Lavender Blue: A Time Travel Romance (Lavender, Texas Series)

by Bartholomew, Barbara

  Betsy groaned, then whispered, “War.”

  “Yes, I suppose he could hardly avoid seeing blood shed as a soldier, but . . .”

  She broke off as Hetty came rushing into the room. “Betsy child,” that most comforting of voices sounded in her ears and she sagged with relief. Hetty wouldn’t let anything bad happen to her or her baby.

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Doc got home to deliver the second baby, but Caleb still hadn’t arrived by the time Betsy was tucked up in her bed, fresh and clean-smelling and having a dish of custard while she listened with awe to the tiny infant screaming in Miss Eliza’s arms.

  “Which one is that?” she asked. “The boy or the girl?”

  “A sweet little girl,” Miss Eliza answered, jiggling the baby in hopes of restoring her to some level of calm. “The boy is sound asleep in his cradle.”

  Hetty snorted. “Sweet!” she said. “That young one has a temper and she’s mad as fire over the whole process of being born.”

  Betsy laughed, feeling pleasantly comfortable and cozy, the main emotion registering was that she didn’t hurt so terribly anymore and the baby—babies—were all right.

  “They are doing well?” she asked again. “You’re sure, Hetty? They seem awfully small.”

  “Both over four pounds, the boy closer to five,” Doc’s voice came from the doorway. “Mama and babies doing fine.”

  “It sure is loud,” Evan come in behind Doc, holding his small hands over his ears. He looked at the sleeping infant in the cradle next to the bed. “And ugly,” he added with childish honesty.

  “Well, all I’ve got to say,” Betsy was getting very sleepy, but felt she had to give credit where it was due, “is that you’re the hero of the day, Evan. You found Miss Eliza for me.”

  “Nobody was home next door,” he apologized, “so I just kept walking and Miss Eliza was in the doorway. I told her Betsy was hurt.”

  “I’d gone out to check and see if the rain was letting up,” Miss Eliza said. “And there was little Evan just sopping in that downpour. I didn’t even go back for my umbrella, but just handed the child inside with the others and set out immediately.”

  Hetty took the yowling infant from her and said in no-nonsense tones, “Now you just settle down, Missy,” and placed the baby next to her mother. Betsy handed her empty dish to Hetty and snuggled the little girl against her where she gradually simmered down and fell asleep.

  Drowsily Betsy heard the others tiptoeing from the room, though Evan protested that he wanted to stay with the ugly babies. The door closed and as she sank into sleep, she wondered why Caleb wasn’t home yet. She had quite a surprise for him!

  He’d found his little farm once more being taken over by the neighboring wilderness with oak seedlings reaching up through the earth he’d plowed in the spring and Betsy’s flower beds full of weeds.

  The cabin was secure enough, though once more covered with dust, but he could imagine how it would be this winter when he and Betsy moved out with their new baby. Betsy had put up canned vegetables and fruit that would have to be brought out from the Lavender house and he had no doubt he would be able to bring in enough game to supplement their food. Then in the spring, he would plow and plant and they would have their own garden and pasture for the cow.

  It all sounded like his idea of Heaven and he lingered, dreaming and planning, until he realized the afternoon was passing and it would be dark before he got home.

  Not wanting Betsy to be worried, he climbed into the saddle and headed home, his pace necessarily slow because his old plow horse wasn’t up to much speed.

  The evening was dusky, approaching darkness as he neared town. The day had been dry out at the farm, but the closer he got to Lavender he was splashing through pools left by a heavy rainfall and beginning to feel a little anxious about his wife.

  Still the birth was weeks away and she had Hetty nearby in case of trouble. He congratulated himself that he’d been able to spend the whole afternoon away without miring himself in concern about Betsy or the ongoing war.

  He had spent ordinary hours in thinking about when to plow and what to plant and it had felt good.

  Lavender lay in sight, a growing town spread across the hills ahead and his horse stepped up his pace a trifle, doubtless remembering his warm barn and the hay within and Caleb chuckled. He wouldn’t mind a little supper and a few kisses from his wife so as far as he was concerned they couldn’t get home fast enough.

  It was at that moment that a dark figure on a black stallion rode in front of him, forcing him to bring the plow horse to a halt. Bolter Jackson, fierce with anger and obviously very drunk, confronted him.

  “Hoping to meet your precious Dr. Tyler Stephens,” the big man drawled. “But I reckon his gimpy sidekick will do well enough for tonight. It’s time somebody taught you traitors a lesson.”

  A whip uncurled in his hands, the kind rumor said he’d used to discipline field hands, and Caleb felt it slash across his face.

  She dreamed in the night that Caleb had come home and came rushing in to hug her and say, ‘Is it a boy or a girl?’

  She laughed and said, ‘It’s a boy and a girl.’ With a happy smile, she sank into deeper sleep, only vaguely aware that lamps still burned in the other room and the low rumbling sound of worried voices came through her closed door.

  It was still dark when she awoke again. The euphoria following the birth of her babies had faded and she felt totally miserable. She was experiencing something that felt like an echo of labor pains in her back and lower abdomen, even a tiny movement made her feel as though her whole body had been battered and she was once again overwhelmed by anxiety.

  The babies were safe and asleep, one on each end of the big cradle that had been made for Evan, but where was Caleb? Surely he was home by now.

  Frightened, she crept from her bed and found that walking made her feel like she was splitting apart. Still she had to keep going, had to make sure Caleb was safe.

  Perhaps he was sitting in the living room chatting with Hetty and Doc about his new son and daughter. Well, too bad, she wanted him at her side.

  The hyper-sensitive little girl in the cradle stirred as though brought to alert by her mother’s movements, squirmed and began to cry, the sound a low whimpering like that of a kitten. Carefully Betsy picked her up before she could wake her brother and holding the precious bundle close against her, patting the tiny back, she opened the door and stepped into the living room.

  No Caleb. Only Miss Eliza was there, slumped on the sofa asleep, her glasses slipped down on her nose. The baby gave one last cry as she settled to sleep against her mother, awakening the sleeping woman.

  “Betsy!” Miss Eliza straightened, embarrassed to be caught sleeping. She pushed her glasses back into place and said, “You should be resting.”

  Betsy stood there barefooted and feeling the chill of the night sifting in under her long flannel nightgown, terror rising within her. “Where’s Caleb? Has he come home?”

  Miss Eliza hesitated, concern showing on her face. “Forrest is asleep out in the lean-to where the sound of the babies won’t wake him,” she said, “he was in bad shape after his first full day back at work, but Doc and Hetty’s husband have gone looking for Caleb. Hetty went to stay with Miranda.”

  “Caleb never came home?”

  Miss Eliza shook her head. “I’m sure his horse just went lame or something like that,” she said, trying to put assurance into her voice. “Doc will find him safe and sound and bring him home in the buggy.”

  It was a reasonable enough explanation. With his game leg, it would be a long walk home for Caleb if something went wrong with the horse. It was a likely explanation for his delay in returning, but Betsy knew she wouldn’t relax until he was safe home again.

  Just then the baby boy in the bedroom, apparently waking to the realization that he was alone, began to howl and Betsy started in that direction but Miss Eliza held up one hand. “You sit down right now. I’ll
bring him to you.”

  She’d vanished into the bedroom when Betsy heard the sound of a door slamming somewhere outside. Holding the still sleeping baby in her arms, she went to cautiously peek out the back door, the direction from which the sound had come.

  The rain from earlier in the day had cleared and the sky sparkled with stars while a light wind blew air that smelled moist and newly cleansed. To her surprise, the door to the cookshack stood open, swinging back and forth in the wind.

  She frowned. Miss Eliza had said Forrest was sleeping out there. She wondered if after an unaccustomed day at work he’d fallen ill. He was still in a fragile condition and probably would be for an indefinite period of time.

  She stepped carefully out, feeling the slippery ground outside and very conscious of her own dear baby in her arms. “Forrest,” she called, concerned about him, but not at all eager to step into the cookshack.

  She hadn’t made that chancy journey in months now and never intended to do so again. Then she frowned, seeing a flame of light from within.

  It was across the room from the fireplace and looked as though the homemade curtains over the single window were burning. With thought only of Forrest sleeping alone in the lean-to, she forgot for an instant the risk of going into the cookshack and hurried across the threshold, calling for Forrest to wake up.

  She was assaulted by the twin scents of kerosene and burning cloth as she walked in to be rundown by a much larger form than that of Forrest.

  Screaming “Forrest! Forrest!” she was relieved to find that instinctively she’d clutched the baby safely in her arms as she fell to the floor, keeping the little one secure and unharmed in her arms. But now the baby began to cry and even as Forrest appeared in the doorway that connected the lean-to and the cookshack she saw flames beginning to bloom behind her.

  She leapt to her feet, spurred by instinctive energy and no longer aware of her own disabilities as she raced for the door, determined only to get her baby away from the smoke and flames. “Hurry, Forrest,” she called, knowing she dared not delay and counting on his ability to save himself.

  She ran across the threshold and found herself, baby in her arms, staring into the face of her little sister.

  “Mom! Dad!” Sylvie yelled. “Betsy’s back!”

  They’d found him lying in the middle of the road leading into Lavender where he’d been whipped into unconsciousness by Bolter Jackson. He opened his eyes as lantern light shone straight into his eyes and he heard the familiar voice of Hetty’s husband Fred Snow calling, “Here he is, Doc. I think he’s still breathing, but he’s one holy mess.”

  He passed out again and only woke again inside the doctor’s buggy jolting over rough ground. “I hope Betsy wasn’t worried,” he whispered and heard Doc’s laughter.

  “She was busy, son, giving birth to two babies. Twins.”

  He couldn’t take it in, his brain was too sluggish. “Not time yet,” he protested.

  “Babies come in their own time, Caleb, even yours. Betsy’s fine and so are the babies. We’ll have you there in a minute.”

  He worked hard at opening his eyes. Twins! He had a whole family all at once. “Boys or girls?” he asked.

  “One of each . . .” Doc’s voice trailed off, than he whispered, “Oh, dear God!”

  He yelled, “Hurry! Something’s on fire and it looks like it’s near the house.”

  Seconds ago Caleb would have sworn he was too badly injured to move a muscle, but now he sat up to look out of the buggy to the town just ahead. Flame pierced the blackness of the night. “Betsy and the babies,” he said in terror.

  The old plow horse was urged to a speed beyond his means as they pounded down the street. They weren’t the only one to spot the fire because he heard shouts and then the ringing of bells that alerted the community. People were running in the direction of Crockett Street.

  He held on to Doc while they raced on toward home, but as they approached his heart went into his throat as he saw that the cookshack was ablaze, even while neighbors had formed a bucket chain to pass water toward the fire.

  It was hopeless, he knew that immediately, even as he watched the old wooden building eaten up by fire, the water no more than a token that did nothing to put out the flames.

  He felt Doc’s strong body shiver as he waited until they were almost at a stop. He jumped down. “My son,” he shouted. “My son was sleeping in there.”

  Caleb managed to stumble from the buggy into arms of neighbors who held him up so that he could see when Forrest ran to his father. “It’s all right, Pa,” he yelled. “I got out. Betsy woke me up.”

  Betsy! He looked around, trying to find her in the gathering crowd, but could see no sigh of her. At that moment, he didn’t remember the newborn babies. His only thought was for his wife.

  Forrest saw him. “She’s not in there, son. She’s all right. At least I think she is.”

  Doc’s weathered old face was pale as milk and Caleb thought that if anyone had ever doubted his affection for his son, they would be reassured at this moment. “Take me to Betsy,” he told Forrest. “I have to see her.”

  There were neighbors aplenty to see that the fire from the cookshack didn’t spread to their house or nearby homes and Caleb figured he looked bad enough to be excused from fire fighting.

  Forrest looked at his father, than offered an arm to support Caleb as they headed into the house, neighbors calling well wishes to them as they vanished inside. Once inside Caleb kept going even though he didn’t know how to put one foot in front of another and he could feel blood dripping from where Bolter had lashed his face and arms.

  Searching for his wife, he saw only Miss Eliza, sitting on the old sofa, rocking her body to soothe the sleeping bundle in her hands. “Lordy, what happened to you?” she asked, staring at Caleb.

  He had no time to talk of that. “Is Betsy in the bedroom?” He stumbled forward, supporting himself against the furniture. “I’ve got to see for myself that she’s all right.”

  Instead Forrest pushed him into a chair and with his emaciated hands held him there.

  “What is it?” Doc asked.

  “She’s not here,” Forrest addressed himself to Caleb. “But I swear she’s all right, at least as near as I can figure.”

  This made no sense. Caleb stared at him. Was Forrest trying to tell him that Betsy had been in the cookshack when the little building went up in flames? Was his Betsy gone forever?

  He cried out in one wordless, agonized question. Nothing mattered, not even the babies, if Betsy was gone.

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Distraught as she was, Betsy had a clear idea of how she looked as Mama, Papa, Grandpapa Forrest, Mrs. Myers and Dottie came running outside to stare at her dressed in only her nightgown and with a tiny baby in her arms.

  “Betsy,” Mama finally said. “Where did you get that baby?”

  Baby was, of course, screaming loudly at all the indignities being perpetuated on her small person.

  Where it had been chilly night when she had run into the burning cookshack, she had stepped out into sunny daylight.

  “Is Eddie with you?” Papa asked politely.

  “No,” Betsy said, handed the baby to Mama and then promptly fell in a dead faint.

  When she awakened she was lying across her own bed, apparently having been carried there by Papa and nobody was in the room except her parents. “Baby,” she demanded, and Mama handed the still crying infant to her.

  She opened the front of her nightgown and put the baby to her breast. Tiny as she was, the little one grabbed hold and began to suck. Betsy began to cry, thinking of the other one, the little boy she’d left behind. She hoped somebody remembered to feed him.

  “I want Caleb,” she said.

  “Of course, darling,” Cynthia Stephens assured her daughter. “Who is Caleb?”

  Betsy sniffled to a stop. She had to stop crying long enough to ask for help. “Caleb is my husband and this is our baby.”

&nb
sp; “Nonsense,” said Mama. “You’ve only been gone a few weeks. How could you have a baby in that amount of time?”

  “I’ve been gone for a long time,” Betsy argued, “for practically half the Civil War.”

  Papa watched the busily suckling babe. “That baby seems to truly believe it belongs to her,” he told his wife.

  “Good Lord,” Cynthia responded. “That means I’m a grandmother.”

  Betsy sniffed again. “Twice over,” she said and began to tell them what had happened.

  Caleb, recovering from his injuries and hobbling around the house like an old, old man, looking at the ashes and debris where once the cookshack had stood. The stench of smoke lay in the air even though the wind was blowing.

  His mood felt wintry even though it was still September. He felt Forrest’s light touch against his back as he stood there, leaning on his cane. “No sign of human remains,” he said matter-of-factly. “Seems some folks still thought Betsy was in the old shack so they searched thoroughly.”

  This bald statement was meant to reassure him, Caleb knew. “Tell me again,” he said.

  Forrest nodded, still looking about a hundred years old, but getting around a little better now that he was under Miss Eliza’s care. “She woke me by yelling and I jumped up and found the shack full of smoke with fire in the curtains and the walls on that side of the house. Bolter was there, his eyes wild as he turned to look at me, puzzled I guess because he thought my pa would be sleeping out there. Then he turned and ran, knocking Betsy and the baby down, though she hung on to that baby for dear life.” He grinned, than his face slowly faded to seriousness.

  “She yelled again for me to get out, then headed out the door. I saw her, clear as anything, standing in the doorway as she vanished.”

  This wasn’t the first time Caleb had questioned him, each time Forrest patiently adding more details. “She was still in her nightgown and holding on to her baby. They just went away.”