Jill Landis - Homecoming

Stomping on the burning doeskin, he managed to extinguish the flames, but the shirt, as well as the pieces still burning on the fire, was ruined.

“Are you crazy?” He turned on the girl. The thin tether that had held his emotion in check since they’d walked into the church hall finally snapped. Now, though she was but a foot away, he shouted at her.

“You could have burned yourself up just now!”

She yelled right back. He might not be able to understand what she said, but the way she spit out the words was clear enough—she was swearing at him in Comanche.

He grabbed her hand, anxious to drag her back to the house and turn her over to Hattie, but when his palm connected with hers, she cried out. Not in anger, but in pain.

Instantly, he shifted his hold to her wrist.

She turned her hands palms up, staring at them in silent shock. Her skin was marred by red, angry burns.

Joe’s anger fizzled away on a sigh. He let go of her wrists.

She stood before him, head bowed. Her long damp hair hid her expression like a chestnut veil. Her bare toes, coated with dust, peeked from beneath the hem of the taffeta gown.

No longer were her shoulders stiff with pride. No longer did her ice-blue eyes blaze up at him full of stubborn determination.

The ruination of her things had left her defeated, limp and lifeless as the scorched and smoldering garment at their feet.

Hattie ran out to join them, her eyes full of worry, her hair limp from the steaming warmth of the kitchen. She’d taken off her bonnet and, as she did when they were home alone, tried to comb some of her hair over her scar.

“What happened?” Her focus dropped to the girl’s reddened palms. “What have you done?”

“Are you accusing me or asking her? If you’re asking her, you might as well be talking to a fence post, Ma.”

“I’m not accusing you.”

“She grabbed her Comanch’ dress out of the fire, is what happened. Grabbed it after it started to burn and scorched her hands.”

Hattie cupped her hands beneath the girl’s and inspected the wounds. “Thank heaven, these burns aren’t very deep. They surely must hurt something fierce.”

She reached up and tucked a lock of the girl’s hair behind her ear.

“She ran out the back door fast as lightning.”

Joe heard admiration in his mother’s voice, noted the gentle, caring way Hattie dealt with her. She’d dressed the girl in the yellow taffeta, a gown he’d never seen her in, but one he knew Hattie wore when she was young and wealthy and living back East.

A dress she’d owned long before she’d married his father.

She’d been saving it for Mellie to wear when she was grown. But now Mellie was gone.

His already hardened heart hated seeing this stranger wearing it.

“She looks ridiculous, Ma. We can’t have her running around the place in a ball gown.”

“She’ll have to wear it until I can make over one of mine for her. As it is, my clothes are way too big for her. I think she looks just fine.”

“It’s a party dress, Ma, and this is no party.”

“She doesn’t know the difference, Joe. Might as well use it.” Hattie fluffed a ruffle on the sleeve of the gown. “She looks real pretty.”

She looked, Joe was forced to admit grudgingly, almost beautiful.

“Don’t forget she’s not staying, Ma.” For a minute he wondered if he wasn’t reminding himself.

“What are you saying, Joe?”

“I’m just saying don’t get attached. She burned herself trying to save those Comanche things. No matter what you’d like to believe, she’s not one of us. I’m telling you she’ll turn on us as soon as she gets half a chance.”

The girl was watching him very closely, as if straining to understand.

He flicked his gaze away, willing himself to look anywhere but into her eyes. There was no way he’d let himself grow soft toward her. No way he’d drop his guard. He wasn’t about to start thinking of her as anything but what she was—the enemy.

“Where’ve you gone, Joe? Where has your faith and the love in your heart gone?”

Hattie’s whispered words were barely discernible, and yet he’d heard them, just as he heard the sorrow laced through them. His mother was looking at him as if she didn’t really know him at all.

She already knew the answer as well as he did.

Where was his faith? What had happened to the love in his heart?

“The Comanches took them,” he told her.

Hattie surprised him by giving a slight shake of her head.

“No, son. You and I both know your faith faltered long before the Comanche attack. What I’ll never understand is why. ”

Without waiting for an explanation, she turned to lead the girl back to the house and left him standing alone with his guilt, his doubt and his suspicions.

He knew that no matter how much he wanted to blame the Comanche, his mother was right.

He’d lost his faith long before that dark and terrible night.

Somehow they got through supper.

Before she pulled a meal together, Hattie treated the girl’s burns with a poultice of raw potato scraped fine and mixed with sweet oil. Then she bound them with clean strips of cotton from the scrap basket she kept for quilting.

The former captive sat in silence with her burned hands resting in her lap. She watched Hattie work, either out of curiosity or sullenness, Hattie couldn’t tell which.

Though the girl never once reacted, Hattie explained what she was doing every step of the way and kept up her stream of chatter, hoping that something she said or did might trigger the girl’s memory.

She rang the dinner bell and called Joe in from the corral where he was working with a new foal. He walked into the kitchen and ignored the girl, but Hattie felt undeniable tension in the room from the minute he crossed the threshold.

As she drained boiled potatoes, she offered up a silent prayer, asking the good Lord for guidance in dealing with the girl and patience toward her headstrong son.

When supper was laid out, she sat the girl opposite Joe even though it was easy to see the two young people were determined not to look at each other.

The girl stared down at the layered beef and mashed potato bake on her plate.

“Join hands and we’ll give thanks for God’s blessing.” Hattie reached for Joe’s hand and for the girl’s bandaged hand, careful to touch only her fingertips.

“Take her other hand, Joe, and close the circle.”

“She’s a heathen, Ma. She’s got no idea what you’re doing.”

“By some accounts you’re a heathen, too, son, but you still bow your head as I pray over our meals. So can she.” Hattie waited.

Grudgingly, Joe reached across the table. When the girl hid her free hand under the table out of his reach, Joe shrugged.

“Guess she’s doesn’t want to touch me any more than I want to touch her.”

“Bow your head, then.” Hattie motioned to the girl, who watched Joe bow his head. Though the girl didn’t oblige, Hattie began anyway.

“Lord, thank you for this food. For this day. For bringing this child into our lives. Let her grow in understanding. Let her come to know You and Your mercy and wonder. Reunite her with the family that surely loves and misses her. Amen.”

Joe waited until Hattie took her first bite before he dug in. The girl watched them for a few seconds more, then, ignoring the flatware beside her plate, she grabbed a piece of beef with both hands, wiped off the potatoes and shoved it in her mouth.

Hattie was shocked into silence. Joe almost laughed.

“Ma, I believe this is the first time I’ve ever seen you speechless.”

The girl was quickly shoveling pieces of meat into her mouth with both hands, her bandages hopelessly soiled.