by Megan Besing
Luke looked down at the baby, whose eyelids drifted closed. Long lashes rested on plump cheeks. “Preston Mathews.” Luke glanced over to Phoebe and found tears glistening in her eyes.
They stayed an hour or so, chatting with the Mathews and enjoying the beautiful riverside setting. When it came time to leave, Phoebe, who cradled Baby Preston in her arms, placed a tender kiss on his cheek before handing him to Julia. Luke watched, mesmerized. A deep longing to see her with a child of their own began to form in his heart. A place he’d thought long dead, destroyed by the things he’d seen and done during the war.
Hope sprang anew, as though little Preston’s birth somehow blotted out the ugliness of the past and offered something fresh and unsullied by bloodshed. Hope that the unseen wounds inside him would heal. Hope that his and Phoebe’s future held the promise of many children and many years of happiness.
Chapter 7
Sunday morning dawned gray, gloomy, and downright chilly. The sodden sky held the assurance of long hours of rain and made going to town for the service in the chapel problematic, since their only means of transportation were the two mules.
“I may have to look into ordering a buggy,” Luke said, standing at the window. Even as he spoke, fat raindrops began to pelt the ground.
The suggestion troubled Phoebe as she spread the quilt neatly over the mattress, fluffing each of their pillows into plump mounds. She would certainly enjoy riding in a buggy instead of jostling along aboard Dolly’s back, but the expenses her arrival had cost Luke seemed to mount with each passing day. First her travel fare, then a mule and saddle, then the sewing supplies. While he hadn’t uttered one complaint, she worried about their finances, especially after hearing him tell Calvin Mathews payment wasn’t necessary. How often did he render medical aid for little to no compensation? Perhaps her concern was due to the dire circumstances Papa’s death left her in, but no matter the reason, she was certain their marriage had greatly taxed Luke’s funds. The subject wasn’t something she felt comfortable broaching with him, however.
But worry nagged her. Were his dwindling funds the reason he felt it necessary to open an office in town? Renting the vacant store would take yet more money.
“I’m sure we can get along without a buggy,” she said, hoping her voice didn’t betray the concern racing through her.
Luke cast a curious look her way. “Am I to understand you would rather traipse about the countryside on Dolly than in a buggy?” Teasing shone in his dark eyes.
“I simply don’t believe you need to go to all that trouble and expense. Dolly and I are getting along quite well.”
He moved to stand in front of her. After a moment, he reached for her long braid she’d tossed over her shoulder, rubbing the silky strands between his fingers. A gentle smile stretched his lips as he perused her face. “I am proud of you for adapting so well to riding Dolly, but I don’t want my wife soaked to the skin every time it rains.”
The possessive way he said my wife brought on a wave of nervousness. Would he kiss her? And possibly expect more? He’d said he would wait until she was ready, but she couldn’t expect his patience to last forever.
He dropped her braid and moved to his chair near the fireplace. She waited for the relief that should have come, but oddly enough it was disappointment she felt.
“I’ll ask Mr. Collins the next time we’re in town about a buggy.” He spoke as though the matter was settled in his mind.
She went about tidying the small cabin, but the problem at hand was not settled for her. Worry over finances had plagued her every day after Papa died. Living with Aunt Augusta relieved some of the burden, but her aunt’s circumstances hadn’t been much better. Phoebe tried to find work, but with no skills or experience other than occasionally going with Papa to see patients, coupled with the vast number of women seeking positions due to the war, securing a permanent arrangement had been nearly impossible. If not for the kindness of some of Papa’s friends and a few shop owners who’d felt sorry for her, she and Augusta might have starved.
“All right,” Luke said, laying aside the newspaper he’d purchased the last time he was in town. “I can see something is troubling you.”
Her hands stilled as she reached for the washbasin, planning to empty it and refill the pitcher with fresh water. Turning wary eyes to him, she found him looking directly at her.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said.
“You’ve been wearing a scowl ever since I mentioned purchasing a buggy.” He motioned to the chair next to his. “Join me, and let’s discuss this.”
Feeling like an errant child, Phoebe sat in the floral-print chair.
“Now, why don’t you want me to purchase a buggy?” He seemed truly perplexed.
And why shouldn’t he be? Wouldn’t anyone in their right mind prefer to travel in a buggy than on the back of a mule? It seemed an honest answer was the only solution to the misunderstanding.
“I fear you have spent far too much money on me and my needs as it is,” she said quietly, staring at her lap.
A log in the fireplace popped and sizzled in the silence following her declaration.
When he reached for her hand, Phoebe looked up to find a look of pure adoration shining in Luke’s eyes. The sight both elated and frightened her.
“Phoebe, you needn’t be concerned with our finances,” he said, stroking the tender underside of her wrist with his thumb. She didn’t miss his use of the word our, nor how easily he uttered it. “Every dime I spent getting you here, as well as any expenditures since your arrival, have been more than worth it.”
Beguiled by the warm sensations his caresses elicited, she nearly lost track of why she was upset. Shaking her mind clear, she said, “I appreciate everything you’ve done. I love Dolly, and the material for new dresses is more than I could’ve hoped for. But…” She paused. How could she explain the raw fear that tormented her in the years following Papa’s death?
“But what?” His fingers tightened on her hand.
She closed her eyes, praying for the right words. “I can’t help but worry you’re spending too much,” she whispered, opening her eyes, beseeching him to understand she wasn’t being nosy but was instead concerned for their future. “I fear we will run out of money, and then what?”
Instead of the annoyance she expected, since wives no doubt were not supposed to question their husband’s use of income, compassion filled his face. “My sweet Phoebe.” He bent to place a light kiss on her knuckles. “You have nothing to be concerned over. As a captain in the Union Army, I drew a decent salary and managed to save much of it. And I have my medical practice.”
“But the Mathews couldn’t pay you for your services, and I suspect they aren’t the first. Papa often had poor patients that couldn’t pay.”
He nodded. “That is true, and like your father, I won’t send them away simply because they can’t pay.”
“I know, and I admire you for it.” She bit her lower lip. “It’s just that…”
“Yes?”
The encouragement she found on his face gave her the confidence to be completely honest. “After Papa was killed, things were very bad. Unbeknownst to me, he’d borrowed money against the house. Far more than I could raise, so the bank called in the note. I had to sell everything. Furniture. Dishes. Even my clothes.” A tear slid down her cheek. Luke tenderly wiped it away. “Papa was a good man, but he didn’t manage his money well.”
Luke stood and drew her up out of the chair. His arms went around her, holding her in a wonderfully protective way she hadn’t known since Papa died. With abandon, she clung to him while tears streamed down her face. After long minutes, memories of the awful days she’d endured after Papa’s murder faded, replaced by a comfort she hadn’t expected to find in this man’s arms.
“You never need worry about our financial state,” he said into her hair, his breath warm. “I promise I’ll be careful with our money, and you can ask to see the ledgers whenever you wis
h.”
With her cheek pressed against his chest and his strong arms wrapped around her, the weight of her worries lifted. For the first time in a long time, Phoebe felt secure.
Luke swung an ax over his shoulder. The log he aimed for split with a resounding whack, echoing through the dense woods behind the cabin. Two evenly cut pieces fell on either side of the stump he used as a block, and he bent to pick them up and toss them into a half-full bin attached to the side of the lean-to. Even with spring officially on the calendar, nights in the Rockies were still quite chilly, requiring him to keep their woodbox filled.
Since Phoebe’s arrival, they’d used more firewood in one week than he would’ve used in a month as a single man. But he wasn’t complaining. He grinned. The meals she cooked and their cozy evenings in front of the fire were definitely worth the extra effort. Besides, there wasn’t anything like splitting logs to give a man some thinking time.
He recalled the sweetness of holding her in his arms earlier. He’d been surprised to hear her confess her worries regarding finances. That her father left her in such dire straits was disappointing. He’d wanted to ask about the murder but thought better of it when he saw her tears. If his suspicions were correct, Dr. Wagner’s death had most likely been a result of the war, yet another casualty of the hate-filled Rebels. A fierce protectiveness settled over him, and he silently promised he would never let her down the way her father had.
Leaning the ax against the block, Luke took a handkerchief from his pocket—freshly laundered and neatly folded, he noted—and wiped his brow. Over the past five years, memories of the war had never been far from him, despite his deep desire to forget. The nightmares he’d experienced since riding away from the battlefields had plagued him until he thought he might go mad. If not for Reverend Whitaker and his prayers and sound counsel, Luke wasn’t sure what would’ve become of him.
Glancing toward the cabin, peace the likes of which he hadn’t known before washed over him. Never could he have imagined a mail-order bride would bring him the kind of happiness his heart was full of these days. Some months back when Reverend Whit made the suggestion that Luke marry, he’d laughed in the older gent’s face. The reverend wasn’t offended and simply offered a silly, knowing kind of grin. Weeks later, as Luke grew weary of the nightmares and tormenting memories, Reverend Whit said he believed God wanted to give Luke a wife. Marriage, he declared, was good for a man’s soul. Desperate to know that kind of peace, Luke gave in. Who was he to argue with the reverend and God?
He thought back to his chat with the good reverend a few days ago. Once again, the man’s wisdom and advice had given much encouragement to the newly married husband. Feeling as bashful as a schoolboy, Luke confided about his unconsummated marriage and his promise to Phoebe to wait. Although he hadn’t expected Reverend Whit to tease him the way the rough miners might’ve, he hadn’t expected the sheer approval in the reverend’s eyes. A woman’s heart was a fragile thing, the parson said. Better to capture it completely with tender love than bruise it with lustful passion. The intimacies between a man and his wife needed the foundation of committed love to last through the years ahead. Luke had come away from their meeting more determined than ever to win his wife’s heart.
He worked splitting wood for another hour. Just as he reached for the last of the logs, a piercing scream rent the air.
Phoebe!
Luke tossed the ax to the ground and tore around the corner to the front of the cabin.
The sight he beheld sent a chill slicing through him.
Chapter 8
Three native men stood in the yard talking among themselves. A fourth lying on a crudely built stretcher nearby seemed in too much pain to worry about a white woman’s fright.
Phoebe hadn’t meant to scream. They’d simply taken her by surprise. When the door opened she thought Luke had returned from chopping wood. A difficult stitch in her sewing kept her attention, but when he didn’t greet her, she looked up. Instead of her husband, a dark-skinned man dressed in leather stood on the threshold. At her shriek, he’d fled. Now she peeked out the window, realizing she had no idea if Luke owned a gun or what she should do to protect them from these men.
“Hello!”
Luke came into view. He moved slowly toward the men, his hands out as though to show them he wasn’t armed. Would they attack him?
The man who’d entered the cabin spoke, his words unintelligible, and motioned toward the man lying on the stretcher. Phoebe kept her attention trained on Luke, noting the calmness in his voice when he told the stranger he would look at his injured friend. Whether they truly understood each other, she couldn’t say.
Luke then turned to the cabin. Phoebe cracked the door open with shaky hands. Concern filled his eyes when he saw her. “Are you all right?” he said, his voice low so only she could hear.
She nodded. “They startled me is all.”
A slight smile tipped his mouth. “My brave wife. Will you please hand me my medical bag? I don’t want to go inside for fear they might think I’m retrieving a gun.” Phoebe hurried to do as he asked. When she handed the black leather satchel to him, she glanced to the waiting men. They seemed genuinely concerned for their friend. Surely they wouldn’t harm Luke. The thought of waiting in the cabin alone sent her heart racing, and she made up her mind to assist him, no matter her jumpiness around the native men. Luke had called her brave, hadn’t he?
“I’ll come with you,” she said, the words expressing a bit more courage than she truly felt.
But Luke shook his head. “You stay here.” He cast a glance toward the group, who now gathered around the injured man. “They’re Apache and mostly at peace with white settlers these days. I don’t think they’ll cause any trouble. It appears they simply want help for their friend, but I’d feel better knowing you were safe inside the cabin.”
She crossed her arms. “And I would feel better standing next to my husband.”
Luke’s brow rose, then he chuckled. “Is this our first disagreement?”
“No.” She tried not to grin. “Because you’re going to agree with me.”
One dark eyebrow arched. “Remind me never to argue with you.” After a moment, he stretched his free hand toward her and she grasped it. “Stay near.”
“I intend to,” Phoebe said, her stomach knotting as they approached the men. Three pairs of black eyes followed her every move.
Luke knelt beside the injured man, who lay beneath several animal pelts. The leader spoke, motioning toward the patient’s legs. Luke pulled back the pelts, and Phoebe gasped at the sight. Sharp white bone protruded from a horrific gash below the knee, and dried blood covered his skin down to his bare foot.
“This is very bad.” Luke’s hushed voice told her everything she needed to know. “If I’m to set the bone properly and sew the wound closed, I must administer chloroform. The pain would be unbearable without it. The problem is his friends might believe I’m doing him harm if they see him lose consciousness. They can be superstitious about bad medicine.” Phoebe peeked at the three men, all watching intently from a few steps away. She drew closer to Luke and whispered, “I could offer them some refreshment. That would give you time to administer the chloroform without them being aware.”
Luke frowned. “I can’t ask you to do that.”
“You aren’t asking. It’s the only way to draw them aside so you can get to work.”
Their gazes held for a long moment. Phoebe wasn’t keen on the idea, but there wasn’t another option. Luke had to administer the medication without the men being aware of what he was doing.
“All right,” he finally said, looking none too happy about it. “But serve it outside. I don’t want them in the cabin.”
Phoebe nodded then stood. She hurried to the house under the full attention of the three fierce-looking strangers, wondering what to serve their unexpected guests. She’d baked bread the previous day and had a jar of strawberry preserves Mrs. Frank had encouraged her to purch
ase. That and some coffee would have to suffice.
A few minutes later, she walked out the door carrying her largest cast-iron skillet with the meager offerings inside. The men immediately became curious. Phoebe sneaked a glance at Luke, who sent her an encouraging wink before she walked in the opposite direction from where the injured man lay. A large boulder near a cluster of aspen trees would make a fine table, and she headed toward it. Setting the pan on the rock, she turned to the men, who continued to watch her rather than Luke.
“For you,” she said, forcing a smile to her trembling lips. Using hand motions, she tried to convey her intentions. “For you. To eat.”
The leader’s brow rose. He said something to his companions and moved toward her. The other men followed. From the corner of her eye—for she didn’t dare look directly at Luke—she saw him hastily take a small bottle and cloth from his medical bag. It was up to her to keep the native men’s attention away from their injured friend in order to give Luke time to administer the sleeping agent and set the bone.
Swallowing her fear, Phoebe offered what she hoped was a pleasant smile. “I’m sorry I don’t have something more filling than bread, jam, and coffee.”
The men drew in close. Although she’d seen various Indian tribe members at a distance while she lived in Kansas, she’d never spoken to one. When she motioned they were welcome to the refreshments, the leader slowly reached to take a slice of bread spread with preserves while his friends watched with interest. He took a small bite, chewed, and broke into a grin. He said something to the others, which must have been positive, for they each reached for a slice. Soon the three were seated on the grass, engrossed in eating the simple repast and sipping coffee. They never glanced in Luke’s direction.
When Luke finally stood and gave her a nod, she breathed a sigh of relief.