Sarah My Beloved (Little Hickman Creek Series #2) (31 page)

Now Sarah worried that she wasn't doing enough for her
husband, this man who'd risked his life for his niece. Surely, he
loved the child more than he cared to admit.

"You were a hero tonight, Rocky," she said, smoothing
down his rumpled hair, enjoying its coarse texture, amazed
that more of it hadn't singed off. "I'm so proud of you. Rachel
is fine. She's resting." She kept up her quiet manner of conversing, hoping to bring him awake, and drawing pleasure from
the chance to dwell on his face. Burned as it was over one of
his cheeks and across his forehead, he was still the handsomest
man she'd ever known.

She slid a chair close to the bed and plopped into it. If only
he would open his eyes, she thought.

"Thirsty," he muttered.

Quickly, she hastened to take the glass from the bedside
stand and put it to his dry, cracked lips, aiding him by tilting his head up slightly. He took a couple of swallows then
surprised her by grabbing hold of her hand at the wrist and
drawing it close to his mouth. When he kissed her fingertips,
she stifled a sigh. Did he still think of her as Hester? She let
the question fall by the wayside, deciding it didn't matter.

"Thank you," he managed in a weak voice, dropping his
head back to the pillow in exhaustion and letting go of her
hand.

"You're welcome," she returned, setting the glass back on
the little table. "How do you feel?" she ventured to ask.

She shouldn't have been surprised when all he did was
give a slight nod before drifting back to sleep.

She exhaled and took the opportunity to settle back in the
chair and close her own eyes.

Dear Lord, she prayed, please touch this man that I've come to
love; heal him of his wounds from the inside out. And, Lord, as he
sleeps, would You also reassure him of Your great love for him?

omething like a dark veil shrouded Rocky's thinking,
making everything a misty cloud of confusion. Like a
caged, desperate cat, he clawed at his subconscious, frantic to
tunnel out of the ambiguity.

"I'm here," said a honey-sweet voice. Hester? "Try not to
move," she said.

She had a deeply calming effect on him. Her simple touch
and gentle manner of speaking eased the pain of his fevered
skin. "Hester," he managed, but even as he spoke the name,
his mind couldn't quite settle on her identity.

His parched throat burned from lack of water, and no
sooner had he voiced his need than a firm hand, the woman's,
went behind his head to lift him for a sip of cool refreshment.

What had happened to cause such burning over his face,
his arms, his chest? Had he been to hell and back? Dear God,
bring clarity to my jumbled head. But the minute he uttered the
prayer he slipped back into a deep, dark hole of forgetfulness.

A fallen pan roused him again, hours later perhaps, stirring him partially awake. His heavy eyelids lifted in search of
something familiar. Quickly he determined he was lying in his
old bed, the one he'd given up.

In the other room, a feminine form in a long, flowered
dress darted about, wiping her hands on her apron front, and
hurrying from table to sink to kitchen cupboard. Her auburn hair, wild and unkempt, fell across her forehead and rosy
cheeks, obscuring her face.

The sweet scent of baking bread flooded his nostrils, and
her quiet humming his tired senses.

"Aunt Sarah," came the voice of a child.

Rachel?

Ever so slowly, reality returned, bringing with it snapshots
of last night's events. His mind reeled with images of races,
games, squealing children, food, and dancing.

"Yes, darling," came the woman's sweet voice. Sarah.

"My leg hurts."

Sarah left her place at the sink and rushed to the sofa
where Rachel lay. She knelt beside the child and soothed her
with her voice, just as she had him a while back. What had happened to Rachel, and why was her leg paining her so?

"You'll soon be good as new. Doc Randolph said you're a
very lucky little girl, but I prefer to think that God Himself
spared you."

"How is Uncle Rocky?" she asked in quiet tones.

"He's still sleeping."

"I hope he wakes up soon. I want to thank him for saving
me.

Saving her? Rocky's head began to throb from a barrage of
puzzling thoughts, thoughts he couldn't quite piece together.

"I'm sure he will. He's been quite restless all day."

"Where's Seth?" Rachel asked.

"He's out checking on all the animals-but especially the
barn cats. He counted six that escaped the fire. Seth's been
feeding them, and they'll find plenty of shelter. Thank God the
flames didn't reach the chicken coop and other outbuildings."

"Can we bring them inside?" Rachel was saying.

"The cats? No, sweetie, they're much happier on their
own.

Fire? Flames? What was all this talk?

Rocky blinked back a sordid memory, grim and unwelcome. It was all coming back now, trickling into his brain like
a slow leak. There'd been a fire. And he and Ben had gone
into the heart of it to rescue Rachel. But his barn was gone,
burned to the ground, along with everything he owned, save
for his livestock.

To make matters worse, he'd earlier mistaken Sarah for
Hester, even taking comfort in the thought that she'd never
departed, that life continued as it had long ago. He'd envisioned her flitting about the house, tending to his needs, cooling his brow, and had even whispered her name a time or two.
What had he been thinking? Hester was gone from him, had
been for three long years. Now the wound he'd worked so hard
to heal bled and festered anew.

God, what are You doing to me? Isn't it enough that You took my
wife and son and then my only sister?

Old bitterness he'd labored to overcome rolled back in
waves. Not more than a few months ago, the schoolhouse,
which doubled as the church, had burned, too. Wasn't one fire
enough for the town of Little Hickman, or did God delight
in watching His children suffer through one calamity after
another?

He rolled over on his side, yanking the thin sheet with
him, moaning at the various pains that emerged all over his
body.

"Rocky, you're awake," said Sarah, suddenly rising from her stooped position next to Rachel to approach his bedside.
"How are you feeling?"

Oddly, her sweetness irked him. Ignoring her question, he
started to cast the sheet off him but stopped abruptly when he
realized he wore nothing but his underdrawers. Impatient to
see what, if anything, was left of the barn, he frowned. "Where
are my clothes?"

She pulled her shoulders back and returned the frown.
"You're not to move about unless you have need of the outhouse. Doc says we need to watch for infection, and that means
taking care not to break open those blisters."

He pursed his lips and stared at her, trying his best to disregard the dark circles under her hazel eyes, her look of genuine concern. Had she slept at all? "What's left of my barn?"

She bit her lower lip. "Not much, I'm afraid. Several men
came over today to haul away a good deal of debris and to
milk the cows and feed the horses. They took care of everything. Elmer Barrington and Sam Thompson offered to come
back in the morning, but I told them I'd see to things. Herb
Jacobs brought out plenty of feed and stored it in the back of
one of your outbuildings. He put it on your account at Sam's
Livery." She took a deep breath. "Oh, and Elmer showed me
how to milk the cows. I milked one of them all by myself. Isn't
that something?"

Her nervous chatter unnerved him. She'd milked the
cows? That had to be a first. He craned his neck to see the
clock but failed. "What time is it?"

She wrung her hands. "It's approaching mealtime."

"Which meal?" he insisted on knowing.

She raised both brows. "The evening one."

"What?" He could hardly believe he'd wasted an entire
day lying in bed. There were chores to tend to, animals to
feed, cows to milk. "I need my clothes." Now he did throw off
the sheet, unaffected by Sarah's gasp.

For some reason he relished the blush of her cheeks.
"What's the matter, Mrs. Callahan? Aren't you the one who
disrobed me?"

Her face went suddenly pink. "With the assistance of Jon
Atkins and your mother," she stated snappily.

"Ah," he said. "Well, since neither of them is around, you
just may have to assist me with putting them back on."

She pressed her lips together in a tight line. "I'll get your
clothes, but I don't know what your hurry is. The men saw to
your chores."

"I want to have a look around."

After an especially long sigh, she relented. "Fine."

Then, turning on her heel, as if to imply she suddenly had
a bone to pick with him, she scooted out the door.

"Thanks," Rocky mumbled after Sarah finished tying his
shoe. Bending put too much stress on the blisters on his shoulders and back, so she'd had to complete this one final act for
him.

Standing, she gave him the beginnings of a smile. "You're
welcome."

"How's Rachel?" he asked, still sitting on the side of the
bed, as if mustering the strength to stand.

She'd wondered when he might ask. "She's fallen asleep
on the couch again. But she's doing well, considering. Thanks to you and Benjamin, she'll be perfectly fine in a matter of
days."

Rocky cast a glance out the bedroom window. His dark
eyes, still swollen and red around the rims, penetrated the distance. "Good. Is Ben all right?"

"Your mother stopped by this morning. She said he was
making good progress."

"I'm glad to hear it. I'd hate for anything to happen to
him. This town has suffered enough." His jaw twitched ever so
slightly, his dark brows knit together in a show of discouragement.

Sarah's stomach tightened into an uncomfortable knot.
"What about you? How are you feeling?"

His expression went suddenly bland, emotionless. "Oh,
aside from the fact that my barn is gone, and my skin is on
fire, everything is just wonderful."

"At least no one died," she hastened, intending the statement to cheer him. Besides, it appeared he needed reminding.

He sat forward, his face awash with brooding irritation.
"And you want me to thank God for that?"

She took a deep breath for courage. "It wouldn't hurt."

Now he moved from anger to cynicism. "Oh, and while I'm
at it I should thank Him for burning down my barn, right?"

"The Bible tells us to rejoice in all manner of things, not
just the good. There is a purpose for everything."

A sort of growling, sneering sound rumbled up from his
chest. "Your philosophy lacks reason, Sarah. If God was so
bent on providing us with a happy life, He wouldn't be going
around causing all this grief"

"God is not in the business of causing grief, Rocky, nor
is it His job to keep us happy. He allows tragedy, but He
certainly doesn't create it. Our responsibility is to trust that
He has everything under control." He sat stone-faced, so she
charged ahead. "If it's money you lack, well, I have plenty. I
could..."

Despite the pain it must have caused, he jumped to his
feet and brushed past her, knocking her slightly off kilter. "I'll
make do with what I have in the bank, Mrs. Callahan. Don't be
expecting me to take any handouts."

"Handouts? I'm your wife. What's mine is yours, and vice
versa. That applies to whatever money I might have stored in
a bank account."

He stopped midstride and turned, his eyes hooded like
those of a hawk. "I didn't marry you for your money."

Now she felt her ire bump up in degrees. "I never thought
you did."

For a moment, he studied her with curious intensity. "I'll
manage."

"Fine."

"Fine," he said, making an abrupt turn.

When he started walking away, she said to the back of him,
"Has it ever occurred to you that God might well be trying to
get your attention?"

He slowly turned. "What's that supposed to mean?"