“I don’t want you to have to do that. It was probably nothing.” Maybe she’d even imagined the sound.
“I’ll stay awake just the same.”
“There’s no need.” Her words cut sharper than she intended.
He flinched. “I wish I could take back what happened.”
She pressed her lips together.I wish you could too.
Shoulders sagging, he rose and stalked to his bedroll. Only, he didn’t lie down. Instead, he drew a blanket around himself, cradled his rifle across his lap, and leaned against a rock.
She should say something. Forgive him. Be understanding. “I know you didn’t mean to hurt me,” she whispered. But the words were mere pieces of lint stuck into a gunshot wound. Not nearly enough.
CHAPTER 19
Ben hefted the saddle onto the multi-colored blanket on his mare’s back. The early-morning sun streamed through the open stable door. Two stalls down, Cora’s horse snorted, eager for attention.
He ground his teeth as he cinched the girth strap beneath his quarter horse’s belly. How in the world could he have attacked Cora? He rested his head against the saddle fender. What was wrong with him? If only he could scour every trace of Andersonville from his brain, heart, and soul.
Cora hadn’t treated him the same in the day and a half since the incident. Hadn’t met his gaze. Even Charlie had seemed a little skittish yesterday but had warmed up to almost his usual self by this morning. Cora would not forgive or forget so easily. He didn’t blame her. What if he hadn’t come to himself? What if he’d done worse, struck her or choked her? Goodness knows, he’d done as much in Andersonville in the name of protecting his mess’s meager supplies.
With a heavy sigh, he secured the saddle to his new mare, Penny, and clunked up the steps to his room. His open saddlebag lay on his newly made bed. Two envelopes poked out of the leather pouch. He’d picked them up at the post officein Weatherford yesterday afternoon on their return from Mr. Gary’s ranch. Not eager to read the contents, he’d left them unopened. He didn’t need to see the signatures to recognize his father’s and Olivia’s handwriting. He could only hope there’d be a note from his sister, Evelyn, stuck in with his father’s.
He could save them to read until he was by the campfire tonight on the trail. But what if something needed an immediate reply? Slapping his gloves against his thigh, he yanked the mail out of the bag and sat at his small pine table. Bracing his foot against the wobbly table leg, he started with his father’s, dated April 22nd, 1866, a response to the first letter Ben had dashed off the day he arrived in Weatherford. His second letter had probably only reached Philadelphia in the last week or so.
Ben scanned the page. Family news. Talk of wrangling at the paper between partners. A wish for Ben’s health and a speedy return. …Your level-headed editorship would be a welcomed counterbalance to young Thorson’s sensationalism…Level-headed? Did that word apply to him anymore?Besides, the elder Thorson, a full partner with Ben’s father, wouldn’t likely welcome anyone who interfered with the reign of his son. A section from Evie followed. She’d finished her college term. Her description of a dance made him laugh.
His merriment evaporated as he opened his mother’s two pages. Talk of home and the soldier’s hospital she visited with Olivia. His mouth dried.Olivia. He skimmed the paragraph and slowed down on the next. Encouragement. Concern for his health. They all missed him. The wordallwas underlined. Was he taking his medicine?
Medicine. He almost crumpled the letter. What he wouldn’t give to have never tasted it. But how would he have lived through those early weeks in the hospital, skin and bones, gnarled legs, and a wrecked stomach without it?Lord, give me the strength to never, ever taste it again.
Shoving his fingers through his hair, he returned to the last paragraph. A reminder to store the Scripture in his heart. Scripture? He had repeated verses day and night on the battlefield, in the camps, and in prison, reading his Testament until the pages blackened with soot and mud after months in Andersonville. They had once meant so much, but by the end, they were as dry as his swollen tongue.
God, forgive me.He squeezed his eyes.You were there with me in the darkest night. I know.
He folded the missive and tucked it away. His swallow slunk down his gullet as he opened the second. Perfumed. He sniffed the paper. Lavender. Olivia often wore it in the evenings. During the spring of their early courtship, he’d been charmed by it. Now, it invaded his nostrils, smothering his breath like a too-hot, stuffy room. Was it the scent or the exhumed memories of too many evenings spent on the sofa with Olivia much too close, praying no one would come down the stairs while they immersed themselves in kisses.
He coughed and shoved the letter in its envelope unread. What in the world had he been thinking, spending time like that with her when his heart had been half dead? He stood and strode to the window, shoving the sash upward.
The morning breeze fluttered the curtain. Ben gripped the sill and sucked in air. In truth, he hadn’t been thinking, not for months since his return from the war. Instead, he’d drifted, numb, heart and brain embalmed by the brown liquid. Going through the motions of courtship, work, and life.
And now?
The back door of the house banged shut. Cora appeared around the corner, bucket in tow, and headed for the well, her step light but sure. A woman of character and strength, with backbone enough to tackle this ranch on her own with a nine-year-old boy. A woman who breathed spring into his soul and ignited his heart.
He needed to make amends for what had happened the other night. Show her that wasn’t really him. But what if it was? No. He scrubbed his hand over his jaw. He’d find her cattle, take them to Goodnight, and show her he was a man to could be counted on.
Sweat moistened Cora’s brow as she squatted in the garden pulling weeds from beneath the bean tendrils. Tomorrow, she’d run them up on poles. A bee buzzed near her ear. The delicious smell of dampened earth filled her nostrils. An early-morning rain had left the ground pliable. By tomorrow morning, the top covering would be crusted again. Later in the summer, the hardness would go inches deep and leave cracks if left unwatered. She and Charlie would form their own bucket brigade from the well.
Where would Ben be by then? On a cattle drive deep into Colorado Territory with the widow’s cattle? Or back in Pennsylvania, having had his fill of ranching? He’d been gone a week now, rounding up the mavericks with Goodnight’s young hired hand. How was he fairing? Despite the fact he’d only eaten with them in the kitchen a handful of times, the extra chair at the dinner table felt empty without him.
His shoulders and his gaze had drooped when he’d said goodbye to her, his features clouded with guilt and regret. She didn’t blame him for his nightmare-induced roughness. Jeb might very well have reacted the same. But it was the word he’d whispered that had chilled her affection.Laudanum.
Clickety-clack. Clickety-clack.A wagon?
She stretched up to a stand. Her rifle leaned against a post at the end of the row. Not that she expected to need it. Glancing down at her bare shins, she loosened the gathered folds of her green skirt from her waistband. The hem of her chemise tumbled toward the top of her worn boots, along with the green.
A horse and gig trotted through the palisade gate. The sole occupant, a tall man in a topper straw hat, snapped the reins and guided the conveyance toward the house. Dr. Arthur LeBeau?
