Arms of Love (38 page)

“Adam. I told you to go back.”

Adam’s mind was rushing like a swollen creek at springtime. His father had killed another man.

“I—I heard a noise. I thought you might need help . . .” The boy broke off with a sob of distress, unsure what to say, but longing to sink to his knees.

His father rose, his cloak covered in blood, and came toward him.

Adam wanted to run in fear, but fear itself held him fast.

“
Sohn
. What you saw here, you must forget. You must count it as never happening.”

Adam swallowed as his father neared; he could smell the strange warmth of the trapper’s blood.

“But our ways,
Fater
. . . you have taught me; we cannot kill.” His voice quivered, and he swiped at a half-frozen tear along his cheek.

His father’s voice came again, quiet, sure . . . unrepentant.

“That man took from your mother. Just a lock of hair,
ya
, but he might have taken more. He did not deserve to live to continue in such behavior.”

“What—what will you tell the bishop?”

As soon as the words had escaped his lips, Adam knew it was the wrong thing to have asked. His father drew back a large, bloody palm and with calm deliberation slapped Adam’s face so hard that the boy felt his spine rattle. For a brief moment he saw black-hewn stars before his eyes and felt the warmth of lifeblood stick wet against his cheek.

His father had never struck him before.

He tried to focus.

“As I said, Adam, this never happened. You will put it from your mind. You will never speak of it. You will never think of it. Do you understand?”

“
Ya
,” Adam whispered.

“
Gut
.” His father turned with brisk force. “We will bury the man as deep as we can, using our hatchets. We’ll also bury the
messer
and my cloak. You will return to the farm and assure your
mamm
that all is well. Then
kumme
back here and bring a spade.” His father went on in matter-of-fact tones. “Ach, and wash your face; there’s blood on it.”

Adam murmured his assent, his cheek and mouth throbbing in the cold. He followed his father to a place not far from the dead-eyed trapper and got down on his knees, hacking blindly at the frozen ground with his hatchet, determined to forget . . .

And then he choked on his tears, and Lena knew he had come back to the present.

“The trapper,” he moaned, looking at her. “Just a trapper. There was so much blood!
Ach
, I was scared, scared to death. I should have died. I wish I had died.”

“
Ach
, no, Adam. No, my love . . .”

He looked at her then, really looked at her, and some semblance of calm seemed to come over him. He reached out and caught at the golden curl with its still-drying tip and rubbed the red paint between his fingertips.

“I had to help bury him . . . put all that blood under the white of the snow somehow. It took hours . . . hours. I have tried to forget . . . I think I’ve tried . . .”

“Oh, Adam, before the Living
Gott
, it is true that you have been at war all this time. I will not lose you again.” She pulled him close to her chest and made soothing sounds in her throat.

He heard her muffled heartbeat and clung to the rhythm, the aliveness of the sound. But then against the ragged edges of his consciousness, something else intruded—he heard a man scream.

Chapter 34

G
o back to the house, Lena. Quickly. Send the men for help.”

He was back in control. She could see the focus in his golden eyes, intense as a single candle in a dark room.

“
Nee
. . . I will not leave you like this. What is it?”

“Do as I say,
sei se gut
. There is no time. I think it’s a mountain lion . . . the one who hunted us. It’s got some poor soul . . . I’ll go see.”

She wanted to protest, to hold him back, but she knew that a rifle would be of much more help. She got to her feet and started to run, turning back only once to look over her shoulder and see Adam headed in the direction of the scream, his hunting knife drawn.

Adam heard the scream come again, strangled, lowering, followed by the primitive growl of a big cat. It did not occur to him to do anything other than go toward the sound. What was a panther compared to the hulking monster of his past . . . and possibly there was a life to be saved.

He began to run and soon came upon the leafy copse where the black musculature and seething claws of the big cat covered the figure of a man, now limp and helpless.

Adam drew his knife and hit the back of the cat with all of the savage force that raged like the tide against sharp rocks within the tumult of his mind. But the animal was powerful and sleek, and seemingly only irritated by the blow of the knife as it now turned with full force toward Adam.

He had a sweeping impression of jagged teeth in an ancient primal cry, the feel of a terrible burn in his left leg as the animal struck, and the woodsy, musky scent of the beast itself. Then he glanced to the ground and saw the unmistakable face of his father, head turned, staring at him with gray eyes ablaze.

Suddenly time opened a strange portal and he was no longer himself but his father, slashing at the chest of a bleeding trapper. A lone boy stood by in his mind, watching, sobbing for all that he believed and hoped, all that was lost . . .

Then the cat collapsed upon him and Adam was once again himself, slashing with his knife in powerful strokes until the animal ceased to move.

His fury and anguish were spent. He had killed a preying panther, not a man. He was not his father. He was not bad. He embraced that lone boy inside with all of the wash of emotion that could fill a soul.

Then he got to his feet and sheathed his knife.

He went quickly to where his father lay and began to assess the other man’s wounds with calm hands. Then he tore off his shirt to make hasty bandages for the areas that seemed to drain with blood.

“Adam.”

He lifted his head and met the eyes of his father.

“You . . . killed the cat.” There was wonder in his
fater’s
tone.

“
Ya
, and you will live yet, I hope.” He tightened a bandage, pausing to assess his own thigh. It wasn’t bleeding too much. He prepared to lift his father onto his shoulder, feeling a deep peace inside.

“I have wronged you . . . and the Living
Gott
,” his father managed with a grunt as Adam swung him upward.

“I forgive you,” Adam said simply.

“Do you . . . remember that day?”

“I have always remembered it,
Fater
, but I could not see it clearly until today. I asked for
Gott’s
help, and He let me see. His freedom does not cost me . . . I do not have to be that frightened child standing alone anymore. He stands with me, and I stand with myself in Him.”

Joseph heard the profound words of his son and knew them to be inspired by
Gott
. He closed his eyes against the pain, both inside and out, as he felt Adam do his best to quicken his steps.

“And I would stand with you too, Adam . . . my
sohn
.”

Adam’s eyes swam with tears as he tried to hurry, but the blood soaking his bare back with sticky awareness told him that his father’s survival would require fast action and much prayer.

He was greatly relieved when he saw Isaac and Samuel come running. He passed his father into their arms. Adam had a brief look at Lena’s face behind the men, frantic and drawn with pain and concern.

Her eyes were the last thing he saw as he collapsed to the ground.

Chapter 35