by Sweet Annie
Spring arrived, and with it a new burst of energy and a renewed vitality. In April, the snow melted and rushed down the mountains, spilling over the creek beds and the riverbanks and turning grass and trees green. Mares foaled and Luke seemed to always be with the horses.
Annie had sewn an entire wardrobe of tiny gowns, hats, blankets and flannels for their baby, lovingly pressed each item and packed all between dried rose petals in a trunk.
Luke bought a cradle and brought it home to her one evening. She sat down in her chair and cried.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, concern etching his lean features. He knelt in front of her.
“You’re so tired,” she said, touching his face. “And I’m so—fat.”
He chuckled. “You’re not fat. You’re carrying a baby, there’s a difference.”
“But I’m clumsier than ever. You must see that.”
“No, I don’t,” he denied. “You’re beautiful.”
She smiled at him through her nonsensical tears. “It’s been a hard winter, hasn’t it?”
He shrugged. “We’ve paid our bank notes each month. We haven’t lost an animal, and we’re going to have stock to sell this summer. I knew it wouldn’t be easy at first. We both did.”
She sighed. “I know. I’m just being a silly woman.”
He kissed her. “I need a bath, you silly woman. How about helping me heat some water?”
She did, pouring warm water over him as he sat in the copper tub in the kitchen. She took the soap and cloth and caressed him with the premise of getting him clean. She ended up without her clothes on, shivering as he dried her in front of the fire, his touch creating an internal blaze.
“You’re beautiful, Annie,” he said, and kissed her round belly, her tender breasts, caressed her with his hands and his tongue and loved her well and splendidly until she had no doubts about his thoughts of her beauty.
She made a simple supper of sliced beef and bread and cheese, and they ate it before the fire, her in her chair, Luke at her feet. He surprised her with oranges a customer had given him that day. No dessert had ever tasted as sweet or as good.
They slept wrapped in each other’s arms, the world at bay outside their home.
Spring rains came, pelting the already green and muddy land, and one afternoon the sky grew so dark that Annie lit lanterns and stoked the fire. She had a cookbook open on the table, and worked at rolling noodles as thin as the directions instructed. On some level of consciousness, she noticed that the horses in the corral had been restless for a time. Luke always left the sliding door open so that they could get in out of the weather during the day, so she didn’t give the disturbance much thought.
An earsplitting cracking noise startled her so badly she dropped the rolling pin and grabbed the back of a chair for support. Horses whinnied in high-pitched shrieks.
Grabbing a jacket from a peg, Annie opened the door to peer out through the gray rain. One corner of the corral smoldered, dark smoke curling into the heavy air. The horses milled and reared in fright.
Lightning struck again, an enormous jagged arc that hit a tree on the hillside with a crack and disappeared into the heavens in a split second. Annie’s heart raced painfully. The terrified horses shied and knocked together, and one of the colts fell and struggled to its feet, covered with mud.
Annie sloshed toward the corral, trying to hurry, but needing to watch her balance in the mud. She reached the gate and let herself in, closing it securely behind her and inching her way along the fence toward the building. If she rolled the door open wider, maybe they’d run into the building instead of trampling each other.
The mud inside the corral was slicker, churned by the animal’s hooves and it took all the strength in her legs to pull her feet out with each step. She reached the doorway and balanced herself on the door, then strained against the wood to roll it open wider.
She stood panting, staring at the horses, that still reared and whinnied in panic. From the corner of her eye, Annie caught movement at the edge of the woods, and she squinted at the skinny doglike creatures slinking back and forth in a predatory fashion. Wolves!
If she could get one of the horses inside, perhaps the others would follow. Clinging to the fence for support as well as safety, she slowly edged her way, knowing she should be hurrying. “Here, boy,” she said to Wrangler, reaching a hand toward him. His ears pricked back, but he remained where he stood, his flanks trembling.
Wrangler was used to her, and she knew he was docile and would easily follow her lead if she reached him.
Annie released the fence and slogged through the mud across the corral to reach the animal. She grabbed his halter and led him toward the barn. He followed as she knew he would. “Good boy, easy now. Let’s get the others inside where it’s safe, all right?”
As she neared the doorway, she heard the sucking sounds as the other animals’ hooves moved in the mud behind her. A horse shot ahead into the barn. Relieved, Annie hoped the others would follow now. She would get them into stalls and stay in the barn until she was sure the wolves were gone. She had no idea what kind of a threat they were to humans, but she wasn’t taking any chances.
A crack of lightning split the air, her surroundings flashed blindingly white, and Annie’s ears popped. Horses screamed and bolted. Wrangler sidestepped, and she lost her hold on his halter. In a split second she was smashed painfully against the doorway, and instinctively rolled into a ball.
Hooves flashed and mud flew. Annie covered her head and endured the whirlwind of legs and hooves. Dimly, she noted that the corral was empty, and dragged herself up to roll the heavy door closed, shutting the horses safely inside, closing out the dim light of day. How long would it be before Luke came home?
Pain wracked her abdomen and she bent over with a cry, falling to her knees on the wet straw-covered earth in the darkness. The smell of horse and straw and blood was strong. She closed her eyes and succumbed to darkness.
Luke would never be sure if he’d done the right thing. Perhaps if he’d carried her to the house and warmed her first, the baby would have made it. But when he’d found her there inside the barn in a brackish puddle of blood, his first thought had been to get her to help—to get her to town and to the doctor. He’d hitched a horse to the buggy, laid her gently on a pile of horse blankets on the floor and driven like the devil was on his backside.
“I’m sorry,” Dr. Martin said, his glasses on his head, his sleeves rolled back and his face drawn. “The baby didn’t make it.”
“Annie?” Luke asked first, ignoring his breaking heart to find out about his wife. “How’s Annie?”
“She’s fine. The bleeding has stopped. She’s pretty bruised, but nothing is broken.”
“Should I have not moved her?” he asked. “Maybe I should have taken her to the house and tried to stop the bleedin’ myself.” He jammed his fingers into his scalp painfully.
“We can’t know what would’ve made a difference,” the doctor replied. “You saved her life by bringing her here. That much I know. Whatever happened to her, I don’t think the baby had much of a chance.”
In agony, Luke dropped his head back and stared at the ceiling for a moment. “Can I see her now?”
The doctor nodded. “I’ve given her something for pain, so she’s not too alert. That’s for the best, right now.”
Luke entered the small room where his wife lay against white sheets, her hair loose and tangled, her face as pale as death. His heart ached at the sight. “Annie,” he said, sitting beside her and taking her hand.
Her eyelids fluttered open. She recognized him and a ghost of a smile touched her lips. “Luke,” she whispered.
“I’m here.” He brought her hand to his mouth, pressed his tear-streaked cheek to the back while regret and heartache seeped through his bones. He wanted to scream and rage aloud at the injustice. His throat ached with unshed tears. He imagined Annie’s fear, her pain, and he wondered repeatedly what had happened. He’d seen t
he singed corral and knew the horses must have been terrified of the storm.
He’d ridden home to check on them, thank goodness, for that’s when he’d seen the corral and the closed door and found her inside on the floor.
Annie slept and he thanked God for that small mercy. At least she didn’t have to face their loss while her body was weak and bruised.
Annie awoke and stared at the ceiling, unwilling to move because of the pain that shot through her body. Something was different. Something was wrong. She moved her hand to her belly and found only soft flesh beneath the blanket. She knew immediately. Her physical pain was only a degree of the torturous agony slicing through the inside of her—like someone had taken a rusty knife and cut out her heart.
“O-oh!” she wailed aloud, and Luke leaped from a chair beside her to kneel at her side and take her hand away from her belly. He pressed the back against his lips.
Tears coursed down his cheeks and everything inside her went numb in self-preservation. She couldn’t look into his red-rimmed eyes. She couldn’t endure his pain and hers, too. She couldn’t bear to know she’d failed him and brought such suffering and anguish to a man who deserved better.
“Annie, I’m so sorry,” he said, his voice ravaged.
She sobbed until her chest hurt and her tears were exhausted. Dr. Martin came and forced her to drink a powder he’d dissolved in tepid water. She slept again and when she awoke, Luke hadn’t moved from her side.
“I saw the corral where lightning struck,” he said.
“There were wolves,” she told him, her voice oddly calm.
“Wolves, too?”
“I got Wrangler almost inside, but lightning struck again and spooked the herd. I think one of them must have pushed him into me.”
“I’m sorry, Annie,” he said, his voice raw. “Sorry I wasn’t there for you.”
“What day is this?”
“The same day,” he answered. “You’ve only slept a few hours.”
She wanted to tell him she was sorry, but she was a bigger coward than he was. Admitting her failure was too difficult right now. “What was our baby, Luke?” she had to ask. “Did you see him?”
He nodded. Swallowed. “A boy.”
“Where is he?”
“I buried him on our land while you were resting. I wrapped him in one of the blankets you made. I called him John when I said a prayer, is that okay?”
Tears rolled from her eyes and fell back into her hair. “Yes.”
“I love you, Annie.”
She closed her eyes and heard him breathe.
After what seemed like hours later, voices sounded outside the room. Luke raised his head from the bed and listened.
The door opened and Annie’s mother and father entered the room. Her mother covered her mouth with a handkerchief and wept when she saw her. They rushed forward and Luke stood and backed away. Her father took her hand. “Annie,” he said hoarsely. “I’m so sorry.”
“We’re here, darling,” her mother said, and stroked her forehead with a soft cool hand.
From the corner of her eye, Annie noticed when Luke left the room. Her gaze went to her mother, found her eyes. “You were right, Mother. I did disappoint him.”
After their visit, Annie instructed the doctor that she didn’t want to see her husband.
“But he wants to be with you,” the man said.
“I don’t want to see him.”
“He needs you,” he told her. “Shutting people out won’t do you any good.”
“I don’t want to see him!” she said, more emphatically.
He studied her for a moment. “All right.” He turned and left the room.
She rested listlessly for days, showing no interest in the books her mother brought, only eating because she didn’t have the strength to resist. She had never been worthy of Luke’s lofty expectations and his idea of her. Losing his baby had proven it.
It was easy to fall back into the familiar routine of being an invalid, of not having to make decisions and letting her mother direct her days. Mildred was kinder and more attentive than ever, seemingly glad to have Annie in her charge, but occasionally Annie caught her looking at her with a sad strange expression.
She didn’t want to face Luke. Didn’t want to see his disappointment in her or the regret she knew he must feel.
When she was able to be moved, she said to her mother, “I want to go home with you.”
Her father came for them in one of Luke’s buggies, and Burdell left work to assist him.
Burdell carried her into the Sweetwater house, to her old bedroom and placed her in the bed her mother had prepared. “What are you doing, Annie?” he asked.
“I’m grieving.”
“What about Luke?”
“What about him?”
“He needs you. You have us to comfort you, but he has no one.”
“Fine thing for you to be thinking about Luke Carpenter’s feelings all of a sudden,” she stated flatly. “He’ll do just fine without me. He’s better off without me. I’ve been a burden to him since the day we met. Just look at him if you don’t think so. He’s thin and tired and worked half to death because I never carried my share. And now he’s lost his son because of me.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is true. I’m tired, please let me rest.”
Burdell walked from the room slowly, exchanging a look with his mother at the doorway.
A heavy sense of loss and self-blame wrapped around her like a shroud. Annie glanced at the gaily dressed porcelain dolls lining the window seat, allowed her gaze to find her wheelchair, then closed her eyes against the sting of tears. She was back where she’d started—where she belonged.
Eldon returned the buggy, his face pulled and drawn. “She asked to be taken to our home. She’s settled into her bed and quite comfortable.”
Luke had spoken to the doctor that morning and had been delivered the crushing news. Annie didn’t want to come home with him. He wanted to stomp into her room and confront her, but the doctor had warned him about upsetting her.
So he’d returned to the livery, taken out his fear and frustration over the searing forge, on the glowing iron, pounding…pounding.
Luke didn’t know what to say to Annie’s father. “Thank you,” he returned, knowing it was a lame sentiment.
“I’m sure she just needs some time,” Eldon said.
“Yes.” But why didn’t she need him? Did she blame him? Did everyone blame him? “I thought I could take care of her,” he said.
“You did.”
Luke shook his head. “No, I didn’t. The wolves. She would have needed to know how to use a gun, and I never showed her.” He stared at the mountains in the distance. “She thought the horses were more important than her own safety.”
“Maybe she just needs some time,” Eldon said again, as though trying to convince them both.
Luke wanted to believe it. In the days and nights that followed he tried to believe it, tried to understand why she needed time away from him, why her heart didn’t ache for him like his did for her.
After several nights of sitting in front of the fire, looking at the pins and needles sticking out of the arm of her chair, touching her clothing and her hairbrush while his guts wrenched, staring at the empty cradle until the wee hours of the morning, he packed his clothing, strung the horses on a tether rope, and moved to the livery where there were fewer memories.
Even here the nights were endless, filled with regrets and worries and dry-eyed mourning.
On Thursday morning, he went to see her and found her on the porch in the sunlight, a shawl draping her shoulders. She sat in her wheelchair and the sight slammed him like a punch in the chest. Had something gone wrong that he hadn’t been told about? Why hadn’t someone let him know?
“Annie?” he said. “What is it? Was your leg hurt? Something broken that I didn’t know about?”
Her head raised. She’d been studying a book in her lap. Her
gray-green eyes flickered over him and shuttered quickly.
“You know what’s wrong with me.”
“No, no, I don’t. Tell me.”
“Besides losing your son, you mean?”
Her words disturbed him. “He was our son, Annie.”
Pain flickered across her delicate features. She composed them. “Yes. You know the extent of my injuries. What are you asking?”
“I guess I’m asking why you’re sitting in this damned chair!”
“This is where I belong,” she said flatly. She indicated the chair, the porch, the house.
“Have you been walking?” he dared, starting with another approach.
“No.”
“You probably need to exercise your legs.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
He studied the delicate slope of her nose, her ivory cheeks, the ringlets at her temple, and craved touching her. He missed her so badly he could taste her and smell her just by thinking. “I’ve missed you.”
She turned away from him and gazed at the horizon. She would be right to blame him. She was more unhappy now than she’d been before they’d started seeing each other. He loved her more than anything, but he’d loved her selfishly, trying to make her more like other people. If he’d left her alone, she wouldn’t have to suffer like this now. He was the one who had convinced her to get out of that chair and take on the world.
And because she had—because she’d trusted him—he’d taken her from her safe environment and protective family and let this happen to her. They would all be justified in hating him. He hated himself.
“I’m sorry, Annie,” he said softly. “I’ll do whatever I can to make it up to you. I’ll leave you alone if that’s what makes you happy.”
She nodded, and he took that as his signal to leave her alone. Maybe she was better off here. Maybe he’d been fooling them both into thinking he could be everything she needed. Obviously, he hadn’t been.
Mildred opened the screen door and appeared with a tray holding a teapot and cups. Seeing Luke, she drew up short, then collected herself and moved past him. “Here’s your tea, darling,” she said to her daughter. “Are you comfortable here in the sun?”