How had Samara turned into such a wreck? She sat in the rocking chair, attempting to read a novel by some guy named Ballantyne and failing. She felt lonely, which smacked her as ridiculous since Lonely was her middle name. But when Orlando had left that morning, saying he needed to spend time with those stupid sheep, she’d almost begged him to forget the fluffy leeches and stay with her. Or begged him to let her come with him, which would’ve been just as pathetic.
Samara whacked herself on the forehead with the book, causing Zeus to look up at her. His eyebrow tweaked as if questioning her sanity. She wondered about that herself.
“I know it’s absurd. I’ve been on my own since I was ten, but I wanted him to stay. Don’t tell me you didn’t want that as well, or I’ll call you out.” She rubbed behind Zeus’s ears.
She threw the book on the side table with a thud and stood. She glanced around the spotless cabin, realizing there wasn’t even something she could clean, and sat back with a huff. She looked at the book with longing, wishing she could give herself another good whack.
Zeus’s ears pricked up, and he looked toward the door. Samara sat up in joy, glad Orlando had decided to come back, which added another layer of pitiful to her already mile-high pile. A low growl issued from Zeus’s throat, sending a thrill of dread straight up her spine. That wasn’t Orlando coming home.
Hide. She had to hide. She glanced around the room. Realizing her options for hiding were non-existent, she rushed to the bedroom. Zeus whined behind her as she stumbled through the doorway, throwing herself haphazardly onto the floor. She crawled to the bed and squeezed herself under it, pushing until she curled into a tight ball with the corner protecting her back.
A horse neighed, and footsteps sounded through the log wall. The animal walked slowly beside the cabin. The creak of leather as someone dismounted had Samara burrowing deeper into herself where she cowered among the dust bunnies. She willed her breathing to slow so she wouldn’t be heard.
“Hurry child. Hide. They must not find you.” Tita Fhil had whispered, harsh and low, which had seemed strange to Samara since she and Tita were the only ones in the house.
Yet Samara had obeyed, crawling under the bed, dirtying her favorite canary-yellow dress with the roses lining the bodice that she’d gotten for her tenth birthday. She had jumped as angry voices flew through the open window, accusing her parents of going against the code of the neighborhood, the code of the gang.
Her mother’s sweet voice had floated in and around the harsh words. It was Samara’s favorite lyrics in “Before the Throne of God Above” in her mother’s beautiful soprano, so contrary to the violent words that had increased in volume. Her dad’s solid voice was layered on top, like a strange and frightening symphony. His deep bass praying for the men surrounding them and praying the canary would fly to safety. That Samara would fly to safety.
She flinched when three, sharp raps pulled her back to the present, just like she had flinched when three, sharp shots had shattered her past.
Chapter 9
Orlando stood and turned from where he knelt next to an injured sheep as he heard hoofbeats approaching. He relaxed, bending down to rub the sheep’s head as he pushed it off toward the others. He marched to where Otto Lee dismounted next to his horse.
Orlando had met Otto last fall when Otto had moved to the area. Orlando felt God urging him to extend a hand of friendship, to help the man settle, gain some footing past the rugged existence he’d had as a downtrodden miner. Orlando continued to thank God for that push as Otto had grown into a true friend.
When Orlando met up with Otto that spring to discuss a possible partnership, Orlando almost didn’t recognize the man. He no longer looked ragged, as if the mountain had chewed him up for lunch. He’d cleaned up, gotten new clothes, and bulked up. The change that amazed Orlando the most was the peace and joy that had shone out of Otto’s face. He would gladly call him a friend and hoped this venture proved profitable for Otto.
Peace and joy did not radiate from his face at this moment, however. Concern and worry marred his face, crinkling his forehead with sharp lines. Orlando picked up his pace.
Otto shook his head, his words faltering as he ran his hand over his neck. “Orlando… I’m not sure what just happened, but I think I scared your sister.”
Orlando’s heart stuttered, not knowing what to expect from Beatrice when it came to new people. “What did Beatrice do this time?”
“Well, I stopped by your cabin, knocked, and heard some shuffling and what sounded like a crash. I pushed open the door and called. Nothing seemed out of place until I heard a whimper from the back room. I tried to get back there to help, but Zeus wouldn’t let me pass. He just laid by the door and growled. I’m real sorry, Orlan—”
Before he could even finish, Orlando rushed to Loco and mounted, kicking the horse into a gallop. He glanced back as he raced toward the homestead to see Otto following, a look of remorse upon his face. When he reached the cabin, he tossed Loco’s reins over the hitching post and ran inside.
“Samara!” he hollered, only to hear a stuttered whimper in answer.
He rushed into the bedroom where Zeus greeted him with a snarl. Orlando gave him a harsh hand signal to back down and scanned the room. He couldn’t see Samara anywhere. Zeus crawled to the bed and whined, sticking his head beneath the large bed Orlando had made from pine and pushed into the corner opposite the door in order to have space to walk. He loved that he could stretch out and not have his feet hang over the edge. Now he cursed his ridiculousness in building such a monster that seemed to have swallowed Samara beneath.
Orlando bent to his knees and tried to keep his voice to a whisper. “Samara?”
His heart broke into a million pieces as he peered at Samara huddled tight against the corner, tears streaming down her face as her eyes clinched tight. Blood was smeared along the floor. Her stitches must’ve busted loose when she’d pushed herself deep into the dark. He didn’t even know how she’d managed to squeeze beneath the bed, the space hardly big enough for his head.
“Oh honey.” Orlando choked on the emotion overwhelming him. “It’s okay. You can come out. Otto’s a friend. He won’t harm you.”
“They… left… me.” Her words came out between sobs, her voice small and childlike. “Why… why did they leave me?”
“Samara, crawl out of there, darling, and we can talk about it,” Orlando coaxed only to see her push further back and shake her head.
He looked at her under the bed and glanced around the small room. Otto stood in the doorway, his hands hanging at his sides in helplessness as questions raced across his face. Orlando would have to explain, but his first concern lay huddled beneath the bed.
“I’ll go take care of the horses. Just holler when you’re ready to talk.” Otto backed toward the door.
Orlando nodded in reply as he leaned his head on the floor. “Samara? Otto’s outside now. I’m just going to sit here and wait. When you are ready to talk, I’m right here.”
Samara uncurled her body one vertebra at a time until she stared into his eyes. He held her gaze with what he hoped passed for peace and patience, praying that God would make those traits true in him. She shuddered a sigh so deep her entire body shook with it, then started inching her way out, her eyes never leaving Orlando’s. Orlando cringed every time she pulled her cut and winced with pain. When she made it to the edge of the bed, Orlando scooted back to give her space. She crawled out and sat, her body hunched over her knees as she pulled them to her chest.
“Samara?” He ran his fingers through her hair, hoping to comfort her.
She lifted her head as if it weighed a hundred pounds and her haunted eyes peered into his. She seemed so small and lost, opposite of her normal strength and confidence. He lifted his hand from her shoulder and gently rubbed a tear as it made a slow, agonized trek down her cheek.
“They left me.”
“I’m so sorry, Samara.” His apology was more sorrowed breath than so
lid words.
She launched herself into his arms and sobbed into his neck. He lifted her from the awkward position on the floor and sat on the bed with her upon his lap. Her tears, harsh with grief, ripped through his soul, and he curled his body around hers in protection. He’d heal this wound that festered, infecting her heart and spirit, if it took his life to do it.
Four small words shouldn’t create a reaction in her, but when Orlando had uttered them, his face and voice holding such grief and agony, something in Samara snapped. Floodgates opened, and she found herself wrapped within Orlando’s body. He held her tightly as she wept with a force she couldn’t stop no matter how many times she demanded it. Four small words she’d heard before shouldn’t hold such power as this.
“Please, Samara, tell me what’s wrong,” he whispered next to her ear, soft and so full of concern she found her story ripped from her before she consciously decided to share it.
“My parents, they left me. They could’ve escaped with me, but they didn’t.” She sobbed into his chest.
“I don’t understand.” Orlando held her tight and stroked her hair.
“My parents wanted to be missionaries, ‘deliverers of the Good News to those who do not know,’” she said with derision. “So we moved to the Philippines, and they worked with a missionary group called the Navigators there. I was only six when we moved, but I remember the directors strongly suggesting that we live on campus. My parents refused. Said they wanted to live among the people God sent them to minister to. So, we moved into an area of the city, and my parents went to work.
“One morning, after we’d lived there for about four years, my mom suddenly grabbed her dulcimer case and practically pushed me out the door. She told me to go to Tita Fhil’s house and play for her until she or dad came for me. When Tita Fhil opened the door, she just yanked me into the house. I looked back before she closed the door, and… and men were coming down the road, hanging out of the beds of the trucks, their heads and faces covered with black hats and scarves.”
Samara’s body jerked in a sudden shiver and her breath shuddered out. The fear of seeing those trucks still managed to shake her. Orlando murmured indecipherable comforts into her ear.
“Tita dragged me into her bedroom and pushed me under the bed, telling me to stay quiet and not come out for anyone but her.” Samara remembered the protest that had risen up within her as the dust underneath the bed streaked her favorite, canary-yellow dress. It had died on her lips when she heard the angry, hateful voices calling for her parents.
“Tita didn’t realize the window was open, but I heard everything the men yelled at my parents.”
“Oh, Samara.” Orlando tucked the hair that had tumbled from her braid behind her ear.
“They accused my parents of crimes they didn’t commit, of inciting trouble and chaos in the community.” Their words had been so harsh, so filled with evil that the memory still seeped ice into Samara’s bones. “Then I heard my mom’s beautiful voice lilting over the discord, singing our favorite song, the song we sang every night before bed. My father’s voice lifted in prayer, asking God to forgive those hateful men and asking that I fly free. Then I heard three quick shots of a gun and silence fell so thick it almost smothered me. It still smothers me.” She finished in a whisper so soft she doubted Orlando heard.
“I’m so sorry.”
Samara pushed away just enough to allow herself to look up. Orlando’s eyes, bright with unshed tears, held such sorrow that she couldn’t wrap her head around it. He lifted his hand and wiped the stream of tears that ran down her face, as one of his own escaped down his cheek. Why did she feel as if her pain was his own, as if he willingly shared with her every jab and slice the story had rendered?
“What happened after that?” Orlando pulled her back up against him.
“It wasn’t long, maybe thirty minutes before another member of our church came carrying extra clothes and leading his daughter, who was my size. They dressed me and covered my hair. I left the house with nothing but my mom’s dulcimer. I forgot to grab my dress. He took me to the embassy. They jetted me back to the States, and when no one came forward to raise me, they shoved me into foster care and forgot about me.”
“You didn’t have any other family?”
“No. My parents were only children, and my grandparents had all died. No one we knew wanted to raise me. Either they didn’t realize I had nowhere to go, or no one wanted to mess with a screwed up kid, so off to the system I went.”
“It seems like your parents saved you, Samara, not left you.” Orlando hesitated. “I would have done the same.”
She pushed to sitting, the hurt and anger resurfacing. “But why didn’t they come hide with me? Why’d they stay and face those men? They could’ve hidden in any of the neighbors’ houses. They were good friends, family really, with them all. They chose to leave me.”
“Could they have worried the men would search the houses and hurt your neighbors as well?” Orlando’s voice spoke softly, and his hand ran up and down her arm in comfort.
“They didn’t know that.” Samara knew the truth in her heart, the truth that she hadn’t been worth the risk.
“What sent you under the bed today?”
Samara shook her head and blushed. “I don’t know. I dreamed about my parents last night, about hiding under that bed. I think my mind must’ve triggered back to it. I just went back there, to that day, and the next thing I knew, I was under the bed, sobbing like a fool and frozen in fear.”
Orlando took both of his hands and cradled Samara’s face. He forced her to look at him, capturing the tears that refused to dry. “It’s not surprising, with everything you’ve been through the last two days. I should’ve realized it. I should’ve stayed close, then you wouldn’t have had to sit here with just your thoughts and the dog to keep you company. Thoughts often turn insidious in their nature, if they’re anything like mine. I’m sorry, Samara. I didn’t think.”
She wanted to be strong against the yearnings that pulled her to this man, knowing that eventually he’d realize the truth about her like everyone else had. Yet her strength waned with every gesture of kindness and look of understanding. If she continued in this foolishness, she’d have nothing left of herself, no cactus spikes or juicy flesh. She’d be cut off at the root and devoured, and she just couldn’t fathom coming back from that.
“Orlando, you have nothing to be sorry for. My silly overreacting caused this whole embarrassment, and now I’m bleeding and have caused a scene in front of your visitor,” Samara answered, scooting off his lap onto the bed.
“Don’t worry about Otto. He’s seen his share of trauma. I’ll bring in more of Beatrice’s clothes for you to change into, and then we’ll get you patched up.”
He stood and walked out the door. Samara sighed in resignation. She couldn’t afford to lose her wits over him, but she couldn’t seem to convince her heart of that. Frankly, she didn’t know if she wanted to.
Orlando’s mind seemed bent on wandering back to the revelation in the bedroom, back to Samara, no matter how hard he wrestled it to the current conversation he was having with Otto. Orlando had cleaned her up after she’d changed into the blouse and pants he’d found. He’d decided the stitch that pulled didn’t need replaced. After she insisted, he’d invited Otto in, though she still hadn’t come out from the room even with the bedroom door open.
Now Orlando sat at the table, discussing business with Otto, but his mind kept veering toward what she had revealed. Her inner wounds were much more extensive than he’d thought. He sensed in her story a belief that her parents chose death over being with her, where he saw them sacrificing for her life, protecting and saving her. He chastised himself that he couldn’t do anything about that now and forced his focus onto the matter at hand.
“No, Orlando, it’s too generous.” Otto shook his head in disbelief.
“We don’t even know if it will work. It’s an experiment and a risky one at that. I’m not ev
en sure these sheep will make it through a winter. There’s always been danger associated with sheep ranching. It’s not too generous, Otto, considering it might just get you killed.” Orlando prayed he wasn’t spreading it on too thick. He heard movement from the other room and almost lost his train of thought.
“You seem to be spinning a good tale. Have you been visiting with Trapper Dan lately?” Otto asked, sending a crisp nod across the table.
Orlando watched as Otto ran his hand through his hair, causing it to stick straight up. He then huffed and pulled on his beard. Finally, he placed his hands on either side of the contract Orlando had written up, the thumb of one hand beating a rhythm onto the tabletop. Otto looked up, and the harried expression on his face caused Orlando to brace himself.
“How can you possibly give all this to me? We met less than a year ago, and I’ve told you my history. No one’s ever trusted me with much, and this is a lot more than much.”
“What’s so bad about your history?” Samara’s guarded tone from where she appeared in the doorway caused Orlando to inwardly cringe. She made her way to the coffee pot and poured herself a cup, lifting the pot to both men in a silent question. Both shook their heads.
“I’ve never been good at anything, always messing things up. My pa and I were mining south near Leadville. I talked up our gold find like an idiot one night in the saloon. Next thing I knew, I was waking up in a refuse pile in an alley, a knot the size of a goose egg on my head.” Otto took a deep breath, and Orlando’s chest constricted in sympathy. “When I got back to our camp, my father had been murdered. Instead of standing my ground and calling out the claim jumpers, I ran like a coward. That’s when Orlando met me.”
“Everyone has a past, Otto. It’s what we do with it that makes a difference. You’re a different man than the one I found scraping a cabin together and hiding out. God’s done some miraculous things this last year.” Orlando tried to ignore the weight of his past that tried to drag him down as he focused on Otto.
Vestige of Legacy Page 8
