The Accidental Lawman (25 page)

“I have things to do, Reverend.”

“You really can’t see it, can you?” He stared at her in a kind of amazement. There was incredible sadness in his eyes.

“See what?”

“The darkness you’re living in. The bitterness flourishing in your heart and soul.”

“If I wanted to hear a sermon, I’d go to church on Sundays.”

His usual smile was gone. His tone hardened.

“You’re a healer, Amelia. A nurturer. You have a God-given gift that has always stood you in good stead. You’ve spent your life being selfless, tending to others, caring and supporting everyone around you with good works and by living an exemplary life. Until now.

“But now, just as you tended others, just as you toiled in your garden to grow the medicinal herbs and flowers that help sustain life, you have turned to nurturing bitterness and sorrow. You’re drowning in it and you aren’t even aware of how it has taken over, like a suffocating weed. This darkness has cut you off from everyone and everything you loved, including the Lord.”

She was shocked at the severity of his tone.

“The Bible says, ‘Harden not your hearts.’ It’s time to let this grief and anger go, Amelia. Time to fix your eyes upon the Lord. He is the only one who can help you now,
but you must let Him in. Open your heart and let Him ease your pain. Offer it up to Him in the form of prayer. Start by forgiving Hank. He was protecting Sophronia. Doing his sworn duty. Forgive him. Then forgive yourself. God will help you find the strength to forgive.”

“He’s not there. He’s
not
listening.”

“He is there, Amelia. He’s never left your side.” The preacher sighed, shook his head. “He will never desert you, no matter how long or how hard you deny Him.”

They sat in silence in the overly warm kitchen. The back door was wide open. So were all the windows, but not a breath of air leaked in. They needed rain. There was no breeze blowing across the plains today. Only the shimmering heat, the dust, the dry air. That was the trouble with living on the edge of the land. There was either too much rain or not enough. Too much wind or not a whisper of breeze. Too much heat, too much cold. There were only extremes.

She realized the same could be said of faith. You either believed or you didn’t. There was no middle ground.

She heard the chair legs scrape across the floor and she looked up. Brand was standing, carefully replacing his chair.

“Think about what I’ve said, Amelia. You have a choice to make before it’s too late. You have to decide whether to let darkness triumph or to let the Light back into your life.”

With that, he walked away. She watched him return to the front room to collect Hattie and Charity. She heard the three of them enter the room beside the kitchen. Brand’s voice was clear and strong as he began to pray.

Amelia rose without making a sound, slipped out the back and onto the porch hoping to escape the sound of their voices lifted in prayer. Their words chased her through the open bedroom window.

Never had she felt like such an outcast. Never had she felt so isolated and alone. Never so hopeless.

He’s never left your side. He will never desert you.

She leaned back against the rough wall of the house and closed her eyes. Was Brand right?
Had
she been cultivating bitterness by shutting herself off? She’d worn her anger and sorrow like a shield in a battle against life and she was losing that battle, losing her spirit.

Brand’s strong, steady voice drifted outside on the still, close air. His words filled her, touched a vibrant chord in her that had been silent far too long. Its power was overwhelming.

“I was sick and ye visited me,” Brand prayed. “Lord, visit our brother Hank, help him in his time of need. Guide him with Your hand. Heal him with Your love. The prayer of faith shall save the sick, and the Lord shall raise him up and if he has committed sins, they shall be forgiven him. Confess your faults to one another and pray for one another, that ye may be healed.”

That ye may be healed.

That ye may be healed.

Blinded by tears she hadn’t known were there, Amelia staggered off the back porch, found her footing and ran across the yard, escaping into the dark interior of the barn.

She didn’t know how long she crouched in the back of Sweet Pickle’s empty stall with her arms clasped around her legs, her forehead resting on her knees. At first she couldn’t stem the flow of tears and eventually gave up trying. Finally, exhausted and broken, she stretched out on the straw and slept with her cheek cradled in the crook of her arm.

She slept until Hattie gently touched her shoulder and called her back.

“Amelia? Wake up, honey.”

She rolled over, wiped her swollen eyes and blinked. “I must have fallen asleep.”

“You gave me quite a start. I didn’t know where you were.”

Amelia looked toward the open barn door. “Have they gone?”

“Some time ago.” Hattie reached out, smoothed back Amelia’s hair and pulled out strands of straw. “You look a sight.”

“I’m afraid, Hattie.”

“What are you afeard of?”

“Myself. Of what I’ve become. I’ve lost my way and don’t seem to know how to get back to where I was.”

Hattie sat beside her. “Oh, I’m sure you do know. You’ve known all along.”

Amelia swallowed. Nodded. “Will you help me? Will you pray with me, Hattie? I’m afraid to pray for Hank. I prayed for Evan and he’s gone. I’ve turned a blind eye and a deaf ear to God. I don’t deserve to ask His forgiveness. I don’t—”

“Hush now,” Hattie took her hand and got to her knees. Amelia pulled herself up until she was kneeling, too.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Say what’s in your heart. Talk to God the way you talk to me.” Hattie bowed her head.

A dove flew into the rafters of the barn and settled with a handful of others in the hayloft above them.

Amelia took a deep breath and began, her voice shaking. “Lord, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for turning away from You, for giving up my faith in You and Your goodness.” She paused, thought for a moment before she went on.

“Hattie says that we don’t know what You plan for us,
or what our true purpose is here on earth. We have to trust that You give us hardships for our own good. I thought I had enough faith to go on, but after Evan died, I felt You betrayed me. I’ve been bitter and content to wallow in my grief. I’ve turned my back on everything and everyone who needed me. Now I’m alone and adrift without You. I don’t know where to turn or what to do. I can’t exist on my own with this hole in my heart anymore.

“Jesus said if we have faith, even as small as a grain of mustard seed, that nothing is impossible. I’m good at growing seeds, Lord. I’m good at healing. Help me to grow my faith again. Heal me so that I can heal others.”

She didn’t know what else to say. She looked to Hattie for guidance.

Hattie nodded, squeezed Amelia’s hand and said, “Amen.”

“Amen,” Amelia whispered.

Suddenly, above their heads, there was a flutter of wings and the doves in the hayloft flew out the door and into the sunlight.

T
he next morning, for the first time in over a month, Amelia left the house.

She went out early, before too many folks were out and about. Her first stop was Foster’s Boardinghouse where she returned a stack of Laura’s tins and dishes and tarried over the cup of hot coffee that Laura offered.

When she walked into Harrison Barker’s mercantile, she was pleased to note she was his only customer. There wasn’t much she needed other than some dry beans and a bit of flour. He was surprised to see her and didn’t hide it as he rushed around the counter.

“How is the sheriff?” Harrison asked.

“He’s mending.” She tried to sound confident. Hoped it was true.

“I hope he’s anxious to get back to work. Everybody misses the
Gazette
.”

“Actually,” she said, lowering her voice because a cowhand had just ambled in, “he hasn’t regained consciousness yet.”

“Really?”

“He’s not awake yet.” She might just as well have posted a sign outside the store. Word would spread like wildfire. “His body needs the rest.”

“Has he got the fever? That’ll kill a man faster ’n anything,” Harrison told her.

“It seems to be under control now.” That much was true. His fever had dropped the day after his delirium. Now he slept on and on, instilling her with a helplessness she couldn’t ignore even now that she was away from the house.

She quickly asked after his mother and discovered Mrs. Barker had gone to New Orleans to visit her sister. As soon as she could, Amelia said goodbye to Harrison, anxious to hurry back home.

The minute she walked through the gate, Hattie came running out to greet her.

“He’s awake.” Hattie’s face was wreathed in smiles. “Hank’s awake.”

Momentarily stunned, Amelia could only gape.

He’s awake.

Once comprehension struck, she went weak in the knees. An overwhelming sense of relief came over her, as if she’d been holding her breath since they’d carried Hank’s broken and bleeding body into the house and now she could finally breathe again.

Hattie waited on the porch, her excitement mirrored in her smile. “I walked in to check on him and he was lying there with his eyes open, trying to figure out where he was. When I told him he was at your place, he just nodded and closed his eyes again.”

Somehow Amelia made it inside. She paused outside the sickroom door, rested her hand on the knob, turned it before she lost her nerve and stepped inside.

She thought he was asleep until his eyes slowly opened and he gave her a weak half smile.

“Miss Peep.” His voice was barely audible, rusty from disuse and fever.

“Mr. Larson.”

“I see you somehow pulled me through.”

She nodded, approached the bed. Now that he was awake, she felt awkward being alone with him until she heard Hattie bustling around behind her, picking up an armload of towels, collecting washrags and bustling out through the door that led to the kitchen.

“I hope…” He began to speak, paused, cleared his throat.

She rushed to his bedside before she realized she had even moved and poured him a glass of water from the pitcher on his bedside table. Just as she’d done so many times when he was unconscious, she slipped her hand beneath his head and raised it. Touching him was second nature to her now—at least it seemed so before he was awake and aware. With his eyes on her, she was suddenly embarrassed and uncomfortable.

When he was settled, he thanked her and then added, “I hope I wasn’t too much trouble.”

“Not really.”

“Thank you, Amelia,” he said again.

She looked down at her hands, unable to find words to say.

“I know this is hard on you…having me here.”

“Hattie has been a great help.”

“You look tired.”

She turned her attention to the window beside his bed, anything rather than look at him. “Are you hungry?”

“Maybe.”

“I’ll make you some soup broth. Nothing heavy yet.”

He frowned. “Exactly how long have I been here?”

“A bit over two weeks.”

“No.”

“Yes.” She clasped and unclasped her hands. “I’d best go make that broth.”

“Amelia, wait.” She’d started out of the room but she halted, slowly turned.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I’m sorry you did this, that you had to do this, knowing how you feel about me—”

How could he know what she was feeling when she wasn’t certain herself?

“Don’t mention it. It was nothing.”

Hank knew she’d done far from nothing. Even in his weakened state, he could see these past few weeks had taken a toll on her. She was too thin. Violet shadows stained the delicate skin beneath her eyes.

“If you’ll send for Harrison and Brand, I’m sure they’ll move me back to my place.” He couldn’t lift his own head off the pillow but he figured with help, he could clear out and leave her be.

“You’re not fit to care for yourself,” she said.

“I’ll manage.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I shouldn’t be here—in your home.”

“Hattie will stay on to help as long as you’re here.”

“You don’t need me around as a constant reminder of—of what happened to your brother.”

When she failed to respond, he tried to sit up. His head spun. Pain shot up his leg. He hadn’t enough strength to lift his head. His shoulder was tightly bound. He reached down, felt another bandage on his thigh.

“Jones must have done a good job of filling me full of lead.”

“Your shoulder wound is the worst. Your leg is healing nicely. Half an inch to the left and your artery would have been severed. And if gangrene had set in—”

Her words drifted away. She didn’t have to say more. He knew the slightest infection could mean death.

“I have you to thank for my life, Amelia.”

She refused to look at him. He knew how hard it must have been for her to care for him all this time, to have him there, to remember Evan’s death each and every time she laid eyes on him. She’d held his very life in her hands—and she’d saved him.

Though the idea that she’d suffered plagued him, the knowledge that she’d saved his life ignited new hope for them.

“It would be best if you try to sleep,” she said quietly. The sound of her voice soothed him like a healing balm.

“It sounds like I’ve had enough sleep for a while.” He managed a smile until he tried to lift his head again and winced. “Doesn’t look like I’ll be getting the
Gazette
out anytime soon.”

“I think not.”

He could tell she was highly uncomfortable. She’d made excuses to leave, but was too polite to simply walk out.

“Maybe I do feel like a nap,” he admitted grudgingly, wishing there was a reason for her to sit in the chair beside the bed. Just looking at her made him feel better. “You go on and do whatever you need to do.”

“I’ll send Hattie in to check on you in a little while.”

“Don’t worry about me.” He tried to move again and winced. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Two days later he was still lying flat on his back, embarrassed now that he was conscious of just how much care he actually required. He reckoned Hattie’s grandson, little Orson, didn’t take this much looking after.

Hattie fretted like a mother hen while Amelia stood by, silent and watchful. He was beginning to think Amelia delighted in forcing her ill-tasting potions and tonics down him, insisting he drink every last drop of the foul-smelling teas and broths she concocted.

Rather than stare at the ceiling and four walls, he asked Hattie to keep his mind occupied by telling him the story of her early years as a new bride on the Texas frontier. Her stories were colorfully told, alive with detail and passion. Time passed quickly as she described how she and Orson constructed their first dwelling with little more than rocks and lumber from the dismantled wagon that carried them to Texas.

She spoke in such detail that he could easily picture the images of a younger Hattie and a man who looked a lot like Joe, battling the elements and the Comanche. She told of isolation and the endless struggle to make a home out of nothing but a pile of split logs and a living out of a few head of cattle.

Even with the pleasant distraction, he found himself waiting anxiously for Amelia to walk into the room. He constantly listened for her footsteps in the kitchen, aware of the click of her heels against the floor, the rustle of her skirt.

Most of all he found himself hoping for a smile when she looked at him. He prayed one day he would see a light in her eyes again.

One afternoon, while Hattie was out hanging linens on
the clothesline, Amelia appeared without warning to see if he needed anything.

“More than anything,” he said, “I’d love to sit up and see the world from another point of view.”

She looked about to deny him, then said, “I’ll help you sit up, but most likely your head’s going to spin.” She walked over and slipped her arms beneath his, counted to three and pulled him to a sitting position. He moved like dead weight with no more strength than a newly hatched duckling. She was right—he closed his eyes when the room started to whirl.

She made a production of fluffing pillows and stacking them just so. She pressed her palm against his forehead and then along his jawline—obviously blind to what her touch was doing to him. This closeness, this gentle touching, seemed an old habit to her. Little did she realize that each time she leaned over him, he caught his breath and closed his eyes as an intense longing to kiss her was nearly his undoing.

Thankfully, she never lingered longer than a few seconds. Her expression told him quite clearly that caring for him was a tedious chore—one she had undertaken because no one else was qualified.

“Have you heard Hattie’s story?” He found safe ground in a new topic.

“Some. Not so much the early years. I know all about the Comanche raid. I nursed her afterward.”

“She didn’t dwell on it, but I imagined it was far worse than she let on.”

“Only a woman could understand how bad it was. They…did unspeakable things, then tried to scalp her. Left her for dead.”

“She believes it’s by God’s grace that she survived.
She credits Him for saving her, and Joe, and for bringing Rebekah into their lives.”

Amelia looked down at her folded hands. “That’s what she believes.”

“What about you, Amelia?”

She remained silent, unaware that her emotions were flitting across her perfect features—confusion being the most identifiable.

“Have you found your way back to God?” he asked.

She drew herself up, straightened her spine.

“I don’t see as what I believe or
don’t
believe is any of your concern, Mr. Larson.”

“I would think that since you’ve seen most all of me by now, I ought to have some right to know what you’re thinking about just about anything. Faith seems a pretty safe topic.”

Her face turned beet-red. She jumped up, obviously intent on leaving. He wound up struggling to find a way to keep her there.

“I know I don’t have the right to ask any favors—”

“No, you don’t.”

At least he’d succeeded in getting her to stay.

“I’m afraid I’ll forget some of Hattie’s details if I don’t write them down,” he began. “I need pens, ink and paper. If you could find the time to go to my office and collect some things for me, I’d be truly grateful.” He glanced down at the striped nightshirt he was wearing and hoped it wasn’t one of her brother’s.

As if she’d read his mind she said, “That’s Harrison’s nightshirt.”

“If you could bring one of my own, then. A change of clothes would be nice, too.”

She was blushing to beat the band. “I’ll consider it. When I have a spare minute.”

“I’d truly appreciate it, Miss Peep.”

She turned her back and walked out without another word.

The next morning, Amelia let herself into Hank’s office.

A hint of lye still lingered in the air but now the scents of ink, machine oil, stacks of paper and the must of old books tainted the long narrow space.

It was odd being here without him, moving about in the place where he worked, staring at the papers and articles on his desk. A rancher walked past the window, drawing her attention to the wide glass. She found herself thinking about the day she’d literally fallen into Hank’s arms.

He’d caught her gently, yet there was nothing unmanly about him. His hold had been strong, confident.

Pleasant.

No time for this, she thought. No time to stop moving. No time to think, to feel. Not when it was too easy to find herself longing for the strength of his arms, the warmth of his touch. Not when it was all too easy to face the terrifying fact that she had grown used to having him in her home, used to worrying about him day and night. She looked forward to sparring with him, watching him smile each time she walked into his room.

His room.

What would happen when he moved out? In the small quiet hours of the night when she heard him snoring peacefully in the room next to hers, she often found herself contemplating what their lives might be like if she could bring herself to forgive—

She shook off the thought and headed upstairs in
search of his clothes. It was one thing to have Hank lolling around in Harrison Barker’s nightshirt when he was unconscious, but quite another now that he was awake.

The sooner Hank Larson was up and dressed and able to move around, the sooner she could send him on his way and get on with her life.

Upstairs, Hank’s private quarters were more Spartan than her own. A narrow iron bed covered with a faded, handmade quilt was shoved up against the far wall. An upended crate served as a bedside table. It held a single oil lamp and a stack of books. A threadbare upholstered chair in the corner oozed stuffing. More books were piled on the floor beside it. A small chest of drawers held his personal things.

Here, mirrored in his surroundings, was the stark loneliness of his life. Of course, he had his books and his work. When the office was open he had the companionship of newly made acquaintances and friends. But whenever he was at home, when his workday was through and darkness gathered, he was as alone as she.