Abandoned Memories

by Marylu Tyndall

  And he could not let his best friend die.

  God, please don’t let me fail. He drew a deep breath, opened his eyes, and lifted his hands before him. They trembled like leaves in a storm. His eyes met Hayden’s.

  “God can calm the storm,” was all the man said before dragging James back to Blake’s side.

  James pressed a hand on his roiling stomach and stiffened his jaw. “I need boiling water, needle and sutures, clamps, a strong lantern, plenty of clean rags, and any alcohol you can find.” He snapped stern eyes to Hayden. “Steal it from the pirates if you have to.”

  Hayden gave an approving nod and sped off.

  From the outskirts of the shelter, Thiago crossed himself. “I hope Lobisón not bite him.”

  “Surely you don’t believe that nonsense anymore,” Sarah chastised him as she gathered a pile of clean rags. Without looking at James, Angeline found scissors, clamps, needles, and sutures and laid them all neatly on a tray.

  Thiago lifted one shoulder. “I believe there is still evil in world, yes?”

  “Indeed.” James swallowed, trying to settle his nerves, still not looking at Blake’s wound. Evil he could deal with. But blood?

  “What can we do to help?” Mrs. Jenkins shouted.

  Sarah exchanged a glance with James before turning to answer. “Pray.”

  “Now, if you please, I need room to operate without a dozen eyes upon me.” Though the colonists were at least four yards away, James felt as though he stood in the center of a courtroom, surrounded by accusers. And he, on trial for his life. His pulse throbbed. Sweat slid down his chest.

  The crowd retreated, but only inches, as Angeline placed the last instrument on the tray. Her hand quivered.

  “Can you handle this?” James asked her.

  Violet eyes assessed him. “Can you?”

  He flattened his lips as Hayden returned with a bottle of rum. “The pirates left it on the beach.”

  Blake coughed. Blood trickled from his lips. At least he had lost consciousness. James couldn’t be sure he wouldn’t do the same. He released a ragged sigh, concentrating on the crash of waves, the soothing chorus of myriad birds, not on the hammer of his heart and the tremble in his hands.

  “James.” Angeline gazed up at him, her hands pressed on blood-drenched cloths. “I can’t stop the bleeding. He’s growing pale.”

  “Do something!” Hayden’s shout stiffened every nerve. Bracing himself, James nodded for Angeline to remove the rags then lowered his gaze to the gaping wound. A mass of mangled flesh stared back at him. Broken ribs floated atop a pool of blood, where it appeared a pulmonary vein had been nicked. Blake didn’t have much time before he bled out. God in heaven, help me. I can’t do this without You.

  Can a lady admire a man who broke her heart into a million pieces? A man who had insulted her in every way possible, who had assaulted her in body and soul? The answer, Angeline discovered, was yes. For she could not help but respect the man who, with erratic breathing, sweat streaming down his face, and quaking hands, had diligently worked for hours, sewing up the insides of a man he loved more than a brother—a man whom they all loved more than a brother.

  While doing her best to quell the agony of her heart, she obeyed his every command, stood by his side, ignored her own queasiness, and watched him as he grimaced, winced, huffed, and concentrated harder than she’d seen anyone do. Sarah also assisted, while Hayden stood to the side, his face mottled in agony and fear one minute, while in the next, he bowed and whispered prayers to the Almighty.

  They could not lose Blake. The colonel had been their leader since they’d begun this journey. The only man who could guide such a mishmash of grumbling, erratic, fanciful personalities. He was the strong warrior who had led armies on the battlefield to victory and who now refused to accept defeat for their decimated colony. They would fall apart without him. Eliza would fall apart. The poor woman—Angeline bit her lip—she had no idea that at this very moment her husband’s life teetered on the cliff of eternity. Would their child be born without a father? Oh, God, no. Please, no.

  James blinked back sweat from his eyes, and Angeline dabbed his brow. He didn’t glance at her. Hadn’t glanced at anyone for hours. He’d just kept his eyes locked on Blake’s mauled flesh as if looking away for one second would break the trance that had come over him as soon as he picked up the first instrument. After that, he’d worked methodically and precisely, each movement the practiced step of an elegant dance. Every slice, every squeeze, every suture skilled and beautiful in its simplicity and grace, even amid the horror of nicked veins and a punctured liver. Tirelessly, Sarah held the lantern above Blake, keeping it steady against the occasional wind gusting through the shelter, ignoring the sweat dotting her neck and soaking the fringe of her collar.

  Rays of sun reflected off crystals of sand and dappled the bamboo roof with light, hypnotizing Angeline as she tried to keep her focus should James need something. The metallic smell of blood mixed with sweat and alcohol threatened to turn her stomach inside out, but her silent vigilance of prayer kept her strong. Kept her hopeful.

  Finally, James closed Blake’s loosened skin, ordered her to pour alcohol over the needle and sutures, and then began sewing up his friend’s side. His bronze eyes remained as hard as metal as he completed the work. Then grabbing the rum, he doused the wound, wrapped it tightly in clean rags, and stepped back. Finally his gaze lifted off Blake and scanned the three of them. Worry formed creases at the edges of his eyes.

  Hayden stepped forward. Sarah set down the lantern and rubbed her arm. Angeline drew a stool over for James to sit, all of them breathless for a word of encouragement.

  Whatever had held James’s spine in place during the long procedure suddenly liquefied and he dropped to the chair. He released a breath so deep, it seemed he’d been holding it the entire time. His shoulders slumped and what looked like tears glazed his eyes before he lowered his chin. Sniffing, he rubbed those eyes before glancing up again. “We wait now. If he doesn’t get an infection, he will live.”

  Hayden gripped James’s arm and shook him. “You did good, Doc. Real good.”

  “Wonderful,” Sarah added. “God be praised.”

  “Thank you for all your help.” James gave a sad smile. “All of you.” His eyes landed on Angeline, but as if it the sight of her repulsed him, he lowered them to the dirt by his boots. Which was, no doubt, what he still thought of her.

  Finally he struggled to stand. “Keep an eye on him. I’ll return later.” Then stretching his shoulders, he turned and walked away. Sarah began cleaning up bloody rags, but Angeline couldn’t pull her gaze from James as he headed down the beach—the way the last vestiges of sunlight cut across the sharp angles of his back, his confident gait, the wind whipping his tawny hair into a frenzy, the way he dipped his head as if deep in thought. She should be angry at him. She was angry at him. But it didn’t matter—he still held her shattered heart in his hands.

  “What happened between you two?” Sarah dropped the scissors into a bucket of bloody water.

  “Nothing. It doesn’t matter.” But it did matter, more than anything. She just couldn’t talk about it or she feared she’d collapse into a puddle and melt into the sand to be lost forever. She busied herself helping Sarah while Hayden covered Blake with a tattered quilt and said a prayer over his friend.

  When the mess had been cleaned and Sarah had taken the dirty instruments to the creek to clean, Angeline turned to go, but her gaze landed on Dodd, still unconscious in the corner. Oddly, she found no anger rising at the sight of him. No hatred, or fear. Only pity. Since Eliza and Magnolia had been taken aboard the pirate ship, Sarah and Mrs. Jenkins had been looking after him, trying to force broth down his throat as much as possible. Yet after eight days, the poor man grew thin and gaunt.

  Kneeling by his side, Angeline dabbed a moist cloth over his face. Once, she had been happy about his condition, had wished him dead. Now, she repented of that horrid desire and said a si
lent prayer for him. Besides, he could no longer cause her harm.

  Dipping his hands in an incoming wave, James grabbed a fistful of sand and started to scrub blood off his skin. Astonishing. The sight of it no longer sent icicles up his spine. He shielded his eyes against the sun now dipping low over the mountains. He’d been operating on Blake nearly all day. Operating. Like he used to do on the battlefield. When he had saved lives. Some lives, at least. Hopefully, the one he’d sutured up today.

  If not, he would never forgive himself.

  He sat back and allowed the waves to wash over him, soaking through his trousers and rippling up his sides. Cupping a handful of the foamy saltwater, he splashed it over his face and neck. The cool liquid leeched the tension from his body and seemed to carry it out to sea with each receding swell. He drew a deep breath and bowed his head. Thank You, Father. I know it was You who helped me today. No one else could have calmed me down like that.

  As soon as he’d picked up the scalpel, a cloud of peace had enveloped him. Like a warm cloak on a winter’s day that shielded one from icy shards and brisk wind, it had permeated his skin, settled his nerves—and his soul—and suddenly he knew what he must do. And he had the confidence to do it, and do it well.

  Why hadn’t he ever thought of praying before? Back when the blood had overwhelmed him and the terrors had begun, back when his hands—and his body—had quivered at the mere mention of blood? Why had he not turned to God for strength then? All these wasted years he could have been saving lives. Forgive me.

  He’d been too proud and too angry to ask for anyone’s help. Especially God’s. How foolish was that for a preacher? Snorting, he rubbed the back of his neck. Foamy waves lobbed a shell against his foot. He picked it up and flicked it between his fingers. For years he blamed his fear of blood on the war, on the horrors he’d witnessed.

  A thought seared a trail through his conscience.

  For years, he blamed his nefarious liaisons on the loose morals of the women he’d consorted with, never taking responsibility for his own actions, never asking God for the strength to resist them. Never leaning on the only One who could help him with his weaknesses. All his weaknesses.

  Was he any better than the women he’d taken to bed? Hadn’t he committed the same immoral act? Yet all this time he’d blamed them while holding himself innocent, believing his only sin was falling for their beguiling traps. Blaming them for destroying his life when it was his own weakness and lack of trust in God that had caused his undoing.

  James tossed the shell into the sea and hung his head.

  “He doesn’t appear to be getting better.” Hayden’s voice startled Angeline as she sat tending Dodd. She glanced up, saw the hesitation in his eyes, and offered him a welcoming smile. Hayden had caused her father’s death, sent her life spinning like a cyclone into the darkness. She should be furious with him—had been furious. But all that had changed when her Father in heaven forgave her and washed her clean.

  “Poor fellow.” He knelt beside her. “I wonder if he’ll ever recover his senses.”

  She returned her gaze to Dodd. “He better do so soon. I doubt we can keep him fed enough much longer.”

  “I can’t say I miss him very much,” Hayden said. “Though I suppose that’s not very kind.”

  “He was”—she bit her lip—“or rather is a hard man to like.”

  Silence, save for Dodd’s shallow breathing and the wind whipping through the frond roof, settled on them both. Shifting across the sand, Angeline dampened her rag in a nearby bowl of water.

  “No doubt, after our last discussion, you feel the same way about me.” His voice lowered in shame.

  She searched his green eyes, seeing only sorrow and remorse.

  “What I did was reprehensible,” he said. “Unforgiveable.”

  Angeline swallowed, allowing herself a moment to consider how different her life would have been had her father not been murdered. She would not have gone to live with her aunt and uncle. She would not have been forced onto the street, constantly on the run. She would not have become what she had become. And then James and she would still be together. Or would they? She wouldn’t have come to Brazil at all. In truth, she would never have known him. And that thought hurt most of all. “I have discovered recently that nothing is unforgiveable.” She smiled, dousing her few remaining coals of anger with undeserved grace—the undeserved grace God gave to her and that she must give to others.

  “I don’t know what to say.” Hayden’s brow wrinkled. “But—”

  She placed a finger on his lips, praying he didn’t misinterpret the intimate gesture. “Then say nothing more. What’s done is done. You didn’t murder my father directly. I don’t think you would have done it if you had known.” She drew a deep breath of the new life within her. “I forgive you.”

  A mixture of surprise and admiration rolled over his face. “You’ve changed, Angeline.”

  “Let’s just say God and I had a long talk.”

  Hayden chuckled. “Indeed. He’s been chatting with me lately, as well.”

  She wiped Dodd’s face and neck as minutes passed by in silence. She felt Hayden tense beside her, knew he had more to say, but she didn’t want to talk about her past anymore. Wasn’t it enough that it had already ruined her future?

  “That was you on the wanted poster then, wasn’t it?” Hayden asked.

  Releasing a sigh, she faced him. What difference did it make if she told him the truth now? She was done with lying. “Yes.”

  His lips grew tight, and he stared at Dodd. “Wanted for murder. Did you do it?”

  “Yes.” She gauged his reaction but he didn’t flinch, hardly breathed. If only she could go back and change things, choose another action, lean on God for help instead of trying to do things herself.

  Wind gusted through the shelter, stirring sand and flapping the coverlet on top of Dodd. “It was self-defense. My uncle attacked me. I grabbed a bookend from the table and struck his head.” Memories flashed. The lust in the man’s eyes, his rough hands grabbing her and forcing her against the wall. “I was just trying to get him off me.”

  Hayden was silent. Would he tell everyone? James? Her friends? She dreaded the looks they would give her. She dreaded the loathing that would follow. She had so wanted to remember the sweetness of their friendship when she was back in the States, not be haunted by their hatred. Waves sizzled ashore. A gull squawked overhead.

  “No one need know,” Hayden finally said, drawing her gaze. “I believe you, Angeline. I’ve come to know you. You aren’t a murderer.”

  She laid a hand on his arm, hardly daring to believe. “Thank you, Hayden.”

  Placing a hand atop hers, he helped her to her feet. “We all came here for a new start. You deserve one like the rest of us. Now, go rest.” He jerked his head toward the women’s shelter down the beach. “It’s been a long day. I’ll take first watch over Blake.”

  Dodd listened to the sound of their footsteps shuffling away before he opened his eyes. He’d woken up several hours ago but had found himself too weak to move or even speak. Soon, he’d realized something must have happened to the colonel because he could hear James stitching him up. It must have been a serious wound from the sounds of things. Probably an injury from the windstorm, which was the last thing Dodd remembered. Regardless, Dodd had kept his peace. Then afterward, when Angeline had sat beside him and dabbed a cool cloth on his head, he’d thought to enjoy her sweet ministrations for a while before making himself known. But, oh, what a heavenly miracle had then occurred! The words he’d overheard passed through his mind, awakening memories that the woman’s beauty must have forced him to forget. Angeline Moore was Clarissa Paine! The infamous woman who’d murdered her own uncle—bludgeoned him in his own house. Every law officer in Virginia had been put on alert, wanted posters had been handed out. Dodd couldn’t imagine how he had missed it. Ah, sweet justice would finally be served. At least the kind of justice Dodd would choose to enact. Despite his
weak condition, he lifted his lips in a devious grin.

  C

  HAPTER 33

  A burst of wind caught the crinkled pages of the Hebrew text and shuffled them across James’s vision. With a huff, he shifted back to the end of the book and flattened the papers with his palm. An ache etched across his shoulders from leaning over the manuscript all day, and he sat up straight and attempted to stretch the kinks from his neck. Foam-capped rollers curled toward shore and spread creamy gauze over the sand, sending crabs skittering into their holes and the colony’s children running in laughter. Ah, to be young and carefree again without a worry in the world. Without concern for food or shelter or pirates or invisible beasts who could plague the world with terror.

  Which was why James had spent the past week studying the ancient Hebrew book, desperate to find a way to stop the pirates from releasing hell on earth. Yet he’d found nothing useful. Or perhaps he was missing something, some crucial piece of information that would make sense of it all.

  Down shore, two men chopped wood while the women prepared supper around a blazing fire. The Scotts sat beneath a palm, looking quite peaked as Mable fanned them with a frond. Laughter drew James’s gaze to Delia chasing her children through the tumbling waves. Beyond them, Thiago and Sarah held Lydia’s hands as the child teetered along in her first attempts to walk. Children grew up fast. Too fast. Too soon they would have to face the hardships of life. The heartbreak.

  Heartbreak. His eyes latched upon Angeline, hanging wet clothes with some of the other women, her hair ribbons of sparkling ruby in the waning sun. A viable pain seared his heart at the loss of her. He no longer blamed her for what she’d done—what she’d become. He understood. He forgave her. But he still couldn’t bring himself to receive her back into his life. Or his heart. Though, in truth, he doubted he could ever banish her from that tender spot. Still, he had vowed to start over in Brazil, become a great preacher and spiritual guide to the colony.