The One Who Waits for Me

by Lori Copeland

  “Then it does heal.”

  He shook his head. “The water comes from hot pools beneath the earth. It is not mystic water—but it is God given. Some find relief; others do not. I brought my mother here when she was ill. The waters did not help her.”

  She touched his face. “I’m sorry.” She pictured him as a small boy, running through the camp, pushing a hoop with a stick as she’d seen the children do. He had grown strong and powerful. He’d become a proud Cherokee man who fought for his government, even though his government had stripped his ancestors of land, buffalo, and, for many, their spirit.

  The rain finally came, a light shower dancing on the waters. Steam surrounded her. Joanie groaned with pleasure. “I don’t want to leave.” For the first time in…well, ever…her body was at rest.

  “We do not have to leave.”

  “It’s raining.”

  Chuckling, he eased down bedside her, clothes and all, steadying her body with his right hand. “Are you afraid you will get wet?”

  Her laughter rang out—a sound foreign to her own ears. “No, but if it starts lightning we’ll be—”

  “Cooked? Like meat on a spit?”

  More giggles. “You have learned the white man’s language quite nicely.”

  “I am watching the sky closely. There is no need to fear.” Sobering, he spoke softly. “Remember. You are not to speak of these pools to anyone.”

  She nodded, knowing how difficult it would be to keep this miracle quiet. “The nuns don’t know about it?”

  “Well, yes. They do. Sister Earlene and Sister Prue are two of the oldest. They are permitted to soak in the waters to ease their aching joints.”

  “Then this isn’t exactly a secret.”

  “The pools are known to exist, but nobody but the Indians and sisters know their location.”

  Joanie reached out to him and they latched hands. For a long moment their eyes met as the light shower splattered the water with diamond-shaped drops. “Thank you, Gray Eagle.”

  His gaze locked with hers, he said, “You are welcome, Joanie Jornigan.”

  Beth opened her eyes at daybreak. Chirping birds chattered happily overhead. When her hand automatically reached over to Joanie’s pallet, she noted that her sister was back and sleeping soundly. Odd…her shirt sleeve was damp. Where did she and Gray Eagle go on their mysterious walk? Shading her eyes from the rising sun, she realized she’d overslept. Easing to her feet, she tiptoed away. Joanie hadn’t coughed once during the night.

  “Thank You, God—” She caught herself. Those thanks were coming easier in the past few days. Yet her gratitude seemed properly earned. She couldn’t remember a night when Joanie’s hacking cough hadn’t kept her awake. If thanks were due, they would belong to God. For some reason, that thought didn’t bother her as much as it once did.

  Smells from the cooking fires reached her. Her stomach growled with hunger this morning. She smiled with the knowledge that she wouldn’t have to go hungry, that a simple but satisfying meal would be provided her. Joy filled her heart at the beginning of this new day.

  After breakfast, she helped the women wash utensils and straighten pallets and then, dressed again in trousers and a shirt, she walked downstream. Sunlight topped the rise. She didn’t want to miss helping Mary Margaret in the vegetable garden.

  The friendly nun glanced up when Beth emerged from the riverbank thicket. Smiling, she waved to her. “Good morning!” she trilled.

  “Good morning!”

  The sister’s smile was broad when Beth joined her, ready to work. “I was hoping you would come!”

  “I would have been here earlier, but I overslept. Joanie had a really good night. She didn’t wake me like she usually does.”

  “Praise be to God!” Mary Margaret handed Beth a hoe. “Let’s work close so we can talk.”

  Grinning, Beth took the implement and followed the good sister to the long, flowering rows. It felt actually good to work again. Until now, Beth had always spent seven days a week in the cotton field. She was starting to feel like a worthless slug, doing virtually nothing day in and day out.

  Conversation flowed easily as the women hoed. Reverend Mother had the sniffles this morning, Sister Mary Margaret informed. Sister Grace had dyspepsia. The convent had enjoyed the fresh venison last night, and all sent their gratitude to Captain Montgomery.

  The mere mention of the handsome captain sent Beth’s pulse racing. For the life of her she didn’t know why. Well, she did. He was unlike any man she’d ever met. Kind, helpful, and nonjudgmental. If all men were like Captain Montgomery, she might understand why Joanie hoped to find true love one day. Poor Joanie. While she had wanted to encourage her sister, in her heart Beth thought no man would ever want to take on the burden of Joanie’s affliction, despite the fact that she would make a faithful and loving wife. She was certainly the best sister in the world—and the only bright spot in Beth’s life.

  “Sister?”

  “Hmm?” Mary Margaret remained bent over, hoeing away. Her sizeable caboose stuck upward, her black skirt swaying with each movement.

  “I…I’d like to know a little more about prayer.”

  “Oh?”

  “Well…I told you yesterday that Joanie believes in God and in prayer.”

  “What about you?”

  “I don’t. Leastways I’ve never been taught much about God, if there is one.”

  “There is!” Her joyful laughter rang out.

  “How do you know for certain?” Beth stopped working to lean on her hoe.

  Mary Margaret paused as well. “Jesus rose from the dead. How much more proof do you need? When He ascended into heaven, He promised to return, and He hasn’t come back yet.”

  “He’s coming back?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  Beth checked the sun. “When?”

  “We don’t know. Even the angels in heaven don’t know, and the Lord tells us not to even try to guess when the time will be, but He will come when He’s least expected.” The sister returned to her work.

  Beth took up her hoe and mulled on the thought for a whole row. “So, if one were to believe in God, what is the proper way to pray?”

  The nun paused, wiping perspiration trickling down her temples with a cloth. “The proper way?”

  “Yes. I’ve noticed that people do it differently.”

  “They do?”

  “Yes.”

  “How so?”

  “Well…” Beth sank the hoe into a stubborn weed. “As I mentioned yesterday, when Joanie prays she gets down on her knees, clasps both hands together, lifts her face, and talks to Him.”

  Mary Margaret nodded.

  “The pickers also talked to God often, just right out loud with their eyes wide open. They would laugh and shout and sing songs to Him. And I noticed that when you and the other sisters pray, a bell tolls. You also touch those beautiful beads.” She pointed to the rosary hanging from the sister’s waist.

  “Hmm,” the nun mused, still mopping her face with the cloth. “I hadn’t thought about there being a right or wrong way to pray. I believe God hears all prayers if they are offered from a sincere heart.”

  “You do?”

  “God has large ears, Beth, and He hears anyone who speaks to Him in earnest, however they do it. Do you want to speak to Him?”

  Beth shook her head and then bent to her task again. A warm blush flamed up her neck. “I was only askin’.”

  The sister nodded. There was no judgment. She didn’t push. She just let her eyes roam the long turnip rows. “My, my. All these turnips.”

  “What about corn? Do you plant corn too?”

  “The Indians provide us with corn, but we plant peas, okra, and lots of other things. Just about everything but corn.”

  “You seem to have a good relationship with them. You’re really not afraid of the Indians?”

  Another laugh. “They are good people. We give to them and they give to us. They keep to themselves mostly, unless w
e ask for their help.” She pointed to the far horizon, where a field of corn stalks poked their heads up to the sun. “They are the best farmers around. During the fall they share their hay with us, and just before they leave for their winter grounds, we find cordwood stacked everywhere—enough for a long winter.”

  “I thought all Indians were warriors, people to be feared.”

  Mary Margaret shook her head. “Not these Indians. They are growing old and waiting for their Great Sprit to lead them to a faraway land.” She paused, thoughtful. “I suppose every one of us could be fearsome if we were angered enough, and the Indians would certainly be a force to contend with if they were riled, but they don’t bother anyone. They are peaceful and generous to fault. They lead a good life. We couldn’t ask for better neighbors. Many are like family, and we rejoice when they come back each spring.”

  Beth studied the long rows of waving stalks, not surprised now as she once would have been to hear that her fears were ungrounded. The Indians had welcomed her and her friends. She evidently had much to learn about this world.

  Mary Margaret glanced up. “We must get busy. Reverend Mother will wonder if I’ve fallen in the creek!”

  Laughing, Beth chunked out another stubborn weed.

  “She doesn’t like me to be gone long.” The sister sighed. “I tend to do…somewhat silly things often.”

  “Don’t we all?”

  “Well, yes!” The cheerful nun grinned. “I hope you can join me again tomorrow. I love talking to you.”

  “Me too. I’ll try to be here.”

  Beth nodded to the women in the camp as she headed straight for Joanie’s pallet. How odd these people must find their new visitors.

  Joanie sat up as Beth approached. Wiping sleep from her eyes, she studied the sun. “What time is it?”

  “Late afternoon,” Beth said, lowering herself next to her sister. “Are you just waking up?”

  Joanie nodded. “I can’t imagine sleeping this long. Have I missed breakfast?”

  “And lunch.” Beth cocked her head and studied her. “You barely coughed all night.”

  “I…slept soundly.” Joanie shook her head. “I’ve never slept this deeply.”

  “Where did Gray Eagle take you last night? Your clothing was damp this morning.”

  Joanie shifted on her pallet, seemingly uncomfortable with the question. “He…we went for a walk.”

  “He was carrying you when he left. Did you go for a swim?”

  “No.” She stretched. “Well, kind of…” She straightened her shirt. “Is there anything left from lunch?”

  Beth studied her sister’s face. It was rosy with color. She hadn’t looked this good in…Beth couldn’t recall the last time she looked this healthy. “Where did he take you, Joanie?

  “Nearby.”

  “In the camp?”

  “Yes.”

  Joanie had always been like a chattering blue jay, yet today her answers were vague and she chose her words carefully.

  “Joanie?”

  “Yes.”

  Beth scooted closer, reaching for her sister’s hand. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”

  “About what?”

  “Gray Eagle.”

  Crimson color flooded the young woman’s cheeks. “What about him?”

  “You’re not falling for him, are you?”

  “No!” She shifted slightly on her pallet. “Why do you keep asking, Beth? He’s very kind, that’s all. And I enjoy his company.”

  “I see the way you look at him, all sweet and trusting. And the way he looks back, all interested-like.”

  “Well, what if I do? And what if he is? Would that be so earth-shattering?”

  “Yes. Gray Eagle isn’t…suited for you.”

  “Why not? Because he’s an Indian?”

  “No. Because you are ill and require a lot of care.”

  “I’m not an old grandma.” Joanie moved away. “Is there anything to eat? I’m famished.”

  “Don’t change the subject.” Beth pulled her back and looked her in the eye. “Tell me you aren’t falling for this man.”

  “I am not falling for this man. I am not in love.”

  “Then why are you spending time with him? The moonlit walk with a man you barely know? Permitting him to scoop you up into his arms and carry you? And you surely must be swimming together. That isn’t good, Joanie.”

  “You’re questioning my judgment? And it did rain last night. That could account for my damp clothing.”

  “It could, but somehow I don’t think that it does. I’m questioning his judgment.”

  “He’s not like that, Beth. He wants to be a doctor. Did you know that his mother was white and his father full-bloodied Cherokee? Her family was massacred in a raid, and she was taken, claimed by Gray Eagle’s father.”

  “That’s horrifying, Joanie. Not romantic.”

  “I didn’t say it was romantic. I meant that his mother was very smart and taught him all she knew. He is skilled and intelligent.”

  “All very nice, but he isn’t the man for you.”

  Drawing back, Joanie stared at the cold embers of the previous night’s fire. “Why are the fires out?”

  Beth studied the churning sky. Minutes ago the weather had been sunny and nice. Somehow the Indians knew another storm was brewing. One stray ember, and the village could go up in flames.

  Getting to her feet, Joanie said, “Let’s find something to eat before the rain moves in again.”

  The two sisters moved to the main cooking fire, where a large pot of coffee always sat. Picking it up, Beth checked the temperature with her fingers. “Lukewarm.”

  “I’ll drink it anyway.”

  Beth moved to a pitcher where heavy cream awaited. She poured a generous amount into the cup and returned to Joanie. “There’s cold mush and flat bread.”

  Shaking her head, Joanie sipped the tepid coffee. “This will do for the moment. Maybe the storm will move on and I can have some eggs.”

  The afternoon turned dark. Gusting wind rattled the dwellings. Beth and Joanie huddled under a blanket to fight off a chill when the first sprinkles fell. But shortly afterward the sun popped out again and black clouds skittered past.

  Relieved, Beth got up to search for a match, planning to start the fire so there would be a nice hot one going for supper. The Indian women were so obliging. Up to this point, they had barely permitted the visitors to lift a hand.

  “Where is Gray Eagle?” Joanie asked Beth.

  “Hmm…not sure. He and Pierce may have gone hunting. Why?”

  “Oh, no reason.”

  Beth turned, certain she heard Joanie catch her words. Studying her sister, she couldn’t shake the feeling Joanie was fair to bursting to tell her something but refused. What secret would she hold so dear that she wouldn’t tell her sister? Ordinarily Joanie told everything she knew.

  Joanie tilted her head and smiled. “Let’s talk about you. Do you find Pierce a bit…shall we say, intriguing? And handsome?”

  “No!”

  A giggle escaped Joanie. “Methinks you protest too much.”

  Beth struck a match and held it to the kindling she’d settled around the cold embers. Tinder blazed. Straightening, she said. “Methinks? What sort of language is that?”

  “Shakespeare.”

  “Who?”

  “Never mind. Do you deny the attraction?”

  “There is no attraction.” Beth banged a skillet over two large rocks. There was no attraction. True, she was starting to trust this man too much for her own good, and she couldn’t deny that if it hadn’t been for him and his kindness they would still be under Uncle Walt’s miserable thumb. The admission was nothing less than painful. She took a deep breath. If not for his compassion—and that of the others—Joanie would surely have died the day they ran away.

  “I know Pa should have stood up for us more,” Joanie said, “and Uncle Walt and Bear are meaner than a riled bull, but maybe all men aren’t the same.�
��

  “Those are fanciful thoughts.”

  “No, really, Beth.” Joanie sat up straighter. “Maybe we got a bad bunch. Ma always said to think with common sense, and common sense would say that not all men are bad.”

  “Every man I’ve met has been.”

  “Perhaps we’ve met the wrong ones until now.”

  The fire blazed. Beth dipped a wad of grease out of the pot that sat near the fire and shook it off the spoon and into the skillet. “How many eggs?”

  “Two, please.”

  Beth glanced up when a shadow crossed the sun and the wind picked up again. A dark dark cloud was overhead. “Oh, dear.” She wiped her hands and mentally urged the grease to warm. “We were mistaken. The rain isn’t over.”

  Joanie frowned, glancing up. “Oh…” Thunderheads ballooned in the west. Her gaze pivoted back to the fire.

  The wind suddenly gusted, bending small saplings midway to the ground. Sparks showered around them, going airborne from the campfire.

  Beth jerked the skillet off the flame, realizing her mistake. “We have to put this fire out!”

  Thunder boomed, jarring the ground. Joanie sprang to help, reaching for the water bucket. They girls were too late. Embers were already skittering and dancing across the village. Squealing, Joanie and Beth stomped madly, trying to extinguish the fiery darts on the ground before they escaped to spiral to the treetops.

  Lodge doors opened, and faces peered out. Elderly men and women burst outside to join the fight, making feeble attempts to extinguish the sparks. Burning embers swirled up in the wind and then dropped down on the Council Lodge, and within minutes the building was on fire. Shouts filled the camp. The Indians quickly ran to the creek and formed a water brigade. Pails passed through hands.

  After what seemed like forever, Beth glanced up to see that Mary Margaret and Reverend Mother had joined them. How long had it been since the first spark flew from the fire pit?

  “We spotted the smoke and came running,” Mary Margaret confessed breathlessly. Three of the older nuns stood on the river bank filling buckets.