Journey of the Heart

by Mills, DiAnn; Darty, Peggy;

  He hoped by now she had found a job. His funds were running low, as well. He would have to start panning the streams as soon as the snow started to melt. He had one nugget left, and that wouldn’t take him far.

  As he scanned the woods, he began to realize that tonight’s meal would consist of more canned beans if he didn’t ride the extra miles into the tiny trading post at Aspen Valley. He hadn’t planned to go until tomorrow when he had been invited to the community hall to discuss the letter sent by the Denver Missionary Society. It was a dream come true that at last the group was raising money on behalf of Aspen Valley. So much was needed here. He would simply have to make two trips—one tonight and one tomorrow. He was hungry.

  He pulled his six-foot frame upright again, shivering against the cold settling into his bones. The animals had dominion over him today. He would go to the post to spend his last nugget.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The letter had been waiting for him at the post, and as he read it, it filled him with a combination of fear and dread.

  Dear Adam,

  I hope this letter reaches you soon. The North and South are at war. I need you here to help me hold on to the land. Please come home.

  Your Father.

  Adam had spent a sleepless night, and by morning, he had decided to take a leave from his mission work to go south. He couldn’t ignore his father’s plea for help. He felt certain the mission board in Denver would understand.

  As soon as his decision was made, he began to pack. He found his heart growing heavy, however, as he stood in the small cabin, looking around, thinking about leaving.

  Sunshine spilled over the plain furnishing—the iron bed holding his bedroll, the wooden nightstand where a kerosene lamp sat beside his Bible. Pegs on the wall held his clothes. His eyes moved to the opposite end of the cabin, to the dining table and chairs with the three shelves on the wall containing his tin plate and cup and a few eating utensils, the woodstove that kept him warm and cooked his food.

  Beside the small horsehair sofa sat another wooden table with a kerosene lamp and more books. It was a simple cabin, crude by city standards, and yet it had been home to him for two years. He hated to leave it.

  He felt he had accomplished a lot, but here was so much more to be done. How long would his work be delayed?

  The smell of mountain air and fresh pine filled his senses, and there was a bittersweet ache in his heart, knowing he might be leaving for good.

  But there was no delaying what he must do.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The trip into Denver seemed unusually long and tiring the next afternoon. He was weighted with the burden of resigning his ministry for a while, but he felt sure they would understand. And then he planned to drop by Mrs. Tillotson’s to say good-bye to Elisabeth. It would not be easy, for he had thought of her often. She might be gone by the time he returned, or, considering how pretty she was and the inevitable suitors who would come calling, she could be married. That thought added to the heaviness growing in his heart.

  As they sat in Mrs. Tillotson’s parlor, Elisabeth was strangely quiet.

  “You really feel that you must go?” Elisabeth asked.

  “I do. It’s a matter of duty.”

  “But Tennessee is so far way.” She looked across at him, her dark eyes troubled.

  “Yes. I’m taking the night stage out. I’ve made arrangements with a friend here to keep my horse for a while. I’ll write him about my future plans.”

  “Adam, will you write to me?” she asked, turning to jot down her address on a piece of paper.

  “Yes, I’ll write. It will help to make the time pass more quickly. And I would like for you to stay in touch,” he added softly.

  “I’ll write you back,” she said, handing him her address.

  He nodded, glancing at her handwriting before folding the paper in half and inserting it into his pocket.

  He looked down into her round dark eyes, wondering what she was thinking. Did she care for him? He wanted to believe she did. But he could not ask her to wait for him; that would be unfair. He forced himself to look away, to try to think about his departure and the task ahead of him once he reached home.

  “I pray that you will be well,” he said, glancing down at her again, for he could not keep his eyes from her face.

  Her soft lips parted and their eyes locked. He took a deep breath and told himself there would be no good-bye kiss. It was difficult enough to say good-bye to her; he couldn’t bear the thought of her kiss lingering in his memory, torturing him as their previous kiss had already.

  “I will be fine,” she said, lifting her chin proudly.

  He nodded. “I’m sure you will. Well, good-bye.”

  He reached out, taking her slim fingers in his own for a moment and squeezing her hand gently. Again, he resisted the impulse to lean forward, touch his lips lightly to hers. No, it would only make matters worse.

  Quickly, he released her hand, turned, and walked through the door, out into the cold winter night.

  The stage seemed to jostle on forever, and to break up the monotony of the trip, Adam decided to write to Elisabeth, as he had promised. He had purchased a tablet and pen at a stage stop the day before.

  “Dear Elisabeth,” his letter began. “The trip has been long and hard, but uneventful, thank God. There have been no raids on the stage by the Cheyennes or by army deserters who seem to be everywhere. Two other men rode with me, each returning to their home state because of the war. One was a Southerner from Mississippi, the other a Northerner from Pennsylvania. Strangely, we did not argue over the issues that started this war. There was a common bond among all of us to reach St. Louis safely.”

  He paused, staring out at the streets of St. Louis as they approached the next stage stop. There were Union soldiers everywhere, and he had already been told that Nathaniel Lyon had captured the rebels in the city, taking them prisoner and parading them through the streets of St. Louis. A small group of Confederate sympathizers had rallied back in anger, starting a riot that resulted in more people being killed and wounded.

  He returned to the letter, thinking ahead. “I am purchasing a horse and intend to start south today. Don’t worry about me. I will remain safe, for I have no intention of letting anything stop my return to my father.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Adam tried to push Elisabeth from his thoughts as he rode doggedly through the stormy spring night. He had never imagined he could miss someone so much, and yet her face was a sweet vision as he looked daily on the gaunt faces and disease-ridden bodies of the victims of war in Missouri and Kentucky.

  He blinked his sleepy eyes and squinted into the dark night. There was only a pale quarter moon for light, and now that moon was obscured by wind-driven clouds. He blinked again and something scratched against his eyeball, a particle of dust from the back roads, which were a dense tangle of briars and vines.

  His right cheek bore the slash of a sharp branch; his clothes were clotted with debris and broken vines. Still, he preferred this to the gunfire of Yankee troops, or the Confederate army. Every day men out of uniform were being shot from their saddles as deserters. Neither army could bear the sight of a deserter, or even a strong, able-bodied man not fighting or impassioned with this war fever that bordered on insanity, it seemed to Adam.

  He sighed. Judging from his last stop, he had one more hard day of riding before he would make it to his father’s small farm in Tennessee.

  As he shifted wearily in the saddle, his worn pants and shirt, washed out in creek water, scratched stiffly against his sore body. He now looked like a deserter, too. His beard, like the other men’s, was thick and unkempt. His dark hair grew long on his neck beneath his battered felt hat.

  Hearing a rustle in the dense woods behind him, he turned in the saddle. He saw the crack of fire a second before a sharp pain tore through his side. Toppling from his saddle, he lay facedown on the hard, rough ground. Still and silent in total darkness, his assail
ant watched him.

  He held his breath and lay motionless. The mold of decayed leaves and rain-soaked earth reeked in his nostrils, along with the sweat of his horse, nervously stamping the ground just behind him. At last he heard the cautious approach of another horse. Underneath him, his hand closed around a two-foot oak branch. His chest was nearly bursting from his indrawn breath.

  The steps ceased. He heard the creak of the saddle as someone climbed down. Just as the boot of the assailant reached his side, he whirled over and swung the oak branch, knocking the soldier to the ground. Adam straddled the soldier, landing a hard right against his chin until the man slumped beneath him and lay still.

  Peering through the semidarkness, Adam could see the rebel uniform and the gaunt face of a boy, no more than sixteen.

  “Oh dear God,” he moaned. “What has the world come to?” Sighing, Adam removed a strip of jerky from his pocket and shoved it in the boy’s thin hand. Turning, Adam pulled himself weakly onto his horse, hoping the clouds would slip away from the moon so he could see how badly he was wounded. Gently, he probed his side as warm blood rushed over his hand. The bullet had penetrated just below the rib cage.

  He yanked the ragged shirt from his back and ripped it up as best he could then bound himself tightly, hoping to check the flow of blood. If he could slow the blood flow, maybe he could get to a farmhouse. As he turned his horse to plod slowly down the muddy road, he prayed.

  God, help me. Send someone to help me….

  For the first time since leaving Colorado, he doubted the wisdom of his long journey. He had underestimated the difficulty of escaping not only soldiers, but worse, the deserters and thieves who prowled the night for money, horses, and food.

  The night grew darker—or was he about to faint? He squinted through the deep woods on both sides of the road, his ears strained, listening for the beat of horse hooves. Suddenly an acrid smell floated through the trees, wafting beneath his nostrils, already filled with thick breath from his tightly squeezed chest.

  He cocked his head and sniffed again. Smoke! Had the Yanks burned a farmhouse, or was he getting the drift of a campfire? He stopped his horse and turned his head from right to left, trying to identify the direction of the smoke. His senses drew him to the right, to the depths of the woods bordering the road. He had no idea how deep he must go into the woods to locate the source of the smoke or who might be at the campfire. But he had no choice. He would bleed to death if he didn’t get help soon.

  He slumped over the saddle, hanging on by sheer determination as his mind drifted in and out of consciousness.

  The sticky blood filled his shirt bandage, and the whirling dizziness in his brain was worse than the vine-tangled path. He caught sight of a tiny patch of orange through the darkness and plunged on, finally coming upon a circle of men seated around a fire. The men wore gray uniforms. Two soldiers had bolted to their feet, their rifles drawn.

  “Don’t shoot,” he gasped. “I’m a Southerner.”

  The curious faces faded from his vision, along with the glowing fire that promised warmth and perhaps food. He could feel himself slipping from the horse, and in those dark seconds, Elisabeth Greenwood’s face swam through the darkness in his brain.

  Chapter Sixteen

  A sharp pain seared Adam’s side, a rotating pain that cut off his breath. His matted eyes dragged open, and he was looking into a lantern, then a bearded face above it.

  “Lie still,” the man commanded in a Southern drawl. “Jim’s digging the bullet out of your side. It may hurt a mite, but if he doesn’t get it out, you’re gonna die.”

  “Thanks,” Adam rasped, unable to say more.

  He gritted his teeth as the sharp gouging continued. He hadn’t the strength to tell them who he was, to convince them he wasn’t a deserter or a spy. He knew he must show courage, and he ground his teeth into his lower lip, determined to hold on. As the man said, he might die anyway. He might as well die with dignity.

  He opened his eyes again and concentrated on the face above him. Bold blue eyes above a dark beard showed keen intelligence. Adam sensed the man was not a low-ranking officer, although he couldn’t see the chevrons on his uniform. Dark brows slanted over his eyes, and the black hair beneath his rebel cap was thick and curly. Adam had no choice but to trust the stranger, and as the pain swept over him, he gave in to a deep sleep.

  A pleasant smell penetrated his senses. It occurred to Adam there was no pain now, and for a moment he lay reveling in the freedom from that torture.

  Thank You, God.

  A breeze rustling through the oaks picked up the drifting aroma, and his mouth began watering at the delicious scent. Slowly, he opened his eyes to a thin gray light. Dawn. In the distance, he could hear low voices, whispers. Again, his stomach twisted with the pain of hunger, and now he understood why starving men ate whatever they could find.

  He pushed himself up onto his left elbow, but the right side resisted, and he felt the stabbing pain again. His eyes dropped to his bare chest beneath the frayed blanket, and he saw a neat row of bandages covering his chest. He lifted his head and squinted at eight men seated around a morning fire. With surprise he noted the men were no longer wearing gray uniforms. Had he merely imagined that they were Confederate soldiers last night with his vison blurred and his mind desperate? They were dressed in old clothes, similar to the ones he wore. Suspicion and doubt warred within him, until he remembered they had saved his life. Whoever they were, they were his only friends right now.

  “Morning,” he called weakly.

  The men whirled at the sound of his voice, and the blue-eyed man rose to his feet. He was not a tall man, nor was he muscled, but he moved with the agility of a forest animal, bounding quickly to Adam’s side.

  “We were wonderin’ last night if you’d ever see daylight again. Who are you, and what happened?”

  He swallowed against his dry, scratchy throat, hoping to speak clearly.

  “I’m Adam Pearson,” he answered. “I’ve been in Colorado for the past three years. I had started to Tennessee to check on my father.” His voice was so weak that Adam wondered how convincing he must sound to those strangers.

  A muscle twitched beneath the man’s thick beard, and his blue eyes were now as cold as frozen seas.

  “You waited a long time to come home, mister.”

  Adam nodded. “Never thought of coming back, but after hearing stories of the war…”

  “Well, I tell you what…” The man stroked his chin thoughtfully. “If you live, and I think you will, you can forget going any farther for a while. I doubt you’d get far alone. Anyway, you’ve just been drafted. I’m Captain Thomas Hines of the Ninth Kentucky. If you want to serve your country, you can start right now. We need you to help us push the Yanks back.”

  When Adam considered his circumstances, he wondered if he really had a choice. He had already heard too many stories about deserters being shot by their own men, and while Captain Hines’s tone was soft, Adam had seen the cold look in his eyes when Adam admitted he was not a member of the Confederate army.

  He nodded slowly, as if in agreement, then closed his eyes again. A sadness engulfed him as his thoughts drifted back to Elisabeth. He prayed that no man had won her heart.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Elisabeth

  Winter finally dragged into spring while Elisabeth struggled to stay busy with her job. In the evenings, she and Mrs. Tillotson sat by the fire, discussing passages of scripture. Elisabeth could feel her life changing ever since she began reading the Bible Mrs. Tillotson had given her. After attending church for the past month, Elisabeth had accepted Christ into her heart, and now her world was changing.

  The bitterness she had felt toward Jed Greenwood was fading, along with the sharp ache of missing her mother. One thing had not changed, however: Elisabeth still missed Adam and longed to see him. She tried to keep up with what was going on in the South, but it was difficult. And the more she heard about the war raging, the
more she worried about Adam. One evening as she sat by the fire with Mrs. Tillotson, she voiced her concerns.

  “God will be with him,” Mrs. Tillotson said, staring thoughtfully into the fire. “He’s a fine young man. I pray every night that God will keep him safe.”

  Elisabeth swallowed hard. She had been praying that as well, but she didn’t tell Mrs. Tillotson.

  “I wonder when he’ll come back,” she said.

  “I don’t know, but when he returns I expect we will see him right away.” Her eyes twinkled as she looked at Elisabeth.

  “I hope so.”

  “I’m sure he will be calling on you.”

  “You’re sure?” Elisabeth echoed, wondering what the little lady meant. It seemed to her Mrs. Tillotson knew a secret whenever Elisabeth asked her about Adam. She got a funny little smile on her face, and her eyes took on a mischievous twinkle.

  “In case you hadn’t noticed, Elisabeth, I believe Adam likes you.”

  Elisabeth’s breath caught in her throat. “Why on earth do you say that?”

  “A woman just gets a feeling about those things. And”—she paused, giving her next words significance—“he asked me to take special care of you. I knew then he was smitten.”

  Elisabeth felt color rush to her cheeks. She was thrilled by those words, and yet she had thought Adam was just being a kind person who would have helped anyone in need. And she had certainly been in need. Still, Mrs. Tillotson’s words were encouraging.

  The next day, after collecting her week’s pay, she strolled into the mercantile and looked at the blue woolen dress again.

  “Must have been meant for you,” the salesclerk said. “There has to be a reason it hasn’t sold before now.”