Chapter 21 #2
Joanna sobbed on her shoulder until the man from the orphanage commanded the children to accompany him to the train station.
Before Joanna walked away, Annamae ripped off the brassard and thrust it into her small hands.
“Never take your eyes off the cross. No matter what happens in your life, you’ll always find healing at the cross. ”
The girl clutched it in her fingers, confusion pulling at her features as she went out the door.
Annamae’s heart had been ripped from her chest, beaten, and stuffed back in. As soon as Monty was well, they’d both write to the sweet girl. In the meantime, Annamae would work on living the truth of what she’d told Joanna.
SATURDAY, JULY 6
Riddled with fever, Monty had drifted in and out of consciousness for the last four days.
When he did awaken, he mumbled words about the dam and money and her life being in danger.
His frantic pleas cracked Annamae’s heart wide open.
From the pieces she could fit together, whoever had done this to him had done it because of the information he shared regarding the dam’s spillway.
The information she’d pressed him to relay.
She never should have involved Monty. That was clear now.
They’d become such fast friends, and after all the broken lives she’d witnessed and all the injuries she’d bound, this town’s fight had become hers too.
She knew what it was like to suffer from the selfish natures of the Pittsburgh elite.
It didn’t matter that they’d already amassed fortunes to rival the kings of the ancient world.
They’d lie, cheat, and steal from a poor man for a few more pennies.
It didn’t matter that they owned homes as large as a city block.
They must take over another man’s land as well, even if their comfort meant putting lives at stake.
And they would get away with it all because there was no one to stop them.
What the folks in this town had suffered went beyond the worst of her grieving. Death and destruction on this massive a scale demanded accountability. If God withheld His swift hand of judgment, then the judgment of the courts must prevail.
She lifted a rag from the basin of water, letting the cool drips saturate Monty’s scalp the way his words from their picnic tried to saturate her heart. “We mustn’t forget that the Lord died for the rich and the privileged too.”
That might be, but it didn’t mean they should escape the consequences of their actions. Whoever did this to Monty would answer to her.
She pressed the rag against his cheek. He needed a good scrubbing, and the July heat made that fact more apparent.
His skin beaded with sweat, and the nightshirt the doctor and two male nurses wrestled him into days ago was damp and stained.
She was vigilant to spoon broth and cool water into his mouth hourly, but he never allowed her to administer as much as she’d like.
She’d prayed, she’d nursed, and she’d spoken soft words of encouragement, but still he lay there, battling God only knew what injuries on the inside. All because of her.
He had to get better. Had to. She couldn’t lose another man that meant so much to her.
“Fight, Monty. Fight.” She clasped his hand.
He didn’t stir.
If it wasn’t for his pulse twitching against her thumb, she’d think him dead.
The thought of never again seeing his haughty smirk when he teased her or how his blue eyes darkened at her nearness, never having the privilege of running her fingers through his thick dark hair in times of health, made tears blur her vision.
She hadn’t allowed herself to get close to anyone since her father died.
Life was short, and the sorrow that swallowed those left behind was almost too much to bear.
But from nearly the first moment she’d spotted Monty meandering through the tents, she’d felt a connection that made her lay her fears aside and open her heart to him.
He’d taught her things about servanthood and love she’d thought she’d already mastered.
Now, she would put those lessons into practice. The Bible said, “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.” Well, Monty meant more to her than a mere friend, and she was certain he reciprocated those feelings.
She would be the sacrifice and ensure whoever was responsible for this paid. For Monty, for the people of Johnstown, and for her father. And she knew just where to go to make sure the information landed in the right place.
The men of the South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club might evade a judge and jury or two, but they could not evade the citizens of the United States of America.
Annamae finished tracing the wet rag over Monty’s neck and clavicles then dropped the rag into the basin. She dried her hands on her apron as she stalked through the tent with the fiery purpose of a lioness.
Like Clara Barton of old, Annamae was ready for war.
Footfalls pounded the dirt behind her, growing louder at their approach. “Annamae.”
Someone touched her arm, and she turned. Her fire sizzled out. “Matthew.”
His smile was tender, his gaze heated like that of a man reuniting with his lover. “You used my given name.”
Her stomach soured.
She stood dumbfounded, unable to form words after her charge to meet the foe.
Matthew’s gaze traced every nuance of her face. “My, you’re a sight for sore eyes.” He moved closer and whispered, “I’ve missed you.”
She stared up at him, mouth gaping, unable to return the sentiment.