Path of Freedom: Quilts of Love Series

by Jennifer Hudson Taylor

  “Lord, please keep the others safe. Lead Bruce to me before he gives up and assumes the worst.” The whispered plea fell from her tongue and ended in a sigh as she realized the irony of it all. To think how many years she had spent avoiding Bruce Millikan. Now she lay here in dire need and the one person she prayed would find her—was none other than Bruce. She laughed aloud at her own folly. A bird flew across the sky chirping, as if mocking her.

  Would Bruce chastise her for not hiding her Quaker speech and keeping them all from danger? Would he be angry at her for running to the river rather than back to the wagon? Perhaps he would be livid at her for separating from Marta. At any rate, no matter what she could have done, Bruce would no doubt feel she had made the wrong decision. She'd never been able to please him.

  Wrapping her arms around her, Flora consoled herself with the thought that God was the only one she needed to please. In her heart, she knew she had done what she thought was best. The one thing that she could have done differently was conceal her speech. Would such an act of deception be worth saving their lives? Where was her faith? Flora rolled over on her side, allowing a single tear to slip out of the corner of her eye and down her temple, where it trailed the hairline to her ear.

  “Father, where does one's faith meet the common sense thee gave us?” She bit her bottom lip in worry. “Is the line truly as blurry as it appears right now? Please forgive me and help me see thy will more clearly.”

  Flora's rampant thoughts grew distant as she struggled to stay awake and alert. Fatigue claimed her senses until she could no longer keep her eyelids open. She yawned, unable to resist the slumber that seized her.

  “Flora!” Where could she be? Bruce climbed over the rugged path banking the river. His booted foot slipped in a patch of mud. He braced himself, throwing both arms out to regain his balance as he kept going. Something moved in the water. It looked like a torn piece of cloth snagged on a piece of driftwood. His heart skidded with a start. Bruce plowed into the water, gasping as the cold wetness seeped into his clothes and against his skin.

  Irene had warned him in a tearful state that Flora couldn't swim. He pushed through the water, pressing through the current until it was deep enough to swim. Bruce swung his arms and kicked as hard as he could, chasing after the log. The current was strong, but he wouldn't give up.

  He reached out to grab the log, but it rolled from his grasp. Swinging his other arm around, Bruce gripped it tight. He pulled himself up and grabbed the gray cloth, recognizing a piece of Flora's skirt.

  “God, please don't let anything happen to her.” He closed his eyes and squeezed the cloth. Panic pulsed through his chest, slicing through fear and guilt. Should he have waited to take Marta back? For a moment, he couldn't breathe, and he held onto the log, allowing the current to carry him in the direction it would have most likely carried Flora. “Father, help me find her,” he whispered, his voice raspy and strange to his ears.

  As he floated on the log, Bruce scanned the area around him, looking for any other movement or more clothing—anything. The current shifted and swirled him, and then he saw her, lying on a rock, face down. Was she conscious?

  “Flora!”

  She didn't move.

  Bruce pushed off of the log and swam toward her, hope giving him renewed strength. He reached the boulder and hoisted himself up beside her. “Flora, speak to me.” Bruce brushed her damp hair from her face. Water dripped from his hand onto her closed eyelids. She gasped and jerked, blinking and wiping her face.

  “I'm sorry,” Bruce said, breathing a sigh of relief. “I was worried when thee didn't answer.”

  “Bruce?” Her blue-gray eyes widened. “Thee found me!” She tried to sit up, a mixture of relief and excitement replacing her groggy state. At the sudden movement, her face fell into a frown, and she winced. “Marta?”

  “She's fine.” He leaned forward to help her, but she held up her palm. “I'm fine. Only bruised…everywhere.” She wrinkled her face as she forced herself up with a groan. “I lost count of the number of rocks I crashed into.”

  Her gaze fell where her skirt had ripped, exposing a two-inch bloody gash on her knee. She pulled the rest of her skirt over the area.

  “My elbow is just as bad.” She held it up, as if trying to distract him. Indeed, she had scraped it well, and blood caked her skin. It didn't appear to be broken since she could move it, but he still wasn't sure about her leg or ribs.

  “Flora?” He touched her chin, but she turned away, unwilling to trust him.

  “I told thee, I'm fine.”

  “No broken bones?” Ignoring the disappointment, he raised an eyebrow, watching her stubborn countenance as she set her lips in a thin line and shook her head. “I need to make sure before I try to move thee, so I can figure out how to get thee back to camp.”

  “I ought to know if I have any broken bones.” She softened her tone and met his gaze with a wince. “I fear I may ache all over for days to come. I'm sorry, Bruce.” The whispered words made his heart constrict.

  “What for?” He brushed her hair back to better see her profile, not caring if she slapped him. She kept blinking, but no tears fell from her long lashes. Again, he took her chin and turned her toward him. “Why, Flora?”

  Her red-rimmed eyes swam, but she gulped back her emotion as he'd seen her do countless times before—as a child when others were teasing her. She took a deep breath, her spirited determination returning. “Because I almost exposed the mission, but I promise it won't happen again.”

  In that moment, Bruce wanted to kiss her. With all she'd suffered to save Marta, Bruce's esteem of her grew beyond his secret infatuation. Marta had told him everything—how Flora had jumped into a river, knowing she couldn't swim, so that the dog trailing them would lose their scent. Now she expressed more concern over the mission than her own wounds and discomfort. He had been wrong and Pastor John had been right. Flora Saferight was the perfect woman for this job—now he just had to find a way to keep her safe so she wouldn't risk her life again.

  He stared at the endearing freckles across the bridge of her nose, dotting the tops of her cheeks. Her full pink lips looked swollen, as if she'd been biting her bottom lip in distress. He leaned forward.

  “Bruce?” She touched her fingers to her lips. “Why is thee staring at me like that? Did I cut my face? Do I look dreadful?” She trembled and scooted away from him, unwilling to meet his gaze. “Don't think me vain, but I was never a pleasant sight to behold. I hope I haven't gone and made things worse.”

  How could he admit that he had been about to kiss her? She'd probably find enough energy to slap him right off this rock. Hadn't she already made it clear that she didn't want him to touch her? Well, for the time being she would have to bear it. She needed his help getting back, but he didn't have to humiliate himself with an admission of how he felt or what he'd almost done.

  “Believe me, Flora Saferight, there is nothing plain about thee other than thy clothes.”

  “My bonnet.” She touched the top of her head. “I lost it in the river.”

  “No matter. Looks like thee lost part of thy skirt as well.” He chuckled, dropping the piece of cloth he'd found onto her lap.

  “Where did thee find this?” She wrinkled her lips as she picked it up with two fingers.

  “Hanging on a floating log.”

  “God answered my prayer.” She smiled, her eyes sparkling and rendering him as still as a tree trunk. “This ripped from my skirt to give thee something to follow.”

  “Hasn't thee always believed in prayer?” Bruce bent one knee and wrapped an arm around his leg.

  “Of course, but not like this. It was so immediate and here's the evidence.” She held up the torn material. “I was frightened that thee would believe that the worst had happened and go on without me…for the sake of the mission.”

  Remorse shuddered through him in waves of past memories. He had once left her hiding during a game of hide-and-seek, convincing the others she ha
d gotten angry and gone home. How could she know that he would have turned this county upside down looking for her?

  He leaned toward her, taking her hand in his. For once she didn't jerk away, but merely stared at their hands as if he'd just grown fur. “Look at me, Flora.” He waited as her hesitant gaze traveled up his shirt, to his chin, and met his eyes. “If anything like this ever happens again, I give thee my solemn promise not to leave thee behind. I would have to see proof of thy demise before I would carry on without thee. No matter what, I'll always come back for thee.”

  She stared at him, openmouthed. He waited, but she made no response.

  “Flora, does thee understand me?” He squeezed her hand for emphasis. “Please believe me.”

  Her slender hand trembled in his. To his disappointment, she pulled away from his grasp and folded her hands in her lap. She gave him a skeptical stare. “Careful, or else I might be tempted to think thee has become a true gentleman after all these years.” A mischievous grin curled her lips.

  “Indeed, I have.” Hope smoldered inside Bruce.

  Flora licked her bottom lip as if contemplating her next words. She lifted her chin. “I'll never believe it.”

  Afraid of drowning again, Flora didn't argue with Bruce when he instructed her to place her arms around his neck. He swam to the shore with her on his back. She tried to kick so she wouldn't be such a burden, but her muscles felt like heavy iron. Now she wondered if this had been such a good idea.

  She didn't want to choke him and moved her hands to his shoulders. His strong muscles rippled through his wet shirt beneath her cold fingertips. The strength he exuded impressed her, but not as much as his gentle heart. She had expected him to rant at her over how she had almost ruined the mission. He could have criticized her choices, but he did none of those things. Bruce Millikan had seemed more concerned with having found her alive and the state of her health than anything.

  His reaction broke the chain of all her childhood memories of them together, leaving her uncertain and vulnerable. Was it possible that Bruce Millikan had grown into a different man than she'd thought? The idea both pleased and frightened her.

  His labored breathing came hard as he reached shallow water now that they'd crossed the river. He stood and patted her hand. “Is thee…all right?” He paused to catch his breath, turning to look at her, his gaze carefully assessing her.

  “Yes.” She nodded. “But I'm not the one who just swam across the river hauling a heavy woman on my back.” She touched his arm in concern. “Bruce, thanks.”

  Something flickered in his eyes, and then he turned from her. “We've got to get thee to a warm fire and into some dry clothes. I still don't know what wounds thee may have suffered.”

  “I told thee. I'm fine.” She took a step to follow him, but her sore knee gave out on her. She stumbled, splashing water around her.

  Bruce turned. “Fine, huh?” He bent and swept her up into his arms. “It isn't like thee to lie, Flora Saferight.”

  “I didn't lie!”

  He enveloped her against his hard chest. She listened to his fast-beating heart where she had laid her head. For now she would behave. She had caused the poor man enough hardship. “My legs may be sturdy on dry ground.”

  He didn't answer as he stepped from the water and climbed the muddy bank. He slipped once, but kept a steady hold on her. He readjusted her in his arms after regaining his balance.

  “Thee is bleeding again,” he said, glancing down at her exposed knee, where red blood bubbled and made a zigzagging trail down her leg. “I believe it will need stitching. Irene will have to sew it up.”

  She gasped and tried to cover her leg.

  “Stop wiggling before I drop thee,” he snapped, irritation straining his voice. “The last thing we need is more injuries. Now, be still.” His tone softened as he glanced down at her and their eyes met.

  His green gaze penetrated her heart and stirred her senses as warmth filled her flesh. His reddish-blond hair now looked a shade darker wet, and stood on end all over his head. Water dripped down his forehead and into his eyes. He blinked. Flora reached up and wiped her fingertip across his brows to prevent more water from slipping into his vision. Her finger tingled.

  “Thee will be the death of me before it's over.” He stared at her with a serious expression she couldn't fathom. Was he angry?

  “I'm sorry,” she whispered. “I only meant to keep the water from thy eyes.”

  “I know.” His voice was low. “But there was a time when thee wouldn't have cared.”

  “We're grown now. We can be civilized—at least.” She gestured down. “Let me see if I can stand on solid ground.”

  He lowered her with gentle ease. Flora held onto his arm as she attempted her weight on her injured leg. Pain sliced through all the nerves in her knee, causing her to wince.

  “Let me…” Bruce tightened his grip on her.

  “No.” She shook her head. “Just allow me to lean on thee. I can make it.” Flora glanced around, seeing no horse or wagon. “How are we getting back?”

  “I brought the horse,” Bruce said. “We can make better time if thee would allow me to carry thee.”

  “I can do this.” She took another unsteady step.

  “At this rate it will be nightfall before we reach the others.”

  Flora glared at him. He twisted his lips in an attempt to keep from smiling, but failed. A half-grin lit his expression.

  “I never thought anyone could be more stubborn or determined than I, but I believe thee has proven me wrong.” He shook his head in disbelief, his arm brushing against hers. “I don't want to be gone too long. We need to get back to the others.”

  “Thee always was a bully,” Flora teased. “Always making people do things thy way.”

  “Well, if I was such a bully, I wouldn't have ever set thee down. We'd be on the horse by now almost to camp.” He shrugged, risking a quick glance in her direction. “I thought thee would be eager to see how Marta is doing after all the stress she's endured.”

  Alarm slammed through Flora's brain, and she paused. “I thought thee said she was back at camp? What happened?”

  “She is, but I certainly didn't have time to question her. I left right away to find thee.” He ran a hand through his short, damp hair, combing it back. It wasn't often Flora saw him without his black hat. His round head gave him a boyish look that she found endearing.

  Her wet garments were heavy and scratched against her sensitive skin as she moved. She was so busy adjusting the collar of her blouse that she didn't see a root and stumbled into Bruce.

  He turned and caught her in time. “That's it.” He slipped an arm around her waist and one under her knees and lifted her up.

  “I didn't do that so thee would carry me.” Flora slid her arms around his neck to hang on as he jostled her along.

  “Of course not.” A look of irritation crossed his face as he sighed and set his jaw at an angle and stared ahead. “For we both know that if thee could, thee would avoid me for the rest of thy life.”

  Flora swallowed in discomfort. Perhaps that was once true, but no longer. Today he had eased her fears and given her a sense of trust in him. Once he'd arrived, her loneliness disappeared. His gentle care had been most unexpected, but appreciated.

  Rather than arguing further, Flora laid her head on his shoulder, reveling in the strong feel of his arms wrapped around her—protecting her—if only for this short, temporary walk.

  8

  Bruce arrived back at camp and lifted Flora off the horse. Thankful she didn't protest, he carried her to the wagon. He knew she had to be in pain, but she didn't complain. Instead, she wrapped her arms around his neck as if she feared being separated.

  Irene wept with relief while she assisted Flora into dry clothes. Even with Flora's instructions, Irene proved to be too unsteady with a needle to sew up Flora's knee. In the end, Bruce took care of the task, casting propriety aside out of necessity.

  Flora gritt
ed her teeth and closed her eyes, but never cried out in pain—only wincing and groaning. She refused the laudanum he offered, saying Marta may later have need of it. He couldn't fathom how she managed not to jerk on reflex as he pulled the needle and thread through her skin. Bruce tried to keep his tone, as well as his touch, gentle and soothing.

  He hoped his nerves didn't show. If ever he needed to be a pillar of strength and comfort for her, it was now. Once he tied off the last stitch, he breathed a sigh of relief, glad the ordeal was over. He risked a quick glance in her direction, worried he'd hurt her too much.

  She sat very still, her eyes remaining closed.

  “Flora, it's over,” he said. “I'm sorry if I hurt thee.”

  “Bruce, I'm very grateful.” Flora met his gaze as she lowered her voice to a whisper, “I know she meant well, but Irene was killing me.”

  The tension inside him eased, and he grinned, holding out his hand. “Come on. Let's get some food. That might make thee feel better.”

  An hour later, Flora left half her plate of beans uneaten.

  “I suppose three meals of plain beans are enough to make anyone lose their appetite,” Bruce said. “I thought thee wouldn't want any fish after spending so much time in the river today, but tomorrow I'll go fishing for all of us.” Bruce sipped from his cup of water, pleased with his idea. He was quite tired of beans as well.

  A giggle lifted in the air. Bruce lowered his cup, his gaze shifting from Irene to Flora. Marta had already succumbed to exhaustion earlier, so it had to have been one of them. Irene frowned as she carried the dirty dishes to a pot of water full of soapsuds. Flora beamed with a mischievous glint in her eye.

  “If I recall, thee might catch us some baby fish, but thy brother is the one to catch the real meat.” She folded her hands in her lap and waited.

  Was Flora Saferight teasing him?

  He searched his memory back to a hot summer afternoon when he and his brother had gone fishing. Bruce was twelve and had just started taking notice of Flora. He had hoped to impress her with his fishing skills, but all he'd managed was two small fish—one for himself and one for Flora. Silas had caught eight strapping trout. Both Flora and Irene had eaten from his brother's pile. Bruce had suffered the humiliation of being bested by his little brother.