A Bride Most Begrudging

by Deeanne Gist

  He jogged to her, the men close behind. “Are you going this way a’purpose or are you just storming off for the sake of storming?”

  She gave him no glance. “Sally wanted to make daisy chains, so I’m checking the meadow first.”

  “There are no daisies this time of year!”

  That earned him a glance, searing though it was.

  They trekked through the dark, wet forest, tripping on roots, loose stones, and slippery rocks while the crash and reverberation of thunder brawled above their heads. The trees protected them somewhat from the downpour, but not from the lashing of wet branches writhing in fury. Try as he would, he couldn’t shield her from their vicious bombardment. There was nothing to do but forge ahead.

  Somehow, he should have made her stay home. He’d just about decided to send her back anyway when they arrived. The meadow stretched before them, its dead browned blades flattened by the torrent hurtling ever downward while surrounded by trees whose tops twisted and whipped in the howling wind. He stopped and scanned the meadow, squinting against the darkness in hopes of finding a trace of Sally huddled in its barren expanse.

  Constance quickly traversed the meadow and didn’t hesitate at the marshy area adjacent to it. Isaac and Samuel went in opposite directions. Cupping her mouth, Constance called for Sally, the wind swallowing her cries. Her silhouette took on a desperate edge, her attempts to run to every corner of the patch thwarted by the greedy mud sucking her feet into its sticky muck.

  Lightning seared the sky. He watched, his chest squeezing his lungs, as she turned 360 degrees, searching, searching, before covering her face and sinking slowly to her knees.

  The oppressive rain exploded in his ears and onto his body before he even realized he was plunging toward her, desperate to pull her out of the mire. He grasped her arms, but she shrunk from him, shaking a vehement denial with her head. Falling to his knees before her, he tried again. “Come, Constance! We needs must get beneath shelter, for surely we are testing the fates to boldly sit here just daring the lightning to strike us!”

  She raised her head. The desolation and despair he saw in her eyes frightened him with more intensity than he’d ever imagined.

  “You were right! You were right, Drew! I never should have been educated. If I hadn’t defied convention and father and everyone else, I’d be home now, safely married. And you would be warm and dry and content in your home. Josh wouldn’t be chasing all over a war-infested country, you wouldn’t have a wife you never wanted, and Sally--“ She choked, closing her eyes, and then forced them back open. “And Sally wouldn’t be lost in this godforsaken forest. It’s all my fault and I’m...so...so...soooooorry!”

  He gathered her against him, not trusting the feelings rioting through his person. Dear God, let Sally be safe. Let this woman in my arms not be forced to endure any misplaced guilt.

  There in the midst of the storm, with the cold, blistering wind battering them and the turbid muck sloshing against their legs, he experienced a quiet, calming, overwhelming peace. As sure as he knew that rain fell from the sky, he knew that, for now, Sally was all right.

  Resting his lips against Constance’s sodden hair, he closed his eyes, knowing, yet still not quite able to believe, what else had just been revealed to him. Raising his face to the heavens, he allowed the rain to beat against him. Surely I can’t be...in love with Constance? Can I?

  No confirmation nor denial from the omnipotent tranquillity flowing through him, only a suggestion of immense satisfaction.

  Drew shook his head. But she has red hair!

  The thought came to him, And who do you think made that red hair?

  Well, fie. There was no arguing that. Pursing his lips, Drew nodded once. Your pardon. A pause. And Sally? Where is she? Where?

  Nothing. No response. The sound of the rain returned and the cold seeped into his limbs once again.

  He opened his eyes, not to find some parting of the heavens or the miraculous cessation of the storm, but to find something even better--Constance’s warrior friend, standing not ten feet away and gesturing to him. Drew smiled.

  Bracketing Constance’s head with his hands, he tipped her face up toward him. “Ah, little Lady of the Realm, don’t lose all your pluck now, precisely when I’m needing it the most. Come. I think I might know how to find Sally.” Hooking her hair behind her ears, he lowered his mouth to hers, kissing her with the urgency of a man who loves his woman but has not the time to express it.

  Clearly, Drew had gone mad. There was no other explanation. Why else would he be kissing her without so much as a by-your-leave in the middle of a rain-drenched field while Sally’s very life was in danger?

  She shoved him hard. He fell with a very satisfying splat onto his backside in the filthy water. She started to rise, only to have Isaac and Samuel appear at her side to offer her a hand. Accepting their help, she hauled herself out of the muck. As she wiped off the worst of the mud, she saw him. That awful, lily-livered Indian boy. He was clothed this time, in deference to the weather, she assumed. Still, she refused to look at the braid of auburn hair dangling from his neck, but it was there in her peripheral vision and it incensed her. “Sorry to disappoint you, Little Chief, but I’m rather busy right now and don’t have time for any hair-cutting ceremonies at the moment. Perhaps another time?”

  She picked her sodden skirts out of the mud and started walking in the other direction, but a hand at her waist stopped her.

  “He knows where Sally is.”

  She spun around to look into Drew’s eyes. “Where?”

  “He didn’t say where, only that she was all right.”

  The warrior turned and disappeared into the thicket. Drew grabbed her hand and the group scrambled to follow. The young Indian made no concessions for her graceless and less than proficient attempts to keep up. She glanced at Drew, but he didn’t seem annoyed. Neither, though, did he attempt to slow his pace as he dragged her in his wake. Stubbing her toe again, her cry escaped before she was able to stop it, a wave of dizziness sweeping over her.

  “Here, Isaac. Take Constance and follow as best you can. If you can’t keep up, return home. Know you the way?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  She felt Drew’s release of her hand and Isaac’s subsequent support beneath her elbow. “Wish you to return, Mistress?”

  Shaking off the vestiges of her dizziness by sheer force of will, she tightened her resolve. “Not until we find her. Make haste! We’re losing sight of them.”

  They had continued on for what seemed hours when the sound of the rain changed. No longer was it pelting only the earth, but a source of water as well. A river? An extension of Fiddler’s Creek? The ocean?

  She inhaled but could smell no salt, and then they were upon it. A roaring, rocky, muddy stream tumbling toward some distant goal in a swell of rapids.

  She could see where an assortment of large rocks provided a stepping-stone bridge of sorts when the stream was not high. And there, crouched in the middle of it, on a rock surrounded by a surging and billowing maelstrom, was Sally.

  “I thought that wretched Indian said she was all right!” Constance screamed. “What’s the matter with him, leaving her in the middle of all this? She might have fallen in and drowned before we ever got here!”

  But the Indian was nowhere to be seen and Drew was hurriedly wrapping his rope around a tree. The other end was already tied into a knot that looked like a noose.

  “Hold on, Sally! We’re coming” she cried.

  Sally looked up and her rock wavered. Squeezing her eyes shut, Sally groped for the edge of the rock just as a wave broke against it, cascading over her. She began to slip and Constance threw a frantic look at Drew, noting he was now securing the knot.

  Sally regained her balance, but the stream was vicious and if Drew’s large body disturbed the precarious hold the soil had on Sally’s rock, they might lose her still.

  Constance eyed the location of Sally’s rock and judged the velocity of the
river compared to her own weight. She quickly calculated at what approximate point she needs must enter the water. Throwing off the jerkin, she grabbed the free end of the rope, slipped it around her waist, and plunged in several yards upriver.

  “No, Connie! No! Oh, God, no!”

  The icy water stole the very breath from her. She kicked, gasping while the current wrapped around her skirts, tangling her legs and sweeping her at a frightening pace toward the jagged stepping-stones. Regaining her breath, she kicked again with all her strength, paddling her arms toward Sally.

  Help us, Lord. Help us.

  Her feet skimmed the bottom and, though the pull of the water remained strong, Constance managed to forge bit by bit toward Sally, but the angle was wrong.

  She hadn’t counted on that initial depth of the water. She’d assumed she’d be able to retain a standing position throughout her flight. If she didn’t correct her course, she’d miss Sally altogether.

  The rock tipped once again. Sally held tight to the rock’s edge, but she lost her traction. She now lay stretched out against the rock, hanging on only by her fingertips.

  She was three. She was cold. She was exhausted. There was no way she could hold up her own weight.

  From the corner of her eye, Constance saw Drew splash in downstream, probably in hopes of catching Sally if she tumbled into the water.

  Whether it was strength borne from horror or God’s own hand pushing her to their goal, Constance didn’t question, but the next moment she was at Sally’s side, wrapping her arms around the child’s waist and digging her feet into the tumultuous soil. “Let go, sweet. Put your arms around my neck.”

  Sally whimpered, still holding fast to the rock.

  Constance reached up to disengage her little hands just as another wave sluiced onto them. The rock gave way and they both went under.

  Constance retained her hold on Sally, but the frightened moppet kicked and fought and squirmed for freedom. Their surge to the surface abruptly halted. Constance swirled toward the source of their constraint to find her skirt trapped under the rock.

  Resisting panic’s temptation, she tugged, but with no result. Should she let Sally go? Would Drew see the child? Catch her?

  Poor Sally was frantic now in her bid for air. The rope around Constance’s waist dug into her. Someone must be trying to pull her out.

  She kicked. They pulled. Sally squirmed. How long had they been under? How much longer could Sally last?

  Constance was about to release the child when she felt her bodice begin to separate from her skirt. Strong fingers dug into the hole, renting the skirt off and they were free.

  She surfaced, coughing, sputtering, and hugging a limp Sally to her. Drew took the child, then hesitated. “Connie?”

  “Go on,” she gasped. “I’m right behind you.”

  He stood in what must have been indecision for a moment before swimming with Sally to the water’s edge. The current carried them well downstream before they reached land.

  Isaac and Thomas began to reel Constance in. The nausea, the blackness, the shakes all descended at once.

  Keep going. Keep going. Just a little farther. It was her last thought before water once again engulfed her.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The fire popped and hissed, its heat cocooning the cottage with warmth. Drew brushed back her curls and placed his palm against Constance’s forehead. Was she a bit hotter now or was it his imagination? Sighing, he rubbed his face.

  “Her fever is rising again?”

  “No. She’s fine.”

  Mary touched Constance’s forehead. “Mayhap it’s more cool cloths I should be getting.”

  He whirled toward her. “It’s not Constance. It’s the cottage. This infernal room is like a tin foot stove.”

  Clasping her hands together, Mary started to move away.

  “Wait. I’m sorry. I...it’s just...” He gulped in a breath. “Did she feel warmer to you?”

  Mary hesitated. “Yes, sir. Same as yesterday. Feels fine in the morn, but as soon as noontime arrives, up goes her fever, it does. I just hope it goes back down again this eve.”

  “Drew?”

  He turned, the sight of his baby sister causing his heart to swell. “Sally Elizabeth. Come sit upon my knee and tell me a story.”

  Once in his arms, he withdrew a kerchief from his cloth pouch and held it to her nose. “Blow.”

  She did as instructed, not once, but several times. As he tucked away the kerchief, she wiped her nose on her sleeve. “Sissy gone to heaven?”

  He tensed. “No. She’s merely sleeping.”

  “But, I wake. Sissy need wake. Why Sissy not wake?”

  “Sissy’s taken ill--not from being in the water. Sissy’s having her seasoning. That’s all.”

  “Does she fever?”

  “Sometimes she has a fever.”

  “Papa and Sister have the fever.” Sticking her thumb in her mouth, she pinched his shirt between the thumb and finger of her other hand, rubbing the fabric back and forth. “Papa and Sister go to heaven.”

  Swallowing, he pulled her head against his chest. Back at the river, he had thought he’d lost this child. But she’d been spared, coming through the trauma with amazing resilience. She had lain limp on the tree-gnarled bank for agonizing moments before all the water she’d taken in had finally poured from her mouth.

  At first she’d been cold, wet, and disoriented, but once home and bundled up in her tick, she’d slept the whole night through. Upon waking late yesterday morn, she complained only of “hurt fingers” and hunger--nothing else.

  He’d laid those tiny little hands in his palm, carefully examining them. There was a cut or two, but mostly just bruising, probably from gripping the rock. She’d evidently made her way halfway across the stream before she became frightened and sat down on the rock. The longer she sat, the higher and more turbulent the stream became.

  Thank God she was all right. Her appetite had returned full force, though swallowing caused some discomfort. No doubt the exposure had taken its toll in the form of a tender throat and blocked nose. But he’d had her inhale the vapors of steamed sage and thyme and had her drink hot tea. No one would ever guess she’d nearly drowned just two days ago. “I thought you were going to tell me a story.”

  “Know not how.”

  “Um. Then maybe I’d better tell you a story. Which one would you like to hear?”

  “Talk about the dog tree.”

  “The dogwood tree?”

  She nodded, snuggling in for the well-known legend.

  Mary approached with a bucket of water and a rag. Scooting his chair out of the way, Drew oversaw while Mary sat on the bed, wrung out the rag, and bathed his wife’s face.

  “I ready now, Drew.”

  He kept his eyes on Constance. “In days of old, it was said the dogwood tree grew large in size and as strong as an oak. Because of its strength--”

  Sally pulled back. “You forgot the largest-tree-of-the-forest part.”

  Pausing, he looked at her. “It was among one of the largest trees of the forest.” She settled back against him and he looped his arms around her. “Because of its strength, it was chosen to make the cross from which Jesus was crucified. This so grieved the dogwood tree that Christ, even amidst His great suffering, sensed it and made a pledge. Never again would the tree grow large enough or strong enough to be used for such a purpose.”

  Mary rinsed her cloth, then began on Constance’s neck and chest.

  “That not the end.”

  Drew stirred himself. “‘Henceforth,‘ said He, ‘the dogwood tree shall grow tall and slender, with its blossoms of white symbolizing the cross and their centers representing the crown of thorns. The outer edge of each petal shall be touched with brown, as with the rust of nails. And all who look upon the tree will remember the cross.’”

  “Why it has no flowers now?”

  “It’s winter.”

  “Then how we know which one is the ‘
pecial one?”

  “From its size.”

  Mary replaced the covers around Constance and started wiping down her face again.

  “There no daisies too.”

  Drew slid his eyes closed. “No. There are not.”

  “Cuz it winner?”

  “Yes. Because it’s winter.”

  Sally slid off his lap and moved toward the bed. “Can she hear me?”

  Mary paused and looked at Drew. He cleared his throat. “I know not.”

  “Sissy?” Sally said, her head tilted. “When you go to heaven, tell Jesus he should keep flowers all time. Even in winner.”

  Drew shot to his feet. “She’s not going to die.”

  Sally turned to him, her eyes large and luminous. “Yes she is.”

  Fisting his hands, he grabbed his jacket and stormed from the cottage.

  Constance stirred and swept open her eyes. “Sally?”

  Grandma looked at her feverishly drawn face and smoothed the edges of the coverlet. “She’s fine. Only a scratch or two to show for her troubles.”

  “Thank the Lord.” Her voice came from within. She closed her eyes. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came as soon as the weather allowed.”

  “But, how did you...?” she rasped.

  “Drew sent one of his men the day it happened.”

  “Nellie--”

  Grandma moved closer, wiping Constance’s brow. “Is fine. Her baby’s fine. Sally’s fine. We’re all fine.”

  “Drew?”

  “He’s running us all mad.”

  Constance strained to open her eyes. “Mad?”

  Grandma tsked. “I was merely jesting. Here, take a sip of this.”

  Grandma cupped Constance’s head and brought the broth to her lips. She groaned but swallowed once. “I must arise. Just...give me...a...”