Remember My Love

by Elise Dee Beraru

  Jack looked aghast. "Why'd ya do that?"

  "What do ya care? He'll be dead by dawn anyway. So he'll go to heaven with nine fingers instead of ten. We gotta ride."

  The two bandits, loaded down with Blair's clothes and possessions, rode off, leaving their naked, bleeding victim to the mercy of the Wyoming snow, which was just beginning to fall again as they rode off.

  Chapter 3

  THE LATE morning sun struggled gamely to penetrate the overcast sky and the threat of more snow. Adele Stoddard stood on the porch of her farmhouse, one of her thick quilts drawn around her against the cold. She closed her eyes and let the cold penetrate her senses. When the snow comes to the range this early, she thought, winter promises to be long, hard and lonely.

  Adele glanced toward the barn, where her younger sister, Susannah came hobbling toward the house, a filled milk pail in her hand. Susannah would be sixteen on December 8th and from the ankles up she was rapidly becoming a beauty, petite and curvy. Were it not for a clubbed right foot, Adele didn't doubt Susannah would have been begging to go to dances and parties and meeting local boys. Of course, at twenty miles from Green River, there weren't really many "local" boys.

  Adele and Susannah shared the same sable brown hair and brandy brown eyes, but Adele was tall where Susannah was small, slender where Susannah was becoming voluptuous and serious where Susannah was still a child in many ways. Despite Susannah's handicap, she worked as hard as her sister to complete all her chores and was a much better cook than her older sister. Neither young woman was a stranger to hard work.

  Susannah may well find a husband yet, thought Adele. I wish I could say the same for myself. To her mind, twenty-three was already too old when you had never even been courted.

  Adele had never really had much of a childhood. Their mother, Beatrice, had never really recovered after Susannah was born, leaving an eight-year-old Adele to run the household. Eight years later she died in childbirth. Although she deeply loved Tom Stoddard and followed him from Baltimore to the prairie, she had never been suited to life in the wilderness. Like many a pioneer woman, the prairie had drained her strength and soul and killed her by the age of thirty-five.

  Adele was made of stronger stuff. She stepped right in and took over running the house and working alongside her father, planting and reaping, building and repairing. Then the cancer that had eaten his life away became too much for him, and Adele became nurse, as well as farmer, mother and housekeeper. Thomas Stoddard died in the spring of 1871 and Adele had been too busy working hard to worry about such insignificant things as courting and marriage.

  It didn't help that Adele was five feet ten inches tall, as tall or taller than most of the men she met.

  "Mabel was real generous this morning," Susannah's cheery voice broke through Adele's concentration. "We may have enough to make some cheese as well as butter. And the hens laid six eggs," she added, pointing to the bulging pockets of the threadbare, outgrown pinafore she was using as an apron to cover her blue calico dress.

  "That's wonderful, Susannah," Adele answered absently.

  "Oh, Sissy, isn't it beautiful out? I just love wintertime."

  "That must be because it gives you something different to draw."

  "I reckon so. On a morning like this you feel something wonderful is about to happen. It's like the air is anticipating something."

  "If the air is anticipating anything, it's more snow. I think we're going to get snowed in early."

  "Gosh, I hope I have enough paper and pencils."

  Susannah was an artist. She had never studied drawing, but almost as soon as she could hold a pencil she began sketching. There was hardly a piece of paper safe in the house. Her old school copybooks were filled with drawings and illustrations of lessons. She had a real eye to line and texture and could draw with almost photographic precision. Where she got the talent, nobody knew. Pa had told them about Mozart once, that he had musical talent when he was a baby and guessed that Susannah was the same with drawing. Tom Stoddard had always regretted that, even if there had been anyone in Green River who could have taught Susannah the fine arts, their money would never stretch that far. The best they could do was try to keep his younger daughter in paper and pencils so she could at least have an outlet for her drawing, which was as much passion as talent. It was only too bad that there was no money in Susannah's skill.

  "I was thinking more about enough food," responded the more practical Adele, "I'm going to saddle Esmeralda and go hunting for rabbits or a deer. If it stays this cold, the meat might keep for a while."

  "Great. When I'm done churning the butter, I'll get together the fixings for some stew. And even if you don't catch anything today we can always have an omelet." With that Susannah tromped into the house to put down the milk and eggs and drag out the butter churn.

  Adele followed. She folded the quilt and put it back on Susannah's bed in the main room. She'd made this quilt. It was a simple pinwheel design, outline quilted, but it was durably stitched. If Susannah was an artist with a pencil, Adele was an artist with a needle, though neither she nor anyone else would have used the term. For Adele was a quiltmaker. The beds in the house were covered with colorful evidence of her handiwork.

  Pieces of old garments, feed sacks dyed with homemade dyes, even fabric bought especially for the purpose found their way into the tops and backs of Adele's creations. She prided herself on being able to consistently get ten to twelve stitches to the inch and the old trunk in the bedroom held a trousseau's worth of quilts she had made. Enough to cover the beds of an entire family--the family Adele was sure she would never have. She'd even made a Wedding Ring quilt. It lay in the bottom of the trunk for the wedding night that would never come. Adele also made every stitch she and Susannah wore and just about everything their father had worn as well. Pa had told her once that no tailor in Baltimore or even London ever made better. About the only garments they had to store buy were knit goods like long underwear and lisle stockings.

  Adele went into the division of the house whose larger bed had been Thomas and Beatrice Stoddard's but was now hers. Shortly after her father's death she had moved from the bed the girls had shared from the time Susannah was out of the cradle. From the roughly-built cabinet that served as an armoire, Adele selected her quilted petticoat, which she pulled on under her calico skirt and two muslin petticoats and grabbed her father's sheepskin winter coat and felt hat. A scarf and knitted gloves completed her cold weather gear. She had a warm woolen cloak, but it was not as practical for hunting as the coat since it got in the way of her arms and hampered her shot. The coat and hat were too large for her--Thomas Stoddard was a barrel-chested six-footer before his illness--but for several hours in the freezing cold, it was the best she had. Returning into the main room, she took the rifle down from the wall and pulled it out of its scabbard. As she had learned years ago, she checked it quickly and carefully and loaded it with cartridges.

  At least Pa bought us a repeating rifle. It certainly makes hunting easier, she thought. Returning the rifle to its scabbard, Adele went outside and tramped through the snow to the barn.

  Once in the barn, she saddled their mare, Esmeralda. She was tying the scabbard and a length of rope to the saddle when she felt a familiar rubbing at her ankles. Looking down, she saw a small gray tabby tomcat with a still-living mouse in his teeth.

  "Well, Little Gent," she said to the cat, "I see you've had a successful hunt today."

  Little Gent looked up with his pale green eyes, then scampered off to tease and eventually devour his trembling prey.

  Adele mounted up, kicking her right leg over the horn of the sidesaddle and straightening her skirts around her. As she rode past the front door of the house, she called out, "Susannah, Little Gent is in the barn torturing mice again. I'm glad he kills them, but I wish he would just get to it instead of playing with them first. You may want to get him inside later."

  "I'll bribe him with some milk," came the laughing reply. "See y
ou later, Sissy."

  THE RANGE WAS biting cold. Adele could feel icy blades of wind trying to slice through her clothes. Even the quilted petticoat and shearling jacket were not really enough. Her nipples hardened against the cold and she shivered painfully deep within.

  If it's this cold on November 12th, what's it going to be like by Christmas, she thought, wishing there had been enough money from the crops this year to buy something more substantial than calico for garments.

  "God, I'd sell my soul for twenty yards of blue serge," she bargained aloud, remembering that the last time she had gone into Green River she had a choice between the warm woolen yardage and buying cheaper cotton and a new package of drawing vellum and pencils for Susannah. The drawing paper had won out. Maybe if Susannah wasn't so clever with her pencils, it wouldn't be such an easy choice. Well, they would make do. They always did.

  Skirting the edge of the forest that bordered the range, Adele had been pretty lucky. Although she was an average rifle shot, she had bagged six rabbits foolish enough to poke their heads out of their holes on this frigid day. If it stayed below freezing, six rabbits could last the two young women nearly two weeks.

  "Just as well I didn't see a deer. It's too cold to be dressing venison today," she mused aloud, a steam cloud puffing with her words.

  After tying her quarry to the saddle horn, Adele turned Esmeralda toward home. A light flurry of snow was beginning to fall and the late afternoon temperature was dropping even more.

  Since the old roan mare knew the way home, Adele pretty much gave the horse her head. As Esmeralda trotted along, Adele concentrated on how she would go about lining the hoods of their woolen cloaks with the rabbit skins. Suddenly, Esmeralda reared slightly at an odd-shaped, snow-covered object that lay in the way, startling Adele out of her reverie.

  Adele quickly threw her right leg over the saddle horn and slid down with both feet touching the ground nearly at once. Still holding the reins, she walked over to the object.

  Her eyes widened in shock at the sight of blood. The obscured object becoming gradually more and more covered with lightly falling snow was a man! Adele dropped the reins with a tug that said "stay" to the mare and knelt down beside the man. She brushed snow off his face and saw blood seeping from a long deep cut wound on his forehead running from halfway over his left eyebrow into and beyond the hairline of his short, thick, coal black hair. His face was pale and cold; his lips blue beneath a trimmed mustache the same color as his hair.

  Adele continued to brush snow off his body, surprised to find his upper torso bare. She sucked in her breath at the sight of a broad-shouldered, lean chest covered thickly with black hair and multiple ugly bruises. As she examined him, she felt the barely perceptible rise and fall of his chest.

  "He's alive!" But just barely, she added silently.

  Continuing to uncover him, Adele was even more shocked to discover the unconscious stranger was undressed below the waist as well. That pelt of body hair narrowed below his waist, thickening into a nest that crowned...well! Adele had seen her father's during the last months of his terminal illness, when he was too weak to clean or care for himself, but even at rest this one's manhood impressed--and embarrassed her.

  Stifling an unfamiliar shudder she blamed on the cold, Adele finished brushing snow from the man's long, hair-roughened legs. His feet were bare and the skin under his toenails was also blue.

  "Got to get him home. First, got to get him warm."

  Without hesitating, Adele unbuttoned her sheepskin jacket and dropped it to the ground. She then rose and, lifting her calico skirt, untied the tapes holding up her quilted petticoat. It was too thick to slide, so she pushed it down to her knees and stepped out of it. Kneeling again beside the body, she moved to his feet and pulled the petticoat up his legs to his waist. The tapes wouldn't tie, of course, but the petticoat, which had been closest to Adele's own body heat, served as a blanket around the legs and hips of the stranger. She then lifted him up at the shoulders, pulling his left arm into the sleeve of the jacket. It was when she reached across his body to do the same with his right arm that she saw more blood; seeping slowly from his hand where the start of his little finger should be.

  "God in heaven, who would do such a thing?"

  Quickly, Adele pulled her handkerchief from her pocket and tied it around his palm, putting as much pressure on the wound as she could. Mercifully, the man remained unconscious as she pushed his mutilated hand into the sleeve of the shearling coat and buttoned the buttons.

  Knowing he could not ride behind her while unconscious, Adele had to think how she could get the stranger home. Certainly in his condition, she couldn't leave him here while she rode home and hitched up the wagon. Between the snow and the dropping temperature, he wouldn't survive. She tried to get him into a standing position, but his dead weight was too much for even a tall, strong woman to lift alone.

  "Got to think how...." she growled, setting him down again.

  Remembering how she had hauled deer carcasses home, Adele pulled her rope off the saddle and tied it around him under the armpits. Gently urging Esmeralda over, she threw the rope ends over the top of the saddle, looping them around the saddle horn.

  "Steady, Esmeralda, steady," she entreated as the pulley-like action raised the man to a vertical position against the mare's flank. Adele then forced his arms above the saddle, careful not to aggravate his wounds any more than necessary. She stooped behind him, forcing her shoulder under his buttocks and pushing him up over Esmeralda's rump. Mounting the sidesaddle she tied the rope ends around her waist and slowly rode towards the farm, hoping her peculiar bundle wouldn't slip or shift. Shivering--as the cold gave no mercy--she could not ride faster without risking the stranger's safety any further.

  It seemed an agonizingly long time before she reached home. She was sure that her own lips and nail beds were as blue as the stranger's by the time she reached the farmhouse.

  "Susannah! Get out here fast!"

  After the sound of uneven footfalls crossed the room, Susannah pulled open the door.

  "Oh my, what's that."

  "It's an injured man. Someone must have ambushed him and left him for dead. I'm going to pull him off the horse. Stand near Esmeralda and grab his legs as they come over this side. We have to get him into the house."

  Adele untied the rope from around her waist and slid out of the saddle. She grabbed the stranger's arms and pulled him over the top of the horse's back. As he slipped over, his legs fell heavily on top of the waiting Susannah, making her yelp. The two young women shifted their burden to a face up position and carried him up the steps and into the house.

  "Put him in your bed," Adele ordered. "Pull the quilts and top sheet off first."

  Susannah put down the stranger's feet and walked over to the bed. She pulled the bedding off as ordered while Adele pulled him toward the bed. With Susannah's returning aid, they got him onto the bed.

  "Now, go into Pa's trunk and get one of his nightshirts and another quilt. Is there hot water on the stove? Good. Got to get this man warm."

  Susannah paused at the opening to the bedroom. "Is he going to live?"

  "I don't know," was the grim reply, "but we've got to get him warm if there's to be any hope at all."

  Susannah brought the nightshirt and quilt.

  "Use the bricks we heat when we have colds. Put them in the fireplace and make two cups of tea...."

  "Two?"

  "Yes. One's for me. I'm frozen near through myself. I've got to get him out of these things and into this nightshirt."

  "Can't I help?"

  "The ambushers left him naked. I don't think you're ready for that sight yet. I'm not sure I am, but I've already seen it, so I doubt it'll do me any more harm than it has already. Once you get the tea made, bring me my sewing basket and a bowl and the hot water kettle and a towel. I've got to try to stitch up these wounds. Then wrap the bricks in flannel and bring them over here."

  Susannah rushed to fol
low directions while Adele pulled the jacket and petticoat off the stranger's body. She checked his ribcage for broken ribs. Despite the bruising there did not appear to be any. She was surprised to feel a shudder go through her at the touch of his cold skin. There was no spare flesh on the man, and she could see the faint bas-relief of his ribs and collarbone on his pale skin. He was just plain slender, despite his broad shoulders.

  Having satisfied herself that his ribcage didn't need binding, Adele got him into the nightshirt, struggling against the dead weight of the unconscious man. Thank God Pa was barrel-chested, she thought, or this would be tighter across the shoulders than it is. The nightshirt barely covered the tall man's knees, but it would just have to do for now. He was covered, for warmth and modesty sake.

  That task completed, Adele pulled the top sheet and three warm quilts on top of the unconscious man.

  Moving as fast as her deformed foot would allow, Susannah brought her sister a cup of tea and the sewing basket and hot water. A quick gulp spread some well-needed heat through her. Adele examined the head wound; it was no longer bleeding. The hand wound was still seeping blood, so she quickly threaded some white thread through the eye of a strong needle. She dropped the needle in the bowl and poured boiling water on it, then dipped a corner of the towel in the boiling water and applied it to the wound. She wished she had some whisky, but there hadn't been any in the house since before Tom Stoddard died.

  Instinctively, the man jerked slightly at the pain of the contact, but Adele held fast. Using small, tight stitches, she closed the sides of the wound, forcing closed flesh that had never been intended to meet. She only hoped the skin would knit together so the man could use his hand properly and there would be no infection. The missing finger itself was gone for good; even if she had found it she could never have reattached it. Having been covered in snow had probably slowed down the seepage, stopping the man's bleeding to death before Adele found him.