Orlando was a mess. He didn’t know how to proceed in this situation. When she’d watched him greet the silly sheep, her face a mixture of confusion and appreciation, his tongue had grown thick. As she’d inventoried his house, looking at all the corners and crevices, his hands had started sweating, wondering what she thought. Now as she sat on the spare bed, running her fingers through the dog’s fur, watching Orlando build up the fire, his stomach filled with grasshoppers all jumping in a chaotic dance. He felt like a bug under a magnifying glass and worried about what she saw. Would she continue to examine him in interest or squish him in disgust?
Orlando attempted as best he could to act like he always did, trying to pretend this situation didn’t have him rattled like a lost lamb bleating for its mama. She was likely going a bit crazy in her head and he wanted to provide a safe place for her to be. He wanted to save her any discomfort in this strange situation, and the only way he knew how to do that was to operate as normally as he could, even though his nerves had him fried like burnt bacon.
A soft melody drifted from the corner, beautiful and peaceful. He pivoted on his toes where he crouched before the fire and saw her with her instrument laid across her lap, strumming the strings in a light rhythm, her eyes closed and face lifted. An Irish fairy had landed in his cabin with her delicate features, and her auburn hair tumbling over one shoulder glittered like copper in the firelight. She was magical. Her small stature and graceful fingers concealed the strength that lay within.
Not wanting to interrupt the song, Orlando filled the pot with water, placed it on the hook attached to the fireplace, and moved it into the fire to boil. He needed to sterilize his tools and wanted to let Samara wash up. He grabbed a few herbs from the shelf, placed them on the table, and then moved a chair beside the bed.
“That’s beautiful. What’s the song called?” Orlando whispered, not wanting her to stop playing, but needing to check her and Zeus’s wounds before he did the chores that had been neglected in his absence.
Samara looked at him, her face calm with a hint of puzzlement. “It doesn’t have a title. I just made it up. This is odd to say, but music has always flowed through me. Most times the music expresses how I’m feeling much better than even I know.”
“That’s how you’re feeling right now?” Orlando tried to keep his astonishment and joy from his voice.
Samara’s face scrunched in confusion, complete opposition to her song that continued to float on peaceful waves through the cabin. He could tell she warred with the dichotomy. Her mind probably struggled with her spirit. Orlando’s heart clenched at the realization that she didn’t even trust herself. Her inner battles must be constant and draining.
“I guess so, though I’m having a hard time reconciling that. Since we turned that bend in the trail and came into your meadow, I’ve felt at peace. Between your adorable sheep, this beautiful home, and the gorgeous scenery, it seems like a haven I’ve never experienced before. I’m not sure how to handle it, quite frankly.” Samara’s fingers stumbled and lay quiet on the strings.
Orlando touched her with a gentle caress. “Trust your music, Samara. Your spirit won’t lie.”
Samara grasped his hand as he pulled away. She trembled slightly. He stared into her amber eyes that shone with unshed tears. She made one quick nod and squeezed his fingers before letting go. She went back to strumming her song, the peaceful melody floating more confidently through the space. He stood and strode back to the table.
“Orlando?”
“Yes?” He turned back to her.
“Thank you,” she said with a weight that overwhelmed the two small words.
Orlando cleared his throat, thick with emotion. “You’re welcome.”
He prayed that he could keep the peace playing through Samara. He allowed the tone to calm his anxiety as he mixed some herbs to make an ointment for Samara’s cut. The music washed over his tight shoulders, loosening the aching.
Chapter 8
Samara played as Orlando tinkered around the cabin. She played as he smoothed salve on her cut. She continued to play into the silence when he left to take care of the chores outside.
Samara didn’t understand this peace that flowed through her into her song. She couldn’t remember ever before having this sense of serenity that filled and surrounded her entire being. She knew she should freak out at this whole time-travel thing and her being stuck in the middle of a mountain with a man she knew nothing about with no apparent escape to civilization forthcoming. Though she guessed civilization wouldn’t be that civilized, if she remembered her history right.
Instead of letting the details of the situation overwhelm her, Samara did as Orlando suggested. She allowed the peace that danced through her music to fill her until she believed she could handle what she’d been thrown into. Zeus sighed in contentment beside her, and she giggled.
“You sure are happy,” Samara said to the dog.
“And you, fair lady, are surely a fairy queen, sparkling with beauty and charming the wild beasts with your song.” Orlando pushed open the door with a basket of leaves in one hand and a bucket of water in the other.
Samara laughed as she placed her dulcimer in its case. “Fairy queen, indeed. That’s a good one.”
She pushed to the edge of the bed to help Orlando. “What can I do to help?”
“Samara, you probably need to relax today. Just take the day to heal, pet the dog, and order me about. Tomorrow is soon enough for you to get busy helping. Besides, it’s not much. Just some chores.”
“I’m going to go batty. I don’t have my phone. I can’t check my social media accounts. Forget about catching up on my television series. If what you say is right, I won’t watch another television show my entire life. My mind is going to explode from boredom.” Samara knew she whined like a spoiled brat but didn’t really care.
Orlando, ever steady, shrugged. “You’ll figure it out. I have lots of books. I can teach you how to make clothing and sew leather. You’ll be too busy to be bored.”
Samara was being ridiculous. It wasn’t like anyone would even really notice she disappeared from cyberspace. Her accounts stayed open simply for her to network and land gigs. She closed her eyes and remembered the song that had woven through her. She didn’t want the stress and anxiety she’d tangled herself in. She wanted to linger in that peace, even if it only lasted for the day. As she felt the strands stretch and wrap around her core and spread through her, she sighed, inwardly chuckling at how she sounded just like Zeus. She’d have to make sure her tongue didn’t hang out with drool.
Samara opened her eyes, her heart full of apology. “Sorry I had a meltdown there. Temperamental queen moment averted.”
Orlando laughed. “I have a spirited younger sister. I’m well acquainted with emotional outbursts. Though hers usually culminate with a weapon of some sort flying toward my head. I mostly deserve it. She’s fun to goad. She’s just restless. She needs to explore beyond what these mountains offer, at least in our time.”
Orlando moved to the sink and turned the valve to wash his hands. She gasped in surprise, causing Orlando to spin toward the door with his hand going to his holster, water flying in a wild arc. Zeus picked up his head and looked toward the door in interest.
Samara stifled a giggle. “Stand down, Orlando. The running water surprised me is all.”
Orlando shot her a chagrined smile. “I guess the incident with those men still has me on edge.”
“How’d you get water plumbed in here? I didn’t think that was common now.”
Orlando turned off the water and moved to the table. He took the leaves from the basket and started chopping them. His hands moved in a rhythm that mesmerized Samara.
“My grandfather owned several interests in steel back in Pittsburgh, along with railroads and other industries. When he came out to visit, he always brought something with him. Several times he brought pipe. I think he secretly abhorred the fact that my mother and his grandkids had to go to t
he creek to fetch water. So, we figured out how to pipe water from the creek using the valves and fittings he brought with him. It’s a blessing for sure, one I tend to forget about.” Orlando threw the leaves into a pot and started dicing a root from the basket.
“Please tell me that door also holds a bathroom with a toilet and shower.” Samara pushed her hands together to beg and nodded her head in hopeful affirmation.
Orlando laughed, shaking his head. “Sorry. No bathroom yet. Hunter is trying to figure out how to make that work, but we haven’t found a book that helps us. He was able to set up a shower of sorts, but they have a stove, not a fireplace.”
“How am I going to get clean?” Samara moaned in sorrow.
“Well, I’ve heated water. As soon as I get supper cooking, I’ll set everything up in the bedroom so you can wash up. You probably shouldn’t take a bath until your cut heals more. When you are done, I can help you wash your hair if you need.”
“No long soak, huh?”
“Not until your stitches are out, sorry. But Hunter told me how in the military they warm water with the sun and can shower with it. I have the materials to set that up outside, and I can get it built by the time you are healed enough to use it.” Orlando threw what looked like jerky into the pot, filled it with water, and hooked it onto an empty hook over the fire.
“I’ve used those systems camping before. It’ll do.” Samara remembered the shower she’d stolen from some campers that had naively left it hanging from their camper. She still felt a twinge of guilt over the items she’d pilfered to survive, but the ability to shower had been a welcomed convenience she hadn’t had at the time.
She watched as Orlando grabbed a bar of soap on the shelf. He strode to the chest at the end of the bed and shuffled through it, pulling out what looked like a nightgown and some fabric. She wondered if the nightgown belonged to a sister or someone else. She realized she didn’t know if he had a wife. She assumed not, but his wife could’ve gone visiting with his sister.
“Is that your wife’s?” Samara didn’t have the energy to beat around the bush.
Orlando stared at her in confusion until he looked at the clothing in his hands. “I’m not married. This is Beatrice’s. She leaves it and a change of clothes here for when she comes.”
“Why don’t you have a wife? I thought you all married young in this time?”
Orlando burst out laughing. “That might be the case back east, but where am I going to find a wife out here? None of the Ute women have caught my attention, and I rarely travel to Denver or other towns. Besides, I want to marry someone I know, not someone I meet one day and marry the next. It may have worked out for my parents, but I think it would be difficult. I’ll just put this in the bedroom, then I’ll let you get washed up.”
Samara scooted to the edge of the bed, careful not to jar Zeus, who had fallen asleep. She wondered at the relationship Orlando’s parents had, whether one could have a happy marriage with someone you didn’t love, because love at first sight did not exist. Love took time to cultivate and grow, or at least she assumed it did.
She remembered her parents telling stories of how they’d met at some Bible conference, fallen madly in love, gotten married a week later, and began working toward their missionary plans. She stopped and scrunched her forehead. She hadn’t thought much of her parents in the fourteen years since they had died. She supposed the truth was more that when she did think of them, she pushed the thought quickly away. She figured they hadn’t loved her enough to stick around, why should she waste time lamenting over their leaving. However, she remembered the love they shared being obvious.
Orlando came back into the room, saving her from ruminating more on her parents. He bowed deeply and pulled her up from the bed.
Orlando was too close, his scent too inviting, so Samara asked the first thing that popped into her head. “One day, huh? That’s a story I’d like to hear.”
Orlando smiled as he stepped back and motioned for her to move into the bedroom. She smiled at the simple room filled almost completely with a large bed. The only other furniture in the room was a ladder back chair, a chest, and a small bedside table. A tiny window let light in from outside, which Samara was thankful for.
“Well, technically two, but it’s a tale worth spinning.” Excitement shone in his eyes.
“I can’t wait to hear.”
“Later. Right now I need to get you some water so you can get cleaned up.”
Orlando left, leaving her in his room, which suddenly seemed too intimate. She didn’t know how she would survive this new challenge, but she determined to do it with her head firmly attached. When he returned with a basin of steaming water, she thanked him, then shooed him off. She realized she’d have to work harder at constructing her prickles, or she might just forget how.
Orlando thought he had done a decent job acting normal throughout the rest of the evening, and with how exhausting the day had been, he should be fast asleep, sawing logs. Yet he lay in bed late into the night thinking about the mystery of Samara. One minute she laughed and talked openly, then gradually spikes formed like a porcupine preparing to protect. He didn’t understand it and spent a chunk of the night recalling everything he’d done to see where he might have pushed her away.
The other part of the night, and the majority of it, he confessed, he’d spent remembering how he’d washed her hair. He’d been a little surprised when she’d come out of his room asking him if he could wash her hair. She had claimed the stitches pulled awkwardly when she’d tried to get her hair wet in the basin. He had agreed, not thinking much of it since he’d watched his father wash their mother’s hair hundreds of times. He had even asked his mother once why Pa washed her hair. His mother had just laughed and said she didn’t know how to wash her hair when they first got married, then had continued, with a sparkle in her eye, saying that Pa refused to give up the chore when she finally learned how. Orlando hadn’t thought much about it at the time, but when he’d plunged his fingers into Samara’s hair, rubbing circles along her scalp, and she’d moaned that it felt good, he’d nearly lost all his senses and leaned down to kiss her. Thankfully, he’d showed some restraint, remembering at the last minute that kissing her would have her constructing so many walls that he’d never gain her trust back.
As he pulled the copper stands through his fingers, watching them shine and change in the sunshine streaming through the window, he thought that he wanted the opportunity to wash her hair hundreds of times like his father had. He snorted in derision at his thoughts. Wasn’t that just peachy? Not half a day earlier he’d spouted declarations about wanting to marry someone he knew well, and here he lay, determined to figure out a way to marry Samara. He couldn’t think such intimate thoughts without marrying her. He smiled at the notion that he might just be more like his father than he’d realized.
A distressed moan sounded from his bedroom. Orlando sat up and focused. Another moan whimpered, turning his stomach in agitation. He realized it wasn’t one of pain, but one of dreams. He wondered if he should go in there, wake her up, and save her from her nightmares.
“Mama! No, Mama,” Samara cried from behind the wall, her voice sounding small and childish.
Orlando pushed off the covers, and then rolled out of bed and onto his knees. With all he’d learned of Samara this day, him running in to rescue her would most likely root the spikes she protected herself with more firmly in place. He placed his head on the floor and prayed.
“God, I don’t understand Your reasoning or plans, but bringing Samara back here when she was in dire trouble tells of Your mercy and love. I’m not sure all that she struggles with, but You do. Surround her with the peace I know she felt earlier. Help her to find her way back to You.”
Orlando stayed there, praying, his mind wandering. What would his father have done in the circumstance? The whole situation had Orlando in knots. He tried to respond like his father would, calm and knowing, but he feared he was more disoriented and appr
ehensive. Orlando’s pa was such a man of wisdom and faith, always reading a situation and acting with purpose. Never frazzled. Never frightened. Orlando was floundering, and not just with Samara, but with life. Pa never would’ve let those wolves get a jump on him. Orlando had put Samara in even more danger and injured Zeus, all because he’d lost focus. He felt as if there was no way to live up to his father, that he always fell short. Would he ever be able to become a man in his own right, to step out from behind the shadow of expectation his pa left over him? Or would Orlando’s measurement always be up against his pa’s, forever falling short?
Orlando groaned, sitting back onto his knees and pushing the heel of his palms hard into eyes that stung with emotion. He sounded like a whining, selfish child. He loved his Pa who’d been his best friend. His murder had crushed Orlando, made worse by finding him a bloody mess, tortured to death. If Orlando had gone out to search for his pa sooner, he’d still be alive. It’d taken Orlando weeks of wandering and praying to come to terms with his grief, which had left his sisters exposed to the torment of their father’s murderer. He should’ve waited to go to Denver until he’d known they were safe. Through the haze of his selfishness, he’d abandoned them under the guise of handling business that very well could’ve waited. The terror of what they had gone through still gripped his heart and sent him to his knees, thanking God for protecting them when he hadn’t and begging for the strength to do better.
After Orlando had helped Hunter rescue Viola, he’d sworn he would put his selfishness aside and become a man his father would be proud of. Samara’s arrival didn’t change that decision. If anything, Orlando would have to work even harder at putting his own desires away to help her adjust to this time she’d been thrown in. With a new direction of prayer, Orlando placed his head on the bed and prayed into the night that he would help Samara in a way that honored her and God.
Vestige of Legacy Page 7
