Legacies

by Janet Dailey

  After the bullet was removed and the wound bandaged, Eliza announced, "His breathing seems good. His pulse is weak but steady. I don't think we can expect more than that yet. What he needs now is rest and quiet."

  Lije lingered by the bed while Eliza gently shooed everyone else, save Temple, from the room. He looked down at his father, jaws clenched, his insides all knotted up, a hand squeezing at his heart. On the bed table was the porcelain basin in which the tweezers, a small knife, and blood-soaked pads of cotton cloth were lying. The bullet was there as well. Lije picked it up. It was still sticky with drying blood. He looked at it for a long second, then curled his fingers around it, making a fist.

  "He will be fine, Temple," Eliza murmured somewhere behind him.

  "Yes." The tautly whispered response, riddled with anxiety and uncertainty, sliced through Lije like a saber.

  With the deadly bullet still clenched in his fist, he glanced one last time at his father, then turned and moved away from the bed. His mother stood at the foot of it, her hands wound tightly around the tall, carved bedpost, her gaze riveted on The Blade. He wanted to offer some comfort and reassurance to her but, feeling none himself, he laid a hand on her shoulder as he passed.

  Pausing in the outer hall, he reached back and pulled the door after him. When it was inches from the casing, he heard his mother speak and stopped to listen.

  "I am tired, Eliza," she murmured tightly. "I am tired of it. Do you realize how long I have been going through this? Not wondering if he were going to die, but when?"

  "I know."

  Showing no indication that she had heard the quiet reply, Temple continued. "How many days, months, and years have I spent alone, wondering where he was, whether he was still alive? Every time he left . . . every time I told him goodbye, I knew it might be the last time I would see him, that there were those who wanted revenge for that treaty he signed nearly thirty years ago. Thirty years, Eliza. I have been worrying about him for all these years and now he lies there. Maybe this time, he really will die. Oh, God, I don't want to lose him." She choked on a sob.

  "Of course, you don't."

  There was the sound of a long, indrawn breath and the whisper of a sigh. "I have told myself so many times that it will be all right; now I'm not sure I believe it anymore."

  "He will make it," Eliza insisted. "I don't know why I believe that, why I feel so certain of it, but I do. You have to believe it, too. He will need you."

  "I know."

  Hearing the sound of soft footfalls on the stairs, Lije moved away from the door, leaving it ajar. Susannah paused near the top of the steps.

  "I was on my way to find you," she said. "Phoebe fixed you something to eat. It's in the dining room."

  Lije nodded and followed her down the stairs to the dining room. His glance strayed to the empty chair at the head of the table. His father's chair. A plate of food, a side dish of cornbread, silverware, a cup, and a molasses pitcher were all arranged before the chair immediately to the right of it. Lije pushed it all to the other end of the table and sat down.

  It was a sight that tore at Susannah. Something more was wrong. She had known it the instant she saw Lije and he told them about The Blade. She doubted that he'd said more than a dozen words since. All the while Eliza had been removing the bullet, Lije had simply stood there, holding a candle close, saying nothing, showing nothing.

  Yet, somewhere beneath that grim-lipped silence, Susannah sensed a rage that went beyond justified concern for his father's condition.

  Smothering a troubled sigh, she crossed to the sideboard. "The coffee smells good, doesn't it? Shall I pour you a cup?"

  He nodded.

  She pulled his cup closer and filled it while Lije drowned his cornbread in a pool of dark molasses. As she started to set his cup back in front of him, Susannah saw the bullet lying on the table. A chill of revulsion shivered through her.

  "Heavens, where did that come from?" She went to snatch it up, but his hand closed over it first. She looked up and met the cold challenge of his eyes.

  "I'll keep it."

  Susannah drew back, straightening. "Lije, don't. He's alive."

  He picked up the bullet and rolled it around with his ringers, staring at it. "Kipp is dead."

  "Kipp?" she said in a startled echo. "Where? When?" Then the full import of his words hit her, and she sank into the nearest chair. "Oh, my God, you're saying The Blade was shot by—How—" She knew what to ask, but she couldn't get the words out.

  There was a small, vague shake of his head. "Kipp must have been with the Union patrol that jumped him. I didn't see what happened." His voice held no emotion. "When Deu and I found him, he was still conscious. He said he had killed Kipp. He wanted me to tell Mother he was sorry."

  "Did you—"

  "No. She has enough to deal with now." Lije continued to finger the bullet. "The army can notify her about Kipp or the major can tell her himself if he recovers."

  "Don't say it that way, Lije. He will recover."

  Letting the silence build, he slipped the bullet in his vest pocket, picked up his fork, scooped some seasoned pinto beans onto it, chewed them, then washed them down with a drink of coffee.

  Susannah watched him with worried eyes. Everything he did was too controlled, too emotionless. She could feel the frustration and tension building inside him. It was like being in a closed room and knowing a fire raged on the other side of the door. She could feel the scorching heat even though she couldn't see the smoke or hear the roar of its flames.

  "You haven't told me everything that happened, have you, Lije?"

  His upward glance was cool and brief. "I told you everything I know." "Did you?" she persisted.

  His look came back hard and sharp. "I wasn't there." His voice was abrupt and full of guilt. A thick, angry sigh broke from him, and he pushed the fork onto the plate and rocked back in his chair, hooking an arm over its straight back and grabbing up his coffee. "I wasn't there," he repeated into his cup and took a quick swallow of coffee, then lowered the cup, staring into it. "I should have been with him, but I wasn't. It's because of me he's lying up there."

  "Why? Where were you?" Susannah asked in a low, prompting voice.

  "I took a detachment out to scout for enemy patrols." The line of his mouth turned grim with the memory. "I knew Kipp was back in the Nation. I saw him when we attacked the supply train at the Cabin Creek crossing. I knew he would be looking for his chance to come up against the major . . . my father. I thought—" He bit off the rest of his words, his mouth closing in a taut line.

  "What did you think?"

  A sigh spilled from him. He tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling. "I thought if I took the point, I could spot Kipp first. I thought—" With a shake of his head, he dismissed that thought and brought his chin level again, rocking forward and shoving his cup onto the table. "I was gone too long, rode too far in front. I should have known Kipp would slip in behind me. I should have stayed with the major. I should have been there. It's my fault."

  "That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard!" Susannah came to her feet and swept away from the table. She slammed the coffeepot on its hot pad and whirled back to meet Lije's startled look. "What happened was tragic, but you are in no way to blame for it, Lije Stuart."

  "You don't understand,"* he began with impatience.

  "That is obvious. Just what would you have done if you had been there?" she demanded, hands on her hips. "Thrown yourself in front of your father, taken the bullet that was meant for him? Then you would be lying in that bed upstairs, and your father would be berating himself.". She saw his rejection of her words and sighed in frustration. "Be realistic, Lije. Even if you had been with him, there may not have been anything you could have done to prevent what happened."

  "I'll never know that, will I?"

  She pressed her lips together, then tried again. "That bullet in your pocket came from Kipp's gun. He is responsible for your father lying in that bed. No o
ne else."

  He picked up his fork again and proceeded to eat. Susannah watched him, waiting for him to say something. After the third bite, Lije remarked, "I didn't think I was hungry, but this tastes good. Better than the hardtack and jerky I ate this morning."

  Susannah pulled a chair out and sat down. "You are deliberately changing the subject, aren't you?"

  He ignored that and said in a blandly conversational tone, "Did you ever learn how to shoot that derringer of yours?"

  Surprised by the question, Susannah frowned. "Derringer? Who told you I had a derringer?"

  "Rans Lassiter, a lieutenant with the Texas Brigade." He gathered a forkful of the molasses-soaked cornbread.

  Susannah hesitated, conscious of her own quickening heartbeat. "He said he knew you." It had been nearly a year ago, yet her memory of him remained fresh and sharp. "I have often wondered. Is he still in the territory?"

  "His unit returned a couple weeks ago or so."

  "Then he has been away."

  Lije treated her to a slow, assessing look. "You made a very definite impression on him."

  "Did I?" She tipped her head down to hide the sudden glow of pleasure she felt.

  "He swung by Oak Hill on one of his patrols. On his return, he told us it had been burned to the ground. A few days later we learned you and Eliza had come here."

  Susannah was briefly warmed by the news that Rans had come by to see her. Then another thought intruded. "Did he give you my message about Diane?"

  Once again Lije's jaw tightened. "He did."

  "She's here, Lije. At Fort Gibson," Susannah told him. "She came to take care of her father after he was wounded."

  "I saw him get hit." Lije cut off another chunk of cornbread with his fork, never looking up to meet her eyes. "How is he?"

  "Better. He returned to limited duty last week." She hesitated, then knew she had to tell him. "He was hit in the left arm, Lije. They were able to save it, but the damage appears to be permanent."

  "His arm is crippled?" He concentrated on the last few bites of food on his plate, pushing at them with his fork.

  "Yes," Susannah said, then hurried to add, "It's the risk a man takes when he goes to war. Jed said so himself."

  Lije nodded, then laid down his fork and gathered up the cloth napkin, wiping his mouth with it. "Tell Phoebe supper was good." He pushed out of his chair.

  "Where are you going?"

  "To check on the horses, make sure Deu has them safely out of sight." He moved toward the door.

  "Lije, aren't you going to ask about Diane?" Susannah challenged. "Don't you want to know how she is? Isn't there anything you want me to tell her?"

  He began to walk away.

  "Lije," she began in protest.

  "What can I say?" The question exploded from him, harsh with anger, but Susannah saw that beneath the anger there was pain. "That I still think about her? What good would that do either of us? I have a responsibility that puts me in direct opposition to her wishes. But she doesn't see it that way. She won't understand that I have to do what I believe is right." He stopped, recognition flickering across his expression that he had revealed too much. "It's old ground, Susannah. Leave it alone," he said and walked out.

  Temple sat in the armchair positioned next to the bed, her eyes closed in exhaustion as she drifted in that state that was neither wakefulness nor sleep. She awakened with a start to the sounds of thick moans and rustling sheets. Her glance flew to the bed where The Blade stirred, his face twisted in a grimace, his fingers digging and clawing at the covers, moans coming from him in deep, grunting breaths.

  She moved quickly to his side, running a hand over his brow to check for a fever. "Sssh, my love," she whispered.

  "Pain . . . my back . . . leg."

  She turned to her basket of medical supplies on the bed table and took out the bottle of laudanum. She fumbled briefly with its cork, then carried the bottle to his lips, cradling the back of his head in her hand.

  "Take this." She poured a little into his mouth. "It will make the pain better." She spoke to him like a child. "Now, drink a little more. There, that's good."

  While she waited for the drug to take effect, Temple moistened a cloth and bathed his face and neck. Several minutes passed before the groans subsided. His eyes opened slowly and tried to focus on her through the glaze of pain and opiate.

  "Temple?" he mumbled uncertainly.

  "I'm right here," she said, forcing a smile.

  "Sorry . . . didn't mean to . . ."

  "Sssh, don't talk now. Rest."

  Dutifully, he closed his eyes.

  "How is he?" Lije stood in the doorway, a dim figure in the guttering candlelight.

  "Fine," she whispered, then tucked the covers around him and moved away from the bed toward Lije, her hands clasped in front of her, her fingers twisting in silent worry. "It's the pain. I gave him some laudanum. He should rest comfortably for a while." A rooster crowed. She glanced at the closed drapes, then back at the bed. "What time is it?"

  "It's dawn." Lije stayed in the shadows, beyond the reach of the faint light. "You need to get some rest. I'll sit with him."

  Temple shook her head. "I couldn't sleep."

  "You need to try. He'll need your strength."

  "I know, but—" Again Temple looked back at the bed.

  "If there's any change at all, I'll wake you immediately."

  Temple hesitated, then nodded. "Very well, but only for two hours."

  "I'll wake you."

  He waited until she left the room, then crossed to the bed. The faint, soft light of early morning filtered through the drapes. Lije blew out the candles and sat down in the chair next to the bed, taking up his vigil and rolling the bullet around and around between two fingers.

  21

  Restless, every muscle coiled with tension, Lije shoved on his campaign hat and headed out the door, no longer able to endure the sight of his father in pain. In the last thirty-six hours there had been almost no change in The Blade's condition. Lije would have been heartened by that, except for the intense pain that set in as soon as the laudanum began to wear off. His father was crazed with it.

  Lije paused on the rear porch steps and inhaled a deep breath, trying to cleanse the nameless rage that seethed inside. The sun stood high in the sky. The first brown leaves of autumn tumbled across the grass, chased by a brisk afternoon breeze.

  With narrowed eyes, he looked around. Nothing stirred; nothing moved. Once this plantation would have bustled with activity at harvesttime. Now there were no workers in the fields, no livestock in the pastures, no smells of newly mown hay, no rattle of cider presses. Instead, he saw sagging fences, empty Negro quarters, rusting equipment, and one wily old rooster strutting near the edge of the woods.

  He pushed off the back porch and struck out toward the Negro quarters where the horses were hidden. He hadn't taken three strides when Sorrel called to him from the back porch, her voice tentative, "Lije?"

  He swung back, mentally braced to be summoned back inside. "What is it?"

  She stood on the porch, one arm hooked around a pillar. "Are you leaving now?" she asked with rare timidity.

  "No," he breathed the word in irritation. "I'm going to check on the horses, make sure they have plenty of water."

  "May I come along with you?"

  He studied her for a silent moment, his lips coming together in a tight, grim line. Solitude was what he wanted—time alone to curse and rage and sort through the tangle of emotions that had his nerves on edge. But Sorrel was too quiet, nothing like the spoiled, tempestuous little sister he remembered. In fact, since his return, she had hovered in the background like a shadow.

  "Come along if you want." His words were clipped, grudging.

  Lije pivoted and again struck out for the cabins. He heard the swift, light patter of her footsteps behind him as Sorrel hurried to catch up. As soon as she drew level with him, she slowed and walked silently at his side, eyes down.

  Th
e horses were stabled in the burned-out shell of one of the cabins that had been hit by lightning the previous year. Lije waded through the tall, dry weeds to the side of the cabin, lifted aside the dead tree limbs that penned the horses, and stepped through.

  A big-boned roan gelding lifted its Roman nose, snorted once at the sight of Lije, and went back to tearing at the sheaf of meadow grass at its feet. The other two flicked an ear at him and continued to eat. A check of the water buckets showed they were half full. Lije moved among the horses.

  "Which one is yours?" Sorrel ventured closer, taking care where she stepped.

  "I've been riding the roan."

  She stepped beside the roan and ran a hand over its neck. "What happened to your horse Jubal?" she asked with quiet curiosity.

  "He was shot out from under me last February." Lije examined a saddle sore on the chestnut's back.

  "What's this one's name?"

  "I haven't bothered to give him one." He picked up the chestnut's right front leg and cleaned its hoof with his knife. He didn't bother to tell her that, in war, the horses were dead too soon to name—either from enemy bullets, broken legs, or sickness. Counting Jubal, he'd had three mounts die; two others were back at Boggy Depot recovering from wounds.

  "I would call him Red Smoke. That's what he looks like."

  Lije grunted a nonanswer and picked up the next foot, the smell of horsehide, ash, and dung rising strong all around him.

  "Lije?" Again, there was that tentative note in her voice, turning it all soft and uncertain and troubled.

  "Yes." He glanced around to find Sorrel staring at him with dark, haunted eyes.

  "Is Father going to die?"

  "No." His answer came sharp and quick, and a certainty flowed through him the instant he spoke.

  "But he could, couldn't he?" she said, all wrapped in gloom.

  "He could," Lije admitted, but he no longer believed it.

  Her chin quivered. "It would be my fault if he did."