He stood in the middle of the road, his long black beard lifting and falling with the hot, gusting wind. He just stood there, silent, and waiting. Lucas had the feeling the man had within him the resources to wait forever.
Lucas didn't have such resources himself. He set his bottle down on the boardwalk and went out to talk to the man. He dispensed with any polite greeting, because a Plain man wouldn't expect it and wouldn't want it.
"If you're here for Rachel, I can tell you she lives for the moment, although I can't promise anything more, and you're not taking her anywhere without first going over my own dead body. But you can come in and see her if you want."
He didn't think he would get a response from the man. There was no expression on that bearded face, or in the pale gray eyes.
But then the man said, "No," and the word came out on a gust of hard breath. "My daughter is dead to me, but you come tell me if she dies, ja?"
"Yes. I'll tell you," Lucas said, not understanding. And yet he had the feeling that just by being here this big, gruff Plain man had been forced to surrender some of his rare and precious innocence.
Rachel opened her eyes, and the first thing she saw was her Englische husband kneeling at her bedside. Standing beside him was her son, so she smiled.
Benjo's face was wet, and she thought it must be raining and she was glad, because it had been such a long, dry, hot summer up till now. And then she breathed and it hurt so, she thought the air had caught fire in her lungs.
The rush of pain brought with it the memory of what had happened, and the hurt from this, from remembering this, was as terrible as the hurt in her chest.
Rachel breathed, gasping; the room darkened and faded. She was cold all over but for the fire in her chest, and she knew she was dying. Benjo. She was dying and leaving her son to grow up without her.
She opened her eyes wide, trying to see her Benjo, but it was so dark, and she was so cold.
Her husband took her hand and brought it up to his mouth. "Rachel," he whispered.
She breathed and the air washed into her lungs on a gust of nearly unbearable pain. "You've killed me, Johnny Cain. You and your gun."
She wasn't sure whether she'd said the words or only thought them. But he must have heard them somehow, for he pressed his face into the side of her neck and she felt his tears. "If I could go in your place... Rachel, oh God, Rachel. Let me die for you."
He didn't understand; he'd always had such trouble understanding her and her faith. She didn't fear death, for she would be in the loving arms of her Father in heaven. But it was the thought of the loving arms of those she was leaving behind that broke her heart, the thought of all those joyful moments now lost to them forever.
She could hear her son stammering over his imprisoned words, and she groped for his hand. She had so much to say, to give to him, so much for her son and her man both. But it was so hard to talk when each breath was like swallowing fire.
Her boy's hand felt small and fragile in hers, and she couldn't bear it. "Benjo... be strong, be good... love God."
She turned her head, her lips brushing her man's cheek. "Johnny... never forget how I love you."
A cry of anguish broke deep in his throat. "Rachel. Forgive me."
No, he didn't understand. It wasn't a matter of forgiveness. She loved him with the kind of love that could forgive anything. But even if she had never loved him, she would have had to forgive him.
"I am Plain," she said, with one last surge of strength before the darkness enshrouded her. In my heart I am Plain.
The night lay silent over Miawa City, but inside Doc Henry's house a lamp was lit at the bedside of the sleeping woman. A man sat nearby, in a winged leather chair, his head nodding as he reluctantly succumbed to a fitful slumber.
It was the music of the wind that woke her: whining in the kitchen stove pipe, whistling under the tin roof, clanging the signboard of the saloon next door.
Rachel breathed, pleased to discover that she could, and that it didn't hurt quite so much anymore. She felt all fuzzy-headed, as if all her senses were wrapped up in wool. Wisps and veils of strange memories clung to her mind.
The man in the chair stirred and leaned over her. His face was dark with a rough growth of beard. His eyes were haggard and red-rimmed, but even in the murky light of the coal oil lamp she could see that they were happy.
"I'm not gonna outlive this love, lady," said Johnny Cain. "So I'd take it kindly if you wouldn't die on me."
She smiled at him, for she knew now she wasn't going to die, and because he had said in his roundabout Englische way that he loved her.
Her gaze searched the night-shadowed room for her son. "Benjo?" she said, but it came out as a frog's croak.
"He's sleeping. I'll go get him."
"No, not yet... in a moment..." Those strong wisps of memory were claiming her again, soft and sweet and filled with such a wondrous and dazzling light. She closed her eyes, trying to recapture them, but they were elusive, fading... gone.
"Johnny, I dreamed. And in the dream I heard the most beautiful music. I wanted to stay there, with the music, but I couldn't. I had to come back, to you and our Benjo."
"You've had pneumonia. You almost died so many times we all lost count, and Doc Henry said he was going to write you up in some medical journal as scientific evidence that miracles do happen."
"Do you think it was a miracle?"
His gaze broke from hers and fell to the hands he had clasped between his knees. When he raised his head again, she saw the old wariness in his eyes, but a fragile hope was there as well. He needed to believe, and maybe that was all faith really was, she thought. Simply a need to believe.
"I love you, my Englische husband," she said.
A stain of color spread across his sharp cheekbones. "Yeah. Me too," he said. "I mean, I feel the same as you do. For you."
She laughed, even though it hurt to do so. She had thought they were forever parted and now they had it all again, their lives, their love. Her gaze traveled lovingly over him, and stopped at his hips.
No gunbelt. No gun.
"It's somewhere at the bottom of Miawa Creek," he said, although she hadn't spoken.
"And is it there to stay, Johnny? Or will you only go and buy another?"
His eyes met hers and they were no longer empty, no longer cold. "I love you, Rachel. So much it scares me, and I have a hard time even saying the word. But I can't become Plain for you. And I can't change what I've done or the man I've been."
She wanted to reach up and touch him, touch his face, his mouth. But when she tried, all she could manage was a flutter of her fingers. She was so weak still, yet inside she felt strong. Strong and alive.
"I know what you are, Johnny Cain," she said. "I've always known this. But the past is done, and God with his miracle has given us a future."
"My past can always find me," he said. "And I won't run, you know I won't run."
She knew. She had accepted from the start that loving him would be hard and dangerous.
She had to touch him. She lifted her hand, at the same time that he reached for it. He kissed her palm, and then her wrist, where her pulse beat.
"Rachel, I want..."
"What is it you want, Johnny Cain?"
They shared a smile, as deep and intimate as a kiss. "Only to go home and raise sheep and watch our Benjo grow into a man, and spend the rest of my life loving you. Just that."
"You ask for a lot, outsider."
He laid the back of her hand against his cheek. His smile was so tender and fragile, it hurt to look at it. "What I've learned of love, I've learned from you. I don't believe in anything, but I believe in you."
He brought her hand to his mouth, and rubbed her knuckles over his lips, his man's lips that looked so hard, but were soft and gentle and loving.
"There was a song," he said. "A hymn we sang in church when I was a boy." And he said the words in a voice that was deep and roughened with all the feelings he was showing
her, offering to her as a gift with his love. "'Amazing grace! how sweet the sound...' And more I don't remember, except for this:
"'I once was lost but now am found.'"
The Outsider Page 51
