Beneath a Thousand Apple Trees (10 page)

H
er six weeks with Sam flew like the golden oak and red maple leaves that swirled down in the stiff autumn breezes from the towering trees in Sam's front and side yards. There were a few more blackberries to be found up on Buckeye Ridge, so Willa took a white enameled bowl and headed up to just below the crest of it. During the course of a conversation, Sam had let it slip that his birthday was coming up in a couple of days. And, during the course of another conversation—cleverly instigated by Willa—she'd found out that his favorite dessert was blackberry pie. So, she'd decided to surprise him with one for his birthday, along with a new cap she'd quickly and secretly sewn out of an old wool blanket that had seen far better days before hungry moths had found it. There had been enough of the blanket left to allow Willa to make a new and warmer dress for herself, as well. The one that she'd floated down the river in was still wearable, but the cooler days made it impractical.

The wool cap Willa designed for Sam had long flaps that hung down to cover his ears, for as the wind had increased in its velocity and frigid bite, so had Sam's complaints about his aching ears. After coming in from long hours of working in the mica or emerald mines (depending on who was hiring), or trapping around the creeks and rivers, not to mention panning for gold in them, too, Sam suffered from ears red and raw from exposure and wind burn.

During those long days alone, she busied herself with cleaning the cabin, washing and mending Sam's clothing, clearing out and canning the remains of his garden, and re-stuffing a corn shuck mattress (which Sam was now using for his bed in the loft upstairs). She cooked stews or roasts from fresh game he'd trapped or shot, while salting to preserve the rest of the meat, or fried up a mess of trout that she'd caught and cleaned for their supper. Sam embraced the blessings of a smart, resourceful, and capable woman, and was not short on words of praise and thanks. His kindness and appreciation of her work made the doing of it a pleasure for her instead of a chore. It was exactly the opposite of the way it had been with Malcolm.

Although it sickened her to do it, she forced herself to think about him, and the future that lay ahead for both her and their baby. No! It wasn't
his
baby. She couldn't think of the child as such. In
no
way would this child be brought up to think, act, react, or live its life in such a cruel and loveless way. It wouldn't be fair to this child or the world either, for that matter. So the biggest question that hung over Willa's head was how she could protect her baby from Malcolm, and protect the world from another like him. Without question, she knew she couldn't seek refuge at her parents' home, which was just a couple of hours north of Sam's. Malcolm would have already checked to see if she was back there, of that she was certain, and he would continue going over there again and again until he found her. She wouldn't put her mother and father in harm's way, for wherever he might finally find her living (hiding out, actually), only the good Lord knew what would happen to those giving her shelter. Malcolm felt that he owned her, that when the justice of the peace had handed them a signed marriage certificate, he had also given Malcolm a receipt for the bill of sale for his new bride. Living with him had been hell since the first night. The man had two sides to him, and before the ink was dry on their marriage certificate, her kind, thoughtful, and handsome new husband had turned into an unjustifiably jealous and brutal man.

The thought that her baby would have to endure years, if not a lifetime, of being a target of his terrifying temper made her course of action crystal clear: She had to keep the father and child away from each other. Neither could know the other existed. And in order to accomplish that, Willa had to put a lot of distance between them. More miles meant a greater likelihood of his never finding them, and the faster she could get away, the better. For she knew without a whisper of a doubt that if her husband found her at Sam's he'd kill them all before taking his next breath. Willa knew that she was going to have to travel fast and hard, and head north into Tennessee, or Virginia, and she would need to move before the winter storms began. But to do so she would need two more favors of Sam; she had to ask that he take her to the stage coach depot in Marion, and, as humiliating as it was, ask to borrow the ticket fare, with the promise of paying him back, of course. Then, she and her unborn baby would be on the first outbound coach.

W
illa wore her old cotton dress while she washed the wool one in the creek. She'd done the washing just two days before so there were only a handful of things to be laundered, but she wanted to leave things as tidy and neat for Sam as she could before she left. She didn't have enough laundry to make it worth the trouble of hauling and heating water for the washtub, so she decided to do the wash in the creek.

It was a perfect Indian summer day, and the mid-morning sun beat down on Willa while she slapped the clothes against a small boulder. Before too long, Willa was drowsy and as limp as the clothing that she hung over the branches of a laurel bush to dry. She knew it wouldn't take the clothes long, but long enough to allow for a nap, so she lay back on the brown grass of the bank to sleep.

It's hard to believe I've been here for six weeks
, she thought. The idea of leaving caused a physical ache in her chest, especially considering the conversation that had taken place between her and Sam the night before, but she knew she had to depart immediately. The area had already seen a storm come through, which dropped two inches of snow, but the ground had been warm enough still to melt it off, though that wouldn't be the case for much longer. As it stood today, the stagecoaches were the only mode of commercial transportation in the area, but she knew that before long the building of the railroad that was already underway in the western mountains of North Carolina would change that, would change a lot of things, actually. Life in these isolated Blue Ridge Mountains would never be the same when the tracks were complete. They would bring the world to this place, to these people, and she wasn't sure how she felt about the invasion.
But
, she laughed ironically to herself,
the outside world is where I'm hoping to escape to tomorrow. Ah, well, I guess everything and every place can make a person want to run from it, or to it.

The sadness of her departure, combined with the fear of heading into an unknown place and having to find work there to support both her and the baby tightened the muscles in her stomach. Lying there, she tried to push the worries from her mind and relax by listening to the rhythmic sound of the flowing creek. Finally, she was lulled into a soft sleep . . .

Willa's eyes snapped open and she stared up at Malcolm as he stood above her, straddling her, and pointing a shotgun down at her with the end of the cold barrel pressed painfully against her lips. “Don't ya move, bitch,” Malcolm said in a low and deadly voice. He pushed the gun more firmly against her mouth, and it felt as though her front teeth would shatter before a bullet could do the damage.

“Did ya really think I wouldn't find you, girl? D'ya think I'm some damn
fool
? I walked down that whole damn river the night you jumped in, and then started back up it when I couldn't find you at the ford. You think I
wouldn't
find you?” His words grew higher in pitch, along with his rage. “I knew you'd gotten out somewheres, and I been looking around ever since. Been asking around, too. No one could say they'd seen you, though. But then, as
luck
would have it, I was playing cards, and Doc Newton—from right around here—joins in. Hadn't seen the doc in a while, so just trying to pass the time o' day with him between games, I ask him what news he's got, and he proceeds to tell me a bunch of bullshit, like I really give a damn. But then he gets to the part about sewing up a gal's head some weeks before that looked a lot like my wife.

“Remember, Willa, he'd seen you in town with me a year or so ago? We run into him at the store while spending the money I'd won off of him playing poker the night before. Anyway, I played all dumb-like. Said I'd been away a while, playing cards down in Morganton, and when I come back you was gone. Told him you had kin up this way, and you'd likely gone on to see your cousin. Then real casual-like I ask him exactly
where
he saw you. He was good about directions, I'll tell you. If there's one thing you gotta know, Willa, a man ain't gonna cover for a no-good slut, especially if she's an associate's wife.”

If Willa hadn't been paralyzed with fear, she would have laughed at that last remark—“associate,” indeed!

“So, here I am and here you are. And what I want to know is, who is that son of a bitch you been playing house with? When I came up here through the clearing this morning, there you two were, standing outside that smokehouse of his, and talking all close and sweet-like. Been shacking up, Willa? Huh? What you thinking, gal, that I wouldn't hunt you down, dead or not? I'm here to reclaim what's rightfully mine. And you
is
mine, and I'm taking you back home with me. But first I'm gonna remind you of what you should have been taking care of at home—tending to
my
business, and not his!”

Malcolm, still pointing the gun at her with his right hand, let go with his left, and reached across to his right hip to unsheathe the hunting knife he always carried. Then he pulled the shotgun away from her face as he immediately knelt down, straddling her thighs. He unbuttoned the front of his wool pants—pants she'd made for him—and holding the razor-sharp blade against her throat, he pressed home the point that he'd kill her quickly if she tried to fight him. As he did, she felt the warmth of her own blood run down the side of her throat.

“Try screaming and I'll cut your voice cords before you can close your mouth.” With that earnest threat, paired with the knife painfully breaking her skin, Willa bit down on her tongue in order to squelch the scream that wanted to escape. Now she could taste her own blood as well as feel it.

“Spread your legs, or I'll stab each one of 'em 'til you do.”

Willa, terrified, did as she was told, and as soon as she did, Malcolm pushed her dress up over her belly—the belly that carried the seed of this insane man. Then he brutally rammed into her. Unable to stop herself, she instinctively tried to sit up to move away from the pain. But she was no match for his strength, and his knife cut even deeper into her throat. He pushed her back down and continued pounding into her body with an intense and agonizing anger, and she felt as though she was being torn apart.
Hang on
, she urged herself.
Hang on. I've got to for the baby's sake. Just lie here and maybe he won't kill us both.

The truth of the matter was that she could have easily let go, and most likely would have had she been the only casualty of his vicious assault. She could have fought back with the force of her own immeasurable pent up anger and sadness, humiliation, and disappointment. Then, without any doubt, she would have received release, for Malcolm would have won, physically speaking, anyway. Through her death she would have won her freedom and slipped off to that place of peace and solace, where worries and pain no longer existed. She'd have soared away from this darkness and into that place of light. That was where she wanted to be.

How important is it for my child to have a chance at this life, if he or she has to endure the things I've had to,
she wondered.
Wouldn't it be kinder and fairer to let this child take the journey from darkness to light with me?
And with that question came a definitive answer:
her
baby had a right to live! With that conviction, Willa forced herself to lie there, remaining as still as she could in order to prevent any further harm than had already been inflicted. It was one of the hardest things she had ever done. However, she could not stop herself from reacting in one small way—she spat directly into his face. Enraged even further than he already was, he retaliated by slamming his right fist into her jaw.

Suddenly, the morning sun directly behind Malcolm was blocked out by the silhouette of Sam. With a rifle pressed up against the back of Malcolm's head, Sam ordered him to move.

“Drop the knife real easy-like, and get the hell off of her.”

Malcolm sat up slowly, with the knife still gripped in his outstretched hand. No fear moved across his face. On the contrary, he smiled a small, insane smile and a dangerous gleam lit his eyes. Then, moving with predator-like speed, he tried one last savage act, moving to slam the knife down into her chest. It was a final attempt to keep Willa for himself, even though he knew it meant the death of them both, but it was a price Malcolm was willing to pay. Suddenly a thunderous explosion shattered the morning air. It was a boom to awaken the dead and quiet the living, and it stopped the downward thrust of the knife just a couple of inches above Willa's heart. The deafening sound of the gunshot reverberated off of one mountainside then another as Malcolm's body, with only half of his head remaining intact, slumped over Willa. And the river of his blood washed her and their unborn baby in a macabre kind of baptism.