Authors: Traitorous Hearts
***
The sun was barely up. Why was it already so hot? Slipping into
the stables, Bennie felt the light cotton of her simple blouse sticking to her
back. She wasn't fond of getting up this early, but she'd wanted to get the
worst of the work done before the heat became unbearable.
Inside the stable the heat seemed to hover, trapped, thick with
the smell of horses and ripe grass. There were no overnight guests at the
Dancing Eel and therefore no horses but the five her brothers hadn't ridden off
to war.
Business had fallen off considerably since the outbreak of
hostilities. No one wanted to travel unless it was absolutely necessary;
conditions were simply too unstable. Bennie was grateful. The Eel had its
regulars, who gathered everyday to jaw over the situation. There was enough
income to take care of the few Joneses left in New Wexford, even though they
helped out her sisters-in-law and their children. Any more work would have been
more than they could manage.
It shouldn't take too long to herd the horses out to the pasture
just beyond the woods. At least in the meadow there'd be the remote possibility
they could catch a rare breeze.
She shoved impatiently at the stray curls corkscrewing at her
temple. Knowing it would be too warm to stand even a few tresses plastered to
her neck, she'd ruthlessly gathered every strand of hair into a disciplined
knot this morning, nearly tugging out half of it in the process.
Useless. Less than an hour later, curls were springing out all
over her head, as if they had minds of their own. She thought longingly of how
neat her mother's smooth hair stayed no matter the humidity.
The horses' energy too seemed sapped by the temperature; they
didn't even bother to rouse themselves at her entrance. They simply stood
there, heads slung low, desultorily swishing their tales at the annoying flies
swirling lazily around them.
Taking a handful of tack from the hook just inside the door, she
approached Puffy first. Bennie ran her hands automatically over the horse's
neck and withers, checking for depth and tone of muscle. Today, though, she was
careful to stay at arm's length, avoiding the heat that radiated from the huge
body. She slipped the halter over his head and led him out into the bright,
hazy morning sunshine. Around the back of the stable, she looped the reins
loosely over a post and returned for another horse.
"Easy there, Patience," she murmured to her father's big
gray. The name was a complete misnomer; the horse was skittish, stubborn, and
downright difficult to manage. Dancing away from her reach, his hoof struck the
side of his stall with a resounding thud.
That couldn't be a groan, coming from the next, empty stall. She
backed away from Patience as her heart began to pound. A cat, maybe.
Another moan, low, rumbly, decidedly human. A tramp, a vagrant?
Maybe a deserter? Well, they didn't think they could just move into her stable,
did they?
A weapon. She needed a weapon. Casting about for something
suitable, her gaze fell on the pile of tools near the door. The ax Isaac used
for chopping wood was propped up against the wall.
She tiptoed carefully over to it. There were no more sounds, but
she had no intention of giving the intruder any indication she was doing
anything more than caring for the horse.
The ax was large and heavy, its handle smooth from use. She lifted
it easily, grateful, for once, that she wasn't as small as her mother, who
never could have handled it. Raising it over her shoulder in preparation, she
crept back to the stall.
"Jon!"
She dropped the ax, forgotten, to the floor. The empty stall was
filled with broken tack and a small pile of straw left from the summer before.
Jon was sprawled on the pile, resting on his right side. His right arm was
flung over his head; his left rested loosely at his waist.
"Oh, Lord. Jon."
She flew across the stall and dropped to her knees. His hair was
tangled and matted to his head, and he was wearing strange, rich clothes that
were torn and stained.
"Oh, Lord." He was so still. She lightly touched his
beard-shadowed cheek. "Jon," she repeated.
He opened his eyes slightly. Their beautiful, pale blue was
glazed, washed of color.
"Beth," he said in a hoarse croak. "Found
you."
"What happened to you?" His cheeks were hollow, and deep
purple shadows looked like bruises under his eyes.
"Hurt."
"Don't move. I'll go get help."
"No." Weakly, he raised one finger, as if that small
gesture could stop her. "Arrest... me."
They would. A wounded British officer would be a worthy prize to
any colonial. He'd end up a prisoner of war, if a doctor could manage to save
him.
He looked into her eyes, the plea in his own unmistakable.
"Help... me."
Bennie twisted her hands together until the skin burned. "I
don't know how."
"Take... ball... out."
Take the ball—oh, Lord, he'd been shot!
She couldn't do this. She had to go get help. Even if he got
arrested, at least he'd be alive.
"I can't," she protested.
"Yes, can." He smiled slightly at her, a ghostly parody
of his old grin. "Can do... anything, Beth." He closed his eyes as if
the effort to both speak and keep them open was too great for him.
"Can't... be arrested. Kill me."
"All right." What was she going to do? She needed...
things. Bandages, scissors, water. What else?
"Hang on, Jon. I'll be right back. I have to get some
supplies." He didn't respond, and she was suddenly afraid she'd lost him
already. "Do you hear me, Jon?" she asked urgently. "Don't die
while I'm gone." She raised her voice. "You can't die on me!"
"Yes... ma'am," he whispered.
Hesitating only a moment, she ran out of the stables. It was
hardly the ideal place to leave him; anyone could stumble across him. But there
didn't seem to be much choice. There was no way she could move him by herself,
not when he was in this condition.
Patience snorted, reminding Bennie of his presence. She had to get
the horses out to pasture before her father came wondering why they were still
in the stable.
At least the stall Jon was sprawled in wasn't visible from the
door. If someone walked in a mere ten steps, however...
Thank goodness, neither her father nor Isaac were early risers.
Her mother was certainly up, but she never came out to the stables. With any
luck, Jon would be safe for at least a little while. Hurrying away, Bennie
prayed for a little luck, and a whole lot of divine guidance.
She couldn't go back to the house; it was unlikely she'd be able to
sneak what she needed right out from under her mother's nose. So she headed for
Brendan's shop, hoping she could find what she needed.
Thankfully, she made it to Brendan's without running into anybody.
The shop was stuffy and sweltering, filled with a stale, closed-up smell. She
shoved everything she could think of in a large canvas sack and sped back to
the stables.
"Bennie!"
The shout came when she had almost passed the Dancing Eel. Oh,
Lord. Her father. She stopped cold, closing her eyes and breathing deeply.
Calm. She had to be calm. He didn't know anything about Jon. She
just had to be calm. Taking one final gulp of air, she clutched the bag tightly
and turned to face her father.
"Where have you been, my girl? I noticed Puffy still back of
the stables. Thought you were taking them all out to the meadows."
"I am. Just haven't had time yet."
He jerked his chin in the direction she'd just come from.
"And you were...?" he prodded.
"Brendan's," she said quickly.
"Brendan's?" He lifted one bushy silver eyebrow.
"And what would you be needing at Brendan's so early this morn?"
She squeezed the sturdy muslin between her palms. Calm, she
repeated to herself. "I... forgot a few things the last time I cleaned it.
Went back to get them."
"That's what's in the bag, I suppose?"
"Yes," she said in relief.
"And what's so important you had to scurry down there first
thing?"
The relief had come too soon. "Dust rags." Well, that
was certainly important enough. She tried again. "Ah, I needed some...
medicine."
He snorted. "Women's stuff, I suppose."
"Yes."
Narrowing his eyes, he peered at her closely. "That why
you're so flushed and out of sorts? Never seemed to be like those weak,
fluttery females before."
"I think it's just the heat, Da."
"There is that." He squinted at the sky, a cloudless,
burning blue. "It'll be worse today, I think."
"Oh, no!" It would be impossibly warm inside the stables
for Jon.
"Maybe you should take the day off, Ben. You've been working
too hard."
"I think I will."
"Practice that violin of yours. Haven't had much time for
doing that lately."
"I'd like that." Nobody bothered her when she was
practicing. It would give her plenty of time to care for Jon undisturbed.
"I'll get Isaac to pasture the horses for you."
"No!"
He peered at her again.
"I-I mean," she stammered, "I... would like to take
the horses out. I don't mind. I'll take the rest of the time off after that, I
promise."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure." She scurried off before he could ask any
more questions.
She dropped the bag just out of sight inside the stable door and
ran around back of the house to the well, just barely managing to resist the
urge to check on Jon. She would need the water in any case, and stopping to
assure herself of his safety would take time she didn't think she could afford
to waste.
The bucket banged against her leg as she hurried, and water
sloshed over the side and soaked her skirt. She careened around the corner of
the stall and stopped.
He was still there, sprawled across the golden-brown hay. Pale,
silent, absolutely still.
And she was suddenly, terribly afraid that she was already too
late.
Tentatively, afraid of what she might find, she laid her hand on
his chest. Through the thin, tattered fabric of his shirt his flesh was still
warm, and she could, just barely, detect the subtle rise and fall of his chest.
"Thank God."
"You're back," he whispered without opening his eyes.
"Yes." He was so white, so still, the skin stretched
taut over the beautifully molded planes of his face. Who was she trying to
fool? She was no healer, knew only the rudiments of dressing and tending
wounds. If he never opened those wonderful, sleepy eyes again, she couldn't
stand it if she were part of the reason.
"Jon. Are you sure there isn't someone I can summon?
Somewhere I can take you? I don't know what to do."
"Trust... you." He tried to reach for her, winced, and
let his hand drop back to the straw. "Trust... no one else."
She took a deep breath. "All right. What do I do?"
"Just... take out ball."
"Where is it?"
"Back."
His back. Oh, Lord. Not his arm or thigh, nothing simple. His
back.
She could do it. She had to. Taking her bucket and supplies, she
moved around to his other side, careful not to jar him in any way, and knelt
behind him.
Her hand flew to her mouth to cover her gasp; she didn't want him
to hear her distress. A fist-size hole had been torn in the back of the odd,
fancy coat he was wearing. The hole was perhaps three quarters of the way up
his left side. If the ball had gone deep, it was far too close to his heart for
comfort.
But if it had hit his heart, he never would have gotten this far,
so the ball had to have stayed fairly close to the surface. Beneath the hole,
his coat was soaked with old, black blood. So much blood, hut it looked as if
the flow, if it hadn't stopped entirely, had at least slowed considerably.
First things first. She had to get that jacket off and she reached
for her scissors.
"First I'm going to cut away your clothes so I can see what
I'm dealing with, all right?"
She snipped the thick, heavily embroidered fabric and peeled the
cloth away, letting out the breath she'd been holding. Step one done. Jon
hadn't moved so much as a twitch the entire time.
"Jon?"
"Yes?"
"Just checking to see if you're still with me."
There was bulky padding wrapped around his waist. She wondered for
a moment if he'd somehow already injured his lower back. But it wasn't a
bandage, just a thick wrapping of batting and linen.
Time to worry about it later. She snipped through the strips of
cloth and pushed them away.
Now his shirt. The linen yielded more easily to her scissors, but
stripping it away was something else entirely. The blood had dried, causing the
fabric to stick to his flesh. If she simply jerked it away, the pain would be
awful; worse yet, he'd probably start bleeding again, and she wasn't sure how
much more blood he could afford to lose.