Vestige of Legacy

by Sara Blackard

  Samara began playing a sorrowful melody, closing her eyes as the song lifted into the air that had quieted as she told her story. Orlando watched, her face muted in the dark pink and purple light of the sunset. A single tear escaped from her closed eyes. He slid his hand along the back of her neck and gently wiped the tear with his thumb.

  “God saved you that day. He keeps saving you,” Orlando whispered, as he let his hand drop to his side.

  “If God saved me that day, then He abandoned me the next. Thought better of it and left me on my own,” Samara scoffed. “Seems to be a pattern. First my parents, then God. Even my fiancé left after taking everything he could get from me.”

  While Orlando rejoiced no one could lay claim on her, he knew that skunk had layered more hurt upon her soul. Orlando looked at her profile as she stared across the lake painted deep purple, maroon, and orange. Her features, hard to distinguish in the fading light, held sorrow and resolve. He wanted to see her face transformed to joy and hope. Prayed God would help him accomplish that.

  “I don’t think God abandoned you. I think He’s been walking right beside You, giving you strength to overcome the attacks upon you. Shoot, Samara, He even sent you back in time. That doesn’t seem to me like someone who has abandoned you, but rather someone who desperately loves you. Maybe you should consider that.”

  Samara looked at him, her face contorted in confusion. He’d pushed enough, needed to let that bit of medicine soak in. He grabbed her dulcimer and stood, reaching his other hand down to help her up.

  “Come on, fairy queen, your feast and bed await.” He offered her a small smile.

  She pushed her hair behind her shoulder and lifted her chin saucily as she placed her hand in his. “I expect a four-course meal and silk sheets, servant.”

  “How about mountain lion and wool blankets?”

  Samara shivered in what he hoped was mock disgust. He chuckled and threaded his fingers through hers.

  “Thank you for sharing your story with me.” He squeezed her hand.

  Samara stared into his eyes as if searching the depths of him for something. He held her stare with all his feelings open to her appraisal. He wasn’t sure if she found them, but she nodded and turned toward the fire. He held her hand as he led her to the fire, though the path was clear of anything she could trip on.

  Chapter 13

  Samara sat on the fallen tree Orlando had pulled over to the campfire for a seat and stared into the flames. He moved about the fire finishing dinner. She probably should offer to help, but the telling of the story had drained her. Her entire life seemed to drain her.

  What she hadn’t told Orlando, what she couldn’t expose for all to hear, was the emptiness she’d felt while in Manila, in her old neighborhood. Tita Fhil had called the neighbors, and they’d all come over to visit her, hugging and exclaiming their joy in seeing her all grown up. They told stories of her parents, stories of the miracles since their deaths. They’d praised her parents’ sacrifice and the fact she’d grown into such an accomplished young woman.

  Everywhere she had looked her parents lingered, their shadows a legacy she couldn’t live up to. A legacy that left her weighted and heavy with her lacking. Their love had prompted a community to grow and thrive, passing that devotion to others. What was so wrong with her that the inheritance of their love had passed completely over her?

  Orlando ambled over to the log, handing Samara a tin plate full of food. She was thankful he pulled her from her depressing thoughts. He sat next to her, leaning against the log instead of sitting on it, and his long, strong legs stretched toward the fire. Samara slid to sit on the ground next to him and poked at the meat on her plate.

  “I promise it’s not that bad.” Orlando chuckled as he stuffed a large bite into his mouth.

  Samara looked at the plate before her. The meat sat innocuously next to the dandelion greens they’d gathered for a salad. Orlando had even cut some green cattail tops and roasted them. They lay like roasted corn-on-the-cob beside the menacing meat. Samara swallowed and stabbed the greens.

  “Chicken,” Orlando teased, holding his knife out in challenge.

  She chewed her bite of dandelions and grabbed the knife with a glare. “Challenge accepted.”

  Samara cut a piece of meat and popped it into her mouth. At first, she chewed quickly, wanting to get the deed done, but she stopped and really tasted the meat. The flavor was like pork with a hint of a muskiness. She slowed down to savor it. Orlando reached over to get his knife.

  “Nope.” She held the knife away from him. “I’m still eating.”

  Orlando threw his head back and laughed. When his mirth finished, he looked at her and smiled. “Good, isn’t it?”

  “Amazing!” she answered, taking a bite of the corn-like cattail. “This entire meal is incredible. I can’t believe we had none of this food packed when we left this morning. It blows my mind that you can survive out here, eating like this.”

  “Well, you might not always be blessed with such abundance, but I’ll teach you.” Orlando took a bite out of his meat like a caveman and smiled at her.

  “Why?” Samara’s heart suddenly pounded in anticipation.

  Orlando looked at her and answered with complete confidence. “You’re not going to scrape to survive anymore, Samara. I plan on making sure you flourish, like how you’ve made our garden explode with bounty.”

  “The Lord will guide you always, he will satisfy your needs in a sun-scorched land and will strengthen your frame. You will be like a well-watered garden, like a spring whose waters never fail,” Samara whispered.

  “Isaiah 58:11, though a bit different from the one I know,” Orlando answered, looking at her in question.

  “My parents made me memorize it. It just popped into my head before I even realized I was talking.” Samara slowly chewed her bite as she stared into the fire.

  “I think the Lord agrees with me,” Orlando declared.

  Samara thought while they sat in comfortable silence as they finished the meal. Her thoughts circled around their conversation by the lake and the verse that sprang from her mouth. Her parents had forced her to memorize hundreds of verses, so why did that one stick to her like the stubborn burrs she pulled from Zeus’s coat? God hadn’t guided her. He had abandoned her. Hadn’t He?

  What if He actually had proved true to His word and guided her always? What would that mean about her? Could she be worthy of His love? Of Orlando’s love? Could she embrace being here and plant herself along this creek of life she’d fallen in to? She didn’t think she agreed with the direction of her thoughts, but she couldn’t seem to stop them.

  Samara watched as Orlando took the dishes down to the lake and cleaned them. He hadn’t specifically said he wanted her to stay with him, marry him, because in this time there’d be no co-habitation. Yet she saw his intent in the way he looked at her, the soft touches he gave and his off-hand comments that penetrated her soul. His distress when she was attacked could not come from someone who didn’t care. Had anyone ever agonized over her like that before? A memory of her mother’s frantic face as she hurried her out the door rushed into Samara’s memory.

  She pushed away the thought and watched as Orlando set up the bedrolls across from each other. She plodded to one and lay down, peering over the flickering fire. Orlando checked the horses one last time and settled down on his back. She inhaled, long and deep, like her yoga teacher had taught her, trying to relax her mind and body enough to fall asleep. Leaves rustled in the shadows and a squirrel chattered angrily, causing Samara to jump at the noise. She pulled the blanket tighter around her, wishing they could’ve brought Zeus along instead of leaving him with the flock.

  An animal screamed in the forest. Samara’s heart rate picked up. Memories of the wolves attacking, snapping at her, of their putrid scent, filled her brain. The sound the mountain lion’s claws and teeth had made on her case filled her head and skittered down her spine. She hadn’t encountered a bear yet, but she
supposed one might go ahead and choose tonight to lumber into camp, maybe gnaw on her head a bit. A screech echoed through the woods and the weight of fear lay heavy as the mountain lion.

  “Orlando?” Samara whispered, her voice barely squeezing from her throat.

  He looked at her. “Yeah?”

  Samara peered at him, knowing her expression broadcasted the fear strangling her. “I know it’s not proper, but can I sleep over there next to you? I’m thinking with my luck, some bear will decide I look like a tasty burrito and take a bite.”

  Orlando scooted away from the fire and patted the space he left behind. Though she knew she should at least save face and move slowly, she dragged up her bed and rushed to his side. After helping her lay out her bedroll, Orlando lay on his back and closed his eyes, one arm pillowing his head. She rolled onto her side facing the fire so her back was to him and sighed. She felt safe, and her body relaxed in the peace of that safety.

  Samara followed behind Orlando as they rode to the agency on a thick trail that wandered through the forest. He’d promised that it wouldn’t be but an hour or so more before they’d see it in the valley. The day had stretched long before them since they’d taken their time and stopped early yesterday for Orlando to flesh out the mountain lion hide. The long day in the saddle had unfortunately given her more hours and minutes and seconds than she cared to think about remembering the feel of Orlando’s arms around her that morning as they woke. The coals burning low behind her and the cords of strength holding her had encased her in a cocoon of comfort she never wanted to leave.

  Samara remembered how Orlando had whispered her name, his voice sounding thick and husky. His fingers threading through her hair as he’d cleared his throat and told her they needed to get up and moving. Reality had crashed on her then, and she’d sat up fast, her crazy bedhead curls flying into her face. Orlando had sat up and brushed her hair behind her shoulder, his hand sliding a slow trail of heat over her shoulder and down her arm. His eyes had held a promise she wasn’t sure she wanted to accept as he smiled to her and helped her up.

  Samara rolled her eyes at once again finding herself deep in the memory. Hadn’t she already lingered over it a million times through the hours they’d ridden in almost total silence? Hadn’t she picked apart every detail, every nuance, a bloom of hope growing alongside a weed of doubt? She figured time would prove which survived, though she balked at thinking her life might end filled with more flowers than weeds. For the moment, she’d stay strong, figure out how to prune her thoughts to reality and survive however long she had to stay with Orlando with her heart intact.

  The smell of smoke in the air tore her thoughts from useless wonderings. “Is the smoke from the agency?”

  “No, it’s likely a forest fire. They often start around this time of year. Mostly from lightning, but sometimes the Indians or settlers will start them for one reason or another,” Orlando answered.

  “Should we be worried?”

  “No, it’s not that close. Fires burn out eventually. The forest is healthy in the area, so if there’s a fire, it won’t burn so out of control you couldn’t escape it. Not like how you described with so much dead trees and overgrowth. The forest takes care of itself,” Orlando replied with a shrug.

  Samara watched him scan the trees. He’d done that so many times today she wondered if his neck would have a kink tonight. She hated admitting how his obvious protection and care made her feel like a gushy teen. She stared so long at the line of muscles that stretched his shirt across his back she could probably draw him with her eyes closed while riding the teacups at Disneyland. His body swayed with the movement of the horse like instruments of a symphony melded in one masterpiece. Ugh, she stuck her tongue out in disgust, halfway wishing a bear or mountain lion or rabid pack of porcupines would attack just to stop the ninny thoughts from running through her thick head.

  “Come on up here,” Orlando called from where he’d turned in the saddle, an odd expression on his face.

  Samara realized that while she had been foolishly ogling the man, the trail had opened up to overlook the valley below. She came up beside Orlando where he’d stopped. His look had turned to one of concern.

  “Are you okay? You looked, I don’t know, like you were about to get sick,” Orlando’s voice was thick with worry.

  That’s what silly daydreams led to, handsome heroes layering on more appeal with solicitude. “I’m fine. Just had a bug fly in my mouth.”

  Samara mentally slapped herself in the forehead. This place had melted her brains. She needed to figure out a way to get herself to a city where she could blend into anonymity. Only then could she keep herself safe among the crowded streets and away from steamy men with their piercing eyes. Maybe her brain cells would grow back. She remembered reading somewhere that it was possible to repair the brain after damage had occurred. She hoped that was true and hers hadn’t been broken beyond help.

  Samara focused on the landscape before her. The valley opened up below the mountains much the same as during her time. The White River weaved against the base of the hillside of the opposite mountain lined with large cottonwoods and willows. While the entire valley didn’t burst with the green irrigation fields she’d drawn a hundred times like they would in the future, Samara understood why the vast area would someday prosper with ranching. The flat terrain was perfect for cultivation.

  A set of buildings were built among the trees that lined the river. Over a hundred tepees circled out beyond the buildings and thousands of horses grazed in the field. Samara noticed that some fields had been tilled up and planted with crops. She wondered if Meeker had plowed up the fateful Ute racetrack that would ignite the simmering coals of tension into flames. The museum she’d visited and the book she’d bought about the upcoming attack had said the racetrack was the final straw for the Utes.

  “Samara, I’m wondering if you’d do something for me.” Orlando peered down at the settlement.

  She glanced at him, noticing the flex of his cheek where he clenched his jaw. “Sure.”

  Orlando turned to her. Something fierce and cautionary shined from his eyes. “I’d like you to tie up your hair and stuff it under your hat. Your hair is uncommon, and I’m worried it might cause some excitement.”

  “You think someone would hurt me because of my hair?” Samara asked, skepticism thick in her voice.

  Orlando took off his hat and hit it on his leg. He then blew out a breath as he pushed his fingers through his thick, blond hair. The motion distracted her, made her wonder what it would feel like to run her fingers through it. She seriously needed her head examined.

  “No. Well, I don’t think so. It’s more… it’s just…” Orlando exhaled sharply. “It’s just that your beauty is exotic, Samara, especially with your hair flowing behind you like it is. Most white women wear their hair pulled in a bun and tucked away under their bonnets, not flying wild behind them. I guess I’d just like to hide you as much as possible until I see what the situation is down there.”

  Samara smiled at his off-handed compliment, especially with how crazy her hair had been since getting here and her lack of foundation to cover the myriad of freckles splattered across her face. Her heart soared and her smile must border on goofy. He wasn’t making it very easy on her to get her mind under control.

  “All right, though for the record, I’m not scared of them. I should probably warn you. My hair is unruly and has a mind of its own. If I try and tame it, it’s liable to bust free.” Samara took off her hat and worked on twisting her hair into submission.

  She attempted to ignore Orlando as he watched her wrap her hair in a leather strip. She took the square of fabric she’d put around her neck like a kerchief and wrapped it around her head. She pushed her hat upon her head, wiggling it down low over her ears.

  She looked at Orlando and smiled. “Better?”

  “No. You’re still adorable.” Orlando grumbled. “Listen, I know you can take care of yourself, that you have for mo
st of your life. But as much as I call the Ute people of this band my friends and have for years, with tensions high, I’m not sure how everyone will act. Plus, I have no clue how Meeker and his family will react to us being here. Please, just be careful.”

  Samara reached over and clasped the hand he had squeezed into a fist on his leg. He looked down at the hands, then up to her face. She smiled, hoping to encourage him past his worry.

  “I promise, I’ll be extra vigilant and keep all my martial arts skills on high alert.”

  “I don’t know what painting has to do with you staying safe,” Orlando replied, his forehead scrunching in confusion.

  Samara laughed, the tension and confusing thoughts of the day melting away. “Martial arts is a type of self-defense, a way to protect yourself with the movement of your body. I took lessons, scraping enough cash together from playing music on the corner to pay for it. It came in handy when I lived on the street and people thought the skinny girl would be an easy target.”

  Samara kept beside Orlando as he urged Loco into a walk. “So this martial arts is a type of fighting? And it’s used by law enforcement, by the marshals? They still have the marshals in your time?”

  Samara tipped her head back and laughed. It felt good, like a faucet that had been dripping life-giving water one measly drop at a time had been turned on full blast. Had busted off the spout and gushed sustenance in abundance. She didn’t even know what was so funny.