to him Ben home. He’s the one that came looking for me after Daddy died. I owe him.”

  “There’s a butcher, Dinson, near the stables in Bridgewater who usually has chickens for sale. We need some canned goods and sugar, too, if you go to the general store. Will you bring them? I have some coins in the house.”

  Matt shook his head. “We’re eating at your table. You’re caring for Ben. I have enough to pay for whatever we need.”

  Later, Matt saddled his horse and mounted him. “Are you ready to do a little reconnaissance, Chester?”

  The horse tossed his head and started walking. Matt guided him through some thick trees as Annie had told him to do and came out on a well-worn road, wide enough for two wagons. He soon found himself winding down a shallow slope with houses and cabins and some lean-tos on either side. Bridgewater proper came into view as well. He could see several church steeples and a courthouse dome above the town’s rooftops. He rode Chester at a trot down the main street until he saw a barber pole, where he dismounted and tied the horse to a post. The door stood open, and Matt went inside.

  “Need a shave and a haircut,” he said.

  “Sit in that empty chair there.” A man wearing a long apron stood straight from shaving his customer and pointed with the razor in his hand. “The nigger’ll take care of you.”

  “Yes, sir,” the old black man said as he wrapped a hot towel around Matt’s face after he’d seated himself. “We’ll take good care of you, sir.”

  Matt let his eyes close as the old man shaved him and listened to the conversation between the other barber and his customer, as they discussed their wives and relatives and other townspeople Matt had never heard of.

  “Sit up now, sir, so I can trim your hair,” his barber said.

  “Sounds like you’re from down south,” Matt said.

  “I is, sir. I is from the south.”

  “That’s enough, now, Royal,” the other barber scolded in a sharp tone. “Customers don’t need your story.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Hadlon,” the old man said and kept clipping away around Matt’s ears.

  “Is there a train depot in Bridgewater?”

  “No,” Hadlon said. “You’d have to get over to Harrisonburg for a station. But Bertram Miles over at the post office can tell you the schedules and such.”

  “Mr. Miles?” Matt asked as he leaned against a wooden counter, rubbed smooth on the rounded end. “Are you Mr. Miles?”

  A short man, wearing a long white apron, a dark vest, and string tie, turned, a large basket in front of him. “I’m Miles. What can I do for you?”

  “Hadlon from the barber shop told me that you know the schedules for the train that comes into Harrisonburg.”

  “I do.”

  “I’ve got a sick friend that I’m trying to get home to Winchester. I was hoping you’d be able to help me.”

  “You the fellow living over at the Campbells’?”

  “I am.” Matt was going to leave it at that but then thought maybe he’d like to hear what the townsfolk thought of Annie. Maybe their view of her wasn’t as poisoned as she’d led him to believe.

  “Miss Campbell saved my life and my friend’s, too, and allowed us time to recuperate. My friend is still bedridden and it will be difficult for him to travel, but we’ve imposed on her generosity far too long.”

  “Generosity? The Campbells? You don’t know them very well, do you?”

  Matt leaned over the counter. “Miss Campbell has been extraordinarily kind to two strangers. I take offense at your inference.”

  “You go right on and be offended,” Miles said as he picked up a stack of envelopes and pulled his glasses from the top of his head down onto his nose to read them. “She’s nothing but a country tramp anyway.”

  Matt felt the typical bubble of anger that started in his stomach, making it churn, and headed to his neck and face, coloring him red and making him want to reach across the counter and pick up the postmaster by his shirt and shake him hard. But what had anger done for him so far? Wasn’t it his fury that led to his drinking, which led to shame and more disappointment and anger circling around again until he met a whiskey bottle that could help him forget? And hadn’t he just come very close to losing his life? Had he learned anything? Could that cold, rushing water have given him a second chance? After all, why did he care what this man thought about anything? He took a deep breath.

  “Mr. Miles. I need help transporting my friend. Do you have a written schedule for the Harrisonburg train?”

  Miles pointed to a mass of loose papers at the end of the counter. Matt sorted through wanted posters and forgotten receipts until he found an advertisement for the Harrisonburg Station. He folded it, put it in his pocket, and walked out the door.

  The general store carried all the clothing he needed, although none of it was well made, but there was no tailor in town so he had to satisfy himself with what was ready-made. He chose heavy cotton pants and lightweight shirts, several of each, jarred peaches, ten pounds of sugar, coffee, and lard. He went to the stables and stowed all of his purchases other than a new shirt and pants in Chester’s saddlebags.

  Matt headed for the small building beside the stables. A bell tinkled as he opened the door.

  “Help you?”

  “Yes. I need a chicken or two. Do you have any freshly dressed that I can stop back for in an hour?”

  “I do,” a young man said from behind the counter. “How many did you say?”

  Matt turned his head when he heard the sound of an ax hitting wood. He glanced out an open door behind the counter and saw an older man slaughtering chickens and heard the caterwauling of birds in the yard. “Just one for now. I’m not far from here out at the Campbell place.”

  The man behind the counter shook his head and eyed Matt. “Maybe don’t be reminding folks about the Campbells. She’s had enough troubles as is. Why are you there anyway?”

  “My friend and I were heading to Winchester and came down a trail near her property a month ago or so. We got caught in a mudslide. Miss Campbell saved our lives.”

  “So, it’s not a rumor.”

  “No, it’s no rumor, but why do folks even care? It appears that Miss Campbell minds her business and takes of herself.”

  “True or not, she’s got enemies in this town.”

  Matt shook his head. “Seems to me she’s a poor farmer just eking out a living and minding her own business, but kind enough to share what little she had with two strangers.”

  The butcher looked up quickly when the bell tinkled again. “Ah. Mr. Thurman. I’ve got your order all ready. Step aside and let Mr. Thurman get to the counter, sir.”

  Matt took a long look at Thurman. This was the man who owned the mill and supplied the Confederacy. And shot her father. He guessed Thurman was sixty years old or so. He was a big man, an inch more than Matt’s six foot, and probably still strong although getting fleshy with age. His hair was dark and stringy and his lips red and large, in contrast to his very small eyes, now concentrating on Matt.

  “What are you looking at, boy?” he growled.

  “He’s just leaving Mr. Thurman,” the butcher said.

  Matt turned to the counter. “Be back in an hour.”

  He walked out the door feeling eyes on his back, and he didn’t think it was just the butcher staring him out the door. He stopped outside near a window and looked in. Thurman was looking at him and he stared back, wondering if this was a scab that ought to be picked or left to heal. Matt stared for a few long moments and continued on until he was on the main street. He stopped a fellow and asked if there was a bathhouse in town and was directed to a hotel acro
ss the street that had bathing rooms on the first floor.

  He sank down in the hot water, wetting his hair, soaping it and his whole body. He relaxed back against the copper tub and let the heat work his muscles. A young girl came into his room carrying buckets.

  “More hot water?” she asked.

  “Dump it in And take those clothes there to the burn pile.”

  The girl looked at the clothes, picked them up, and turned back to him, eyes downcast. “Mister? The burn pile? You sure, sir?”

  “You want them? Take them.”

  She nodded. “Thank you, sir. I’ve got a brother that sure could use them.”

  “Both pants pockets have holes, and there’s a tear in the knee that needs fixing.”

  “Ma’s real handy with a needle. Made all our clothes. She’ll sew ’em up.”

  “She a seamstress, huh? I could use some pants and shirts made to fit me right. Does she have a shop?” He unwrapped the cigar he’d bought at the general store. He looked up when he didn’t hear a reply and saw the back of the girl hurrying out the door.

  He stayed in the tub, chewing on his cigar and thinking, until the water cooled. He toweled off, dressed in his new clothes, and looked in the mirror hanging near the door. His eyes looked clearer than they’d been in years. He’d lost the paunch that often marked drunks, which he’d sworn to himself that he’d never acquire but had.

  “What’s the girl’s name that carried in the water?” he asked the clerk at the hotel counter as he paid for his bath. “She said her mother was good with a needle, and I need some clothes made up.”

  “Here’s your change, sir,” the clerk said and handed him some coins as he busied himself with an open ledger.

  Matt waited until the clerk looked up from the account book. “Do you know anything about this seamstress? The girl’s mother?”

  The clerk shook his head. “Leave it be, mister.”

  “Leave what be? I asked about a seamstress.”

  The clerk leaned over the counter. “Leave it alone, I said. That girl needs her job,” he whispered harshly.

  “I don’t know who you think I—”