by Penn Gates
Alarmed at his appearance, she reaches out and pulls him inside. Nix waits for him to say something, but he remains silent—although when he swallows she can hear it. Michael is in melt down. She knows the signs all too well.
“Are you OK, bud?" The words sound stupid, but she can't think of anything else to say.
He jerks his head up and down like a robot. “Just tell me—is he dead? Michael's lips hardly move as he asks the question.
Nix senses that Michael will not be satisfied with vague reassurances. He's here for the truth. “Nothing major was hit, but he's lost a lot of blood—as long as there's no infection, he'll be all right." She stops talking because her voice sounds thin and strange—like somebody else’s. She starts to shake. “We'll know in the next forty-eight hours,” she says. “That's all I can tell you.”
Michael's face contorts from emotion. He mumbles a few words and then falls silent.
“I didn't catch that,” Nix says, moving a little closer. “Turn up the volume.”
He stands there swallowing over and over, until he whispers, “What if I shot him?”
Nix is so stunned by this question she's speechless.
“Why would you even think that?” she says finally. “You both were on higher ground, shooting down into the driveway. Besides there were a lot of guns firing out there. And they were all firing up into the trees at you and Cash.”
“Nix, you don't know—what—happened,” Michael says and now he's almost sobbing. “I was ready to take a shot and a bullet whizzed past my head so close I—I jerked as my rifle fired and the bullet went—it didn't hit what I was aiming at. Where did it go, Nix? Where did it go?" Michael's face is contorted with emotion. “It wasn't like hunting—it was crazy confusing and everything slow and fast, all at the same time. How does anyone ever know what happens in a battle?”
Nix isn't sure if Michael will bolt if she touches him, but she's got to take the chance because this kid needs to be held and reassured. She grabs him and pulls him into a hug. He struggles, but just for a second, and then he buries his face in her shoulder and cries.
“It's OK, Michael. It's OK." She pats his back and rubs it in little, comforting circles. After awhile he pulls away and swipes at his face with the back of his sleeve.
Nix doesn't want to leave it like this. She can tell he's ashamed of losing control and crying in front of her. “Listen up, Michael,” she says firmly. “Shit happens. No one knows everything that goes down in a firefight—it’s chaos. The only thing you can be sure of is that you stood your ground and risked your life for family and home place. That makes you a warrior—and a hero.”
There's no response from Michael.
“The important thing is to know exactly why you've decided to use lethal force in the first place,” she says. “And once you've made that choice, do what you have to do and never second guess yourself. That's what Cash says, anyway,” she adds, guessing that the message needs to come directly from the guy Michael idolizes.
The dark brows draw together. “That isn't some bullshit story to—wind me up—is it?”
Nix wonders what other Englisher expressions he's picked up from the guys—until she realizes those are her own words he's quoting. “Swear on George's Bible,” she says, echoing his response to her just a short while ago—when it was she who was unraveling and Michael who reintroduced her to reality.
Michael smiles slowly, even though it looks like it hurts, and Nix knows he's going to be all right.
Chapter 28
Nix sits on the hallway floor across from the room where one of the rescued girls died, and most recently, Doug gasped out his last breath. We should have put Cash someplace else, she thinks. It's nonsense—I know it's superstitious nonsense—but just to be safe, we should have chosen another room. What if he dies because I didn't think of it sooner?
Margaret comes out of the office looking worried.
Nix jumps up. “What's wrong?”
“He has a fever,” Margaret says. “Temperatures often rise in sick people as the sun goes down. No one knows why, but it is true.”
“He's not ill—he’s been shot,” Nix says shakily. “It's infection, isn’t it?”
“Most likely,” Margaret says tersely. “I will brew more tea.”
Nix follows her into the kitchen. “Tea! How is tea going to help him? He needs antibiotics!" She runs her fingers through her hair. “There must be a pharmacy out there that still has a supply. I'll send the boys to search—no matter how far they have to go!”
“Please Nix, I know you are feeling scared, but I must concentrate on what I am doing to get it just right.”
Nix watches her adding a handful of something to a pot of boiling water, a pinch of something else. “What is that?” she asks. “What are you making?”
“It is from the old herbal we have been studying. Goldenseal, Purple Cone Flower, and Marigold to fight the infection. I have been giving it to Cash since I closed his wound.”
“Do you think any of that stuff really works?” Nix asks, fighting back tears. “It sounds like a bouquet—not medicine.”
“We will see." Margaret turns and studies Nix. “He needs something to help him now. We do not have time to go looking for something that may not be found." She motions to Nix. “Put another pan of water to boil, and we will make an infusion of Marigold to apply as a compress on the wound itself. It is said to help with inflammation.”
Nix's hands are shaking so badly that she can barely hold the pan of brewed Marigold flowers over the sieve to strain out the pieces. Maybe this will help, she thinks, please let this help.
Nix follows behind Margaret with the basin of Marigold—water, infusion, whatever the hell it's called—but she stops outside the office, unable to cross the threshold.
“Please bring that in,” Margaret calls. “We need to get a compress on the wound as quickly as possible.”
“He said he didn't want me in there,” Nix whispers.
Margaret puts down the cup she's holding and darts to the doorway. She pulls Nix into the room and says impatiently, “There is no time for this. You are a fighter, Phoenix St Clair, and this is a battle against another kind of enemy. Now come help me remove the bandage. We must begin.”
Just before dawn, Margaret puts her hand on Nix's shoulder and says, “If the fever is going to break, it will be soon. I must go make more medicine. Keep applying the wet cloths. I will be back as soon as I can.”
Margaret vanishes without another word, and Nix continues wringing out cloths and applying them to Cash's shoulder. She no longer feels anything. It's as if she's in a corner of the room watching herself perform the motions, over and over, like some sort of video loop.
Something stops her from raising her arm and she blinks rapidly. Has she really been applying compresses in her sleep? She looks down and sees Cash's hand gripping her wrist.
“You're awake,” she says stupidly.
“Water,” he gasps, and she realizes he's only half conscious.
“Hold on." She rushes to pour a glass of water. “Do you need help?” she asks, returning to the side of the bed.
“Lift—my head.”
Before she tilts his head up, she gingerly feels his face. It seems to her the fever has gone down considerably, but she can't be sure. Want something badly enough and you can convince yourself it's true.
“Higher,” he mutters as the water leaks from the glass onto his chest.
“Any farther and it's going to hurt like hell,” she says.
“Do it—then get me a stiff drink— " He groans as she raises his upper back just slightly from the mattress. “Fuck, that hurts.”
“I'll get the whiskey.” But by the time she walks to the desk and back he's passed out again.
Nix sits beside Cash for as long as she dares—until she sees signs that he's waking up. Then she goes in search of Margaret.
“There you are,” Nix says from the doorway and staggers into the kitchen.
&n
bsp; Margaret is sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee in front of her. She glances at Nix before asking, “How is our patient doing?”
“He's gonna be waking any second,” Nix mumbles. “Time for your shift, Margaret.”
The Mennonite girl pours some more tea into an old cracked pot that Gramps always meant to throw away and hurries out the door.
“What's for breakfast?” Nix slurs, trying to focus her eyes on the girls preparing food. She sways slightly and leans against the wall.
“Eight hours of sleep for you,” Brittany answers, wiping her hands on a towel. “You're going to pass out and hurt yourself if you don't get some rest." She steers Nix by the elbow toward the stairs.
“No—don’t want to sleep up there,” Nix mumbles.
“Too fucking bad,” Brittany says, but her tone is gentle. “Just keep climbing. Another couple of steps and we'll be there.”
Nix is vaguely aware of being tucked into her grandfather's bed before she falls into a soft cloud and floats away.
Nix actually sleeps for twelve straight hours, and when she wakes she's ravenous. Then she thinks of Cash and loses her appetite. Would Margaret wake her if his fever came back? Would they even let her know if he was dying?
She clatters down the stairs and goes straight to the door of the office, then stops dead. What waits for her on the other side?
“Come have some breakfast,” Margaret says from behind her.
Nix whirls around. “Is he—”
“He is much better,” Margaret says gently. “The fever has not returned. He is awake more—and getting restless." She smiles. “Always a good sign.”
“That's good,” Nix mumbles. “That's good."
“Maybe we should have our coffee in the parlor,” Margaret says. “Go sit down. I will bring a tray from the kitchen.”
“I need to see what's going on with the guys,” Nix says, suddenly feeling cornered. “I'll catch you later.”
“No!” Margaret says with such force she stops Nix dead. “You will do as I ask and go into the parlor.”
What am I? Ten years old? Nix thinks belligerently. How about five, her memory suggests helpfully. Isn't that what Cash once told me? I'm like a five-year-old—and that's on a good day. She throws herself into Gramps' old chair. I can never repay Margaret for all she does. At the very least I owe her the courtesy of listening. I already know what she's going to say—now that he's out of the woods, back off and leave Cash alone so he can recover in peace.
Margaret reappears, bearing a tray with coffee and leftover biscuits. She kicks the door shut with her foot before setting the tray down in front of Nix. “So,” she says softly. “You are feeling better after your long sleep?”
Nix shifts restlessly. “I'm really not in the mood for a tea party,” she says. Then she realizes how ungrateful that sounds. “Sorry,” she mutters. “This is nice of you.”
“My mother and her cousins always called it a coffee klatsch,” Margaret answers, and looks a little sad as she hands Nix a large cup. “Drink and you will feel better yet.”
Nix takes a sip of the hot bitter liquid. It's shit coffee, but they've been lucky to find any coffee at all. It's all precious now, no matter how it tastes. She notices Margaret smoothing her apron over and over, a sure sign she's nervous. Uh-oh.
Margaret clears her throat. “Nix, please forgive me for sticking my nose into your business, but you must fix whatever is the trouble between you and Cash. You need each other. You are stronger together.”
“Don't worry,” Nix says. Of course, she thinks. They're all afraid one of us will take off. She feels guilty because she's thought about it. Aloud she says, “We'll both be here to protect the farm —whether we're together or not.”
Margaret makes an impatient gesture. “I am not talking about that. I am saying that it is not good for you to be alone—or Cash, either.”
Nix looks incredulous. “Alone? Are you kidding? Nobody ever gets to be alone around here.”
“I have my brothers and sisters who understand me,” Margaret says doggedly. “The others have all come from the English world—”
“I'm an Englisher, too,” Nix interjects.
Margaret shakes her head. “You came here from a place full of violence. Both you and Cash have seen things—evil things—that can crush all the joy in life. You must continue to be helping each other with this heavy burden so your spirits can survive.”
Nix resists the temptation to tell Margaret to mind her own business. “What you say is true,” she says to this girl who is more mature than she'll ever be. “People with the same problems can help each other. But that isn't what makes a marriage." She stares down at the ring Cash gave her on the day they were married. She was scared then, and she's scared now.
Nix can't bring herself to look at Margaret. She's deeply ashamed of her need to talk about the pain and confusion that's eating her alive. But there's no one—except this teenage girl, whose serenity is seemingly unshakeable. “The whole thing was a mistake from the beginning,” Nix whispers.
“What are you talking about, Nix?” Margaret asks, looking confused.
“I'm old enough to be Cash's mother,” Nix blurts out. “And some day he'll wake up in bed with an old lady while he's still a young man.” She knows she should stop. This is too much information. Margaret doesn't need to hear any of this crap, but now that she's started she can't seem to stop talking. “To be honest, I don't even know if I can get pregnant.” She hides her face in her hands.
Margaret takes a deep breath. “So that is the problem, then? Cash wants a child?”
Nix drops her hands. “What? No. He's never even brought it up.”
“Then—what exactly is the problem? I am not understanding,” Margaret says. “Are you telling me that you left him because you think someday he might leave you?"
Before Nix realizes what Margaret is doing, the girl has crossed the space between them and sunk to her knees in front of her. “Nix—everyone leaves everyone else sooner or later. That is a fact. Someone will die, and someone will be left behind. But that is no reason not to love one another while there is time.” She wipes her eyes with a corner of her apron.
“I'm not as strong as you,” Nix says. “I saw your pain when Doug—”
“Enough,” Margaret says suddenly. “You are only as weak as you allow yourself to be. Every time you surrender to fear, it is not someone else who leaves you. It is you who abandons yourself.”
Nix flushes. No one's ever called her a coward, and it's tempting to fall back into the comfort of outrage, but there's a part of her that feels a strange joy at telling her secret and hearing the truth.
Margaret pats her hand and rises from her knees. “You must decide which is most important to you—protecting yourself from pain, or loving and being loved." Margaret smiles and she looks like a young girl again. “When Cash had the fever, he kept saying over and over, “Get Nix off the damn roof!” She laughs. “He was still trying to take care of you in his dreams.”
“But he doesn't want me in that room now—he told me so." Nix knows as she says it that she sounds like a whiney child.
Margaret shakes her head wearily. “Life goes on, and we bear what we must bear if we cannot change it. But why not try to change it first?” she asks. And then she's gone.
Chapter 29
When Nix slips quietly into the office, she finds Cash propped up in bed trying to eat soup and making a mess of it. When he sees her he doesn't smile.
“Let me help with that,” she says.
“Don't need help,” he growls.
“So you're spilling broth on your bandage on purpose?" She sits down and takes the spoon from his hand.
He doesn't look at her, glancing instead at his heavily bandaged shoulder.
The Seth Thomas clock on the mantle seems to be ticking off her many mistakes as the silence goes on way too long.
Finally Cash speaks. “Is it bad?” he whispers and shifts his gaze tow
ard some spot behind her.
Nix is never good at figuring people out, but at this moment she intuitively knows it's the first time he's dared ask that question of anyone.
“Have a bite—I give an answer. I think that's fair,” she says, unconsciously falling back into their old game to ratchet down the tension.
He swallows a spoonful of soup grudgingly and immediately says, “So—answer me.”
“It's bad enough, but it didn't hit anything vital or shatter any bones. You'll heal. And it looks like you threw off the infection.”
She holds out another spoonful. He shakes his head. “I don't feel like playin’ any more games,” he says. “Just tell me—did we get 'em all? I remember it that way—but I mighta dreamed it.”
“We killed them all,” Nix says. “Except for Jason.”
Cash looks at her expectantly, waiting for the rest of it. And now that she's gotten some sleep and her mind is clear, she realizes there's a big part missing.
“We didn't find his body with the others, but the boys found Frank's truck still parked out on the road,” Nix says. She pauses. “We need to get over to Frank's and see if he's there,” she finishes lamely.
“Son-of-a-bitch is a loose cannon,” Cash growls. “What if he's still runnin’ around out there?”
Nix flushes and hands the bowl of soup back to him. “Don't worry about it—I’ll take care of the little bastard once and for all.”
She's already darted into the hall when she hears Cash call to her, but she doesn't stop. She doesn't need any instructions from him to hunt down a fugitive. That, at least, she knows how to do. She's out the back door, taking the porch steps two at a time in the twilight, when she realizes the machine shed doors are open and the pickup is gone. Crap! No telling what those knuckleheads have decided to do. Catching sight of a dim glow coming from the dairy house, she sprints toward it. She finds Michael on his hands and knees, examining a valve on the milk tank.
He stands up and brushes at his knees. “I'm guessin' you already noticed the truck's gone. Terry decided to drive over to Frank's farm to look for Jason.”
