Opal (24 page)
‘‘There he goes.’’ One shot brought the man down from his escape attempt up what must have been a game trail.
Silence fell on the draw.
‘‘Should we go get them?’’
‘‘Be careful. One might still be alive. If so, we’ll take him in.’’
Guns at the ready, the men made their way from rock to rock.
‘‘This one’s still alive.’’
‘‘This one’s gone.’’
They brought in the one body, and two men half dragged the other.
‘‘Tie them on their horses.’’ Rand gave orders, but all the while his heart lay in the dust with Ward Robertson.
‘‘Sorry, Boss.’’ Chaps shook his head. ‘‘Bullet hit the rock and did a ninety degrees to hit him. Can’t believe it.’’
‘‘Yeah, well, help me get him up on Buck, and I’ll ride behind him.’’ The temptation to leave the wounded man to his fate in the rocks ate at him like a starving badger.
How was he to live with himself anyway? Would this make any difference?
‘‘Charlie, take him into town.’’
‘‘Going to treat that bullet hole?’’
‘‘Someone wrap a kerchief around it.’’ Two men held Robertson upright, and Rand swung up behind him. ‘‘Let’s go.’’
‘‘I’ll take him on to Bismarck.’’ Carl Hegland rode beside Rand.
‘‘Go ahead if you want.’’
The road to the Robertson ranch was the longest ride of Rand’s life.
‘‘Oh, dear God, no.’’ Mrs. Robertson flew off the porch as soon as she saw them. ‘‘Is he. . . ?’’
‘‘Yes, near to instant. A ricocheted bullet hit him. I’m so sorry.’’
‘‘And the drifters?’’
‘‘One dead and one wounded.’’
Chaps dismounted to help lower Ward to the ground.
‘‘Bring him in here.’’ Dry-eyed and stone-faced, Mrs. Robertson led the way.
The girls clustered together, weeping and holding one another.
Jacob came in through the door right behind them. ‘‘Is there anything—?’’ He stopped when Rand shook his head.
‘‘Lay him on the table.’’
The men did as Cora said.
‘‘I’ll bring a box by in the morning,’’ Rand said. ‘‘My boys will dig the grave. You tell us where.’’
‘‘I don’t know. Let me be for a while, then I can make some decisions.’’
‘‘You want the girls to come home with me?’’
‘‘No, Ma, we’ll stay here.’’ Virginia stepped forward, tears streaming down her cheeks.
Ada Mae flew across the room to her mother. ‘‘Don’t let them put Pa in the ground.’’
‘‘Hush now. We’ll talk in a bit.’’
Rand motioned to the men to follow him.
‘‘I’ll dig the grave as soon as she tells me where.’’ Jacob stopped by the horses. ‘‘I’ll help her all I can.’’
‘‘Good. I’ll bring the box soon as we can get it nailed together.’’
‘‘I cannot do it.’’ Jacob stamped the shovel in the ground again, certain that any moment he would hit rock and have to begin again, for the third time. ‘‘I should volunteer to conduct this funeral, but if I do, they’ll know.’’ He tossed the shovel of dirt on the growing pile.
Lord, I told you I can never be a pastor again
. Right, a shepherd who can’t find his own way, let alone lead a flock.
But my flock needs a shepherd. Did you think I did not bring you here
for a reason?
You didn’t bring me here. I ran. I ran from you, from my calling,
from my people
. He tossed a shovelful on the growing pile.
All
because I could not control my baser instincts. Say the truth, man. It was
carnal desire. And a woman died because of me
.
Amazing how anger and fury dug even a gravesite with dispatch. He stomped the shovel in deeper. If only he could clear the debris from his heart and soul as well as he did the dirt for the grave.
And then bury the detritus of his life as they would the fine man who should not have died yesterday.
Lord, you make no sense. And here I am yelling at you again when I
swore I would not. I would not yell. I would not pray
. He leaned on the shovel handle.
And so, I cannot rejoice. I have no right
.
A meadowlark took wing, spilling drops of joy as he flew.
‘‘Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give
you rest.’’
Jacob stared at the hole that surrounded him. Nearly hip high. He’d paced out six feet. Ward Robertson had been just under six feet, all muscle and sturdy rectitude. But with a heart big enough to welcome a man on the run and ask no questions other than
‘‘Can you ride? Rope? No, then what can you do?’’
I can build
. Jacob looked to the finished corral.
And I can bury.
No, I can dig the hole, but I cannot say the words
.
You can
.
But then they’ll know
.
Is that so bad? I am the Good Shepherd, and I have appointed you
.
All right. Just this once
.
A crow flew over, his caw sounding more like a chuckle. The breeze giggled with the oak leaves.
Jacob scraped the floor of the grave flat, then using his shovel as a post, climbed out. He stuck the shovel in the top of the mound and headed back down toward the house.
Mrs. Robertson had been baking and cooking since dawn or long before. Had she slept at all?
Jacob entered the kitchen. ‘‘I finished.’’
‘‘Thank you.’’ She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, leaving a streak of flour on her cheek for the tears to track through.
‘‘Ah . . .’’ He sighed.
She glanced up from rolling pie dough. ‘‘Yes?’’
‘‘I’ll conduct the service for you if you like.’’
‘‘You’ve done that before?’’
‘‘Yes, a few.’’
‘‘Thank you. Could you mention that no one bears the guilt of him dying the way he did? The Lord just figured it was his time. There’s a verse to that effect, isn’t there? I couldn’t find it, but I know I’ve heard it.’’
‘‘Yes, Psalm 139 assures us that God knows the length of our days. He knows our going out and our coming in.’’
‘‘Good. If you’d read that, I’d be most grateful.’’
‘‘What will you do? About the ranch, I mean.’’
‘‘Keep on. Neighbors will help. The girls and I will learn to do more. Are you in a hurry to go somewhere else?’’
‘‘No.’’
‘‘Good. Then you’ll learn too, and we’ll make do.’’
‘‘I’ll get on with the milking, then.’’
‘‘The girls have already gone out. We know how to do the home things. When Opal comes back she’ll be over here to help too. Now, there’s someone we need to be praying for. She’s going to take on all the fault for this. If God thought we needed to live under fault and guilt all the time, He wouldn’t have bothered to send us His Son, leastways that’s the way I understand it.’’
Jacob watched her lay the pie dough in the pan, rolled just the right size so as to lap over the sides only a little. All the while she uttered the most profound faith he’d heard in a long time. Was that what he was doing? Laboring under guilt and blame instead of . . . He turned and left the house. Sounded like he and Opal had a lot in common.
Friends and neighbors gathered the next afternoon to bury Ward Robertson on a slight knoll north of the house. An oak tree shaded the plot.
After reading Psalm 139, Jacob continued. ‘‘Lord God, we commend our brother to your most merciful care, trusting that you have set the length of our days before we were even born. Believing in your divine goodness and your grace, which gives us the courage to go on living in a world gone awry with sin. Your grace sent your Son to die that we might live. Ward Robertson now walks with you in your kingdom of light. May we rejoice for him as we lay his earthly remains into the ground from which we came. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, until we meet again in paradise. Please pray with me. ‘Our Father which art in heaven . . .’’’
The age-old words drifted upward as incense on the breeze, a sacrifice of faith through the veil of tears.
After the amen Jacob lifted his arms. ‘‘‘The Lord bless thee, and keep thee. The Lord make his face shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee. The Lord lift up his countenance upon thee, and give thee peace.’ In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.’’
Silence reigned for a time as eyes were wiped. Finally Mrs.
Robertson spoke. ‘‘Please come to the house for coffee and the food we have all prepared. Mr. Robertson was a quiet man, but he loved all of us and loved sharing what we had.’’ Cora Robertson wrapped her arms around her daughters and led the way down the gentle slope.
Jacob took one shovel and, with a toss, dirt thudded down on the box. Rand took another, and the pile diminished swiftly.
‘‘I got a feeling there is more to you than an ordinary ranch hand.’’ Rand dumped another shovelful on the mound.
Jacob leveled the dirt by standing on the edge now, the grave nearly filled. Was the hole within him being filled at the same time?
Opal’s fingers shook as she opened the letter.
‘‘Why are you afraid?’’ Penelope sat cross-legged on the grass, one of the baby bunnies nibbling a clover stem in her lap.
Opal closed her eyes.
I’m not afraid. Yes, I am. I am terrified Ruby
will say I cannot come home, that I have to stay here
.
Guilt from her lack of gratitude weighted her shoulders. The Brandons had been nothing but good to her, and still all she could think of was home—and Atticus. He had not answered her letters. She pulled the paper from the envelope and unfolded it. All her tension released on a sigh.
‘‘You’re going home.’’
‘‘How do you know?’’
‘‘Your face. I haven’t seen you smile like that since you got here.’’
Opal closed her eyes again, and with top teeth clamping her bottom lip, she shook her head. ‘‘I’m sorry I’ve not been a better guest.’’
‘‘You’ve been a fine guest. It’s just that I remember you laughing all the time and making me think anything could be all right if Opal thought so.’’
‘‘Thank you, dear sister.’’
‘‘You’re the same age as me, you know. But since you came back, you seem older than Alicia.’’
Opal glanced back at her letter. Now that she knew she was about to receive a reprieve, she could well afford to wait.
‘‘Go ahead and read it. We all want to know what is happening in Dakotah Territory.’’
Opal did, skimming the letter. ‘‘Oh no.’’
‘‘What?’’
‘‘Mr. Robertson was shot and killed in a . . . a . . .’’ Her voice refused to work.
The drifters. All my fault. Atticus beaten up, now Mr.
Robertson killed. All my fault
. She forced herself to finish reading. One of the drifters was dead, the other badly wounded but now in the Bismarck jail. And no news of Atticus. She let the letter fall in her lap, her initial joy overwhelmed by the tragic news.
‘‘Opal, what is it? Opal?’’ Penelope shook Opal’s hand.
Opal heard her call as if from across the river or a butte. ‘‘II’m fine. Really I am.’’
‘‘Here.’’ Penelope handed her the pink-nosed bunny and leaped to her feet. ‘‘I’ll be right back.’’
Opal cuddled the softest creature imaginable under her chin. The whiskers tickled, but she ignored that, concentrating on the little heart beating beneath her fingers. The baby sniffed her fingers and up the tender skin of her throat and chin.
How will the Robertsons manage without their pa? They don’t have
hired hands like Rand does. Haying must be starting now
.
‘‘Opal, dear, what is it?’’ Mrs. Brandon knelt on the grass beside her.
Opal slowly turned her head, blinking to make sure she recognized the woman backlit by the sun.
‘‘Mr. Robertson, our neighbor, was shot and killed when they cornered the two drifters.’’
‘‘The two drifters?’’ She laid a tender hand on Opal’s shoulder.
‘‘The ones who beat Atticus near to death.’’
The one who tried to
attack me
.
‘‘Oh, dear God.’’ Mrs. Brandon sank down and gathered Opal into her arms. ‘‘You poor darling.’’
The comforting arms, the sweet-smelling headrest, and the stroking hands all combined, and Opal disintegrated in tears.
‘‘It’s all my fault. All of it is all my fault. Just because I went swimming.’’ She rambled on, half the time incoherent, other times the sobs drowning any words she tried to utter.
Mrs. Brandon rocked her, murmuring mother things, bits of love and snatches of comfort that came from a well of mother love, ready always to bind up the brokenhearted.
‘‘Go get us something cool to drink,’’ she instructed Penelope.
Penelope dashed away tears of compassion as she jumped up. ‘‘And a cold cloth?’’
‘‘Yes, dear.’’ Mrs. Brandon settled herself more comfortably and smoothed back the strands of hair that tears glued to Opal’s cheeks.
The sobs lessened, tending more to sniffs and cries that caught in the throat.
‘‘Here.’’ Penelope handed her mother the cold cloth.
Mrs. Brandon laid it across Opal’s eyes. ‘‘Just rest now, and then we’ll talk.’’
Opal nodded and caught her breath on a leftover sob. The cushioning grass felt cool beneath her. ‘‘The bunny. Where’s the bunny?’’ She pushed upright, horror sending panic clear to her fingertips.
‘‘There, in your skirt. Penelope, take it.’’
‘‘Oh, I might have killed the bunny too.’’
‘‘Here, drink this.’’ Mrs. Brandon put the glass in her hands. ‘‘Drink.’’
Opal gulped the tart lemonade. She set the glass down in the grass and used the cloth to mop her face. When a hankie appeared near her hand, she used that too.
‘‘Now are you ready to talk?’’
‘‘I-I guess.’’
‘‘I gather from what you’ve said and from what little Ruby wrote to me that you feel responsible for all the rough and cruel things that men have been doing in Medora.’’
‘‘Well, not everything, but . . . well . . . what has happened since I went swimming that day. If I’d—’’ ‘‘Opal, dear, we can say ‘if I’ did this or didn’t do that, things would be different, but what you did was an innocent thing, a—’’ Opal interrupted her. ‘‘Would your girls have gone swimming in a river all by themselves?’’
‘‘Would that they could have. How I envy the freedom you’ve had out there.’’
