by Jody Hedlund
What had Astrid meant? That she planned to run away again so they wouldn’t be able to leave?
Greta prayed the girl had only gone back to the hot spring and hadn’t decided to hide elsewhere. Though Astrid had been safe, she wouldn’t be so lucky twice. Surely Astrid understood that too.
“Astrid,” she said again, knowing it was futile. The silence was too deep, too consuming.
As Greta’s feet touched the cold floorboards, her wildly careening thoughts stumbled to a halt. Usually Astrid’s coughing woke her up at least several times a night. But Greta couldn’t remember waking last night—not even once.
Of course she’d been exhausted after the past few days of so little sleep and worrying about Astrid. Perhaps she’d slept through Astrid’s coughing fits?
Greta shook her head, her long hair falling around her in disarray. The reason she hadn’t heard the coughing was because Astrid had likely run away the moment Greta had fallen asleep. She wouldn’t have been able to take a horse this time, not without waking Wyatt and Judd. No doubt Astrid realized that by foot she’d need a greater head start to find a new hiding place.
Her heart thudding with the urgency to find the girl, Greta donned her clothes, all the while plotting where to go. As she sat down on the edge of the bed to tug up her stockings, she halted.
If Astrid was so determined to stay, even to the point of putting her own life at risk again, then how could she force the child to leave?
Greta let her stocking fall to the floor. For the first time, Astrid was in a place where people loved and wanted her, where she was accepted for being sick, and where she wasn’t shunned or made to feel like an invalid. Here she could be herself and find joy in the simple things of life like other children her age did.
How could she possibly drag Astrid to Denver against her will? The crying and resisting would make her weaker. And then once they got there, would Astrid try running away again?
Greta bowed her head, defeat crashing upon her and crushing her spirit. Was it time to admit she couldn’t find a cure? That Astrid probably wouldn’t fully recover, no matter where she went? That there were no guarantees in Denver any more than here on the ranch?
Maybe the physicians would prolong Astrid’s life by a few months or a few years. But what good would that do if Astrid was miserable?
“But I don’t want her to die. It’s my job to make sure she lives.” As soon as the hoarsely whispered words were out, Greta realized the impossibility of such a task.
She’d already done everything she could for Astrid, including being willing to marry a complete stranger in order to move to the West. Now the rest was truly in God’s hands. He’d counted Astrid’s days, and nothing Greta did or didn’t do could take away from the number He’d already established.
Someplace inside, she knew all that. Now she just needed to live it out. And let Astrid know she was done trying to control everything. Once she found Astrid, she’d tell her that if she really wanted to stay, they would. Greta wouldn’t fight her anymore but would honor her plea to live out the rest of her life in this one place that had brought her joy.
With fingers now stiff from the cold, Greta finished putting on her stockings and shoes. She twisted her hair into a simple knot, grabbed her cloak, and then crossed to the barn. The door was ajar, and she peered into the dark interior. “Wyatt?”
“He’s down by the river fishing,” came Judd’s sleepy response.
She needed to tell Judd that Astrid was gone again, but the words stuck in her throat. Instead, she backed away from the barn and started toward the river path. Judd would be devastated once more, but she’d wait to tell him, at least until she had the chance to inform Wyatt.
Her heart weighed heavier with each step she took. She was to blame for Astrid running away again. If only she’d listened to the little girl and paid heed to her real needs—especially for belonging and acceptance.
As she passed the chokecherry bush, a furry creature darted out, nearly tripping her. Startled, she halted. A yip was followed by wet paws jumping up on her skirt.
Squinting through the dark shadows of dawn, she made out the pointed snout and floppy ears of a puppy. “Chase?”
Hope spurted through her as she bent and picked up the squirming bundle, who proceeded to lick her face. “Where’s Astrid?” Surely her sister wouldn’t have gone far without the pup.
Did that mean Astrid hadn’t run away after all?
With a racing heart, Greta hurried down the rest of the path. Upon reaching the bank, she didn’t see Wyatt anywhere and guessed he was in his favorite fishing spot upriver. She whispered a prayer that Astrid was with him. Then she set Chase down and let him lead the way.
The pup took off, and Greta stumbled to keep up. Within minutes, the bank opened up into the wide spot, its waters rushing against the large rocks.
At the sight of Wyatt’s tall frame standing on the bank and Astrid’s smaller one next to him, Greta nearly fell to her knees in relief. The tears she’d been holding at bay spilled over.
Wyatt was the first to glance in her direction. Astrid followed his gaze.
“Hi, Greta,” the girl called cheerfully. “I’m helping Wyatt catch fish for breakfast. I’ve already got one. Want to see it?”
Greta swallowed the need to cry and brushed the tears from her cheeks. “Of course I do.” Her voice was shaky, but she drew in a breath and crossed toward the two. Astrid explained how she’d caught the fish, reeled it in, and then helped to string it to the line in the shallow pool nearby with the fish Wyatt had caught.
“You’re becoming quite the fisherwoman.” Greta couldn’t keep herself from smoothing the girl’s flyaway hair, needing to touch her and reassure herself that Astrid was here, safe and happy.
“Someday I’m gonna be as good as Wyatt.” Astrid cast her line again, biting her lip in concentration.
She glanced at Wyatt, but he avoided her gaze. The faint dawn light revealed the haggardness in his face and the dark circles under his eyes. He hadn’t slept well. Certainly not as well as she had.
“I slept so soundly I didn’t hear you leave.” Greta once again glided her fingers through Astrid’s hair. “And I didn’t hear you coughing last night either.”
“That’s because I didn’t cough.”
That was impossible, but Greta refrained from saying so.
“I’m better now,” Astrid said, with a confidence that hurt Greta’s heart. “The hot spring water is helping me get better.”
The child certainly had looked better after her few days at the hot spring. Even last evening, Astrid had talked and played a game of checkers with Judd and helped with chores almost like a normal child. She’d tired easily and had gone to bed early. But she had much more energy than she’d had in a very long time.
“You really didn’t cough last night?” Greta studied the child’s face, noting fresh energy.
“Honest. I really didn’t. I slept so good that I woke up early. When I couldn’t fall back asleep, I saw Wyatt coming out of the barn and asked if I could go with him.”
Greta stared at Astrid, a new sense of wonder pushing away the despair. Was it possible Astrid could find some relief after all? From the hot spring?
While she doubted the spring had the ability to truly cure an illness, what if the water somehow contained medicinal properties? If bathing there could diminish Astrid’s symptoms, even just a little, then why not try it again? “I guess next time you start coughing, we’ll have to ride down to the spring again. What do you say to that?”
“W-e-l-l yes!” She peered up with a wide smile.
Wyatt’s fingers tugging expertly against his fishing line came to a halt, and he stood motionless.
When Greta chanced a look at him, he was watching her with rounded eyes full of questions. She lifted her hand to his cheek, relishing the rough scratchiness of his dark stubble. Her heart sang with a new, sweet melody. She and Wyatt didn’t have to go through the painful process of liv
ing apart this winter. They could stay together.
He tipped up his hat as though trying to get a better read of her face.
Inwardly Greta smiled while she tried to remain outwardly composed. “What do you think?” She nudged Astrid. “Should Wyatt and I take a trip to the hot spring? Just the two of us together? Maybe today. Or perhaps tomorrow.”
“Oh, I dunno.” Astrid wiggled her line. “The Indian said the water is for the sick. You’re not sick, are you?”
Greta could hardly pay attention to Astrid’s answer as Wyatt made sense of her insinuation. His oh-so-handsome face registered first surprise and then hope.
“Are you sick, Greta?” Astrid’s voice contained a note of worry that caused Chase, now lying at Astrid’s feet, to lift his head off his paws and perk his ears.
“No, I couldn’t be better. But I’m noticing Wyatt is looking tired and has such dark circles under his eyes.”
“I have an ache right here.” He pressed a hand to his heart. “But I’m guessing a day at the hot spring with Greta might make it better.”
“Might?”
“I reckon I’m gonna need two days to completely heal and not just one.”
She couldn’t contain her smile any longer.
He lowered his pole and in the same motion pulled her against him.
She came to him eagerly, wrapping her arms around him and breathing him in.
“You don’t have nowhere else to be today?” he whispered so Astrid couldn’t hear.
She shook her head. “No. Nowhere but with you.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
As his arms tightened, she sensed he understood that she’d explain everything to him later.
“So when can we leave for the hot spring?” His voice rumbled by her ear with the hint of a promise.
“I’m ready whenever you are, Cowboy. As long as you’re sure that’ll cure your heartache.”
“Ah, darlin’. There ain’t nothin’ that could cure it more.” His lips connected with the pulse in her neck, and she nearly gasped out her pleasure. At Astrid’s wide, curious eyes upon them, Greta swallowed her reaction but couldn’t control the slow burn that spread to her limbs.
“I know something else you can do right now to cure my heartache,” he whispered on the edge of a kiss by her ear.
“What?” She dug her fingers into his shirt to hang on, then shifted so he could have access to her mouth.
But instead of kissing her, he released her.
Without his touch, she felt strangely barren and started to grab a fistful of his shirt again to pull him back. But he was already digging in his coat pocket. A second later he tugged out a ring. Her wedding band. The precious one he’d purchased for her.
He held it up and reached for her hand. “Promise you won’t ever take this off, so long as we both live?”
The beautiful gold-leaf design glimmered in the dawn light. “I promise.”
Something in his eyes told her they’d only faced the first of many trials to come. But something else there reassured her that they’d face those future hardships together, side by side, as man and wife, bearing each other’s burdens.
“I’ll always love you.” He slipped the ring on, his eyes brimming with so pure a love it left her breathless.
“And I will always love you.” She rose onto her toes and touched her lips to his, her promise in return, to love him all the days of her life. He was her cowboy for keeps.
Chapter 31
FLYNN MCQUAID
SOUTHWESTERN PENNSYLVANIA
EARLY NOVEMBER 1862
Flynn McQuaid spread his feet apart and crossed his arms, blocking the barn doorway. He wasn’t about to let Brody leave. Not even if he had to tackle his brother to the ground, hog-tie him, toss him in the cellar and throw away the key.
“You ain’t going,” Flynn said again more firmly. “And that’s all there is to it.”
Brody fisted his hands, causing the muscles in his arms to bulge. His dark brown eyes glowered and his nostrils flared. He was like an angry bull about to charge, and Flynn braced for the impact.
“You ain’t my pa.” Brody’s tone was low and menacing. “Stop acting like it.”
Flynn wanted to roll his eyes. If he had a penny for every time he’d heard Brody and Dylan spout that line, he’d be a rich man. The almighty truth was, he was the closest thing the kids had to a pa, and they knew it. If only they’d listened to him.
“Whoa now, Brody.” Flynn forced himself to remain calm. “You don’t have to do this. You’re still a boy.”
“I ain’t a boy!” he roared, causing one of the barn cats to jump and scurry away in fright. “I’m eighteen now and old enough to fight.”
“Eighteen’s plenty old.” Dylan piped up from where he straddled one of the horse stalls, his trousers too short, revealing skinny legs and dirty bare feet. “Don’t matter how old. Matters how well you can shoot, and you know I’m the best sharpshooter around.”
“Stay out of this, Dylan.” Flynn threw a scowl at the boy. At fifteen, Dylan was way too young to enlist. But with all the talk of war, the boy wouldn’t hesitate to run off and join first chance he had, same as Brody.
A few weeks ago back in October, Pennsylvania had started the draft. They’d heard of riots in some places. Over in Berkley in Luzerne County the military had been called in. They fired on a mob of rioters, killing four or five of them—if the stories about it were true. For a lot of people, the draft only served to remind them the war wasn’t going away as fast as everyone said it would.
Flynn reckoned the fighting would be over in another six months. No more than nine, which was the length of time for the conscription outlined in the bill President Lincoln had signed in July.
Six months was still long as far as Flynn was concerned, especially after reading reports about the Battle of Antietam and the horrific casualties, along with the stories about Bloody Lane with over five thousand injured or dead on Sunken Road alone. There was no way on God’s green earth Flynn was letting Brody join the Union Army, even if they’d supposedly won the battle.
“You ain’t going. Not unless they march in here and make you. And so far they haven’t.”
Brody’s dark brows came together in a ferocious scowl. More and more, the boy reminded him of Wyatt. Although Brody was bigger boned and brawnier than their oldest brother, he had the same swarthy dark hair and eyes and handsome features. They both took after their pa with their looks, whereas Flynn and Dylan had ended up with more of Ma’s fair complexion—green-blue eyes and light brown hair.
The older Brody got, he was starting to resemble Wyatt in more ways than just looks. He was ending up as stubborn and strong willed. And lately Flynn was getting along with him about as well as an old goat.
“I ain’t waiting to be drafted.” Brody picked up the rake he’d been using to muck a stall. “I’m no coward, and I’m aiming to go fight because it’s the right thing, not because someone’s telling me to.”
“Who says it’s the right thing?” As Flynn tossed out the challenge, deep inside he knew if not for his lame hip, he’d have enlisted already. Many a day over the past year he’d cursed his hip and Rusty for breaking it.
But he wasn’t cussing anymore. Nope. Instead, he was trying to focus on the good—as hard as that was. Like the fact that after the injury, Rusty hadn’t hit any of them again, including Ma. Like the fact that if he’d been able to go off to war, he would’ve been worrying about the kids the whole time, wondering where they were living and how they were making ends meet.
At the creaking of the barn door, Flynn tensed and grew silent, as did Brody and Dylan, waiting for Rusty to saunter in and tell them all to get back to work, that the corn wouldn’t harvest itself.
They all knew the reason Rusty was letting them stay on the farm was to help with the harvesting. Although he’d told them they had until spring, no doubt he was waiting to kick them out just as soon as the harvesting was do
ne and he didn’t need their free labor. Ma was hardly in the grave two months, and he was already courting Widow Flores, who had a couple of strapping boys.
Flynn figured he had a few more weeks left before he needed to have a job lined up along with a place for them to live. But the thought of leaving the land was intimidating. All he knew was farming.
Just thinking about losing everything to Rusty made his whole world tilt, almost as if he’d gone lame in both legs instead of one. Didn’t matter that the McQuaid ancestors had owned and worked the land for generations. Rusty had the deed. It was legal. And there wasn’t a blamed thing that could change it.
As the barn door squealed open farther, a lithe girl slipped inside, and Flynn released a breath.
“Come on now, Ivy.” From his spot on the stall, Dylan paused in chewing a long piece of hay to scowl at her. “You’re supposed to do the secret knock so we know who’s a-comin’.”
Ivy closed the door, her dark hair unbound and flowing in wild tangles. At eleven, she was old enough to brush and plait her own hair, but ever since Ma’s passing, Ivy hadn’t bothered with the upkeep. And no amount of Flynn’s pestering had motivated the girl.
Even with her messy hair, Ivy was pretty. Trouble was, she’d much rather go hunting and climb trees than sew and cook like Ma had taught her. And in the weeks since Ma’s death, Ivy had taken to imitating him and the boys more, not less. She was in sore need of a womanly touch.
His failure in raising his sister properly was just one of his shortcomings. The biggest failure facing him was with Brody. Flynn couldn’t let him enlist. Brody was as sensitive as a man came and wouldn’t be able to handle all the death and bloodshed. He couldn’t stand seeing a lame horse, much less a man losing his legs, which was what he was gonna see and worse if he went to war.
“Got something for you, Flynn.” Ivy hid the item behind her back as she bounded across the haymow, her bare feet sinking deep into the alfalfa. Her eyes glimmered with her usual mischief.
“What is it?” He knew better than to hold out his hand. The last time, she dumped a spiny lizard in his palm. Time before that had been a spider’s nest with a whole passel of baby spiders crawling all over the place. Once, she’d even given him a rotten duck egg.
