“S’none of your business!”
Jake had been standing along the wall, but when Duvall had walked in, he grew alert. He had watched and listened, moving away from the wall and coming to stand a few feet away from Vince and Rachel. He wished he had a gun, but there’d been no reason to carry one. None of the other men had guns, either, he was sure. When Duvall pulled the revolver, he thought rapidly. Too far to make a jump at him—maybe I can get around behind him.
But there was no time, for at that moment one of the soldiers lunged at Duvall, intending to get the gun away. Duvall turned and shot the man. The bullet struck him in the shoulder and drove him back. A woman screamed, and some of the men yelled, and Duvall in his confusion simply lifted his gun and fired.
Jake saw a woman go down and, without thought, launched himself to where Rachel was standing in the line of fire. He threw his body between her and Duvall, catching a glimpse of her eyes staring at him in amazement—and something more—but before he could decipher her look, he suddenly heard the explosion of Duvall’s gun and pain ripped at his head as a slug plowed along over his ear. Agony raced through him, and he began to fall.
The last thing he heard as he slipped into darkness was Rachel’s voice, calling his name.
CHAPTER 26
THE WORLD IN HIS ARMS
The waiting room of Mercy Hospital was small, merely a cubicle of ten feet square, with an assortment of chairs scattered about. Cigar smoke hung in the air, making it stuffy, and after a time Clay Rocklin rose and opened the single window that looked out on Charter Street. He stood there staring out but not really seeing the traffic that passed or the pedestrians who ambled by on the walk.
The scene kept coming back to him—Duvall firing blindly, Ellen falling with a cry, and his own failure to do anything. The suddenness of it had caught him unaware, as it had all the others. He had seen Bushrod Aimes bring Duvall down by cracking him on the skull with a heavy lamp and had gone at once to Ellen, who was lying on her face, moaning softly. The back of her dress was soaked in blood, for the bullet had caught her in the small of the back as she had turned to run away.
There had been confusion then, and he had seen that Jake Hardin was lying on the floor, utterly still. His bloody head rested in Rachel’s lap, while she stared at him with a pale face that was wet with tears. The lieutenant who had set Duvall’s rampage off—a tall man named Smith—had gotten to his feet and walked to the carriage without help. Clay had carried Ellen to a carriage, and Vince, along with three others, had carried Jake to another.
The doctors had gone to work at once, but to those assembled in the waiting room, it seemed an eternity since they had first arrived. Once a doctor had come out to speak to the friend of Lieutenant Smith, saying, “Come along. He’s all right now. Got the bullet out without much trouble.”
Later another doctor, a younger man with a fresh round face, emerged, asking, “Who’s waiting for the head wound?”
Rachel stood up to ask, “How is he, doctor?”
“Well, we’ve got the wound all sewed up, but he hasn’t come to yet.” A frown pulled his lips down, and he shook his head doubtfully. “Bad case of concussion, I’d say.”
“But he’ll be all right, won’t he?” Amy asked.
Like all doctors, this one hated to be wrong. He figured it was better to put the worst face on a situation; then if something went wrong, there would be no way for the family to accuse. “I hope so—but you can never be sure with these cases. I’d say take him home and watch him. Keep him warm, and even if he wakes up, you make sure he stays put in bed.”
“We’ll take him with us,” Major Franklin said firmly. “Vince, let’s go get an ambulance. It’ll be easier on him.”
Amy stayed with Clay when they left, but Rachel walked out of the waiting room and caught up with the young doctor. “May I sit with him?”
“Certainly! Right this way.” He led her to a room where Jake lay in a bed, his head bandaged and his eyes closed. “Your husband?”
“Oh no!” Rachel said quickly.
The doctor gave her an odd look, then decided, Must be a sweetheart. He’ll be a lucky fella, if he lives. That’s one good-looking filly! “Just keep him warm, even if you have to use hot-water bottles,” he said, then left her.
Rachel sat down beside the bed, her face on a level with Jake’s, and stared at his profile steadily. As the time moved slowly, she thought of the first time she’d seen him, in another hospital. And she thought of how she’d cared for him, almost as if he were a baby. The memories of their time together came clearly, and looking back, she saw that she had been vulnerable with him while she thought of him as her brother. Now, though, she realized that all the time there had been something more to her feelings than sisterly concern. Something in her had responded to Jake’s masculinity, to the tenderness and closeness he had shown her. She was sure he had known that, and yet … he had not capitalized on it as some men might have done. Instead he had treated her as a sister. And a friend.
She sat there quietly, her hands clenched tightly, watching his still face. A question kept surfacing in her, formless and wordless, but insistent. It had something to do, she understood, with her feelings for the man lying there, feelings she’d never been able to express. She was a woman born to love, but never had she found a man who stirred deep emotions in her. Until she had met Jake Hardin. But her feelings for him were complicated and confusing, particularly because she’d been convinced that all her affection had been a natural outgrowth of the fact that Jake was her half brother.
But he was not her brother, and the memory of how betrayed she’d felt when she’d suddenly discovered the masquerade came to her. Now in the still darkness of the small room, looking at Jake’s face, she found herself understanding that her anger had been tied up somehow with the loss—and relief—she had felt at the discovery that this man was not her brother.
Slowly she reached out and laid her hand softly on his cheek. It was a caress, yet it was more than that. Why do I feel this pain? she cried out wordlessly. I’ve never felt this way about any man! She let her hand linger on his face, feeling the rough beard and tracing the firm line of his jaw. Then he stirred, and she quickly pulled away.
“Are you awake?” she whispered, but he kept his eyes closed, and she sat back, waiting for the ambulance.
Her life had always been full and busy, but now for some reason that wasn’t clear to her, she felt a terrible emptiness—a void that needed a fulfillment that she craved but could not even pray for—because she didn’t know what she really desired.
Back in the waiting room, Clay and Amy sat together, saying little. There was a heaviness in Clay’s expression, and when Dr. Carver came into the room, Clay got up at once and faced him. “How is she, Doctor?”
Carver, a muscular man of forty with a heavy black beard, nodded sparely. “She’s alive, Sergeant Rocklin. The bullet tore through some large muscles—but I’m afraid it touched the spine.”
“Will she be all right?”
Dr. Carver bit his full lower lip, then stroked his heavy beard before answering. “I’m concerned about the bullet. It’s too close to the spine for me to remove.”
“Can you leave it in?”
“Yes, but I must tell you, she’s got no feeling in her lower body.”
“She’s paralyzed?” Clay asked sharply.
“I’m afraid so,” Carver admitted. “It may be a temporary thing—or later we may decide to try to remove the bullet. But even if we did that, if the spine is damaged, she may be crippled permanently.” He shook his head, adding, “I wish I could give you better news.”
“May I see her?”
“She’s still groggy from the chloroform, but you can go in.” He hesitated, then said, “Let me give you one caution, Sergeant. In cases like this—I mean, if she is actually paralyzed—it’s important to be very positive. She’ll be frightened and confused. Try to encourage her all you can. She’ll need all your support.”
“Yes, Dr. Carver.” Clay nodded. “Take me to her, please.”
Amy watched as the two men left, depressed by the news. She thought of how Clay had been tied to a loveless marriage with Ellen for years. She thought of his love for Melora, understanding how empty his life was without her—and she thought of Melora’s love for Clay. Now, if Ellen was truly paralyzed, she’d be clinging to Clay like a leech, draining him of every possible ounce of strength.
Amy closed her eyes, thinking, And he’ll stay with her! Even if she turns out to be a helpless cripple, nagging at him constantly—Clay will never leave her.
It should have pleased her to know that there were men like Clay Rocklin who were faithful to their commitments—but she sat there heavyhearted, thinking of the long parade of empty years that her brother faced.
Clay found Ellen awake and almost crazy with fear. She was crying wildly, and when she saw him, she groped for his hands, crying out, “Clay! I can’t move my legs!”
“Don’t be afraid, Ellen,” he said quietly, taking her hands. “It’ll be all right.”
But she clung to him with a fierce strength, fear pouring out of her. “Clay! Help me …. I can’t move—my legs won’t work.”
He stood there trying to comfort her, to ease the fear, but she was out of control. For years she had thrust him away, but now she clung to him, gasping, “Don’t leave me! You can’t leave me, Clay!”
He stood there looking down into her face, which was contorted with fear. He had long ago lost any feelings of love for her; she had given him little choice. She had gone her own way, often with other men, a fact he well knew. Now as she clung to him, all the years of abuse and cruelty from her seemed to come back. And a harsh anger that Clay had thought long buried, even forgotten, rose within him.
Then an insidious voice, thin and small, seemed to say, If she would only die! There was a savage pleasure in the thought, and he found himself forming a picture of how it would be: I’d not have to put up with this intolerable thing any longer—and I could have Melora!
Immediately on the heels of that thought came another: Lord, forgive me! He shook his shoulders and, in a voluntary act of will, forced himself to pray for Ellen.
And then Clay Rocklin—who had risked his life in wild, bloody action on the battlefield—did the most difficult and courageous thing he’d ever done or would ever do. He leaned down and touched Ellen on the cheek, then said quietly, “I’ll never leave you, Ellen. I’ll stay with you as long as I live.”
There was nothing but an ebony sky, a total darkness without a single gleam of a star, a silent world except for thin voices that came floating over the void like the distant cries of yesterday’s ghosts. And there was no time, for there was neither sun nor moon to mark it. He felt he could have been floating through the velvet blackness for centuries, all the while that the pyramids were being put together or the great canyons of the earth were being dredged, a pebble at a time.
The voices came from time to time, and with them—at times—he felt hands touching him. One of the voices he came to know, for it came more often, and the touch that accompanied it was gentler and more soothing than the rest. There was a firmness in the touch, yet at the same time he sensed a gentleness such as he had never known.
Finally the darkness began to be broken by streaks of light that hurt his eyes, and with the light came a sense of earthiness. He felt the rough texture of a blanket against his skin, and the pungent odor of alcohol made him wrinkle his nose. A fly buzzed in his ear, lit on his cheek, then made a tickling sensation as it walked across his skin.
He lifted his hand to brush the fly away and instantly heard a voice. “Jake?” The sound of his name recalled him to the world, and he opened his eyes to see a face looming over him in the dimness cloaking the room.
“Jake? Are you awake?”
His thoughts rushed through his brain, ill assorted and without order. He knew this woman who leaned over him—yet for his life could not remember her name. It bothered him, and he licked his lips, trying to speak. The face disappeared and then came back. “Here—drink this.”
A coolness was at his lips, and he was aware of a raging thirst. Clumsily he gulped the water, knocking against the glass so that some of it spilled and ran down on his neck. When it was gone, he coughed and put his head back. As he lay there, some of the disorder resolved itself, and he waited until a name came to him.
“Rachel?” he whispered.
“Yes, Jake. It’s Rachel.” She took a cloth, dipped it into the basin of water, and bathed his face. It was cool, and her touch was soft. “How do you feel?”
There was an interval between her question and his answer, for his mind was working very slowly. “All right.” He looked around the room and then back at her, trying to think about why he was here. Finally he remembered a little of it and asked, “There was a shooting—?”
“Don’t try to remember,” Rachel said quickly. “Just lie still. It’ll all come to you soon enough.”
He found that he was very sleepy but didn’t want to go back into the darkness. Still, no matter how hard he tried, his lids closed, and he cried out, “Rachel—!” as the darkness closed in, like a dark ocean pulling him down into fearsome depths.
But she took his hand and put her lips close to his ear. “Go to sleep, Jake. Don’t worry, I’ll be right here.”
Then he felt the strength of her hands and knew that he could trust her. He smiled and called her name faintly, then dropped off into a sound, normal sleep.
When he next awoke, bright sunshine was pouring in through a window, and he heard the sound of birds chirruping. He lifted his head, which brought a stab of pain, and quickly he lay back down. Lifting his hand, he touched the bandage around his temple, and then it all came rushing back to him. He remembered Duvall’s twisted face and seeing a bullet striking a woman. He remembered moving in front of Rachel and the blow of the bullet.
The door opened, and Dee came in with a tray. She took one look at him and surprise came to her wrinkled black face. “Well! You done decided to cheat the debil, has you?” She moved across the room, put the tray down on a table, then bent over, peering into his eyes. What she saw pleased her, for she grunted with approval, then said, “I gotta go git Miz Amy. You lay right there, you heah me?”
She whirled and left, and Jake took time to inspect the room, realizing suddenly that it was the room he’d occupied when he had stayed at Lindwood during his masquerade. Then the door opened and Amy Franklin entered. She came to him at once, her eyes bright with expectation, exclaiming, “Praise the Lord! You’re all right!”
Jake nodded, which was a mistake, for the motion sent pain streaking through his head. He blinked, waited for a moment until it passed, then asked, “How long have I been here?”
“Two days,” Amy said. “You had a very bad case of concussion.” She came closer and peered into his eyes. “All clear now,” she announced. “We were very concerned for a time.” Then she asked, “Do you want anything?”
“Something to eat!”
She laughed at his urgency, turned to Dee, and said, “Make this man some strong turkey broth and some scrambled eggs.” When Dee left the room, Amy sat down beside him, a pleased look on her face. “I’ll send word to Major Franklin and the boys at once. They were all called back to duty. An emergency, I believe.”
The war seemed far away, having nothing to do with this pleasant room with the blue wallpaper covered with pictures of deer leaping over fences. Jake thought for a moment, then asked, “Who else got shot besides me?”
“A young lieutenant named Smith. He got hit in the shoulder but is doing fine.”
She hesitated, and Jake felt a jolt of fear. “Rachel! Did Rachel get hurt?”
Amy peered at him in surprise. “What a funny thing to ask! No, she’s all right. Don’t you remember her at all? Her taking care of you, I mean?”
It came back to him then, how she’d been there when he’d first come out of
the coma. Nodding, he said, “Why, yes, I remember now.”
Amy was looking at him with a puzzled expression. “You threw yourself in front of her when Duvall started firing. Do you remember that, Jake?”
He dropped his eyes but made no answer. He did remember it, but it sounded pompous to admit doing such a thing—like something out of one of those penny romance novels! Quickly he avoided the question, asking another. “Anybody else hurt?”
Amy was curious about his refusal to admit to shielding Rachel. They had all seen him do it and had tried to reason why he would do such a thing. All but Rachel, that was. She had refused to speak of it at all. Finally Vince had gotten irritated with her, saying, “Well, Rachel, if a man risks his life for you, the least you can do is seem a little grateful!”
Now, seeing Jake’s reticence to discuss his action, Amy said, “Ellen Rocklin was wounded—very seriously.”
Jake glanced at her with a question in his eyes. “Is she dying?”
“She was shot in the back. The bullet lodged near her spine, too close for the doctors to operate. She’ll live, but she’s totally paralyzed below the waist.”
He lay there for a long time, then said, “That’s a tough break. I’d rather die, I think.”
“Well, you almost did,” Amy chided gently. “One inch to the right, the doctor said, and that bullet would have killed you.” She hesitated, then said, “I must ask you, Jake—please don’t get angry with me—!”
She looked agitated, and Jake was puzzled. “Go ahead. What is it?”
“When you and Vince went in to Brother Irons when he was dying, Vince gave his heart to Christ. Jake, did anything like that happen to you?”
He saw the kindness on her face and at once said, “Yes, it did.” He lay there trying to find the words to express what had happened to him. “Ever since that moment, Mrs. Franklin, I’ve been different. Can’t really explain, but for the first time in my life, I’ve got peace. And all the time I’ve got the feeling that, well, that I’m not alone.” He looked at her, his eyes open with a hopeful expression. “Is that what it means—being a Christian?”
Three Books in One: A Covenant of Love, Gate of His Enemies, and Where Honor Dwells Page 98