by Amelia Rose
Declan climbed down the hill and dropped down beside her, calling her name. He reached out to shake her but stopped himself in case she was too badly hurt. He looked at her face and was horrified to see how pale she was. A cut just above her hair line had bled out but now left a rust-red streak dried in her hair. Her arm was out from her side at an odd angle that made Declan wince just looking at it.
“Margaret?” he asked desperately, praying that she was okay. “Mags, can you hear me?” A soft moan was the only answer that told him she was still alive. He breathed a sigh of relief until he heard a wolf howl in the distance, a chilling cry that was answered by several other wolves in a ring around them.
“We’ve got to go, Mags. Stay with me, dear. I’ll have you home in no time.” Declan scooped her up, trying not to jostle her too much. Her whimper of pain was another relief; it meant she could still feel the hurt. “Stay with me Mags.”
Declan fought his way back up the hill with her nestled in his arms, struggling to keep his balance as he held her as still as he could. When he finally reached the top, he hooked her bag with one hand and carried her to his horse. With some great effort, he managed to rest her on top of the animal’s back in a way that supported her head but would keep her mostly upright. He started for home, leading the horse by the reins while keeping an eye on Margaret.
The walk took even longer than he could have imagined, considering the pace they kept to, and more than once he was glad of the moonlight shining overhead. It lit the cart path well enough that he only stumbled once or twice, and his horse’s night vision kept her from faltering at all. They walked on through the darkness, keeping a snail’s pace as the night sounds around him kept Declan plenty alert.
It was almost sun up by the time the Jacksons’ cabin came into view. Declan was half-dead on his feet but was determined to get Margaret safely to the cabin. He owed her that much. If she chose not to speak to him again that would be her decision to make, but it wouldn’t be because she’d been gravely injured and left for dead.
“Mr. O’Bryan! Oh my god, you’ve found her! Ned! Hurry, come quick!” Clara called out in a rush as she ran across the field to meet them. She stopped beside the animal and felt for Margaret’s pulse, then nodded gravely. “Take her inside and put her in the bed. I’ll tend to the horse and meet you inside. Tell Ned to put on the kettle to boil, and fetch some linens from the line. Start cutting ‘em up into strips to bind her wounds!”
Clara led the horse to the barn to eat and drink from the water trough while Declan did as he was told. Ned met him at the door and followed the instructions Clara had given him, but decided he’d be better suited to caring for a tired animal than a deathly-ill girl.
“Here, Mr. O’Bryan. Take these shears and start cutting,” Clara said, handing him her sewing scissors and one of her best sheets. “Go on, take it. Bed sheets can be replaced, beautiful girls can’t.”
He did as he was told, alternating between Margaret’s face and watching Clara assemble her tools to care for her. He understood the hot water and the linens, but when Clara went for her sewing basket and began to heat a needle in the flame of the oil lamp, he felt his stomach start to churn.
“’Tis so bad as all that? She needs stitching, ya think?” he demanded in a fearful voice.
“She might, it’ll depend on whether or not the bleeding starts up again when I wash it. I can’t see how deep it runs until I get the dried blood out of the way.” Clara got up and grabbed the jar of soap from the shelf to clean Margaret’s wounds but she stopped when she took the lid off the jar. She smiled weakly before shuddering with a silent sob. “She was so pleased with this soap. She said it smelled good.”
Clara shook off the memory and got to work washing the cut on Margaret’s head. She dabbed at the cut, pleased to see that it wasn’t as deep as she’d initially feared. After, she tenderly pressed her fingertips to the lump forming above Margaret’s shoulder.
“It’s just as I feared, this bone’s broken. We’ll bind it when she can sit up. Take off her shoes please, Mr. O’Bryan. Be mindful of any swelling.”
Declan once again obeyed her orders like an obedient child. He started on the buttons that ran from the top of her high-edged shoes nearly to the toes, but with every button that he managed to open, the puffy skin beneath spilled forward from inside her torn stockings.
“You’re right, ma’am, this one’s swollen something awful. Do you think ‘tis broken, too?”
“Hmm, we can’t know yet, but I would wager not. It looks as though she twisted her ankle, which caused her to fall and hit her head. She might have tried to catch herself with her hands out, and that snapped her collarbone. The poor, poor girl… Where did you say you found her?”
Declan explained how he’d found her bag and then noticed her at the bottom of a small hill, and Clara shook her head sadly as he relayed it.
“Yes, that sounds even more likely then. Once she’s had a chance to rest and regain her strength, she might be able to tell us more. With this goose egg on her head though, it wouldn’t surprise me in the least if she doesn’t remember a thing.”
Clara finished washing and binding Margaret’s head, then bade Declan leave the room so she could finish washing her and dressing her in a comfortable gown. She sent him off with instructions to find Ned and have him put a beef bone on to boil down for the soup she’d make, reminding Declan to dig up some potatoes and carrots to go in it.
Declan found Ned on the front porch, sitting on the bench beside Clara’s half-finished rocking chair and staring out at the landscape in front of his cabin. He didn’t look up when Declan came out, and it was a long time before either of them spoke.
“I don’t blame you… not entirely, at least,” Ned said without turning to look at him. “I did give you my advice without your asking, but I only wanted to warn you. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”
“You did naw do anything wrong, Ned. You were only trying to protect me. ‘Tis my fault for not seeing what was right before me. I knew the moment I saw her step off the train that I wanted her to marry me, but I did naw say anything for fear of looking too headstrong, too much like someone who didn’t have a good head on his shoulders. I wanted her to get to know me and choose to marry me, not just marry me because she had to or something silly like that.
“Instead, I chased her away without even trying to. She did tell me she wanted to marry me, but I was so taken by surprise and so happy that I did naw have the right words to say. When she ran, I did naw chase after her, and I still have no fathom as to why.”
Ned gestured to the bench and Declan sat, letting his head fall back against the outer wall of the cabin. He closed his eyes and tried hard not to see her pale, blood soaked face in his mind, but he couldn’t erase the memory yet. It felt like he would see it every time he closed his eyes for the rest of his life.
“Let me get started on those things Clara needs,” Ned said wearily, standing up and stretching out his back. “The sooner we can get this girl well, the sooner you can beg her to forgive you, even if she’ll never speak to you again. It’s the least you can do, that and driving her to the train in a proper carriage.”
Declan didn’t answer, and as Ned walked away and the porch was quiet again, he finally succumbed to the lack of sleep and the long walk leading his horse back home. He dozed fitfully with his head resting against the cabin, but even sitting up on the rough-hewn bench he slept soundly, so soundly that he couldn’t shake off the dreams.
He dreamed all manner of outcomes in the long time that he slept. He dreamed once that Clara was unable to help Margaret get well, that Margaret died and haunted his farmhouse. Later on he dreamed that she did recover only to hate him for the rest of her days. That last dream was actually the scariest of them all, and it caused him to wake with a start. He blinked at the bright light of a mid-morning sun shining directly on his face.
“Mr. O’Bryan!” Clara called out as he sat up, rubbing his eyes. “Mr. O’Bryan, come here
!”
Declan heard the urgency in her voice and hurried inside to find Clara standing in the doorway to the bedroom where Margaret lay. He searched her face for any hint that something was wrong or that Margaret had taken a turn for the worse, but instead she had her lips pressed together in a thin white line.
“She’s awake now, and asking for you,” Clara said in a threatening voice as he came closer. “So help me, you say one word that makes her start crying, and they won’t ever find your body. I’ll cut you up and feed you to my pigs, then tell the whole town that you ran off with the gypsies.”
Declan turned a ghostly white as the color drained from his face. This was a side of his friend’s wife he’d never seen before, but even he couldn’t say that he didn’t deserve it. He sidestepped around her to keep from turning his back on her, then walked through the bedroom door. He stopped when he saw Margaret with a small pile of pillows behind her head, looking more frail than any other human he’d ever seen.
“Margaret…” he breathed, taking only one step closer. “You’re… you’re looking well.”
“Am I?” she asked, scoffing. “I do naw feel like I look all that well. I ache everywhere. But Mrs. Jackson told me how you went looking for me, how you found me and brought me back. I’m beholden to you. So, thank you.”
“You do naw have to thank me, I did nothing. Well, except for causing you to run off in the first place. ‘Tis my fault you were out there, so ‘tis my fault you fell. I’m so sorry,” he said, coming closer until he sat on the low stool that Clara had kept by Margaret’s bedside.
Instead of answering, Margaret turned away as though she was refusing to look at him. It was just as he’d feared, even as he’d dreamed it. She would never forgive him, he could tell.
“Margaret,” he began again, “I mean it. I’m so truly sorry. I’m the cause of your hurts. I was so surprised when you told me you’d marry me. You, someone who’s so beautiful and pleasant, had just agreed to marry me. I could naw believe my own ears, and I did naw answer you. I’m a fool for it, I am. I wanted to marry you so much but was too stubborn to come out and say it, then to have you come out and say it… I was speechless, that’s all.”
“Is it then? Or is it only because you feel guilty at what’s befallen me?” she asked bitterly. There was rejection in her voice, not just her rejection of him but in her acknowledgement that he was the one who had turned his back on her.
“That’s naw it at all! I promise!” he cried. “I do naw know how to make you believe me, but I promise you this. I will naw give up until you do. I’ll stand right outside your window and make you see that I honestly want to marry you. If you leave on the train, I’ll have to ride my horse right alongside it so you can see that I’m serious. Of course, that horse will die and ‘twill be your fault, but never you mind, I’ll find another horse and then another and then another…”
“Stop it!” Margaret said, trying not to laugh but failing. She wanted to be angry but even she could see how genuine he was. “I can naw be responsible for the deaths of so many magnificent horses!”
“Well then, the only way to spare their lives is to tell me that there’s still a hope that you’ll marry me. You don’t have to answer me now, but just tell me that I can hope. Just give me your permission to hope for that.”
“I do,” she whispered softly. “I don’t know when I’ll be well again, but now is as good a time as any to begin courting the way you’d thought to.”
“Oh no! I have no need of courtship, I know I want to marry you! As you said to me, I’ll marry you right now if ‘tis what you want!” Declan said firmly, but he softened his tone when a new thought struck him. “But if you wish for a real courting, I understand. You must think you can naw really know me after all that I’ve done. And you’re right, we’ll take our time getting to know each other.”
He stuck out his hand and Margaret looked at it for a moment before realizing he meant to introduce himself. She smiled lightly and shook his hand.
“Good morning, miss. The name’s Declan O’Bryan, and it’s wonderful to meet you. So wonderful, in fact, that I shall now count this as perhaps the best day of my life so far.”
“And good morning to you, too,” she answered with a soft giggle. “I’m Margaret McGreggor, and I’d like it very much if you would call me Mags.”
Chapter Twelve
