“No, I don’t know, for sure.” Sarah continued playing with the toddler while choosing her words. “I believe he might be afraid.”
“Afraid? Afraid of what? Wee Joseph couldn’t hurt a soul.”
“Aye. But what if Joseph thinks the babe killed his mother?” She wanted to take the words back as soon as they were out of her mouth.
With Wee Joseph asleep, James quietly placed him in his cradle before facing Sarah.
“That’s daft. Completely, ridiculously daft.” James’s vehement whisper continued. “Kathleen died because she bled to death.”
“Giving birth to Wee Joseph,” Sarah said. “It’s possible, isn’t it? That Joseph sees this bairn as what took his wife away from him?”
“No.” James shook his head. “No, that cannot be. Can it?”
“Can you think of another reason for him to not come be with his own flesh and blood?” Sarah quickly glanced toward the door before locking gazes with James. “I think he blames Wee Joseph for Kathleen’s death.”
Chapter Six
Father, do ye have a moment?” Gabriel leaned in the doorway of Antione’s study.
Antoine smiled, delighted. “Of course, come in, son.” He had missed this wonderful son of his. Antoine was again taken with how this strong, young man seemed to have inherited his black hair and blue eyes from his father but his bent for life from his mother. Gabriel and Louise’s personalities were so similar, it had made for a close relationship.
However, Antoine had been the one Gabriel turned to when he first heard the call to ministry. The two men spent hours discussing what it would mean to Gabriel’s future. Antoine thrilled at Gabriel’s decision to pursue the ministry but was cautious in case it was only out of a moment of excitable passion. He wanted Gabriel to be sure he understood the depth of surrender such a calling demanded.
After much soul-searching and prayer, it became obvious to both men that Gabriel had indeed been called. Antoine also had concerns as to whether Gabriel might become so full of knowledge, he would lose sight of the simplicity of the gospel message. He’d met enough learned men who could talk all about the facts of God but had long forgotten about the love of God. He didn’t want Gabriel to become one of them.
However, a moment in Gabriel’s company and it was obvious there was something special about him. Antoine knew that special something was an intimate, daily fellowship with Jesus. And, since both men experienced that special relationship, they never tired of talking together about God’s wonderful love.
Therefore, it was no surprise that Gabriel would stop by the study to talk. Antoine would have been disappointed if he hadn’t.
“Father, I’d love to know what I can do to help Joseph. It seemed like he wasn’t there at dinner last night. He was the last to arrive and the first to leave with hardly a word throughout. He’s always been quiet, but not that quiet.” Worry lines appeared between Gabriel’s brows. “Isn’t there anything I can do?”
Antoine started to shake his head when he thought of something. “Gabriel, do you recall studying any of the Reverend Richard Baxter’s work?”
“The name is familiar. I cannot place him. Is he someone ye know?”
“I met him briefly when your Uncle Albert and I were in England searching for Aunt Mimi’s sister. In fact, he was the one who gave us the tip to look where we did. His influence opened many doors and provided the means for us to bring Momo home. We talked then and after corresponded for a quite a while. He died about seven years ago, which is why you probably don’t remember him.”
“Aye, but what has he to do with Joseph?”
“Richard lost his wife about ten years before his own death. He married late in life. She was somewhat younger than he, but they were very much in love and close partners in his ministry. In fact, Richard lost four people very close to him in a matter of six months. The last to go was Margaret. It seemed to be the final straw. He was inconsolable. By this time, he was already an author with over ninety published works. He shared that returning to writing was the best way he found to deal with his grief.”
“Aye, but Joseph isn’t much of an author.”
“That is not what I was getting at, son. It is what Richard wrote that I’m hoping you can help me find. I believe there might be some help for Joseph in Richard’s words. Let’s begin our search for the piece, and we can also be praying the Lord will show us the right time for sharing it with Joseph.”
“What is the title?”
“It is a volume called, The Breviate. It covers the history of Richard’s life with Margaret and how God brought him through this time of grief. I thought I might have a copy, but perhaps I’d only borrowed it. I never thought to ask the Reverend Fontaine while he was here. Anyway, should you happen to come across it, let me know. We can take it from there.”
“I’ll begin looking right away, but what can I do in the meantime?” Gabriel bit the corner of his lower lip, while puckers deepened between his eyebrows.
Antoine recognized this not-too-satisfied look and understood his son wanted to do something—and do it now. Antoine smiled. This trait came straight from the boy’s father.
“What is it that you want to do, son?”
“I don’t know.” Gabriel paced the room, fingers sifting through his hair. “Something that would help him to be more like his old self. Something that would help him not hurt as much.” He shrugged.
“Son, Joseph will never be exactly the same. He is a man. He has married and become a father. That in itself changes one. Now he has lost his wife.” He could see Gabriel needed an illustration. “Do you remember when you fell off that outcrop of rocks over by Lifford when you were ten?”
“Aye.”
“Do you remember what your forearm looked like when we finally got to you?”
“Aye, it was covered with blood and dirt. It was a proper mess.”
“I do not mean to simplify things, but in many ways, Joseph has had a bad fall. He’s been bloodied. What does your forearm look like now?”
“It looks like my forearm.”
“Look at it closer, son. See it as it is.”
Gabriel shoved up his sleeve and examined his right forearm, turning it different angles. Antoine saw the light in his son’s eyes.
“Aye, I understand. My arm works just fine, still the scars are there. It doesn’t look like it would have if I had grown up without the accident. Do you think Joseph will heal so he can live with the scars?”
“That is my prayer. The memories will always be there, but in time he will be able to start living instead of existing. And he will remember the real reason for joy. But right now, we can help him by being there, listening, and praying. God hears and answers before we know to ask.” Antoine smiled. “He is the only One your mother and I trust with our children.”
Gabriel returned the smile.
“I’ll start searching for The Breviate right away, Father.” Gabriel started for the door but turned back. “Father…thanks.” The smile he flashed was equally matched with one of Antoine’s own.
* * *
James rounded the corner of the cottage in time to see Joseph coming in from the fields. His brother walked without purpose, shoulders sagging, eyes following the ground. Sympathy mellowed the righteous indignation that propelled James to confrontation. Perhaps he should feel his way a bit instead of charging in with words flying. He raised a hand of salute. “Joseph.”
Joseph raised his head. The hint of a smile played at his mouth, and his hand rose part way in a half-hearted wave. He pointed toward the barn.
James nodded and turned in that direction.
The brothers met at the door.
“Joseph, I—” James began, but when he got a closer look at Joseph’s eyes, he changed what he was about to say. “Want to go fishing? I hear the salmon are running. Besides I haven’t been able to spend any time with you since I returned.”
“Sure. I need to feed the ewes first. You want to grab the gear?”<
br />
“Aye. I can do that.” James chose a pair of poles and a net before leaning against the doorjamb. He watched in silence as Joseph plopped the hay down in clumps to the new mother sheep.
“So, let’s have at it.”
“What are ye talking about?” James glanced to where his brother worked at the outside haymow door.
“I’ve never known you to beat about the bush on something, so let’s have at it.” Joseph tossed another clump, still not looking at James.
James paused while he set the fishing gear against the barn wall. Exhaling slowly, he walked out to where he could get a better view into the loft. “When are ye going to spend time with your son?”
The silence pressed in, weighing heavy like the stones that formed the new barn.
“I asked you to speak your mind. Now I should speak mine.” Joseph forked another load of hay and tossed it to a pen below. “I don’t know if I can. Every time I see him, I am cut to the core.”
Blood drained from James’s face. “Then it’s true. Ye believe the wee bairn killed his mother?”
“What?” Joseph stared at him, his eyes wide, as though he had been punched in the stomach and couldn’t get his breath. “That’s what you think of me? That I cannot bear to look on my son because I think him a murderer?”
“If that’s not the truth of it, what is?” James all but glared at Joseph, seeing the anguish, but refusing to be touched by it. Any sympathy he might have had evaporated like the morning dew. He knew anger now controlled, but he didn’t care. “What other reason could there be for a father refusing to hold or even see his newborn son?”
The pitchfork clattered to the wooden floor. Joseph dove out of the haymow onto his brother.
The first blow stunned James. The second hit him square in the mouth, the taste of blood rousing him. He began to fight back, landing as many blows as he took. They rolled against one pen, then another, pounding at each other.
“Stop it. Stop it now.”
Someone wrenched Joseph out of his reach. Baby brother Robert held Joseph, arms locked behind.
“Don’t say that.” Joseph, breathing hard, struggled and seethed. “Never say it. He’s but a baby. I’ll tear you apart.”
“Now you want to sound like a parent?” James scrambled to his feet. “But where’ve you been when he needs you? Nowhere.” He leaned forward, hands on his thighs, chest heaving.
“You’re letting Sarah and Mother raise your son.”
Robert stood eyes wide and mouth open, still holding Joseph.
“Away with you. Don’t be letting me ever hear you say that again.” Joseph wrenched free, grabbed James by his shirtfront, and hurled him against the barn door.
James landed with a thud, the wooden door cracking. He struggled to balance himself before drawing to his full height. If it was a fight he wanted—“Fine, I’ll go. I’ll go right back to the nursery and hold that wee bairn what’s needing a father to care for him.”
Joseph’s eyes blazed. With a strangled cry, he threw himself at James again. James sidestepped out of reach. Robert grabbed Joseph from behind.
“Let go. Let me go.” Joseph raged.
Robert pointed toward Edenmore with his head. “Go get Father.”
James wanted to rebel, but the deep draughts of oxygen he panted not only filled his lungs but cleared his mind. He stared only a moment before sprinting for the house.
* * *
Rage coursed through Joseph. It was raw and overpowering and white hot, incinerating all thought but the need to break free. He buried himself beneath the weight of it, sagging within the force that confined.
And then he felt it, a release. He was lowered to the ground. It was all he needed.
Joseph jumped to his feet and grabbing item after item, scythes, harnesses, pitchforks, flinging, throwing, creating his own whirlwind of chaos.
Barn animals ran past and out into the open pasture area. At one point he thought he saw Robert duck something flying about as he ran for the safety of openness.
But Joseph didn’t need safety. Safety was the last thing he wanted.
Chaos ruled Joseph’s heart, mind, and soul as debris flew about him, splintering the fragile peace that had allowed some semblance of sanity. Loud animal-like grunts echoed in his mind.
He stopped to breathe. The whirlwind ceased. Heavy panting replaced the grunting noise. Realization dawned. The grunting sounds came from him.
A shockwave charged through Joseph’s system, nailing him into the whitewashed stone corner of his barn. Scanning his surroundings, nothing resembled the well-ordered barn he knew so well. He inspected at his hands. The brass bowl of large betty lamp lay in his calloused palm, round, cool and smooth.
With slow deliberation, he poured out the oil, hearing it splatter at his feet. Though he knew the toes of his boots were now drenched, his eyes riveted to the lamp. His hand slid down one chain to the wick pick. He cut his finger on the sharp point. Joseph felt pain.
Real and tangible, the pain entered his finger, creeping up his arm and moving straight to his chest. Now each heartbeat pounded harder and harder until he thought his heart would punch a hole in his upper body from the inside out. Breathing grew more difficult as the pain sent wave after wave of attacks. He fell to his knees.
No escape was allowed him. Truth burst in his brain like grape shot from a cannon—his wife was dead.
And he killed her.
He ran from this truth the moment Kathleen’s lifeblood drained from her.
She wanted a family right away. Something to bring them closer together. All Kathleen ever did was pour out love to him.
And you killed her.
She shouldn’t have been the one to die. Their baby needed his mother much more than he needed a father—especially a father who couldn’t even handle looking at his own son.
“Joseph?” A familiar voice broke through.
Joseph’s gaze slowly rose to meet his father’s before looking back to his hands.
“What do you have there, son?”
“A lamp.”
“I see. What happened to your finger?” His father’s voice soothed, slowly closing the gap between them.
“I don’t know.” Joseph’s voice sounded faraway, child-like, even to his own ears. Focusing a moment on his finger, he watched the blood drip into the dirt and oil smeared over the normally clean floor. “Maybe I should cut it free. Cut myself free. Maybe I should burn this all to the ground.”
“Why would you want to do that?” His father was closer than he was a moment ago.
If only he were a small child, able to crawl into those secure arms where everything was safe.
“It’s all my fault.”
“What is, son?”
This time he focused on his father, silently daring him to turn away. “I killed her.”
Father’s arms enveloped him. Still he resisted, rigid with guilt.
“Son, you loved Kathleen. She knew that. She loved you. You were united in marriage. A baby is a natural result of that love. You didn’t kill her, Joseph. You loved her.”
His heart was falling but his father remained to catch him. The secure arms held him safely once more. If only he could believe.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” The words and remorse poured from him. “Oh, Kathleen, I’m so sorry.”
“She knows, Joseph. She knows.”
The arms held tighter. The torrent broke through the dam of Joseph’s resistance and flooded him. “I’m so sorry, so sorry.”
“I know, I know.” Father reassured.
“Why? Father I don’t understand.”
“I don’t have any answers, son.”
Those were not the words he needed. Pulling back from his father, he listened harder, hearing his own breathing, shallow and gulping. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to slowly exhale. “What do I do?”
“Trust.”
“Who, what? What is there to trust?”
Laying his hand on Jo
seph’s shoulder, his father answered. “Trust God.”
“No.” There was no need to think about it. That option fled with Kathleen’s life.
The father-arms again encircled firm. “Then trust your family. We love you. We are here for you. Trust yourself to care for Wee Joseph.”
Joseph allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. “I don’t know if I can. Trust myself, I mean.”
“Then trust us until you can. We fiercely love you and Wee Joseph. Do you think for one minute your mother or I would let any harm come to our son or grandson?”
A knot of fear settled deep in his gut, but he saw truth in his father’s eyes. He would only fail if it were beyond his power to succeed. He closed his eyes for strength and slowly nodded his head.
Chapter Seven
Louise paced before her bedroom window. Since Antoine had left with James she’d been pacing. Pacing and praying. She wanted to go too. James said only Antoine was needed, though. So, she stayed and prayed and paced, keeping watch for her men.
Time crept while she strode back and forth. Yet only this morning she’d thought how it had flashed past ever since Wee Joseph’s birth. One look at him and she could see just how fast he grew.
Already three weeks old, she daily noticed changes in her first grandson. She loved to sit in the old nursery and rock him in the early morning as the sun cast golden rays on his soft hair. He would grasp her little finger and stare at her with such complete trust, locking her adoring gaze with his bright sapphire-blue stare. He looked like his father, so serious it brought a smile to her face.
And still she paced.
And prayed.
Often when she prayed, she received a peace flooding her very soul, giving her the surety that God was in control. She could rest in that. But peace wasn’t as easily forthcoming this time.
She continued her prayers. “Father, please give Antoine the wisdom he needs. Fill his mouth with Your words. Open Joseph’s heart to know Your compassion. Protect them all, Father. Please bring them safely home, especially Joseph.” His safety seemed especially critical. In fact, when her mind strayed to other areas, she continued to feel the nudge to cover her men with prayer for safety.
The Crockett Chronicles- The Complete Collection Page 33