Cheryl Reavis - Harrigan's Bride

She heard Thomas swear.

“Ain’t no other way, Cap,” the man said. “I got a notion about what we can do—where I can take her.”

“We’ve been everywhere,” Thomas said.

“I’m thinking Gertie would take care of her—but she’d have to have money to replace what she’d get otherwise. How much have you got?”

“Are you out of your mind? She’s a camp follower. She is not somebody who goes around ministering to the sick with a basket on her arm.”

“We ain’t got much choice, Cap—and Gertie ain’t had much in the way of choices, neither. She’s a good girl, Gertie is. You can’t fault a woman for what’s she’s had to do to keep herself alive. I’m telling you, she’ll take good care of Miss Abiah—if she’s got money enough to do it with. Like you said, we’ve been everywhere. The only thing we ain’t done is break down somebody’s front door and hold a gun on them until they turn into the Good Samaritan. I say we quit going around Robin Hood’s barn here and get Miss Abiah in out of the rain, sir—and I don’t think she’d be very happy if she knew she was the cause of your court-martial.”

Abiah stirred at the last remark, trying to raise up. But she couldn’t manage it, no matter how hard she tried.

“We ain’t far from the Lacey house,” the man said. “You go on there and let Major Gibbons see you. Tell him, if he asks, that I was wrong. Say the colonel didn’t send you no place, you been around here all the time. Say you been trying to account for the wounded and missing out of your company. I’ll take care of Miss Abiah and then I’ll find you.”

“La Broie—”

“Give me your money and your lady, sir.”

“Abby, can you hear me?” Thomas said, his breath warm against her ear. “Abby…?”

She strained toward the sound of his voice, but the harder she tried to hear it, the more it drifted away. The soft whiteness closed over her.

What’s happening?

She tried to focus on her surroundings, but the light was too poor. She could see a candle burning on a table to her right, and a fire burning in the fireplace. It was raining still—it always seemed to rain after a battle. She could distinctly hear the patter of raindrops against the window.

The window.

She wasn’t outside then. She was warm and dry and in bed.

She wasn’t alone in the room; she could hear someone moving around. She turned her head slightly.

“Is she awake?” a man’s voice asked.

“No, I don’t think so,” a woman said. “Is the captain coming? She asks for him sometimes.”

“He’s confined to his quarters until somebody decides how bad he broke rank.”

“How long will that be?”

“No time soon—not the way people are talking. I’ll tell him she’s been asking for him. No, maybe I won’t. He’s liable to come to see about her whether Gibbons says he can or not. You’ve got everything you need?”

“I’ve got more than I need.”

“You don’t mind the room being down here with the servants?”

“Now, why would I mind that? The kitchen is close. I can get her the things she needs to eat. And there’s people I can talk to, so I’m not lonesome. But I’m wanting to know something, La Broie. How did you get Zachariah Wilson to give up a room in his house, even if it is below stairs?”

“He’s being paid well for it, Gertie.”

“He doesn’t need the money.”

“He’s a greedy man, Gertie, darling. Greedy men always need the money.”

“I’m thinking maybe you asked this greedy man in a way he couldn’t refuse.”

He laughed softly.

“Maybe.”

“What did you do, Pete?”

“Nothing much. I only mentioned that I knew he’d been a…acquaintance of yours. And being such a pillar of the church and everything—well, now he had the opportunity to help you change your ways and give shelter to the sick.”

“And why would you do that?”

“Why?”

“You heard me.”

“Well, because I could see you didn’t have the heart for the business you was in.”

“Since when do men care what’s in a woman’s heart?”

“Some of us do, depending on the man—and the woman.”

“And the rest of you are like Zachariah Wilson.”

“You ain’t had no trouble with Wilson, have you?”

“No. He’s not here. He’s gone off someplace on business. Nobody knows when he’ll get back.”

“If he bothers you, you let me know. I mean it. I wouldn’t have put you here if I could’ve done better—”

“How long?” Abiah said abruptly.

“My God, she is awake,” the man said.

“How long have I been here?” Abiah asked.

“Well, let’s see,” the woman said, coming closer to the bed. “It must be eight days now.”

Eight? Abiah thought in alarm. She couldn’t remember any of them—at all. How could she completely lose track of eight days?

“Who are you?” she asked the man.

“Sergeant Peter La Broie,” he said.

“You’re not in Lee’s army.”

“No, ma’am. I’m not.” He pulled a ladder-back chair around and sat down where she could see him. “And this here is Gertie. Captain Thomas Harrigan and me—we brought you across the river on a raft. Do you remember that?”

“No,” she said. But then she suddenly recalled something about Apaches. Whatever it was, however, slipped away. “I don’t understand,” she said after a moment. “Why are people talking?”

“Talking?”

“You said people were talking. Why? Tell me. I want to know.”

“It’s on account of you being a Reb girl and Cap being in the Union army and stealing you back across the river the way he did. Some think the captain ruined your reputation when he did that—maybe his, too, because he wasn’t supposed to be over there in the first place, much less coming back with you on his saddle. But you’d be dead if he hadn’t, and that’s for damn sure.”

Abiah closed her eyes. She was so tired. Too tired to try to sort this out. She did know that she hadn’t been stolen. She’d been…

She didn’t know what she’d been. She opened her eyes again as one particular memory suddenly came to her.

“Oh…”

“What is it, Miss Abiah?” the man said kindly.

He knows my name, she thought. He must have something to do with Thomas. She gave a wavering sigh.

“What is it?” he asked again.

“Where is…my mother…?”

“The captain said I should tell you everything straightaway, if you asked, because you’re not a person who likes the truth hid from them no matter how bad it is.”

“She’s dead…isn’t she?”

“Yes, ma’am. Your mother—Miss Emma—died. You’re remembering that now, I guess.”

Abiah nodded, wiping furtively at the tears that ran down her face.

“We buried her in that little herb garden near the house—where the ground was soft enough. And words was said over her, so you don’t have to fret yourself on that account. Cap says to tell you he did the best he could by her.”

Abiah believed that without question, but the tears came anyway, tears and then finally the welcome refuge of sleep. She woke from time to time, wondering if the sergeant would be there. He never was, and she began to wonder if he’d actually sat in the chair by her bed or if she’d been dreaming. There was only Gertie, who seemed to know exactly what to do to make her more comfortable and who, more often than not, insisted that Abiah drink a hot, salty chicken broth and then take some bitter tasting medicine, after which she fell into yet another dream-ridden sleep. It was so hard to think clearly, to know what was real and what wasn’t. But conversation took far too much effort, regardless of Abiah’s growing curiosity.