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 office in 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 word all was 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?
What was he doing here? She wiped her hands on her smudged canvas apron, but there was little remedy for her dirt-caked nails. She frowned. What if something had happened to Ben? Her shoulders tensed. Would the doctor be the one to bring the news?
She bit her lip and headed down the row between bean and squash plants.
A gopher darted into a tangle of vines. Maybe the doctor had come to check on his patient.
After all, he probably wouldn’t be aware that Ben was away on the trail.
She rolled her sleeves down to her wrist, covering her bare, tanned arms.
Dr. LeBeau donned a black frock coat over his white shirt and hopped down from the cushioned seat.
Dare she attempt to slip in the back door? It’d give her a chance to wash up and comb her hair. Her step faltered at the path that led around back.
Dr. LeBeau waved. “Good day, Miss Scott.”
Jack charged around the corner yelping. Their brave guard dog must have been sleeping on duty.
She tugged her apron off and shifted her steps toward her guest. She’d greet him as she was. “Good afternoon, Dr. LeBeau. I pray there hasn’t been any trouble.”
“Trouble?” He gave Jack a quick pet and looped his Morgan’s lead rope around the hitching post.
She frowned. “I mean, like someone getting hurt.” The apron dangled from her hand. “Mr. McKenzie is out on the trail.”
“I can see why you’d worry.” His mustache twitched. A slight smile spread across his face. “I heard McKenzie’s trying to round up your mavericks. But as far as I know, he hasn’t managed to hurt himself yet.”
She blinked at him. No emergency. And he was aware of Ben’s absence.
Even reciprocated the same twinge of disrespect Ben evidenced toward him.
So why had he come? A red cravat offset the bright white of his collar and the black of his frock coat, waistcoat, and trousers.
The man was dressed more for a social call than a ride across the prairie.
Only a thin layer of dust coated his garments.
Had he stopped somewhere shy of here and dusted himself off?
His smile broadened beneath her perusal.
She glanced away. “I’m sure Mr. McKenzie will do well with the cattle. He’s a fine horseman. He served in the cavalry during the war.”