Phoebe's Valentine

by Duncan, Alice

  “It’s kinda purty here, ain’t it, Aunt Phoebe?”

  Phoebe realized Sarah had swum up beside her and was trying to match her dog-paddling strokes to Phoebe’s own fish-like glides. She grinned. She did so love these children.

  Then she took a hard look at the landscape and, rather than correct her niece’s grammar, said, “It’s real pretty here, Sarah.”

  There was something—infinite—about the land hereabouts. You could see forever. Phoebe guessed it was the ever-changing sky that gave the place its almost uncanny beauty. The land itself shouldn’t have lent itself to inspiration but, oddly, it did. It just rolled on, flat and scrubby, for as far as she could see, until it collided with the magnificent, boundless sky. This land was certainly not a thing like the lush, closed-in green of her home in Georgia.

  “It’s hard to remember we’re stuck out here and maybe in danger, isn’t it?” she murmured.

  “Aw, we’re not in any danger,” William told them. He’d swum over, too, apparently eager to participate in any scintillating conversation in which the ladies might engage.

  “I surely hope you’re right, William,” Phoebe said.

  “I wish Jack was here. He’d probably know all kinds of games to play in the water.”

  “Shoot, Sarah. You’d be screamin’ your teeth out ‘cause he’d be playin’ tag and tickle and such.”

  Phoebe watched her kin and a lazy smile lifted her lips. It didn’t surprise her to realize she missed Jack, too, although the realization made her a little sad. Giving her heart to Jack Valentine wasn’t a smart thing to have done, but she guessed it was too late to stop herself now. She sure wouldn’t mind playing tag and tickle with him in the Pecos River, though. Or anyplace else, for that matter.

  Oh, well. If her Aunt Mildred Louise Finnerty was correct about her faith in reincarnation, perhaps Phoebe and Jack would get their chance to play tag and tickle in another life. Another life when the two of them could both be born in the right place at the right time, and could both be whole and undamaged when they met. The idea appealed to Phoebe. It made her present life seem less hopeless.

  When William began to look a trifle peaked, Phoebe ordered him out of the river and, lo and behold, he obeyed her without so much as a whimper. Phoebe and Sarah stayed in the water for a little while longer, mostly so Phoebe could wash Sarah’s hair.

  “I swear, Sarah darlin’, have you been letting William’s horny toad walk his dirty little feet through this mess?”

  Sarah giggled, an unusual circumstance since she hated to have her hair washed. Her glee made Phoebe smile. She could hardly remember the last time the children had been provoked into a genuine giggle over anything she’d said. Maybe if she let her hair down just a little more often, discipline might still be maintained. Phoebe wondered yet again if she’d been so concerned about keeping the old days alive that she’d entirely lost sight of today.

  “Wouldn’t surprise me much,” she muttered as she scrubbed up a mound of suds on Sarah’s small head.

  “What?”

  Sarah’s eyes squinched up so tight that all Phoebe could see were a couple of wrinkled slits. Tiny golden-brown freckles danced across the little girl’s nose and Phoebe was obliged to admit freckles were sort of cute on an eight-year-old.

  “Nothin’, Sarah darlin’. Your old Aunt Phoebe’s just thinkin’.”

  While Phoebe was dunking Sarah’s head for the second time to be sure all the soap was out, William’s hoarse whisper caught her attention.

  “Aunt Phoebe!”

  It was the alarm in his voice that Phoebe reacted to. She jerked her head up and stared at him.

  “What is it, William?” Frantically, she tried to remember where she’s put Jack’s gun. She wished she’d had the presence of mind to set it out on a boulder near the river before they went swimming.

  “Look, Aunt Phoebe.”

  Phoebe followed the path indicated by William’s finger and gasped. “Oh, my Lord.”

  “What is it, Aunt Phoebe?”

  Sarah had risen from the river dripping wet, her hair a sopping curtain over her pert face. She pushed it back as she spoke, and her words came out bubbly.

  “I’m not sure, Sarah dear, but you’d better get out of the water now. Go over and sit beside William. And don’t move.”

  She guided the little girl with a firm palm in the small of her back, until Sarah stood at William’s blanket.

  “She’s all wet!” William protested.

  “Be quiet right this minute, William Finnerty. You sit still and make sure your sister doesn’t so much as move a muscle or I swear I’ll rip your ears off and feed ‘em to your horny toad.”

  William appeared so astounded by Phoebe’s hideous threat that he only gaped at her and did as she bade him.

  Phoebe shoved a comb at him. “Here, make yourself useful and brush your sister’s hair while you stay put. Don’t either one of you move an inch.”

  Then she sidled over to her clothes and picked up the gun. She guessed she’d better not take the time to dress until she figured out exactly what was going on. Stopping only to slip her feet into her too-big shoes, she walked very quietly toward the phenomenon William had pointed out to her.

  Chapter Fourteen

  All Phoebe could clearly make out from this distance was that one of the figures was a child. This child, though, seemed very small; much younger than William or Sarah; probably not much more than two or three.

  It was the other figure that worried Phoebe—that and any others of its ilk who might be hiding nearby. It was larger than the child and huddled, unmoving, in a mass of brown fabric.

  Phoebe glanced around as she walked, alert to anything that might appear out of place, anything that might move.

  As if I could tell, she thought glumly.

  The child didn’t cry when Phoebe approached. It watched her solemnly, with huge, wary brown eyes. There was something about the baby that nagged at Phoebe. It wasn’t until she was almost upon it that she realized what it was. The child’s expression was exactly as hers had been for the first several months after her ordeal with the Yankees back home.

  “Oh, Lord,” she whispered. “What’s the matter, child? What’s happened to you?”

  When Phoebe saw what the matter was, she cried out softly, threw Jack’s gun aside, and ran the last few paces. She knelt beside the woman who clutched her baby desperately. The woman stared at her with much the same expression as had her child, only hers was more eloquent to Phoebe because the woman was old enough to comprehend her own condition and probable fate. And that of her child.

  “My God, you’ve been shot!”

  The woman wore rags. Her clothing was so tattered, Phoebe couldn’t tell where calico ended and deer hide began. Phoebe wanted to scream at Sarah and William to boil water and fetch her medical supplies and get over here this minute, but she swallowed her panic and strove for calm.

  “I’m so sorry. Let me try to help you.”

  Tentatively, she reached out her hand, hoping the woman would recognize in her a friend.

  “I guess you’re too weak to move.” Phoebe tried very hard to keep her tone of voice serene so as to startle neither woman nor child. “I’m going to get you some help. Please don’t try to move.”

  Her hope that the woman spoke some English was put to rest when the poor thing muttered something in a guttural language completely foreign to Phoebe. The only thing she could discern for sure was the helplessness in the woman’s eyes as she gestured toward her baby.

  “You want me to take your baby?”

  The woman gave another small, forlorn gesture. She was so weak Phoebe was sure it must have taken all her strength to move even that much.

  Hoping against hope she understood what the woman was trying to tell her, Phoebe slowly put her hands on the babe’s tiny waist. She watched the woman closely, struggling to discern any indication that she was following her wishes. When she saw the tiniest hint of a smile flicker across h
er parched lips, Phoebe lifted the baby into her arms. The child didn’t so much as whimper, and it crossed Phoebe’s mind to wonder what kind of life it had led to be so calm in the face of utter catastrophe.

  “Oh, you poor little thing.” The child was a little girl, Phoebe recognized at once, since her ragged shirt didn’t quite cover her bottom. And she was thin as a rail.

  To the woman Phoebe said, “I’m going to get some soap and water and medicine over here and get my kin to help with the baby. You just don’t try to move now.”

  She knew the woman didn’t understand her words, but prayed her meaning might come through in her tone of voice. She guessed it had when the woman sighed and shut her eyes.

  Then Phoebe hurried over to William and Sarah and barked out instructions like a drill sergeant taming raw recruits. “Sarah, fetch clean water from the river in every bucket, can, and basin you can find and bring ‘em over to me. William, you stoke up the fire and put two cans of water on to boil, then get out of the way. Sit still and don’t move. You’re sick and I don’t want you anywhere near this baby or her mama. I’m going to get my medicines and a blanket, then Sarah’s going to watch this poor baby while I try to help her mother.”

  “But—”

  In as soft and deadly a voice as she’d ever heard issue from her lips, Phoebe said, “Don’t you ‘but’ me, either one of you. Do as you’re told and do it now.”

  “Yes’m,” a duet of small, shocked voices chorused.

  Phoebe’s nursing chores began with struggling the wounded woman onto a blanket and helping her drink some water.

  “You’ve lost a lot of blood I reckon, from the looks of you. You try to drink this.”

  She’d given Sarah firm instructions to bathe the baby girl in a basin of warm water, then feed her cold biscuits and water. She wished they had some milk, but it couldn’t be helped.

  After she’d given the woman as much water as she dared, she began to undress her. She had to suppress a cry of dismay as she revealed the pitiful condition her patient was in.

  “My God, you’re starving to death.”

  “Want a biscuit to feed her?”

  Phoebe looked quickly at Sarah and found the little girl carrying out her instructions to the letter. She gave her a brief smile.

  “She couldn’t eat it right now, Sarah darlin’, but thank you.”

  Phoebe saw Sarah’s lips tremble with fright and shook her head in frustration. There was nothing she could do for her niece right now, except reassure her. “You’re doing just fine, Sarah. Just fine. You’re a brave, good girl.”

  After she’d bathed the woman as well as she could and bandaged her terrible wound, Phoebe sat back on her heels and wished she knew more about bullet wounds and medicine. She’d been forced to learn a lot in Georgia, given her circumstances, but she was afraid she didn’t know enough to save this woman’s life.

  “Oh, Lord, please help her. Please help us all,” she prayed as she stared at her handiwork.

  The hapless woman had been unconscious since Phoebe’s first attempts to unclothe her. She’d not protested, but had moaned softly and shut her eyes when her wound was dressed. She’d not stirred since. Phoebe was almost grateful for that.

  “I wish I had some morphine. Or even some laudanum. Anything to ease this poor thing’s pain.”

  “Is—is she going to be all right, Aunt Phoebe?”

  Sarah’s soft, frightened question startled Phoebe, who’d been so involved in her nursing activities she’d forgotten all about the children. She turned to see Sarah hand the freshly washed little girl a piece of biscuit, which the child stuffed into her mouth greedily.

  “I don’t know, Sarah, darlin’. I greatly fear she may not survive.” Phoebe could have kicked herself when she felt her eyes swim and knew she was going to cry right here, in front of her niece.

  Sarah looked horrified, her glance passing from the child in her arms to the woman on the ground. “But Aunt Phoebe, if she dies, what will happen to this baby? Where’s her father? What happened?”

  “I can’t answer a single one of those questions, Sarah darlin’, because I don’t know.” Helpless to stop them, Phoebe wiped here tears away. “I reckon about all we can do now is pray for them, Sarah. Pray for them and for us. I don’t know what else to do.”

  She was touched to see her little niece nod somberly and bow her head. Sarah’s gleaming, ripe-wheat tresses were a startling contrast to the baby’s hair, a jet-black, dirty tangle hanging lifeless and dull to her thin shoulders.

  With another dismal shake of her head, Phoebe guessed she might as well take the advice she’d just given Sarah. Sparing one last look at the face of the baby whose mother was undoubtedly dying in front of her eyes, she, too, bowed her head and prayed.

  # # #

  Jack felt tired, frustrated and hungry when he and Antelope turned their horses toward camp. Their mission hadn’t prospered and the fact rankled. They’d not discovered their prey, although they’d had to clean up the mess he’d left behind. Jack tried not to think about it.

  Worse, he missed Phoebe like crazy.

  Damn. What was wrong with him? Was this incredible pull he felt to be with Phoebe day and night, to protect her from all harm, to shield her from all eyes, normal? Was it—God save him—love? Not one to lie to himself, even when the truth was depressing as hell, Jack feared it might well be. That Love, a miserable, insidious, brain-destroying, insanity-inducing emotion, could have attacked and conquered him was almost more than he was willing to acknowledge.

  He’d already seen what love with a southern belle had done to Josh, yet here he was, succumbing to the same disease. Lord, he couldn’t believe it. Colonel Black Jack Valentine, avenger of the Union, scourge of the south, in love with a damned southern belle. What a comeuppance. He guessed this would teach him to be arrogant. Always one to appreciate irony, even when directed at himself, Jack grinned as he rode.

  “Whatcha thinkin’?” Antelope asked.

  Antelope grinned, too, a circumstance Jack suspected was due more to the fact the Indian liked to grin than to his own amusing companionship. Each of them had prairie chickens dangling from his saddle. They were carrying the birds home for supper. As the men of the house. Just like a little family. A rag-tag, jimble-jamble family of leftovers, misfits and outcasts. Jack laughed outright.

  “Just thinking about how funny life can be.”

  “It can be funny, I reckon. Or you can make it be funny.”

  Jack slanted a look at his companion. He’d known Antelope and Pete Spotted Pony for quite a while; ever since he’d moved out west from New York after the war. He didn’t consider the jokesters friends of his, but he trusted them, even liked them. There was something dark in them, though, something sharp and acerbic that kept all but their kinsmen at a distance.

  With a sigh, Jack recalled the night he’d compared Phoebe to Pete and Antelope. Now, as he looked at the face of his companion, pock-marked from a disease unknown to his people before the white man charged in to destroy his culture, he reckoned his assessment had been about right after all.

  Only Pete and Antelope dealt with the destruction of their lives by making everything into a joke. Phoebe did it by clinging with every ounce of her energy to its rickety artifacts even as those artifacts crumbled to dust in her frantic grip.

  He guessed he was lucky, coming from New York and all. His life had only been affected by the war because he’d let it be. He hadn’t been required to join up. He’d done it out of youthful righteousness and enthusiasm, neither one of which sterling attributes had lasted him past his first battle.

  Guess I’m not so different from them after all. Except I didn’t lose anything but my innocence.

  “Something’s going on in camp,” Antelope said, his sardonic voice interrupting Jack’s musings.

  His head jerked up. “What did you say?”

  “Something’s going on in camp. Looks like we got visitors.”

  “Aw, hell.”r />
  Although Lucky Strike was tired, Jack urged him into a canter as he and Antelope covered the last few yards through the river. He was prepared to holler a greeting and ask what was going on when he spotted Phoebe and shut his mouth.

  She sat on a rock beside a blanket that hadn’t been there when he’d left in the morning. A covered form lay still as death on the blanket, and Phoebe held another, smaller one. She appeared to be rocking it in her arms. When he got close enough to draw Lucky to a halt, Jack realized Phoebe was singing softly and tears streaked her cheeks. She wore her camisole and drawers, too, a breach of propriety of which he never would have guessed her capable.

  A glance around the camp told him William and Sarah shared a blanket under a tree some yards away. Both children sat as if rooted to the spot. William had found his field glasses somewhere and was looking through them at Phoebe and her burden. Sarah waved to Jack, apparently not daring to remove herself from her blanket. Jack waved back.

  As quietly as he could, he slid off Lucky’s back and walked over to Phoebe. Again, as he prepared to ask her what was wrong, his own eyes answered his question, and he didn’t say a word.

  He sat down next to Phoebe, and put his arms around her. As he held her tight, he watched Antelope kneel beside the figure on the blanket.

  When the Indian’s broad, brown face lifted, he didn’t appear to be joking any longer. “You did a good job, ma’am, but I’m afraid she’s not going to make it.” His voice sounded hollow.

  Phoebe nodded and Jack heard her little sob. He lifted the blanket away from the face of the child sleeping in Phoebe’s arms.

  “Jesus,” he whispered.

  “Somebody shot her.” Phoebe’s voice was very soft and it broke on the words.

  Antelope nodded. “We saw where there’d been a bushwhackin’. Couple other Mescalero were killed and left to rot. We buried ‘em. Reckon she was with that band.” He sounded bitter. Jack didn’t blame him.