Vestige of Legacy

by Sara Blackard

  Otto stared at him from across the table, his eyes bright with unshed tears. He sniffed and blinked rapidly as he nodded his head in recognition. He sat up straight, looked down, and reread the contract before him. As he read, Orlando glanced at Samara. Confusion covered her face as if he had turned into some specimen she’d never seen before. He met her critical gaze with conviction. Otto cleared his throat, pulling Orlando’s attention back to the table.

  “I’m not okay with a return to you of ten percent. I’m more comfortable with fifty,” Otto said.

  “I’m not taking fifty. That’s crazy. This is to see if it’s a viable option for cutting a place in these mountains. You’ll need all the funds you can get to make an honest go of this and survive better than before. As you know, I don’t have to worry about money. Heck, I’d rather you just take the sheep and see how it works, but I know that you don’t want charity,” Orlando argued.

  “What exactly do you call this? Ten percent is nothing.”

  “Otto, listen, think of this as a loan. Instead of me loaning you money, the currency is sheep. The ten percent is just until the loan is paid off, then they are yours, free and clear. It’s a simple business arrangement. Plus, I’m getting much more than that out of this. You’re helping me examine if this could be something other settlers could make a living at. More and more people seem bent on moving to these rugged mountains, most of them without a lick of sense. If we can make this work, we’ll be giving people one more way to survive, one more way to keep the mountain from taking everything from them.” Orlando knew his deep-rooted need to help others showed in his words.

  “You know, Orlando, most men just focus on themselves surviving. You fight for all to survive. I admire that in you and am hoping you rub off on me,” Otto replied.

  “I guess it’s the healer in me.” Orlando shrugged. “Do we have a deal?”

  “All right, you badger, we have a deal.” Otto stretched out his hand across the table.

  Orlando caught Samara’s look of thoughtfulness out of the corner of his eye as he clasped Otto’s hand. She shook her head and turned her gaze out the window. Her walls seemed firmly in place once again, and Orlando sighed in discouragement.

  Samara sat on the blanket in the edge of the meadow under the aspen trees, Zeus’s head lying in its favorite place upon her lap. Though shaded, the sun warmed her head and back, relaxing the muscles that were tight with tension. Thankfully the spare hat Orlando had given her shaded her face and neck. Without the benefit of the SPF 1000 sunscreen she normally bathed in, she’d be a lobster within minutes. She pulled on her braid in concern, wondering how the only things she longed for from her time seemed to be sunscreen and her venti caramel latte. Maybe a desire to return would surface once she stayed longer, especially if not returning proved true. Yet she figured with no real friends and a nonexistent family, she didn’t have anything important to return to, which made her even more pathetic than she thought.

  A bird trilled a joyful sound in the aspen tree above her. The song settled deep into her heart and calmed her. She closed her eyes and relished the warmth of the sun and the weight of Zeus’s soft head upon her lap. She inhaled the bittersweet smell of the grass, the leaves, and dirt that had always given her comfort. The loud bleating of sheep opened her eyes, and she peered at Orlando where he sat upon his horse and moved among the sheep.

  Each day, Orlando became more of an enigma to her. She had been surprised when the conversation had turned to a man named Robert, who had been a part of Orlando’s father’s murder and the kidnapping of his sister. Otto had been amazed that Orlando had forgiven the man, and Samara couldn’t agree more. Granted, this Robert didn’t kill Orlando’s father, but it seemed like without his involvement, the murder wouldn’t have happened. Samara couldn’t do it, even after fourteen years she still couldn’t comprehend forgiving the men who killed her parents.

  After Otto had told his story, Samara tried throughout the night to hate Otto. Men like him, who were drunkards and careless, caused her to travel the path she had so far. Men who acted without regard to others. But try as she might, she liked him.

  Otto’s quiet demeanor pulled her in. He talked of his struggle to move past the guilt that chased him through the day and haunted him at night. His soft spoken words of hope for his future and peace clenched her heart. Is that what she wanted deep down, hope and peace? Through the course of the evening, she realized she and Otto shared the same hesitant survivor’s spirit, desiring a life beyond their grasp. She hoped he proved more successful than she had.

  The men turned and began approaching her, pulling her from her thoughts. Orlando had dismounted, and the two smiled as they talked. They both broke into loud laughter. The sound zinged through her, and she found a smile spreading wide across her face.

  “Well, he’s all set.” Orlando stopped at the edge of the blanket.

  “Miss Samara, I’m glad to have met you and will pray for a quick recovery for you.” Otto pulled his hat off his head.

  “You’re leaving? I thought you said last night you’d be sticking around?”

  “I guess that’s a relative term,” Orlando answered, scratching his cheek through his beard.

  When she looked between them with a raised eyebrow, Otto cleared his throat. “I need to take my sheep and dogs a bit away to make sure they don’t wander back. It’ll be a slow journey toward my place, so we’ll be sticking close, in a manner of thinking.”

  “Oh, well, in that case, it was nice to meet you too. Come hang out next time you’re around,” Samara replied, too late realizing she implied she’d still be here with Orlando.

  Otto threw a confused glance at Orlando, who shrugged in answer. Otto shuffled on his feet and cleared his throat again, his ears turning red. His discomfort around women endeared him to her. This large, handsome man, who had to be at least six-foot-four with enough muscles to stretch his shirt, fumbled around her like a gangly teen. She stifled a chuckle at his awkwardness and hoped he found a woman who saw past his shyness and cherished him for it.

  “I’ll stop by for a visit if I make it up this way,” Otto finally replied, tipping his head to her before shoving his hat on his head.

  Orlando stretched out his hand. “You are welcome anytime, my friend.”

  Otto took the hand without hesitation and shook it. He cleared his throat again, though, from experience, she knew it thickened with a different emotion than a moment before. Orlando plopped down on the blanket after his friend moved away, a space which moments before had seemed quite large. He stretched out his legs and leaned back on his elbows with a contented sigh. His gaze roamed over the field and into all the nooks and crannies in the surrounding trees. His relaxed manner almost caused her to miss the direct intent behind his search.

  “Are you expecting trouble?” The tension built up her spine.

  “Nah,” he replied. “It’s just good practice to always be alert.”

  Which she translated as, yes, he expected trouble, and she was an idiot to ask. She mentally berated herself. Wasn’t that her exact motto in life? “Be alert to trouble” was practically tattooed onto her forearm. The only time she’d become lax ended with her cursing her recently ex-fiancée and driving her beat-up sedan as fast as she could away from his duplicity. She’d headed to the first perpetual-next gig, her heart dragging behind in shreds. She’d do well to remember that.

  She turned her focus to the meadow where Otto rode his horse and crooned to the sheep. Dogs, some large and white like Zeus and others small and energetic like the Australian Shepherds she’d seen around Meeker, rushed around to get the sheep moving. The scene of a man forging his way through life seemed lonely to her, but then again she’d almost always surrounded herself with others and yet imagined herself the loneliest person she knew.

  “Why do you use two kinds of dogs?” Samara asked to distract herself from her self-afflicting thoughts.

  “Well, the large dogs like Zeus are great guard dogs. They’
ll protect the sheep and shepherd from wolves and other predators. They aren’t the best at herding, though, and with just one shepherd, maybe two, I figure you need the little dogs that can corral and run flock better than if you had multiple shepherds,” Orlando answered, laughing as a small brown and white dog raced around the perimeter of the flock, causing the lambs to leap in fright.

  “That makes sense.”

  Samara heard a series of whistles and gasped in amazement as the little dog tore off toward Otto. She watched him give a hand signal, and the dog settled into a walk beside him. She couldn’t believe the intelligence of the dog.

  “They’re incredibly smart dogs.” Orlando echoed her thought. “I gave Otto his dogs last fall. It’s amazing the way he’s trained them. He has a gift for it.”

  “Aren’t you worried your sheep will follow?”

  “I have mine penned in the sheepfold. I’ll have to stick extra close to them tomorrow when I let them out, but other than that, they should stick around. I’m more worried about Otto’s sheep high-tailing it back here.”

  “Why don’t you just give them all to Otto? I’m assuming from his comments yesterday that you don’t need to raise them yourself,” Samara questioned.

  “I want to know firsthand how this all works out. I need the knowledge necessary to give resources and suggestions to those I recommend this venture to. I know it’ll be beneficial to the settlers coming in, but I also think it might be a good fit for the Utes as the government pushes them more and more into abandoning their ways for white ways. Maybe the life of a shepherd out among the wilderness, roaming the mountains as the sheep graze, will be more suited to them than tilling the land like a farmer,” Orlando said with conviction.

  Samara looked at Orlando in wonder. His serious face and determined set of his jaw told her he would raise sheep with no apparent benefit or need for himself, but simply to test the validity for others. There in the Coloradan sun. No man could be that selfless. She’d have to keep vigilant— stay alert— otherwise there’d be nothing left of her heart to drag behind this time.

  Chapter 10

  Orlando watched Samara as she washed the breakfast dishes. He couldn’t believe a week had passed since she’d arrived. She’d only asked once about going back to her time. He told her how Hunter had tried to recreate how he travelled back, and it hadn’t worked. They all assumed going back wasn’t going to happen. She’d gone quiet and contemplative but hadn’t asked again.

  Orlando didn’t know what to make of that. If it had been him, he would’ve tried everything he could to get back to his time. But he loved his life, his mountains. Even after he’d failed his father, he still couldn’t imagine leaving for somewhere else. His determination to live up to his father’s legacy just became more of a drive.

  Samara, on the other hand, didn’t seem to miss anything from her time. Her story of not having any family, and bits and pieces of information he had been able to gather in their conversations, showed that she lived the life of a gypsy with no roots, no friends. It sounded like a life full of loneliness, which struck Orlando as ironic. Here he lived by himself in the middle of the Rockies, yet, despite the communication inventions and millions of people of her time, she was the one who appeared lonely.

  Orlando also figured she didn’t have a relationship with God. He continued his nightly readings of the Bible. She didn’t object when he read out loud, but she also didn’t engage. She either sat lightly strumming her dulcimer or attempting to sew a garment, hearing but not listening. Orlando prayed the words of God would penetrate the wall she’d built, that He’d heal the darkness Orlando saw lurking within her soul, attempting to devour her. Considering how much peace he obtained from the Holy Spirit, it didn’t surprise him she experienced such loneliness in her time.

  Samara wiped her hands and turned around, looking hopefully around the cabin. Orlando closed the book he had attempted to read when he’d gotten distracted by watching her. A common occurrence. He’d checked her wound that morning and declared it completely healed. Her smile at the declaration quickened his heart and sprouted hummingbird wings within his stomach. He lamented the loss of opportunity to touch her, even in his brief examinations of her healing wound. He wondered if he could watch for chances that didn’t revolve around checking for infection and pus.

  “I have a project I’d like to pass on to you, if you’re not opposed.” Orlando stood and pushed his chair in.

  “I can almost guarantee I won’t be opposed. I’m going bananas with nothing to do,” Samara replied.

  Orlando smiled, loving her unique phrases. “Grab your hat, and meet me outside.”

  Orlando walked to the door, opened it, and paused. Samara bumped into the back of him, her small hands spreading upon his back for balance. The touch scorched his skin through his shirt. He turned, shocked that she followed so closely.

  “Well, get a move on. I don’t have all day here.” One corner of her lips turned up into a mischievous smile.

  Orlando employed every ounce of self-restraint he could muster to not turn around completely, lean down, and kiss her in that moment. He took a determined step outside, then two, forcing his feet and his mind to move away from her. By the time he’d moved to the garden beside the cabin, he mostly had his thoughts back in line.

  He glanced at her where she stood beside him. Her hair was pulled back in a tie low on her neck, the deep copper curls twirling in the breeze. The old hat he’d given her shaded her cheeks that the sun had turned pink the days before. New freckles kissed her nose and cheeks with each new day she ventured outside. She was exquisite, more beautiful than anyone he’d ever seen. He huffed, having to rein his thoughts in once again.

  “So, whatcha got cookin’?” Samara glanced around the garden.

  Orlando shook his head and chuckled. “The garden needs tending. I hoped you wouldn’t mind taking that on.”

  “I’m not sure you want me doing that. I don’t know a weed from a carrot.” Samara’s cute, freckled nose wrinkled in concern.

  “It’s not too hard. I’ll show you what I planted and which are weeds. Besides, I need to move the sheep in a week or so, and not having to deal with this will help me get prepared.” Orlando knew he stretched the truth a little since having her help here wouldn’t really make a difference with the sheep, but he figured she needed something to do that she considered helpful.

  “If you think so.” Hesitation hung thick in Samara’s voice.

  “The half closest to us is the vegetable garden. I’ve planted potatoes, carrots, beets, turnips, spinach, collards, onions, broccoli, green beans, and peas.” Orlando watched her eyes grow larger with each item.

  “Is that all?” Samara asked sarcastically.

  Orlando nodded, answering with a straight face. “I couldn’t fit any more.”

  He looked at her. When she turned her head to him, he winked. He swore he saw a slight blush rise up her cheeks, though it could’ve been the sun.

  “The back half is the herb garden. That’s where I grow the herbs I’ll need for healing.”

  “No, I can’t take care of that.” She shook her head with such force he thought her hat would fly off. “What if I pull the wrong plant and you’re left short when someone needs it? It’s too important. Seriously, all they look like is a bunch of pretty flowers.”

  “Samara, I trust it to you,” Orlando said with assurance, while she looked at him with eyes full of doubt. “Wait here a moment.”

  Orlando jogged to the cabin. He moved to the bookshelf and scanned the many journals and books he had there. Finally finding the one he looked for, he pulled it out, only to have a smaller journal fall out onto the floor. He picked it up and turned it over in his hands, flipping through the pages.

  His father’s handwriting leaped from the page, stalling his heart. How Orlando could’ve forgotten his father’s journal baffled Orlando. He’d found it in Pa’s haversack after burying him. He guessed he had been thick in grief and unable to ha
ndle reading the words without emotion overwhelming him. It must’ve gotten shoved among his other books when he’d packed to move here. He walked to the bed he’d slept on since Samara arrived and placed it there. Enough time had passed he figured he could handle reading it now. He crossed back over to the bookshelf, grabbed the journal he’d come in for, and rushed back to Samara.

  When he leaned on the fence again, he handed her the journal. She opened it and gasped, flipping through the pages. Excitement danced across her face as she stopped to touch the page. She turned her eyes to him in question.

  “This is a journal I’ve compiled of all the medicinal herbs I can grow here and their uses.”

  “You drew these pictures?” Samara asked in pleased shock.

  Orlando rubbed the back of his neck with his hand as it heated in embarrassment. “Yeah. I needed a way to catalogue it all.”

  “These are amazing! The detail of the plant through the stages of growth blows my mind. You’ve even drawn the roots. And the information you have written down, how to grow and the best ways to preserve and prepare, would help anyone reading this. You’ve been so specific in everything, including what to use it for and all the different ways it can be used. You should publish this,” Samara practically gushed, causing his face to heat even more.

  “Well, I’m hoping it’ll help you if you wonder about any of the plants,” Orlando replied gruffly. “Come on, let’s get to work.”

  Orlando pulled his hat off his head as he led her to the garden gate. He rubbed his hand on his heated neck and thwacked his hat a couple times on his legs before shoving it back on his head. He didn’t like accolades thrown his way, didn’t feel he deserved them, but Samara’s good regard had his hands tingling and his chest swelling. If he wasn’t careful, his hat wouldn’t fit from his head swelling as well.