The Glorious Prodigal (33 page)

“It must be broken ribs. Doc Morton will be here soon.” Leah hesitated, then said, “Merle said you threw yourself in front of Brutus to save Raimey. He said it was the bravest thing he ever saw.”

Stuart opened his eyes, and the trace of a bitter smile touched his pale lips. “First thing I’ve ever done for them.”

Leah took his hand and kissed it, something she had never done before. She saw him watching her and whispered, “It was a noble thing, Stuart.”

“Well, they’re my kids.” And then he said in a whisper so faint she could barely catch it. “I wish I could do something for you, Leah.”

Suddenly Leah leaned over and kissed his cheek and then lightly on the lips. Her hair was loose, and it fell over his face. She drew it back, and then she had to lean forward to catch what he was saying.

“In prison I thought about you. How pretty your hair was. Every night for seven years I thought about you. . . .”

And then his face grew still, and he lapsed into unconsciousness. Leah drew up a chair and sat down beside him. She held his hand, and now she pressed her face against it, crying out, “Oh, God, please don’t let him die!”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Seize the Day

Dr. Morton probed at Stuart’s exposed upper body with strong, blunt fingers, ignoring the grunts of protest from the patient as he stitched up his wounds. The doctor was a weary man, for he had a busy schedule. With the flu epidemic affecting so many people, he was sleeping no more than five or six hours a night. Now he grunted and shook his head fiercely. “Any fool who doesn’t have any better sense than to tackle a bull head-on has got to be crazy.”

Leah had been standing beside the window, an anxious look in her eyes. “How is he, Doctor?”

“He ought to be dead.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, Doc.” Stuart grinned. He was sitting up in bed and now reached out for his pajama top, but when he tried to put it on, a grimace etched its way across his face.

Leah turned to Dr. Morton. “Does he need to be in the hospital?”

“What good would that do?” Morton said curtly. “It’s full of people with the flu.” He snapped the bag shut, jammed his battered black Stetson firmly on his head, and cocked his head to one side. “You can go outdoors after a few days, but no work until that rib heals.” Turning to Leah, he nodded. “You make him mind, Leah, you hear me?”

“I will,” Leah said.

When she started toward the door, Morton said, “I know my way out.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Leah called, then she turned back to Stuart. “Do you feel like getting around a bit?”

“Anything to get out of this bed. Just give me my pants.”

Leah moved over to the wardrobe, pulled out a fresh shirt, pair of pants, and socks and said, “You can wear these house shoes.”

Stuart pulled back the cover and, moving very carefully, lifted his legs over. As Leah helped him with the clothes, he complained, “I’m just like a baby—have to be dressed and fed.”

“You were badly hurt, Stuart. Be sensible.”

When he was dressed, Stuart stood to his feet and hung on to the headboard of the massive walnut bed. “A little dizzy,” he admitted.

“Why don’t you go in the living room? Just sit down and look out the window.”

Stuart navigated his way down the hall slowly. His ribs were tender, for they had been the most painful part of his accident. The stitches that Dr. Morton had put in his scalp and side smarted something fierce, but he didn’t complain. The ribs were not broken but badly bruised and cracked, so he made no sudden moves.

Instead of turning into the parlor, he stepped out on the porch and closed the door behind him. There was no snow now, and the world seemed dead and brown. Overhead a pale sun sent down opaque beams that carried no heat, and the air was snappy. Stuart was glad to be out of the house and out of the bed. He swept his eyes across the farm. He took pleasure in the cattle that had gathered around and the horses and mules that were feeding now on what was left of the grass.

“February 1, 1917,” Stuart mused, then the thought came to him.
All those years buried alive in a prison. Now here I am free.
He breathed a prayer of thanksgiving, then turned as Merle appeared from around the corner of the house carrying a basket of eggs.

He came over at once and grinned, saying, “Well, look at you! Ready to get back to work, I reckon.”

“Not for a while, according to Doc Morton.”

“You listen to that doctor. I can take care of this place whiles you heal up.”

“Give me a report, Merle.”

Merle stood there speaking quickly of all that had been accomplished on the farm in the last few weeks. The fences were now completed and all in place. One of the sows had produced a fine litter just the previous day, and the farm seemed to be turning around after such hard times.

“Merle, I wish you’d do me a favor.”

“Yes, suh, Mistah Stuart. What is it?”

“Bring me my shavin’ stuff.” Stuart raked his hand across the sprouting whiskers and said, “I can’t stand these whiskers.”

“I’ll bring it right away. I needs to put these eggs in the kitchen.”

Stuart stayed until he saw Merle coming back from his small house, and then he went back inside. Leah was in the kitchen peeling potatoes, and when he picked up a kettle and moved to get water, she said, “What are you doing?”

“I’m going to heat water. I want to shave.”

“I’ll do that. You sit down here.”

She filled the kettle, put it on to heat, and then turned to take the shaving things from Merle.

Merle winked and said, “I’ll do that for you if you want me to, Mistah Stuart.”

“No thanks. I’ll do it myself.”

As soon as the kettle was boiling, Leah said, “You can shave right here. I’ll fix a basin of water for you.”

“All right.”

Leah quickly gathered a basin, filled it with hot water, and tempered it with cool water, then produced a towel and a washcloth. Then she got a small mirror and sat across from Stuart. “I’ll hold this so you can see what you’re doing.” She
watched him as he lathered up and waited for the beard to soften. “I always liked to watch you shave,” she said suddenly.

He grinned at her, his lips seeming very red under the outline of the white froth. “You did, didn’t you? I remember our first morning together. I had more romantic notions in mind, but you wanted to watch me shave.”

Leah flushed. “And you got your way if I remember.”

“I did, didn’t I?” Picking up the razor, he studied it for a moment. “You gave me this on our first anniversary. It was one of the things I missed in prison.”

Not knowing what to say, she simply watched as he shaved, noticing how carefully he moved. “Your side’s still sore. I don’t want you doing any work.”

“I’ll be all right soon.”

He got up slowly and left the room, and she called out, “I’ll fix some cocoa.”

She quickly made some cocoa, and just as she was pouring it into the cup, he came back. She saw that he had put on a coat and a pair of boots.

“What are you doing?” she demanded.

“Well, I thought I’d go back to Merle and Annie’s.”

“Don’t be silly!” She went over and took the sack from his hands that contained a few of the items he needed. “You’re going to stay here.”

Stuart looked somewhat embarrassed. “I can’t take your bed, Leah.”

“I don’t mind sleeping with Merry.”

For a moment Stuart stood looking at her. “If I stay in the house, it’ll give the gossip mill a little extra to work with.”

“Let them talk!” Leah said half angrily. “Now sit down and drink this cocoa.”

He sat down, took the cocoa, and she sat down across from him. He said nothing, and somehow she wanted him to speak, to tell her what he was feeling. It was a strange experience for her, and she realized that the accident and having him in
the house had changed everything. She leaned forward and said, “Tell me again about the pigs.”

Stuart glanced up quickly, then grinned. “We’ll be the pig kings of Arkansas,” he said and went on speaking. There was a warmth in the scene that pleased him, and for the first time since arriving home, he felt the stirring of hope.

****

Philo March looked more like a professional fighter than a banker. A huge man, three inches over six feet and weighing two hundred fifty pounds, his countenance had a battered look, the results of some fights during his youth when he was less in control of himself. One of his depositors had said that March looked more like a bank robber than he did the president of the First National Bank of Lewisville, but under the rough exterior lurked a good heart. He was one of the deacons at the First Baptist Church along with Richard Winslow, and the two had been friends for many years.

Tilting back in his swivel chair, March studied the man opposite him and finally said, “Richard, I’ve been meaning to ask you about Stuart. How’s he doing?”

The question startled Richard Winslow. He had come in the first of the month to do business at the bank and, as usual, had gone into March’s office to talk for a while. The two men were close, but it was the first time since Stuart had returned that the banker had brought up the subject. “He’s all right . . . or so I hear.”

March’s eyes narrowed. “You mean you haven’t seen him?”

“Well, no. Not actually.”

“Not actually! What in the world does that mean? You’ve seen him or you haven’t.”

“Well, I did see him once. He came by the house.”

March leaned forward and, clasping his meaty hands, studied Richard Winslow. He was a shrewd man in the business world and even more astute when it came to reading people. He knew Richard Winslow was a man of honor and he trusted
him completely. Still, there was a look of displeasure in his eyes, and he finally said, “That was a pretty fine thing he did, Richard, saving that grandson of yours.”

Shifting in his chair uneasily, Richard Winslow said, “Yes, it was.” He was uncomfortable with the subject and said, “Did you see where Buffalo Bill died?”

“Yes. I saw it in the paper.”

“I saw him once,” Winslow said. “He came to Fort Smith and brought his Wild West show.”

“Yes. I was there. He gave his farewell address,” March said, then wryly added, “For about the two hundredth time, I think. That man retired more often than any human that ever lived.”

“Jack London died not long ago, too.”

“I never liked his books,” the banker said. “The man had no sense of God whatsoever.”

Winslow chewed his lower lip thoughtfully. “He was only forty years old. Had everything a man could want it seems. Money and fame, and yet he killed himself.”

“Well, Buffalo Bill didn’t. He went out doing what he loved to do. I don’t know whether he was a saved man or not. I hope he was.”

Winslow got up suddenly and walked over and stared out the window. He was silent for a time, then he turned and said, “We’ve had three funerals down at our church the last month and four the month before that. Mostly old people.”

“That’s right. It looks like Mrs. Simpson isn’t going to make it either.”

Winslow sat down in his chair, and his face had a sober look. “This winter’s done it. You know, I was thinking, Philo. Out in the woods trees age, and you think they’re going to stand forever. You can’t tell the healthy ones from those that are weakened by time, and then a blizzard comes along, and the ones that go are those that are worn out.” Stroking his chin thoughtfully, Winslow added, “That’s the way it is with us, isn’t it? Hard times come and the weak go down.”

“Well, I suppose so. But all of those funerals were for people who knew the Lord. Not like Jack London.” March was not through with the subject. He said, “I heard that Stuart got pretty well demolished by that bull. Doc Morton said it was a wonder he wasn’t killed.” When Richard did not answer, March said, “You know, I’ve been hearing about that new venture of his raising pigs. Sounds like a pretty good idea to me. This country’s going to need lots of pork. Needs it right now, as a matter of fact.”

“I suppose it’s a good venture.”

“Are you in with him?”

“No!” Richard Winslow said stiffly. “He knows he can work with me if he wants to.”

And then the banker asked the question that had been on his lips many times. “Have you asked him to come back and work with you since he got out of prison?”

A silence filled the room, and Richard got up and headed toward the door without a word. But when he reached it and opened it, he turned and said, “No, I haven’t.” Then he left the room, leaving his friend to stare after him, a sad look in his eyes.

As Richard left the bank, he did not hear the teller’s farewell remark. As he stepped outside, he almost ran into Charles Fields.

“Hello, Brother Winslow,” Fields nodded.

“Hello, Preacher.”

“I wanted to talk to you about that new addition we’re thinking of building. When would be a good time?”

“Now is as good a time as any if you want to go to my office.”

“Fine.” The two men moved down the main street and turned into the store. There were a few customers, though not many. “Business is slow, isn’t it?” Fields remarked.

“Always is this time of year. Come back to the office.”