Penny Richards - Wolf Creek Widow

He could smell the beans she’d brought. They were simmering in a cast-iron Dutch oven hanging on a metal tripod that straddled a small fire she’d built outside. It smelled as though she’d added some salt pork from the smokehouse. There would be johnnycakes and wild green onion and perhaps some potatoes fried in the bacon grease left over from breakfast.

Neither woman spoke, but they both watched as he rode closer and slid from the gelding’s back. It struck him how very different his mother was from the small blonde woman, yet how very alike their expressions were. He suspected that they had other traits in common, too.

“Well?” Nita asked with her customary bluntness.

Ace looped the reins over the hitching post. “Rachel says she thinks we should wait to bring the children home.”

The anticipation in Meg’s eyes faded. Something inside him stirred in response—the innate need born in a man to protect, to shield loved ones from any more pain.

“But she told me they could come home.” Meg’s voice was laced with distress.

“Rachel says she knows mothers and she knows you, and she’s afraid you’ll overdo it with them around. She doesn’t want you picking one of them up without thinking or chasing after them yet. She said you need at least another week or so to heal before taking up their care again. I’m sorry.”

Instead of answering, Meg turned and walked away. Her back was ramrod-straight, and her chin was high. She placed her feet carefully, as if she were so fragile she might shatter if she took a wrong step. And perhaps she would. Automatically wanting to comfort her, Ace started to follow.

“Let her go.” Nita’s voice was low but firm. “You, of all people, should know that she has to work through this in her own way, in her own time.”

They watched as she entered the edge of the woods at the side of the house, the same area where Dan Mercer had wounded Joseph Jones.

Ace thought of all the time he’d spent in the forest through the years. It was the place he’d often gone as a boy to try to sort out his mixed heritage. He’d learned of his Celtic past from his father, who’d filled his mind with stories of bards and fanciful tales and a strangely melodic language he’d tried so hard to learn.

From his mother he absorbed tales of the Keetoowah, the spiritual core of the Cherokee people, who stressed the importance of maintaining the old ways. The mission school he’d attended taught him the tenets of Christianity.

Vastly different, yet with fascinating similarities. All sought solitude for meditation and prayer. Both cultures thought nature was sacred. God had created a place of nature for Adam and had walked with him in the garden; God spoke to Adam there.

The woods were Ace’s garden. His refuge. A place to listen for the voice of God that whispered in the wind and murmured through the leaves of the trees and the rustle of creatures going about their day-to-day lives: finding nourishment, caring for their young, being wounded or hunted. Dying. Becoming part of the earth again, continuing the cycle put into place before the earth was spoken into existence. Ace believed that the voice of God could still be heard in the world around you, if you chose to hear it.

He watched Meg disappear into the woods and wondered if she would hear God’s voice. According to those who knew her, she had a strong will and a stronger faith. This time, though, her injuries were worse, the pain deeper.

He wished he could follow her, but he had trees to fell and wood to chop. He would be here when she returned. Deep in his heart, he knew that he would always be there for Meg.

Chapter Three

It was late afternoon when the noisy clatter of the dinner bell roused Meg from a light sleep. Nita must have supper ready. Meg felt a pang of guilt for leaving the older woman to do her work, but she’d been crushed by the news that she would not be snuggling with Teddy and Lucy just yet. Knowing Rachel was right didn’t lessen her disappointment. Holding her babies would have been a sweet balm to her spirit.

As she’d done so often in the past when things threatened her peace of mind, Meg had wandered into the woods, making her way to her favorite spot, where she’d always sought the healing quiet of the solitude. Soon after Elton had moved her away from her family, she’d found this place that had become her sanctuary, a place set apart from the reality of her life.

She’d often brought the children there and found comfort in the whisper of the breeze and the pleasing chuckling of the water that meandered along the rocky bottom of the creek, running to some faraway place she could only imagine. She’d often wished she could follow it.

A bed of moss beneath a giant oak made a cool spot for a nap when she needed a place to rest. In the early spring, she’d brought a broom to sweep away the leaves that had fallen throughout the winter. By chance or God’s design, a wild rose of vibrant pink had sprawled and clambered up and over the branches of a nearby dogwood in early summer, reaching for what sunlight it could find in the mostly shaded area and sending its sweet fragrance adrift on the whispers of the vagrant breezes.

Even now, in the heat of September, hurting and wondering if she would ever feel whole again, she found the place beautiful. The rose and bleeding hearts had long since bloomed and the resurrection fern had dried up and curled into brown patches that clung tenaciously to the sturdy limbs of the tree, yet the sweet blessing of one good rain would return them to vibrant life.

Secure in the hope that that same vibrancy of life would be hers again someday, she’d closed her eyes and waited to see if the peacefulness of her surroundings would work its healing powers as it had in the past. In time, it did. She’d let her thoughts wander at will, from wondering where the creek emptied to how much Lucy and Teddy had probably grown since she’d seen them and how she would give them a better life. They might not have a lot of extras, but she would make up for it by giving them a life filled with love, not fear.

Throughout the afternoon, she’d heard the measured whack of an ax against wood. Ace cutting down more trees. She must have dozed off while thinking about him and his mother and their willingness to help a woman who was more or less a stranger.

Awake now, Meg sat up and looked around, hardly able to believe that she’d slept so long and without any frightening dreams. She wondered if finding a few hours of peace was a good start for putting the pieces of her life back together and knew that Rachel would say it was.

This had always been a perfect spot for dreams and plans. Dreams. Like all young girls, she’d had dreams once, daydreams about a life free of the shame of her mother’s life. Visions of finding a way out. Then she’d met Elton, with his good looks and his own extravagant fantasies of big houses and fancy clothes and trips to San Francisco and St. Louis, and she felt that her yearnings had come true at last.

Those dreams had begun to flee one after the other, shortly after marrying him almost four years ago. Now her mind was filled with plans, but the dreams were as dead as her husband and the resurrection ferns that had turned brown from the heat of summer.

When she’d first awakened at Rachel’s and was coherent enough to make sense of the things she was told, she’d thought—even dared to hope—that with Elton out of the picture her life would change for the better. Would it?

She gave her head a shake to dislodge the brief moment of melancholy and doubt. She could not let gloomy thoughts take hold. She had no idea how to move ahead with her life, but she knew that if she dwelled on her mistakes and her past, Elton would win, and she refused to let him rule her life from the grave. She would get past this, just as she’d always done.