Vestige of Courage

by Sara Blackard

  “Anyway, William got the jump on me. Tackled me to the ground. I hit the back of my head on a root or rock, because I was seeing double and couldn’t quite move right—”

  “I definitely should take you in to get you checked out.”

  “I don’t want to go see a doctor and have to explain anything. It might cause more problems than it’s worth.” She waved her hand at him.

  “But if you get worse, or start throwing up and stuff, I’m taking you, whether you like it or not.” His grip tightened on her ankle.

  She shrugged, too tired and strung out to care. “I was able to get my knife out of the scabbard. He tried to turn it on me, to use his strength as he hovered over me. I fought so hard for that knife, thought my arms would give in with the effort. Next thing I knew he roared and slammed down on me. I was sure I was dead, stabbed through the chest.”

  Chase stared in horror at her top. She saw his throat move up and down as he swallowed. He lifted his eyes to hers, his blue eyes wide with shock.

  “What happened?” He whispered the question hoarsely.

  She didn’t want to say, didn’t want to see the image in her mind again, so she stared into his face, praying he wouldn’t see the sinful filth of murder that now covered her. “He rolled off me. I scrambled to my feet and started backing away. He got to his knees and stood, groaning. I just stood there, frozen, staring at my knife where it stuck from his chest. He seemed to realize where I stared and looked down. Chase, I don’t know how he did it, but he looked at me with such rage, pulled the knife out, and started coming after me. I just took off, didn’t stand my ground. I ran, like a scared rabbit, tree limbs grabbing at me as I escaped, taunting my cowardice. I tripped over a silly root and next thing I knew I was here.”

  “You’re not a coward—”

  “I am. I ran when I should’ve fought.” She sniffed in the snot that ran like tears from her nose. She didn’t know when she’d started crying again, but tears wet her cheeks and dripped onto her shirt.

  “Beatrice, you did fight. You did what needed to be done to survive. Heck, I would’ve run too. It’s like a scene out of a horror movie. I would’ve been booking it, more than likely screaming like a little girl.”

  She snorted, sniffing again. He moved forward like he wanted to sit next to her but stopped short. Instead, he reached to the table next to her, pulled something white out of a box, and handed it to her. She looked up at him in question.

  “It’s Kleenex, like a disposable handkerchief.”

  She looked at the soft, white square in wonder. She glanced to where another had popped up from the box on the table. No more scrubbing dried snot out of fabric.

  She grinned softly up at him. “Ingenious.”

  He smiled back at her, his smile large on his face like he’d just slayed a dragon. She wiped her eyes and delicately blew her nose. He looked at her forehead, gingerly pushing the hair away. He inched his fingers gently through her hair, wincing when he found the large knot on the back of her skull. He looked back at her, gazing into her eyes, a look of question and puzzlement on his face. She wondered if he believed her or if he thought she was loco, escaping from that community he and Hunter seem intent on creating.

  “You said you have a chest for me?” She needed to do something other than gaze into his eyes and wonder at his thoughts. She couldn’t fathom how she had anything here. With over a hundred years passing, she didn’t think anything of hers could have survived.

  He nodded. “Yeah, let me go get it from the attic. I’m going to make a cup of coffee. Do you want some tea or coffee or something?”

  “Coffee would be fine.”

  “I’ll get that started, then run upstairs. Try not to sleep. I’m worried you might have a concussion.”

  She pulled the blanket around her shoulders as he rushed from the room. She listened as he moved about the house, the stairs creaking as he walked up. She was glad he was here, that she had landed in this time and he had found her. Though they had never met, he was familiar, maybe because of his resemblance to Hunter or that she’d stared at his likeness on the eye phone before they’d buried everything. Whatever the case, she was glad for the comfort he brought.

  Chapter 4

  Chase rummaged through the attic, pushing aside the stuff of Vicky’s that he’d moved upstairs after her death. He’d put the chest in the back corner, assuming from Vicky’s comments that the mysterious Beatrice Thomas wouldn’t be showing up anytime soon. Not only had she shown up, but supposedly had traveled one hundred and forty years to pick it up.

  He shook his head at that thought. He wasn’t sure he totally believed her. Time travel wasn’t actually a thing, at least he’d only ever considered it sci-fi until today. Well, sci-fi and romance, it appeared, with the recent love of all things Outlander.

  He pushed his way to the back of the attic and lifted the heavy trunk over the other junk crammed in the small space. He honestly wasn’t sure what to think right now. How was he to move forward without any definitive answer to what happened to his brother? He could take Beatrice at her word, but would he always wonder if what she said was the truth or some fabrication in her mind? But then there was this heavy chest he was lugging down the stairs. The mystery of her intrigued and slightly frightened him.

  If what she said was true, she wouldn’t have anything or anyone. She’d be in a country without any form of identification, any way to prove who she is. Even if she wasn’t from the past, it was clear she had no knowledge of this time, had been raised isolated somehow from modern society. He’d have to help her. Find a way to get her settled into life somewhere.

  Chase adjusted the heavy trunk’s handles in his hands and made his way down the narrow stairs. He hated these steep old stairwells, always felt like he would tumble down them. With the awkward load he carried that barely fit through the opening, his chance of falling down the stairs increased exponentially. At least, the trunk would break his fall, though he bet the landing would hurt.

  He fumbled into the living room, laughing at himself. He clunked the trunk down on the floor in front of her with a not-so-exaggerated huff, rolling his shoulders and wincing. Beatrice giggled, eliciting the lightheartedness he was known for.

  “I’ll just go grab the coffees. Go ahead and crack it open. I’ve been wondering what was in that thing since the day Vicky told me about it.” He moved toward the kitchen.

  “You haven’t opened it yet?” She peered at it like it was a snake about to bite.

  “It wasn’t mine to open. If you’d rather, you can wait until I bring the coffee in to open it.”

  Her countenance transformed to one of determination, as if his words egged her forward. “I’ll open it. Go get the coffee.”

  He chuckled as he hurried into the kitchen. He rushed around the room, grabbing mugs, creamer, and sugar. Clicking the pod into the single-serve coffee machine, he was glad he’d brewed the first cup before heading upstairs. He put it all on the tray Vicky had used for serving and tried to walk sedately into the living room.

  The lid was open and a pair of jeans and a t-shirt laid folded on top. Beatrice was opening an envelope with shaking hands as he set the tray on the table. He slid onto the couch next to her.

  “It’s from Vicky.” The paper rattled in her hands.

  “Do you want me to read it?” he asked softly.

  She looked at him, relief replacing the anxiety in her eyes. She nodded and handed him the letter. He gave her the coffee mug he held and leaned back, hoping to exude a relaxed state that would flow into her, as she sat wound as tightly as a spring ready to pop.

  Chase read aloud. “Dearest Beatrice, I can’t imagine the turmoil you are going through right now. Your story has been passed down since my great-grandma Viola, who started this chest in hopes that you would go forward in time, and she could help you. Not knowing when or if you would arrive, we’ve been putting clothes in here for you, praying we could make your transition a little easier right off the
bat.”

  Beatrice reached into the trunk and pulled the clothes out. The long-sleeved t-shirt had horses screen printed across the top as if they were running free in the mountains. She lightly ran her finger across the picture, her eyes wide in awe.

  He glanced down at the letter and continued. “This chest is full of memories and love, my dear, letters written by your family.”

  Beatrice gasped and looked at him, the shirt dropping in her lap. Her head began to shake as she peered back into the chest and reached into it. She took the top envelope, a small cry escaping her mouth before she crushed the letter to her chest, a single tear tracing down her cheek.

  “I wish I could’ve met my great-aunt Beatrice, who could shoot a squirrel from a tree mid-jump from a hundred yards with a bow and who could tame the wildest mustang to eat from her hands. I’ve held out as long as I could, but it doesn’t seem you’ll come in my lifetime. However, I’ve left the care of this chest in the hands of a good man. Great-Uncle Chase will help you as you adjust. He is a wonderful young fellow with a kind heart. You can trust him, Beatrice, don’t ever doubt that.”

  Chase paused and reread those last lines in his head. He wasn’t sure he agreed with Vicky’s assessment of him. He was nothing more than a goof-off, never taking life seriously, always finding the next adventure, the next group of people to show off to. He could never live up to his brother’s footsteps, so he forged his own in the opposite direction, pushing the limit.

  He peeked up from the letter to Beatrice. She sat next to him so small and brave, her petite face staring at the envelope in her hand as she ran her finger over the writing. She appeared so tiny wrapped within the blanket, her knees pulled up to her chest, almost like a child to his large six-three frame that dwarfed her. But she wasn’t a child. He remembered the feel of her as she clung to him and gazed up at him from those impossibly green eyes. She evoked the caveman in him, that man who wanted to thump his chest and say “Me, Chase. You, Beatrice,” and swing off into forever with her. He reached up and pushed a strand of chestnut hair from her face. He’d resolved he’d be the man Vicky said he was, even if that meant the goofball disappeared forever.

  Chase lifted his hand and pushed Beatrice’s hair behind her ear, pulling her gaze from the achingly familiar handwriting of her sister’s where it neatly danced across the envelope. The chest contained a treasure she never would have dreamed of finding. Her family, tucked carefully within this large chest. She marveled at how many letters there had to be in the thing. How they hadn’t forgotten her, her memory fading into the mountains like a mist. Her smile trembled as she gazed at Chase.

  “I can’t believe they did this,” she whispered, her throat tight.

  He squeezed her shoulder where his hand had lingered. “There’s just a bit more to Vicky’s letter, then why don’t we get you cleaned up and changed. After a nice warm shower, you can sit and read to your heart’s content.”

  She nodded, placing the letter reverently into the chest and turning her filthy hands over before her. They were caked with dirt and dried blood. She cringed, her hands flying to her hair that had to be a mess.

  Chase chuckled and grabbed her hand closest to him, threading his fingers through hers. “You’re fine. Beautiful, but definitely in need of a good scrub. Besides, I think it will make you feel better. There’s only one line left, a postscript, ‘I wanted to let you know Firestorm bred a great line of horses. If Storm is still in the barn, he is one of Firestorm’s heirs, regal and full of vigor, just like I hear his ancestor was.’”

  Beatrice gasped and squeezed his hand. “Is he still here?”

  A rueful look came across his face as he set the letter aside. “Yes, but that horse is crankier than a starving bear with no teeth. I can ride him, but barely. He likes to steal my hat.”

  She laughed and leaned her head back on the couch. Joy peeked into her anguished heart. Maybe this time wouldn’t be so awful or overwhelming. Chase stood, pulling her with him. He grabbed the clothes that almost tumbled from her lap, a group of rolled up cloth in some kind of clear package, and another fabric item from the chest. Still holding her hand, he led her down a hall lined with photographs. Her eyes trailed them, seeing a progression of time as they changed from a style of outfits she recognized to ones she didn’t. She gasped and pulled Chase to a stop, her free hand touching the frame.

  “It’s Hunter and Viola,” she whispered. “They have more children. Another boy and a little girl.”

  He leaned close, examining the photograph. His hand began to shake in hers and his breathing became shallow and quick. She reached over with her other hand and squeezed his tight in both hers.

  He peered down at her, his eyes moist. “It’s true. I’m never going to find him, never going to see him again.”

  She shook her head. “I’m so sorry, Chase.”

  He turned his attention back to the picture. “He looks happy, free somehow, like the weight he always carried is gone.”

  “He loves it there, loves Viola and little Chase with such abandon.”

  “He named his kid after me?” The shock was clear on his face as a single tear traced down his cheek.

  She nodded, moving closer to his side. “He talked all the time about you, how much fun you two had growing up, how much he admired how you’d been able to carve a living out of your passion. He said if his son ended up half the man you did, Hunter would consider him blessed.”

  Chase’s breath shuddered out in a silent sob. He leaned his head against the wall, hiding his face in the clothes he held in his arm. Beatrice moved into his side, her own tears streaming down her cheeks. He turned and pulled her close, burying his face into her hair. They held each other, letting their individual griefs twine together, supporting one another. After a few minutes, he pulled away and ran his hand over his eyes.

  He took his hand and cupped her cheek, running his thumb across it to dry her tears. “I will do everything I can to help you, Beatrice, to make sure you find a happy life here. Whatever I have to do, I promise that to you.”

  Beatrice nodded, not able to find her voice.

  “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.” He gave her a sad smile.

  Chase pulled her down the hall and into a room like she’d never seen before. A large mirror filled the wall above a counter with a small sink. She jumped at her image, her face reflected back at her, grotesque and smeared with dirt, blood, and tears. She turned to the rest of the room and stared at the large glass that encased what looked like a stone wall and floor. Her eyebrow scrunched in scrutiny.

  “This is the shower.” Chase sauntered up to the glass wall and opened it with a small metal bar. “The right handle is the cold water and the left is hot. You turn them like this and the shower turns on. Turning them one way or another will adjust the temperature. Towels hanging here are clean. The purple bottle is shampoo to clean your hair. Let me dig under the sink and see if there’s any conditioner.”

  She stepped up to the towel, marveling at how fluffy and soft the fabric was as it rubbed between her fingers. She had barely suppressed the gasp that pushed between her lips when he had turned the knob and water flowed from the metal hanging from up high. If a simple washroom had her heart palpitating in overload, she worried what the rest of the world would do to her.

  She turned to him as he stood shaking his head. “There’s no conditioner under there, so we’ll have to pick some up at the store when we go into town.”

  Beatrice shrugged. “That’s alright, Chase. I don’t even know what conditioner is.”

  “Yeah, right.” He leaned back against the counter, placing his hands on his hips. “You’ll have to let me know when you don’t know what something is or if I’m throwing too much information at you.”

  She nodded her head. “I’ll try.”

  He smiled and placed his hand on the pile of clothes he’d brought in. “Here are your clothes. Take as much time as you want in the shower. I installed a large boiler so you won�
�t run out of hot water.”

  She moved over next to him and touched the package of rolled cloth, her face warming at the need to ask what clothing was within. “What is this?”

  He cleared his throat, his neck pinking slightly beneath his tan. “These are underwear, um … undergarments.”

  Beatrice’s face went from warm to hot instantly.

  Chase rubbed his hand along the back of his neck. “This other item is a bra … for up top.” He gestured toward his chest and then headed for the door. “Let me know if you need any help.”

  Her eyes widened at what he’d just said. His eyes widened in return, the pink blushing to deep red.

  “I’ll just be down the hall.” He rushed from the room and closed the door with a snap.

  She stood against the counter for a moment, then snorted, causing a ripple of laughter to rush up her stomach. She turned to the pack of underwear and ripped the clear wrapping when she couldn’t find how it opened. She unrolled one of the items, turning it back and forth, wondering how the small swatch was supposed to cover anything. She laughed again, putting down the ridiculously tiny piece of cloth and marched up to the shower.

  Shiny silver handles gleamed in the bright light. She turned them slowly so the water gushed out. Putting her hand under the spray, she drew in a delighted breath at the warmth that flowed over her hand. She quickly peeled off her clothes, glad to see her buckskin pants hadn’t been destroyed. The instant she stepped under the warm stream and pulled the door closed, she sighed. The heat soaked into her bones, and it was many minutes before she stepped out, smelling of fresh lemon and mint, cleaner than she’d ever been.

  Beatrice glanced down at her chest and shuddered at the massive bruise forming. She thanked God that He’d protected her, kept the blade from plunging deep within her heart. Though the bruise would be tender and probably pull every time she moved for a week, the only lingering effect would be the wound of guilt to her soul.