Kefira took the small book, smiled, and put it into her blanket roll. “Thanks for everything.”
George nodded. “The Lord will watch over you.”
“Thank you,” she said, and turning, she left the house. They followed her out to the porch, and she walked away, turning once to wave at them. They stood framed there, George’s arm around his wife, and both of them waved again. Kefira somehow knew that this was one of those images she would keep for many years in her memory. She had been so affected by the obvious concern of these two people, their kindness, their generosity, their warmth.
All day long she trudged, and three times vehicles stopped to offer her a ride, but each time the drivers were male, and she simply ignored them and trudged along.
She stopped once to eat a beef sandwich that Mrs. McKinney had fixed and three of the pickled okra that bit at her tongue. That cheered her up, and she continued walking. A drizzle came late in the afternoon. She took shelter under a large tree, but still it soaked her clothing, and she thought regretfully of how nice it had been to be dry and warm for a time.
She rested awhile and then walked farther. Early in the evening she thought about finding a farmhouse where she might ask to sleep in their barn. She had done that before, but the road was lonely and there were few houses. As she walked along, she thought of the prayers that George McKinney had prayed for her by name, and a warmth washed over her.
Suddenly she remembered prayers that her own father had prayed. He had held her on his lap and prayed for her every night. She remembered it so well. Once she remembered him praying for God to help him find a watch he had lost, and she had asked him, “Papa, does God hear about little things like that?”
His answer still was with her, and she seemed to see his warm brown eyes and his strong hands. “Yes, liebchen, He cares for everything.”
Perhaps it was this memory that suddenly created a strange desire in her. She used to pray as a little girl, and even as a young woman, but after her father’s death and as her life had gotten harder, she had fallen out of the habit. She had even wondered many times if there even was a God who heard prayers. Now suddenly she found herself praying. “Eternal One,” she prayed, “look down on me in mercy. I have not been faithful to you, but have pity on me. Help me this day to please you—” Suddenly she remembered the way her father closed every prayer. “And let me be a help to someone else this day.” She smiled wryly, thinking of that phrase her father had always used, and then she shrugged, feeling somewhat foolish. The Creator of the universe is not interested in what one young woman among all the millions will do today.
She walked along, staring at the ground, and the darkness was falling so quickly it troubled her. She heard a sound and stopped abruptly. There ahead of her, over to the side of the road, directly in front of a skeleton of a burned house, was a small barn. She saw three men, and shock ran through her as she saw one of the men knock another down with what appeared to be a club. She heard the man cry out, and then the large man suddenly drew back his foot and kicked him. She was close enough to hear the thud of the blow and winced. Then the man delivered another kick, and the other began striking the fallen man with the club.
Afterward Kefira could never remember what went on in her mind at that instant. She later thought it had something to do with the prayer she had prayed just a short time before. And let me be a help to someone else this day. She saw that the fallen man was already badly hurt, and she ran forward, pulling the pistol from her pocket.
“Leave him alone!” she shouted, her voice startling her as well as the two men. Both men suddenly stood up, and one of them, the larger one, started for her.
She could see his eyes glittering like a wild animal and knew there was no mercy in him. Without a second thought, she raised the pistol and pulled the trigger.
The shot rang out and instantly the man grabbed the side of his head. Kefira had simply wanted to fire a warning shot, but the bullet had clipped the man’s ear, and he stood there staring at her in shock. She took two steps forward and raised the pistol and shouted, “Leave that man alone. Get out of here!”
The other man cursed and started toward her, and Kefira loosed a shot so near to the man’s head that he flinched and cursed. “I’ll shoot you both if you don’t get out of here right now!” Kefira yelled, and she leveled the pistol firmly, not knowing if she really could carry out her threat or not.
The two immediately turned, the man dropping his club, the other holding to his ear. They fled, stopping just long enough to pick up their bedrolls, and Kefira watched them until they disappeared in the gathering night.
Suddenly she felt weak as the strength flowed out of her. If I had shot an inch to the right, I’d have killed that man. The thought ran through her like an electric shock. She stared at the gun, then felt something like pride. She looked up at the heavens and wondered, God, is this the one I’m supposed to help? She stuffed the gun in the side pocket of her coat and ran to the fallen man. He was lying on his back, and she dropped down on one knee beside him. His head was bleeding, and his eyes were closed. He was not dead, for she could see his chest rising and falling, and his head moved slightly from one side to the other.
“Mister, can you hear me?” She touched his face, but he did not move or speak.
“Please wake up.” She leaned over and studied his face and for a moment was completely confused. She did not know how badly he was hurt, but the rain was starting to fall again. She stood up and peered into the darkness. She knew there was no house back the way she had come, and she saw no lights farther down the road in the direction where the man’s two assailants had disappeared.
She looked down at the man and then ran quickly to the barn. It was unlocked, and one of the doors sagged where a hinge had fallen off. She stepped inside but could not see anything in the darkness.
“I’ve got to get him out of the rain. Then maybe I can get help.” Running back to the fallen man, she grabbed his clothes and heaved at him. He groaned with pain but did not awaken. It was a titanic struggle to drag him the ten feet to the barn, and by the time she got him inside, the night had almost fully fallen. She fumbled in her bag and pulled out a candle and matches. Her hands were trembling as she lit the candle, but the pale amber flame flickered to life. She looked around, not knowing what to do next. She knelt beside the unconscious man, studying his face. She had learned to read people rather well, and she saw nothing vicious in his face—only a helpless wounded man who needed her help. Kefira laid her hand on his chest and thought for a moment, then took a deep breath. “Well, Eternal One,” she said aloud, “you got me into this, so please help me do what has to be done!”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“I Guess I Belong to You”
Kefira’s voice sounded small in the emptiness of the barn, and she felt somewhat foolish speaking to God in such a fashion. In all truth she was afraid, for she did not know the extent of the man’s injuries. He might die, and how would she explain that to anyone? Looking around, she saw that the barn, abandoned though it was, had evidently been used as a storage area. Several empty wooden boxes were thrown over to the corner, and she quickly turned one upright, dripped several drops of the hot wax from the candle, then set it firmly on the box. It threw off little enough light, but at least she was not alone in the intense darkness.
“I’ve got to keep him warm,” she whispered. Quickly she found that some of the boxes were falling apart, and although she had nothing to chop with, she managed to break off several boards, some of them almost rotted. They were dry, though, and she cleared a space on the bare ground and began to make a small pyramid of the smaller pieces. She found what evidently were fruit boxes, very fragile wood that looked as if it would burn easily. Breaking these, she added them, then brought the candle over and held it under the wood. Soon the fire began to nibble at her kindling, and she replaced the candle. As the fire caught and she cautiously added pieces to it, it threw a light over the interior. Someo
ne had stacked some firewood at one end. It was old and covered with mold but dry, and soon she had a fire that gave off not only a cheerful yellow light but warmth as well. She went over to the wounded man and pulled at him until he lay parallel to the fire. He groaned with pain and grabbed at his side, but he did not awaken. She studied his face, and holding the candle close, she cautiously examined the wound on his head. “I’ve got to do something with that. It’s still bleeding.”
She opened her bedroll, pulled out a saucepan, and balanced it on the fire. She had a frying pan also, and she went outside and caught some of the rainwater from the eaves. The rain was falling more steadily now, but the roof evidently was sound. She managed to heat a little water, then set the saucepan down, and going back to her bedroll, she searched for something she could use to dress the wound.
She had no bandages as such, but she took part of her underwear, a vest made out of cotton, and decided that would do. Opening her pocketknife, she cut the vest into several long strips, then carried them over to the man. She knelt down and, dipping one of the strips into the warm water, began to bathe the cut. She had no practical experience in treating wounds, but she was relieved to see that the cut was shallow, although it was still bleeding freely. When she had washed it as well as she could, she took several of the strips and managed to tie a bandage around his head. During this time he made no move at all, and his breath puffed his lips out. She held his head for a moment after she had finished and studied his face. He was a good-looking man, somewhere in his late twenties, she supposed, and she felt an odd sense of pleasure and possession.
Finally she laid his head down gently, put one of the blankets over him, and added two more small pieces of wood to the fire. She sat down then, rinsed out the saucepan carefully, opened a can of beans, and poured it into the pan. She added some rainwater and began to heat the stew.
Once she thought she heard something outside and jerked in fear. Her hand went at once to the pistol, and she stood there in the flickering light of the fire absolutely motionless. Nothing happened. No one came, and she went to the door looking vainly, hoping that a vehicle would come by and she could flag it down. But the road seemed deserted, as it had all afternoon. Evidently there were few inhabitants and the road was little used.
She started to go back to the stew when suddenly the man spoke, or at least uttered some sound. It was a wordless cry, but at once she went to him and knelt down and stared into his face. His eyes were open, and he stared at her without comprehension for a moment.
“How do you feel?”
The question seemed to mean nothing to the man, but then he blinked and twisted his head. “Where—?”
“Don’t try to talk. You’ve been hurt.”
The man looked around wildly, threw his arm out, and tried to turn over. He cried out, gasping in pain.
“Where do you hurt?”
“It’s … my side.”
“Lie still,” Kefira said. She carefully unbuttoned his vest and shirt. She saw no open wound, but his left side was already discolored, and she could tell there was an unnatural puffiness about it.
“I think you have some broken ribs,” she said. “You need to see a doctor.”
She watched his eyes, but he closed them for a moment. The pain must have been intense. She said nothing, and finally he opened them and said, “What happened? Wait … I remember.”
“There were two men.”
“I know. They were trying … to rob me,” he gasped. Suddenly he reached around, feeling for something.
“What is it you want?”
“My watch. Did they get my watch?”
“No, it’s still here.” She touched the watch, still hanging from its chain in his vest pocket. She saw him relax then and lie back. “I thought they were going to kill me.”
Kefira nodded. She was relieved that he was talking and was not going to die immediately at least. “One of them was beating you with a club, and the other was kicking you. Why didn’t you give them the watch if that’s what they wanted?”
“No, it was a family watch. My father gave it to me.”
Kefira shook her head. What good’s an old watch when you’re dead? She said nothing about the watch, however, asking instead, “Are you warm enough?”
“I guess so.” He stared at her for a moment, then said, “I guess you saved my life. I don’t know how you did it.”
Kefira did not know how to answer. “I shot at them and scared them away.”
The man’s eyes opened wide. “You shot at them!” he whispered. “You carry a gun?”
“Yes.”
“I guess that’s a good thing for me, huh? By the way, my name’s Josh Winslow.”
“I’m Kefira Reis.”
“You actually shot at them,” Josh whispered. “I can’t believe it.”
“I meant to scare them, but—” She broke off and said in some confusion, “I’m not a very good shot. I hit one of them in the ear. That was probably a good thing. I think they were going to kill you.”
“Could I have a drink of water?”
“Yes, I’ll get it.” Kefira got the water bottle and poured some into her tin cup. She lifted his head and saw that it hurt him, but he drank thirstily. “More?” she asked.
“No, that’s enough for now.” He looked at her strangely and then asked, “What are you doing out here, Miss Reis?”
“I’m on the road. I guess you are too.”
“Dangerous for a young woman to be out like this. Don’t you have any family?”
“No.”
At her single-word reply, the man looked at her more closely. She was conscious of his gaze and said, “I’m heating up some food. But you’ll have to sit up, I think.”
She busied herself stirring the beans, and when they were hot she helped him move to a sitting position against the wall. From his grim expression, she knew the pain was intense, but he was evidently half starved. He devoured the beans and the home-baked bread Mrs. McKinney had wrapped up and given her, and finally he shook his head. “No more. That’s fine.”
Kefira had eaten also, and now she washed out the dishes with the rainwater falling steadily from the eaves. She came back and added another piece of wood to the fire. She was aware that he was watching her, and finally she turned to face him. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I was just thinking. I read about a tribe of Indians somewhere in South America. They had a custom there that when a person saves someone’s life, that person sort of belongs to them.”
“You mean like a slave?”
“I don’t know. I don’t remember. But, anyway, I guess I belong to you, Kefira.”
Kefira was half amused by this and intrigued. She started to speak, but then she saw Winslow’s eyes drooping. “Here,” she said, “lie down. You need to stay warm. In the morning I’ll go for help.”
He did not answer, and she saw that he was suffering badly from the beating. She eased him over gently until his blanket was under him, then covered him up with it. She put the other blanket over him, then sat down beside the fire to watch him. When fatigue overwhelmed her, she pulled the second blanket back and lay down beside him. He was unconscious and did not move, although he moaned more than once. She pulled the blanket over them both but knew she would have to stay awake to keep the fire going. When sleep threatened to come, she got up and sat before the fire.
In the morning, the rain stopped, and Kefira was coughing almost steadily. She bent over and said to the man, “I’ve got to go get help.”
He must have been awake, for he answered immediately in a hoarse whisper. “Call Reverend Devoe Crutchfield at Summerdale, Georgia. I don’t know his number, but he’ll get someone to help me.”
“Devoe Crutchfield at Summerdale, Georgia. I’ll do that.” Kefira rose and left at once. It was dawn now but only barely so; the sun was just peeping over the eastern horizon. She had dried her clothes out thoroughly, but her cough was no better.
She
had walked no more than five minutes when she heard the sound of an approaching vehicle. As the car drew close she waved frantically. It pulled up, and she walked around to the driver’s side, where she saw a man inside. “I need help,” she said. “There’s a man that’s been badly hurt back there in that barn.”
“Get in, miss.”
Kefira did not open the door. Instead, she studied the driver’s face. He was obviously a farmer, perhaps in his midforties.
He said, “It’s all right, miss. I’ll help you with him.”
Kefira decided he was a truthful sort, and she climbed into the car and pointed. “It’s down there.”
“What happened to him?”
“He was badly beaten by two men just about dark last night. I got him into the barn out of the rain, but he needs to see a doctor.”
“My name’s Jethro Higgins,” the man offered.
Kefira gave him her name but volunteered no information. When the car pulled up in front of the barn, he said, “This is the old Henderson place. It burned down a year ago.” Kefira got out at once, and Higgins followed her inside. While Kefira made sure that the fire was completely out, Higgins, a tall, rawboned man, walked directly over to Josh and stooped down. “How you doin’?” he said quietly.
“Not … so good.”
“We’ll take care of that. I need to get you into the car.”
Josh Winslow nodded and Higgins helped him up. The young woman got on the other side, and the two of them steered him out. Kefira opened the door, and Higgins carefully lowered him onto the backseat. “Take it easy,” he said reassuringly. “We’ll get you to a doctor in no time.”
Kefira carefully shut the back door and then got in the front seat with Higgins. She looked back over the seat and saw that the injured man’s face was pale, and he was biting his lower lips as though to keep from crying aloud.
Higgins turned the car around and said, “My place is just three miles down this road. We’d better go right into town to the doctor’s office. This fellow’s pretty badly hurt.”
Beloved Enemy, The (House of Winslow Book #30) Page 12
