“What’s that, dear?” Isaiah asked, polite as ever, hat in hand, brim curled into his palm.
“May I serve you some tea?”
“Certainly. Thank you kindly, Mistress Merkley.”
She could feel Isaiah watching her as she put the kettle on the stove and moved to fetch her single loaf of bread, hiding her shaking hands in the folds of her dress.
The silence was finally broken by the flare of a match when he lit the hurricane lamp on the kitchen table before going to work on the woodstove in the center of the one-room cabin. Once he’d gotten it crackling, she heard the creak of him settling into one of the wooden chairs that her late husband had built with his own hands. On the cushion she’d stuffed and sewn herself. The cushion Hamish had sat on every day, until he’d moved to the bed, never to sit again.
“The outdoors suits you,” he said.
She nodded in return, since anything more would suggest that this was a compliment. Which it assuredly wasn’t. Isaiah did not compliment. He spoke in simple truths. Proclamations.
“Sit with me,” he said while they waited for the water to boil.
“Thank you. Sir, I have—”
“Sit, child. Listen. I think you’ll be glad of what I have to share.”
He sounded so reasonable, so like the man she remembered from her childhood, that hope flared. This was it—her opportunity to tell him. He would agree that medication was the solution. And with Isaiah on his side, Sammy would be fine. She had to try. She had to.
“If I may, Isaiah. It’s about Sammy. There’s a chance we could fix what ails him.”
Watching her, he waited.
“What ails him, exactly?”
Ignoring the niggling voice that told her stop, she forged ahead. “He has…seizures.”
Thin, reddish brows rose over bony features. “Seizures?”
“Yes, they’re when a person—”
“I know what they are, Abigail. What I don’t understand is why you see fit to question our good Lord and Savior. His judgment is true and supreme.”
“I…I’m not questioning, sir, but…there’s medicine. For seizures. We can help Sammy get better. It’s not against the Lord if it’s—”
“Sit.” Face tight, Isaiah tilted his head and focused his eyes on hers.
Abby settled stiffly onto her chair and waited, urgency tamped down, frustration making her antsy.
“A decision has been made,” he said with a smile. He seemed to wait for some response before going on. “You’ve had a hard time of it, I know, since your husband died, Abigail. Hamish Merkley was a good man with a tight hold on you. With him gone, I know how easy it would be for you to lose your path. And the fault is mine if you have lost it. All mine.”
Eyes downcast, face hot and prickly, Abby waited.
“I haven’t lost my—”
Again, he didn’t let her speak. “Had a few fine men request your hand, but I’m not sure they’re strong enough for the way you need to be…handled.”
Silence as Abby breathed, everything clenched, everything so tight she should, by all rights, have splintered into a million jagged shards.
“My concern, dear Abigail, beyond your usual challenges—oh, curiosity, pride, a dash of immodesty, and so on—is your lack of children, your inability to fulfill your duties as wife and mother. Are you barren? Would the Almighty so forsake one of His chosen few?” With a sad shake of his head, Isaiah lifted one hand, as if to touch her, but pulled it back. “I received word last night, Abigail, from our Righteous Lord and Savior. Hallelujah! I prayed, and He responded.” Isaiah’s voice rose, taking on the kind of fervor that usually preceded an important proclamation. Perfect, really, that tweak of surprise at the end, bewilderment that he’d been chosen, yet again, to deliver this sacred message. How modest.
The air grew stiller in the tight space. Even without an audience, Isaiah stole a room’s oxygen. With people bearing witness, singing his praises, and giving him their air, he was legendary.
Why hadn’t he saved this for a more public occasion?
“Would you believe our Lord has time to spend on such inconsequential beings as the two of us?” He chuckled self-deprecatingly, foxy teeth prodding his bottom lip. Righteous certainty lit him up from inside. Handsome and saintly. A deadly combination. “I could not believe it either, my dear. But He knows the importance of our work here, and He has, again, chosen you, Sister. You.” He nodded, narrowed eyes bright on her. Somehow, despite that light, he managed to look saddened, contrite—a martyr heading to his death. “I did not desire this, Abigail. I told Him so myself, but He did chasten me and remind me of my duties unto Him.” He leaned forward and placed a hand on her forearm. Abby watched that spot—those fingers, that touch, both too familiar. The light sprinkling of gold hair along the back of his hand, the few freckles beneath, were too human for someone so close to the divine. “I will do the Lord’s bidding,” he whispered, and the hand grew heavier—whether in her mind or reality, she wasn’t sure. “I will take you, Abigail.” The hand lifted and alit on her face, caressed her jaw in a move she’d seen him perform over and over and over again. Just a fatherly motion, he’d say, but in reality, Isaiah never touched men like this, nor boys. It was more than fatherly, she was sure. It left her feeling filthy, wanting to shrug him off and scrub at her skin.
“You? You’ll take me as a wife?” Her heart beat audibly in her ears. A fast, loud thwump that she could barely hear through. “What about Mama? Does she know?”
The corners of his mouth twitched as though at a memory, and something sick twisted in her chest. I’ve got to get out of here.
“I will do my duty unto her. And unto you. With no children between us, I see the error of our ways. And the Savior has decreed it.” His voice was low, almost a whisper. “I will plant a child inside of you. Unlike your late husband, who was unable to do so,” he added, a sad smile pasted over his features. And he believed it—that his was a nobler body, far more able than Hamish’s.
No. Oh, no, no, no. She couldn’t do this. She wouldn’t. At least with Hamish, there’d been a marriage license. She may not have wanted it, but they’d been wed before God and government. What Isaiah proposed was preposterous on countless levels. No. Never.
A wave of nausea rose up, images of herself and Mama and… Oh Lord, the worst of it was the babies. The babies, if she had them, would be taken from her and put into the nursery.
“Four days hence, we will be joined in the eyes of the Lord. You will bear me children, many children, and we will prepare our people for the Day.” He smiled. “Together.”
In four days? It took longer than it should have for the words to truly sink in, because this wasn’t supposed to happen. Isaiah didn’t take women like this. There’d been whispers of God pushing him to do things with young girls, but not women who’d been wed before.
He’d want her to smile, to be pleased. She forced her cold lips to tighten at the corners, opened her mouth, and forced out a lie: “It would be an honor.”
It wasn’t until Isaiah took his leave that Abby let herself collapse. He’d just disappeared from sight when she rushed around back and threw up—halfway to the latrine. After that, she went inside and gathered the few things that mattered to her: her birth certificate, stained and worn, its corners dog-eared but still legible; the little plastic farmer figure she’d kept from her life before arriving at the Church—it had been her only toy when she and Mama had driven away from West Virginia—and her dictionary. She couldn’t bring herself to look at the Blackwood Library label on the spine, but she’d taken the oldest, most tattered one they had. And she’d always figured she’d somehow repay them. At least now she might have the opportunity to do so.
* * *
Sammy was finishing up dinner in the dining hall when she found him, which was just about the worst possible place for him to be. She
spotted him through the window and waited, hidden in the trees, until folks emerged, heading back to their cabins for sleep.
Finally, Sammy came out, and Abby took a chance by going right to him, grabbing his arm, and pulling him along.
“Oh, hi, Abby! Missed you at dinner. Brigid sat with me and the kids. I got to hold Jeremiah! He’s so little. She said I can’t give him regular food yet. Only drinks milk.”
She glanced over her shoulder and picked up her pace.
“Wow! That’s great, Sammy. But listen, we need to go.”
“Where? Where we going?”
“We’re leaving. There’s someone who can help us. His name’s Luc, and he lives right over the rise, past the fence. We’ll—”
“You mean Grape Man?” She’d forgotten she’d shared that name with Sammy. Well, good—that would make it easier to convince him to come along.
“Yes. Yes, we’re going to Grape Man, and he’ll know where we can go to get you help. Okay? Come on, let’s—”
“Don’t wanna go, Abby. Got too many friends here.”
“We’re coming back,” she lied. “But right now, we’ve got to get to Grape Man. You have to listen, okay? You know where he lives, right? If anything goes wrong?”
“Yeah, but what about your mama? Don’t you wanna tell her where we’re going? I didn’t see her at dinner, but she’ll be sure to—”
“No, Sammy. No, we have to leave now. There’s a hole in the fence that we need to get through. We’ll worry about—”
“Oh, no, Abby. Almighty’ll be angry if we do something ’Saiah don’t like. ’Saiah always said not to tread on the other side of the fence. It’s all monsters out there.”
Abby stopped and turned to Sammy, hands tight on his shoulders, hating how firm she had to be. “Sammy. This is our only chance. Do you understand? Remember how you hit your head and it hurt? This isn’t about Isaiah or God or my mama. This is about getting you all better.” She paused, eyeing him closely. “How’re you feeling?”
“Head hurts.”
“Yeah? Like when you get one of your…fits?”
“Yeah. Before getting one.”
“What if I told you we could stop the fits?”
“Oh, I’d be happy. I sure would.”
Softening her hands into something close to a hug, she leaned in and grasped him gently by the forearm, urging him along. “Then let me make that happen, okay, pumpkin? Will you do that? Will you let me take you to Grape Man?” Another tug at his arm had him walking, if not quite agreeing to leave yet. But it was a start. Slowly, they made their way past the cabins, toward the uphill path. After a few minutes, Sammy stumbled to a halt.
“Don’t want to leave, Abby.”
Abby paused, one comforting hand moving to clasp his.
“Remember that ice cream they sell at the market?”
“Bubble gum!”
“Yes, that’s right. Bubble gum. Well, you can—”
“Pink bubble gum.”
She smiled, wanting to hug him but pressed by the need to move. “I’ll get you some. I’ll get you lots.”
There wasn’t time for the shame that washed over her at his acquiescence.
“’Kay, Abby.”
“You know that section of fence, up there, by the rocks? The place above Grape Man’s fields?”
“Yeah. Where we watched him in the summer.” She flushed hot at the memory of dragging Sammy with her to watch Luc. “We’re going there. To a hole I made.”
“We crawl through the hole?”
“Yes, Sammy. And then—”
“He’ll be our dad?”
Abby’s chest caved a bit at those words. Oh, Sammy. She screwed her eyes shut and pulled him along. Even as a kid, she’d taken care of him. Like a little brother. Like her own child.
“Not exactly. But he’ll help us.” She closed her eyes, hoping she was right. “He’s a good man.”
From somewhere behind them—Abby couldn’t tell how far—came the sound of shouting. It took a few seconds before it sank in. When it did, she tightened her hold on Sammy and dragged him up and toward the fence. She worried as he struggled to keep up behind her. Would running like this set off one of his fits?
Another shout, so much closer now, had them doubling their efforts. Sammy, sensing her fear, didn’t need to be told to hurry. Bless him.
It hurt her lungs to run so hard. It had to be worse for Sammy. It was when he started coughing that she began to lose hope. The men would hear them now, surely.
She pictured the path ahead. One last curve, the short, rocky climb, and then the home stretch. Picking up speed, she knew they could do this. I have enough strength for both of us. All they needed to do was make it to the hole and—
With a thump, she fell hard and rolled a few feet downhill. The air was knocked out of her, and her lungs hurt.
Pushing hard at the pain, she got up onto all fours, eyes focusing on Sammy’s scuffed black shoes—no more adapted to this escape than hers—then up to his face.
“Go!” she hissed and pointed to the hole, invisible in the dark but only about fifty yards ahead now. “There. See where I’m pointing?” At Sammy’s nod, she went on. “You go straight that way, to the fence. The hole is at the bottom. Get down and crawl through. Then you go to where there’s light. Understand?”
“Not goin’ without you, Abby. I can’t do—”
“Don’t you dare wait for me, or I’ll be angry, Sammy,” she said through gritted teeth, the lie bitter on its way out. She could never be angry with him, but now wasn’t the time to show softness. Softness, right now, could very well mean death. “You go through the hole and down the hill till you get to the cabin. And then you tell Luc you need his help. Got it?”
He didn’t answer right away, and she stood, cringing at the pain of her ankle. “Go on, Sammy. That way.”
Behind them, footsteps could be heard, and the voices, louder, closer, more pressing. Dogs barked.
She’d dropped her things when she fell, but it didn’t matter. None of this would matter if Sammy didn’t make it. They were close now, too close. If she continued, they were sure to catch them, especially since she’d surely sprained her ankle and—
Oh Lord. Somewhere, not too far ahead, was the hole in the fence that meant escape. She took another step and bit back a howl of pain as she sank to her knees.
“See the fence?” Sammy nodded, and she shoved him, hard. “Go. The hole’s right there. Don’t look for me. Don’t wait. And don’t make a sound.”
“Not without you, Abby,” he said, that stubborn weight to his voice.
“Look. I’m slower than you right now, but I’m coming, okay?”
When he hesitated, she went on. “It’s like hide-and-seek, Sammy. It’s a game, okay? But you’ve got to win for me. Can you do that?”
She waited, breath held, for him to think it through.
“Find Grape Man—”
“Luc.”
“Find Luc and wait for you.”
She opened her mouth to protest and then closed it. No time. “Yes. Now go! Go!”
Once he’d taken off, turning back was the hardest thing she’d ever done, but Sammy would never get through if she didn’t head the others off. Standing up, she gathered up her things, ignoring the swath of light that said someone was just on the other side of the rocks, until the footsteps were impossible to ignore.
Slowly, she raised her face to the spotlight, which picked her out of the dark night.
“Who’s there?” she asked, covering her fear with bravado. Something she’d seen once, in town, flashed through her mind. A sports poster, she thought. It had read Go big or go home, and she decided to take that to heart.
“What do you want?” she yelled, loud enough to draw them all right to her—she hoped.
It was
Benji, she saw when he approached, shotgun hanging at his side. Funny how, even as a silhouette, Benji’s form was more solid than the other Church members’. She’d recognize him anywhere.
“Abigail,” he said, voice low, friendly, in perfect imitation of their fearless leader. “Where you headed?”
“Oh, I’m just going to…” She swallowed. Why hadn’t she come up with a story? No point, was there? “I’m leaving, Benji. Let me go,” she demanded. There’d be no begging here tonight.
She could feel the intensity of his focus, despite the obscurity of his form.
“Over here!” he yelled, and everything ratcheted up. Answering voices and barking, followed by the dull scuff of footsteps. They’d hunted her down. Like prey.
One of the dogs approached, gave her a quick sniff, and then took off toward where Sammy had disappeared, and it was all she could do not to scream, No!
“I’ve got her!” Benji said, his voice rife with masculine pride, and Lord, she wanted to kick him in the face. She held back because that wouldn’t do, would it? And then she decided she didn’t care anymore. If they hadn’t caught Sammy by now, he was free. I’ve got nothing to lose.
Her movements were decisive as she rose to full standing and stepped into Benji’s space. Oh, she loved the uncertainty there once she’d gotten close enough to see. Needing to wipe every ounce of self-assurance right off his face, she lifted her right hand and swung as hard and fast as she could against his cheek.
His stunned grunt and surprised look—eyes big like a raccoon—would have been comical if everything wasn’t so dire. I’d better appreciate this moment, she told herself as Isaiah led the others right up to them. This might be it for me.
She was right, she knew, as Benji’s face tightened in a show of rage right before he shoved her to the ground and kicked her hard in the belly, all under the watchful, benevolent eye of Isaiah. One kick was enough to rid her of all air, then another for good measure. She curled in on herself, a body made of nothing but pain.
In His Hands Page 11
