Spirit of the Wolf (9 page)

***

T
hree
and a half hours later, Matt woke up in his own bed. He looked around woozily, blinked, and groaned. "Bess...?"

"I'm here, Matthew," she said, stroking his cheek. "
R
ight here."

The boy winced. "It hurts, Bess."

"I'm sure it does." She reached for the bottle of tonic Doc had left on the bedside table, then guided a spoonful of the dark syrupy liquid between Matt's lips. "This will help some," she said,
using her thumb to wipe
away the drop that had escaped the corner of his mouth. "Go back to sleep now, and you won't notice the pain so much."

He lifted his head and looked toward the foot of his bed. "Am I gonna be all right?"

Her heart lurched in her chest. Doc had explained every possibility. Matt's youth, the old man had said, was on his side. In all likelihood, the boy would recover. But...Matt could walk with a limp for the rest of his life, and infection, if indeed it had set in during the long ride home, gangrene could set in and
—

Bess refused to think about that horrible possibility. "You're going to be fine, just fine
, you hear me!
"

He lay back, soothed by her
pledge
, and closed his eyes.

There was so much to do, and now that he seemed to be resting peacefully, she got up to do it.

The instant she stood,
Matt's eyes flew open. "Don't go, Bess," he pleaded, reaching for her hand.

She sat beside him on the bed and gently stroked his bandaged arm. "
All right,
sweet Matthew
, I'll stay
."

"Thanks, Bess," he murmured.

"I love you, Matthew," she answered.

He closed his eyes, and in moments, slept.

She didn't seem to notice the bloodstains on her favorite blue dress. Didn't seem to notice, either, that much of her dark hair had escaped the lovely braid she'd plaited that morning. Didn't seem to notice that her cheeks were streaked with sweat...and her brother's blood.

But
Chance
noticed.

Only when she was sure that Matt slept soundly did she leave his side, and only then, to clean up the dining room. "Can't have Pa coming in here and seeing all this," she muttered, piling the blood-stained sheets and napkins and used bandages onto the serving cart. "It'll upset him no end." She seemed unaware that she was chattering like a chipmunk. "I'll just put these in a tub on the mud porch to soak," she added, scrubbing blood from the table top with one of the clean rags. "Tomorrow, once Matt's had a good night's sleep, I'll wash 'em up good and proper,
and hang them on the line to dry. The sun will bleach some of the stains out,
" she said, on her hands and knees now, wiping up the blood that had dripped from the table onto the wide-planked pine boards. She didn't hear the tremor in her voice. Didn't realize that her tears had mingled with Matt's blood on the floor.

When he couldn't stand to watch her suffering a moment longer,
Chance
grabbed her by the shoulders and brought her to her feet.

Immediately, she tried to drop back to her knees and resume scrubbing, but he held firm. "Bess," he said softly, "stop it. Stop your cryin' now."

She looked around the room helplessly. "But he's so young,
Chance
. And Doc said...." She bit her lip, then turned away
,
crossed
both
arms over her chest and cupped her elbows. "What if he...what if he never walks again?" She hesitated. Shook her head. "What if...."

He'd warned himself on his first day at Foggy Bottom to be careful
, because he knew the danger of being
drawn into relationships he couldn't afford to
maintain
.
T
he proof of his rightness stood trembling in his arms now.

He'd never seen fear in her big dark eyes before. Had never seen that full lower lip quiver as she struggled to hold back her tears. She'd always been in complete control. Seeing her like this, looking so small and vulnerable, moved him like
few things
ever had.

He'd have shifted heaven and earth at that moment to give her the solace she sought
,
to find the words to assure her that her little brother would be all right. But
Chance
had no such power, and he knew it. Why, he didn't even have the power to prove he hadn't killed a man!

Still, he didn't want
her
to know how weak and inept he was. So he held her tight and stroked her slender back and whispered soft into her ear. "He'll be fine," was all he could think to say. "He'll be just fine."

"If he survives, he could have a limp for the rest of his life!"

Laying a hand against her cheek, he said, "I'd take on his limp, just to have a woman like you caring for me the way you care for that boy." He felt almost as helpless and useless as he had on the day of the fire....
In response to her wet-eyed silence, he added, "Doc said he'd likely be all right, didn't he?"

She nodded against his chest.

"And you trust Doc, don't you?"

Again she nodded, a little harder this time.

Chance
could feel her warm tears seeping through the fabric of his shirt. He held her at arm's length
,
and, for a moment, just looked at her. Her long, dark lashes clumped with glistening tears. With the pad of his thumb, he tenderly brushed the dampness away. He hated to see her this way, and searched his mind for a sentence, a phrase, a word, even, that would get her mind off Matt, if only for a moment. "I don't suppose there's a slice of your famous cherry pie in the kitchen...."

She blinked, and the first hint of a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. "I'm afraid you're too late for that." Still standing in the circle of his embrace, she brightened a little more, and added, "There's peach cobbler, though...."

He didn't know what possessed him to do it, but without a second thought,
Chance
pressed a
k
iss against her lips.

And much to his delight, Bess returned it.

Almost from the moment he brought Matt home after the accident,
Chance
spent
a lot more time in the house than the rest of the hired hands. Though all of the men took evening meals at the Beckleys' dining room table and felt
welcome
in the parlor or lounging in the comfortable rockers on the front porch, none seemed so much a part of the family as
Chance
.

It had all started days after surgery, with Matt unable to get out of bed, even to bathe. Bess had tried to bustle in to get the job done
, as she’d been doing
since the boys
were toddlers
.
Chance
, who'd gone upstairs for his evening visit with Matt, had just stepped up to the bedroom door when the confrontation began
….

"You can just put your
smelly
ol
’
bar of soap right back where you got it," the boy insisted, tugging up his blanket. "I'm fourteen years old, and I won't have my sister washin' where the sun don't shine!"

And
Bess
had
rolled her eyes. "Well, you can't go the whole eight weeks of your recuperation without a proper bath!"

"I'd rather stink like one of Mister Nick's hogs than have you see me
in my birthday suit
."

Bess clucked her tongue and chuckled. "Why, that's just plain silly, Matt. I used to change your diapers and
—“

He narrowed his eyes and scowled. "That
’s ‘cause I was
a baby and couldn't defend myself. I'm nearly a man now, and
—“

"Matthew, the longer you argue with me, the colder this water is getting," she scolded, thumping the rim of her washpan.

"Doesn't matter if it's cold or hot, 'cause you're not bathin' me with it!" Matt insisted, his tone changing from big-boy bluster to little-boy whine.

She put the washpan on the bedside table and propped her fists on her hips. "There
will
be a bath
, young man, and if—“

"If Matt will let me,"
Chance
interrupted, leaning on the doorframe, "I'll be glad to help him clean up."

She'd looked at him with some surprise. "You?"

Matt, grinning with relief, said, "Yeah!
Chance
can do it!"

"
But….
"

"
Bess, you've seen me
rub down a horse after a hard day's ride, and what smells worse than horse sweat?"

Bess eyed Matthew slyly and crinkled her nose. "My little brother, that's what," she answered, and neatly side-stepped the pillow Matt feebly tossed
at her
.

Now, remembering
the scene, Bess grinned.
Chance
always seemed to show up, like the white knight in fairy tales, just in the nick of time. He'd bathed Matt that night, and every night afterward until the boy's arm healed enough to do the job himself.

Bess also remembered that when Matt finally seemed ready and able to begin the exercises Doc had prescribed to get his leg back into shape, it had been
Chance
's strong shoulder the boy leaned on. When
the doctor
said the time had come for Matt to get some fresh air, it was
Chance
who fashioned crude wooden crutches and taught the boy to use them, then walked slowly, patiently alongside as
Matt
hobbled across the lawn.
Then, w
hen the boy seemed bored out of his skull from having nothing more physical than walking to do, it was
Chance
who taught him to play chess.

The men teased
Chance
mercilessly, their mocking falsettos calling him "Our hero!" But the serious tone behind their good-natured wise-cracks rang true. Though she never told him so, he was
her
hero. Bess thanked God every morning and every night for him, for he'd saved Matt's
life.
And, he'd been the first person since Mary to offer her a moment of compassion or an instant of comfort...or to realize she needed either.

Bess thanked God for something else, too: Finally, the boys had a
real man they could look up to!

Not that Micah didn't love his sons
.
Bess knew he'd have given his life for any one of his children if need be. But, since Mary's death,
he’d
withdrawn from his sons and daughter, physically and emotionally. The man who once showered his family with loving affection now seemed to believe that providing materially for them was enough.

She missed the man he'd been before Mary died. Fun-loving and kind, he'd had strong opinions
about everything
,
and didn't mind sharing them with anyone who'd listen.
T
hough he shared them in a thundering voice and with animated gestures, he'd never made anyone, not even the object of his opinion, feel afraid on any level.

Bess remembered the week she'd spent at the
neighbors when, because of
Mrs. Cunningham's difficult delivery, Mary had volunteered Bess to help with the cleaning and cooking, and to mind the Cunningham's three children while the new mama recuperated. It saddened Bess to see the youngsters duck and flinch at Mr. Cunningham's every move
, as if
they
didn’t know
when he might have a mind to whack one of them for talking out of turn, making too much noise,
or n
ot completing a chore to his satisfaction.

Mary and the children flinched around Micah...but only because they never knew when he might be inspired to
tickle or
pull them onto his ample lap for a big hug, a noisy, wet kiss, or both! Even as a young girl, Bess had seen the difference between Mr. Cunningham and her pa.

With Mary at his side, Micah had been a man of unbounded faith. Nothing worried or frightened him. Once, when a severe thunderstorm destroyed an entire corn crop, he's simply shrugged and said, "Well,
we can
thank
the Almighty that
we had us a good potato crop this season." By comparison, just last week, when the skies over Foggy Bottom darkened, he paced from window to window, peering outside and sighing, stroking his grey beard. "What will become of us if those winds flatten the corn?"

Oh, he put on a mighty show for the farm hands, standing tall, strutting like a
Bandy
rooster, bellowing orders with the sure clear voice of a man in charge. But alone in the manor house, where no one
but his daughter
could witness his grief and misery
,
Micah's voice trembled with doom and gloom.