by Linda Ford
“I’m sure it will. Most things will fit back into the trunks. There’s only your clothing and the stuff on the bookshelf.”
“Do you want some help?” He stood in the bedroom doorway watching as she folded her clothes into the trunk.
“Do you have time? I thought you were eager to get into town and get some orders worked out.”
“I am, but I have the wagon here. If it doesn’t take too long for you to get everything ready, I thought I could make one trip. That would leave you most of the day to get settled in.”
“You could pack the coats and boots by the door.” He left a box at the foot of the bed, then turned back to the other room.
“If you have time, maybe you could empty the bookcase, too,” she called after him.
She folded away the clothes, closed the trunk, and wired the lid of the crate shut, then paused to look around the room. Their first real home together—yet she had no qualms about bidding it good-bye. They had crossed through a difficult period together, and she was more than ready to get on with loving each other.
Filled with eagerness at what the future held, she hurried into the other room in search of Caleb.
He sat in the rocker, her writing things in his lap, staring straight ahead, his eyes unfocused, his cheeks drawn into dark hollows.
Her heart lurched as she hurried to his side. “Caleb, what’s the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
He held out a sheet of paper. “What’s this?”
“A letter?”
He nodded. “A letter from your father.”
“Yes. I can see that. But why does that bother you? My father has written several letters.”
He shoved it toward her. “Did all of them suggest you should go home?”
Her heart felt as if it were something dead. She didn’t need to look at the letter to know he had found the one in which Father had offered to pay her passage home.
“How long has this been going on?” His voice sounded raspy as though his throat were too tight.
“Nothing is going on. I got this weeks ago.”
“When were you planning on telling me?”
“I don’t know what you mean. You could have read the letter anytime you wanted. I’ve never hidden any of my letters from you.”
“When were you planning on telling me you were going home?”
She gasped. “I’m not planning on going home. I wrote Father the same day and said so. This is my home. I belong with you.” She reached for him, longing for him to laugh and say he was glad it was a mistake. But he shrugged away from her touch.
“I think you should go home.”
She cried out as if she’d been bitten.
“Your father is right. I’ve changed. I’m not the man you married. Go home, Lizzie. Go back where you belong.”
“No!” The cry of protest ripped through her. “I belong here with you, Caleb.”
He shoved the pile of papers to the floor and jumped to his feet. “This place is no good for you. It reeks of death and war. I’m no good for you. I will always be haunted by the war. It’s best you go home.”
She grabbed his arm, not releasing it even when he jerked back. “I am not going home, Caleb Hughes. My home is with you. I will not leave even if you try to drive me away. I love you. You can’t pretend I don’t.”
He kept his back to her, his arm stiff under her fingers. “I’m not saying you don’t. What I’m saying is this place is not good for you.”
“Perhaps you should let me be the judge of that.”
Apart from the twitch beneath her palm, he gave no sign of having heard.
She scooped up the papers he’d dropped and put them in the crate. “I think everything is ready if you’d care to load it on the wagon.”
He didn’t move.
“Caleb, I’m not leaving.”
He shuddered.
“You can believe I’m staying because I want to, or you can believe I’m somehow forced to stay. But I will not go.” She waited and, when he didn’t respond, tried again, her words soft. “We’ve been through the worst. Let’s not go back to that again.” She almost said something about how would Frankie feel to see him doing this, but she wanted him to change his mind for her sake. Hers and his. She wanted him to believe in her love and find the strength to respond to it.
After what seemed an incredibly long time in which she couldn’t draw a breath, he grabbed a crate and hauled it outside.
Lizzie sucked in a gush of air, letting it sweep into her pores. Love and prayer and a good deal of faith had seen Caleb over the last dark spell. She prayed it would work again.
She waited as he silently loaded the trunks and crates and drove to town, where he unloaded them with equal silence, then drove to the barn, his jaw set in a hard line, his eyes avoiding her.
Lizzie sat down on the sofa Carson had cleaned so meticulously. The house that had seemed so bright and cheerful yesterday now hid depressing shadows. She shivered. She must not let Caleb’s dark mood affect her so she couldn’t function. She forced herself to unpack, even though her insides echoed with loneliness.
As soon as the clothes were hung in the closet and the bed made with fresh sheets, Lizzie put her Bible and writing materials on the shelf next to the sofa, where she could look out toward the barn. She poured tea and sat down to read her Bible and pray, feeling as never before the need for God’s strength and intervention in this situation.
Caleb came out of the barn, Robbie at his heels, and glanced toward the house. Lizzie couldn’t be certain if he saw her in the window, but he paused, his expression thoughtful, and stared in her direction.
“Caleb, I love you,” she whispered. “Please don’t shut me out or go back to your dark memories.” She took out her flute and began to play, able at last, to play in her own home.
She had no notion of how long she played until she opened her eyes, surprised at how dark it had grown. But the clock read only four o’clock. She glanced out the window. The sky rolled and boiled with dark clouds, and her insides turned to ice. In Caleb’s present state, a thunderstorm could send him back into the dark pit of his mind.
There had been one noisy storm since Frankie’s funeral. Caleb had shivered in the rocker. When she hurried to his side, he had pulled her to his lap and buried his face against her. “I will never be able to hear thunder without thinking it’s German guns.”
“I wish I knew how to help you.” She ached so much at his distress that she felt as if she’d been run over by wild horses.
“I wish I could erase my mind.”
“Would it help if I played for you?”
His shivering stopped for a moment. “It seems silly to be so upset. We need the rain. I know we do. Yet I hate it. All I can think of when it rains is being cold and wet and muddy. Endless seas of mud.”
She hugged him close, crooning as one would to a baby, loving that he would allow her to comfort him this way.
“Maybe music would help,” he murmured.
She hurried to get her flute; and as she played Brahms, he slowly relaxed, closing his eyes and leaning his head back. She could only guess what was going on in his mind; but she imagined that in concentrating on the music, he blocked out the sound of the storm—or at least the vicious memories it brought. She hoped the storm also kept her music from reaching the big house; but if it didn’t, she would face whatever criticism Mother Hughes levelled at her. Right now all that mattered was helping Caleb fight his inner battle.
After awhile, the thunder had passed, and the rain drummed softly on the roof, like a gentle marching. Caleb had opened his eyes and looked toward the door.
She broke off playing, waiting, wondering.
He took a deep breath and pushed to his feet, his fists clenched at his sides. With purposeful steps, he strode to the door and threw it open, letting in the damp, fresh air.
Lizzie had hurried to his side, slipping under his arm.
“I must face it and convince myself
it’s benevolent.” He sounded as if he had his teeth gritted together.
“A gift from God,” she whispered.
“Yes. ‘He prepareth rain for the earth and maketh the grass to grow.’ I think that’s in the Bible somewhere, but don’t ask me to prove it.” His voice filled with wonder as if discovering for the first time the blessing of rain.
She hoped he had at last conquered his fear of thunder and rain in that last storm, but now she feared the worst. She prayed for God’s intervention; but unable to stand looking out the window and wondering, she hurried outside and found Caleb and Robbie in the barn, examining a rack of harnesses. She held back, not wanting Caleb to guess she was worried.
Robbie saw her, though. “Caleb’s been showing me how to clean all this stuff up so we can use it again. Dad planned to teach me, but—”
Lizzie touched the boy’s shoulder. “Your dad would be so happy someone is teaching you the things he wanted to.”
Robbie brightened. “He would, wouldn’t he?”
Lizzie lifted her gaze to Caleb and caught the startled look in his eyes before he let his glance slide past her.
“Are Audie and Carson both out?”
Robbie answered her. “Yup. And Caleb says he thinks there’s enough work for another outfit. He says maybe we’ll go look at a truck. Isn’t that right, Caleb?”
“Yup.”
Lizzie couldn’t help but be pleased at Robbie’s excitement. “I’m sure your dad would be happy.” She meant the words for Caleb as much as Robbie. Frankie would not want any of them to waste one minute of life.
She listened to Robbie explaining his work and his plans for the future. “What about school?”
He wrinkled his nose. “I have until September.” He shrugged and gave her a mischievous grin. “Maybe by then there’ll be so much work, I’ll have to help.”
Caleb hung some leather straps over a nail, his back to them. “There’ll never be too much work for you to quit going to school.”
Robbie sighed. “I know.”
Lizzie laughed. “I better go back and put potatoes on. You’ll be in for supper, Caleb?” She fully expected he would be; yet she longed for some sort of acknowledgment from him.
“Yup.” His gaze flicked over her; but at least he had answered, and she hurried to the house, casting an anxious glance at the sky. The clouds twisted like a wind-blown rag caught on the fence, but the black thunderclouds stayed to the west. Perhaps the storm would pass them by.
The storm still held at bay when Caleb came in for tea—supper, Lizzie corrected herself. He seated himself at the table and responded to her questions with monosyllabic answers.
Finally she plunked down in her chair, facing him. “Caleb, I don’t know why you’re unhappy with me. I’ve done nothing different. Certainly nothing to make you angry. This whole thing has gone on long enough so far as I’m concerned. When Frankie died, you promised you wouldn’t waste your life living in the past; yet it seems you’re more than ready to do just that. And for what? A letter I’ve already explained carries no threat or secret.” She waited, and when he stubbornly kept his gaze fastened on his now-empty plate, she sighed. “I can’t help wishing you cared enough about me to make me the same promise you made Frankie.”
She bit the inside of her lip. If she’d hoped to prod him into some sort of response, she failed. His fists tightened—the only indication he even heard.
And as if to prove the futility of trying to reach him, a flash of lightning brightened the room. Caleb’s chair crashed to the floor as he leapt to his feet. He looked around wildly as if seeking someplace to hide; but before he could decide where to go, thunder crashed through the room.
He fled into the front room and huddled on the sofa as the storm kicked and spat out bolt after bolt of lightning, clap after clap of thunder. Rain slashed against the windows like tiny knives. Then the storm passed, leaving only the driving rain.
“The mud!” Caleb rushed out the back door into the rain, Lizzie at his heels.
“Caleb, what are you doing?” She raced after him into the barn. In the gloom, he grabbed a bundle and turned on his heel, rushing past her, back out into the rain. He hurried down the alley, ignoring her call. Water dripping down her face, she hurried after him. Anyone seeing them would have thought they’d lost their minds. No hats. No jackets. She probably looked as bedraggled as she felt, running to keep pace with Caleb.
They raced down the alley, past the feed store where Lizzie glimpsed someone bent over a table next to a lighted lantern, past the church where the wind moaned through the steeple, sending shivers racing up and down her spine, raising a crop of goose bumps on her arms.
Caleb yanked open the gate next to the church and hurried into the graveyard.
Lizzie ground to a halt.
Trees lined the back of the yard. Rain rattled on the leaves. Shivering violently now, she stepped through the gate, looking around for Caleb. She found him at Frankie’s grave, now marked with a simple wooden cross.
“I’ve got to cover him before he gets muddy.” He threw the bundle on the ground and unfolded a canvas tarp. “Help me,” he begged.
She grabbed a corner and helped him tug the canvas over the fresh mound, covering the bare dirt. “The wind will blow it off,” she said.
“I brought spikes.” He pulled a hammer from his back pocket and drove long, wicked-looking spikes through the canvas into grass. Satisfied at last, he stood back. “It’s all I can do, Frankie. Take care.”
Lizzie wiped her muddy hands on her skirt. The mud clung.
“Let’s go home,” Caleb said, taking her arm.
The rain continued all the way home. Lizzie shivered. She was soaked to the skin, muddy and miserable. This is what they put up with day after day. Night after night. For the first time, to a tiny degree, she understood how Caleb felt.
They stepped inside the back door.
“Wait here while I get some water,” Lizzie said, slipping out of her wet shoes and dress. She grabbed a chair for him and gathered up towels. She was thankful the kettle was full of warm water. She filled a basin, washed her own hands quickly, and returned to his side, leaving the lantern on the table so they sat in dim light.
“Let me help with your boots.” She loosened the laces and eased them off his feet, setting them to one side. They needed a good cleaning, but that would come later. “Now your shirt.” She slipped it off, then persuaded him to shed his dripping trousers. He sank back to the chair, his hands hanging between his knees, his chin almost touching his chest. She dipped the cloth in warm water and, tipping his head back, gently wiped the muddy streaks from his face. She rinsed the cloth and tenderly washed each hand, lovingly cleaning between each finger. He watched with as much detachment as if she held the limbs of a tree.
She towelled his hair and rubbed his chest and back, trying to stimulate a spark of warmth. He didn’t shiver; yet he felt so cold to her touch. She dried his legs and feet, then urged him to stand. “Come on.” She drew him after her, up the stairs to their bed, where she pulled back the covers, indicating he should crawl in. Like a child, he obeyed. She slipped in beside him, cradling him in her arms, rubbing his arms and back, his coldness frightening her.
Her arms ached from the cold.
He shifted and slipped his arms around her. Suddenly their roles reversed as he rubbed her back and kissed her hair. The warmth between them flamed. He touched her chin and tilted her head back so he could kiss her.
That night they lay in each other’s arms, the same spark and passion they’d shared in England now evident once again in their lives.
“I had to do it,” Caleb said, his voice muffled against her hair. He kissed the top of her head. “I had to go to Frankie’s grave.”
She waited for him to explain.
“I couldn’t leave him lying in the mud.”
“I think I understand.” She ached to ask where he was mentally—looking back or looking forward. More than anything, she wanted
him to say the future belonged to the two of them.
12
Lizzie lay content in Caleb’s arms.
“I’ve been pigheaded, haven’t I?” His voice rumbled against her ear.
For a minute she didn’t move, wishing they could always be like this, wrapped in each other’s arms, his voice growling in her ear. But he waited for her to answer him.
“In what way?”
He chuckled. “How many ways are there?”
She pressed her palm to his chest. “How many ways are there to love?” She’d rather talk about that.
He covered her hand with his own. “Maybe only one.”
She looked into his face. In the darkness, she could see only sharp angles, and she sighed, wanting to see his eyes. “One?”
“One. One way only. Forever and always with my whole heart.”
She pressed her lips together and swallowed hard. “Caleb, that is so beautiful.” Forever and always. What more could she ask for?
“I promised Frankie I would look forward, not back. For a little while I forgot.” He hugged her tight. “I’m glad you didn’t listen to me and go back to your father.”
“I told you. I will not leave you.” If only he would look to the future for her sake, not Frankie’s; but at least he planned to take her with him into the future. Forever and always.
Molly barged through the door. “You by yourself?”
Lizzie looked up from shaping loaves of bread. “I’m all alone. Come in. Sit down while I finish this, and then I’ll make tea.”
But Molly paced, pausing each time she passed the window to stare out toward the barn. “I suppose Carson is out on a run.”
“He left early this morning. Caleb doesn’t expect him back until almost dark. Why?”
“Oh, that man makes me so mad I could spit. He’s so high and mighty. I told him to come for supper last night, but did he show up? No. Didn’t even bother to let me know. I sat there half the night waiting. Pa said if I figured to get that man to take to rein like one of my horses, I best be forgettin’ it. ‘Get yerself another bronc to break,’ he says.” She snorted. “I don’t know who to be maddest at, Pa or Carson.”
Lizzie washed her hands and poured the tea. “You and Carson seem to have picked a rocky path.”
