Legacies (34 page)

To her relief, she recognized the orderly on duty, a short, stocky man with muttonchop whiskers. "Private Cosgrove, how are you?"

He looked up, his muttonchops lifting with the quickness of his smile. "Well, Miss Gordon, it's good to see you. Miss Parmelee didn't mention you would be helping out today."

"Actually, I came to the post on another errand, but I wanted to drop these bandages off while I was here."

"What am I thinking?" He slapped a hand to his forehead in dismay. "Lieutenant Gordon was your brother, wasn't he? Aah, you have my sympathies, Miss Gordon. I guess you'll be visiting his grave while you're here."

"First, I want to see the doctor on another matter. Is Major Clark busy?"

"Aren't you feeling well?" His study of her instantly turned clinical.

"Not me. My mother. Is Major Clark busy?" "He's back in his office, writing his reports. I'll take you to him."

After the orderly ushered her into Adam Clark's office, Susannah wasted little time on pleasantries before she launched into her carefully rehearsed story of her mother's fictitious fall and subsequent severe pain in her lower back.

"In her lower back, you say?" Adam Clark frowned thoughtfully.

"Excruciating, at times—so much so that she almost screams with it. And my mother is not a woman given to histrionics."

"I see," he murmured and proceeded to question Susannah exhaustively about her mother's condition. Had she noticed any swelling? Was her mother running a fever? Was there any numbness or loss of feeling in her feet or legs? Did she have any tenderness in the abdomen?

In her mind, Susannah applied the questions to The Blade. She was able to answer "No" to all of them.

"Interesting." Adam Clark continued to frown while he absently packed fresh tobacco in his pipe. "There must be an injury to a nerve that's causing this pain."

"We had some laudanum on hand that gave her relief, but it's almost gone now. It will be by tonight," she explained. "That's why I'm here—to see if you could give me more."

"Of course, of course. Come with me." Laying his pipe aside, he rose from his chair.

Fifteen minutes later, Susannah climbed into the wagon, a tin of morphia tucked deep in her dress pocket. By Major Clark's calculation, there was enough to last a week, when given in the prescribed amounts. Her mission accomplished, Susannah slapped the reins across the mule's rump, and the animal broke into a reluctant trot. Adam Clark lifted a hand in farewell as the wagon rolled by, but Susannah was too intent on getting home to notice.

Nor did she see Diane and Reverend Cole emerge from the hospital tent when she drove past it.

"As John Wesley said, 'Cleanliness is next to godliness,'" Reverend Cole remarked to Diane.

"You should make that the theme for your sermon to the refugees this Sunday. It may encour—" Diane broke off to stare after the wagon. "Wasn't that Susannah?"

Reverend Cole turned to look. "I believe you're right. I wonder what she was doing here?"

Adam Clark strolled over to them. "Reverend Cole, Diane." There was extra warmth in his voice and his smile when he addressed Diane. "Beautiful day, isn't it? It's not likely we'll have too many more of these. Winter is right around the corner, I'm afraid."

"It is," Diane agreed absently. "Tell me—was that Susannah who just left?"

"Yes."

"I wonder why she never stoppped to see me."

"She was in a hurry to get home to see her mother, I imagine," he remarked and frowned thoughtfully again. "By all accounts, her mother took a nasty fall."

"Eliza?" Reverend Cole said in instant concern.

"From what Susannah told me, nothing was broken; there was no indication of internal injury. But she's experiencing severe pain. Excruciating, at times. Obviously, there was some nerve injury. I sent some morphia with Susannah. That should relieve it."

"Do you think it's serious?" Diane asked.

"It's hard to tell. Hopefully, it's something complete rest will cure," Adam replied. "Susannah promised to keep me apprised of her mother's condition."

 

Twilight purpled the sky and deepened the shadows around the house when Susannah finally made it home. As the wagon rolled to a stop, Lije stepped from the shadows to meet her. "I was beginning to wonder what happened to you. Did you get it?"

"Enough for a week," she said as Deu appeared and climbed onto the wagon.

"I'll see to the wagon and mule for you, Miss Susannah."

"Thank you, Deu." She handed him the reins and moved to the side where Lije waited to lift her down. "How is he?"

"The same." Together they walked swiftly to the house.

The others converged on Susannah the minute she walked in. She responded to their flood of questions by producing the tin from her pocket.

"Thank God," Temple murmured, reaching out to Eliza in relief.

"It's morphia," Susannah told them. "Major Clark warned that it's a stronger painkiller than laudanum and needs to be given in the amounts specified."

"Did you have any trouble getting it?" Eliza asked.

"None. He believed my story about your fall—thankfully," Susannah added, with a relieved smile, then hesitated. "But I did see Alex." She felt Lije's gaze instantly sharpen on her.

"You did!" Sorrel said in excitement, then complained, "I wish I could have gone to the fort with you. I—"

Susannah ignored her. "I have some bad news, I'm afraid. Kipp was killed."

A moan of grief and protest came instantly from Temple. Eliza put an arm around her, sorrow darkening her own eyes. "We must pray that after so many years of knowing only hatred, Kipp has at last found peace."

With his own thoughts far from being that charitable, Lije turned and went up to his father's room. Phoebe sat close to the bed, a spoon in one hand and a bowl of soupy mush balanced in the other. His father reclined against propping pillows, breathing in those much-too-familiar moaning breaths, his eyes closed.

"Is he eating?" Lije glanced at the bowl of mush.

"Some." But Phoebe's expression indicated it was very little.

"I'll feed him." He crossed to the bed to take her place. "You go on downstairs. Tell my mother that I'll stay with him. She can take her meal with the rest of the family."

Phoebe surrendered the bowl and spoon to him. "You have to make him eat now, or he won't have the strength to get better."

He saw the worry in her eyes and nodded. "I will." He sat down, dipped some mush on the spoon and carried it to his father's lips. "Eat some of this," he said as Phoebe slipped quietly out of the room.

The Blade's eyes opened to mere slits. "Lije?" His voice was a scratchy whisper.

Lije immediately pushed the spoon between the parted lips. "It's me. Now eat this." He pulled the spoon back, drawing it over the upper lip to scrape the mush from it. He waited, watching for The Blade to swallow that before he dipped more onto the spoon.

"Never knew . . . could . . . hurt so bad."

"Eat. Don't talk." Lije pushed another spoonful into his mouth and waited again, giving The Blade a chance to rest between bites.

After three more spoonfuls, The Blade forced his eyes open again and struggled to focus on Lije. "Your mother... Kipp?"

He didn't have any trouble piecing together what his father was trying to ask. "She knows Kipp is dead, but that's all she knows. As far as I'm concerned, mat's all she needs to know. It would only hurt her." He scooped another portion of mush onto the spoon. "Let her think what she likes. Kipp's dead. You're the only one now who knows what happened."

"Alex . . ." A frown puckered his forehead.

Lije halted the spoon an inch from The Blade's mouth. "Alex was there?"

There was a faint, barely perceptible nod. Lije swore under his breath and pressed his lips together in a tight, angry line. He knew in his gut that Alex would never keep quiet about it. Never.

"Wait a minute." Lije stiffened in sudden suspicion. "Who shot you? Was it Kipp? or Alex?"

"Don't know . . ." His head rocked slightly. "Kipp, dead. . . . Must'a been . . . Alex."

"Alex." Lije felt the anger and bitterness grow inside him. It wasn't over. Kipp's death hadn't ended anything.

 

 

 

22

 

 

A
brooming wind swept out of the northwest, pushing
dust and leaves and assorted debris before it. Now and then, a strong gust shook the horse-drawn buggy traveling along the Texas Road. Squinting her eyes against the blowing dust, Diane held onto the side rail with one hand and kept the other firmly on her hat.
 

"We are nearly there." The wind whipped away the sound of Reverend Cole's voice, diminishing its volume. "I'm glad. There's a storm brewing."

Diane looked up with a frown. "There isn't a cloud in the sky."

"Not yet." He nodded to the west, indicating the line of dark clouds on the rim of the horizon.

"It seems too late in the year for a storm." But she had lived in this country much of her life and knew thunderstorms could occur at any time of year, even winter, although rarely. This was only September.

"But the air has that warm, heavy feeling even with the wind." Reverend Cole spied the turnoff to the Stuart home and swung the buggy horse onto the lane.

The angling wind was at their backs now, pushing them along. The buggy's calash broke the force of it. The relief was instant and welcome. Letting go of her hat, Diane relaxed for the first time in miles. The buggy horse snorted its pleasure and picked up its trot, as if sensing their destination was directly ahead.

It was. There, at the end of the lane, stood the Stuart house, framed by wind-lashed trees and partially obscured by the haze of blowing dust. Diane stared at it, memories swirling up, dangerous memories, too vivid, too bittersweet.

Before the ache took hold, Diane said, "I hope Eliza is better."

The reverend nodded. "This fall she took is one more reason why I wish they would come live near the fort. In treacherous times such as these, it isn't safe for three women to live alone so far from aid."

"Temple won't consider leaving her home."

"As long as she stays, Eliza and Susannah will remain with her. They are three very stubborn women."

Diane preferred to think that they had learned to be independent and self-sufficient, traits she found very admirable.

The buggy came to a stop in front of the house. No one stepped out to greet them. The only sounds were the loud rush of the wind through the trees, the rustling of leaves, the clack and clatter of branches rubbing together, and the occasional snap of a limb breaking.

Reverend Cole cast a considering glance around the grounds and remarked, "As glad as I am that the slaves have been freed, it still seems odd to drive up to this house and have no one run up to tend to your horse."

He laid the reins down and climbed out of the wagon, unfolding his long, lanky frame, then reached back for the basket of foodstuffs and set it on the ground. Finally, he extended his hand to assist Diane.

The instant she stepped from the shelter of the buggy, Diane was again subjected to the sting of blowing dust and the tug of the wind at her hat. Again, she clamped a hand over it and hurried with the reverend to the front door. As she reached for the brass knocker, the door swung open.

Sorrel stared at them in surprise. "Reverend Cole. Diane. I thought I saw a buggy outside so—Susannah never mentioned you were coming."

"She didn't know." Diane smiled. "May we come in?"

"Of course." Sorrel stepped aside to admit them, then pushed the door shut behind them. A gust of wind rattled the windows as if to protest its exclusion.

"Here." Diane took the basket from Reverend Cole and handed it to Sorrel. "Will you take this to Phoebe?"

"What is it?" She held it up, trying to peer under the cloth that covered it.

"Some tins of fruit from the sutler's store and a smoked ham my father found tucked away in the back." Diane absently smoothed back the wisps of hair the wind had tugged loose.

"Real ham?" Sorrel sighed with pleasure. "I can't remember the last time we had any."

"We came to see Eliza," Reverend Cole inserted quietly. "Where is she?"

"Granny El? She's upstairs in mother's room. I'll—"

"Thank you, I know the way," Diane said and moved toward the stairs. Reverend Cole trailed a step behind her. Sorrel hesitated, then broke into a run toward the back of the house, carrying the basket. Halfway up the stairs, Diane wondered aloud, "I wonder why Eliza is staying in Temple's room instead of her own?"

"No doubt there is a logical explanation," Reverend Cole replied with unconcern.

"I'm sure there is, but I can't think what it is. Eliza is a woman who likes her own things about her, not someone else's."

The door to the master bedroom stood open a few inches. Diane rapped on it and received an instant response.

"Who is it?" It was Eliza's voice, reassuringly strong and sharp in its challenge.

"It's Diane. Reverend Cole is with me. May we come in?"

"Diane." There was a thread of relief in the reply. Then came a sound like a troubled sigh. "Yes, come in."

More curious than ever, Diane walked into the room and came to an abrupt halt when she saw Eliza standing beside the bed, looking neither in pain nor ill.

"Eliza, what on earth—I was told—" Diane heard the distinctive click of a hammer uncocking behind her.

Diane swung around and went motionless. Lije stood against the wall behind the door, a revolver in his hand, pointed at the ceiling. Her gaze locked with his, and instantly she remembered all that had passed between them, all the passionate, compelling, and disturbing reasons they had loved and fought against that love. His presence had always revived old longings and hunger, and a sense of incompleteness that she had never been able to ignore. It still did.

He had lost weight, she saw. His face was thinner, giving a gauntness to his cheeks and hardening his features. His body was all lean, long muscle, toughened by the harsh demands of war. The shaggy ends of his glistening black hair curled onto the collar of his shirt. He had never looked more glorious to her.