Bride of the High Country

by Kaki Warner

  “Martha Yoder. My son, Levi, found you by the river. My husband brought you back here to our home.”

  “How . . . long?”

  “Three days ago. Drink this.” She pushed a tin cup against his lips.

  He drank as much as he could. When she took the cup away, he studied her. She looked near his age and might once have been pretty. But a hard life had left permanent lines around her brown eyes and bracketing her full mouth. Her hair was pulled into a severe knot at the back of her head and was partially covered by a white cap. He noticed silver threads in the dark brown.

  My son, she had said. Not our. Yoder was a common name in this area. He remembered it from his Army days. “Are you Amish?” he asked.

  “My husband is.”

  “Not you?”

  “Can you drink more? You lost a lot of blood.” She offered the cup again.

  He drank. By the time the cup was empty, he was trembling with weariness. “Did you find the other man?” he asked as blackness loomed at the edges of his vision.

  “What other man?”

  “By the river . . . gray hair . . . missing two fingers.”

  “We only found you.”

  “He’s there,” he insisted weakly as he began to sink. “He has to be.”

  Tait slept most of the rest of the day, awakening to bright afternoon sunshine, a grumbling belly, and a head full of questions. His watchdog, a brown-haired boy no more than ten—Levi?—alerted his mother, and while Tait was still trying to clear his muddled head, Mrs. Yoder came in with a pitcher of water and a bowl of watery oatmeal. The boy followed behind her with Tait’s clothing, which appeared to have been cleaned and all the knife cuts mended. Levi set the garments on a chest at the foot of the bed, then leaned against the foot post, watching.

  After finishing both the water and the oatmeal, Tait started with his questions, the foremost being, how bad was the damage. He couldn’t lie here forever. He had to find out what happened to Smythe, and if Doyle had called off the Pinkertons, or if Lucinda was even now being dragged back to New York. He had no idea what Doyle would do when he found her, but Tait did know what he was capable of doing, and for that reason he was desperate to get there before things got out of hand.

  “You’ll live,” Mrs. Yoder answered, her quiet voice interrupting his racing thoughts. “When infection sent your fever so high, we thought you might not. But it broke yesterday, and your wounds show no more infection.”

  He lifted a hand to the bandage on his face.

  “A deep cut,” she said before he could ask. “I stitched it. Luckily your eye wasn’t damaged, but you’ll have a scar.” She went on with a long list of his other injuries—dozens of cuts and abrasions, bruised ribs on his right side, stitches where Smythe had cut him across his chest and shoulder and arm. “All that will heal fairly quickly. I don’t know about your leg.”

  His leg? Lifting the covers, Tait saw his left leg was splinted and swathed in wrappings from thigh to shin. “Is it broken?”

  “I don’t think so. But your knee is very swollen and there are surface scrapes and deep bruising. I thought it best to keep it splinted until the swelling goes down. Maybe then I can see how bad the damage is.”

  Tait let the covers fall back over him. He had never been tended by a woman before and was glad he still had on his drawers at least. “You sound like you have experience with this sort of thing.”

  She shrugged one shoulder, as if she was too weary to lift both. “I helped during the war. One learns fast on a battlefield.”

  A man appeared in the doorway. Big, bearded, except for the forbidden mustache, his broad shoulders and worn hands proclaiming him a farmer. “Mrs. Yoder,” he said in a thick Dutch accent, “the roast is burning. Levi, tend your chores.”

  The man stepped aside as they filed silently out, his eyes never leaving Tait. Once they were alone, he walked closer to loom over the bed. He had a hard face—not cruel, but set in stern lines. Tait guessed there wasn’t much laughter in this household.

  “My wife tells me you are healing,” the man said.

  Tait nodded, wondering if he was about to be sent on his way and how he would manage as weak as he felt. “Thank you for taking me into your home. I doubt I would have survived otherwise.”

  “I am Abram Yoder.” Instead of offering his hand, he held out Tait’s leather money case. “This was in your coat. Nothing has been taken.”

  Tait took the case and set it aside without opening it. “Tait Rylander.”

  Yoder shifted from one foot to the other and looked over to the open window beside the bed. Tait followed his gaze and saw several milk cows grazing in a pasture behind a big, stout barn. As he watched, Levi walked out of the barn with a feed bag over his shoulder. Chickens rushed him in a clucking frenzy as he began tossing grain. Beyond the barn was a large garden with newly planted rows laid out in straight, precise mounds. There were even two budding fruit trees. Tait wasn’t sure what kind. Like this plain, unadorned room, everything he could see, inside or out, was neat and clean and carefully tended. A prosperous self-sufficient place, the Yoder farm. Yet a feeling of defeat hung in the air.

  “I will do my duty by you,” Yoder said, drawing Tait’s attention away from the window.

  Tait nodded and tried to smile as best he could with a bandage covering half his face. “I’m grateful for what you and your family have done.”

  “I do not know how you came to be by the river,” he went on in a measured, toneless voice, as if he’d carefully rehearsed the words. “But your injuries show you are a man of violence. Such is not welcome here.” His brown eyes bored into Tait. “This is a house of God, Mr. Rylander. We want only peace. Once you are healed, you will leave. Until then, now that you are awake, Levi will tend you, as is proper.”

  “I understand.”

  “Good.” He pronounced it goot. “You will tell me when you are strong enough to travel, and I will take you to town.”

  “How far are we from Pittsburgh?”

  “At least twenty miles. I can take you to the nearest settlement. It is half that distance. From there you can take the coach into the city.”

  “Thank you.”

  The farmer studied him for a moment, his face betraying nothing, then he turned and left the room.

  Over the next few days, determined to regain his strength as quickly as possible, Tait ate as much as his stomach could tolerate and drank prodigious amounts of water. The day after talking to Yoder, he pulled the bandage off his face, hoping that having use of both eyes might ease the dizziness. The cut by his temple ran down past his cheekbone, and the stitches were beginning to itch. The knife wounds on his chest and shoulder and arm were itching, too, which meant he was starting to heal. It was still difficult to sit up or move with the restrictive bandages around his ribs, but that soreness was easing, too.

  His leg was another matter.

  With the boy’s help, he removed the splint. The leg looked straight, although his knee was still swollen and tender to the touch. Holding on to the bedpost, he slowly rose and put weight on it. It hurt like hell but didn’t fold beneath him, and when he tried to bend it, it moved as much as the swelling would allow.

  Not broken, but definitely damaged. It felt strange, like it was stuffed with something that didn’t belong there, and he hoped that would go away when the swelling subsided. He had the boy help him replace the splint and wrappings, then tried to stand again. Better, but still too painful to walk on yet.

  The boy must have told Yoder, because the next day, the farmer appeared with a wooden crutch he’d made from a sturdy branch with a cross branch fitted across the top. Mrs. Yoder had padded it with thick scraps of quilting, and although it was short by an inch or so, it enabled Tait to walk without putting his weight on the injured knee.

  That night,
dressed in his clean and mended clothes, he took dinner with the family in the kitchen.

  It was a quiet meal. Tait didn’t know if that was because of his presence or if such was the usual case in this somber household. It wasn’t until they were halfway through the meal that Yoder finally spoke.

  “We will take the buggy into town on the morning after tomorrow. I already went once this week, but I will go again so you can be on your way.”

  Tait nodded, hoping he would be up to a ten-mile ride in a buggy, then another ten miles by coach.

  “When I was there earlier,” Yoder continued, “I heard talk about a man missing from the train. Is that you?”

  “I’m one of them.”

  “They said there was blood and signs of a scuffle.”

  Tait set down his fork. Resting his hands beside his plate, he leveled his gaze at Yoder, hoping the farmer would see the truth in his eyes. “A man attacked me and tried to throw me off the train.”

  “Or maybe you attacked him and threw him off first.”

  “No. There was a woman I was trying to protect. The only way I could do that was to take him with me when he pushed me off.”

  “And yet, only you were found.”

  “Lucinda?” Mrs. Yoder asked.

  Tait looked at her in surprise.

  “You know this woman?” Yoder asked his wife.

  “He mentioned her when he was fevered.”

  Frowning, Yoder turned back to Tait. “Why did we find no other man where we found you?”

  “Maybe you didn’t look hard enough.”

  Yoder didn’t respond to that, and nothing more was said.

  But dire thoughts kept circling in Tait’s mind. He had heard Smythe scream. How had he escaped and where was he now? Had he found his way back onto the train somehow?

  That unleashed a torrent of other questions—ones that haunted Tait’s nights and chased him through the day. Where was Lucinda now? Was she safe? Or had Smythe found her again?

  He had no answers, and his sense of desperation built by the hour.

  The morning they were to leave, Tait was in the kitchen, finishing breakfast, while Yoder hitched the buggy. It was the first time he had had an opportunity to speak to Mrs. Yoder alone, but he wasn’t sure what to say. He sensed undercurrents in this family, especially between Yoder and his wife. Although it was none of his business, he didn’t feel right leaving her and the boy in what might very well be a bad situation without at least trying to help her.

  “Mrs. Yoder, I owe you my life. Is there anything I can do to repay that debt?”

  “There is no debt. You owe me nothing.”

  She moved briskly about the kitchen, pulling a bowl from the cupboard and filling it with steaming oatmeal. He’d already eaten eggs, a thick slice of ham, and two pieces of buttered bread. But she made the best oatmeal he had ever tasted, so he wasn’t about to pass it up.

  She set it on the table in front of him, then went quickly back to the stove, as if fearful of being too close to him.

  Tait frowned, not liking the implication. Picking up his spoon, he stirred the oatmeal to cool it, then said, “Maybe you and Levi should go into town with us.”

  She turned from the stove with a sharp look, her back stiff, her hands gripping her apron. “Why would we do that?”

  “You seem . . . troubled. If there’s anything I can do to help . . .”

  She opened her mouth, closed it, then turned back to the stove. Tait ate in silence while she busily stirred this pot and that.

  In the pasture beyond the window, a calf ducked against its mother as Levi held a handful of grain through the rail fence.

  “Abram is my second husband,” she said without facing him. “He may seem harsh, but in his heart he’s a kind and generous man.”

  Tait didn’t respond.

  “He’s been good to me and Levi. I have no complaints.”

  Tait had never met a wife who had no complaints. Nor a husband who hadn’t earned some. It was in the nature of marriage, he supposed.

  “After my first husband died and we lost the farm,” she went on, still facing away, “Levi and I moved into town. The only work I could find was at Kahler’s store. He’s a hard man, and didn’t pay me much, but with a son to feed, I was grateful for the job.”

  She looked out the window at Levi, who was still trying to entice the calf with the grain. A small, gentle smile softened her face. “Abram often came into the store. He saw the way Mr. Kahler looked at me and the harsh way he treated Levi. It bothered him. So he married me and brought us out here. At great cost to himself, I think.”

  “Does he beat you or Levi? Mistreat you?”

  She whipped toward him, her face more animated than he had ever seen it. “Of course not! He’s a good man. A decent, honorable man. He would never raise a hand against us.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” Tait spooned up another bite of oatmeal and watched her as he chewed.

  “He married me against his faith, and has been shunned because of it,” she blurted out, her hands twisting in the apron. “People he lived among all his life, now no longer speak to him. He’s an outcast. Forever. Because of us.”

  “His choice.”

  “On impulse. And out of pity. I think he’s come to regret it.”

  Tait scraped up the last of the oatmeal and thought of Lucinda and the stricken look on her face when he had wrongly accused her of the vilest deception. He knew all about impulses and regrets. It had probably cost him the best thing that had ever come into his life. Somehow, he had to find her and make that right.

  “We all do things without thinking them through,” he said as he pushed back his empty bowl. “But no man—no matter how good and decent and honorable he is—takes on the burden of a wife and another man’s son out of pity. Especially if it goes against a lifetime of religious teachings.”

  A sound caught his attention and he looked over at the door into the hall. It was partially open, and in the narrow gap, he saw Yoder standing in the shadows, watching them. The expression on his bearded face as he looked at Mrs. Yoder confirmed what Tait was beginning to suspect. It wasn’t pity that made Yoder marry her—and it wasn’t regret he was feeling now when he looked at his wife.

  Leaning down, Tait picked up the crutch Yoder had made for him. He pushed back his chair, then with one hand braced on the table, and the other gripping the crutch, pulled himself up on his good leg. Once he found his balance, he looked at Mrs. Yoder. “So I’ll ask you again, ma’am,” he said in a voice that would carry into the hall. “Do you want to go with us into town or not?”

  “No, Mr. Rylander,” she said with calm certainty. “We’re happy here with Abram. He may have regrets, but I don’t. And I’ll stay as long as he wants me.”

  Tait nodded, then shifting the crutch under his arm, limped toward the door.

  “I hope you find your Lucinda,” she called after him. “Because I think you’re a good man, too, Mr. Rylander.”

  When Tait hobbled outside, Yoder was backing a sturdy mule into the traces of a black four-wheeled buggy with a canvas top and sides. After securing the harness, Yoder helped Tait climb in, then stowed the crutch behind the bench.

  “If you get cold, there’s a blanket behind the seat.”

  “Thank you.” Sliding the money case from his inside coat pocket, Tait peeled off several bank notes and held them out toward Yoder.

  The farmer gave him an offended look. “Put that away. I do not want payment for doing my Christian duty.”

  “Then think of it as a gift. Or set it aside for the next needy person you stumble upon.” Seeing the obstinate set of the Dutchman’s jaw, Tait tried a different approach. “You saved my life, Mr. Yoder, and used up precious supplies doing so. If I were well enough, I would stay a while to spli
t rails or dig post holes or cut firewood or do whatever else I could to show my gratitude. But I can’t. So please allow me to thank you the only way I am able right now.”

  After a long hesitation and with great reluctance, the farmer took the notes and shoved them into his pocket.

  “This, too.” Tait extracted a calling card from the case and handed it over. “If you find the other man, or hear anything about him, would you please send word to me here? I’m very concerned about the woman he was threatening.”

  “Lucinda.”

  “Yes. Lucinda.”

  Nodding, Yoder slipped the card into his pocket. “I will ask around.” Then turning, the big farmer walked back to the porch where Mrs. Yoder stood.

  As Tait watched, Yoder reached out and rested a hand on his wife’s cheek. He said something, then bent and pressed his lips to hers. Tait could see Mrs. Yoder was startled by the action. But she was smiling when her husband turned and walked back to the buggy. And Yoder was, too.

  * * *

  Before they even reached Indianapolis, the next big stopover after Columbus, Lucinda and Maddie had become fast friends, which was odd, insomuch as they were the exact opposite of one another.

  Maddie, the optimist. Lucinda, the cynic. The Englishwoman’s unbridled cheerfulness might have grated on Lucinda had she not caught glimpses of a sharp intelligence beneath the bubbly personality. Plus, Maddie seemed innately kind. But what set her apart even more was her ability to see through the armor most people wore—Lucinda included—to the goodness, rather than the ugliness, of the person within. It was apparent in every photograph she showed Lucinda, whether the subject was an old woman sharing her lunch with pigeons in a park or a tattered soldier begging on a street corner or a mist-shrouded cemetery next to a charred plantation home. She saw beauty everywhere. That was her gift, and through her tintypes, she was able to share it with anyone who took the time to look.

  But the dear woman needed a keeper. She was forever forgetting her reticule or her gloves, or charming strangers with her ready smile. She had no idea of the dangers awaiting the unaware, so it was left to Lucinda to take on the task of being her watchdog and protector. Besides, she was the one with the gun.