Three Books in One: A Covenant of Love, Gate of His Enemies, and Where Honor Dwells

by Gilbert, Morris

  “I was putting up tents when you were in diapers!” Jeremiah snapped back, which seemed unlikely since the two men were the same age.

  Finally the tents were up. Buford returned with a fine string of catfish, which he cleaned, and in good time they were sitting around the fire eating fresh fish and hush puppies, washing it all down with strong black coffee.

  “I think a few of those big black bugs hit the grease the fish were in,” Melora remarked. “It was too dark to see.”

  “Anybody who objects to a few black bugs in his fish don’t deserve no consideration,” her father pronounced. Then he proceeded to ask Jeremiah, “What’s the meaning of the beast that came up out of the sea in the thirteenth chapter of Revelation, Reverend? The one with the seven heads and the ten horns?”

  “Buford, don’t you start on me with your endless questions about prophecy!” Jeremiah protested. “Let’s just hunt and fish and rest.”

  Buford was offended. “Well, it’s important, ain’t it? Wouldn’t be in the Bible if it wasn’t!”

  “Yes, yes, it’s important, Buford,” Jeremiah said wearily, “but I just don’t know what the blamed beast means!”

  Clay and Melora looked across the fire at each other, smiling at the pair. They had often laughed at the dogged manner in which Buford asked question after question on the more obscure sections of the Bible, while Jeremiah was interested in more practical things—such as how to get his members to stop gossiping!

  The four of them sat around the fire for a long time, listening to the occasional cry of a night bird and, more than once, the plaintive wail of a coyote. Melora kept the coffeepot going, saying little, listening as the men talked. Mostly they didn’t speak of the war or of politics. Instead they discussed farming, horses, and dogs—simple things that men enjoy. Jeremiah told stories of his boyhood in Arkansas, of the hard life in the back reaches of the Ozark Mountains where shoes were a luxury.

  Finally they went to bed, Melora in the small tent and the three men in the large one. Wrapped in blankets up to her eyes, Melora lay there, listening to the night sounds for a long time. Then she dropped off to sleep. She awoke to the smell of bacon and fresh coffee. When she emerged from her tent, she found her father cooking eggs in the bacon grease. “The preacher and Clay took off ‘fore dawn,” he remarked. “Thought they might get a shot at a buck down where we seen them big tracks. Here, pitch into this bacon, daughter.”

  Melora took the plate, ate bacon and eggs, then sat back to drink coffee. The air was cold, but she liked it that way. “Funny the way you decided to come along on this trip,” Buford said. “But I’m glad you did.” He was watching her as she drank the coffee, and thoughtfully he remarked, “You ort to get married. I feel bad that you’ve spent your whole life taking care of the kids.” He tossed the stick he was whittling onto the ground, his face as sober as she had ever seen it. He was not a man of deep thought, Melora realized, but something was troubling him. He sought for what was inside him, then said simply, “I should have got married again when your mother died. I could have done it.”

  “Why didn’t you, Pa? Most men would have.”

  He was embarrassed at what was in his heart, and he struggled with it. Finally he said, “I never seen a woman I liked as much as I did your ma. She was … special, you know?”

  Melora realized that poets had been writing about love that never died for thousands of years. But it was a rare thing, she understood. Now, here in the deep woods, she found it—not in a prince, but in Buford Yancy, with his stubble of a beard, rough hands, and rougher speech. She said quietly, “That’s real sweet, Pa.”

  Yancy was embarrassed and hurried to say, “Well, I don’t know about that, but I do know I’ve robbed you of your youth, daughter.” A question came to his lips, but after glancing at her, he seemed awkward and ill at ease. Finally he voiced it. “The preacher wants to marry you right bad.”

  It was, she realized, his way of asking her to share her feelings with him. But it was not easy—for she herself was confused about the thing.

  “I wish he would find somebody else,” she finally said. Now it was her turn to search for words. Like her father, she had difficulty putting into words the deep feelings that ran through her. Finally she said, “I like him so much, it’d be easy to just give up and marry him. The kids are old enough now so they aren’t much trouble. I could help him with his two, and I guess I could learn to be a preacher’s wife—but not a good one.”

  “Why not? You’re a good Christian girl.”

  “Not the same thing, Pa,” she said slowly. “I’ve been free all my life. Oh, I’ve had to do my work and watch the children, but a preacher’s wife doesn’t have much freedom.” She smiled at him, adding, “For example, I don’t think I ever heard of a minister’s wife going hunting with a bunch of men!”

  He said, “You could do it if you set your mind. I’d feel better about you, daughter.”

  She got up and went to him and, bending over, kissed his cheek. “Don’t worry about me, Pa.” She left him at the fire, and there was no more discussion with him on that subject. But she knew that he was worried—and hated to cause him grief.

  The weather warmed up, and for two days the four of them had a fine time. Melora didn’t want to shoot anything, but she enjoyed walking through the woods. She had brought her notebook and filled it with her “scribbling” during that time.

  On the third day Jeremiah took it into his head that he had to have a wild turkey. They had bagged everything else: coon, possum, a fat deer, even three ducks from a pond. “I’ve got a special feeling for wild turkey,” Irons announced on the morning of the last day.

  “Wild turkey’s about the slyest thing in the woods, Preacher.” Buford said, shaking his head. “Offhand, I don’t think I see but one feller in this camp who can git one.”

  Both Jeremiah and Clay at once began to deride him, and after breakfast they all set off for a place that was stiff with wild toms, according to Buford. They made a bet that the one who got the biggest turkey got to tell the other two what to do. “I got some fencing that needs to be put up,” Buford said with a grin. “I can see now that you two boys are just the pair to do it.”

  They left right away, riding the two mules that had pulled the wagon, Clay and Buford sharing one of the animals. Melora began to pack some of the gear, but about ten o’clock she took a line and went fishing in the stream. The fish were uneducated, and she caught enough for supper in thirty minutes. She went back to the camp, and ten minutes after she arrived, she was surprised to see Clay come riding in on one of the mules.

  “What did you forget?”

  “I forgot to watch where I was walking,” Clay said. He slid off the mule and hopped painfully toward the fire, his face drawn with pain.

  “What’s wrong with your foot?” Melora asked.

  “Stepped in a hole and twisted my ankle,” he said in disgust. “We stopped down by the river and poked around looking for bear sign. I stepped into a hole and darn near broke my leg! Your dad and Jeremiah wanted to turn back, but I wouldn’t let them. No reason why my clumsiness should keep them from having a good time.”

  “Let’s get that boot off,” Melora said. “I’ll heat some water.”

  The ankle was not badly twisted, but it was painful. As Clay looked at it stretched out before him, he remarked, “I always forget if you put cold compresses or hot cloths on a sprained leg.”

  “Hot,” Melora announced. She had heated the water and began to put the hot cloths on the injured leg. “Be still!” she said. “You behave worse than Toby!”

  “Well, those things are too hot,” he complained. He watched as she held the compress in place, then said, “You’ve had to treat just about every sort of sickness and accident, haven’t you, Melora?”

  “Oh yes. Most doctoring is just common sense.” She knelt at his feet, holding the compress and speaking of some of the aches and pains the children had had. He admired the firm set of her jaw and saw th
at she had a faint line of freckles across her nose that he’d never noticed. She was a slim woman, but there was a pleasing roundness to her. Despite the rough clothing, there was a grace about her, and Clay said suddenly, “Been a long time since you fed me soup and nursed me. You’re all grown up now, but I still remember that little girl. All eyes and as somber as a tree full of owls. I’d never been around children then, and I thought you were normal.”

  She laughed then, her green eyes glinting in the sun. “Why, I was normal!”

  “No, you were never normal,” he said. “You’ve always been different, Melora.” She looked up at him quickly and saw that his eyes were half closed. “All those years I was gone, I dreamed a lot about home, but mostly about you. I guess I can remember every moment of those times. I went over them again and again. It was like—like having an album filled with pictures, Melora, those times with you. And I’d go over and over them, until I guess they became clearer to me than anything else in the world.”

  Melora stood up and held the compress in her hands. Her eyes fell, and she whispered, “I did the same.”

  “You did?” Clay said quickly. “I never knew that!”

  “I was always a romantic thing, I guess. Remember how I always wanted books about knights and castles? Well, life was pretty drab, I suppose, so I remembered your visits and how we read Pilgrim’s Progress and Gulliver’s Travels together.”

  She came to stand beside him, saying, “You’ve got to keep off that foot. Come on. I’ll help you to your tent.”

  Clay struggled to his feet, saying, “If you’ll get me a stick—”

  “I will, but first you need to lie down and keep the weight off that foot. Lean on me now.”

  Clay put his right arm around her shoulders, and she bore most of his weight as they moved to the tent. When they went inside, he started to let himself down, but his leg gave way, and the suddenness of it made him grab at her for support. He pulled her down as he fell and hit the ground with a grunt, still holding on to her.

  Melora was lying across his chest, and when she lifted her head, she started to laugh. “You’re clumsy—,” she said, then broke off. His face was only inches away from hers, and she suddenly read the longing in his eyes. She caught her breath but seemed unable to move. The pressure of her soft body on his was both a torment and a delight to Clay.

  It was as though time had stopped for both of them. Clay was thinking, No, this is wrong! but at the same time, he was realizing that he had wanted to reach out and touch this woman for years. It came as a shock to him, for there was a picture in his mind of a child who fed him soup, or a girl of twelve who loved books. Now he knew that he could never think of her in quite the same way again.

  And Melora was thinking, At last he knows I’m a woman! He’s always ignored the fact that I grew up. But I can see in his eyes that he’s thinking of me as a man thinks of a woman.

  Then without thinking she lowered her head and put her soft lips on his. It was as natural to her as breathing, for she meant only to show how she cared for him, was grateful to him. That was the beginning, but it was not the end, for slowly she became aware that this was not the caress of a child. Something powerful and strong began to form within her, and she could feel his recognition of the same force. His arms tightened, and the pressure of his lips grew more demanding.

  How long that kiss lasted, she never knew—nor did he. Nor did they ever know which of them first realized the potent danger of what was happening. But however it was, Melora reluctantly moved her head, and then she stood to her feet. But she did not leave. Something kept her there, and then Clay said, “That was very wrong of me, Melora.”

  “Wrong of me, too, Clay,” she said quietly.

  He struggled to a sitting position. “Come down here. I can’t talk with you up there.” He waited until she was kneeling and studied her face. With one hand he reached out and brushed her hair from her forehead. “Don’t be upset by this, Melora. It’s not your fault.”

  Melora said slowly, “I think you’d better know. I’m in love with you, Clay. I have been for years.”

  “Melora!” He cried out as if she had struck him. “You mustn’t say such a thing. It’s not true!”

  She looked at him, her eyes enormous in the gloom of the tent. “You may not love me. But I’ll always love you.”

  He stared at her helplessly, then suddenly groaned and pulled her to his chest. “God help me! I love you, too, Melora!” He held her for only a moment, then released her. She watched him calmly, and he said, “It’s a sad thing, Melora, for both of us. In the first place, I’m too old for you. And besides that, I’m already married.”

  Melora said, “Yes, I know that. Not that you are too old. But that you have a wife. She’s no wife to you; I know that, too. I know how lonely you get. I get lonely, too.” She bit her lip, adding, “Clay, don’t let my love be a burden to you. It’s the finest thing in my life—the most real thing. I can never have you; I know that. I’ve always known that. But it helps to know … that you care for me.”

  She got up and turned to go, but then his voice caught her. “Melora, marry Jeremiah! Be a wife to him! He loves you.”

  Melora shook her head. “No. I’ll never marry Jeremiah—or anyone else.”

  “You can’t be alone!”

  “Yes, I can be alone. I’m strong enough for that, Clay. I have God, and now I know that you love me. That’s all I need.”

  She left the tent then and went into the woods. For an hour she walked under the thick foliage. Then she came back and found him sitting in front of the fire, his leg stretched out. When she spoke, her voice was without strain. “Let’s be friends. As we’ve always been. We can have that, can’t we? If we can’t have anything else, let’s have that.”

  “Wouldn’t we have to be on guard? Wouldn’t it feel odd?”

  “No. Let’s talk about books, and you listen to me read out of my notebook. Come and see Pa, and sometimes we’ll meet at the store. We’ll smile and talk, and then you’ll leave. Let’s have that much, Mister Clay!”

  He smiled at her use of the name she’d used when she was a child. Somehow the strain was gone, and he said, “You are my best friend, Melora. And I’m yours.”

  She took a deep breath, and then a smile touched her wide lips. “I’m glad I came on this trip.” She said no more, but he knew as she rose and went about building up the fire that neither of them would refer to what had happened in the tent.

  And he knew, just as certainly, that neither of them would ever forget it.

  CHAPTER 22

  BEFORE THE STORM

  As the air sometimes grows utterly still before the power of a hurricane is unleashed, so a time of peace came to Gracefield. Susanna commented on it as she and Deborah were walking across to the slave quarters. The two had become quite close, and the younger woman had learned to trust the heart of the older, even though she did not agree with her ideas on slavery.

  Susanna said as they passed Box, who at the age of sixty-nine was still able to do some work at the forge, “I feel so strange, Deborah. The whole country is falling apart, with all the politicians screaming of war. And yet everything seems so peaceful.” As they came to the row of cabins that housed the slaves, she added, “I’m afraid, for the first time. There’s something ominous about this time.”

  Deborah nodded, saying, “I am, too. I got a letter from my father yesterday. He wants me to come home.”

  “I’ll miss you, Deborah.” Susanna turned a smile on the girl, adding, “But if you don’t go home, you’re going to drive Dent crazy. I’ve never seen anyone so lovesick. It’s like something out of a bad romance.”

  Deborah didn’t return the smile. “Aunt Susanna, I … I haven’t told anyone, but …”

  She paused, but the older woman nodded at once, her face gentle and filled with a sudden concern. “I know. You feel something for him, don’t you, Deborah?”

  “It’s insane, of course,” Deborah said quickly, her f
ace slightly tinged with a flush that made her look very young. “We don’t agree on a single thing, I suppose. Every time we get together, it winds up in a blazing row.” She fell silent and then, after a moment, said with a burst of honesty, “But you’re right, Aunt Susanna, I do feel something for Dent! It’s not that he’s fine-looking. I don’t care about that. He’s bursting with all this Southern pride …. ‘Any Southerner can handle six Yankees!’ But I have this feeling that beneath all that bluster, there’s something very real about Dent.”

  “You see his father in him,” Susanna suggested. “You’re very fond of Clay. Anyone can see that. And Clay’s got the same stuff.” Her eyes grew nostalgic, and she said, “When Clay was nineteen, he was exactly as Dent is now. Unfortunately, Dent’s got the same weaknesses that Clay had then—he’s too impulsive, too self-centered.”

  “But Clay got over all that.”

  “Yes, but God only knows what hell he had to go through to do so. And he’s still paying for some of it.”

  “He and Ellen, do you think they’ll ever put their marriage together?”

  “I doubt it. They were never suited from the beginning, and she’s grown … more careless over the years.”

  Deborah hesitated, then said, “I think he’s fond of Melora Yancy.”

  Susanna was startled by the young woman’s perception. She had long known that Clay was half in love with the woman, but she had said nothing to anyone. “It can never come to anything, Deborah. I know you won’t say anything to anyone.”

  “No, of course not. I just feel bad for them.”

  Susanna gave her a sudden hug. “You’re a kind girl, Deborah. I wish Dent were more mature.”

  “Maybe I could marry him and raise him right! Housebreak him and all.”

  “Never try that!” Susanna said with a wry smile. “If a man doesn’t change before a woman marries him, she’ll not be able to do anything with him afterward. These Rocklin men are stubborn anyway. They have to beat their heads against a stone wall to get any sense knocked into them. Now come along, and we’ll get all the chores done, then go into Richmond for a wild shopping spree!”