by Janie DeVos
“I don’t know what to do without you, Sam. I just don’t know.”
“You will, Willa. It’ll come to you. You’ll know. Stay at the cabin, like I told you. The way will be made clear to you. Don’t do nothin’ but rest and take care of yourself and the baby until you know what to do and where to go, if you’re thinkin’ you have to go somewhere else. Promise me,” he urged.
“I promise, Sam. I’ll stay for a little while anyway. Until I know . . .” Willa acquiesced.
“Good.” He seemed to exhale as he said it, as though he’d been holding his breath until she agreed to stay, and it was a great relief when she finally had. “And another thing, Willa, I don’t want you to be here in the mornin’. You hear me! I want you gone tonight. Hurry up and leave now, and you’ll get home not too long after dark. I don’t want you here when they . . . I don’t want you seein’ me that a-way. Do you understand?” Finally, Sam seemed on the verge of tears.
“All right, Sam. I’ll do whatever you want me to do. I want to be here for you, Sam, so you don’t have to go through this alone. But if supporting you means not being here, then I’ll do that, too.”
“Go now, darlin’. Head on home. And, Willa, girl, I love you. And I will into the next life.” Without thinking, he put his hand back through the cell bars, and Willa, not caring if the deputy beat her hand or not, reached back, taking the hand of the man she’d loved and lost so quickly. How unfair life was, she thought.
“I love you, too. Be there for me when I cross over some day, Sam. I’ll be looking for you, before looking for God, Jesus, or anyone else! I love you, too,” she reaffirmed once more, before she began to cry again.
“Go on, now,” Sam said, releasing her hand and turning back toward the window where he’d been watching the freedom of the hawk’s flight. “I want to watch the end of the day.” And that was the last Willa heard Sam say.
“Good bye, Sam,” she whimpered. Then, without giving the deputy the satisfaction of ushering her out, she fled down the stairs and out of the building.
CHAPTER 25
The Means to a Beginning
Willa rode the mule hard down the main street and out of town. And she never looked back. There was nothing to look back for unless she wanted to see the completed gallows throwing its long shadow in the late afternoon sun, eerily stretching toward the jail as if impatiently attempting to reach its waiting victim. The thought made her whip the mule into an even harder run. Willa reached back and removed the comb from her hair. It was one her grandmother had given to her on her eleventh birthday, and she’d had it in her hair the night she’d run away from Malcolm. She wore it today, wanting to look nice for Sam, but now she needed to let her hair fly free. She needed to fly free and away from this God-forsaken place.
As quickly as she let her thick black hair fall loose, it was picked up by the wind and blew out behind her like long, wicked fingers. Finally, after rounding the bend so that Bolsey was out of sight, Willa slowed the heaving mule to a trot and guided it over to the river off to their right. Sliding off of the sweating beast, Willa led it down the bank and let it quench its thirst. She stroked it as it did, and whispered an apology for riding it like hell’s demon. Leaning against its dark skin, she felt the sheen of hot moisture covering the animal but she didn’t care, she needed the contact of another living thing, so she laid her head against its still heaving shoulder as it drank. And while it did, Willa sobbed. She cried for all she’d lost, and for those things she had thought she’d have but never would. And she cried for the bleak-seeming future awaiting the fragile life she carried. Finally, exhausted and spent, Willa knelt down at the river’s edge, where she washed her face and drank deeply. Then glancing toward the west and seeing that the sun was going down quickly, she led the mule back up onto the road and continued the lonely journey home.
Willa reached Sam’s cabin about an hour after nightfall. She felt more exhausted than she’d ever felt in her life. She lit one of the oil lamps and set it on the kitchen table, then went into Sam’s room. Willa looked around, needing to feel his presence, his essence, and slowly touched some of his things. First, she went to his flannel shirt, which she removed from the peg it hung from on the wall. She held it close to her body, inhaling his familiar masculine scent as she did so. Next, she lifted the lid on a large hickory box he’d made, which held, among other things, his father’s pocket watch, his mother’s wedding ring, and a small gold cross (which Willa assumed was his mother’s, too). She also found a small tintype of a very young Sam, perhaps nine years old, standing between a handsome couple who were most likely his mother and father.
Lowering the lid, Willa spotted Sam’s heavy wool work jacket hanging across the back of a chair in the corner of his room. The cuff’s hem had come loose on the left sleeve, she noticed, lifting it to inspect it. Well, no need to fix it for him now, she thought, and with that sharp reminder, she dropped the sleeve and sank down on his bed, still holding his flannel shirt against her. Willa lay back, only intending to rest for a few minutes before forcing herself to eat something, but she fell into an exhausted sleep.
Sometime during the middle of the night Willa was startled awake by the baby’s kicking. “I know, little one, you’re hungry,” she murmured and forced herself up out of bed. Walking out into the kitchen, she watched the play of shadows move across the walls and ceilings from the breeze that stirred the lamp’s dwindling flame. She’d only left the window cracked but the night was cold. Winter was rapidly approaching, although the weather had been unusually warm, even through the afternoon of the day before.
Yes, the day before, Willa thought. Sam dies today. Oh, God!
Willa closed the kitchen window, then reached up to pull together the red plaid curtains, and as she did she glanced outside and saw the season’s first snowflakes floating down in the ghostly glow of a muted moon. They came down lightly, as if in no hurry, but Willa realized that she must hurry if she were to leave the area before the storms paralyzed all travel. The time of snow was upon her, and should she decide to go somewhere north from here, the going could be treacherous. But what would she be running from now? Her situation had changed with Malcolm’s death. How ironic life was, Willa thought. Her life-threatening situation had been solved by Sam, who would now die to pay for removing that threat from her life. Willa turned to the woodstove and got it lit. She needed to heat the cabin, as well as her small supper. Something warm in her stomach might help her feel a little better.
She began warming some coffee still left in the pot and placed two biscuits in the oven. Then, returning to the bedroom, she went to the washstand and poured some ice-cold water into the washbowl and began rinsing away some of the road’s dust and grime from her face and hands. The water was shockingly cold. Willa reached for the towel hanging from the washstand, and glanced at the floor through the veil of droplets cascading down her face. Sam’s satchel! Under the floorboards, she suddenly remembered. If ever there was a time to need a Bible, it was now. However, she was so mad at God that she wasn’t sure if she would feel any relief from reading the old and familiar passages. But Sam’s letter was in there, too. Grabbing a butter knife and the oil lamp, Willa counted three floorboards from the foot of the bed, then knelt down and began prying up the wood. After a minute the board popped up, and moving it to the side, Willa reached into the gap and felt around on the dirt floor below. Suddenly, her hand brushed up against leather. Grasping it, she lifted the heavy bag out. Carrying both the lamp and satchel, she moved back into the kitchen and placed them on the table. Then grabbing a china cup from the cupboard, Willa poured the remains of the thick, black coffee and sat down to read the letter and perhaps a verse or two from the Book of Psalms.
Willa inspected the lovely tool work on the beautiful old bag, wiping away some of the dirt clinging to it as she did. Age and oil had turned the leather a deep walnut brown. Not including its long shoulder strap, the bag measured about two feet by two feet, and the initials A.H. were hand-
tooled into the hide on the flap. Willa knew that Sam’s grandfather, who’d also been a trapper and miner, had been named Augustus Harold. She whispered his name out loud. It made him more real to her, almost brought him into the room as company. She ran her hand over the beautifully carved letters which somehow made her feel closer to Sam, and to his family. Then she brought her face down and smelled the dark leather. It was bitter from the oil that had been rubbed into it to keep the hide soft and pliable.
Finally, Willa opened the flap and reached inside, but her hand did not meet the hard leather binding of a book as she’d expected, but loose papers instead. Mystified, Willa turned the bag upside-down, and shook the contents out on the kitchen table. There, piled in a heap, were dollar bills, many dollar bills, most of which were tens and twenties, with a few fifties mixed in. Poking out from beneath some of them was the corner of a folded white piece of paper. Pulling it out, Willa saw her name written in Sam’s now-familiar handwriting. She opened the letter and began to read.
My dearest Willa,
By now I am either in prison or dead. I’m sorry it turned out the way it did. I don’t know of no other way it could have though. Take this money—there’s over $6,800.00 here—and make a good life for yourself. It’s all I got, but it’ll get you started here or wherever you choose to be. I love you, Willa, and I’d have done anything to be there with you and the baby. But what’s done is done, and it had to be that way, I guess. I pray God you’ll be happy and the baby will grow up to be strong and beautiful like its mama—if it’s a girl—or strong and kind if it’s a boy. With you raising it, it’s got a real good chance at being someone special.
Your Sam.
Willa clutched the letter to her breast and stared at the money. She knew Sam had lived simply. This cabin was the one his parents had built soon after they’d married, the place where they had raised him. And Sam remained in it even after influenza had killed both his mother and father. He hunted or grew most everything he ate, and his clothing was simple and basic. No, Sam had not squandered the money that he’d earned from trapping and mining, and perhaps some of it had been gifted to him upon his parents’ deaths. He’d been putting it away, Willa guessed, until the right woman came along and he could start a family. Overwhelming sadness weighed her down once more, and she laid her head on the table. “Thank you, Sam,” she whispered. “Thank you, dear one. Thank you! But what now? Where do I go and what do I do?”
The wind outside had risen. She needed some of that freshness, she thought. Cold or not, she needed to feel it. Willa felt as though she’d been holding her breath for over a week and she needed to exhale as intensely as the wind was doing. So she went outside, and stood in the front yard, feeling it, listening to it. It was colder than she’d thought it would be, and it bit into her. It’s not yet December and it cuts like a knife, she thought. Suddenly, something familiar echoed down inside of her. What is it, Willa asked herself. What is familiar? What am I trying to remember? And then it hit her. It was so clear and so perfect and so right! It was the place she needed to go. A place that was close to her parents, a place she loved but had not seen for so long because Malcolm had isolated her from them, from everyone. Yet it was a place that was far enough from them that no one would know her, nor have heard through the town’s gossip the shame that she’d brought upon her kin when her husband was killed at the hands of the man she’d been living with. A kind and gentle man, who saved my life—twice! And provided shelter and safety for me, as well as a future for my child. Yes, that was the answer! That was the place to go! Tomorrow morning, she would pack her few things and leave this place, a place that would remind her each and every day of Sam, and the pain of losing him.
But first, she would go back into the town of Bolsey River one last time. She needed a wagon, for she couldn’t keep riding the mule. It was too dangerous for the baby. She needed to visit Sam’s grave. She owed him that much. She had promised she wouldn’t be there for the execution, but she’d said nothing about going back when it was over. After saying a final goodbye, she and her baby would head north and then west; toward newfound hope and new beginnings. To a new life in Howling Cut, North Carolina.
CHAPTER 26
A Wayward Son
Willa rode into town mid-morning. She had sat at the kitchen table after getting very little sleep, and finished the last of a pot of coffee as she listened for the old mantle clock to gong eight times. When that finally happened, Willa donned her cape, mounted the mule and rode back into Bolsey for the last time.
She’d spent much of the rest of the night and the first part of the morning packing the little she had, and going through a few of Sam’s personal possessions. She’d felt funny doing so, but she wanted something of his—apart from the money—to take with her. She selected three things: A small book of poetry by Emerson, which Sam had, on occasion, read to her and the small gold cross and old tintype of Sam and his parents from the hickory box. She’d considered taking the box itself, but the size of it made it cumbersome and heavy, so regretfully, she left it behind.
All Willa owned was packed away in a large carpetbag she’d found in the cabin’s only closet. The carpet it’d been sewn from was of a blue and red paisley print, with gold piping along the edges. She wondered if the rug had been in Sam’s cabin at one time. No matter, she was glad to have it now for she needed an easy and practical way to carry her belongings. She wished the colors were more subdued, however, for she didn’t want to bring any attention to the bag: Sam’s money was hidden in its lining. Using a sharp knife, she’d cut a slit in the thin material early that morning, and had hidden most of it inside. Then she’d sewn it up, using extra care to mend it along the same seam she’d ripped open so the stitches were barely noticeable. Once she had seen Sam’s resting place, she’d take the poor old mule to the livery stable and see about getting a wagon for her trip to Howling Cut. She just hoped Sam’s confiscated wagon wouldn’t be the one offered for she was afraid feathers would fly. It would already be hers if Sam had had any say in the matter. On the other hand, she’d be happy to have it back—as she would anything of Sam’s—so she’d probably just pay the asking price and be done with it.
She rounded the bend and the town came into view. She immediately looked over at the jailhouse and saw no one standing anywhere near the gallows, which meant that the business of killing Sam was over and done with, and the town’s folk had returned to their normal activities. She was sickened by the lonely sight of the scaffolding, but also relieved that she hadn’t come upon the sight of a man’s—her man’s—lifeless body, swaying in the cold breeze while birds picked and poked their way through to his bones. Just the thought of it made her nauseous, and she forced herself to breathe deeply and move her thoughts on to the matters at hand. She knew that the cemetery for those executed, as well as the town’s paupers, was just behind the jailhouse, so pulling the reins in that direction, she urged the tired mule toward it. When she rounded the side of the building, the neglected and overgrown cemetery spread out before her.
Headstones were askew or had completely fallen over as the growth of tree roots, extreme weather, age, and vandals had left their destruction. Each stone was actually a small white or gray slate, with the deceased’s first initial and last name, as well as the date of his or her death, chiseled into it. Willa realized that Sam would not have a marker at this early date so she immediately scanned the area for a fresh grave. And there it was, just off to her left in a small corner of the cemetery.
Whimpering like a small, sad child, Willa dismounted from the mule and, taking the carpetbag with her, hurried over to the plot. She knelt down at what she guessed was the foot of it, though she really couldn’t be sure, and began to weep quietly. After several minutes, Willa wiped her eyes and began speaking to the gentle man who lay in quiet slumber beneath the cold, brown earth. She told him she’d found the money, thanked him for it, then told him where she was going. She told him she loved him and always would, and
that his dying for her would not be in vain. She swore it to God, and every one of His heavenly angels. She promised to raise the child to know about him and his selfless love, and the gifts that he’d given to them both and paid dearly for. And she promised to try to live a life of happiness and to keep him close to her heart always. She’d just pushed herself up to leave when she heard a somewhat familiar voice behind her say hello. Turning, she saw that it was the waiter from the hotel restaurant.
“Oh, uh, hello,” Willa self-consciously answered, and immediately began brushing the mud and dirt off her cape.
“Hello, miss,” said the young waiter again. “I’m sorry to interrupt your . . . well, uh . . . interrupt you, but are you all right?” he timidly inquired.
“Yes, thank you, Mr . . . Mr.? I’m sorry, I don’t know your name,” Willa said rather distractedly, as she finished brushing at her soiled clothing.
“It’s Henry Camp, miss, of the Camps just to the south of here in Maytree. Do you know ’em?” he asked.
“No, I’m sorry, I don’t.” Willa shook her head. “I’m really not from here, but I . . . well . . . just stopped by to see a friend,” she explained, with a sad half smile.
“A friend? Your friend is buried in here?” he asked, sounding surprised that this fine-looking woman cared deeply for someone who was buried in a criminal’s or pauper’s grave.
Willa nodded and looked down at the fresh grave. “What time was the hanging this morning?” she quietly asked.
“Ended up there wasn’t no hangin’.” He actually sounded a little disappointed. “I was deliverin’ the mornin’s milk to folks around town—that’s my other job, workin’ for Tiller’s Dairy—and I’d hurried to be done in time to see the hang . . .” He trailed off, embarrassed, appearing to realize that it sounded as though he’d looked forward to the event; the event which was to end the life of someone who mattered very much to this young woman.