by Linda Ford
“I’m sorry.” She felt his pain. “I’m sure it won’t be forever.”
“It will be over by Christmas?” She echoed a phrase everyone had said at the beginning of the war.
He stiffened, understanding her meaning.
“It went on for four long, bloodstained years.” What she didn’t say, but what they both understood, was the unspoken question: Would this be long, pain-filled years? “I didn’t think I would survive it.” I’m not sure I can survive a long siege of this.
“What would you have me do?” It was a cry for help.
“I don’t know. I simply don’t know,” she whispered against his chest, clinging to his shirtfront with both fists.
He sat on the ground, pulling her into the shelter of his body so he almost engulfed her. His bent legs formed two walls of shelter; his arms wrapped around the front until she was lost in his warmth, his breath the very air she inhaled; the rise and fall of his chest, the impetus for her own breathing.
“Maryelle,” he groaned. “I feel as if I’m trapped. If I stay, you pay the price; if I leave, I suspect Angus will pay a hefty price.”
“I think I can better withstand the storms than he can.” Angus looked and acted as if he was already close to defeat. She sighed her acceptance. “I can put up with it if you can.”
He buried his face in her neck. “I don’t know how I’d survive without you.”
“You’d survive,” she muttered. Suddenly a black specter flitted through her mind. “I’d not make it without you though.”
“You’d make it.”
She shook her head. “Don’t say that. I wouldn’t.” She knelt before him and grabbed his shoulders. “You are all I have.” Whatever they had to endure was nothing compared to the thought of somehow losing him. She promised herself she would ignore Lena, or anything else that might rear its ugly head, in order to be at Kingston’s side. Closing her eyes, she lowered her head and unerringly found his lips.
He tumbled backward, laughing. She lay sprawled across his chest. She could no longer reach his lips, and he grinned down at her. “Have I told you how much I love you, Mrs. Brown?”
They slipped into the house much later and, avoiding the others, hurried up the stairs to the privacy of their room.
Maryelle watched her husband unbutton his shirt and pull it over his head, then reached out and tickled his sides. With his arms trapped in the shirt and his head hidden inside it, he had little chance to defend himself.
“Maryelle,” he grunted, jerking back, almost losing his balance. “Stop that.”
He wriggled madly, freeing himself from the restricting garment. He stepped back and scowled at her. “Get ready for bed.”
Laughing, she turned to lift her nightgown from the peg next to the stacked trunks, her glance sliding over the pictures displayed there. She gasped and leaned closer, the nightgown forgotten.
Frantically she searched the top of the trunk, lifting each framed picture and finally the runner. “It’s gone.” She spun around to face Kingston. “It’s gone.”
“What’s gone?”
“My picture of Sheba.”
“You’re quite sure?”
“Of course. It’s always right here.” She patted the empty spot. “I look at it every morning and night just to give myself a friendly little boost. It was here this morning.”
He turned her away from her endless searching and pulled her into his arms. “It will show up.”
Her mouth against his chest, she mumbled, “Why would anyone take it? It doesn’t make sense.”
He shrugged. “I’m beginning to think nothing around here makes sense anymore.” He gently led her to the bed, easing her out of her shift and into her nightgown. “It’s been a long day. Let’s go to bed and forget about it.” He lay down beside her and pulled her against him. “Things will look better in the morning.”
“I hope so.” There was a dreadful ache behind her eyes. For a day that had begun so full of promise, it certainly had ended on a sour note. She clung to the comfort of Kingston’s solidness. Long after his breathing deepened, she lay staring into the darkness, wondering how a man as gentle and fine as Kingston could have sprung from such a family.
She woke the next morning with eyes that felt as if she’d stood out in a sandstorm. She moaned as she hung her nightgown on the hook and again saw the empty spot where Sheba’s picture belonged.
“Maryelle, my sweet,” Kingston said, “try not to think about it. Do you have other pictures of her?”
“It was my favorite.”
“I’ll ask if anyone knows what happened to it.”
Lena was the only person who would be so vindictive. She made no secret of how she felt. “Don’t bother. Do you really expect someone to pop up and say, ‘Oh, I borrowed it. Sorry. Here you are’?” If her suspicions were correct, the best thing she could do was ignore it.
She sat through breakfast without once looking at Lena, grateful for the frequent touch of Kingston’s hand on her neck. As soon as the dishes were done, she grabbed the water and headed for the garden, walking slowly and carefully to avoid spilling it. She reached the edge of the garden and lifted her eyes.
“No!” She dropped the basin, not caring about the water sloshing over her shoes and soaking her skirt. Her garden was churned up as if someone had taken a plow to it; deep hoof tracks trailed back and forth. One moist, smelly cow pie covered one of her precious squash plants.
9
She fell to her knees and plucked from the quagmire a trampled pea vine, chewed up like an old toothpick. She edged along the row. What wasn’t ground into the soil was torn up, roots exposed to the air. She leaned back and moaned, then scrambled to her feet and raced the length of the garden, looking for some reason to hope. At the end she collapsed in the rough soil. Not one live plant left. All her hard work for nothing.
She lifted her face to the heavens and let out an agonized wail. Was there nothing in this place that she could hold on to and call her own? Her efforts to belong were thrown back in her face; her picture of Sheba was missing; and now her garden was totally destroyed. She bowed her forehead to the ground. All she had left was her love for Kingston, and sometimes she wondered if she was losing him to his family.
It was too much. She couldn’t take anymore. She fell face down and sobbed for all the things she’d lost—her father and mother, her dreams, a home where she belonged. She had nothing left to hope in. She was defeated. No more fight left. She sobbed until she was empty inside; then she lay there, face down in her misery, too broken to get up.
She heard the grass rustle nearby, but she didn’t bother to look up. They had broken her. It mattered not if they saw her in utter ruin and defeat.
A pair of warm, familiar hands touched her shoulders. She didn’t move. She wanted nothing but to lie where she was until all feeling ceased.
“Come on, Maryelle.” Kingston pulled her to her feet, turning her into his embrace. “How long have you been lying here?”
She couldn’t answer but lay limp against him.
“Good thing Lily saw you and came and got me.”
She heard the tightness in his voice but didn’t know or care what it meant.
“I’ve had enough,” he said as he lifted her into his arms and strode to the house. He crashed through the door and with his boot snagged a chair toward him, lowering her carefully to it.
“Get me some warm water,” he bellowed at someone.
Maryelle caught a fleeting glimpse of Lena’s startled face and then a basin of water was placed close by.
He lifted her chin and gently touched her cheek with the cloth. His gaze found hers, and he paused, deep troubled thoughts turning his eyes a hard green. Then he smiled slowly. “No more of this, I promise.”
The door banged. Maryelle recognized Father Brown’s footsteps and shrank back. Kingston put his arm around her shoulders, pressing her to his side.
She leaned against him, refusing to look into the unkind
faces of his family.
“Dad.” Kingston’s voice was hard. “The cows have been deliberately chased across Maryelle’s garden. It’s destroyed.”
She heard the silent accusation of his words and knew he thought his father had done it even as she thought it. She’d feared something would happen ever since she knew he’d overheard her suggestion to Kingston that they leave.
She held her breath and waited for him to admit or deny it, but he didn’t say a word.
She felt Kingston shift as he looked around the room. “You have all gone out of your way to make Maryelle unwelcome. But you forget one thing. I love her, and when you hurt her, you hurt me.” His hands tightened around her shoulders. “I will not allow her to be treated like this any longer.” He faced his father boldly. She felt him pull himself up tall. “We’ll be moving on.”
She jerked her head up so she could see her husband. His jaw was rigid, the skin around his eyes taut. She had never seen him look so stern.
“Boy, you walked away from this place once before. Don’t figure you can do it again and come back.”
Maryelle shuddered before the vile tone of Father Brown’s voice.
“Whatever you want,” Kingston said.
Mother Brown was just behind her husband, and she glowered at his back. “He’s my son too. He’ll always find a welcome in my home.”
The older man swung around, his fist raised to his side. For a moment Maryelle thought he would strike his wife.
Kingston dropped his arm from around her shoulders, leaving a sudden chill. She felt him surge forward, then ease back as his father dropped his fist, growling low in his throat.
Maryelle caught a movement out of the corner of her eye, turned, and saw Lena step protectively toward her mother. Maryelle blinked. She hadn’t expected Lena to care about anyone else.
As she dragged her gaze back toward the older man, she saw Angus drawn back into the corner, his eyes big as plates. His gaze caught and held hers. She ached at the fear and despair she saw. How would he manage without Kingston to defend him? A shudder started in the soles of her feet and raced upward, shaking her entire frame.
Kingston leaned toward her, pulling her close, his touch lending her strength.
“Maryelle, run up and pack your things.”
Her legs felt as foreign as the new country to which she’d been transplanted as she stumbled up the stairs. In a few minutes she had thrown everything back into the trunk. What didn’t fit and the bulk of Kingston’s belongings she tossed into the middle of the quilt and tied the corners together.
Weakness swept through her, and she sank to the floor, pressing her hand to her mouth to hold back the nausea.
Kingston found her there and sank down to her side, cradling her in his arms. “My sweet Maryelle, what have I brought you to?”
She shook her head. “It’s not your fault.”
He lifted his shoulders. “I thought things would get better, not worse.”
“Me too.” She clung to him, pressing her face into his warm neck.
“I hope Grandma Wells meant it when she offered the bunkhouse.”
She nodded. “She meant it.”
“Then that’s where we’ll go.” Although she clung to him, he pushed her back to look into her face.
“I have never been so angry in my whole life as I was when I saw you weeping on the ground.” A shudder raced across his shoulders.
“I wasn’t hurt, not physically. Only shocked at the vindictiveness of it.” She pushed back the hurt and pain. There was nothing to be gained by reliving those awful moments.
“Is everything ready to go?”
She nodded toward the bed.
“We’ll take the bundle with us. I’ll come and get the rest later.”
She grabbed his shirtfront. “I can’t bear to think of you coming back here. What if your father—?”
He drew himself up tall. “I have never been afraid of him. I’m not going to start now.”
She sagged against him. “I’m afraid of him.”
“Never let it show.”
He scooped the bundle off the bed and, taking her hand, headed for the stairs.
His father was gone when they stepped into the kitchen. Lena sat at the table, her face turned away. She resolutely refused to look at them.
Katherine stood at the cupboard, misery written all over her features.
Mother Brown stirred a pot on the stove, turning as they entered the room. For a moment Maryelle thought she was going to ignore them and let them leave without saying a word. But suddenly, strength that seemed unfamiliar found its way into her. “I would change things if I could, but he’s not getting any easier to live with.” Her shoulders slumped in defeat as she let her gaze rest on Maryelle briefly. “I regret how we’ve treated you.” She turned back to the stove.
Maryelle looked around for Angus. He still leaned in the dark corner against the pantry. She was certain he hadn’t moved since they’d left the room.
Kingston strode to his side, squeezing his shoulder.
Angus shuddered like a building hit by a bomb.
“Angus, if he ever touches you, come and get me. I’ll not allow it.”
The boy lifted his head, clinging to Kingston’s gaze like a man offered a reprieve from the gallows.
“I mean it, Angus. Don’t be afraid anymore.”
The door flew open, crashing into the wall, and two small bodies burst through. Lily was first. She skidded to a stop.
“Where you going?” Her gaze darted to Maryelle. “I thought you was staying forever.”
Maryelle blinked back tears. How she hated to leave this little girl, so much like Kingston in looks and spirit, but she had no choice.
Maryelle squatted so she was level with the child’s eyes. “We aren’t going far. There’s a little house at Mr. and Mrs. Wells’s that we’re going to live in for now. It’s close enough so you can come and visit.” She sought Mother Brown’s eyes. “As long as you have permission from your mother first.” She turned to Jeanie, who stood uncertainly inside the door. “You too, Jeanie.”
Maryelle stood. “All of you.” But her voice faltered. Jeanie looked around the room, trying to gauge the feeling by the adults’ expressions. Maryelle knew she wasn’t sure how she should react.
Kingston stepped toward the door, holding his hand out to Maryelle. “I wish things could be different.” He took Maryelle’s hand and paused as if waiting for some sort of reply from his family. But no one spoke.
Maryelle followed him out the door. Perhaps everything that could be said had been said.
Lily burst out the door. “Don’t go!” she cried.
Kingston stopped, filling his lungs slowly. He glanced at Maryelle, his eyes shifting to blue, revealing his pain; and lowering the bundle, he turned toward his littlest sister.
“Come here, Sweetie.”
Lily flew into his arms. She was crying, her tears dripping off her chin.
“Don’t cry, Lily.”
Maryelle swallowed back her own tears.
“I don’t want you to go,” she sobbed.
“I know,” he crooned, cradling the child’s head close. “But we have to.” He set her down. “You be a good girl.”
He grabbed Maryelle’s hand, squeezing tight. “Let’s go,” he muttered, striding from the yard so fast she was forced to trot to keep up.
They went several hundred yards before he slowed down and dropped the bundle. “What has my life come to?” He plunked down on the quilted bundle and buried his head in his hands.
She ached for him. How it must hurt to face the truth she was sure he’d avoided all his life. She knelt in front of him, wrapping her hands around his. “Kingston, it isn’t your fault. None of this is.”
After several seconds he lifted his face and stared into her eyes. The pain in his expression drove an arrow deep into her heart.
“I wish I could believe I’d done all I could, but all I feel is defeat.”
&
nbsp; She stood up and planted her hands on her hips. “Well, get ‘de feet’ a-moving. We’ve got to set up house yet today.”
He stared at her as if she’d landed in front of him from a foreign country, and then he laughed. “Now I know for sure you’re crazy.”
His laugh ended on a sad note; and locking hands, they walked on.
Grandpa Wells saw them first and ran to the house calling, “Mother, Mother. He’s come back.”
Grandma came to the door, dusting her hands on her apron. “What is it, Wes?”
“It’s Harry. He’s come back.”
Grandma shaded her eyes. “It’s Maryelle and young Kingston.” She rushed toward them, Grandpa trotting after her. “You’ve come because of trouble.” She took one look at Maryelle’s face and drew her into a powder-scented hug.
Kingston stood back, awkward. She reached up for a hug. Kingston hesitated but a second, then leaned over and allowed her to wrap her arms around his neck and kiss his cheek. “It’s been far too long,” she said, wiping her eyes on a corner of her apron.
“We’re sorry to barge in on you like this,” Kingston began.
She waved him away. “I told Maryelle you’d be welcome anytime. Now you come—we’ll get you set up in the bunkhouse.”
Maryelle took Kingston’s hand and followed, grateful Grandma didn’t ask any questions. It was too fresh and upsetting to talk about.
Grandpa followed on their heels. “It’s good to have young people around again. We’ve missed it, haven’t we, Mother?”
“We have indeed. Wes, would you get me another pail of water, please? They’ll need water and food to get them started.”
Grandpa grabbed the pail and hurried for the pump.
Grandma chuckled. “Why, I declare. I haven’t seen him with that much spring in his step in a long while. It’s going to be good for him having you around.”
They followed Grandma to the little house. As they stepped inside, Maryelle heard Kingston exhale as if he’d been holding his breath for a long time. “This is fine, just fine.” He sounded relieved. “I can’t thank you enough for lending it to us.”
Grandma waved aside his thanks. “It’s a pleasure. Now here’s Dad with some things. Let’s see what he brought.”
