by Connie Lacy
“Why?” she said.
“We’re trying to help you,” I whispered.
“You would help by taking my land?”
“We don’t really want your land. We want you to have it.”
The expression on her face made it clear she considered me a fool.
But before she could say another word, there was a shout and a thud from inside the house. I took off running, Amadahy trailing behind me. When I burst through the door, I saw Jonah standing over Eric, who was lying face down on the floor.
10
I screamed and rushed forward. But as I reached Eric’s limp body, Jonah grabbed me. Betsey began to cry as Amadahy pleaded with him to let me go. He ignored her, man-handling me out the door and across the yard to the smokehouse. Once inside, he tied my hands behind me before shoving me onto the dirt floor. He left me there, locking the door behind him.
“Oh, Eric!” I cried. “Please don’t be dead. You can’t be dead!”
A tidal wave of guilt swept over me. I’d been only too happy to accept his offer of help, too quick to jump on his random comment about gold, never imagining in a million years that our plan would veer so horribly out of control. How naïve we’d been. Jonah was a dangerous man.
The dark shed reeked of smoked meat. And for a second, I imagined hanging from one of the meat hooks above me.
A man’s voice outside startled me. I squirmed, trying to sit up, dreading what Jonah might do to me.
Twisting around as the door flew open, I watched him unceremoniously dump Eric’s body beside the fire pit in the center of the small enclosure. He hurried out, locking the door again.
It took a moment, but through my tears I realized Eric’s hands were tied behind his back. Why would Jonah shackle a dead man?
I scooted closer on my butt.
“Eric?” I whispered. “Eric?”
Because my hands were bound, I couldn’t turn him over to see his face. Dragging myself around to the other side, I leaned close so I could feel his breath on my cheek. Thank God, he was breathing. His eyes were closed. No marks on his face. I scooted along the dirt floor until I could see the back of his head. There was dried blood in his hair. Jonah had attacked him from behind, knocking him unconscious.
His head needed cleaning, but, looking around the shed, I could see there was no water. Even if there had been, I couldn’t use my hands.
“Eric? Can you hear me?” I gently kissed the side of his face.
Voices in the distance caused my muscles to tense. It infuriated me that we were so vulnerable. So helpless. The door rattled and I held my breath as Amadahy appeared, a bowl and a rag in her hand, little Betsey on her back.
She squatted beside Eric. When she set the bowl down, I could see it was half full of water. Without a word, she dipped the clean rag in the water, wringing it out before carefully washing the gash on his head. She repeated the procedure several times.
“Please help us,” I said.
She got to her feet, fatigue showing in the way she moved.
“I will return.” She locked the door on her way out.
Sitting on the hard dirt in that dark, smelly shed, panic skittered just beneath the surface of my skin, like prickles of electricity that might short out my wiring at any moment. It was all my fault. For some reason, I’d considered myself immune to the danger in Amadahy’s world. Even after Jonah slapped me and chased me to the river. I always thought I could escape through the time portal. How foolish I’d been.
Amadahy entered, the baby observing us over her mother’s shoulder. She carried a gourd of water with an earthy odor. Kneeling beside him, she proceeded to dip a small cloth in the gourd and dab Eric’s lips over and over.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Cherokee medicine.”
At length, he licked his lips as she applied the concoction to his mouth. After several minutes, he moaned softly.
“Eric?” I said.
Grooves appeared between his brows like he was in pain while Amadahy continued touching the wet cloth to his lips.
I spoke to him again. “Wake up, Eric.”
He slowly opened his eyes.
“Dark,” he whispered.
“We’re in the smokehouse,” I explained.
“He’s gonna smoke us and eat us?” he said, his voice weak.
Which told me he would be all right.
Amadahy rose to leave.
“Can’t you untie us?” I pleaded.
“Hell, no, she can’t untie you!” Jonah barged in holding the bottle of whiskey we’d given him in one hand and a rifle in the other. “She’s going into town.” He called after her as she walked out of the shed, “Don’t dilly-dally neither!”
Then he nudged Eric with the toe of his shoe before examining the whiskey.
“Never seen a square bottle,” he said. He sniffed it before taking a sip, then smacked his lips.
“What kind of whiskey?” he said.
“Jack Daniel’s,” I replied, remembering from Amadahy’s journal that he was illiterate.
He took another swig and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, holding the weapon in the crook of his arm. “Mighty nice of you.”
If I’d been desperate before, the sight of that long barrel nudged me close to despair.
“Appreciate you bringing me them gold nuggets,” he continued.
He raised the bottle again, taking a big gulp, then wheezed loudly with satisfaction.
“You know what I paid for this here land?” he said. “Not one penny. Inherited it from my dead brother. He bought it from the man who got it in the land lottery of 1832, once the Injuns was told they couldn’t live here no more.” He took a moment for another drink, then slowly sat down on the floor, leaning against the wall, holding the bottle in one hand and laying the gun across his lap.
“When the sun goes down, I got a woman to lay in my bed. And one day soon, she’s gonna give me some sons to raise up. I can go to town anytime I want, have me some fun. Don’t lack for much. Why would I traipse way out yonder, work myself to death panning for gold?”
He let loose with a big guffaw like the joke was on us. Which, unfortunately, was true.
After taking another drink, he continued gloating, a gleam in his eyes.
“I ain’t ignorant. I know for a fact some folks don’t never strike it rich.” His eyes bugged out as he focused his attention on Eric. “What would I do with a bunch of money anyways? Already got me this here musket. Granpaw brought it home from the war. Still shoots good.” He waved it around, giving me a fright. “Got me a horse, food to eat. Got me a hard-working woman, even if she walks like a lopsided hen.”
He held the bottle up toward the light streaming in through the open door, then took a hefty swallow.
“Damn, this is good.” He squeezed his eyes shut for a few seconds as the liquor slid down his throat. “So you see, offering me them gold nuggets was a waste of your time. But not a waste of mine. ‘Cause them gold pieces is gonna come in right handy. I done hid ‘em where nobody can find ‘em.”
“Mr. Barnes,” I said. “Can you please untie us and let us go?”
“Let you go?”
“Yes, we’d really like to go home.”
“Now, Miz Murray, why would I wanna do that? So you can go find the sheriff and tell him I robbed you?”
“The gold pieces are yours.” Eric winced like it caused him pain to speak.
Jonah nodded so unsteadily, he looked like a bobblehead doll. Then he opened his mouth to speak, but hoisted the whiskey bottle to his lips again, gulping loudly. Then he ran his tongue over his rotten teeth.
“You know where I sent my squaw? Into town to fetch my friend Johnny.” He let that bit of news sink in. “Johnny needs a woman for his whorehouse.” He sniggered and took another taste.
“You’ve gotta be kidding,” I said.
“Do I look like someone who wastes time on tomfoolery? As for you,” he said, looking at Eric, “don’t think
Johnny’s got any use for you.”
I realized I was chewing my lower lip and forced myself to stop.
“Mr. Barnes,” Eric said, “seems like those gold pieces would be enough to pay for our freedom. We promise not to go to the sheriff. He wouldn’t believe us anyway.”
Jonah scratched his armpit and took another drink. He set the bottle between his legs splayed out in front of him, moving the rifle to the ground beside him. Then he rested his head against the wall.
“We gonna wait on ole Johnny.” His words slurred as his eyelids drooped.
Eric and I didn’t move a muscle as we watched him drift off to sleep, his right hand resting on the gun. I had no doubt he’d pull the trigger if he heard so much as a peep out of us. We waited a few minutes until his breathing turned to quiet snores.
“I sure could use a drink,” Eric said, keeping his voice low.
I held my breath, waiting for Jonah to respond, realizing Eric was raising a trial balloon. But the snoring continued. And his grip on the weapon relaxed.
Eric shifted his body and sat up slowly like he had a severe headache.
“If he wakes up, drop to the ground fast,” he whispered.
We both wriggled about, slowly getting our feet beneath us. When we were finally in a squatting position, trying our best to keep our balance with our hands tied behind us, I gave him a look to signal I was ready and we both struggled to stand up. He lost his balance but steadied himself as he came fully upright. We tip-toed toward the door, hoping against hope that Jonah wouldn’t wake up.
Halfway through the doorway, there was a snort behind us. We jerked our heads around, fully expecting to be staring down the long barrel of his rifle, but Jonah only smacked his lips, eyes closed, his head lolling to the side.
We made a break for it then, bolting across the yard as fast as we could go with our hands bound behind us, me leading the way to the small back door of the hut. Once we reached the fig bush, I faced away from the bush so I could get my hands on the figs.
“You guide me,” I whispered.
He told me to move my hands farther to the left, then a little lower, until I wrapped my fingers around a fig. I plucked it carefully from the branch.
“Okay,” I said, “you bend over and put it between your teeth.”
He leaned over behind me, taking the fig into his mouth. But as he bit down, we were jarred by an unmistakable bellowing.
“Inside the hut,” I whispered, struggling to open the narrow door.
Eric stepped inside close behind me, still holding the fig between his teeth, terror in his eyes.
“Put your mouth on mine,” I said. “Hold tight to the fig with your teeth. I’m going to bite off half of it.”
If someone had walked in at that moment, he would’ve thought we were playing a kissing game with our hands tied behind our backs. But this was no game. It was a matter of life and death.
I put my lips on his and carefully sank my teeth into the fig as he gripped it tightly with his incisors. When I had half of it in my mouth, I gestured at the back door. We heard footfalls and Jonah’s voice yelling behind us in a drunken rage as I led the way, chewing the fig as I stepped through the doorway.
“You ain’t…”
But his voice was silenced as I lost my balance and fell to the ground. I held my breath, waiting. Three seconds later Eric materialized out of thin air, landing on top of me with a groan. From where we lay, the hut no longer existed.
“He shot me,” he mumbled.
As gently as possible, I used my body to roll him off of me.
“Where?” I said.
“My back.”
Raising myself above him, I scanned his shirt. There, on the right side about halfway up his back, was a splattering of blood.
I lay down behind him so we were back to back. As quickly as I could, I worked to untie the rope binding his wrists. It took what seemed like forever. Then I moved around in front of him with my hands behind me.
“Use your hands to untie me,” I said.
He didn’t move.
“You’ve got to do it before you pass out.”
He was able to slowly draw his arms to the front so he could work on the rope binding my wrists. It took several minutes, but I finally felt the knot loosen. I sat up and twisted around, alarmed by the pallor of his face.
11
First, I retrieved my phone from the backpack I’d left by a tree. Then I took off my long skirt and ripped a strip of cloth from it. Balling it up, I pressed it against the wound, trying to stanch the flow of blood. Maintaining pressure with my left hand, I called 911 with my right, directing them to my grandmother’s cottage. Then I called Jeannette, giving her a heads-up about what happened – leaving out some crucial details – and asked her to escort the rescue crew to the river.
I maintained pressure on Eric’s wound for what seemed an eternity. I thought he’d drifted off to sleep, so I was surprised when he spoke.
“Hiking,” he said, his voice alarmingly weak.
“Right.”
A short time later two Emergency Medical Technicians arrived carrying a stretcher as they followed Jeannette down the path. Nana was close behind them, her face knotted with worry.
The EMTs knew what they were doing, quickly lifting Eric onto the stretcher, starting an IV and hurrying back the way they came. Jeannette led the way. Nana and I trailed behind.
“Did that horrible man shoot him?” she asked.
Nothing like getting right to the point. At least she waited until we were far enough behind that nobody would hear. I debated what to say, fearing she’d tell Jeannette or my mom.
“I didn’t see who shot him.”
She gave me a skeptical look.
“Is he your boyfriend?” she said.
“I guess you could call him that.”
“You guess?”
I shrugged.
“Tell me about him,” she said.
Boy, did I not want to talk. And there was a part of me that almost told her so. But she was my sweet Nana.
“His name is Eric Murray.”
“I knew a Murray when I was a little girl. Can’t remember his first name.”
“He’s an Associate Professor at UGA.”
“Well, well. What department?”
“History.” I didn’t tell her what his specialty was. That would’ve led to a conversation I didn’t want to have.
Nana chatted about one thing or another the whole way back to the house. It dawned on me as I climbed into my car that she was trying to keep my mind off the worst-case scenario. Which hit me hard me once I was alone. I broke the speed limit all the way to Athens.
When I arrived at the hospital, I checked in at the desk, then settled into the ER waiting room. It was then I noticed why my feet were killing me. I was still wearing Amadahy’s lace-up boots, which were about a size too small.
I was surrounded by a motley collection of humanity, from the skinny, middle-aged woman with full-sleeve tattoos sitting across from me, to the preppy college kid in plaid shorts with a hematoma on his forehead the size of a plum. But I wasn’t interested in their misery. Just my own.
Resting my head on the back of the chair, I braced myself for bad news. My nerves were frazzled. It was all my fault. Eric would never have been shot if it weren’t for me.
While the tattooed lady suffered a coughing fit, the man at the check-in desk called my name. Knowing surgery should take a while, it was with shaky legs that I headed in his direction. I definitely shouldn’t be summoned this quickly unless… but I couldn’t go there.
He had no news to share, instead giving me directions to a room where I found Eric lying on his back, eyes closed. He was alive – that much was obvious. He was hooked up to an IV and had a cannula in his nose giving him extra oxygen. I moved to the bedside, standing helplessly beside him, afraid to touch him or say a word.
A woman doctor in blue scrubs breezed into the room.
“I’m Doctor
Rao. Are you his wife?”
“We’re not married.”
“But you were with him when he was shot?”
“Yes. Is he…”
“He’s all right. No surgery needed. There’s no bullet.”
I couldn’t hide my confusion.
“Dr. Murray,” she said, taking his wrist in her hand. “Can you wake up?”
Eric’s eyes opened as though she were a hypnotist who’d counted to three and clapped her hands.
“Dr. Murray, how are you feeling?” she said, her voice a little louder than necessary.
He nodded in slow motion.
““You’re going to be fine,” she said. “You didn’t need surgery because there’s no bullet inside you. There’s what appears to be a bullet hole on your back. But it’s only about an inch deep.”
“What?” he said.
“I’ve seen a lot of gunshot wounds,” she said. “But I’ve never seen one like this. It’s like the bullet started into your back and then said ‘nope, not going in there!’” She chuckled at her little joke before continuing. “Is there any chance you were injured with some other type of weapon?”
“There was a gunshot,” Eric said.
“Hm. Well, we cleaned the wound and stitched you up. You’ll need to have the stitches removed in about ten days or so. We also found a small gash on the back of your head.”
“Must’ve happened when I fell,” he replied, impressing me with his quick thinking.
“Have you had a tetanus shot recently?”
“Don’t know if I’ve ever had one.”
“I’ll order one for you.”
She paused briefly at the door. “Oh, the police will be here soon to ask a few questions.”
“The police?” he said.
“Anytime we get a gunshot wound, we’re required to report it to the police. I’ll stop by when the officers get here.”
He asked for water as she left. I retrieved a cup from the nightstand and helped him drink.
He swallowed, looking disconcerted. “We were…”
“… hiking in the woods. I know.”
