The Homecoming

by Raine Cantrell

  In the following hours Matt couldn’t tell where or how they rode. He vaguely recalled whiskey that revived him. Then the incredible agony of someone probing his side, whispers that made no sense, hands forcing him to hold still.

  New pain erupted until all of it melded one into the other. Tears sprang to his eyes. He tasted blood from where he had bitten his lip. He had thought he was hurting, now he thought he was dying. Whiskey fumes hit his nose at the same time liquor sloshed over his wound.

  He passed out.

  “Thank the Lord for small mercies,” Robert whispered. He had to slit open the skin on Matt’s back to remove the bullet pressing there. He cut up his one good, clean shirt and used it to make pads and bindings.

  “Should’ve had hot water. And soap. Sulphur. There. I’ve done what I can. Pray he doesn’t take wound fever.”

  “Can he ride?” Law demanded, knowing he sounded cold and uncaring. But he needed to know. He had that strong hunted feeling that had never failed him.

  “Not through the swamp, if that’s what you’re thinking. He won’t survive a dousing in that water.”

  “Men got away. They’ll be hunting us.”

  “Nothing new, Law.”

  Robert didn’t reply or add to his brother’s remark. He was angry at the thought of running and hiding, adding risk to Matt’s life. It was the reason they didn’t build a fire. The pine knot Law found had been lit just long enough for him to cut, then was buried. He had to do everything else by feel alone.

  “We’ll take turns riding double with Matt. And watch.”

  They headed west to cross the Sabine River, had to circle wide of both Cedar Bend and the settlement to avoid parties of men hunting them. It was late afternoon when they made their way into a thick corpse of trees. The horses were sweat lathered, as beat as they were. They had pushed hard to avoid being seen. But now they had to double back to get across the Angelina River to get to Laine’s.

  Robert untied the gag he had put on Matt. Every jar of their ride brought forth a groan. He gave him small sips of water from his canteen. He felt Matt’s fever building and he was worried.

  “We could split up, Law. You and Aaron ride ahead to get Billy. I’ll make my way with Matt.”

  “No. We stay together. You can’t ride double, lead his horse, and fight if need be. Let’s get what rest we can. I sure wish we could have a fire. Coffee would taste mighty fine.”

  But even rest was denied them as within the hour it began to rain.

  Laine spent the day trying to amuse two young boys that hated being confined. Cards, checkers, marbles, word games and storytelling. She missed their library of books to read. Rachel grew cranky, complaining she could not bake. The damp seemed to permeate everything. Thankfully the cabin roof didn’t leak. She gave the boys half a stick each of the candy she had bought the day Matt came home.

  Matt. Where was he? She opened the front shutter to look out. It wasn’t a thunder and lightning storm or the start and stop shower. This began as a hard, steady rain and remained a continuous downpour. The lake and bayou would be rising. Another worry. If the water became too deep, the safe path would be lost until the water receded.

  She closed and barred the shutter glancing at the dog. At least he didn’t create problems if she ignored the spray of water he shook around when he came inside.

  The boys were in Tater’s room, Rachel sewing by lantern light in hers. Laine wished she could retreat to her room, close the door and either bury her face in her pillow to cry, or have what Mama called a hissy fit.

  Laine used the iron hook to pull the kettle back from the coals. The delicious aroma of the slow-cooked stew filled the air. She gave a few quick stirs but had little appetite.

  Usually she conceded to Rachel’s wisdom about it being too damp to bake. But she had to do something. She could fry pan bread.

  From the crock of bacon drippings she took a few spoonsful and put them in the cast-iron frying pan. Setting that on the coals to melt and heat, she made a quick mix of flour, cornmeal, baking powder and salt. To this she added half a cup of condensed milk and half of water. The condensed milk was sweet, thick and creamy, so she worked out her frustration of waiting and worrying by beating vigorously.

  When she poured the batter into the sizzling pan it rose up to the top edge, threatening to overflow. Laine realized she might have overdone the beating. She watched, but the batter neither overflowed nor did it subside. The center peaked in a rounded dome. She’d never seen the like.

  “I smelled the bacon grease,” said Rachel, coming to stand near the fireplace. “What is that?”

  “Sort of a cornmeal flour fry bread.”

  “It looks like cake.”

  “Don’t be miffed. I needed something to do. If it’s good we can say you made it. And if not, what the hell, I’ll take the blame.”

  “Laine, you said hell.”

  “Keep your voice down. Yes, I said it. If I knew how, I’d cuss up a storm to rival what’s outside.”

  “What in tarnation got into you?”

  “It’s the waiting. It’s not knowing what happened.” Laine rubbed her upper arms. “Or what will happen.”

  “I always admired you for being so strong, so darn cheerful that I couldn’t hope to measure up to you.”

  “Stop! Stop right now. I’m not. I get scared. I wake in the night worrying about what will become of us.”

  Rachel hugged her. “Don’t cry, Laine. Please don’t. Matt will be all right. We’ll be fine.” She patted her back, undone by seeing her unflappable sister falling apart.

  “Come sit down, Laine. I’ll make us some tea. Nice warm mint tea.”

  Laine sat. “Rachel you will make a fine wife and mother, always ready to spread comfort.”

  Rachel banged the kettle of water on the fire, sending sparks flying up the chimney. “Fat chance of that happening if we stay here.”

  “This is what we have for a home.” Laine couldn’t summon anger. Her outburst left her drained.

  “Haven’t you ever thought about leaving?”

  “Leaving here?”

  “Not just the cabin and land, but this part of Texas.” Rachel kept her back toward her sister.

  “I want to live where there are neighbors. I want to go to town and not be afraid. I miss going to church on a Sunday, getting dressed up, bringing something I baked for the social afterward. I long to be with girls my own age. Giggling and whispering because some boy smiled at me. I just want more. And I feel smothered. I want to be more of a help to you. I can earn money taking in sewing. But you make every decision for us. How am I going to learn without making my own mistakes?” she finished on a half sob.

  Laine grabbed the edge of the table, half rising from her chair.

  “Sit down, Laine. I’m fine. Tea’s almost ready.”

  “I had no idea you felt this way. You’ve never said a word. Why is that?”

  “You have more than enough to worry you without me adding to it. I don’t want you thinking I’m ungrateful for all you have done and still do. I’m not. I love you, sister. But, Laine, can you say you never once thought about having more than the thicket, swamp and bayou? Or never having to wear a gun all the time?” Rachel set two cups on the table.

  “I have.” It wasn’t in Laine to lie. “This is a terrible time. But it will pass, just like the war did. We can endure and survive.”

  “To me it’s one and the same.” Rachel sat down and cradled her cup. Her gaze met her sister’s, level and direct.

  Inwardly, Laine braced herself.

  “What about Matt? He can’t stay here. You said so yourself.”

  “What he decides to do is his business.”

  “Laine,” she warned. “You can’t lie to yourself or me and say there aren’t feelings between you. I believe you have carried a tendre for him forever.”

  “Believe what you want. And when did you get all grown up?”

&nbs
p; “Last year when that man attacked me.”

  “Rachel, don’t remember.” Laine cupped her hands around her sister’s.

  “I wish I could forget. My regret is that I never saw his face. Not knowing plagues me.”

  “You know my suspicion of who it is.”

  “I want proof. I want to shoot him myself.”

  “Who you gonna shoot, Rachel?” Tater asked.

  “Can’t you make noise when you come into a room and not fright a body!”

  “Our boots are still wet, so we’re barefoot,” Tater explained.

  “Something sure smells good,” Billy said.

  “You baked,” Tater accused. “An’ after all that fussing that you couldn’t.”

  “I did not fuss,” Rachel replied in a huff.

  Laine remained silent. She was disturbed by her sister’s revelations that the growing excited voices of the boys didn’t penetrate. It took Tater standing beside her, touching her shoulder and holding out her gun to make her shake off her dark thoughts.

  “Horses, Laine. Right outside. But Capt. Tate ain’t barking.”

  “Matt.” His name fell from her lips more mouthed than spoken.

  Someone called out. The hard rain distorted the voice. She was sure it was not Matt’s.

  “Tater, help Rachel unbar the door. The three of you stand out of the way.” She pointed the gun at the floor, pulled the trigger on the empty chamber, and nodded. It was an annoying safety measure, but with a young, too-curious boy in the house, it was a practice she followed.

  With the bar set aside, and the door flung open, Laine stood ready to fire.

  Into the doorway came Law, drenched from the rain-laden night. Behind him crowded three men. She searched the faces of the two she could see and recognized the Owens brothers. Law stepped forward, blocking her view of the middle man.

  “Could you point that somewhere else? I’ve had a bellyful of being shot at.”

  “Oh, Lord.” Laine lowered the gun, opened the loading cylinder, turned it until she found the empty chamber. A dread began unfurling inside her. She snapped the cylinder in place and set the gun on the mantle.

  “You’re all soaked. I’ll build up the fire, get you blankets, make coffee.” The words gushed forth, for dread bloomed into fear.

  “Did you find my folks?” Billy demanded.

  Tater stood shoulder to shoulder beside Billy and stared at Law.

  “Your mother can’t wait to see you. I’m going to take you to her.”

  “Not right this minute, Law. You need to get out of those wet clothes or you’ll catch your death.”

  “Laine, I …”

  “Say it.” She looked at his face, water dripping from his hat until he appeared to be crying. She tried to peer around him, nearly unable to breathe. “Damn you, Law, just tell me!”

  “Matt’s been shot. The bullet’s out, but he’s got a fever.” Robert’s calm delivery released everyone.

  Rachel ran to get the lanterns from her room and bring them into Laine’s. “Bring him back here,” she called out as she hurried to turn down the bed.

  Robert and Aaron half carried, half dragged Matt into the room.

  “We will do what is needful, Miz Rachel,” Robert told her.

  “What else do you need?”

  “Clean cloths, hot water, strong soap. He needs a tisane of—what herbs do you have?”

  “Rosemary, parsley, sage, thyme and mint.” Her brow creased in a frown as she averted her gaze from where Aaron stripped off Matt’s sodden clothes. “I know mint can work for fever.”

  “Add sage.”

  Rachel closed the door behind her, and came face to face with Laine. “Wait. They’re undressing him. Law could use that blanket you’re clutching. Robert wants a tisane made. And I’ll bet they are all hungry, too.”

  “How badly is he hurt?”

  “I don’t know. I couldn’t … I didn’t look at him.”

  “I knew. I knew something was wrong. I could feel it.”

  Rachel gently backed her sister down the short hall. “We need hot water, clean cloths and soap. Help me get those things ready, Laine. We’ll all help Matt get well.”

  “I am not going to fall into a puddle and weep. The water’s on the fire. The blanket is for the brothers. It is the only spare. And I’m here because Law is stripping his wet clothes in front of the fire. He can wrap himself in Tater’s blanket. And the damn rain isn’t stopping.”

  They could hear the rise and fall of the boys’ voices peppering Law with questions. Then he called out he was decent. Laine spun around and, with Rachel close behind, went to get things ready for Robert.

  Law had seated himself and fashioned a toga that left one shoulder and his arms bare. She caught a glimpse of bare legs and feet beneath the table. It was a sight to smile at, but she couldn’t summon one.

  “You boys sit and eat with Law. We’ll need to take turns.” She watched Rachel move their clothing to one peg and put Law’s on the others. She should have wrung them out first. Laine never voiced the thought.

  “Tater, put the big trivet on the table,” Laine ordered.

  Listening for Robert or Aaron to tell her she could see Matt, Laine dished up bowls of stew, then brought the fry pan to the table. She retrieved a knife, told them to help themselves. She wanted to rant at her efficient sister, who already had soap and cloths in a basin along with a pail of hot water. She was measuring dried sage and mint into a small piece of muslin. Neatly tying the corners, she put that along with a dipper full of boiling water into a thick mug to seep. She knew Rachel was only trying to help, and this swell of resentment was so unlike Laine that she didn’t know where it came from, or what to do with it.

  “Rachel, this bread is sweet.”

  “Laine made it.”

  “Well it’s good, but sweet.”

  “Then you won’t need honey or jam, Tater.”

  “The rain’s addled your wits. I can always eat jam and honey. Billy, too. Bet even Law will like some.”

  “Help yourself.” Laine winced to hear herself. She had been raised in the gracious manner of a lady to oversee every need and want of family and guests. Mentally she shrugged off the criticism. Times changed. She had changed.

  She wrapped a thick cloth around the kettle’s handle and lifted it. “Go first, Rachel.” Laine made an effort to wrap her emotions just as tight.

  Aaron opened the door for them. He let Rachel pass, then tried to take the kettle from Laine.

  “Go join Law. There’s a blanket warming by the fire. And food. The coffee should be ready, too.”

  Laine set the kettle on the floor by her dresser. She opened the top drawer, cleared a space, then placed her few belongings inside. Rachel set down the basin and the mug.

  “Get another lantern, Rachel. And take that damp blanket to dry by the fire.” She looked around at the side table, the straight chair, but not the bed. Not at Matt.

  Rachel left. Laine found the courage to look at Robert. “I need you to tell me the truth.” She had remembered that Robert had been in England studying medicine when word of the war brought him home.

  “Don’t make a bugbear for yourself,” he warned. “He’s young, healthy, and strong.” He filled the basin and started to wash his hands with the strong lye soap. “We had no fire, no hot water. But the bullet had to come out. So he’s got two open wounds. It’s too late to stitch them. I could only wash them with whiskey. Not the best to use, but all we had. The fever means there’s some infection. It’s troublesome. Good care, rest, and lots of fluids will see him on the mend.” He looked around for a place to spill out the basin.

  “You’re exhausted and wet, Robert.” Laine took the basin, flung open the shutter, and tossed the contents out. She inhaled a deep, cleansing breath of rain-cooled air.

  Blindly, she handed the basin back to him. Her control slipped. She couldn’t avoid seeing Matt. Standing by the bed, she had
to lock her knees together to remain on her feet.

  The soft glow from the lantern gilded Matt’s face. He appeared ravaged. Beneath the dark beard stubble, fever flush stood out starkly against his skin. She smoothed the dark, lank unruly hair from his forehead. His flesh was hot and dry. His shallow breathing filled her ears, the sting of tears blinked back before they fell.

  “Miz Laine, you don’t need to stay.”

  “Yes, I do. I must.”

  Robert took her at her word and told her what he wanted done to start.

  Laine steeled herself as he drew the quilt and the sheet down to Matt’s bare hips. She should be embarrassed to be exposed to the nudity of a man. But Robert could think what he liked. Her gaze targeted the raw wound in Matt’s side. Robert rolled him to his good side, and she slipped a folded pad beneath him.

  Matt, oh Matt, she cried out in her mind. My brave and too reckless man. What have they done to you?

  Both wounds wept blood. She thought Robert too rough as he washed them. The strong smell of lye soap was taken in every drawn breath. He scrubbed briefly at a raw spot on Matt’s shoulder.

  “Just a skin graze. I’ll be right back.”

  She barely heard him. Matt was moaning. She longed to touch him, to comfort him and herself, but was afraid to. He lay there so helpless, it was nearly impossible to reconcile him to the vibrantly alive man she knew.

  When Robert returned, she gasped at the red-hot blade he held. His brother, similarly draped as Law was, joined him at the bedside. Then Law entered and stood at the foot of the bed.

  “Leave, Miz Laine. This won’t take long, but it’s not pretty.”

  “You’re going to cauterize the wounds.” It sounded like a horrible accusation. But it was horrible.

  “I told you it’s too late to stitch them. This will close the wounds to stop the bleeding.” He motioned to the others as to where he wanted them to hold Matt.

  Laine was forced to step aside to make room. She lifted the lantern from the side table to give him more light. With her back pressed against the wall, she held her hand over her mouth.

  Law held his legs, Aaron his shoulders. Robert worked quickly, sealing first Matt’s back and then his side.