In Sarah's Shadow
by Harris Channing
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Copyright 2012 Harris Channing
In Sarah's Shadow
by
Harris Channing
Chapter 1
Colorado, 1872
There was a sudden howling of the wind. It raked across his deadened nerves and had him covering his ears. Damn the wilderness and her trickery, for didn't the howling sound like that of a lost soul crying out for redemption?
He shuddered and forced himself to calm. Slumping back in his chair, he glowered at his surroundings. It had been a long time since he had set foot into the cabin and used the luxuries the place provided for her. "Luxuries, indeed," he mumbled, taking a swallow of weak coffee.
Even now, he could almost smell her perfume and sense the warmth of her presence. Despite the dust and cobwebs in the murky blackness of dusk, he could see in vivid color the way she flounced around the place, so young, so beautiful, so full of dreams.
"It's a lonely place, David, but we can fill it with life. I want flowerboxes alive with whatever flowers we can find and I can stencil the walls. Mrs. Barber did that in her home and it looked divine. It'll be a grand little home, you'll see."
Home. He almost laughed at the irony. For looking through the glasses of time, this place was hardly a home. You're safe at home, comfortable, secure. No, this was not her home. It was her tomb.
With a sigh, he pulled a half-smoked cigar from his pocket and lit it from the stub of a candle that struggled against the oncoming dark. He only had a handful of the 'smelly instruments of torture' left. He fought tears at the memory of her shooing him onto the front porch to smoke.
And with the memories came a new surge of guilt. Her death, he once again reminded himself, was a stain on his soul that could never be erased. For his determination to keep her to himself had been the reason for his choice of locale. Why hadn't he stayed in Tennessee? Why had he stolen her away to this desolate place? Damn his soul to hell. He was a selfish bastard.
Setting his gloved hand to the window, he wiped a small circle clean and gazed out into the snowy evening. Huge flakes flew by on Mother Nature's icy breath. Again the wind screamed and again his mind sped to the past.
Did she scream as sharply when they came and took her life? Did she suffer? Did she call for him?
More guilt piled atop the already mountainous slopes.
But when he found her, broken and bleeding, he hadn't cried. No. His heart had grown cold, his soul black, his thoughts bitter. He became the soldier he had been and with a ruthlessness that belied his usually genteel manner, he tracked the evil that invaded his home and with the blade of his knife, ended their miserable lives. And from the deep pit in which he had fallen, he had yet to climb free, content to stay there and wallow in his misery.
He leaned over and rummaged through his filthy canvas bag. Locating the flask, he doctored his coffee with Henry's latest batch of rotgut. The chill in the room eased when he took a long swallow. The fire was going out, but the liquid burned and he didn't care. Staring at the fireplace, he watched the embers slowly fading, but his eyes were growing tired and maybe if he let the flames die, he would finally sleep and wake up in Sarah's loving embrace.
***
She screamed, oh how she screamed. The snow blinded, the wind bit and the world around her disoriented. If she didn't have the advantage of gravity, she wouldn't know what was up and what was down. Swirling flakes battered her cold deadened flesh and each drift she conquered with her struggling steps was met with yet another freezing mound. Dear Lord, how was she supposed to survive this?
Her dark hair blew, sticking to wet flesh and adding to her discomfort. Every bit of her was beyond cold and despite the woolen scarf that covered much of her face, she could no longer feel her cheeks, lips or nose. She could taste the blood from her split lip, but that was all. Everything, everything was so cold that nothing ached except the fear that pinched her gut. Fear that she would die in the wilderness and become some scavenger's next meal.
"Mother! Father! Robert! Where are you?" she called their names as she had upon first awakening to find them gone. Had they not come looking for her before leaving? Had they thought her dead?
She had slipped upon a smooth rock while trying to get water from the frozen creek. Bumped her head and blacked out only to awaken some time later under a blanket of fresh October snow. Her head aching, her forehead creased by an ugly gash.
How could they so heartlessly leave her there beneath that canopy of scraggly pines? If her tears hadn't been frozen, she would have shed an ocean, but instead, she walked on, pushing her way forward, but to where? There was nothing beyond the darkness except more darkness. And yet she continued. By God she would expel her last breath in her fight to survive.
Her heart suddenly surged from its icy depths. Was that a light? Was she heading toward Heaven's gate or did a small rectangle of light beckon her to continue? Either way she would happily go.
She pressed onward and hope sparked anew. Yes! It was a window.
"Please God!'" she shrieked. "Please, you must help me!"
***
His eyes flew open at the shrill, panicky sound that the wind offered. It almost sounded human. He pulled off his woolen cap and raked his fingers through his matted hair. He stared at the now empty flask. What had Henry put into the brew? Whatever it was had him hearing things.
"Please, help me!"
An ungodly chill raced through his body. Had Sarah come to take him with her? He welcomed death, for living had become unbearable. Rising from his chair, he waited, straining to hear the call, the call that would lead him home. If he heard it again, he would stumble out into the cold and lie down atop the snowy earth.
At the sound of banging upon the wooden door, he leapt forward and pulled it open, ready to see her, to welcome her.
The sight before him had him recoiling. There she was, dressed in rags, frozen blood leaching through a yellow scarf. Her hair hung in icicle laden strands. She lifted her eyes and his heart sank. It wasn't a snow angel, but a human.
Gray, bloodshot eyes, not loving brown eyes, pleaded with him. "Let me in…p-please. I'm dying."
He stared at the creature, his disappointment giving way to his duty. Pulling her inside, she fell into his body, leaning hard against him. She was alive and yet he'd never felt a live being that was so cold. Not one bit of warmth rose from her snow covered essence. He shoved the door shut, fighting the wind that pressed and fought to be allowed entrance.
She shivered against him, her arms remained at her side, and yet she clung to him without moving a muscle.
He knew he should say something, but no words came. How long had it been since he had spoken to anyone but himself? Yes, he saw Henry from time to time, but he drank and Henry spoke.
"I-I'm scared to die. Please don't let me die." Again the gray eyes searched his face for answers. He had none. Death was something that came whether or not you were scared.
Pulling her further into the room, he brought her nearer the fire. Taking action, he grabbed the blanket from the bed, shaking out the dust before wrapping it around her narrow shoulders.
She stood stock still, her face cast forward, her eyes suddenly unmoving. She would go into shock if he weren't careful. Grabbing up his now lukewarm cup of coffee, he refreshed it from the po
t that warmed by the fire and laced it with whiskey before offering it to her. She didn't move, but looked at him.
"My hands. They don't work. Nothing works."
He set the cup down on the rugged makeshift mantle and slowly unwound the scarf from her face. He expected to see fiery red frostbite and feared she would lose her nose. To his surprise, a split lip seemed to be the worst damage done. In fact, his heart clenched at the youthful beauty before him. The large, honest eyes were but only part of the gloriousness that God had bestowed upon her. Her cheeks rosy with the cold, her nose pert and upturned, her lips…well once healed would be very suitable for kissing.
He stepped back. He hadn't seen a woman in the five years since Sarah's death. That was what attracted him. She could have been polecat ugly and his body would yearn for hers despite the fact that he would never be unfaithful to his wife.
He growled and took up the cup, bringing it to her. Her jaw trembled as she opened her mouth and allowed him to pour the liquid past her frozen lips. He carefully measured his pour and when she pulled back, she sputtered and coughed.
"What's in that? Is there whiskey in there?"
He ignored her protests. "Drink it. It will warm you."
"I-I've never had the drink."
"It won't hurt you in this minuscule amount." He brought the cup up again and despite the uncertainty in her eyes, she did as directed and gingerly took in more of the coffee.
A visible shiver raced across her body and he took the cup away. He cleared his throat. "You'll need to get out of those wet things." He pushed the blanket from her shoulders and reached for the top button of her ragged and tattered coat.
What the hell was she doing on the mountain, dressed for late spring? But he didn't ask, for he knew the answer. People never took the warnings seriously. Never believed how unbelievably fast a blizzard could rise up and whiten the world. Yes, it was only October, but sometimes winter came early. You always had to be ready because when it came, it overstayed its welcome.
He unfastened the top button and then another and she still just stood there, her eyes cast forward. She was a trusting soul, one that could be easily taken advantage of. Lucky for her she had found the only mountain man in Colorado who wouldn't ravage her, iced over or not.
***
She stood before the fire, wondering what Ma would think of a wild man undressing her? But the question went unanswered as Bobbie thought about her sweet, loving mother leaving her to die. No, she wouldn't believe it. Her family wouldn't leave her…something had happened to them, she felt it in her soul and yet her mind continued to search for a contrary answer.
Finally, tears came to her frozen eyes and slipped down her cheeks. Yet she wouldn't move, couldn't. Every bit of her felt stiff beneath her ice covered clothes. The coffee and whiskey warmed her insides but her extremities didn't tingle, they remained lifeless, even when she tried to open her fists, they remained clenched.
He pushed the coat to the floor and removed her cap. She looked up at him. He was a big man, burly and wide. She should be afraid of him. He was a terrible sight all hairy and dirty. He was verging on grotesque and yet she wasn't alarmed when he touched the tender spot on her forehead, his green eyes flashing with concern.
"How did this happen?"
The memory of colliding with the rock flashed through her fatigued mind. "I fell by a creek."
He nodded. "Well, it's a nasty cut and it's dirty."
"I'm dirty. I've not had a bath since we left Colorado Springs."
He blew out a breath, the stink of booze overwhelming. "Who were you traveling with?"
"My parents and my brother."
"Huh," he grumbled and proceeded to undo the buttons that held her blouse together.
"I'm dry there," she said, finally protesting as he reached her shift. Her coat and scarf were one thing, but her shirt? He would have her naked if she weren't careful!
He chuckled, but there was no humor in it. "No, you're not. You're soaked to the bone. You're just too damned numb to feel the wet." He cocked a brow and glared at her. "You will remain unmolested by me, I assure you. I'm not interested in you clothed or naked."
"I hardly believe that."
He lowered his face to level with hers. "You either get dry or you die. I'm not going to argue with you. You want to live?"
His tone was harsh, his gaze harsher. "Y-Yes."
"Then be still and hush."
His large hands quickly freed her from her bodice and he moved to her back to untie her skirts. His breath touched the nape of her neck and a shiver chased after the warmth. When her skirt fell into a puddle at her feet, her teeth chattered.
"No fear, girl. Your shift is dry enough." He removed her shoes and in one swift motion pulled her petticoats down. She gasped at not only the abruptness of his movement but the chilly air that whooshed over her nearly naked form. The man had obviously undressed women before, for there were no questions asked, and very little hesitation. Her modesty flared.
"Sir, I do fear," she protested through chattering teeth. "You are v-very bold."
He set the dry blanket back over her shoulders and coming face to face with her, wrapped her tight in the itchy plaid wool. "There's no time to be a silly little virgin, girl. I intend to keep you alive and intact."
Dear God, she didn't like that sound of that. And even though she knew his meaning, she needed to hear him say the dastardly words. "Intact?"
"Yes. Frostbite has some folks losing fingers and toes like lepers."
He lifted her unyielding body into his arms, cradling her in his embrace. She feared his words, but why was it, she didn't fear him? Why? He was absolutely a fright to look at, like a big, hairy troll from the children’s books Ma used to read.
"Frostbite?"
"Yes, I have some salve but mostly we need to get you warm." He set her gently upon the bed and covered her with two more blankets. Despite the heaviness of the quilts she was still beyond cold. Would she ever feel warm again?
She rolled to her side and curled into a tight ball, fighting the sting of tears. The straw mattress poked at her hip, but it still felt wonderful to lie down in a real bed. A chill raced over her sluggish flesh and had her shivering. Looking to the man, she watched him stoke the fire and hang a kettle of water to boil.
He leaned against the wall beside the fireplace, staring in the direction of the fire, his dark hair shining in the orange glow. She supposed to most he'd look like a demon straight from hell, but in the bright light, she saw glimpses of the man hidden by the grunge and hair. He would be perfectly presentable clean and shaved, maybe even handsome, but she wasn't quite ready to make the assumption. But his eyes, that's what she liked about him. For despite the deep down sadness that lived within them, there was a kindness, too.
As he started toward her with a pan of steaming water, she quickly averted her gaze.
"Your gloves did little to protect your hands." He set the pan on the floor before aiding her into a seated position. Carefully, he propped her up against the rough-hewn headboard, cushioning her with pillows and a patient hand.
Settling beside her, he placed the pot on her lap. "Girl, I want you to soak your hands."
"I'd rather n-not." Damnation but the chill never ceased to go away, her jaw still bounced and her lips tingled. "I know it's going to burn."
"Burn? It's going to be excruciating when the warmth gets to the nerves." He brushed her hair from her face. "But you have to do it, you understand? You don't want to lose your hands."
"Lose them?"
He lifted the blanket and taking her by the wrist, exposed her fingers to the light. They were blood red and swollen. He was right, they were a terrible sight, but they didn't hurt.
"Can you move your fingers at all?"
She tried, but her effort offered only the slightest motion. Fresh tears stung her eyes. "I have no choice, d-do I?"
"You can keep them under the blanket, but that may or may not work." He gave her wrist a
gentle squeeze. "This water is not very warm. I'll gradually add warmer and warmer water to it and once you've gotten some movement back, we'll wrap your hands and hope for the best."
"And the salve?" she asked, praying he had some sort of miracle cure in mind.
"That'll be for later when you blister and the blisters turn black."
Her thoughts sped to a future with no fingers, no hands. How would she cope? Do simple things like button a button or tie on her bonnet. "Is it that grim?" she asked, her voice hitching in her throat.
He shrugged his broad shoulders. "I hope not, but why not do what you can."
She nodded and closing her eyes, lowered both of her hands into the heavy, cast iron pot.
At first, she felt no change, but slowly her fingers began to tingle. With each drop of hot water he added to the pot, the more the burn increased. Yet she kept her hands still, determined to do whatever she could to keep every single finger. But it was an agonizing venture, one that had her writhing and fighting to keep her hands submerged.
With the pot filled up to her wrists, he sat by her side, stoic and silent. The only noise in the cabin was the occasional pop of the fire that mingled with her miserable sobs.
"How long must I do this?" she asked, desperate for some notion as to when she could end her despair.
He leaned over the pot, his neck bent, his dark curls cascading over his shoulders. Pulling her hands free of the water he looked up at her, his gaze softening.
"You did really well, girl. Can you bend them?"
She swallowed her tears and made a loose fist. Relief flooded through her. "Yes."
"Good, you got a name?"
She sniffled. "Of course I do. What sort of question is that?"
He stared at her expectantly and when she didn't answer he scowled and blew out an impatient breath. "Well girl, what is it then?"
A small laugh popped from her mouth, her split lip protesting the sudden movement. She could taste the fresh blood on her tongue. "Bobbie."
He stared at her a moment. "Your father mistake you for a boy?"
Harris Channing Page 1
