Flynn’s eyes filled with compassion. He reached out and touched Steven’s shoulder. “Let me get you something for that pain.”
At that moment, Rose burst back through the door with Sheriff Callahan and Marshal Holloway fast on her heels.
It had taken hours to restore order after Steven’s attack. They’d had to move the infirmary to room six because Sheriff Callahan had deduced that the floorboards in room five were too damaged to bear weight. The floor of that room would need to be redone before she could rent it to anyone.
Steven had been tied to the bedframe, hand and foot, but with the extra dose of laudanum that Flynn had given him, he’d been mentally incapacitated since Flynn had knocked him out. For his sake that was probably a blessing, because his leg had been very badly burned.
The Christmas planning meeting downstairs had wound to a close practically before it had begun. Everyone had gone their separate way with the plan to meet back in the dining room just after breakfast hours on the morrow.
Dixie had just seen the last of them off, and now she peered around the door of room six.
Rose sat in the chair by Steven’s bed, wiping his brow with a damp cloth. Flynn stood behind her, one arm folded across his ribs while the other rested upon it. His hand tugged at the several days’ worth of stubble on his chin. The white bandage stood in stark contrast against the sun-browned skin of his neck.
Flynn looked up and met Dixie’s gaze across the room.
When she hesitated near the door, he motioned her closer.
“I need you both to know that I did everything I could to try and save him. But despite my efforts I think his time has come. He might have made it if he hadn’t exerted himself in such a manner today, and if he hadn’t gotten burned so badly. But he tore open his wound and lost a lot of blood. In his already weakened condition…I’m afraid his heart…” His hand dropped to Rose’s shoulder. “I know this has been especially hard on you.”
Dixie appreciated that he seemed to understand a little of what Rose must be going through. She herself felt only numbness. She glanced down at the lax form on the bed.
His last words had been ones of hatred and derision. He’d been so confident in his own strength. And she’d been so terrified of it. Terrified enough, even before he’d attacked Flynn, that she’d almost taken things into her own hands. She had feared that Rose was going to die, yet she had lived. She had feared that Steven was going to live and yet now, he lay on the bed, his last breaths gurgling in his throat like his soul was exerting every effort to cling to this mortal soil.
It suddenly became even more clear to her why it was so important to hope in the Lord. It was the only One who knew the end from the beginning. He was the only One who held the power to both preserve or take a life. People might plan and boastfully proclaim, yet it was the Lord who decided whether those plans and proclamations came to fruition. And if anyone left this plain before making their peace with God… Dixie shuddered to think what Steven’s destiny would be. For a life lived in rejection of God’s ways—a lifestyle that essentially shouted for God to stay out—would certainly result in God granting that wish for eternity.
She stepped to Rose’s side and took her hand. “How long does he have?”
Flynn swept a gesture of uncertainty. “Minutes. Hours, maybe. Sometimes they linger on far longer than I expect.”
In the end, it wasn’t hours. Only a few moments later, Steven’s last breath rattled past his lips and silence settled in the place of the death rattle.
Rose hitched a little gasp and covered her mouth. Dixie wrapped an arm around her. “I’m so sorry, Rose. I know this must be so hard for you. Come. You’ve been up far too long today. There’s nothing we can do for him now. Let’s get you back to your bed.”
Rose complied without resisting.
At the door, Dixie tossed a look back at Flynn, feeling bad that she was leaving him to deal with the body alone.
He gave her a nod of reassurance and waved her through the door.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Kin woke to the smell of frying corn fritters. He stretched and squinted at the window. Light barely made the pane a lighter gray than the frame around it. Yet he felt more refreshed than he had in weeks. He’d slept hard.
The first thing the parson had done when they’d arrived at the house two days ago was to start sawing boards from the old dried log that Pa had felled but never done anything with. He’d sent Kin back to town for nails and a hammer when Kin had told him he didn’t think Pa had any around. And by the time Kin had arrived back home, the parson had sawn several boards. He’d given two to Kin with instructions to make a cross while he dug Pa’s grave.
Ma’s grave lay in a nice spot under the tall cedar at the back of the property. They put Pa next to her.
The minister had dug a small hole about a foot in diameter into the frozen ground, then he’d built a fire right in that hole. He’d fed it with pine cones and dried pine branches until it was so hot that Kin had been able to feel the heat all the way across the yard where he’d been working on engraving the cross. After several minutes, the minister had put out the fire, dug out the coals and set to digging the grave again. He’d worked that way off and on for some hours. Warming the ground enough that a shovel could penetrate it until he’d gone at least a man’s height deep. Kin had finished the cross and tried to help, but mostly the minister had done the hard work. He’d said some nice words over Pa, and then they had covered him over with the cold dirt. Kin had felt a bit empty as he’d stood there looking down at the grave of his last remaining relative on earth. After a long moment, the minister had clapped him on the shoulder and gone back to cutting boards.
He’d cut until he had enough boards to cover the cracks in two of the cabin walls. Then he’d shown Kin what he wanted him to do. It had been Kin’s job to measure them to length, and overlap them on the cracks and nail them into place while the parson cut more boards for the other two walls. The parson said it was only a temporary fix, but that it should get them through the winter okay.
Kin never remembered sleeping warmer during the winter. In fact, the house was so warm at this moment that he didn’t even have need of his coat—a first, of a certainty, in December.
Kin was still sitting sleepily on the edge of his cot when the parson brought over a plate and passed it to him. Kin’s stomach rumbled loud appreciation. “Thanks,” he mumbled. If he was forced to share his cabin with the man, it at least came with some perks. The parson hadn’t stopped working since he’d set foot on the property.
Parson Clay nodded. “Figured we should eat a mite early today so we can head into town and help with the final preparations for the Christmas festival.”
Kin’s appreciation for the meal and the man’s work ethic deflated. “Don’t see how they need our help.”
Parson Clay took his own plate and sat on a log-round upended by the stove. He met Kin’s gaze across the room. “If everyone who’d been asked to help said that, where would the world be?”
Kin’s shoulders slumped. “At home curled up in their warm beds.”
Parson Clay chuckled. “Perhaps I need to aerate the section of wall near your cot again? Make it so cold in here you’ll be happy to get out of the place just to get your blood pumping.”
Kin wasn’t sure if he was serious, so he made no more comment. It had sure felt good to sleep through last night without having to get up to restock the stove. And he didn’t want to go back to the way things used to be.
The minister smiled. “I’m just having a little fun with you. How about we say grace and then after we help in town, we take a little break to do some fishing?”
Kin lifted his gaze to search the man’s face. “You mean it?”
“Of course I do. I never joke about fishing.” He winked.
Kin couldn’t help the grin that snuck onto his lips without permission. “I know a good log for grubs, even this late in the year.” He felt a little guilty for being
so excited about fishing with Pa only in the grave for a day.
“Well, good then. Looks like we’ll be all set.”
Kin pushed his guilt aside and tucked into the corn fritter and leftover baked beans with renewed zest. Looked like the day wasn’t going to be a total bust after all.
Here lies Steven Pottinger. Husband & Son. 1864-1891. Dixie stood at the foot of the first grave dug into the ground of Wyldhaven’s new church cemetery and stared at the wooden cross that someone in the town had hastily put together for them. How sad that they’d had nothing kind to say about the man.
The minister had come into town with Kin to attend Charlotte’s planning meeting, but when she and Rose had approached him, he’d gladly taken time to do the short service they’d asked of him.
Now as she watched the men laboring to return the frozen soil into the grave, Dixie guiltily considered how she’d really only asked for a service for Rose’s benefit. If it had been up to her, she would have been tempted to let the men remove his body from the boardinghouse and never think of him again.
The wind sliced down off the mountain with enough force to bring an ache to her joints. She was thankful that Rose had already returned inside at Dr. Griffin’s insistence. But once she’d arrived at the funeral, she’d found that she couldn’t bring herself to leave until the deed was fully done. So she stayed watching shovelful after shovelful tumble into the gaping earth to cover the hastily-made coffin that contained Steven’s body.
She huddled into herself, rubbing her hands up and down her arms.
Someone stepped up beside her.
She glanced over to see the minister standing next to her. His arms forming an X before him as he stood with his Bible clutched casually in his hands.
He tossed her a sideways glance. “Something seems to be troubling you, ma’am?”
She sighed, her focus wandering back to the half-filled hole. “I prayed about forgiving him, Parson. I’m just not sure I managed it before he passed.”
“I see.”
He didn’t speak for so long afterwards that Dixie was certain that was all he was going to offer about the matter. Her heart sank a little. She had failed at one of the most important tasks a Christian was charged with. To forgive as the Father in heaven had forgiven her.
Just when she’d decided she should probably get inside and see if she could still be of use to Charlotte, the minister spoke again. “Do you know what the Bible says about how God feels when it comes to sin?”
“He doesn’t like it.” Dixie braced herself for the minister to tell her that she was right and therefore God could no longer love her.
But he only nodded. “The Bible goes so far as to say God hates sin. There’s a lot of emotion behind a word like ‘hate.’ It can’t just be viewed in a glass case all on its own. It comes with baggage. And yet, when we confess our sins, the Bible says that God is faithful to forgive us those sins. I don’t believe that means God no longer hates our sin. He still hates our sin, but He chooses to see the sacrifice His son made on our behalf instead of focusing on our sin. It is the same with us. When we choose to forgive someone, we don’t lose all the emotions we had when they treated us poorly. We just choose not to hold those evil things over their head any longer. And the interesting thing is that as we choose to walk in that forgiveness, we somehow seem to lose the harsh and angry feelings as time passes as well.” He looked over at her and clapped a hand to her shoulder. “Don’t sell yourself short, Mrs. Pottinger. I believe you have forgiven the man, but don’t expect the feelings of anger and betrayal to dissipate overnight. In fact, it is only good and right that you should feel anger and betrayal, for those are the very evidence that you are indeed made in the image of your Creator. I believe you have proven your heart of forgiveness by the fact that you chose to shelter and care for your husband and treat his wounds despite all that he’d done to you.”
Dixie’s relief was so great that she literally felt her knees go slack. “Thank you for that. I do want to forgive him. I’m just not sure what to do with all the…” She spiraled her hands around over her heart as though to indicate churned up soil.
“It is never wrong to feel anger about sin. It’s how we handle that anger that so often turns into sin of its own.” Once more he settled one hand against her shoulder. “How about we let these gentlemen finish filling in this hole and you and I return inside to see if we can help Miss Brindle with her Christmas festival?”
“Yes. I would like that. Thank you.” They started back toward the boardinghouse before Dixie remembered to say, “And thank you for taking care of Kin. He’s a bit of a mischief-maker, but he’s near and dear to all our hearts ’round these parts.”
Parson Clay cleared his throat. “Yes. Well… I know a whole lot more about being a big brother than I do about being a father, but I’m happy to try and guide him a little. I lost my own pa when I was just seventeen, so I know something of what he’s going through.”
“Well, he’s blessed to have you.” Dixie hefted her skirts, since they were close to the boardinghouse now. “If you’ll excuse me. I’m just going to go in the back door and bring coffee in to the dining room for the meeting.”
The parson tipped her his hat, and they parted ways.
Dixie had been in the kitchen only long enough to get coffee grounds and water added to the coffee pot and was just setting it on the stove when Flynn stepped in through the dining room door.
He had his hat in his hands and a searching look in his eyes. “You doing okay?”
She took in the rigid planes of his face that were currently softened in concern for her. The gentle hazel-blue of his eyes lured her like a magnet. But then her gaze dipped to the small white bandage against his throat, and her heartrate was suddenly tripping along at a pace much faster than its norm.
“Yes. Thank you. I’m fine.” She spun toward the wood bin and took up two pine logs that would burn hot and fast so the coffee would heat quickly. For the first time ever there was nothing preventing her from exploring her feelings about one Doctor Flynn Griffin, and she wasn’t sure how she felt about that. It thrilled her. It terrified her. It made her want to sing at the top of her voice so the whole world could hear. And it made her want to run to her room and hide beneath the covers, never to come out again.
A vision of the blood that had trickled down Flynn’s throat when Steven had hold of him made her hands tremble.
She tugged open the stove door and shoved the chunks of wood inside.
“Dixie…” His voice was gentle and coaxing. “This is me you’re talking to.”
The stove door clunked shut, but she used the excuse of arranging cream and sugar and mugs on a tray to keep her back to him. She waved a hand over her shoulder. “The past few days have been…a little trying is all. I’ll be fine in a day or two. How was Rose when you got her inside?”
She heard a soft breath puff from him. “I was a little concerned with her inhaling such cold air when she’s just getting past this pneumonia, but she seemed to be breathing just fine, even with the stairs. She’s up in her chambers, resting.”
“Yes. Thank you for insisting she come inside. I was concerned about her as well.” She closed her eyes, but all she could see were flames leaping up to consume Steven’s leg, and Flynn battling him to be able to put them out. What if Flynn had been severely wounded also?
She spun to face him and gasped to find him standing so close that her arm had brushed against him as she turned. Her hands moved of their own accord—one to rest against his chest, the other to touch the bandage at Flynn’s throat. “I’m so sorry.” Unaccountable tears blurred her vision. “All of this was my fault. If I hadn’t run—”
“Don’t.” The word was hard and short.
She lifted her gaze to his. He was so close that she could see the amber flecks in his blue eyes. Feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath her hand. “But—”
He shook his head and tossed his Stetson down on the table next to them.
“Not another word. None of this was your fault.” He pulled her gently toward him until her head rested against his chest and his chin rested atop her head. “You had every good reason to run from a man such as that.”
She closed her eyes and simply relished the feel of his arms, warm around her. His breathing, soft and sibilant beneath her ear. And never in all her days did she remember ever feeling so safe and comforted.
He was here. He was safe. And she was safe, truly safe, for the first time in many years.
She released a sigh along with a silent prayer.
Thank you, Jesus.
But she had to know… She hadn’t yet had opportunity to find out how Steven had been able to take him captive. “Tell me what happened up there?”
Flynn released a short breath. “I was shocked he had the strength for it. One moment he was lying there all still and quiet. I had just examined his wound and noticed that the infection was spreading. When I turned to reach for the carbolic acid, he leapt from the bed with that pocket knife in his hand and demanded that Rose go and fetch you.”
Dixie felt a shudder slip through her. “If something had happened to you…”
“But it didn’t. Nothing happened to me other than a little scratch. I’ll be good as new in just a day or so.”
“I can’t believe he’s gone. It feels strange not to have the fear of him hanging over me.”
Flynn just held her for a long moment more. But after a while he spoke and there was a note of tension in his tone. “And now that he’s gone? Is there any hope for us?”
Feeling suddenly shy about standing in the circle of his arms, Dixie eased back. She’d meant to go for the coffee, but managed to pull away only far enough to smooth at a couple wrinkles on his shirt front. “Flynn, I… You are… What I’m trying to say is, I need a little time, but if you’ll wait for me…” She felt as though all the happiness of her future hung on his answer.
On Eagles' Wings (Wyldhaven Book 2) Page 22