Path of Freedom: Quilts of Love Series

by Jennifer Hudson Taylor

  “That's right. I forgot. Thee prefers a fine catch from my brother's hand.” Sudden irritation assailed him. He tipped his cup and gulped the last of his water, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

  “Well, today thee accomplished an even bigger feat. Christ tells us to be fishermen of men.” Flora gestured to herself. “Friend Bruce, thee fished me out of the river, and I'm very grateful. I hope thee isn't too disappointed I wasn't a rainbow trout.”

  Jim chuckled, listening to their banter. “So, Friend Bruce done become a fisherman of women instead of men.”

  “We Quakers often believe that general references to man in the Bible are often meant for all mankind, men and women alike.” Flora straightened her back, ready to go into teaching mode. Bruce had seen it often in the last few weeks, especially with Marta.

  “How come yous don't believe it says exactly what it says?” Jim angled his head, a look of confusion on his face as he scratched the side of his head.

  “We do, but every piece of the Bible must be read in context with other pieces of the Bible.” Flora leaned toward him, eager to help Jim understand her faith. Bruce smiled, admiring her. “For instance, if I ask thee for some water, thee wouldn't know how much water or what I'd want it for, right?”

  “Yeah, a cup to drink.” Jim nodded.

  “But thee assumed. What if I wanted a bucket of water for a bath or a cup of water to give to someone else?” Flora asked. “But thee wouldn't know if thee didn't read beyond that statement to discover more of the story.”

  “Friend Jim, there is a passage in the Bible that might help thee understand what Flora is trying to tell thee. It will also sum up why we Quakers believe men and women are equal, as well as blacks and whites.” Bruce went to get his small Bible from his pack and brought it and a lantern back. He flipped to the section in Galatians and found chapter three. “There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither bond nor free, there is neither male nor female: for ye are all one in Christ Jesus.”

  Jim sat in silence, staring at the ground. After a few moments, he looked up at Bruce and then at Flora. “I don't remember my master's preacher ever giving that verse.”

  “It's also one of the reasons some Quakers allow women pastors,” Flora said. “We're very different than other Christian religions, but the same in that we believe Jesus Christ came in the form of a man and died on the cross as the Son of God to save us from our sins.”

  “That part sounds like what we believe. I likes yous Quakers.” Jim smiled, his yellow teeth glowing in the firelight as he stood and stretched. “I'll go check on Marta. She's been sleeping for a while now.”

  Beside the wagon by the lantern light, Irene splashed water as she washed the dishes. Flora and Bruce were left alone.

  “How does thee feel?” Bruce asked.

  “I don't think there is one part of my body not aching, but I'll be fine.” She covered her mouth as she yawned.

  “Thee should get some rest. We'll be leaving within the hour,” he said.

  Bruce walked to the back of the wagon and reached inside for a quilt. He made a pallet by the fire. “Here, sleep where it's warm. I'll watch over thee while I study thy mother's quilt. I want to make sure we didn't stray too far from course today.”

  He half expected her to argue, especially since he'd laid out his own pallet for her, but she limped over in silence. Once she was settled, he laid the quilt over her. She yawned again, snuggling inside the thick pallet.

  “Why couldn't thee have been this kind when we were children?” Her sleepy voice floated between them.

  It was a simple question and direct. How could mere words lance him with renewed guilt? What could he say that would erase all the pain he'd caused her? He cleared his throat. “I was just a silly boy, Flora. I hope thee can forgive me.”

  “I've already forgiven the boy in thee.” She smiled and rolled over onto her side, closing her eyes. “It's the man in thee that I'm trying to figure out if I can trust or not.”

  “Flora, it's time to go.” Irene's gentle voice broke through Flora's groggy state. “Bruce says we must go.”

  She forced her eyes open to see Irene's dark form towering over her. The fire had fizzled to tiny embers. Beyond the tree branches above, white stars twinkled against the black sky. With a tired sigh, Flora rubbed her eyes and raised up on an elbow. Her body screamed in protest, still aching all over. She brushed strands of hair from her face, annoyed they had fallen from her braided coil.

  Bruce poured water on the remaining embers. They sizzled until the drenched pile swam in a puddle. The smell of lingering smoke drifted in the air.

  “How is thee feeling?” Irene asked.

  “Sore, but I'll manage.” Flora's voice cracked with recent sleep. She shivered as she threw the quilt aside and tried to rise without wounding her knee further.

  “Here, let me help thee.” Irene took her elbow and tried to help lift her up but staggered under the extra weight.

  “I've got her.” Bruce appeared beside them, taking a steady hold on Flora. “Will thee see to dusting off the quilts and folding them?” He looked down at Irene.

  Irene nodded.

  “Easy.” Bruce placed a strong arm around Flora's waist and hoisted her against his side, using his body as an anchor. The scent of burning smoke from the campfire had settled in his clothes, mingling with a mixture of fresh cedar from their cedar chests. She found the unexpected aroma endearing.

  “Thanks,” she murmured, trying to steady herself. “I can walk.”

  “Indeed.” He didn't let go of her. “But can thee climb upon the wagon by thyself?”

  She hadn't thought that far ahead. As Flora took a step, the stitches in her knee were tight, pulling against her skin. What a horrible place to need binding.

  Flora tried to keep her leg straight, bending it as little as possible when walking. Pain pierced her bruised bones as her muscles contracted and expanded in spite of her efforts to still them. She gritted her teeth to keep Bruce from noticing her discomfort. The pressure of her weight upon her leg caused her to limp—that she couldn't hide.

  “I need to check on Marta.” They reached the back of the wagon, where she paused.

  “I already did, right before Irene woke thee,” Bruce said. “Jim assured me that she's sleeping soundly, which is more than I can say for thee. Thy snoring was quite profound.”

  Embarrassment heated her neck and face to the roots of her hair. The sensation tingled all over her head. “Is this another cruel attempt to tease me?”

  Even if she had snored, a gentleman would have kept the matter to himself out of respect for her feelings. Flora eyed him with disdain. One thing was certain: Bruce Millikan may be dependable in a crisis, and a tender charmer when he chose, but he still delighted in vexing her. “I suppose thee hasn't changed as much as thee would like me to believe.”

  Flora tried to jerk free of his hold, but he kept a firm grip on her and chuckled. “Wait a minute! If thee were to fall, I suppose I would be blamed for that as well.”

  She hobbled toward the front of the wagon, eager to be free of his assistance. If he had been anyone else to witness her humiliation, the sting to her pride might not have been so fierce. Her snoring was inappropriate and not ladylike. What must he think of her now? She knew she needed to cast down her pride, since it was a sin, but she needed more time to deal with her wayward emotions.

  “I don't snore,” she said through clenched teeth.

  “I beg to differ.” He chuckled again. “Ask Irene.” Bruce tilted his head and gestured at her sister following close behind with a folded quilt in her arms. Flora met her sister's gaze, but Irene dropped her eyes to stare at the ground, unable to hold Flora's gaze. The simple action confirmed the truth. Another wave of humiliation spread throughout Flora, overheating her limbs in spite of the cool temperature.

  She said nothing as Bruce helped her climb into the wagon. His hands were a steady comfort around her slender waist. To her mortification, she
had come to depend on him more than she should. As Flora leaned forward, she wondered if he was disgusted that her behind was in such close proximity to his face. She closed her eyes, feeling for the seat, and managed to twist around and settle on the bench without bending or hurting her knee.

  Irene climbed up from the other side to sit in the middle so Flora could stretch out her leg over the edge of the wagon. This arrangement suited her just fine. At least it would give her a reprieve from being so close to Bruce. If only she could make herself not care one bit what he thought of her.

  They rode for the next couple of hours in silence. Flora longed for something to lean her back against. Soon her bottom felt like someone had paddled her with a two-inch thick board.

  “My back hurts.” Irene reached behind herself and rubbed her lower back. “I sure wish we had taken the train. I'd be feeling much better right about now.”

  Biting her tongue, Flora kept quiet. They were all tired and uncomfortable, but no one had voiced their complaints except Irene.

  “Perhaps thee would feel better about thy circumstances if thee would concentrate harder on what thee has to be thankful for.” Irritation laced Bruce's voice. “For instance, thy sister returning to us safely.”

  “Of course I'm grateful that Flora is safe with us.” Irene looped her arm through Flora's. “I was quite distraught when I thought she might drown.”

  “I know thee was.” Flora patted her sister's hand as an owl hooted in the distance. “Friend Bruce, she's a bit young and everything on this trip is so new to her. At least allow her the liberty to share her discomforts and concerns.”

  “Only if it's something of substance,” Bruce said. “A train is something I can't do anything about.”

  “No one expects thee to do anything.” Flora leaned around her sister, trying to see his expression. It was no use. A cloud had covered the moon and left them in utter darkness. “I don't know why thee would think any different.”

  “I'm a man of solutions. If thee brings me a problem, it's my desire to fix it. I've little tolerance for whining. Time is better spent on solving problems, not basking in them. And that's what I like about thee, Flora. I've yet to hear thee whine about anything, in spite of thy wounds and obvious discomfort.”

  Did Bruce Millikan just pay her a compliment?

  “Huh!” Irene's sharp intake of breath regained Flora's attention. “I was hardly whining.”

  “Indeed,” Flora said. “Irene was merely stating a thought aloud. Think of it this way. Women often voice their thoughts in their journals. It helps us get our feelings and emotions out so we won't be as tempted to complain—or whine, as thee calls it.”

  “Well, why didn't thee say so sooner?” Bruce's tone lightened. “A journal is something I can do. When we arrive near Lynchburg, I'll ride into town and get thee both a journal and some ink.”

  “That won't be necessary,” Flora said. “I don't need a journal.”

  “I'm definitely getting thee one,” Bruce said. “I want thee to put all thy feelings down on paper, every bad deed I've ever committed against thee. That way, thee won't be tempted to keep reminding me about them.”

  Flora's mouth dropped open, but this time she didn't have a ready reply.

  Bruce cut through the underbrush, clearing a path for Irene to follow close behind. He carried a small empty barrel in one hand and his fishing net in the other. The morning sun had already risen, and fresh dew was still on the leaves and foliage around them.

  “Help!” Irene called from behind. “I'm stuck.”

  With a frustrated sigh, Bruce turned and made his way back to her. He leaned to the left and then to the right. “I don't see anyone or anything holding thee.”

  “Something has my skirt.” She tugged at the material, but it didn't move. “See?”

  Bruce walked behind her and burst into laughter. “I see, all right. Thee is caught in a briar, naught more.” The wiry plant scaled the back of her gray skirt, digging its claws into the garment.

  “It may seem funny to thee, but I'll be heading into Lynchburg for more clothing if my skirt is ripped. Since thee insisted that we leave other clothes behind, we don't have much to spare.”

  “I saw Flora with a sewing kit the other day. I'm sure your skirt could be mended.” Bruce gave her a pointed glare. It wasn't that he minded helping Irene out of her predicament, but the underhanded way she tried to dramatize the situation grated on his nerves.

  “Oh, I'm sure Flora will be able to patch it up just fine, but the skirt itself will be quite ruined for anything beyond this trip.” Irene glanced over her shoulder and down at the offending briar.

  “I meant thee, Irene. Not Flora. Thee can borrow her sewing kit and patch up thy own clothing.” He bent and set the items he carried to the side. “But I'll do my best.”

  “Flora's the one with all the sewing talent. I'm only decent with seams, hemming, and replacing buttons. She can sew an entire outfit from scratch.”

  Afraid of causing Flora additional work, Bruce plucked out the briars with care. He wished Flora's knee had been well enough for her to make the trip to the river with him. She wouldn't have dallied about or whined over a simple briar.

  “I believe that should do it.” He rubbed his chilled hands together and blew warmth on them before picking his items back up.

  “Thank thee.” Irene whirled with a bright smile, staring down at him. The innocence in her wide eyes shifted his irritation to discomfort. Flora was right. She was young and innocent of so many things. It wasn't fair to compare the two sisters—even if only in his mind. Besides, any woman he'd ever mentally compared to Flora came up quite lacking in his estimation.

  Irene crossed her arms and stared down at him at an angle, tilting her head as if studying him in close scrutiny. Bruce tried to ignore her as he gathered his things and stood to his full height. She lifted her finger to her chin in thoughtful silence as she continued to stare at him. Bruce shifted his weight to his other foot.

  “What?” The single word came out more harshly than he'd intended.

  “Nothing.” She turned on her heel and started walking. “It's just that I was thinking that perhaps Flora is wrong about thee.”

  Stunned, Bruce lurched into motion and caught up with her. “What did Flora say about me?”

  “Lots of things.” She shrugged, adjusting her purple cloak. “Most of which thee would probably rather not know.”

  Disappointment sagged in his chest. “I'm quite aware of how much Flora loathes me, but I had hoped we'd made some headway over the last few weeks, or at least come to an understanding.” He concentrated on the woods ahead, where the sun brightened in an opening. “What was she wrong about?”

  “That perhaps there is a gentle heart somewhere inside thee in spite of all the mean things thee has done, especially if thee truly has a calling to serve the abolitionist movement.”

  “I was a boy back then.” Frustration edged his tone. “When will she realize that we've all grown up? Some childhood memories are meant to be forgotten—forever.” Bruce walked along the bank looking for the best place to cast his net. He needed a good current to catch the most fish.

  “Scars are constant reminders. Perhaps if thee hadn't scarred her with so many unpleasant memories, Flora would find it easier to forget them.” Irene dropped to her knees. “This looks like a good place to fill the barrel.”

  “I realize my mistakes, but I refuse to live in the past. I won't tolerate being reminded of it constantly.” Bruce bent to hand her the barrel. A hawk squawked overhead. The wind blew and yellow leaves flew into the river and floated down the stream.

  “Friend Bruce, if thee would really like to erase all the bad memories Flora has of thee, then I would suggest thee create new memories, filled with happiness.”

  Bruce paused, staring at her in surprise. “That's a very wise suggestion for someone at thy age.”

  Irene smiled, her blue eyes shining bright. Her blond hair framed her face beneath a
white bonnet. Her smooth skin and heart-shaped face made her delicate and pretty in her own way, but it was blue-gray eyes and a square face framed with coffee-colored hair that consumed his mind.

  “Well, I must confess that I borrowed it from Mother. She has the best advice of anyone I know. I distinctly remember her saying something of the sort to Flora when she discovered thee would be escorting us on this mission.”

  “I see,” Bruce said. “And what was Flora's response?”

  “That isn't important.” Irene waved her hand. “She came, didn't she?”

  “Indeed.” He nodded. “I think I'll take thee up on the advice and start with catching us all some good-tasting fish for breakfast.” It was time Flora knew how well he could catch fish now that he was a man.

  9

  While Bruce went fishing and Irene went with him to retrieve more water, Jim paced as Flora examined Marta in the privacy of the covered wagon.

  “Don't know why I couldn't go with Bruce. We'd catch a lot more fish and do it faster with the two of us.” Jim's irritated voice drifted inside.

  “That's my Jim.” Marta grinned between spasms of pain. “Always wanting to be useful and important.”

  “Just be on the lookout for any strangers,” Flora called, loudly enough for him to hear. “That's what I need thee to do right now.”

  “Listen, Miz Flora, I don't want Jim to be fretting over me.” Marta held her stomach in a protective manner as she leaned against a trunk. “But I hurt for a while last night.”

  “Was the pain constant without ceasing, or did it come in spurts?”

  “Mostly in spurts.” Marta shook her head. “But my back ached something awful, it sure enough did.”