Sarah My Beloved (Little Hickman Creek Series #2) (18 page)

Slanting her head to one side, she gave him a probing
glance, as if to read him. "All right, then."

He inspected the room. "If you don't mind, I think I'll bed
down on the sofa."

"It's probably a good idea on such a nasty night."

He actually planned to make the sofa his bed from now
on until he finished the extra room. It was foolish to sleep in
a freezing barn when he could be curled up next to a warm
hearth. Besides, now he could tend to the fire and keep it blazing all night.

"Good night, Sarah."

"Good night." Although he might have lent her a hand
while she unwrapped her legs and stood up, he clasped his
hands tight together at his back, afraid that touching her
might ignite some deadly spark.

Sarah would not be here forever. Best he not grow used to
her.

Sunday morning came in a veil of blackness.

Sarah scrambled out of bed, shivering mightily when her
bare feet hit the cold wood floor. The first thing she did was
run to the window to peer outside. Had the ground thawed, or
did the earth still lie under a coverlet of ice? It was difficult to
tell with the absence of a moon.

She'd so wanted to attend Sunday services, even though she
hadn't broached the subject with Rocky. It would be wonderful to see folks, even more delightful just to gather with other
believers. Well, if the weather conditions prevented them from
attending this week, she decided, they would simply hold a
private service right in their very own living room, with songs,
Bible reading, and prayer. In fact, she'd already prepared the
entire ceremony in her head. Oh, it would be the perfect time
for gathering together to sing and praise God-whether Rocky
approved or not.

Sensing an immediate need for the privy and not wanting
to use the chamber pot again, Sarah donned her warm robe
and slippers.

Relief set in when she opened the door to the living room
and discovered Rocky nowhere about. His blankets were folded
and stacked at one end of the sofa and a low flame flickered in
the lantern, and Sarah determined he must have headed for
the barn. A roaring fire seemed to bid her a cheery welcome,
its warmth filtering through the house.

She opened the back door and grimaced when she saw the
glossy covering of ice and felt the rush of frosty air as it drove
through her lungs and straight down her body. Everywhere
she looked, freezing rain had left its mark. Tree branches, once spry and resilient, now sagged nearly to the ground,
while others had given way to the extra weight and broken off
to lie sprawled about the yard.

It was deadly quiet, save an occasional snapping of a distant
twig or the faraway hoot of a sheltered owl. A hint of daybreak
rose in the eastern skies, a tinge of orange and pink filtering
through low-lying clouds. Sarah shivered and yanked her wrap
more snugly about her before heading down the narrow path
toward the outdoor facility, anxious to be done so she could
begin breakfast before the children awakened.

While measuring each step with care, she scolded herself for not having brought the lantern. Not only was the path
dimly lit, it was precarious at best. Therefore, she should not
have been surprised when her smooth-soled slippers sent her
legs in two different directions like some kind of bungling
acrobat. Flailing arms could not restore her balance, and so
it was that she found herself falling rearward. She flopped on
her backside, stunned and appalled.

Unexpected pain soared through the back of her head,
which she'd hit the hardest, starting at the base of her skull
and steadily climbing like a noxious spider creeping along,
intent on reaching its prey.

Dazed and uncertain, she sought to lift herself. Failing in
her attempt, she lay back and fought down fear and nausea.

As unexplained drowsiness set in, she listened to her own
voice mutter a whispered plea. "Dear God, please help me."

ill she be all right, Uncle Rocky?" asked Seth for at
least the tenth time that afternoon.

"She'll be fine," Rocky assured, pitching another forkful of
manure into the wagon, his second wagonload that day. "But
it will take some time. Doc Randolph says she has a concussion.

"What's that?"

"I've already told you half a dozen times."

"I forget."

Rocky bit his lip to keep from smiling. Or maybe it was
to bite back a frown. The boy was driving him crazy with his
questions. Truth was, he'd almost gone crazy himself when
he'd discovered Sarah lying flat out on the ground on his way
back from the privy earlier that morning.

When she hadn't responded to her name, he'd panicked.
She'd looked so lifeless lying there in a heap in the middle of
the path, all arms and legs. Relief had come quickly, however,
when he'd swept her up to carry her into the house and heard
her mumble, "I can walk just fine."

She couldn't, of course, and she'd been in no position to
argue at that point.

He'd laid her on her bed, raced into Seth and Rachel's
room, and, after waking Rachel, instructed her to watch over
Sarah until he returned. Then he'd ridden Sparky, his pinto, to Doc's office faster than a brakeless locomotive going downhill, despite the icy conditions.

He'd kicked himself for not having insisted the night before
that she wait for him to walk her out in the morning-or at
the very least use the chamber pot. Of course, discussing such
things with his wife was nearly impossible. She went red as a
cherry every time he so much as mentioned the words chamber
pot. He suspected she'd never used one before she'd come to
Little Hickman. Boston and most big cities in the East had
introduced indoor plumbing some time ago, and with her supposed wealth, he suspected she'd had more than one indoor
commode in her New England house.

"What's a-con-concoction again?" asked Seth, stumbling
on the word, and then still getting it wrong.

"Concussion," Rocky corrected, grinning in spite of himself. "Doc says it's like an injury to the brain."

Injury?"
.

"Her brain has been hurt. But not so bad that it won't heal
with time. She will have a headache, and maybe feel tired for a
few days, but then she'll start getting stronger."

"Oh." The boy seemed temporarily satisfied. "Ain't it time
to check on her again?"

Seth leaned his small frame against the stall gate, looking
every bit the little man, worried frown and all. He had been
Rocky's ever-present shadow that whole day since Sarah's fall.
Rocky supposed the lad was dealing with some insecurity, and
he couldn't really fault him for it. To date, every adult he'd
loved (save his grandparents) had deserted him in one way or
another. Guilt stabbed Rocky square in the chest when he realized he'd probably contributed to the kid's lack of confidence.

"Don't say ain't, Seth, and no, it's not time. We just checked
on her half an hour ago."

When last they'd entered the house, Rachel had been sitting beside the sleeping Sarah, her face buried in a book. . .Little
Lord Fauntleroy. She'd lifted her face long enough to scowl and
give them both the shushing sign. Rocky figured the girl had
learned plenty about nursing when her mother had fallen ill,
and for the first time, he viewed her through different eyes. At
seven years old, she was already accustomed to tending and protecting, and something about that revelation disturbed him.

"But Doc says we hafta keep wakin' her up," Seth argued.

"Rachel is with her right now, and we don't have to wake
her up for a while yet."

"Why do we hafta keep wakin' her up?"

"I've explained that. Doc Randolph wants us to keep an
eye on her condition. Waking her every so often is the best way
to tell if she is coherent."

"Co-what?"

"Never mind," he answered, tossing a forkful of muck into
the wagon before glancing at the boy. "Doc said she can sleep
for a few hours at a time, so try not to worry, okay?"

"Who's gonna check on her in the middle of the night?"
Seth asked, ignoring Rocky's offer of consolation.

Rocky sighed. "I suspect I will. Now, why don't you run in
the house and see if Rachel needs anything. But be quiet while
you're at it."

It was his secret ploy to get the boy's mind on something
else-and out of his own hair. He'd accomplished precious
little with the kid on his tail all day. Normally, there wasn't
that much to do on Sunday afternoons, but he still had to tend to the usual chores, milk the cows, gather eggs, and feed and
water the animals. Seth's constant shadow had kept him from
even accomplishing these most mundane tasks.

"Okay, but what if Sarah's awake?"

"Well, then, I expect she'll be wanting to visit with you,"
Rocky assured.

"Yippee!" Seth yowled, making a beeline for the house.

"Keep the noise down!" Rocky called after him, doubting
that he'd even heard the order the way his short, spry legs sent
him sailing out of the barn.

Rocky shook his head and resumed mucking out the last
stall of the day.

Sarah couldn't believe her predicament. While Rocky and
Rachel cleaned up the supper dishes, Seth delivering more
dishes to the sink, she was helpless to do much more than fight
down drowsiness and watch from her reclined position on the
sofa.

Although it felt as if someone had split her head into two
matching pieces with a razor-sharp hatchet, she wished to
goodness she could get off this lumpy couch. After all, Rocky
had married her for purposes of taking over the household
chores. It was part of their arrangement. What must he think to
find himself back in the kitchen again, tending to mundane
chores, not to mention tending to her? Was he upset with the
situation, perhaps even angry with her for her carelessness?
He'd said few words to her all day long, unless one counted the
number of times he had asked her what day it was, where she
was, and if she could remember what had happened. However, when he'd asked her if she knew her own name, it was the final
straw.

"I fell on the ice, Mr. Callahan; I did not fall off my
rocker!"

He'd awarded her a slanted grin, skimpy as it was, and
answered, "No need for crankiness, Mrs. Callahan. I'm just
following Doc's orders."

She hadn't intended to be snappish, but her deplorable
situation seemed to warrant it.

More than once, she'd held her aching head, touched the
tender bulge at the back of her skull, and asked God to show
her His purposes for allowing the accident. The only verse
that came to mind all through the day, however, was a portion
of one from 1 Peter, "Humble yourselves therefore under the
mighty hand of God, that he may exalt you in due time,"
and she couldn't figure out for the life of her what that had to
do with anything. She decided she was already quite humbled
if she considered her ill-timed circumstances. Did God really
find it necessary to remind her? She'd wanted to gather in
the living room that day for church. What possible good could
come from missing that opportunity?