Now, returned veterans made up the bulk of their workers. Three were already married, like the foreman; several were single but had quickly been plucked up by eager ladies elsewhere. Not that Jessie would have considered a one of them, anyway. Gerard Hinckley, missing an arm; Bennie Cooper, visibly scarred. Let a girl less particular walk out with them. Not the persnickety Miss Clark, not for any price.
No. There was still Sam. Depending upon what shape he was in.
Vickie had mentioned nothing about any permanent disfiguration. Limbs intact, apparently. Certainly a factor in his favor, according to Jessie’s specifics.
His reappearance was certainly worth looking into.
And what did her baby sister have to offer him, anyway?
She was the elder, heir to half the ranch and its estate. By rights she deserved to be the first to walk down the aisle, the first to be wedded and bedded and settled in her own home. Not Vickie. No. She must step back and give Jessie prior choice.
All her life, Jessie had taken a back seat to the sweet, shy, generous little Victoria; such a caretaker for those around her, be it human being or small helpless creature. Who could help feeling a tad jealous of such a saint, so lavishly praised by all and sundry?
Jessie sometimes wondered if her sister were not just a little touched in the head.
Stories abounded from her childhood: she spoke some secret language that tamed the hearts and claws and fangs of wildlife; she soothed restive horses and calmed fighting mongrels. More than once, she had managed to release desperate foxes or wolves from the traps which had ensnared them. She fed those which were hungry, offered love and compassion to those which were frightened almost to death.
With a snort, Jessie leaned forward to turn out the wick in her lantern.
Just give her time.
She would win this contest, one in which Vickie wasn’t even aware she had been challenged.
Before the girl could realize what was happening, Jessica would be waltzing with her new husband, Sam Marsden, at her wedding reception.
So much for this yarn of a betrothal from years gone by!
Chapter 2
“We’d oughta kill the fatted calf,” Buckley Marsden announced with unusual joviality. “Tain’t every day a prodigal son comes back from the dead.”
Matthew, in personality and appearance so much like his father, snorted. Since he had most assuredly not come back from the dead, nor was he to be honored by the killing of any calf, fatted or otherwise, he showed little interest in possible preparations for that prodigal son.
“Yeah. A welcome home party,” Buckley expanded upon the idea. Consumed by excitement, he was pacing from one wall of the kitchen to another, with his roughened balding hair tumbled by both hands, eyes flashing. “Invite the town. The whole neighborhood.”
Another snort. “We can’t afford the expense, Pop. Unless you got cash put aside that I don’t know about.”
“Dunno what that’s got to do with it. Might as well buy on credit, like ever’body else roundabouts. And, since half of you yahoo Marsden offshoots are for sure dead and gone, there’s more of my spread for the remainin’ two to split up, anyway.”
Even Matthew took offense at that shocking statement. “Old man, you’re about the worst—”
“B’sides,” the ranch owner, completely unfazed by any objection, blustered on, “with two of you boys runnin’ things, we should be able to get some of that beef rounded up and sold.”
“If you didn’t have your empty head always buried in the sand—and in the bottle—” Matthew was not about to mince words, “you mighta seen we don’t have that many cows any more. You already sold off half the herd to the U.S. Army, when they come through here.”
“Forget it,” quietly interposed the object of their discussion. “No need goin’ to all that expense, because I don’t want any kind of carousin’.”
Paused in his steps, Buckley, a big brawny man whose frame had run to a soft, flabby belly and bloodshot eyes (unattractive traits exhibited by the chronic drinker), glared at his youngest. “Seems to me you’d wanna celebrate still bein’ alive and makin’ it home in one piece, which two of your brothers didn’t, if I haveta remind you.”
Sam studied the cup of coffee set before him within hand’s reach. “You don’t need to remind me. Not of anything.”
“All right. I picked him up from town and I brung him home.” Matthew, who had swallowed down his own serving in almost one gulp, pushed back from the table to plop on his battered hat. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I got work to do.”
“Why, sure, boy. Reckon Sam’ll be out to help you in—”
“No.” This was the steady, firm voice of the clan matriarch from the oven where she had been setting a pan filled with ham and potatoes on the top shelf.
With four boisterous sons (once upon a time) and a husband too often in his cups, as the sole woman in the house she kept her own counsel, rarely adding a comment or opinion. But here she drew a line in the sand.
If Matthew was of his father’s descent, the spittin’ image, some might say, then certainly Sam, her beloved youngest, belonged to his mother. Intelligent, thoughtful, considerate, he claimed so many of her own attributes. She was not about to let him be bullied by Buckley’s orders when he had finally returned against all odds.
“Woman,” snapped Buckley. “Whaddya mean, no?”
“Just what I said. He’s only just arrived, Buck. Neither you nor Matthew have even asked about how he is, or his experiences, or what happened to him in that godawful prison camp.”
“Huh. Figured he’d tell us when he was ready. Figured he’d need a day or two. Am I right?”
Sam, as unwilling spectator to the drama going on around him, seemed to draw himself together, as if protecting his vulnerable inner self from some shattering blow. “Yeah, Pop. You’re right.” Glancing at his mother, he gave her a half-smile. “It’s okay, Ma. I’ll just get me some shakedown time, and then I’ll be ready to pick up the reins again.”
Reaching for his own Stetson, Buckley started for the door to join his eldest. “Huh. See that you do. This ranch needs all the help it can get.”
Mariah finished at the stove, set her towel aside, and took a seat. Emptied of two larger-than-life Marsden males, who seemed to do little more than rant and gibe at each other, the room seemed quieter and larger. And much more peaceful. After too many years of cannon fire and gunshots and the shrieks of wounded and dying men, Sam must want nothing more than peace.
He had reappeared in Whistle Creek after most people had given up hope of ever seeing him again. He had reappeared like a ghost, in the ragged and filthy apparel that passed for a Confederate uniform, in the waning days of the war, with a dirty bandage wrapped around his head, covering a wound that clearly must be attended to.
Gently she laid her work-worn hand atop his, too thin and too pale. “Pay no attention to him. You know what he’s like.”
He gave her a sad, weary smile. “Yeah, Ma, I know what he’s like. Too bad he wasn’t one of them that—” Stopping short, he shook the head with its mane of tangled black hair. “Never mind.”
She studied him, this boy grown to violent manhood under horrendous circumstances. The boy she had carried safely for nine months, only to deliver him into the hands of a brute. Not long after, she had forbidden Buckley to ever invade her bed again. Perhaps that fact was partly to blame for the foul mood which her husband wore around him like a shroud.
“You need fattening up, son.” Her loving gaze eased over and around him. “And a good long rest. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“Reckon I’m all right for now. Thanks, though.”
Still that curious, inward gathering of himself which spoke of an ordeal with which he had yet to come to terms. In some ways he seemed far older than his years, and her expression seemed to say that she longed to shelter him against her breast and soothe away all his hurts.
“Are you able to talk about it, Sam?”
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His heavy brows met in a frown. Neither of anger, nor of displeasure, but more of puzzlement. “Bits. First, though—did Matt say anything about the other fellers?”
“Other fellows?”
“The ones ridin’ the coach with me. All of us got sprung from that hellacious place in Rock Island about the same time, so we decided to head southwest together. Dunno how we even survived…”
Nor was he about to tell his mother of the privations he had endured. Strong though she was, and built of seemingly indestructible fiber, it would wound her unbearably to hear the facts of his imprisonment, unvarnished by any newspaper reporting.
“He didn’t mention them. You were friends, then?”
“Comrades in arms. Come a long way together. Think I’ll take a run back into town tomorrow, make sure they’re still around.”
The smallpox epidemic at Rock Island, which began in December of 1863, had about run its course by the time Sam and Corey Kincaid had been captured, after battles at Lookout Mountain and Missionary Ridge, and taken there some months later. Along with that, temperatures of 32 degrees below zero had killed off too many southern boys used to a much warmer clime. The outbreak had at least led to one positive: basic conditions had improved, so that laundries, sewers, and a large hospital were built.
By late 1864, however, when Sam and his little cadre of Corey, Silas Whittington, and Beauregard Draper had been interned for too long, the state of affairs worsened once again. Because of poor drainage, a small marsh formed near the camp.
It didn’t take long for more diseases to attack and spread through the inmates, whose health had already been vastly compromised. The place was being compared to the infamous Andersonville Prison for the Union soldiers, in Georgia, because death rates due to disease and dysentery had climbed so high, and basic care and sustenance were so lacking.
“We got word, somewhere around March, that somethin’ like 3000 prisoners were exchanged and released,” said Sam, trying to recall the details. “The rest of us got released on parole—May through July, one of the guards told me. Not sure of too much, myself.”
If his mother’s heart was breaking, it should come as no surprise. But she refused to push. Let the boy tell his story as he could, in his own time.
“Why is that, Sam, dear?”
Again that frown of puzzlement, as if a circuit that ought to connect specific brain cells just wasn’t doing its job. “Doctors said I got hit, here—” his long fingers traced what was evidently the path of a bullet beneath the filthy strips, more rag than dressing, tied around his skull, “—and…I dunno…keeps oozing here and there.”
“We’ll see to that shortly. Are you in pain?”
“For a long time, I was. Couldn’t see…”
His mother caught her breath at thought of her beloved son stuck blinded, trying to deal with a prison camp’s horrific conditions, but she remained silent. Part of compassion, part of empathy, is knowing when to speak and when to listen.
“—Couldn’t think right. Still havin’ trouble. Details ain’t real clear to me, and my memory ain’t so good. Forgot things I shoulda been rememberin’.”
“Oh, Sam. Sammy, dear. Partial amnesia, then. Able to bring some particulars to mind, but not others?”
“Sounds about right.” Relief shaded his voice, as if he felt reassured just putting a name to this singular ailment. “Dunno exactly why, though…”
She cupped one palm along the jut of his bearded cheek. “I suspect the bullet that creased your poor skull had a lot to do with it. So—have you been able to bethink yourself about your home?” she then asked gently, in the pause. “Your family? The town?”
With that same sad, weary smile, as if all the joy of living had gone out of him and only a dark, cloudy sky remained, he squeezed her hand. “Couldn’t ever forget you, Ma. It was your face I saw, durin’ the worst of times. Yours, and—” he frowned.
“Someone else’s? A girl, perhaps?”
“I think so. Just—just vague stuff, floatin’ around, y’ know. Dunno who she is…no name…”
A faulty memory was certainly not the worst that could have befallen a battle-shocked soldier. Mariah would be thankful if that were the only injury with which they must contend. And, hopefully, a full memory would return in time, as he was restored to health and vigor. The way she saw it, her sole task now lay in bringing back whatever had been lost.
“We never saw much mail,” Sam reflected, after a minute during which he scanned the kitchen, as if to re-familiarize himself with its layout. His brown eyes, hazy with the effort to recall, shifted from one item to another before returning to his mother’s worried face.
“Ah. Then my letters didn’t reach you.”
“A couple—right at the beginnin’. But one real small problem with a conflict spread over so many states is that troops are always movin’ here and there. If it ain’t to another skirmish somewhere, it’s to a camp in the woods, hidin’ out. So you’re often not in one place long enough for any correspondence to catch up with you.”
“You must’ve thought everybody back home had forgotten about you.”
“Noooo…I knew what things would be like. It’s just…”
“What is it, son?”
For answer, he rose slowly and stiffly, with an economy of movement never part of the old, joyous Sam Marsden, to poke into the battered canvas bag behind his chair. Then, resuming position, he handed over a worn and dirty envelope, much creased, its ink faded.
“The guards gave me this, not long b’fore I was released. You see it’s dated sometime back in late ’64—at least, from what I can make out. I scanned that there piece of paper over and over, tryin’ to figure… You read it, Ma. I got no recollection a’tall; tell me what you think.”
Puzzled, she accepted the missive, perused so often during the past weeks that its thin folds didn’t even crackle any more, and began to skim through the washed-out words. Her mouth pursed, her brows drew together. Finished, she gave a considering nod, then tried again.
Carefully she cleared her throat. “It looks to be a love letter, Sam.”
“Huh. That was my feelin’, too. Except—”
“Except?”
“I can’t remember ever gettin’ that involved with any girl roundabouts. And I sure can’t remember the name of one who might’ve been interested in me.”
Mariah rose from her chair. “This needs more thinking. Want another cup of coffee?”
Gratefully, he caught up her hand as she returned to the table with both coffee and a plate of biscuits. As thin and hollow-cheeked as her boy looked, she wondered if he’d ever get back the weight and vigor he’d lost.
“Thank you, Ma. You don’t need to wait on me, but it surely is a blessin’ to be back under my own roof again with you here to talk to.”
She studied the piece of paper left lying open on the table as if it were some foreign, alien object. “Well, let’s see what we can come up with, then. Whatever young lady wrote this, she’s expectin’ to be married when you get back from the war.”
With a slight shake of his shaggy head, Sam nodded. “I know. She says we been apart too long, and she misses me a whole heckuva lot, and she can’t wait till she can see me again.” Frustrated, he brushed at his hair with one impatient hand. “Where am I standin’ here? Why can’t I remember?”
“D’ you think,” suggested Mariah carefully, “that you might not want to remember?”
An Endless Love to Remember: A Historical Western Romance Book Page 4