by Diane Noble
Lucas stared into the fire, watching its flames lick high. Finally he whispered, “Thank you, Brother Steele.”
John Steele smiled gently, and Lucas again noticed his ice blue eyes.
“Calling me Brother Steele is fine for now. But when it feels right, I want you to call me Father.”
“Yes sir.” Lucas said. A few minutes later he let his weary body slump against the back of his chair. It was long after midnight, and as hard as he tried to keep them open, his eyes threatened to close.
“It’s all right to sleep. Rest will bring you strength.”
Lucas nodded, but he already knew the images that would come to him when he closed his eyes. The nightmares that would terrify him in his sleep.
As if reading his thoughts, John Steele said, “We’ll watch over you, just as Brother Roe said. You sleep, son, and we’ll keep watch.”
“Just like angels watchin’ over you,” one of the men said, and the others spoke up in agreement.
“I’d say more like avenging angels,” Porter Roe said. “We’re soon to be the Saints’ army of avenging angels.”
As he drifted to that shadowy place between wakefulness and sleep, Lucas heard the men’s voices drone on through the night.
“It is time to act,” said Porter Roe. “We have the Prophet’s mandate. From this day and this hour forward, we will suffer no more. As God and all the holy angels are our witnesses, our rights shall no more be trampled. We declare this now is a war of extermination.
“We will act until the last drop of our enemies’ blood is spilled. We will carry this vow with our swords to each and every house until each inhabitant shall be utterly destroyed.” The room was quiet as he added, “From this day forward, let those who have dared to rise against us take heed. There will be no mercy.”
Shivering, Lucas burrowed deeper into the warm blankets. His eyes flicked open once more, and he met John Steele’s gaze. He quickly turned away, not knowing if it was strength or vengeance that glowed in the man’s face. Finally the child drifted into a dark and troubled sleep.
Much later, instead of the brutality he had witnessed, Lucas was visited in his dreams by powerful angelic figures looking strangely like the men who had rescued him. They carried silver swords. Glinting swords that dripped crimson blood.
One angelic being held his sword higher than the rest, letting it turn to reflect the sun with diamondlike brilliance, and he looked at Lucas with eyes the color of blue ice.
Hannah
Wolf Pen Creek, Kentucky
November 1838
Seven-year-old Mattie McClary hid himself in the darkness at the corner of the room, as was his habit when his pa was in one of his bouts. Bouts, that’s what Ma always called them. They happened when food was scarce and there were no rabbits for the cooking pot. It was then that Pa got to drinking. Yesterday, Pa had come home with only a scrawny rabbit then set to drinking through the night. Mattie worried that tonight it would be worse because his pa had taken a flask with him when he left for the hunt.
Now the day was moving into the half-light of late afternoon, and the sun was about to hide itself behind the hills of the hollow. Mattie watched his mother rocking little Hannah, who slept on her lap.
“Sleep, baby mine, I’m gonna sing you a heaven song. I’m gonna make you an angel’s harp, baby mine, oh, sweet baby mine,” his mother whispered softly. She stroked the little girl’s yellow curls with the back of her finger then smiled and looked over at Mattie as if a new idea had just struck her.
“Mattie, fetch me Pa’s cup. Over there by his jug.” She nodded toward his pa’s whiskey mug on the sideboard. “Then fill it with water from the bucket, son.”
Mattie grabbed the mug and filled it, then, being careful to hold it level, walked across the room to his mother. He set it on a small table beside the rocking chair then drew back again, something inside telling him things might not be safe when his pa came through the door. All he could do was wait and watch over pretty Hannah and their ma.
Mas eyes were squeezed closed now, and she was whispering soft words to the child. He didn’t remember her doing that with his brothers. But he had been younger then—maybe he just couldn’t remember. Since she was born two years ago, Hannah had seemed too small and rose-petal pale to be real, Mattie thought. They all had wiry, wheat-colored hair, but the boys’ hair stuck out instead of lying in pretty curls the way baby Hannah’s did.
The mountain’s shadow was about to cross the house, and Mattie knew it was time for Pa to come home. The boy shivered in the thin light. To rid his mind of the fright, he concentrated on the child in his ma’s arms; he had decided long ago that Hannah must be an angel, just like the picture in his ma’s old Bible.
His ma was still rocking Hannah and humming with her face lifted to heaven. When she stopped, the little girl opened her eyes and stared up at her mother.
“Father in heaven, this here’s Hannah,” said Claire. “I’m bringin’ her before you today to ask a blessing. I been a-waitin’ the circuit preacher for two years, now, and he’s never darkened the door once’t. So I reckon it’s up to me.” She was silent a minute then looked over to where the McClary family Bible lay dusty on a shelf. “Son, bring me the Book,” she said.
Mattie didn’t have to ask which book she meant: It was the only one in the house. He rose and carried the heavy Holy Bible to his mother then sat again in the dark corner.
Claire shifted Hannah to the crook of her arm then laid the Holy Bible on her lap. She read silently for a moment, her lips moving with each word. When she looked up at her son, her eyes glistened with tears. “Listen to this, Mattie,” she finally said, her forehead creasing into a frown as she struggled to read the words aloud.
“For this child I prayed; and the Lord hath given me my petition which I asked of him. Therefore also I have lent him to the Lord; as long as he liveth he shall be lent to the Lord.”
“What does it mean, Ma?”
She smiled gently. “It means I prayed hard for this little girl, Hannah. And God answered my prayer. And now I’m givin’ her back to him. For as long as she lives, she belongs to him.”
Mattie puckered his face into a thoughtful frown. “But will Hannah always know she belongs to God?”
“My lands, you’ve got a curious mind, child,” his mother answered. “All I know is life’s too hard to predict how Hannah’ll end up, especially bein’ a girl in these dark hills …”
“But will she know what you did, givin’ her away and all?”
“God doesn’t grow weary like I do or discouraged like unto death itself. She’s safe in his care. Better’n mine.” She let out a deep and troubled sigh. “But will Hannah ever know what I done?” She looked down at the pretty little girl in her lap. “Sometimes folks never know they belong to God,” she said finally, shaking her head slowly. “Even though they’re plumb in the middle of his big hand … where even their names’re written.”
Mattie said no more, and after a minute Claire looked back to the big family Bible. “Listen here,” she murmured and began to read again.
“My heart rejoiceth in the Lord, mine horn is exalted in the Lord; my mouth is enlarged over mine enemies; because I rejoice in thy salvation.” She read on, and Mattie listened to the sweetness of his mother’s voice. Even though she stumbled over words and hesitated while sounding them out, her awe made him listen as if God himself were speaking. Finally she concluded, “He will keep the feet of his saints, and the wicked shall be silent in darkness; for by strength shall no man prevail. The adversaries of the Lord shall be broken to pieces; out of heaven shall he thunder upon them: the Lord shall judge the ends of the earth; and he shall give strength unto his king, and exalt the horn of his anointed.”
She looked back to Mattie. “You asked if Hannah will ever know—?”
He nodded.
“Maybe someday you’ll tell her, Mattie.”
He frowned, trying to figure out why his ma couldn’t tell Hannah hersel
f. He didn’t answer.
“I want you to promise me, if need be, you’ll tell our Hannah when she’s old enough.”
He thought about it, and it seemed an easy enough promise to make. “I’ll tell her,” he said. “I promise.”
“You remember what I read. You remember it all, you hear?”
“I will, Ma,” he said solemnly.
Then Claire bowed her head, and Mattie did the same. He waited for several long seconds then peeked through squinted eyes, watching his mother dip her thin fingers into the cup.
Just then, the room darkened with the shadow of his father standing in the doorway. After a moment’s hesitation, Angus McClary strode unevenly into the room. He halted, swaying a bit, and let his eyes adjust to the dim light. His shoulders were slumped, his face lined and tired. No game hung from his belt.
With a frightened expression, Claire quickly wiped her fingers on Hannah’s faded dress.
“What’s this?” Angus asked loudly, his words slurred. The little girl whimpered then put her thumb in her mouth and watched her father with large, round eyes.
“Hush, Angus. You’re scarin’ her.” Claire’s voice was soft, and she gathered the child closer.
Angus strode to the rocker and stood, towering over Claire. “What are you doin’ with this?” he asked, looking at his whiskey cup, not at Hannah.
No one answered.
“I said, what are you doin ?” Angus swayed a bit as he spoke. He blinked, trying to focus.
Mattie wanted to fly in a rage toward his father. But he knew that would only make things worse for his ma and Hannah, so he clamped his lips together and tightened his fists.
Claire stared mutely at her husband. Mattie wondered if his ma didn’t want to say what she was doing for fear of Pa, or if it was because she’d done something holy and wished to keep it to herself.
“Answer me, woman,” he muttered.
Still, Claire was silent.
“I said, speak to me!” Angus’s face was dark with unreasonable anger. His stare suddenly lit on the Holy Bible, now lying on the table. In one swift, sure movement, he lifted it and hurled it at the fireplace. The worn, beloved Book smashed against a log then fell into the coals.
Sparks and ashes rose, and Mattie watched as the pages began to curl and turn golden in the intense heat.
“Oh, Angus,” Claire moaned, her eyes now wet with tears. She brought her hand to her mouth then shook her head. “That belonged to my ma. It’s all I had left of her.”
Angus seemed momentarily confused, and he tried to focus his bleary eyes. When he did, his gaze lit on Mattie hiding in the corner. “What’re you lookin’ at?” he demanded.
Biting his lip, Mattie uncurled his little body, brushed himself off, then walked boldly to stand before his father.
“Ma meant no harm,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“She was blessin’ our Hannah.” The boy spoke reverently. “ ‘Cause no one else was here to do it.”
Angus looked from Mattie to Claire, who stared defiantly back at him with eyes like wet granite. He sighed as the smell of burning paper and leather filled the room.
“Can we get it out, Pa?” Mattie said bravely. “Please?” He tried to keep from crying, knowing his tears would only further anger his pa.
“It’s too late,” Angus said. But his shoulders slouched, whether in despair or sadness, Mattie didn’t know. The two stood mutely watching what was left of the Bible turn to embers, gray ashes, then dust.
When it was done, Mattie glanced back across the room. Hannah was gazing up into her mother’s eyes. Tears trailed down Claire’s cheeks, and her lips moved slowly in prayer.
Claire looked up to meet her son’s gaze. Then she gently touched Hannah’s forehead where it was wet with her mother’s tears. Slowly, carefully, she traced the sign of a cross.
Ellie and Alexander
Drake’s Creek, Arkansas
December 1838
Seventeen-year-old Ellie Ingram looked up as Alexander Farrington approached on horseback from across the snow-dusted meadow. She stood in the small rock shelter, the thin winter sun barely warming her shoulders. Ellie gathered her heavy woolen cloak close, stamped her feet to rid them of their numbness, and shivered, partly in nervousness, partly because of the chill.
“Alexander,” she said softly as he drew closer. His gray eyes met hers, and he nodded with a smile as he swung off the tall sorrel. With a fiery spirit and hair the color of creek sand, he was more rugged in appearance than handsome, but there was something about the intensity of his gaze that caused Ellie’s heart to melt whenever she saw him. “I wasn’t sure you’d meet me,” he said.
“You piqued my curiosity, Alexander, nearly leaving me no choice.”
He grinned. “I hoped it would, Ellie. I also hoped you’d not think me too forward or disrespectful by asking you to hear me out today.”
“We live on the frontier,” she stated, repeating the same argument she’d heard her older sisters use with their ma. “Things are necessarily different here. I take no offense.”
“We been courting for some weeks now, Ellie, and I have a serious question to ask.”
Ellie bit her bottom lip and nodded shyly. “You mentioned such.” For days now she’d pondered what he might say, and her heart thudded hard beneath her ribs as she considered it again.
Alexander took her hand and led her to a stone bench by the creek. He laid his coat upon it then waited as she settled onto the seat. He knelt before her, taking her hand once more.
“Ellie,” he said, looking into her eyes. “Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?” Before she could answer, he rushed on, “I love you, but if you say no, dearest, I truly will understand. It’s a heavy burden I’m asking you to take on.”
Ellie swallowed hard and nodded, knowing full well his meaning. She had already pondered it in her heart. By marrying Alexander, she would become a ready-made mother. Charity Anne Farrington, Alexander’s first wife, had died of the consumption years before, leaving five stairstep children, the eldest being Hampton, who was fourteen, and the youngest, Amanda Roseanne, who was eight. Handsome children with hair of the darkest mahogany, they were known throughout the county as a lively handful, especially Amanda Roseanne.
Alexander touched her cheek. “I love you so, Ellie. If you need more time—”
Ellie reached up and took his hand, turned it over, and kissed his palm. “Alexander, I love you. And I would be honored to become your wife …” Her voice faltered.
He smiled gently. “Then why do I suspect you’re about to politely say no?”
She turned away from him, looking across the brown grasses of the meadow. The clouds were thickening with dark moisture, and a cold breeze had kicked up. The cold sliced through flesh and muscle to her bones. “It’s not what you think, Alexander,” she whispered, almost as if to herself. “It’s not fear of mothering. I’ve been minding my own little sisters practically since I could walk. And I love your children because they’re part of you. No, it’s not that.” She turned to meet his troubled gaze.
“Then, what is it?”
“You’re a wanderer, Alexander, by your own admission. You’ve traveled the continent, scouting trails and trading furs. When I marry, I don’t want a husband who’ll be away from home more than not. I want to be with you. Not two thousand miles away.”
For a long time Alexander didn’t speak. “What if we went west together?” he finally said. “I don’t mean now. Sometime in the future. We could go together. Take the little ones with us. My brother’s been speaking of it lately. Taking the whole family.” He grinned. “Aunts, uncles, cousins, our ma and pa, the whole kit and caboodle of us.” His eyes were shining as he considered her.
Ellie had to laugh. In his excitement, he looked more like a schoolboy than an experienced trailmaster and scout. “I might think about it,” she agreed.
“It wouldn’t be for some years,” he said. “Treks like thi
s take planning. And money.”
“You’d be the captain?” she asked, lifting one brow and tilting her chin upward.
“And you’d be the captain’s wife,” he said, again lifting her fingertips to his lips and kissing them lightly. “We’d be starting a new life. Maybe in Oregon Territory. Or California.”
“I do like the sound of that, Captain Farrington,” Ellie said, her smile widening. “I do indeed.”
He was still on bended knee. “I promise to cherish you, no matter where life’s journey takes us,” he said, his voice husky, “until the day I die.”
“And I, you,” Ellie whispered. “Yes, my dear captain, I will marry you!
As Alexander stood to fold Ellie into his arms, the sound of hoof-beats carried across the meadow. A moment later, a pony’s whinny announced the arrival of another rider. They turned to watch as Amanda Roseanne rode into sight, long, dark hair flying from underneath her gray woolen bonnet.
Her eyes were bright, and her cheeks were pink from the cold as she slid from the saddle. “There you are!” she declared, racing toward them. “I’ve been looking everywhere.”
“Is something wrong—?” Alexander began, his face reflecting a father’s worry.
By now the eight-year-old was standing in front of them, hands on her hips. “Hampton said we’re marrying Miss Ellie.”
Ellie and Alexander exchanged glances. “Your big brother is correct,” Alexander said. “We were just about ready to come tell you ourselves.”
“That part’s fine. I’m glad about the weddin’,” she said without hesitation. “But Billy says we’re going west in a wagon.” Her lower lip trembled. “He said we’re going far, far away. And we’re never coming back.”
“It’s true; we may be leaving,” said Alexander, kneeling in front of Amanda Roseanne. It tugged at Ellie’s heart the way he touched his daughter’s dark hair with his fingertips. “But not for a long time. You’ll be a big girl by then.”
“I’m glad about havin’ a new ma,” said the little girl, looking up shyly at Ellie. “But I don’t know if I want to go so far away from home.”
