The Alamo Bride

by Kathleen Y'Barbo

  She walked over to the table and placed the book she’d been reading next to his lamp and a pair of oddly familiar Wellington boots. Then she offered more eggs, and he shook his head.

  Still those green eyes kept watching him. Beneath the quilt, he pulled against the ropes holding his left hand and paid for the effort with a jolt of pain in his shoulder. Was she the one who caused him to be in this position, or had she merely followed the orders of someone else?

  November 18.

  He had no idea how long in the future that was. Or perhaps the day was already past and this had been the result.

  In either case, what would she do next? Was she his healer or his prison guard? Rain continued to pound the roof and thunder shook the walls as he considered these questions with as much care as his feeble mind could manage.

  Then he knew. It did not matter what she would do next, for he must strike first. If the green-eyed woman was a threat to his mission, he must neutralize the threat.

  With his free hand, he motioned for her to move closer. Though he thought he detected reluctance in those green eyes, she did as he asked.

  Quick as a snake, his hand wrapped around hers. “Who are you, and why are you holding a man who represents the president of the United States?”

  The words were out, but he had no idea where they came from or what they meant.

  Ellis willed herself not to panic. Though her heart raced and her fingers trembled, she kept her expression neutral. “Release me,” she told him.

  He ignored her.

  She could hit him where it would hurt the most—namely his shoulder—but as a healer she would take that action only as a last resort. “Clay,” she said gently, “I am the person who has kept you alive.”

  He blinked hard as if trying to understand the statement.

  “You were bound for safety,” she added.

  His eyes narrowed. “Yours or mine?”

  A flash of lightning split the sky outside the high window. This time there was no thunder, only a deafening crack and a flash of white light inside the small barn. Out of the corner of her eye, Ellis saw a slim thread of something bluish-purple race down the wall. Then came the unmistakable scent of something burning.

  “Fire!”

  With the soldier distracted, Ellis yanked her hand free. The wall had begun to glow with fire, though thankfully, the rain appeared to be keeping the old wood from igniting.

  At least so far.

  “Remove the ropes,” the soldier commanded, reverting back to Acadian French as he fumbled with the bindings that still held his left hand to the bed.

  Despite the rain that poured down on the roof, flames had begun to take possession of the wood on the opposite side of the small barn. Soon the fire would reach the table beside the door. There it would consume the lamp that held enough flammable oil to cause an explosion.

  They would then be trapped.

  Ellis hurried to the end of the bed and lifted the quilt just enough to tug at the ropes binding the soldier’s feet together. Behind her she could feel the heat of the flames growing.

  With her hands trembling, the knots refused to budge. She looked up from her work and their gazes connected.

  “We will live,” Clay told her as he jerked at the bindings on his left hand. “Keep trying.”

  “Yes,” she shouted over the rain and her fear. “We will.”

  Ellis tarried only a moment as she tried to latch onto the claim. Then she went back to her work with the same result.

  “There shall no evil befall thee, neither shall any plague come nigh thy dwelling. For he shall give his angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways. They shall bear thee up in their hands, lest thou dash thy foot against a stone.”

  The words of the psalm she had only just been reading moments ago. Psalm 91.

  Her fingers stilled.

  Though the flames grew and her heart raced, calm settled inside her. The next attempt to untie the ropes was successful. The soldier’s feet were free.

  Unfortunately, Clay had not yet managed to accomplish the same feat. He now lay back against the quilts, exhausted and seemingly unable to move.

  “Go,” he told her when their eyes met. “Save yourself.”

  No,” Ellis shouted as she moved around to where Clay’s left hand was tethered to the bed frame. “We will both live.”

  The knot had been pulled tight, likely by the soldier’s futile work to release himself. The only remedy was to cut him free, but how?

  Despite it all, she smiled. Of course. She had removed her rebozo and left it on the porch when she had been washing dishes after lunch.

  “I will be back,” she told him as she ducked her head to run beneath the cloud of smoke now settling on them.

  “Save yourself,” came his weak cry.

  The first step into the pounding rain shocked her into stumbling, and she landed in a puddle on the ground. Rising, she swiped at her face and then raced toward the porch, more by memory than sight, for she was nearly blinded by the deluge.

  There she found the rebozo made of colorful fabric her grandmother had purchased at the market in Matamoros. Grandfather Valmont said it looked almost exactly like the scrap that his mother, Maribel, had kept among her treasured possessions.

  She snatched up the cloth and ran back into the rain, fumbling for the knife resting in the secret pocket. From this vantage point, she could see the extent of the flames. There was little time to spare before the roof would fall in or the lamp would seal their exit.

  With the knife in one hand, she tucked the scarf around her and opened the door. Smoke billowed out, but she ducked beneath it and crawled on her hands and knees until she reached the spot where the soldier lay.

  Clay’s attempt at saving himself resulted in him lying in a puddle of quilts with his left hand still tethered to the bed. “Clay,” she said against his ear. “Can you manage to walk?”

  He looked up at her, dark eyes seemingly unable to focus. Then an expression of clarity. “I will,” he told her, and she had no doubt he would.

  The sharp knife made short work of the ropes. Now to get him to his feet.

  Clay Gentry was easily head and shoulders taller than her, if not more, and having been lying abed for more than a week, he could offer little help in rising to his feet.

  Ellis squared her shoulders and gave him an even look, banking on what she knew to be true about the hearts of men who served. A soldier left no one behind. If Clay was a soldier, then now was the time for him to prove it.

  With this in mind, she managed to get him situated in a seated position on the mattress and then nodded toward the door. “The exit is there and we are here. I will not save myself if I cannot save you. What will you do with that information, soldier?”

  Clay appeared dazed. Then he looked up at her. Something in his expression seemed to shift. She offered her hand and he took it, rising on unstable legs.

  Instantly he fell into a fit of coughing that landed him back on the mattress. She helped move him back into a seated position.

  “The smoke is too thick. We must stay down.” She helped him slide onto the floor. “Can you crawl?” At his nod, she yanked a quilt from the bed and spread it over his head and shoulders, then poured the last of the water over it so that the flames would be repelled. She then used her rebozo, already wet from the rain, to do the same for herself.

  “Keep your head low and follow me.”

  Crawling proved difficult, but the rebozo kept out the worst of the smoke. She got as far as the door before she looked back to see if Clay had followed.

  She found him sprawled on the floor just a few feet from her, the quilt partially covering him from flames that were now reaching the legs of the table where the lamp stood. His eyes were closed, and she could see fresh blood on the shoulder of his nightshirt. If he remained where he was, Clay Gentry would die.

  “Wake up, soldier,” she shouted to him. “You will not die today.”

  H
is head lifted but then fell again. Clay Gentry appeared to be done.

  “Well, I am not,” she snapped as she closed the distance between them to grasp the man’s wrists.

  By giving his arms a tug, she was able to move Clay a few inches toward the door. Another jerk and she moved him closer. The pace was excruciatingly slow, and the smoke poured over them like a thick and poisonous blanket, but she never slowed her pace. Jerking and tugging, yanking the quilt and then moving it back over his head so he could breathe. In this way, she moved inch by inch until finally she gave one mighty pull and they both tumbled into the rain and the mud.

  His feet still inside the barn, Clay rolled over onto his back and gasped. The fresh air and rain swirled around him, though the smoke also rolled past.

  “Safe,” he managed through a fit of coughing and then choking.

  “Not until you are clear of the building,” she told him. “There’s a dry bed in the house, but I cannot pull you all that way.”

  He looked at her and then lifted up on one elbow, appearing to survey the distance between where he was and where he needed to be. “The bed will wait,” he told her. “I think I can get to the porch.”

  He moved into a crawling position and remained there for what seemed like an eternity. Then he reached for Ellis, who offered her hand to raise him to his knees.

  “I can go for help,” she told him, knowing the nearest neighbor was miles away and the help the neighbor could offer would not arrive for hours, if at all.

  “No,” he said through a clenched jaw. “I will do this.”

  Ellis once again offered her hand, but he declined. Instead he groaned and then cried out in a mighty roar as he rose to his full height. The rain pelted down and lightning zigzagged across the sky toward the river, but Clay Gentry was on his own two feet.

  He began to laugh, and despite the gravity of the situation, Ellis joined him. Then he swayed, and she caught him.

  “I vote that we defer the celebration until we reach the porch,” she told him as she urged him forward toward the house.

  As with their trek across the barn, the going was slow and the distance seemed far more than expected. Twice they stumbled, but each time, Ellis caught him. Finally they reached the porch, where Clay sagged down on the topmost step and leaned against the side of the house.

  Ellis tucked the quilt around him. “You’re out of the rain here and will be safe until we can get you moved inside.”

  She looked back at the barn. It was almost completely engulfed in flames. The only side yet to erupt was the side where the lamp sat on the table.

  Beside the soldier’s boots.

  The boots with the documents hidden inside.

  Bolting away from the house, she raced across the lawn to reach the burning barn. The table was near to the door and yet just far enough away to be obscured by the smoke and flames. Arranging the wet rebozo over her head, Ellis ducked down and felt her way toward it. She snatched the boots, and something else hit her on the forehead.

  Her book of psalms.

  Ellis might have laughed if the flames hadn’t taken over the lamp at just that moment. She threw the boots outside into the rain, tucked the book into her bodice, and then leaped toward the open door just as the lamp shattered behind her.

  Her skirt caught on the hinge, and Ellis turned to snatch the fabric loose. Another explosion lit the darkness. She fell backward and then the world tilted and upended.

  She fought the rebozo, now tangled in her hair and covering her face, to try to see what was happening. Rain pelted her and thunder continued to rumble overhead, but a deeper rumble sounded against her ear.

  “Be still,” it said. “I will keep you safe.”

  The scarf slid away from her face, and she looked up into familiar eyes. “Clay?”

  A moment later, she landed in a soggy heap on the porch steps. Clay settled slowly beside her with a groan.

  “How …” She shook her head. “But you couldn’t possibly—”

  A fit of coughing rendered her unable to complete the thought. When she could finally gasp for breath, she muttered a whispered “Thank you.”

  Eyes closed, she rested her head on her knees and allowed her breathing to return to normal. When she sat up again, she realized Clay had not responded.

  He sat very quietly next to her, his breathing labored and his gaze fixed on the burning ruin of the barn. Ellis reached behind him to slide the quilt over his shoulders.

  The gesture seemed to draw Clay from his trance. He returned his attention to her and used the corner of the quilt to swipe at her face.

  They sat in silence as the fire fought the rain to claim the small barn. “How did you do that?” she finally asked.

  “I’m not sure I did,” he said.

  The next time she looked over at Clay, he had fallen asleep. Though tempted to leave him there, Ellis knew she had to get him inside.

  Clay opened his eyes to a slice of evening sunlight that blinded him. He shifted position and then groaned. The smell of smoke permeated the room, so much so that he lifted up on his elbows to look around and be certain the fire had not spread to the place where he lay.

  Shaking the cobwebs out of his brain, he tried to recall just what happened that led him here, then sat up and put his feet on the floor. A wave of dizziness came over him, but he ignored it.

  His last reliable memory was of waking up to a pair of green eyes looking down at him. There were things he knew to be true, like the fact that he had been shot more than once. Then there were the things he was uncertain about, things that could have been memories or merely suggestions given by his captor.

  The captor who saved his life.

  Clay let out a long breath, thinking on that for a moment. Each of the things he could hold against the green-eyed woman had been wiped away the moment she insisted she would not leave the barn without him.

  Ellis opened the door and stepped inside, then froze. “Oh. I thought …” Then she appeared to collect herself. “May I check your bandages?”

  He smiled. “I don’t recall being asked that question before.”

  “You were sleeping.” She set a basket of what looked like herbs and strips of fabric down on the floor at her feet. “Would you lie down so I can look at your shoulder, please?”

  Though he considered lodging a protest, Clay complied with her request. “Might it be true that I was asleep thanks to something you gave me?”

  She looked up but said nothing. Clay winced as she went back to her work. When she was done, she stepped back to regard him evenly. “To manage the pain,” she told him. “You were shot. One went through, but the other did not. We had to remove it.”

  “We?” He sat up slowly, declining Ellis’s help. “I only remember seeing you.”

  “My mother, Sophie, is the healer. I learned from her.” She picked up the basket and hurried to the door but then paused at the doorframe. “What you did, saving me, I mean. Thank you.”

  He shrugged then winced when the movement caused a jab of pain. “We exchanged thanks already. No need to repeat them.”

  A nod. “I wasn’t sure you would remember.” She moved away and then returned to the door. “You’re speaking in Acadian French. Why is that?”

  “My grandparents were from Louisiana,” he told her, though he had no idea how he knew this or even if it was true.

  “Sometimes you speak English,” she said in a tone that sounded as if she was accusing him of something.

  “I do?” He had no recollection of that. But then, when he tried hard to think, he had very little recollection of anything.

  “You do. And when you speak in English, sometimes you say things that are …”

  “That are what?”

  He moved to put his feet back on the floor, keeping the quilt around him. The time for lying in bed was over. He was no healer, but he knew he would never fully recover until he was back to doing the normal things he had done before he was shot.

  What
ever those things were.

  When he realized Ellis had not yet responded, Clay looked over in her direction and repeated the question.

  She shook her head. “Never mind. I’ll bring some food. It’s cold, but that’s what happens when you sleep away the day.” She paused to offer a wry smile. “And that was without any sleeping medication, Clay.”

  With that, she closed the door behind her. A moment later, he heard the unmistakable sound of a key turning in the lock.

  Ellis sat on the porch and stared past the still-smoldering remains of the barn toward the place where the Brazos River rolled past. Mama and the boys were late. The sun had set an hour ago, and Ellis had begun to prepare herself that they might not return tonight.

  Mama likely would expect her to have gone down the road to Lyla and Jonah’s home by now. She’d certainly had her chance to do just that. Jonah arrived as soon as he spied the smoke, but there had been nothing he could do.

  She’d already secured the soldier in Mama and Papa’s bedroom behind a locked door, so she easily could have accepted Jonah’s offer to stay with them until Mama returned. She’d been too tired to consider walking that far, even though the distance was only a few miles.

  Ellis stifled a yawn. The boots she rescued sat beside her. Covered in soot and still stained with Clay’s blood, they had been drenched in the downpour.

  She picked them up and walked through the middle of the dogtrot, then paused at the locked door. The soldier was quiet, either sleeping or lying awake in the dark. She moved on to enter the front door and settle at the kitchen table.

  Had they just gathered for lunch here this afternoon? So much had happened since then that it seemed like days ago rather than hours. She thought of Mr. Jim then and offered a prayer that the Lord would spare him, a prayer she had been praying each time he came to mind during the day. Tonight, she added more, a few lines from Psalm 91:

  “Surely he shall deliver thee from the snare of the fowler, and from the noisome pestilence. He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings shalt thou trust.”