by Janie DeVos
“Well, it’s just beautiful, Mr . . . ah . . . I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”
“It’s Harold, Miss. That ain’t the first, though, it’s the last. My name’s Samuel Cornelius Harold. Sure is an important soundin’ name for a man who ain’t so important.” He smiled easily again.
“I wouldn’t say that. You saved my life, Mr. Harold . . . or was it Samuel?” She frowned. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m still not quite right.”
“It’s Samuel Harold, miss, and you’re doin’ just fine.” With that, they reached the outhouse, and after checking to make sure no animals of any kind had found shelter within the dark shack, Sam walked politely away; far enough to allow her the privacy she needed, but close enough to hear her if she called for him.
Several minutes later, they began walking back up the same narrow path that they’d come down. When they reached the creek, Sam pulled a small tin cup from his overall’s pocket, squatted down and scooped up a cup full of the creek’s cold water for her. Willa gulped the water down, not caring that streams of it ran down both sides of her mouth. Then, squatting down at the bank’s edge, she drank two more cups full of the cold water before finally stopping long enough to gaze at her reflection. A quiet little pool had been damned off from the rest of the creek with a deposit of small logs and broken branches, courtesy of a family of thick-pelted beavers. She lowered her face to the pool and began scrubbing away the last remaining vestiges of dirt and dried blood, and, as she did, she became painfully aware of a very tender area just above her left temple. Turning her face so that she could better see her injury, she spotted a jagged line of red, sutured flesh that was about two inches long. She gently cleaned it with more of the creek water.
“I remember feelin’ like my head exploded when I was in the water. And that’s about all. What happened after that, Mr. Harold? How did I make it to your place?”
“I’d headed north on the river to set a couple more traps in an area that’d seen a lot of action in it lately. As I was settin’ one of them up, I saw you go divin’ into the drink. I thought, is she crazy? Has she had too much ’shine? That’s when I saw that man followin’ you on the bank. God, but I almost run into him! There wasn’t any moonlight, and we just about collided into one another. I couldn’t understand how he didn’t hear me walkin’ so near to him, but then I guess I’m used to hearin’ sounds over the rush of the river. Not everyone is, though. I knew he was real trouble, and I wasn’t prepared to be on the other end of it. And I had a bad feelin’ he wasn’t there to help you out any. So, as quiet as I could, I got behind a big old oak tree, and watched him watchin’ for you. There’s one thing I’m good at that not all men are, and that’s seeing in the dark. I’m used to it, with trappin’ an’ all. I could see him lookin’ for you, but I knew he couldn’t see me watchin’ him. So I waited and let him get a little ahead of me, just to be sure he wasn’t gonna catch me. And then I followed. Guess after a spell he either got tired of followin’ ya down the river, or, more likely, he just couldn’t keep you in his sight, so he gave up. Probably figured you’d drown, if you hadn’t already. He turned around an’ went back the way he came.
“Soon as he was gone, I hurried on down the river, lookin’ for ya. And, lo and behold, there ya were, about a quarter mile down. You was hung up on the rocks—wedged between two good-sized boulders, actually, and it was hard to see you. Your head was bleedin’ something fierce, but through the mercy of God Almighty, you had turned face up when you’d been conked on the head by one of them rocks. If you hadn’t, you’d a-drowned. Another thing lucky was that the rock didn’t hit you on the temple, but got you just above. I fished you out, with you a-thrashin’ a bit and sayin’ somethin’ about ‘shovels. ’ You was somewheres else, that’s for sure. I drug you up on the bank, got you into my wagon, and hurried back to my place. I knew the darkness was on my side, but the light would be on that man’s, and he’d come back a-lookin’ for ya. That was two days ago.”
“And were you the one that did the sewin’ on my head?”
“Naw. I was afraid I’d scar you worse than you might be otherwise. Besides, I was havin’ trouble rousing you. So I fetched Doc Newton. I hated to leave you, but I was afraid you might bleed to death if I didn’t. So I raced over to his place, a couple of miles from here, and he come right back with me.
“Miss, I don’t mean to meddle in your business, but if you don’t mind my askin’, who was that man lookin’ for you?”
Willa couldn’t look Sam in the eye to answer his awkward question. Self-consciously looking down at her water-stained, worn out shoes, which she’d slipped on before leaving the cabin, she said, “I’m ashamed to say he’s my husband; has been for the better part of a year now. Knowin’ him, he’ll keep lookin’ for me, wanting to make sure I’m as cold and blue as he’s hoping I am, so I’ll make my stay a very short one, Mr. Harold.”
“Miss, that man—that so-called husband of yours—ain’t gonna find you here, no way, no how. Lordy, woman, we’re so far back in this holler that even I get lost tryin’ to find my way back home again.” He laughed, clearly trying to reassure her, to make her feel safe and protected, as well as bring some levity to a most sad and serious situation.
“Mr. Harold, I can’t tell you how grateful I am for all you’ve done. I . . . well . . . I don’t know what would . . .”
“I did what I bet you’d do if you saw what I seen that night.”
“You’d lose that bet, Mr. Harold.”
He looked hard at her and said, “I don’t think so, Miss. I surely don’t. Someone that has blue lightnin’ for eyes don’t back down too easy. No, ma’am.”
She smiled at him, then turned to continue walking down the path. After a minute filled with a comfortable quiet, Sam said, “Miss, I’d be grateful if you’d do two things for me. The first thing is to call me Samuel or Sam. My dad was as mean as a bobcat, and the name Mr. Harold—not to mention every belt I see—only reminds me of him. That’s why I wear only overalls or suspenders.” He laughed, but she could tell it was forced. “And the other thing you can do for me is to tell me your name.”
“My name’s Willa. And as far as my name goes, that’s all you need to know. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Sam.” She reached her hand out to shake his. Suddenly, she began to laugh as she realized the absurdity of her attempt at proper etiquette. After all they’d already been through and she was pleased to make his acquaintance? She threw her head back and laughed; at the ridiculousness of herself, her seemingly impossible situation, and with the miracle of being alive. But most of all, she laughed with joy over the fact that her baby was busy kicking away at her insides. And with the strength of a mule.
CHAPTER 18
The Best-Laid Plans
Her six weeks with Sam flew like the golden oak and red maple leaves that swirled down in the stiff autumn breezes from the towering trees in Sam’s front and side yards. There were a few more blackberries to be found up on Buckeye Ridge, so Willa took a white enameled bowl and headed up to just below the crest of it. During the course of a conversation, Sam had let it slip that his birthday was coming up in a couple of days. And, during the course of another conversation—cleverly instigated by Willa—she’d found out that his favorite dessert was blackberry pie. So, she’d decided to surprise him with one for his birthday, along with a new cap she’d quickly and secretly sewn out of an old wool blanket that had seen far better days before hungry moths had found it. There had been enough of the blanket left to allow Willa to make a new and warmer dress for herself, as well. The one that she’d floated down the river in was still wearable, but the cooler days made it impractical.
The wool cap Willa designed for Sam had long flaps that hung down to cover his ears, for as the wind had increased in its velocity and frigid bite, so had Sam’s complaints about his aching ears. After coming in from long hours of working in the mica or emerald mines (depending on who was hiring), or trapping around the creeks and rivers, not
to mention panning for gold in them, too, Sam suffered from ears red and raw from exposure and wind burn.
During those long days alone, she busied herself with cleaning the cabin, washing and mending Sam’s clothing, clearing out and canning the remains of his garden, and re-stuffing a corn shuck mattress (which Sam was now using for his bed in the loft upstairs). She cooked stews or roasts from fresh game he’d trapped or shot, while salting to preserve the rest of the meat, or fried up a mess of trout that she’d caught and cleaned for their supper. Sam embraced the blessings of a smart, resourceful, and capable woman, and was not short on words of praise and thanks. His kindness and appreciation of her work made the doing of it a pleasure for her instead of a chore. It was exactly the opposite of the way it had been with Malcolm.
Although it sickened her to do it, she forced herself to think about him, and the future that lay ahead for both her and their baby. No! It wasn’t his baby. She couldn’t think of the child as such. In no way would this child be brought up to think, act, react, or live its life in such a cruel and loveless way. It wouldn’t be fair to this child or the world either, for that matter. So the biggest question that hung over Willa’s head was how she could protect her baby from Malcolm, and protect the world from another like him. Without question, she knew she couldn’t seek refuge at her parents’ home, which was just a couple of hours north of Sam’s. Malcolm would have already checked to see if she was back there, of that she was certain, and he would continue going over there again and again until he found her. She wouldn’t put her mother and father in harm’s way, for wherever he might finally find her living (hiding out, actually), only the good Lord knew what would happen to those giving her shelter. Malcolm felt that he owned her, that when the justice of the peace had handed them a signed marriage certificate, he had also given Malcolm a receipt for the bill of sale for his new bride. Living with him had been hell since the first night. The man had two sides to him, and before the ink was dry on their marriage certificate, her kind, thoughtful, and handsome new husband had turned into an unjustifiably jealous and brutal man.
The thought that her baby would have to endure years, if not a lifetime, of being a target of his terrifying temper made her course of action crystal clear: She had to keep the father and child away from each other. Neither could know the other existed. And in order to accomplish that, Willa had to put a lot of distance between them. More miles meant a greater likelihood of his never finding them, and the faster she could get away, the better. For she knew without a whisper of a doubt that if her husband found her at Sam’s he’d kill them all before taking his next breath. Willa knew that she was going to have to travel fast and hard, and head north into Tennessee, or Virginia, and she would need to move before the winter storms began. But to do so she would need two more favors of Sam; she had to ask that he take her to the stage coach depot in Marion, and, as humiliating as it was, ask to borrow the ticket fare, with the promise of paying him back, of course. Then, she and her unborn baby would be on the first outbound coach.
CHAPTER 19
In the Cards
Willa wore her old cotton dress while she washed the wool one in the creek. She’d done the washing just two days before so there were only a handful of things to be laundered, but she wanted to leave things as tidy and neat for Sam as she could before she left. She didn’t have enough laundry to make it worth the trouble of hauling and heating water for the washtub, so she decided to do the wash in the creek.
It was a perfect Indian summer day, and the mid-morning sun beat down on Willa while she slapped the clothes against a small boulder. Before too long, Willa was drowsy and as limp as the clothing that she hung over the branches of a laurel bush to dry. She knew it wouldn’t take the clothes long, but long enough to allow for a nap, so she lay back on the brown grass of the bank to sleep.
It’s hard to believe I’ve been here for six weeks, she thought. The idea of leaving caused a physical ache in her chest, especially considering the conversation that had taken place between her and Sam the night before, but she knew she had to depart immediately. The area had already seen a storm come through, which dropped two inches of snow, but the ground had been warm enough still to melt it off, though that wouldn’t be the case for much longer. As it stood today, the stagecoaches were the only mode of commercial transportation in the area, but she knew that before long the building of the railroad that was already underway in the western mountains of North Carolina would change that, would change a lot of things, actually. Life in these isolated Blue Ridge Mountains would never be the same when the tracks were complete. They would bring the world to this place, to these people, and she wasn’t sure how she felt about the invasion. But, she laughed ironically to herself, the outside world is where I’m hoping to escape to tomorrow. Ah, well, I guess everything and every place can make a person want to run from it, or to it.
The sadness of her departure, combined with the fear of heading into an unknown place and having to find work there to support both her and the baby tightened the muscles in her stomach. Lying there, she tried to push the worries from her mind and relax by listening to the rhythmic sound of the flowing creek. Finally, she was lulled into a soft sleep . . .
She stood on the top of a mountain looking out at the snow-covered valley below. Off to the left, poking up through the whiteness, were small, dark trunks with gnarly, stark branches that reached up toward a bright blue sky as if wanting to be noticed, lifted up and held by supreme, ethereal hands. The more mature trees in the apple orchard stood sentinel over a quiet, sleeping land. Three crows caw-cawed their way over her in flight, and she lifted her right hand in greeting. How she wished she could soar up with them and go wherever the air’s currents might dictate. Instead, she tucked her hand back into the pocket of her dark wool cape and began walking through the snow-covered meadow. The cold air was bone-dry, and her mouth was dry from it, so she reached down and cupped a handful of snow. Bringing it to her mouth, she felt its good coldness. Odd. It was so hard. But it was freshly fallen, with no tracks from any animal packing it down, so why was it so hard and metallic tasting? Why was . . .
Willa’s eyes snapped open and she stared up at Malcolm as he stood above her, straddling her, and pointing a shotgun down at her with the end of the cold barrel pressed painfully against her lips. “Don’t ya move, bitch,” Malcolm said in a low and deadly voice. He pushed the gun more firmly against her mouth, and it felt as though her front teeth would shatter before a bullet could do the damage.
“Did ya really think I wouldn’t find you, girl? D’ya think I’m some damn fool? I walked down that whole damn river the night you jumped in, and then started back up it when I couldn’t find you at the ford. You think I wouldn’t find you?” His words grew higher in pitch, along with his rage. “I knew you’d gotten out somewheres, and I been looking around ever since. Been asking around, too. No one could say they’d seen you, though. But then, as luck would have it, I was playing cards, and Doc Newton—from right around here—joins in. Hadn’t seen the doc in a while, so just trying to pass the time o’ day with him between games, I ask him what news he’s got, and he proceeds to tell me a bunch of bullshit, like I really give a damn. But then he gets to the part about sewing up a gal’s head some weeks before that looked a lot like my wife.
“Remember, Willa, he’d seen you in town with me a year or so ago? We run into him at the store while spending the money I’d won off of him playing poker the night before. Anyway, I played all dumb-like. Said I’d been away a while, playing cards down in Morganton, and when I come back you was gone. Told him you had kin up this way, and you’d likely gone on to see your cousin. Then real casual-like I ask him exactly where he saw you. He was good about directions, I’ll tell you. If there’s one thing you gotta know, Willa, a man ain’t gonna cover for a no-good slut, especially if she’s an associate’s wife.”
If Willa hadn’t been paralyzed with fear, she would have laughed at that last remark—“asso
ciate,” indeed!
“So, here I am and here you are. And what I want to know is, who is that son of a bitch you been playing house with? When I came up here through the clearing this morning, there you two were, standing outside that smokehouse of his, and talking all close and sweet-like. Been shacking up, Willa? Huh? What you thinking, gal, that I wouldn’t hunt you down, dead or not? I’m here to reclaim what’s rightfully mine. And you is mine, and I’m taking you back home with me. But first I’m gonna remind you of what you should have been taking care of at home—tending to my business, and not his!”
Malcolm, still pointing the gun at her with his right hand, let go with his left, and reached across to his right hip to unsheathe the hunting knife he always carried. Then he pulled the shotgun away from her face as he immediately knelt down, straddling her thighs. He unbuttoned the front of his wool pants—pants she’d made for him—and holding the razor-sharp blade against her throat, he pressed home the point that he’d kill her quickly if she tried to fight him. As he did, she felt the warmth of her own blood run down the side of her throat.
“Try screaming and I’ll cut your voice cords before you can close your mouth.” With that earnest threat, paired with the knife painfully breaking her skin, Willa bit down on her tongue in order to squelch the scream that wanted to escape. Now she could taste her own blood as well as feel it.
“Spread your legs, or I’ll stab each one of ’em ’til you do.”
Willa, terrified, did as she was told, and as soon as she did, Malcolm pushed her dress up over her belly—the belly that carried the seed of this insane man. Then he brutally rammed into her. Unable to stop herself, she instinctively tried to sit up to move away from the pain. But she was no match for his strength, and his knife cut even deeper into her throat. He pushed her back down and continued pounding into her body with an intense and agonizing anger, and she felt as though she was being torn apart. Hang on, she urged herself. Hang on. I’ve got to for the baby’s sake. Just lie here and maybe he won’t kill us both.
