Genieva was overcome by the floating feeling of being in the water—of being held by Brevan and kissed by him.
Moments later, as she stood waist deep in the pond watching him retrieve his boots from the shore, he said, “Ya see, lass…it’s not worth wastin’ time wonderin’ about, is it?”
“No,” she answered flatly. Yet, as she watched him saunter away toward the house, she could only long, in vain, to feel his lips meet hers again.
As she stood at the pond’s shore fastening the waist of her skirt, Genieva glanced toward the orchard—and saw him. There among the trees, sitting on a tall bay horse, was a dark-haired man with a heavy mustache—a sombrero hanging at his back. His manner of dress indicated he was obviously a native of Mexico. His physical features were striking—Genieva noted he could be considered mildly attractive. The man smiled broadly, nodding his head in Genieva’s direction as he rested his arms on the horn of his saddle. He stared at her—brazenly.
Genieva, instantly aware of her previous state of indecency, picked up her boots and turned, walking briskly toward the house. It wasn’t until she felt she was a safe distance from him that she turned to look for the man again. He was gone. The orchard was empty once more.
Entering the house, she gasped as Brevan unexpectedly stepped in front of her, fastening a pair of dry trousers.
He chuckled as he looked down at her and muttered, “Yar smaller even yet when yar drippin’ wet.”
“Well, I do wish you would forewarn me of your lecherous friends lurking about in the orchard before you dunk me in the water. He just sat there on his horse watching me like there was nothing at all wrong with it!” Genieva scolded—embarrassed by the way Brevan himself so thoroughly studied her.
“What? Who was watchin’ ya?” he demanded, taking her shoulders roughly between his hands.
Genieva was terribly unnerved by the expression of rising concern on his handsome face.
“A…a man,” she stammered. “He rode a bay horse and…and had black hair…a mustache.” She paused, speaking her thoughts aloud. “Oh. Is he a friend of Lita’s then?”
“Where in the orchard?” Brevan growled.
“Near the pond. But he’s long gone now, Brevan. Why are you…?” she began.
Brevan bolted past her and out the door. She turned to see him in a dead run toward the orchard.
Genieva was sitting in her bedroom brushing out her wet and matted hair when he returned some time later.
Bursting in upon her, he asked, “Ya’ve never before seen that man, have ya, lass?”
“No,” Genieva answered. As she looked up to him, she had the overwhelming desire to cup his face in her hands—to soothe the frown on his brow. “Why?”
“If ya ever be seein’ him again, ya tell me the minute ya’re away from him.”
“Is...is he an undesirable? A criminal?”
Brevan threw his head back in a sudden, rather boisterous laugh. “Yes and no. Not literally a criminal…yet.”
“Who is he?” Genieva ventured.
“Never ya mind who he is. It doesn’t matter. Just keep out of his way, and let me know if ya ever see him again,” Brevan commanded. Looking around at the floor, he ran his fingers through his hair with obvious frustration. “I’ve wasted the whole afternoon, I have. Bein’ silly and chasin’ idiots,” he grumbled as he turned and left.
Genieva’s mind was taxed for the remainder of the afternoon and long after dusk. When Brevan finally returned from choring, he appeared to be even more tired than usual and hardly touched his supper. He said very little and went directly to bed when he’d finished eating.
Once Genieva had finished cleaning up after the meal, she stood at his door for a moment and listened. She heard not a sound and assumed he was already asleep. Going to the hook behind her bedroom door and retrieving her shawl, she looked at the clock on the fireplace mantel. It was only 7:30, she noted. Surely Brenna would still be awake. She quietly left the house, intent on discussing the day with her friend.
Brenna’s face went ashen as Genieva told her about the man in the orchard. Genieva knew that, when Brenna finally had regained her composure and commented on the incident, she was hiding something. Brenna held knowledge she was plainly afraid to reveal.
“I...I’m not sure who it was, Genieva,” Brenna stammered. “There are many, many families from Mexico in the area. It could’ve been one of any number of vaqueros workin’ or livin’ nearby.”
“Brevan seemed to know who it was…specifically,” Genieva urged.
Brenna tossed her head and sighed with feigned indifference. “Well, it’s hard to say. Brian said he came upon the two of ya wrestlin’ about somethin’ fierce today.” It was apparent Brenna did not want to be hounded about the matter. Genieva would respect her friend’s desires for privacy.
“He kept digging his fingers into my batter,” Genieva explained. “Not once…but again and again.”
Brenna laughed. “He’s terrible with batters and doughs, he is. Can’t keep from them. Don’t be too hard on him though, Genieva. It’s one of the few weaknesses he has that he lets us see plainly.”
Brenna and Genieva both turned then to see Brevan storming into the room—his fierce stare affixed solidly to Genieva’s bluish-tinged eyes.
“I’ll put you to sleepin’ with me if I can’t trust ya to stay in at the late hours, I will!”
“What?” Genieva mumbled. “I only came to visit with…”
“Ya didn’t have the consideration to let me know ya were goin’! Ya’ve scared the life out of me, ya have!” he bellowed.
“She’s only come for a visit, Brevan,” Brenna explained.
“And I was supposed to know that by readin’ her mind, I guess. ’Tis not a night that ya should be wanderin’ about alone, lass.” His voice had calmed—but Genieva sensed the residue of some form of fear in him.
Genieva looked from Brevan to Brenna—who dropped her gaze to the floor.
“Why not?” she asked. “I’ve come alone other times.”
“I’m...I’m uncertain who it was that ya were seein’ in the orchard today. But I’m fairly certain of what ranch he’s from, and I’m not sure it’s wise for ya to be out alone after dark,” Brevan explained. Genieva knew he held information in secret still. He wasn’t trying to frighten her, she knew. Yet she was frightened.
“All right,” she agreed simply. “I’ll be more thoughtful before I go out alone at night if you think it’s necessary.”
Brevan sighed and smiled slightly. “Good. Then let’s be gettin’ back. I’m tired this night.”
Brevan was unusually talkative on the walk home. His babble was almost constant and bounced erratically from one subject to the next without ever touching once on the man in the orchard.
That night, as she lay in bed, Genieva’s sense of security was breached by the realization of Brevan’s uneasiness—never to be entirely intact again.
Chapter Five
The next afternoon was pleasant in its comfortable warmth. Genieva buried her face in the freshly sun-dried sheet before tossing it into the bushel basket at her side. She loved the smell of clean laundry fresh off the line. Caring for the laundry was somewhat relaxing—for it was practically the easiest responsibility she had on Brevan’s farm. The warm sun and slight breezes had dried the bedding quickly, and Genieva intended to hang some other clothes out before the sun began to set. As she reached to remove another sheet from the line, she couldn’t keep her gaze from wandering to where Brevan was working in the field—he’d been plowing all day.
Brevan and the team of black mules had created quite an impressive number of straight, even furrows. The field, intended for corn, was nearly ready for planting. Brevan had told Genieva he planned to start the planting the very next day. Genieva watched him for a few moments, marveling at the strength it would take to work so physically hard for such long hours. He was a determined man, and the profound determination in him was admirable
. As Genieva continued to watch him plow, it appeared as if the mules were having some difficulty, for the animals halted abruptly. After snapping the leather at their backs several times and finding the command a vain attempt, Brevan slipped the lines from around his shoulder and released the plow as he walked forward to investigate. Hunkering down, he studied the ground in front of the plow for a moment. Genieva saw him reach down and unearth a large clump of roots. She smiled to herself as she watched the magnificent man—he was truly unlike any other man she’d ever known.
As Brevan reached down to pull at another clump of undesirable substance, the unexpected repeat of a shotgun somewhere near spooked the animals, and the team bolted forward. In their startled state, the mule team took no notice of their master. Genieva watched, horrified, as the plow, still connected to the animals by the whippletree, tipped forward, knocking Brevan to the ground. From where she stood, Genieva could see the sharp blade of the plow being pulled behind the team slide over Brevan’s body as he lay in its path. He shouted—an indication of extreme pain. Genieva dropped the sheet she had been holding and ran to him.
The sight meeting Genieva’s eyes upon reaching Brevan was terrifying! There he lay—facedown in the soil. The back of his shirt was already saturated with bright red blood—spilling from a wound some six inches long, running vertically down the right side of his back.
Dropping to her knees beside him, Genieva cried, “Brevan!” as her hands flew to her mouth in panic.
A painful grimace constricted his face, and he panted as he said, “Quickly, lass. Get me to the house, now.” As his powerful arms raised his hulking body, he added, “Hold the mess together with your hand, Genieva. I can feel that it’s deep.”
“I-I-I don’t know what you mean?” she stammered. Her own body was shaking with anxiety and horror.
“Pinch the wound closed with yar fingers, lass!” he shouted, as he staggered to his feet. “I’ve no hands growin’ out of me back, now have I?”
Before that moment, Genieva had always thought herself far from squeamish. The sight of blood had never weakened her stomach or knees before. But this was Brevan’s blood running in crimson streams down his back—Brevan’s flesh mangled before her!
“I-I don’t think I…” she began.
Brevan took hold of her wrist, demanding, “Pinch it closed now, Genieva McLean, and help me into the house.”
When he’d released his hold on her, she watched as her own hand took the wounded flesh of his back in a firm fisted hold. Blood immediately seeped through her fingers and began running down her forearm. As Brevan stumbled toward the house, the warm blood tracked red rivulets down Genieva’s own arm. It quickly began dripping from her elbow to the ground, leaving a trail in the soil as they went.
“I’ll get you into the house—then I’ll get Brenna. She’ll know what to do,” Genieva said.
“I know what to do, Genieva. You can dress the wound yarself, ya can,” he groaned as he stumbled momentarily.
“Me?” Genieva choked. “I’ve never had to…”
“Well then, lass…there be a first time for everythin’, they say.”
When they had entered the house, Brevan immediately began ordering Genieva about. This time, however, she did as he directed—for she knew she needed his strong, commanding manner in those moments.
“Quickly, lass. Light the stove aflame, and get some water to boilin’. Needle and thread are in me mother’s old sewin’ basket in the spare room. Boil the needle and thread in the water while ya be cleanin’ this mess up,” he ordered, as he groaned between breaths.
“Needle. Thread,” Genieva muttered anxiously as she sought the items after setting a pot of water on the stove. “Boil them in the water,” she continued to mutter to herself, returning to the kitchen and dropping the items into the pot of water. But as she realized why Brevan had ordered her to boil the needle and thread, what little pretty pink coloring remained in her lovely face left it completely, and she stared at him in horror. “You want me to…to sew it up?” she squeaked.
“How else would ya be thinkin’ it’s meant to heal, Genieva?” he growled. “Now, wipe this mess from the cut, and make certain it’s stopped runnin’ blood.” He closed his eyes tightly and ground his teeth. Genieva knew he must be enduring excruciating pain.
“I’ll fetch Brenna, Brevan. She will be able to deal with this much better than I can. I’ll be back as soon as possible,” Genieva said as she lunged toward the door. Brevan caught hold of her wrist, however.
“Ya’re me wife, Genieva. Ya’re responsible for carin’ for me as I am for you. Ya let that water boil for five minutes, and then ya stitch this cut closed and put me to me bed. Better get used to the harsh life we’re livin’ out here. Else ya’ll not make it to yar twenty-first birthday,” he growled. The pain inflicted on his wounded body was dreadfully evident on his face as he scowled. Taking a deep breath, and swallowing the thick lump of fear in her throat, Genieva pushed his hand from her wrist. Hurrying to the cabinet, she fetched a clean cloth with which to wash the wound.
Her hands trembled, near to uncontrollably, five minutes later as she endeavored to thread the needle with the wet, sterilized thread.
“All right, all right,” she soothed herself as she knotted the thread and turned to face Brevan.
“Just pinch it together and sew it closed,” Brevan instructed as he turned away from her. “Neat and tidy is not what ya’re strivin’ for, Genieva.”
“Brevan,” she began. “I-I don’t think I can do this. It’s going to hurt you so.”
“Genieva…I need to get to restin’ up. The plantin’ won’t wait, and I’ve got to finish that field. Sew the vile thing shut so I can get to me bed!” he growled.
Genieva knew the wound pained him unmercifully. Thus, as tears flooded her cheeks, she pinched the large laceration together and began to stitch it. Brevan only flinched once—the first time she pricked his tender flesh with the needle. It was a horrible task to perform, and she wondered how physicians tolerated such things.
It was not a pretty sight she studied when she’d finished the stitching of Brevan’s flesh. She could only bring herself to initiate twelve large stitches—stitches that were too far apart—but it was all she could do. The bleeding had slowed, and she washed the area once more.
As she helped Brevan stand, she was immediately frightened at the pallid tinge and weariness of his face.
“Put me to bed, and leave me be. I’ll be fine in the mornin’, I will,” he assured her. “Ya cleaned it good didn’t ya, lass?”
“Yes,” she answered as she helped him down the hallway to his room.
“Me arms are weak, Genieva. Help me now,” he instructed. “I don’t think I can be takin’ me boots off me own self.”
“Sit down, Brevan. I’ll do it,” she affirmed. He sat down on his bed, wincing as he did so. Genieva struggled with his boots but was able to remove them.
“Thank ya, Genieva,” he muttered. His eyes were already closing, worn with fatigue.
“You’ll sleep better without your socks and…and trousers, Brevan,” Genieva reminded him.
“Fine then, lass. Take them off as well. Strip me naked if ya must—just let me rest.” His voice was filled with frustration and fatigue.
Genieva removed his socks and settled for loosening the buttons of his trousers. She helped him to lie as comfortably as he could on his stomach. He was sleeping before she even left the room.
“What frightened the mules?” she asked herself aloud as she sat at the table in the kitchen with a glass of refreshing water after having sponged Brevan’s blood from nearly every surface in the room. She was sure she had heard a gunshot. It had been close too. But Brian and Travis never hunted close to the houses.
“What’s goin’ on, Brevan?” Brian shouted as he stormed into the house.
“Shhh!” Genieva shushed him. “He’s resting.” How relieved she was for dear Brian. He would know what to do—she was certain.
“Resting? His idiot mules just came tearin’ through me strawberry patch, Genieva! The plow they were draggin’ behind them destroyed half of it, it did! And he’s restin’?” Brian started for the hallway, but Genieva stood, stalling him.
“There’s been an accident, Brian. Brevan bent down to clear the path for the plow, and a gunshot frightened the team, and they bolted. They pulled the plow with them as they went, and it cut Brevan’s back so badly that I can hardly imagine a man living through such an injury! I was afraid to leave him here alone to go for help. I didn’t even think about the team being loose.”
“Well take me to him, Genieva! Is he well? Did you tend to the wound?” Brian asked, his anger turning to deep concern as they made their way to where Brevan lay.
“I did the best I could, Brian,” Genieva said, as she removed the light sheet she had placed over Brevan. Immediately the tears streamed down her cheeks once more at the sight of the blood-saturated cloth she had laid over the wound to protect it.
“St. Patrick’s snakes a slitherin’!” Brian exclaimed, astonished at the severity of the wound as he gazed down at it. “Is he breathin’ still, Genieva?”
“He’s sleeping. He seems to be…” she began.
“Such a wound, lass! Such a deep and painful wound.” Reaching down, Brian affectionately squeezed one of Brevan’s hands lying on his pillow near his head. “Ya watch him close, Genieva. Infection could kill him.”
The Heavenly Surrender Page 8