A Heart Renewed (32 page)

Mr. Hardy asked, “Have you seen Mr. Brighton this morning?”

“Yes, Mr. Hardy,” she said reinforcing his name in her mind.  “He left a moment ago.”

“Did he mention joining us for breakfast?” Mr. Franklin asked, looking as if he was ready for the meal to commence.

“I’m sorry.  He made no mention of it.”

Mr. Franklin turned toward the dining room, followed by Mr. Hardy.  Mr. Hobbs lingered.

“I hope I did not offend you earlier, Miss Colter.  I tend to speak before I think things through.  I suppose it’s a shortcoming of my youth—at least that’s what Mr. Franklin would say.”

“Not at all, Mr. Hobbs,” she replied smiling.

“Thank you, Miss Colter, for your assistance.”

Mr. Hobbs took his leave, presumably joining his companions.  Julia breathed a sigh of relief.  She wondered if all their guests would be so attentive and if she had the gumption to deal with them.

She had been gone two days.  That was it.  Adam already missed her.

Dismounting Annabel, he led her into the stall and began rubbing her down.  A smile twitched the corner of his lips.  This is the horse that threw Julia.  He just returned from riding her around the lake a few times and she seemed much more comfortable now.

Thinking of Julia and Annabel started an idea forming in his mind.  Her birthday was only a few weeks away.  That might be his next chance to see her.  The smile on his face grew to an outright grin.  He would make her a little wood carving of the chestnut mare that she rode out to the herd not so long ago.  It was the perfect gift.  She would love it.

Rushing through the rest of Annabel’s care, he finished in record time.  Closing the stall behind him, he went to Will’s workbench area to see if he could find a small scrap of wood that might work.

Bent over a small piece of furniture, Will looked up at his approach.

“Evening.  What do you think?” Will asked, stepping back so Adam could get a better look at the small bassinette.

“For the baby?” he asked.  “It’s nice.  I think Mrs. Colter will love it.”

“Still have to smooth out the rough edges.  Then put the finishing touches on it.”

“Mind if I take a look at the scrap pile?”

“You still whittling?”

“Yes.  Keeps my hands busy when my mind is working hard,” he said with a little laugh.

Will smiled before turning his attention back to his craft.

Adam sorted through the pile looking for something suitable.  Finding just the right piece, he began to envision what it would look like.  A galloping horse mid-stride, legs stretched out full.  Julia sitting on top hunched forward with her long hair flowing behind in the wind.  As he blinked, the image faded, replaced with the reality of a small, ugly piece of bare wood.  It was perfect.

Stuffing the piece in his pocket, he started toward the bunkhouse just as the supper bell rang.  Picking up his pace, he arrived just in time to get at the back of the line.  Smelled good, whatever it was.  One thing was for sure, no one went hungry or suffered through tasteless food at Colter Ranch.  Mrs. Colter and Rosa served up great meals.

Once his plate was full, he took a seat between Jed and Hawk.  There never seemed to be much conversation around the table until after everyone finished shoveling their grub down their gullets.  Tonight was no different.  Only the clank of utensils hitting tin plates echoed in the room.

The gift for Julia was a great idea.  Maybe it would help keep him from pining for her as much.  He really missed her.  He missed her help with the horses.  He missed her smile.  Dinner this afternoon seemed empty, quiet without her.

“What ya smiling at, Larson?” Owens taunted from his seat on the other side of the table, kicking Adam’s foot with his booted toe.  “Thinking about your sweetheart?”

Any smile he might have had on his face faded.  Owens constantly picked on him about one thing or another. Guess today it was Julia.

“Leave him alone,” Jed shot back.

“Let the man defend himself—if he’s got any back bone,” Owens said, kicking Adam under the table again.

“Excuse me,” Adam said, swallowing a bite of food.  Leaving his half-eaten meal, he stood and went into the other room, sitting down on his bunk.

Pulling the piece of wood from his pocket, he turned it over in his hands as he heard Owens call him a coward, yet again.  He wasn’t a coward and he didn’t need to throw fists or words at some hot-head to prove it.

Taking his knife from his other pocket, he flipped the blade open.  Testing the sharpness with his thumb, he started carving away bits of wood from the block.  Feet shuffled from the other room, followed by loud belching—Whitten—and discussions started about how each man might spend his evening.

“I don’t get why you don’t ever stand up to him,” Jed said, flopping down on the edge of his bunk.  “Don’t you think he’d stop bullying you if you did?”

Adam kept his eyes on the block of wood.  “Some people are born bullies.  Doesn’t matter what I do, he’s always going to keep pushing.”

“Why’s that?” Hawk asked, leaning against the wall.

He thought for a minute.  “I’m not sure what I ever did to cause him to hate me.  So, how can I fix it?  And how will bruising my knuckles on his jaw change it?”

“Guess ya got a point,” Jed said.

“What ya workin’ on?” Covington asked as he took a seat on the floor.  Seemed most nights the four of them hung around each other.

Jed snickered.  “Something for Miss Colter?”

Heat singed Adam’s checks, but he kept his eyes on the slowly transforming block of wood.

“You guessed it,” Hawk answered.

Owens’s voice jolted Adam’s eyes upward.  “What makes you think you might have a chance with her, Larson?  You’re just a stable boy.”

Draining the rest of his coffee from the tin mug in his hand, Owens stood in the doorway.  Without warning he hurled the mug at Adam, hitting him in the gut.  Warm liquid ran down his left hand.  Looking down, Adam dropped his knife and the wood, grasping his bleeding left thumb.

“Now look what you did,” Jed said, standing in front of Owens.  “What is wrong with you?”

Adam checked his throbbing thumb.  He must have cut it pretty deep, because it was still bleeding.  As Jed shoved Owens out of the way, Adam stood and entered the main room.

“Land sakes, boy!” Ben shouted, coming to his side.  “Better git on up to the house and have Mrs. Colter take a look at that.”  Swinging the door open for him, Ben continued.  “What happened in there?”

As the door shut behind him, Adam missed the responses.  Walking quickly towards the ranch house, his face burned.  Nothing like being called a boy by a bully and then by the foreman.

He knocked on the door to the ranch house, thankful that it was still early and he wouldn’t be getting Mrs. Colter out of bed.

“Adam,” Will greeted.  “What brings you—”

Will stopped as his eyes dropped to Adam’s hand.  “Get in here.  Hannah, we’ve got an injury.”

Hannah rushed to the doorway.  “What happened?”

“Hand slipped while I was carving.”  He stretched the truth.  “Cut my thumb.”

She ushered him to a chair at the table before grabbing some water and bandages.  After she cleaned his thumb, she looked at it.  “I could stitch it up for you, or you could just keep it bandaged for a few days.”

“Bandages will be fine,” he answered, growing more embarrassed by the situation.

Quietly, she bandaged his thumb.  “There.  Try not to bend it or move it around too much.  If it starts bleeding again, let me know.  Otherwise, come get some fresh bandages in the morning.”

“Thank you ma’am,” he said, taking his leave.

As he neared the bunkhouse, he looked down at the large bandage that made his thumb look five times its normal size.  Should make the next few days interesting.

Chapter 25

Nashville, Tennessee

January 6, 1865

Thomas just finished delivering a dispatch to Major General Smith.  Shaking his head, he was surprised by the major general’s decision to reassign him to Kansas.  It made no sense to him.  The war was still heated.  Sherman and Grant were planning major campaigns in the south, according to rumors.  Why would the major general reassign him—his fasted rider—to the frontier?

Removing the saddle from his mare, Thomas tried to reason through what Smith might have been thinking.  Still didn’t make sense.  He healed quickly from the bullet wound in mid-December.  Other than a nasty mark on his right arm and some occasional soreness, he recovered.  Within two weeks, he returned to duty, although the major general limited the distance of his dispatch assignments.  He had not been assigned any reconnaissance missions either.  He tried to remember if he had done anything to warrant the change in assignments but he could think of nothing.  The major general commended him for his excellent service, especially during the battle of Nashville.

Perhaps he was just over-thinking the situation.

Regardless of the reasoning behind it all, Thomas knew he had no choice but to follow orders.  He hoped the West was not as boring as he feared.  Here he was needed.  He was valued.  He had a purpose.  Would he experience the same in the West?  Would there be adventure?

He doubted it.  None of the western territories were actively involved in the war and what could be more adventurous than the war?

When Thomas finished caring for his horse, he returned to his quarters.  He would pack, if he had anything to pack.  Having traveled lightly for the last year as a dispatch rider, everything he owned already resided in his saddle bags.

As the hour grew late, Thomas retired for the night.  In the morning, he would report to the major general for any final instructions before traveling west with a small contingent—not even a company—just a handful of cavalry men.

Providence, Tommy.
  Mixford’s voice echoed in his head as he fell asleep.

The next morning, Major General Smith handed Thomas a rather large packet of letters and such.  He told him that he included an update of the progress of the war for the western forts.  He changed Thomas’s assignment by requesting he personally ride to all of the forts through Kansas, Colorado, New Mexico, and on to the territorial capital of Arizona.  The major general instructed him to deliver the specified packets to the corresponding forts.

Thomas stowed the packet in his saddle bags before mounting his horse.  He rendezvoused with the rest of the contingent.  This trip would give him more than enough time to ponder the situation.  It would take months to cover the distance requested, all the way to the Arizona Territory.

Arizona Territory, Thomas thought.  That was where Drew moved.  Could this be luck or fate?  Or Providence as his friend had suggested months ago.  Was this his opportunity to set things right with Drew?

Plodding along the road, he considered this.  For months he was haunted by his part in his brother’s move.  He had thought of heading to the territory on his own once his obligation with the army was finished.  He wanted to find Drew. 
And what?  Ask for his forgiveness?
  More like beg.

Why would Drew and Hannah forgive him?  Why did he need to be forgiven so badly that it nearly caused him physical pain?  Would the guilt finally be assuaged if he pursued this course?

Of course, Thomas had no way of knowing when his obligation with the army would be over.  According to the judge and the enlistment papers he carried, he would muster out after three years or the end of the war, whichever came first.  Given the major general’s actions, and the rumors, Thomas thought the war might be over before the end of this year, perhaps even by the fall.  If he were able to delay his time in the Arizona capital, he may be able to muster out while there.  That would again require Providence to intervene.

He snorted. 
Providence.
  He was not sure if he believed in an all-powerful, all-knowing God.  If there was a God, why would he allow this war to continue?  Why would he sit idly by while tens of thousands of young men died in bloody battlefields?

If there was a God, why would he take Thomas’s father from him?  The thought brought his mind to full attention.  Was God responsible for his father’s death?  For his mother’s?

Growing up, he barely remembered her—his mother.  She died when he was five.  A cholera epidemic swept through the nearby rural areas.  To listen to Drew tell the story, his mother saw it as her Christian duty to go help the sick.  Either she never thought she would contract the illness, or she didn’t care about her two young sons and her husband, and went anyway.

After she had been gone a month, word came that she became ill and was dying.  The messenger carried a letter by her hand to her husband and sons.  She apologized over and over that she would not be there to care for them.  She said she was being called home.  God needed her more.

But that wasn’t true.  Thomas and Drew needed her more.  Their father needed her.  How could God just take her away?

Regardless of how much they needed her, she passed on just days later.  He had no idea that the morning he kissed his mother goodbye, before she went to tend the sick, would be the last time he would ever see her.  Closing his eyes, he tried to conjure the scene in his mind.  Only it wasn’t his memories.  It was the images his father and brother had painted for him.