Vestige of Hope

by Sara Blackard

  “You killed him.” The accusation was thick in Robert’s voice and disgust clear in his eyes when he turned, still kneeling on the ground.

  “The stupid idiot wouldn’t give,” Linc yelled in rage and frustration. “How was I supposed to know he was such a weakling?”

  Robert shook his head in disbelief before he stood and went to the horses.

  “Wh–wh–what are we going to do now?” his other brother, William, stuttered in fright from the other side of the camp. The spineless sound brought the rage back up, making Linc’s fists squeeze tight.

  “We’ll drop him in the forest and let the mountain lions drag him off.” Linc shrugged, getting a rise out of the way his sissy brother’s face turned green. “Then we move onto the next plan. There’s another way to get what’s ours than through this stupid old man.”

  He smiled in wicked delight as he turned to pack his saddlebags. His next plan was so much more desirable than following the dead man ever was.

  After cleaning the breakfast dishes, picking up the house, and helping Beatrice with what outside chores she wanted help with, Viola decided that mending some of her brother’s clothes he’d left behind would keep her busy so she didn’t fret and hover over Hunter while he slept. She’d noticed the night before while folding and putting Hunter’s things back into his pack that he wasn’t at all prepared with clothing appropriate for the harsh Colorado mountains. All he had was a few shirts, an extra pair of pants with more pockets than one could ever need, some admittedly nice wool socks, and a thin jacket that was slick and puffy with the words North Face on the front. She had no clue how something so silky and cool kept one warm.

  Viola paused, her needle in the air as a thought came to her. Perhaps in the future they had manufacturing that created warmth in material that seemed contrary to the job. She shrugged at the possibility, knowing that in the here and now, there was no such thing. He’d need this buckskin shirt much more than some flimsy jacket. For Pete’s sake, one snag on a branch and the thing would rip wide open. She snorted at the realization that maybe not all things were better in his time. In fact, if he’d been wearing buckskin, there was a good possibility that the mountain lion wouldn’t have even gotten through the material in the first place. She nodded in pride at her deduction that she still found satisfaction in the things of the present.

  She realized with Beatrice’s fascination of the eye phone and everything about the future that she herself would need to follow her own advice about avoiding discontent. Though the experience was still so frightening, she had to admit, when she allowed her thoughts to linger on flying around the world in some contraption in the sky, the fear faded to the background of wonder. Then she’d think of all the amazing things she’d read about in her books: the wall in China, Venice, Egyptian pyramids, the White House, Ireland … so many things she’d read about but never dreamed she’d be able to see in person. If one could fly around the world, those things would be available to experience. Though, she supposed if it cost anything like train and stagecoach tickets’ prices, one probably couldn’t afford to travel by the flying machine often.

  Which brought her right back to the reality of now, in 1877, where she had work to do. She finished mending the seam in the shirt with a flourish of determination and grabbed the next item in the basket. As she pulled the buckskin pants out and held them up, she wondered if she’d have to adjust them any. Hunter seemed taller than Orlando, though Hunter’s waist, tapering from his muscled chest, seemed much trimmer than Orlando’s.

  Hunter moaned and mumbled from the bed, and Viola wondered if she should go check on him. She’d wanted to look at his wound earlier but decided it’d be better to let him sleep. Now she began to doubt her decision.

  Hunter thrashed his head and groaned. Viola sent the mending flying into the basket and raced to his side. His face was flushed and sweaty, the sheet sticking to his skin. Viola felt his cheek and chest. His forehead burned her fingers where they laid.

  Viola sat in the chair now stationed by the bed, uncovered the lion wound, and sucked in a sharp breath. The skin had turned bright red and angry with pus. Tears stung her eyes at her idiocy for not checking this wound sooner. Animal claws were known to be filthy, lions more so than others, and she had needed to keep a close eye on it.

  “I’m so sorry,” she choked out as she placed her hand upon his cheek.

  The door opened, and Beatrice walked in. Viola sprang from the chair and rushed for the medicine box. On the way she said, “He has a raging fever. Run to the creek for fresh, cold water.”

  Beatrice grabbed the bucket and hurried out the door. Viola brought the box to the table and started rifling through it, setting things aside and trying to remember all that Orlando had told her. Oh, why couldn’t he be here? He’d know what to do.

  Viola’s hands shook so violently as she read the labels on the bottles that the words blurred, making it difficult to read. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and prayed. The shaking stopped in her hands, and her mind seemed clearer than just a second before. Thank You. She grabbed the yarrow, sage, and plantain herbs stored in jars, added the plantain salve she’d found in a tin, and put the rest back in the chest. Beatrice ran back in with a fresh bucket of water.

  “Thank you,” Viola said, “Please grab a cloth and bathe his forehead while I work on a poultice for his wound.”

  Beatrice nodded her agreement. As Beatrice bathed his forehead and whispered prayers of healing, Viola brought a bowl of steaming water over to cleanse the wound again. She leaned close and sniffed, relieved that while it was red and leaking pus, it didn’t smell pungent.

  After cleaning the wound with hot water, Viola mixed the dried herbs she’d gathered in a bowl. She took a spoonful and chewed it in her mouth like she remembered Orlando doing before, and placed it on the wound. She continued to do that until the mixture covered the wound. She then checked his other scratches and scrapes to make sure none of them looked infected. While they didn’t show signs of infection, she smeared plantain salve on them just to be safe.

  “I’m going to make a comfrey poultice for his ankle and re-wrap it,” Viola stated with a sigh. “I should’ve checked him sooner.”

  “Well, considering all the excitement we’ve had in the last twenty-four hours, I’m not surprised this slipped past you,” Beatrice replied. “Don’t worry about it too much. He probably would’ve gotten infected anyway, with lion’s claws being so nasty and all. Besides, I doubt God would bring him all the way here and then kill him off before he could be of any use.”

  Viola’s mouth gaped in shock at her sister’s lack of care. She sputtered a reprimand. “Well … I … I … don’t …”

  “Sister, calm down,” Beatrice said as she placed one hand on Viola’s lap and used the other to push the strand of hair forever in Viola’s face behind her ear. It was a move their mother had done so often in comfort that the resemblance caught tears in her throat.

  “I understand the dangers of infection and fever,” Beatrice continued softly. “But I also know deep in my heart that God brought this man here for a purpose beyond this sickbed. Otherwise, what would be the point of that amazing miracle? Yes, we should do everything we can to help his healing, but God will heal him because Hunter hasn’t fulfilled his purpose here yet.”

  “And what’s that purpose?” Viola asked in a hushed voice of reverence at her little sister’s proclamation.

  “How am I supposed to know that?” she said with a shake of her head and a snort. “I’m not a prophet!”

  Viola chuckled. “Okay, okay. But I guess you make sense.”

  “Of course I do,” Beatrice said cheekily. “Why don’t you work on his ankle, and I’ll make a batch of cornbread?”

  Viola turned back to Hunter and placed a cold cloth on his forehead. She then turned back to the medicine chest and pulled out the dried comfrey. She chewed and placed the wet herb into a cloth. When she’d gotten a good amount into it, she folded the cotto
n into a pack and then placed it onto his ankle. She wrapped a long strip of cloth around his ankle and the pack to hold the pack against the skin and his ankle tight.

  With that done, she went back to the head of the bed and began to bathe his forehead, cheeks, and what remained unwrapped on his chest and arms with cold water. As the minutes stretched into hours, she prayed for wisdom, healing, and peace.

  Chapter 7

  Viola awoke with a start as her head slipped off her hand. Jerking her head up, she glanced around in confusion. What had woken her up?

  Hunter moaned and thrashed on the bed, the sheets a tangled mess around his legs. How she hadn’t woken up through what appeared to have been some intense thrashing was a testament to her exhaustion. After hours of bathing his body with cold water, she thought his fever had gone down some, and he finally slept peacefully. So, since she could barely keep her eyes open, she’d moved to the only comfortable chair in the small cabin, her mother’s rocker, to take a quick nap.

  Viola rushed to the bed and touched his forehead. It burned hot again. He thrashed his arms and mumbled incoherently. Viola sat in the chair beside him and washed his skin with cold water again.

  “No, no hope.” Hunter groaned as he moved his legs within the sheets.

  Viola placed the cloth in the bucket and moved to unwrap the sheets from the tangled mess they’d become. All the while, he groaned and moved as if attempting to run.

  “Hope, no hope,” he voiced in such anguish that Viola’s tears almost fell.

  “Shhh, it’s okay,” she said as she wiped the cloth across his forehead. “There’s always hope. Our hope comes from the Lord.”

  “No hope!” Hunter yelled, swinging his arms and hitting Viola, knocking her to the floor.

  She got up and hugged his arms and whispered into his ear, “Shhh, Hunter. It’s okay. You’re okay. Dear Lord, help him be calm. Give him hope and peace in his heart.”

  “Hope, hope.” Hunter started crying. “Hope, I’m so sorry.”

  As Viola realized that Hope was a person, her heart broke in two at his anguish. Who was she? His wife? What happened to her? Viola whispered comfort into his ear, wiped his tears and the sweat from his face, and just held him. She knew it was improper, but he needed comfort. What she’d want if the situation was reversed. So she whispered and held him until the tears and the groans stopped.

  Then she placed her head in the fold of his neck and silently cried. Cried for this man whose cries were heartbreaking. Cried for this strange and unnerving situation they found themselves in. Cried for her father and brother, who remained away too long. She didn’t know how long she lay there and bawled like a newborn calf.

  Hunter awoke, his muscles aching and his body hot with fever. But that wasn’t what woke him up. The weight of Viola’s face curled into his shoulder, her body shaking in silent sobs, brought his mind from the foggy depths of fever he’d been stuck in. His brain was still muddled, but Viola’s anguish tore at him.

  “Shh, it’s going to be alright,” Hunter whispered, lifting his arm that seemed to weigh a hundred pounds and rubbing her back.

  Viola sat up with a gasp. Hunter looked into the emerald eyes, bright with tears, and knew in that instant he’d do anything to make her happy. Though he was weak with fever, in a time he knew nothing about and a situation way beyond whatever training the Army had given him, he would keep her safe and fill her life with joy. That was his new mission, as crazy and illogical as it sounded. He knew deep within his soul that God had assigned it, and when he completed this mission successfully, it’d restore the past and give hope to the future.

  “Don’t worry,” he whispered. He ran his hand over her braid that hung over her shoulder. “I’m not going to die.”

  “I know, it’s just …” She took a shuddering breath and continued between sobs. “You are burning up. You started thrashing and moaning. You were yelling for Hope and started crying. I thought my heart was ripping out of my chest over your anguish. There’s also the fact that my father and brother still aren’t home, which more than likely means that one or both of them are gravely injured or dead. And you come falling here from the future, and now you’re sick with fever, which is all my fault. And … and it’s too much.”

  “It’s going to be okay,” he said as he pulled her to him. She came easily, which was good since what little strength he had, he’d used in keeping her from jumping away when he first woke up.

  He whispered softly and stroked her back as she cried into his neck, soaking him and his pillow. He had no sisters and spent most of his time in the service around a bunch of tough men. He wasn’t sure if this was normal behavior, but if she was busy crying, she wouldn’t notice that he was holding her.

  He focused on what he could decipher of her blubbering speech. He had been out of his mind with fever. He’d seen it before in a few injured soldiers during missions where extraction wasn’t immediate and fever had set in. He wasn’t sure, but he figured servicemen who’d seen action reacted more intensely during fever. Perhaps it was PTSD or something, but he hoped he hadn’t hurt her in his thrashing. She’d said he’d called out for Hope and had cried. How embarrassing. He was an elite member of The Unit, not some weakling. Hopefully she’d just forget about that part.

  Her crying slowed, and he knew the pleasure of holding her was over. She took a deep breath and sat up. She wiped her face on her apron and then stared at her hands twisting in her apron.

  “Sorry,” she whispered. “That was highly unseemly of me.”

  “No worries.” He shrugged and tried to sound nonchalant. “You needed a shoulder to cry on. I have one convenient for use. It’s about the only thing I can do in this state.”

  Her ears turned red as she touched his forehead with the back of her hand. “You don’t look so flushed, and your fever isn’t as hot, praise God. How do you feel?”

  “Better,” he answered, shaking his head. “Honestly though, I still feel horrible. The chills have disappeared, but my ribs are killing me. I think all that thrashing might’ve hurt them more. I’ve got a headache the size of Alaska, and my throat’s parched.”

  “Oh dear.” She jumped up and brought over a cup of water. “Let’s get you a drink.”

  She sat on the bed and eased an arm behind his shoulders. Her small delicate hands lifted the drink to his mouth. The cool sweetness eased down his throat until he drained the entire cup.

  “I have some willow bark tea ready on the stove,” she said as she laid him back down. “It’ll help with the pain and the fever.”

  He grimaced in anticipation of the nasty drink. He knew he had ibuprofen in his pack, but also knew that without antibiotics, his body needed the fever to fight the infection. He supposed drinking nasty concoctions were a necessary evil of this time, and he should belly up and stop complaining. Besides, he should save the pills for the next few weeks of recovery that he knew would be painful.

  She came back to the bed and repeated helping him drink. Once he lay down, she began to wipe off some green junk that had caked onto his chest where the lion had got him. The rough texture of the cloth against the tender skin caused Hunter’s fists to bunch into the bedding to keep from embarrassing himself again.

  “I need to change the poultice,” she said in explanation.

  “Okay, do whatever you need to do. I’m going to lay here and rest.” He hoped his voice sounded more nonchalant than agonized.

  He watched her as she combined three dried herbs into a bowl. In a mixture of fascination and disgust, he observed as she spooned it into her mouth, chewed, then spit it onto her fingers. As she came toward him as if to put it on him, he held up his hand.

  “Whoa, there,” he said, his eyes warily shifting from the gunk on her fingers to her face. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Her forehead scrunched as she glanced from her fingers to his face to his wound. “I’m putting on a poultice. It will help draw out the infection that’s set in from the claws.”
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  “I know that’s what you're doing. What I don’t understand is why you are chewing it up like a mama bird and spitting it out. That’s gross! Why not just use water?” Hunter asked.

  “It doesn’t work as well when you do it that way. Orlando said that when you chew up the herbs, it works much better than with water alone. No one knows why, but it does.”

  She moved to place it on the wound, and he blocked her again.

  “In my time we know that the mouth has germs that cause infection. There are better ways to treat this,” he said.

  “Well, you aren’t in your time.” She huffed in frustration. “And there may be other, better ways to treat your wound here now, but you managed to fall in the middle of the mountains where we treat with medicine the natives have used successfully for hundreds of years. Now stop being a weak-bellied city dandy, and let me treat this the only way available!”

  Hunter laid his head back in exhaustion and replied, “Fine. By all means, use your spit medicine.”

  Viola placed the poultice on Hunter’s wound, not looking him in the face. Keeping her head down, she turned back to the table for more herbs, but not before he saw her swipe her hand across her eyes. He’d made her cry, and all because he was acting like a … what did she call him? A weak-bellied city dandy. She’d been wonderful this entire time, taking care of him, praying for him. Shoot, even with the whole time-travel thing and him crying, she hadn’t freaked out like a lot of women he knew. He had to upset her, all over a little spit.

  If she was kissing him, he wouldn’t have a problem with her spit. Wouldn’t have a problem at all. In fact, it would be downright pleasant. He’d take her braid out and run her hair through his fingers, kissing her deeply to show how much he cared for her, grown to love her.