Vestige of Hope

by Sara Blackard

  Viola and Beatrice had just gotten Hunter to the bed when he went limp and tumbled into a pile, thankfully on the bed. Goodness, that man was heavy. Two-hundred-plus pounds of solid muscle had gotten heavier the instant he’d passed out with an apology. Hunter had impressed her with his strength and ability, with just a grunt of sound, to press through what had to have been immense pain.

  “Okay,” Beatrice said with resignation. “Now I’m impressed. What do we need to do?”

  Viola shook her head at her sister’s candidness. “Let me catch my breath, then we’ll roll him flat on his back.”

  “Well, let’s hurry.” Beatrice humphed in impatience. “I have work to do outside before the storm hits.”

  “Help me roll him over, and if I still need you after you’re done outside, you can help,” Viola answered.

  After they got Hunter positioned onto his back, Beatrice left to take care of the horses and other animals. Viola set to work getting the banked fire going to boil water. She lit a lantern on the table and the lantern her father had mounted on the wall by the bed. Viola glanced down at her blood-crusted clothes and over at the unconscious Hunter. She quickly ducked into the room she shared with Beatrice off the back of the house and changed. Though she reached for her favorite forest-green dress, with the intricate embroidery upon the collar and sleeves, she chastised herself as a ninny and yanked her serviceable, faded yellow dress on over her head before she allowed her romantic musings to run rampant. But could anyone blame a girl if her imagination was running amok with the way he’d pulled her tight to him? His breath blowing from lips that barely grazed her neck where he nuzzled had sent delicious spirals of warmth straight to her core.

  “Good grief, Viola,” she scolded herself as she fanned her warmed face with her hand. “The man’s passed out, in severe pain, and touched in the head. He was doing nothing but holding on, so you best snap out of it.”

  She marched out of her room, ignoring the desire to brush and rebraid her hair. She checked the fire and water, then went to the still unconscious Hunter. Realizing she should have had Beatrice help her with the capote and his shirt before she left, Viola decided she’d start at his feet, checking more thoroughly for injuries. That would also keep her from becoming distracted by his handsome face and getting caught gawking again. Maybe she was the one touched in the head. Prayer. She needed to pray. She asked God to focus her mind and keep the daydreams at bay.

  Viola loosened the boot laces as much as possible, marveling that they were a string bound at the ends with some kind of casing. She pulled the left shoe off gently and examined the boot with awe and a bit of trepidation. The craftsmanship far exceeded any she had ever seen, with the sole made from some hard material that had words and a design carved into it. She pulled out an insert located inside the boot. When she saw it up close, her hands shook with unease. What was this strange, unnaturally blue-colored thing that squished but made no mess? She assumed it was for comfort, but she had never seen or heard of such an invention. She put it back within the boot and placed the boot on the floor.

  Viola reached for the right foot and carefully began to pull the other boot off. Hunter moaned in pain. Viola thought for a moment on how to get the boot off without hurting him more. She picked up the one from the floor and examined the laces and area behind the laces. She puffed up in triumph, set the boot down, and began unlacing the boot still stuck on Hunter’s foot. When finished, she pulled a flap hidden behind the laces open all the way and, with a grin, released the foot from its hold.

  “That was a rather smart addition to boots,” Viola said to herself as she closed the flap and shoved the laces within the boot so they wouldn’t get lost.

  Viola placed a chair at the foot of the bed and set to peeling Hunter’s socks off. With that done, she examined his right foot more closely. It appeared swollen and bruised, but as she manipulated it and felt the bones, she noticed nothing broken. Though a sprained ankle would take a while to heal, it was better than it being broken.

  She moved the chair to the bedside and then grabbed a bowl and cloth from the shelf and the boiling water from the stove. After adding enough cold water to make it tolerable, she sat and carefully began washing his hands and face. The fall had battered his face, and his cheek under his left eye was so swollen, Viola doubted he’d be able to open that eye fully. The palms of his hands were full of cuts and scrapes from where he’d tried catching himself. As she cleaned his hands, she realized they weren’t the soft hands of a city dandy, but marred and scarred hands from physical labor. Yet they weren’t hands of a farmer or even a miner. They were hands that had seen violence and struggle, much like a mountain man’s hands, evidenced by the few knife scars and an odd patterned scar upon both palms. The mysteries and puzzles of this man kept stacking up.

  Viola stood to retrieve the muslin they kept for bandages and calendula salve when Beatrice came through the door, bringing a violent, frigid wind with her that soaked the entryway.

  “It’s going to be a big one.” Beatrice placed a bag of meat on the table and hung her coat. “I won’t be surprised if we wake up to snow in the morning.”

  “Are the animals settled?”

  “Yes, though I’m sure glad Maybelle won’t calve for another couple of weeks.” Beatrice said. “It might be lazy, but I wouldn’t want to be going out there to milk in this, or worse yet, calve.”

  “Sorry I wasn’t able to help you get everything settled.” Viola dumped the dirty water in the bucket to take out later.

  “Don’t worry.” Beatrice laughed as she leaned over Hunter. “How is he?”

  Viola rubbed her eyes tiredly. “I don’t think he broke his ankle, just sprained real bad. The bruise on his face, and cuts and scratches, are nothing serious. But I couldn’t get the capote or shirt off alone. I will need your help.”

  Beatrice leaned closer to his face and sniffed. “Even with his face all scratched, he’s a mighty handsome fellow. Smells nice, too.” She stood and teased, “But you already know that don’t you? I see you freshened up.”

  Viola’s face heated as her annoying sister chuckled. Viola huffed in exasperation. “Well I couldn’t tend him covered in blood and guts, could I? Now if you’re done poking fun, help me take off his clothes.”

  Beatrice doubled over in loud laughter. As Viola realized what she’d said, the scorch of her blush raced the rest of the way to her forehead and threatened to consume her in humiliation.

  Hunter woke up in a haze of pain and confusion. Whispered words spoken from somewhere in the room told him he wasn’t alone. Intense pain consumed his body. Had he gotten captured and tortured again? His heartbeat threatened to hitch into overdrive, but he couldn’t let those who whispered know he was awake. He focused his energy on breathing as if asleep, opening his senses to what was around him, and remaining in control, waiting for the most opportune time to escape. The wind was blowing fiercely outside. Warmth surrounded him, and it didn’t smell antiseptic like a military base. It smelled earthy.

  “Let’s get this over with,” a voice hissed from the corner, followed by two sets of footsteps approaching.

  Hunter waited, preparing to lash out. Though the pain ebbing from his ribs and ankle would slow him, he hoped the adrenalin that coursed through his body, like in every mission, would get him away. Then he’d focus on getting to safety.

  His captors surrounded his head. One began tugging on his shirt hem. The other leaned down over his head. His hands struck out simultaneously, grabbing the one pulling his shirt by the wrist and the other by the neck. He opened his eyes, but everything was blurry. He shook his head, trying to clear it. He heard a knife leave a scabbard. His hands tightened.

  A squeak and a garbled, “No, Beatrice” brought his attention to the person by his head. His eyes focused and filled with Viola, her neck clamped tightly in his hand. He wasn’t under threat. He dropped his hands, wincing at the movement.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought I’d be
en captured again.” He closed his eyes and took several calming breaths. He looked at Beatrice and then returned his gaze to Viola. “Please forgive me.”

  Viola touched her neck, her eyes still tinged with shock and fear. She nodded. “It’s all right, Hunter. We forgive you. You’ve been through a lot. It’s understandable that you’re confused.”

  “I’ll forgive you, considering the circumstances,” Beatrice snarled as she slid what Hunter now saw was a large hunting knife into its sheath at her back. She leaned over him. Anger, and what Hunter recognized as fear, burned from her eyes. “But if you ever grab me or my sister like that again, you’ll wish that lion had finished you off on the mountain.”

  Viola gasped. “Beatrice.”

  “Understood,” Hunter spoke over Viola.

  Beatrice spun around and stomped to the door. After jerking on her coat, she yanked the door open, letting a frigid gale race through the cabin, and slammed it. Viola came around to his side, wringing her hands in her apron.

  “Don’t worry about her.” Viola shrugged as she sat in the chair pulled beside the bed. “She needs time to cool down.”

  Hunter nodded, taking in the woman sitting next to him. Her dress was a soft yellow, the color of butter. Her hands picked at a string that frayed from the cuff. The slight bruising discoloring her slender neck pained him more than his burning ribs. He’d make it up to her. He didn’t know how, but he would. She lowered her head, blocking her face from him. He had the crazy urge to talk to her so she’d look at him.

  “So,” he said, his voice croaking. He cleared his throat before continuing. “How bad off am I?”

  Hunter inwardly cheered in success as she lifted her eyes filled with compassion to gaze at him. He smiled at her, hoping to coax one from her. He had yet to see one grace her lips, and his curiosity had him wondering if it would be as alluring as the rest of her. The right corner of her mouth lifted before she started talking. It wasn’t enough, but he’d take it for now.

  “You have some bruises and cuts on your face.” She listed off his injuries with sympathy. “Your cheek is pretty swollen. I’m guessing that you’ll have a nasty black eye by tonight. You scraped the palms of your hands, so they’ll be tender for a few days. You sprained your ankle pretty bad. It’s swollen but didn’t appear to have any breaks. Can you try to move your foot?”

  Hunter nodded and, gritting his teeth, moved his ankle up and down. She nodded in encouragement, and both corners of her full lips lifted slightly.

  “You’re right,” he said with a moan. “It hurts like the dickens, and I’ll not be able to put pressure on it for a while, but it’s not broken.”

  “Beatrice and I were getting ready to check your ribs and clean out that claw swipe when you woke up.” Viola continued in her assessment of him. “Now that you're awake, you might sit so I can take off the capote and your shirt.”

  “Sure, no problem,” Hunter answered, holding in the smart remark on his lips about her wanting to take off his clothes, something his brother would say without missing a beat. She seemed so pure and innocent; he didn’t want to embarrass her with bawdy male humor.

  Viola leaned over him to help. Her closeness enveloped him with peace, like it had on the horse. He stared into her eyes and wondered what it was about her that caused this reaction, because if all his brain waves were firing, peace would be the last emotion felt at the moment.

  She breathed out, covering him in honey and clove, and whispered, “Ready?”

  Hunter could do nothing more than nod. She slid her arm beneath his shoulder, grabbed his forearm with the other hand, and helped him sit up. He clamped his lips and his teeth so the scream that built within his chest wouldn’t reach freedom.

  His breath came out fast and shallow as the pain almost consumed him. He closed his eyes tightly and willed himself to stay conscious. Just when he thought he’d lose control, soft fingers brushed through his hair, landing on his shoulder. He glanced over to where she sat on a chair pulled next to the bed. Her eyes shone with empathy and admiration. The first comforted. The second bolstered.

  “I have some willow bark tea for you to drink, if you think you can,” Viola said.

  “Don’t you have some ibuprofen or something?” Hunter asked, hoping these ladies weren’t some kind of all-natural hippies who chewed leaves for medicine and rolled in mud for bruises. He only had a couple of travel packets of pain killers in his pack and knew those would barely put a dent in the pain.

  Viola gaped at him in confusion. “I just have willow bark tea.”

  Hunter sighed and nodded. She reached behind her to the table stacked with the supplies needed to doctor him. She placed it in his hands, then guided them up to his mouth. The bitter and nasty taste caused him to grimace.

  “I know it’s not very palatable. But it will help ease the pain.”

  “It’s fine.” Hunter drank the rest in as few gulps as he could.

  “All right,” Viola said in a way that said she was boosting his confidence. “If you’re ready, you can lift your arms, and I’ll slip off your shirts. I’ll try and make it so you don’t hurt more.”

  “Definitely don’t want to hurt more,” Hunter said, smirking. “If that’s even possible.”

  Viola returned his smile, a little bigger this time. He was getting there. Soon he’d have her lips curving up. He lifted his arms with great effort, and she took off his shirts.

  She cast down her eyes with a slight pink blush creeping up her neck. “Let me check your back before we lay you back down,” she said in a rush.

  She disappeared behind him. A shocked gasp brought his mind to his back, mentally searching for pain he’d lumped with the rest.

  “What?” Hunter asked with hesitation.

  “These scars.” He heard her gulp as he felt her fingers feather across his lower back and then up to his shoulder. “What caused such scarring?”

  “So, I didn’t bust up anything new back there?” he asked in relief.

  “Oh, goodness. Sorry, I got distracted.” Her hands swept the rest of his back. “Nothing new. Your pack protected your back.”

  Viola came from behind him and turned her back to him. She began gathering some items from the table, but not before he saw her swiping her hand across her face. Disappearing behind him again, she messed with the bedding before she faced him.

  “Let’s lay you down,” Viola said, her eyes still gleaming.

  He reached out and grabbed her hand. “They happened a long time ago. They don’t hurt anymore.”

  “It’s just that they don’t look like anything I’ve ever seen before. Your shoulder looks like a burn, but it’s different, more intense somehow. The cluster on your lower back looks like bullet wounds, but they’re too small, too concise.” Viola turned her head to the side and stared across the room. She took a deep breath and resolutely turned back to him. “Let’s get the rest of you looked at.”

  Hunter let her help him back down on the bed, admiring her ability to push through her emotions and curiosity to focus on what needed to be done.

  While Viola’s admiration for Hunter’s strength and character increased with each passing minute, she tried to control the emotions rolling inside her, threatening to spill out in useless tears. The massive scars on Hunter’s back had filled her with such pain and sympathy for him that she wanted to hug him close.

  They’d also filled her with an intense apprehension. She’d lived in the mountains her whole life, surrounded by men who lived a lifestyle that liked to eat you for dinner, chew you up, and then spit you out again. If you survived, you did so with the scars to boast about it. She’d seen everything from animal maulings and gunshots to arrow wounds and fire burns. The scars on Hunter’s back were not the savage scars of the wilderness but calculated and sophisticated somehow. The sight of them sent fear coursing through her body, chilling her to the bone.

  “I will have to push on your ribs to figure out if you broke any,” Viola said, hoping she sounded
more confident than she felt as she started systematically pressing his ribs for any that moved. When she reached the bottom right side, she paused, lightly touching the cluster of scars that matched the scars on his back.

  “An insurgent shot me during an extraction of a US diplomat kidnapped while in Yemen,” Hunter explained through pained breaths. “Thankfully, the bullets missed any major organs, and they patched me up and sent me back out to save the world, or at least the US interests in the world.” He chuckled, the sound tight with pain. “The other scar, well, let’s just say the Taliban captured me during a reconnaissance mission, and when I wouldn’t give them the information they wanted by the traditional beating-you-to-a-pulp interrogations, they resorted to other measures.”

  Hoping to cover the shock she knew must be clear on her face, Viola pointed her face toward his feet as she placed her ear to his lungs to listen for a punctured lung. She had never heard of the tribes he talked about. She thought she knew all the names of the tribes east of the Rocky Mountains where any government interest would be. Had the United States acquired more territories she wasn’t aware of? As she lay listening, she detected a minuscule tug on her braid from Hunter and wondered if she had something stuck in her hair. She turned to the table and brought the bowl of hot water to her feet and placed some clean rags on her lap. Her face scrunched in confusion as she started cleaning his wound from the mountain lion.

  “You have at least two cracked or broken ribs on your right side and three on your left. It doesn’t sound like you have a punctured lung, praise God. After I get this taken care of, we’ll wrap your ribs and get you as comfortable as we can.”

  “Why do you look so concerned?” Hunter asked, regarding her. “Are you worried my injuries are worse than you think? Between my tours with the Army and all the adventures my brother Chase and I had growing up, I’m sure I’ll be alright.”

  “No.” Viola hesitated. “I guess I’m trying to make sense of your story. I’ve never heard of Yemen or even the Towa Band. Are they Indian nations? You say these are gunshot wounds, but they are so small and precise. There should be more scarring, and someone surviving such an attack would be next to impossible. Even if you had the finest city surgeon out here in the wilderness with you when you received the shot, you’d bleed out before the doctor could clean and close all the shots. I just don’t understand. Did your attack happen in a city back east?”