Melly, Unyielding (Lockets And Lace Book 4)

by Abagail Eldan

  “I don’t like leaving at this time of year, with winter coming. Pickings are slim. But what’s done is done. That nosey fellow done run us off.” He ate in silence for a few more minutes. “Well, I reckon you’re right.”

  Her head shot up. Tentatively, she spoke. “Right?”

  “You’re right as rain. We don’t have enough supplies. We’re almost out of flour and coffee. I’d planned to travel to the outpost and pick up supplies next week.”

  Yes, that had been what she was going to say before he’d cut her off. “We’re low on salt, too,” she said, quietly.

  He nodded. “Make a list. I don’t reckon that fella will make it far, not with a lame horse. I should have time to get supplies. We’ll pack when I get back.”

  “You think he’ll follow us?”

  “Don’t know. Even if he ain’t a lawman, he’s got the wind up. He’ll go blabbing to someone.” His eyes narrowed, and he frowned at her as if it was all her fault. Maybe it was, hiding that dog from Oba.

  But if he had spoken kinder to the stranger, then the man probably wouldn’t tell anyone about them. Maybe their way of living wasn’t a common occurrence, but it wasn’t unheard of.

  He pushed back from the table. “Get the kitchen cleaned up. I’ve got some traps I need to go see about. Don’t want to leave them behind.”

  He walked to the door and grabbed his hat off the peg. “Don’t know why that fella had to show up now, right when we got good and settled.”

  She rose to do his bidding, gathering the dirty dishes. “Where will we go?”

  “I don’t know yet. No need to worry. Boyd and them have lots of places. Melly, I’ll look after you, with or without Boyd.”

  “Do you know where Boyd is?” She paused, his plate in her hand. Her heart thumped loudly with fear. Boyd’s clammy hands and foul breath were disgusting. She tried to steer clear of him when he came their way.

  “Don’t worry. I have ways to find him.”

  She sighed heavily. That was what she was afraid of.

  “And Melly?”

  “Yes?” She had her back to him. She scraped the scraps into the slop bucket to haul out later. He didn’t speak until she turned to face him.

  His gaze sought hers, piercing, searching. “If that cowboy comes back while I’m gone ...” He pulled his hat onto his head and patted his gun. “Reckon I’ll have to hunt him down and kill him.”

  Chapter Three

  Thatcher puzzled over his encounter with the old man — no, not old, but middle-age. No doubt the man would have blown a hole in his chest at the slightest provocation. After Thatcher explained that he found the cabin because of the gunshot, the man had lowered the pistol, and frowned at him. Thatcher had not tarried, although he had not gone far.

  Couldn’t have if he’d wanted to. With Johnny Bell’s limp, making camp became his priority. He found a creek nearby and followed it downstream for quarter of a mile or so, and then removed his horse’s saddle.

  The day had been warm for late fall. He settled down with his back against a tree, with his rifle by his side. He’d never seen trees like this, with such a thick canopy only small patches of blue shown through. Gloomy, if you asked him. He stretched.

  If Johnny Bell didn’t improve soon, he’d have to figure out something. He turned over the options in his mind. He could go back east, but the nearest town in that direction, as far as he knew, was miles away. It would take days to get back to the last little community he’d traveled by. He’d not bothered to stop, knowing Berren might have men posted there. He had no idea what lay to the west. Surely, these woods ended at some point, and he’d find people. He only hoped it wasn’t a pack of wild Indians.

  He cursed himself again for not paying attention. Heck, he didn’t even know what state or territory he was in. Well, at least he had pemmican in his saddlebags, enough to last a couple of weeks. He could bide his time here and find out what was going on with the man and woman.

  He rubbed his chin. Maybe he was here for that reason. His faith in God had been shaken with Isabella’s death and the carnage of the Civil War, but he’d seen enough miraculous events to offset the doubts. God had carried him alive, unscathed, to this point, and if that wasn’t God’s providence, he didn’t know what was. To believe God needed him for a purpose kept him going. He’d thought his purpose was to bring that scumbag Berren to justice.

  Somehow, though, what he’d glimpsed made him long to help the woman, if she needed help. Why should he get involved in a family’s trouble, trouble between a husband and wife? But she appeared to be young, too young to be his wife. And he didn’t understand why a young, attractive woman would be married to that man.

  He removed his hat to rake his hair back. He did not do right by Isabella, and her memory was a heavy burden to carry.

  And the thing was, he’d not wanted to go to war. Sure, he had to answer the call to arms, even if he hadn’t wanted to. His kinfolk and friends had not wanted to fight, either, even though they were told it was for state rights, to keep the northern folks out of their business.

  The thing was, that in south Alabama, folks were poor. Mostly, folks lived in one-room shacks, not that much different than the one he’d just seen. They survived mainly on wildlife, abundant down south, and every family he knew hunted either coon, squirrel, deer, even possum. They made a meal off most any kind of meat.

  Most folks did clear off some land and grow enough fresh vegetables to live on, enough to put aside for winter, plus they usually owned a few cows, a couple of pigs, and chickens. But that was about it. No one felt poor because they were equally poor, or rich, depending on how you looked at it.

  Rich ... the country. He settled the hat back on his head and closed his eyes. Nowhere could compare to the beauty of his home. God had dipped his paintbrush deeply and freely to create the flowing rivers, the deep green trees, and the bluest skies. Sunrises and sunsets were vivid, beyond any he’d ever seen.

  God’s hand had been free with Isabella, too. Her blue eyes rivaled the sky. Her blonde hair, her quiet ways, and she’d been a fine cook. What he wouldn’t give for some of Isabella’s fried chicken or a hot biscuit with apple jelly. She’d been a fine wife ... in every way.

  He placed a hand over his eyes. If only he could turn back time. He never should have left.

  But how was he to know Berren would desert and return to wreak havoc, to brutalize folks.

  No one realized how long the war was going to last, and how much senseless slaughter they’d all endure. No one really blamed Berren for deserting.

  It was what he’d done afterwards. He and others had run amok for a year, hiding out in northern Florida and making raids into south Alabama until finally the people left behind, his friends and family, had had enough. A group of old men, some boys, still but youths, and even a woman or two had formed a posse and stopped them.

  But not without a price. Little Stevie, only twelve, died of lead poisoning, and old man Winters was killed straight out. And Isabella, what had happened to her ... He couldn’t bear to think of it. And Berren had escaped, along with a dozen or so men.

  Thatcher rose and went to the stream to splash water on his face. Then he led his horse closer to the stream and made a compress from the mud. As he worked, his mind turned firmly away from the past and went back to the strange man and the woman in the cabin. He would not fail the woman as he had Isabella. He shook his head. What was it that made him feel something was awry? That she needed help?

  For one, he’d not seen any cows or pigs, not even yard chickens. The whole situation was wrong. And, the woman looked to be half the man’s age. The way she moved, even in her sorrow, suggested youth, not age.

  Most folks were neighborly. Almost everyone he’d met in his search for Berren had been. And he’d been searching a long time. Three months and twenty-one days to be exact. And he’d been so close to the man. If he’d paid more attention to his horse, he wouldn’t be stuck here.

  He rinsed his
hands and wiped them on his pants. He sighed. Regrets would not fix Johnny Bell’s lameness. Berren would be long gone.

  He returned to figuring out why his gut told him the woman was in danger. So, the woman was young, and the man upset her by shooting the dog. Add to it that the old man had been downright unfriendly to him, had even drawn a gun on him. All of that was suspicious, but there was something more.

  That shack behind the cabin. What was its use?

  He moved around the clearing, if it could be called that. Not much room at all within the trees. He unrolled his blanket in what looked to be the most comfortable spot and then rifled through the saddlebags. He came up with some pemmican and sat down cross-legged on the blanket to eat his dinner. It only took a few minutes. A few bites of pemmican filled him. And it was not good like this. He usually made it into a stew, but it would have to do uncooked for today.

  He stretched out, leaned back against the saddle, and watched his horse. A few patches of grass were still green near the stream, and Johnny Bell was making a meal of it. While he was here, doing nothing, waiting for Johnny Bell to improve, maybe he’d go back to that cabin, lie low, just to find out what was going on. He had to, for his own peace of mind.

  The wind picked up, the breeze cool. Darkness gathered, and the night drew away any lingering warmth. A fire would have been welcomed, but he was too close to the cabin. The old man might come to investigate, and things might not end so amicably this time.

  The darkness was not his friend. It always contrived to make his memories more vivid, to bring forth more images of his life before the war.

  It’d been a long day, and if he had to choose between his memories or dreamless sleep, he’d choose sleep.

  He closed his eyes, praying sleep would come quickly.

  HE AWOKE WHILE IT WAS still dark, more than dark. Under the canopy of trees, it was pitch black. Johnny Bell moved nearby, unseen. When he neighed softly, Thatcher arose and walked to him. He patted and spoke soothing words. By feel, he checked Johnny Bell’s leg. The swelling had subsided some, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

  Out of habit, he did what he did every morning when out on the trail. He shook out his blanket and rolled it up. He searched in his saddlebags and made his breakfast of pemmican, washing it down with a swallow of water from his canteen.

  Then he spoke to Johnny Bell again. By this time, a thin gray light filtered through the trees. “I’m going to be gone for a while. You stay here.” In the grayness, the ears flickered, as if the horse understood.

  “I’ll be back before dark. You make yourself at home. You got water and plenty of grass. Don’t go wandering off, understand?” When Johnny Bell nickered and nudged him, Thatcher smiled. “See you later.”

  He grabbed the canteen and some more pemmican and strode away quickly, hoping Johnny Bell would not follow. To his relief, the horse went back to grazing in the grayness of the dawn.

  Sounds had been muffled yesterday in this dense forest. Today, in the grayness and mist, the silence was even more profound. He moved quietly, joining in the hush, as if the very trees held their breath, not daring to exhale until the full light of dawn.

  As he neared the cabin, Thatcher slowed and lightened his step even further. He found the same tree he’d hidden behind. It was light enough now to see the depression in the ground. The same as yesterday, he slid into it on his belly, this time propping his elbows on the ground and laying his chin against the palm of one hand.

  A light burned in the cabin or maybe it was the woodstove, for the light shone but dimly. In only a matter of minutes, someone emerged. Thatcher knew by the movement that it was the man.

  The light was extinguished, and the woman came out with something. A bag? Were they leaving? The man caught hold of the woman’s arm and led her around the cabin, to where Thatcher had seen the strange shack. The strange shack with no windows and a half door.

  Thatcher waited impatiently, until someone below moved back into sight. It was the man who rode away on a horse, alone.

  Thatcher watched, but the woman did not appear, as if the woods had swallowed her into their depth. The sun continued rising, the last of the gray fog dissipating. His stomach growled, and he rolled to his back and stared through the leaves.

  After the gray morning, the sun’s sudden brightness caught him off guard. He blinked and moved to a sitting position. The warmth was more spring than fall, and all was quiet except for the distant singing of birds.

  He climbed to his feet and considered what he should do next.

  Exploration was his only option — his curiosity had to be quenched. Should he walk down to the cabin whistling, so as not to scare the woman? Or would that only scare her more?

  No question he was going down the slope, sooner rather than later, but it would take some thought on how to do it. He moved to a crouch and leaned back on one heel, his forearm resting across a knee, and contemplated.

  The man would be gone for hours, he reckoned. He could not imagine a store around the next bend. But what if someone else was around, someone he had not yet seen? And that someone might have instructions to shoot him on sight.

  He scratched his chin. He’d only seen two horses yesterday and no wagon. One of the horses probably belonged to the woman. There was no other someone.

  Finally, he made up his mind. He stood, brushed himself off, and took a steadying breath. With a smile on his face, he walked down the slope, whistling Dixie. Suddenly, he stopped. Maybe they were Yankees. He switched his tune to the Battle Hymn of the Republic and marched down the hill.

  Chapter Four

  Melly lay on the cot in the dark. Candles were in her bag, but she’d want light later, after a few hours. A short time in complete darkness was endurable, even helped her fall asleep. But often she’d awake, disoriented, with panic beating it wings against her chest. At those times, she’d have to light the candle, assure herself all was well, and force the tension to leave her muscles. Today, she already felt the panic.

  She gritted her teeth. Those thoughts need not gain purchase in your mind today. Had that been something her mother used to say? Maybe. Usually, though, her mother quoted the Bible. A verse came to mind.

  For though we walk in the flesh, we do not war after the flesh:

  (For the weapons of our warfare are not carnal, but mighty through God to the pulling down of strong holds;)

  Casting down imaginations, and every high thing that exalteth itself against the knowledge of God, and bringing into captivity every thought to the obedience of Christ.

  Was that from First Corinthians? She couldn’t keep the books straight, but at least she could quote the verses and that was all she needed.

  She locked her fingers across her abdomen and took deep, steadying breaths. Not many noises reached her here, and the sounds that did were muffled, indistinct. Nothing occupied her mind but scripture. The past was too painful to contemplate, the present too mundane, the future too frightening. She said the Twenty-third Psalm, and her heart quickened when the image of the cowboy appeared in her mind.

  Why would she think of him? Obadiah had sent him on his way, and he wouldn’t be back. Not that she wanted him to come back. Why would she want him to? Did she want him to rescue her? Oba kept her perfectly safe. The cowboy was only an illusion of safety, the way he stood, confident and calm, his gun belt strapped on.

  Her fingers dug into the quilt covering the cot and then her hand crept to her pocket, and she fingered the lace on the handkerchief. No tears rolled down her cheeks. Crying was useless, more than useless. Sometimes it led to more pain. The lesson had been taught well years ago.

  And then she remembered her tears, shed only yesterday. Her foolishness had cost temporary heartache, and she was lucky to escape that easily. Oba was right. The dog would have put them in danger.

  The giving of her heart, even to family or friends, was foolish. How much more to an animal? Heartache was sure to follow. She had broken her promise to herself and befri
ended the mutt. He had been just a dog, an old mangy dog, and dangerous to her safety. If it had not been for that dog, the cowboy never would have found them. And now they had to leave, all because of that dumb dog. No, not because of him but because she’d been foolish enough to think she could keep him as a pet.

  She squeezed her eyes tight. A dumb dog, not worth crying over. Tears seeped out from her closed eyes. What was wrong with her? Her fingers traced the lace more quickly, but she forced herself to stop. The lace would be worn thin if she kept it up. The lace wasted away to nothing, as surely as her life. Fifteen long years, she had carried the lace. She should get rid of it, even if it was all she had left of her mother. Well, all that Oba allowed her to have.

  She didn’t need the lace on her handkerchief. The past needed to be forgotten, no reminders. Her life would never get better, and perhaps, would get a whole lot worse. The past must remain buried.

  Thankful, be thankful, she muttered, as if a mantra. She linked her fingers across her abdomen and breathed deeply. The smell of damp earth and aged wood filled her nostrils. It usually comforted her but today made her long to escape the darkness.

  No, the darkness hid her from prying eyes. It was her friend, not her enemy. Oba kept her safe here, and that was all that mattered. Her breathing slowed, and silence enveloped her. She had succeeded in emptying her mind of the worrying thoughts, and she relaxed completely.

  She was on the point of dozing when something startled her.

  Her breath hitched when she recognized the sound — whistling. She swung her legs from the cot and strained her ears. Her heart pounded as if seeking an escape from within.

  Definitely whistling, alternating between Dixie and Battle Hymn of the Republic. Her mind swiftly went through possibilities. Oba had returned, but that didn’t make sense. He never whistled. It had to be Boyd or one of his men. Her breath came in short bursts, and nausea swept over her.