Courage to Love (Flynn Family Saga) (23 page)

Maggie handed him a towel.

Flynn smiled faintly at her.

Maggie went to her own room.  She washed and went downstairs to dinner.  They ate in silence.  After supper, Maggie helped Mrs. Carson with the dishes.

Mrs. Carson scowled at her.  “If he’s drinking, you’ll have to go.”

“It’s not liquor,” Maggie said.  “It’s the war.  Sometimes, he gets lost in the past.”

“Oh.”  Mrs. Carson closed her eyes for a moment.  “My husband was like that.”  She opened her eyes, and tears shone in the lamplight.  “He couldn’t seem to forget it.  He kept reliving old battles, old wounds.  One night—well, he’s not with the living anymore.”

Maggie touched Mrs. Carson’s arm.  “My father killed himself, too.”

Mrs. Carson blinked.  “Then you know.  You know the shame.  And I always wonder if there was something I could have done, something I could have said to him.”

Maggie nodded.

Mrs. Carson sighed.  “I’m glad you came, Maggie.”

Maggie patted her arm.  She got up and dried the dishes and put them away.  She turned to go upstairs.

“I hope your brother feels better soon.”  Mrs. Carson’s voice followed her.

Maggie hesitated, but she didn’t really want to explain why a husband and his wife had separate rooms.  She nodded.  “Thank you, Mrs. Carson.”

She stopped at Flynn’s door.  He had taken off his trousers and was unlacing his wooden leg.  The stump was red and raw.  Maggie went to her room and got the jar of salve she always carried.  She came into his room.  She opened the jar and hesitated.

Smiling sadly, Flynn took it out of her hands.  “Thank you, Maggie.”

She nodded and fled to her room.  She lay awake a long time, wishing that she’d had the courage to touch him.

*  *  *

At breakfast the next morning, Flynn was very quiet.  When breakfast was over, he pulled on his sheepskin jacket and started to leave.

This time, Maggie went with him.

“Maggie, I need to go alone,” he said gently.

She tilted her chin up.  “That didn’t work too well the last time.”

Flynn laughed suddenly, and he looked the way he had the first time she saw him, with his hat tilted back and one eyebrow raised.  “All right, Maggie.  You win.”

As soon as they finished breakfast, Maggie and Flynn walked to the site of the infamous prison camp.  Blankets of white covered the low mounds, row after row of them, that lined the place where the stockade fence had been.  Flynn’s hand shook as he took the notebook out of his pocket.  He walked slowly down the line of graves, reading aloud the name of each man.  By the time he finished reading, his voice was hoarse, and tears streamed down his face.  He closed the notebook and tried to put it into his pocket.  He dropped it into the snow.

Maggie bent and picked it up for him.  Her own hand trembled slightly as she held it out to him.

Flynn took it.  He shivered once, violently.  “Let’s go.”

Maggie nodded.  They walked side by side in silence for a time.  Maggie was surprised to see that the sun was low in the western sky.  “So many men.”  She shook her head.  “I feel like a fool.”

Flynn looked surprised.  “Why?”

Tears blurred her vision.  “Because I remember saying that you had saved seven thousand men.  It’s one thing to hear an abstract number.  It’s another to actually see their graves.  I’ve only lost a handful of people.  But you lost three thousand.”

Flynn took her hands.  “It helped, Maggie.  I remember the day you said that, and it helped.”

Maggie pulled her hands away.  They walked back to the house in silence.  They ate supper in silence, too.  Then, they went to their separate rooms.

And for the first time, Maggie didn’t want to be alone.  She lay awake a long time, listening, but if Flynn had another nightmare, he didn’t cry out.  Twice, she got up and went to the door, but each time, her nerve failed her.

Finally, she slept.

She dreamed of Sarah’s death.  She dreamed of the heat and the pain and the grief.  She dreamed of the feeling of her life ebbing out of her.

She dreamed that Flynn ran from her.

And she knew he was right to run.  He deserved a real woman who wore dresses instead of dungarees.

A woman who could bear him a living child.

She started to cry, but this time, the ache in her chest only grew.

“Wake up, Maggie.”  Flynn’s voice shattered the dream.

Maggie opened her eyes.  Flynn knelt beside her.  He looked worried.  And sad.

She looked away.  “I dreamed—I dreamed about Sarah.”

 “I know.  You talked in your sleep.”  Gently, he turned her to face him.  “It wasn’t your fault, Maggie.”

“What?”  She felt confused and terrified.

He touched her cheek gently.  “You said you were sorry.  It wasn’t your fault that Sarah was born dead.”

Self-hatred filled her.  She turned away and her hands curled into fists.  “It was!  I’m not a real woman!  I ride horses and wear trousers and—and—”

“Samantha Worthington pampered herself.  She refused to walk a single step.  And her baby was born dead anyway.”  Flynn’s voice was gentle.  He reached toward her.

And Maggie saw her mother’s face, the day she died, her blue eyes open and staring.

She pulled away.

Flynn sighed and stood up.  “Just like gentling a horse,” he muttered.

Maggie almost laughed, but she was too close to tears.  The ice around her heart was cracking and melting, and that frightened her because the ice was the only thing that stood between her and the terrible pain of losing her daughter.

Flynn shut the door behind him.

Maggie rolled over onto her side, but she did not sleep again that night.

*  *  *

In the morning, the church bells woke Flynn.  His arms felt empty without Maggie.  He heard her moving in her room, and he dressed quickly.  Maggie opened her door just as he raised his hand to knock.

She looked away.  “I can’t stay for breakfast, Flynn.”

“Why not?”

She looked back at him.  “I promised Brother Joseph I’d help him feed the beggars.”

Flynn hesitated.  “Can I come with you?”

Maggie turned to him.  Hope flickered in her eyes.  “I—I’d like that.”

They descended the stairs and walked to the church.  Flynn hadn’t been inside a Catholic church since his father lost the plantation.  His gut tightened.  Then, he saw the monk, lighting the candles.  He walked toward the altar as if drawn by a rope.  “Corporal O’Malley?”

Brother Joseph O’Malley turned slowly.  His face brightened with a grin that could have lit the entire town of Elmira.  He ran into the nave and embraced Flynn.  “You came!”

Flynn nodded.  Tears filled his eyes.  He took O’Malley by the shoulders and held him away so he could see the man’s face.  “I always wondered if you—if they—”

“If they’d hanged me for a traitor?” Joseph asked softly.

Flynn nodded.

Brother Joseph shook his head.  “No.  You knocked me out, remember?”

Flynn nodded again.

Brother Joseph smiled.  “That convinced them that you overpowered me.”

Flynn shut his eyes for a moment.  Tears slid down his cheeks, but he didn’t care.  He opened his eyes and smiled back.  “I’m glad.”

“Me too.”  Brother Joseph grinned at him.  He sobered slowly.  “Will you stay for Mass?  Maggie came for breakfast yesterday, and you’re welcome to join us.”

“Thank you.”  Flynn knelt awkwardly in one of the pews and crossed himself.  He shut his eyes and prayed in the way of the Lakota, in silence.  He remembered the day his daughter was born dead.  He remembered the pain that drove him away from Maggie, cutting him off from everything that might have given him comfort.  As he knelt in that church, with the smell of lemon oil and dust, the last of his pain faded like a bad dream.  He opened his eyes and looked at his wife, who knelt beside him, her head bowed in prayer, and he noticed that she wore the tortoise shell combs he had given her.

Joy filled his heart, and his eyes filled with tears.  He hardly heard the words of the Mass.  He stood when he was supposed to and knelt when he was supposed to, but his heart was in the silent, empty places that he and Maggie loved.

*  *  *

Maggie led the way to the refectory.  She felt like a child, shy and uncertain of herself and of the man who walked beside her.

Sister Ignatius smiled at Maggie.  “So.  You brought your husband.”

Maggie nodded.  “Sister Ignatius, this is Robert Sean Flynn.”

Sister Ignatius’ eyes widened.  “I read every story Simon Henderson wrote about you.”

Maggie put her hands over her mouth.

“Don’t believe everything you read, Sister,” Flynn muttered.

Sister Ignatius looked at Maggie.  “What is so funny, young lady?”

Maggie couldn’t contain her laughter anymore.  She laughed until her sides ached.  Finally, she caught her breath.  “I’m sorry, Sister.  Everyone says that when they meet Flynn for the first time, even me.”

Sister Ignatius blushed.  “Oh.”

Flynn shook his head.  “It’s all right, Sister.  I’m used to it.”

Sister Ignatius frowned.  “Well, sit down, sit down!  Breakfast is getting cold.”

They sat down at the polished table.  Brother O’Malley bowed his head.  “Thank you, Lord, for sending this man and this woman to us.  You have brought peace to my heart.  And consternation to Sister Ignatius, and that is quite a feat, even for you.”

Alarmed, Maggie opened one eye, but Sister Ignatius was grinning.  She sighed and closed both eyes again.

“And thank you for this food.  Amen.”  He opened his eyes and smiled at them.  “Now tell me about the prairie.  I’ve always wanted to see it.”

Maggie looked at Flynn.

Flynn cleared his throat.  “It’s big.  You can stand on a hill, and all you can see in every direction is a sea of grass.  And the wind always blows, rippling the grass like the footsteps of an invisible giant.  Sometimes, the sky is so blue it hurts to look at it.  And the stars.  You can see more stars on the prairie than you ever knew existed...”

As Maggie listened to Flynn, she forgot to eat.  She remembered how much she loved the prairie the first time she saw it, and she realized that she had gotten just as lost as Flynn had.  She sighed and picked up her fork.

When they finished eating, Brother Joseph turned to her.  “I expect you’ll be going home soon.”

Maggie looked at Flynn.

He nodded.  “I did what I came here to do.”

“Oh?  What was that?”

Flynn met Joseph’s gaze levelly.  “Mourn the dead.  After I escaped from Camp Sumter, I was captured by a Union patrol and sent to the prison camp here.”

Brother Joseph sighed.  “I’m sorry, Flynn.”

Flynn shook his head.  “Don’t be.  The Lakota teach that life is like a strong rope, made up of joy and sorrow, woven together.”

Brother Joseph nodded slowly.  “Like St. John of the Cross.”

Flynn nodded back.  “Yes.”

Brother Joseph leaned forward.  “Have you spent a lot of time with the Indians?”

Maggie stiffened.

Flynn hesitated a moment, and then he nodded.  “I was adopted by the Lakota when my father was killed on the way to California.”

Brother Joseph sighed.  “I wish you were staying longer.  There is so much I’d like to hear about.  But I have work to do.  Maggie?  Can you help me one more day?”

Maggie nodded and stood up.

Flynn turned to Brother Joseph.  “I’d like to help, too.”

Brother Joseph smiled.  “I thought you might.”

*  *  *

After breakfast, the three of them carried soup and bread to the men in the streets.  Flynn carried the pail of soup, and Maggie carried a basket of bread.  Most of the beggars were missing limbs.  One man was missing both legs, but he smiled when he saw Joseph.  “Hello, old friend.  Come to argue with me about the existence of God?”

Joseph laughed.  “Not today, Seth.  I have company.  This is Maggie and Robert Sean Flynn.  This is Seth Tomlin.”

Flynn set down the pail and held out his hand.  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Tomlin.”

Tomlin took Flynn’s hand.  “You look familiar.  Were you a prisoner here?”

Flynn nodded.  “I was.  Were you?”

Tomlin shook his head.  “Nope.  A guard.”  His eyes widened.  “You were the young lieutenant who looked after everyone.”

Flynn’s face felt hot.  “I tried.”

“What in the Sam Hill brought you back here?”

Flynn hesitated.  “I kept remembering the past so vividly that it got in the way of the present.”

Tomlin nodded slowly.  “I have a friend who’s lost like that.  Did it help?  Coming here?”

Flynn nodded.

Tomlin looked down at his hands.  “I know we fought on different sides, but...”

Flynn’s throat tightened with a kind of odd joy.  He laid his hand on the man’s shoulder.  “I’d be glad to talk with him.  Where is he?”

“I’ll take you to him.”  Tomlin used his calloused hands to propel the wheeled cart on which his stumps rested.  He moved surprisingly fast, and Flynn had to hurry to catch up.  They came to an abandoned warehouse near the river.  The gray boards looked ready to collapse.  Tomlin wheeled into the darkness.  Flynn hesitated a moment, and then he ducked into the falling-down building.  The warehouse smelled of fish and hides.

And fear.

“Over here, Mr. Flynn.”  Tomlin spoke softly, but his voice still echoed in the emptiness.

Flynn followed Tomlin’s voice.

A man lay curled up into a ball in the corner.  He held his arms over his head.  “Don’t hit me again!  Please don’t hit me again!”

Flynn shut his eyes.  He remembered lying on the ground in Camp Sumter, waiting for the guards’ boots to strike his chest, his back, his legs.  His gut tightened.  He clutched the bear claw necklace tightly and drew slow, deep breaths.  Finally, the past receded.  Flynn knelt beside the man and touched his arm.  The man winced, and Flynn drew back his hand.  He sighed.  “It’s all right, soldier.  No one is going to hurt you, not here, not today.”  He kept speaking softly, like he would to a frightened horse.

Slowly, the man lowered his arms and opened his eyes.  He blinked.  “Where am I?”

“Elmira,” Flynn said softly.

The man blinked again.  “Elmira?  Not—not Gettysburg?”