Shattered Lives (Flynn Family Saga Book 1) (19 page)

James started to cough again.  When he stopped
coughing, Maggie held his rough hand in hers.  It was hot and dry, and his
pulse pounded.

He opened fever-bright eyes.  “Oh, Maggie, I
wish you hadn’t come.”  Suddenly, he grinned, and he looked like the strong,
competent man she remembered.  “And I’m glad you did.”  He shut his eyes, as if
the grin had exhausted him.  He started to cough.  When the coughing stopped,
he leaned back against the pillows.  His lips looked very red against the
pallor of his skin.  He opened his eyes.  “Where are your folks?”

Maggie swallowed hard.  “St. Joseph.”

“How is your father?”

Maggie looked away.  “The same.”  This time, she
could not keep the anger out of her voice.

James squeezed her hand.  He drew a deep breath.  “Life
is hard sometimes, Maggie.  But it can be good if you let it be.  Everyone has
troubles.  Tess and I lost our first child.”

Maggie looked back at him.  Tears shimmered in his
blue eyes.  She looked away.  “I know.”

He sighed.  “It was almost too much to bear, at the
time, but we managed.  Tess looked after other people, and I looked after
horses, and after a while, the sorrow passed.  And we stood together and
watched the sunset or the horses running in the pasture or the clouds drifting
across the moon.  And we had each other.  And so, tonight, when I know I’m
going to die, I can look back and say that my life was good.”  He shut his eyes
a moment.  He opened them again and smiled tenderly at her.  “That young man of
yours has grit, Maggie.”

“He’s not—“ she began.

Grinning, James ignored her.  “There’s not many who
would set foot in a house full of cholera, not even for blood kin, much less
strangers.  He’s a good man, Maggie.”

“I know.”  She blinked back tears.  “But he thinks I’m
just a kid.”

“You
are
just a kid.”

Maggie scowled.

Chuckling, James patted her hand.  “He likes you,
Maggie.  And he respects you.  I can tell that by the way he looks at you. 
That’s rare in a man.  Enjoy that friendship for what it is—for now.  After
all, you’ve got some growing up to do before you get married.”

Maggie lifted her chin.  “Tess said that you had
been sweethearts since you were children.”

James sighed.  “That’s true.  But that’s rare,
Maggie.  And you haven’t known him very long, have you?”

Maggie shook her head.

James regarded her solemnly.  “Remember that your
mother hardly knew your father when they married.  And look how that turned
out.”

Maggie shivered.  “You’re right, Grandfather.”  She
hesitated.  “Are you ever wrong?”

“Yes, Maggie.  I’m wrong sometimes.  I shouldn’t
have let Michael and Lucy take you away.”  He sighed wearily.  “But you look
happy.”

Maggie nodded.  “I am.  I have a job I love.  I
train horses and greenhorns for Major Anders.”

James nodded.  “I’m glad.”

Maggie looked out of the window at the half moon. 
She thought of the way she felt each morning when she woke up, eager to get to
the corral.  She thought of the joy she felt when the greenhorns learned how to
hitch up a team and drive them.  She smiled and turned back to her
grandfather.  “You’re right.  Life
is
good if you let it be.”

James patted her hand once more.  Then, he closed
his eyes.  “I think I could sleep a little now, Maggie-my-girl.”

Maggie nodded.  She pulled the covers up and tucked
him in.  Then, she went back to her chair and picked up her book.

Sometime after midnight, Tess began to mutter.  Her
head thrashed back and forth.  She started to vomit.  Maggie grabbed the basin
from the washstand and held it under her mouth.

Flynn came into the room carrying a basin of warm
water and clean cloths.

Maggie wiped her grandmother’s face.  She turned to
James.

His eyes were open and staring.

Maggie’s breath caught.

Flynn touched her arm.

She shook him off.  “I’m all right.”

He nodded.  He lifted the covers, bent and picked up
James in his arms.  Maggie winced at the thinness of her grandfather’s arms and
legs.  She continued to hold her grandmother’s hand as Flynn left the room.

“I’m here, Grandmother.  It’s going to be all
right.  Everything is going to be all right.”  She spoke to Tess quietly, like
she would to a frightened horse.

Outside the window, the sky was turning gray.  Tess’s
hand clenched on Maggie’s.  The tendons in her arm stood out like cords. 
Maggie bit her lip against the pain and held on.  Tess began to moan, and her
hand felt hot and dry.  Her eyes opened suddenly.  “James?”  She turned to the
empty side of the bed.  She shut her eyes.  “James.”  It was more of a sigh
than a word.

Maggie held onto her hand, but her pulse grew weaker
and weaker as the sky lightened.  Finally, Tess smiled.  “James.”

Her pulse stopped.

Maggie sat while the sun rose and her grandmother’s
hand cooled in hers.  Finally, she reached forward and shut her eyes.  “I will
miss you, Grandmother.  But James is waiting for you.  He’ll smile at you like—like
he used to.”

She wanted to cry, but the tears just wouldn’t
come.  She sat and watched as the sun rose higher and higher.

Finally, Flynn came back into the room.  He took her
shoulders and helped her stand.  He led her downstairs to the parlor.  Maggie
heard Flynn climb the stairs.  She heard him come down, and his steps were
heavier.  She pushed herself to her feet and went into the kitchen.  Her
grandfather’s body was gone.  Tess lay on the kitchen table.  Maggie saw the
water boiling on the stove.  She sighed and began to clean her grandmother’s
body for burial.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

They spent another week at the farmhouse.  Flynn was
grateful that he had the work of building two coffins and burying five horses
to keep him busy.  Finally, after he and Maggie buried the MacMillans side by
side, next to the grave of their son, he ran out of things to do.

Maggie was white as a sheet.  She turned to him with
tears shining in her eyes.  “Do you know what to say?”

Flynn hesitated.  He cleared his throat and began
the Lakota chant for the dead.

Maggie shut her eyes.  When he finished, she turned
to him.  “That was beautiful, Mr. Flynn.  Thank you.  What language was that?”

He hesitated again.  “Lakota.”

“Lakota?”

He looked westward.  “One of the Sioux tribes.”

“Oh.  Of course.  You’re a scout.  You’d know the
languages.”  She looked toward the barn where five larger mounds stood in stark
contrast to the snow-dusted ground.  “Thank you for burying the horses.  I know
they were just animals, but—“

“No, Maggie.”  Flynn shook his head.  “Horses
are...well, they’re almost people.”

She nodded, smiling slightly.  “It’s nice to know
someone else who feels that way.  My grandfather did.”  Her lower lip
trembled.  “I’m going to miss him so much.”

Flynn longed to put his arms around her, but James MacMillan’s
voice echoed in his memory. 
Take care of Maggie for me
.  He cleared his
throat.  “I made some breakfast.”

Maggie smiled at him.  “Thank you, Mr. Flynn.”  She
turned and walked toward the house with her back straight and her head high.

Flynn watched her for a moment.  Then, he touched
the notebook in his pocket.  He sighed and followed her into the house.

After breakfast, Maggie began to clean the house. 
Flynn watched as her jaw tightened with everything she touched.  He tried to
take the rag out of her hand, but she shook her head stubbornly.  Maggie
climbed the stairs to the bedrooms.  Flynn hesitated, and then, he followed her.
 He checked the contents of the small roll top desk.  He went through the
papers carefully.  One was marked “Last Will and Testament of James Arthur MacMillan.” 
He handed it to Maggie.

She read the will silently.  Then, she read it
again.  She turned to Flynn.  “He left everything to me.  Can he do that?  Is
it legal?”

Flynn shrugged.  “I’m not a lawyer, but the Major
knows one in St. Jo.  Here.”  He held out the deed to the farm.  “Apparently,
they owned this place free and clear.”

Maggie nodded.  She folded the will and the deed and
put them in her pocket.  She sighed.  “I wish—”

“What?  What do you wish, Maggie?”

Maggie looked away.  “I’d rather have them back than
this old farm any day!”

Flynn squeezed her shoulder.

Maggie went into her bedroom next.  Flynn followed
her.  She touched the pitcher, painted with pink roses.

“It might not make the trip,” he said softly.

She turned to Flynn.  Tears shone in her eyes, but
still, she did not cry.  She nodded silently.  She touched the pitcher one last
time and started to leave the room.

Flynn held out his hand.  Two gold rings gleamed in
the morning sunlight.  He cleared his throat.  “I thought you might want these.”

Maggie nodded and put them in her pocket.

Flynn cleared his throat.  “You can bring your
books.”  He stared appreciatively at the books lining the shelves that filled
one wall.  “At least, you can bring some of them.”

Maggie nodded.  She packed
A Christmas Carol
and Robert Browning’s poems.  She hesitated, and then she packed her
grandmother’s medical books.  She took one more look around, and then she
turned and walked down the stairs.  She lashed the books to the packhorse she
had purchased from Harvey Miller.  She smiled when she remembered the look on
his face when she paid him.  She knew she had gotten a bargain.  The little
pony moved nervously under the load.  “Easy, Sancho.”

“Sancho Panza?”

Maggie turned and put her hands on her hips.  “Don’t
tell me you’ve read
Don Quixote
.”

Flynn nodded.  Slowly, he grinned.  “In both Spanish
and English.”

Maggie raised one eyebrow skeptically.

Flynn laughed.

She went into the barn and came back with a saddle
with fancy tooling on the cantle.  She heaved the saddle onto Patches’ back.

“Where did you get that?”  Flynn touched the tooled
leather appreciatively.

Maggie smiled sadly.  “My grandfather gave it to me
for my birthday, right before we left for St. Jo.”

Flynn regarded her solemnly.  “They loved you very
much.”

Maggie’s face went pale.  She nodded and climbed
onto Patches’ back.  Flynn mounted Scout, and they rode out of the yard. 
Maggie stopped once at the top of the hill and looked back.  Her lips trembled,
but she did not cry.

Flynn cleared his throat.  “I could teach you
Spanish, if you like.”

Maggie smiled at him shyly.  “I’d like that.”

He nodded.  “All right.  Vanamos, Señorita.”  He
hesitated.  “That means, ‘Let’s go, Miss.’”

Maggie nodded.  They rode away from the farmhouse
slowly.

*  *  *

That night, they ate without speaking.  Maggie
washed the dishes, and Flynn helped her.  Usually, she felt comforted by his
presence, but on this night, she felt alone and isolated.  She sighed and
rolled up in her bedroll.  Exhaustion drove her into sleep.

“No!”

Flynn’s cry woke her.  Maggie ran to him.  Flynn sat
upright.  Sweat gleamed on his face despite the cold night air.  She touched
his shoulder.  “Mr. Flynn?”

Slowly, his eyes focused on her face.  “Maggie?”

She nodded.  “You cried out in your sleep.”

He looked away.

Maggie drew a deep breath.  “It’s nothing to be
ashamed of.  A lot of men who fought in the war dream about it.  Brother Joseph
told me to wake my father when he dreamed of Bull Run.”

“Bull Run was a nightmare.  For both sides.”  Flynn’s
voice was hoarse.  “But that’s not what I was dreaming about.”

Maggie sat very still, holding Flynn’s hand.

After a long time, he turned back to her.  “Aren’t
you going to ask me what I was dreaming about?”

Maggie shook her head.  “That would be prying.”

Flynn stared at her a long time.  Finally, he shook
his head.  “Any other woman would be full of questions.”

Maggie shrugged.  “I wear boys’ clothing and train
horses for a living.  I’m not like any other woman.”

“No,” Flynn said softly.  “You’re not.”  He shut his
eyes and sighed.  “Where did you come from, Maggie O’Brien?”

Maggie grinned.  “Well, I was born in Manhattan...”

Flynn chuckled.  He opened his eyes and regarded her
solemnly.  “Thank you, O’Brien.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. Flynn.”  She regarded him
solemnly.  “Will you be all right?”

He nodded.  He sat up and took a book from his
saddlebags.  “I’ll read until I fall asleep.”

Maggie nodded again.  She rolled over with her back
to him.  But when she woke at dawn, he was still sitting by the fire, reading
the same page over and over.

*  *  *

As they traveled west, the weather grew colder and
colder.  Maggie was grateful for the warm sheepskin jacket that Mrs. Hamilton
had given her.  For the first week, the sky was a clear, aching blue.

Then, gray clouds blew across the sky, dark and
threatening, with the smell of snow.  That night, the first few flakes began to
fall.  Flynn cut pine boughs and laced them together to make a shelter.  Maggie
watched him for a few moments, and then she drew her own knife and began to cut
more boughs.  Within a few moments, they had a lean-to.  Maggie dragged
over the supplies first, to keep them dry.  Then, she brought her books.

The snow fell faster and harder, hissing as the
flakes struck the fire.  Maggie shivered and rolled herself up in her blanket. 
She took out one of her books and started to read.

Flynn looked over her shoulder.  “
Romeo and
Juliet
?”

Maggie shook her head.  “My grandfather said that
Romeo was a fool, and Juliet was no better.”

Flynn laughed.  “So what are you reading?”

Maggie handed him the book.  “
Henry VI
.”

“O piteous spectacle!  O bloody times!  While lions
war and battle for their dens, poor harmless lambs abide their enmity.  Weep,
wretched man, I’ll aid thee tear for tear; and let our hearts and eyes like
civil war be blind with tears and break o’ercharged with grief.”  Flynn spoke
with his eyes closed.  His voice was rich and deep, and he spoke the words as
if he had written them.

“You have it memorized?”

Flynn opened his eyes and nodded.  He smiled
faintly.  “The winters were long in Alexander Ridgeton’s cabin.”

Maggie hesitated.  “I’m sorry.  About the
nightmares.”

He looked surprised.  “Thank you, Maggie.”

She licked her lips.  “Can I ask you a question?”

“What was I dreaming about?”

Maggie shook her head.  “No.”

Flynn blinked.  “All right.”

“Were you afraid?  During the war?”

“Every minute.”  His eyes had a haunted look.

Maggie swallowed hard.  “My father said that the
whiskey made the fear go away.”

“Maybe your father was lucky.  Nothing made it go
away for me.”

Maggie lay down with her back to him.  She started
to shiver.

Flynn sat up and held out his arm.  “Come here,
Maggie.  You’re freezing.”

She shook her head.  “It—it wouldn’t be proper.”

He laughed softly.  “You’ve traveled alone with me
for two months.  It’s a little late to worry about what’s proper.”  He held out
his arm again.

Maggie slid over.  Flynn wrapped his blanket around
her and drew her close.  His body was warm, and slowly, her shivering stopped. 
He stared out at the snow, and a smile touched his full lips.

“You love it, don’t you?  The empty country?”

Flynn nodded against her hair.  His breath was warm
on her face.  “After the war, I—I tried to live with people, but I felt like
there was an invisible wall between us.  I would watch a mother with her
children and think to myself that if she knew what I had seen, what I had done,
she would lock up her children and send me away.  But I wanted—“  His voice
broke.

Maggie wanted to touch his face, to comfort him. 
Instead, she folded her hands together tightly.  “I feel the same way.  You
see, I grew up over a saloon.”  She tensed, waiting for him to push her away.

Instead, he sighed.  “You should have grown up in a
white house with—“  He stopped.  He had almost told her of his dream.  He drew
a deep breath.  “With a real mother and real father.”

She turned and stared at him.  “Is that where you
grew up?”

His expression hardened.  “No.”

Maggie sighed and looked away.  “That’s why I don’t
care what the women in St. Jo think about my wearing trousers and doing men’s
work.  They’d never give me the time of day anyway.”

Flynn took her chin in his hands.  “Mary Margaret O’Brien,
you are the most remarkable woman I ever met.  Don’t ever let anyone make you
feel small or worthless.”

Tears filled her eyes, and she nodded.  “I won’t,
Mr. Flynn.”

Flynn pulled her closer and wrapped their blankets
around them both.  Maggie drifted into sleep.  She dreamed of the white house
that stood on a hill overlooking a green valley.  A stream curled protectively
around the hill, reflecting a perfect blue sky.  The sound of children laughing
mingled with the sound of the water rushing over mossy rocks.  Someone took her
hand.  His hand was strong, and when he touched her, she felt safe for the
first time in her life.

Then, the dream changed.  She sat in her
grandparents’ kitchen.  Tess stood at the stove, smiling at James.  James sat
next to Maggie with his long fingers wrapped around a mug of coffee.

He started to cough.

Maggie woke with a start.

“Shh.  Shh.”  Flynn stroked her back.  “It was just
a dream.”

Maggie shook her head.  “It wasn’t a dream.  They
got sick and died.  I always thought there was a place I could go, someplace
safe.  And now—“  She started to sob.

Flynn put both arms around her.  He simply held her
while she cried.  He didn’t try to comfort her or get her to stop crying.

Finally, when she felt empty and oddly calm, he
tilted her chin up and used his handkerchief to wipe the tears from her face.  “Feeling
better?”

She nodded.  She sighed and rested her head against
his chest again.  His heart beat strong and steady.  Maggie shut her eyes and
fell asleep, listening to the sound of his heart.

*  *  *

Flynn lay awake a long time, watching Maggie sleep. 
There was something about her that reminded him of the dream he had had that
terrible night when he came to in the Hole with his ribs aching and the rain
turning the floor into icy cold mud.  She reminded him of that white house that
stood on a hill he had never seen before, not even in his travels with
Alexander Ridgeton.

Maggie stirred slightly in her sleep.

Smiling, Flynn rested his chin on the top of her
head.  He shut his eyes and slept without dreaming.

Morning dawned clear and cold.  Maggie opened her
eyes and smiled at him, and something painfully tender stirred within him.  The
feeling frightened him.  He got up and stretched.  Outside their tiny shelter,
eight inches of clean white snow blanketed the ground, softening the sharp
edges.  Ice coated the branches of the trees and gleamed in the early morning
light.  Maggie got to her feet and stood beside him.  She gasped.  “Oh.  It’s
so beautiful.”

Flynn grinned at her as proudly as if he had created
the snow and ice himself.

Maggie blushed and turned away.  “Good morning, Mr.
Flynn.”

He laughed.  “Now that we’ve slept together, don’t
you think you could drop the ‘Mister?’”