Courage to Love (Flynn Family Saga) (24 page)

“No.  Not Gettysburg.”  Flynn held out his hand.  Slowly, hesitantly, the man took it.  Flynn led him outside.

The man blinked in the sunlight.  Tears filled his eyes.  “I thought—”

“I know, soldier.  The same thing happened to me.”  Flynn drew a deep breath of fresh air.  He picked up the ladle and unfastened the lid of the soup pail.  “Hungry?”

The man nodded.

Flynn ladled some soup into a bowl.

*  *  *

Maggie watched as Flynn coaxed the frightened man out of the warehouse and gave him something to eat.  Tears filled her eyes.  She smelled peppermint and pipe tobacco.  She heard her grandfather's voice as clearly as if he stood beside her. 
When you love someone, you have to see them, really see them.  Otherwise, it isn’t love at all.  Just wishful thinking
.

And she remembered.  She remembered Flynn's patience with the greenhorns.  She remembered his courage as he carried Tommy Lonnegan across fifteen miles of badlands with broken ribs and no water.

She remembered what a remarkable man her husband was.

They continued to help Brother Joseph for the rest of the day in silence.

That night, when they returned to the boarding house, a stranger was waiting for them.  His face lit up when he saw them, and he hurried over to Flynn.  “Lieutenant!  It’s good to see you again!”

Flynn smiled warmly.  “It’s good to see you, too, Sergeant Layton.”

The two men shook hands, and Layton shook his head.  “It’s just Mr. Layton, now.”

“And I’m just Flynn.  How did you know we were here?”

Layton grinned sheepishly.  “Cora is my sister-in-law.  She told my wife.  She wants you to come to dinner.”

Flynn looked at Maggie.  “That’s up to my wife.”

“Your wife?”  Cora Carson stared at them.

Maggie sighed.  “It’s a long story, Mrs. Carson.  I’ll explain when we get back.”

Mrs. Carson nodded cautiously.

Maggie turned to Layton and held out her hand.  “We’d be delighted.”

Flynn put his arm around her.  “I’m sorry.  I’ve forgotten my manners.  This is my wife, Maggie.”

Layton shook Maggie’s hand.  “I’m looking forward to hearing about your adventures, Mrs. Flynn.”

Maggie smiled.  “My friends call me Maggie.”

*  *  *

Mrs. Layton reminded Maggie of Jessica Brewster.  She was small and shy, but when she did manage a smile, she lit up the whole room.  The food was good, and there was a lot of it.  Flynn and Layton talked about the camp.

“Do you remember when cholera went through the camp?”  Layton shook his head.  “We would have lost a lot more men if you hadn’t given them that devil’s brew of yours.”

“Willow bark tea?”  Flynn took a sip and shook his head.  “Nothing devilish about it.”

Layton grinned.  “I know.  It was more like a miracle.”

Flynn shrugged.  “It was just something I learned from the Lakota.”

“The Lakota?”

Flynn nodded.  “The Indians.”  He sighed.  “People think of them as ignorant savages, but they know a lot about medicine and healing.”

Layton nodded.  “I heard what you did today for Hendricks.  He hasn’t been outside that warehouse for a month or more.”

Maggie shut her eyes.  For a moment, she wondered what would have happened to Flynn if he hadn’t left his cabin and found his way to the Lakota for healing.

Flynn and Layton spoke long into the night.  Maggie helped Mrs. Layton with the dishes, and then she and Flynn walked back to the boarding house.  Mrs. Carson was waiting for them.  She stood in the hallway with her hands on her hips.  “What’s this about you being man and wife?”

Flynn scowled and opened his mouth.

Maggie laid a hand on his arm.  “Let me handle this.”

Flynn closed his mouth and nodded.  He started up the stairs.

Maggie drew a deep breath.  “Do you know Mr. Hendricks?”

“The loonie who lives in the old warehouse?”

Maggie’s jaw tightened, but she forced herself to keep her mouth shut.  She merely nodded.

Mrs. Carson shrugged.  “Everyone knows Hendricks.”

“My husband was like that for a while, Mrs. Carson.”

Mrs. Carson stared at her.  “He hid in a warehouse?”

Maggie shook her head.  “No.  In a cabin.  But it was the same thing.  He was afraid to come out.”

“But why?”

Maggie drew a deep breath.  “It was the war, Mrs. Carson.”

“Is that why my Jim killed himself?”  Tears shone in her eyes.

Maggie nodded.  “It’s as if they are reliving the past, over and over.”

Mrs. Carson turned away.  “I thought it was because I wasn’t pretty enough or good enough or...”

Maggie nodded again.  “So did I.”  She laid her hand on Mrs. Carson’s arm.  “Flynn said that when I tried to take care of him, he couldn’t even see me.”

Mrs. Carson nodded.  “It was like that with Jim, too.  It—it scared me.”

“It scared me, too.  And I got angry with him.”

Mrs. Carson swallowed hard.  “Me too.  And after—after he died, I felt so ashamed.”

“Me too.”  Maggie sighed.  “But we didn’t know.  We couldn’t.  We didn’t fight in the war.”

“No, we didn’t.”  Mrs. Carson shuddered.  “That prison camp was bad enough.  I used to walk by it every day, and I heard the men...”

Maggie touched her arm.

Mrs. Carson turned and buried her face in Maggie’s shoulder.  Slowly, Maggie put her arms around the older woman and held her as she cried.

*  *  *

In the morning, Maggie and Flynn went back to the chapel to say good-bye to Brother Joseph and Sister Ignatius.  Tears shone in the little monk's eyes.  “I’ll miss you, Maggie.”

“I’ll miss you, too.  Both of you.”  Maggie hugged Sister Ignatius and then she hugged Brother Joseph.

The little monk stood in front of Flynn.  Maggie almost laughed.  Brother Joseph was just her height, and Flynn was over six feet tall.

Brother Joseph looked up at Flynn solemnly.  “I wish you could stay.  There are others like Pete Hendricks.”

Flynn looked at Maggie.

L
iving a good life is the best monument to someone you love
.  Maggie heard her grandmother’s voice as clearly as if she stood beside her.  She nodded slowly.  “I think that’s the best way to honor the memory of the men who died here.”

Tears filled Flynn’s eyes.  “I had forgotten what a remarkable woman I married.”

CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN

They stayed in Elmira for a month.  At the end of that time, three more veterans had moved out of the dark memories of the past and were able to help the others.  Maggie and Flynn ate breakfast in the refectory one last time.  Maggie took her old sketchbook out of her carpetbag.  She took out the picture of Mr. Johnson she had drawn when she was a child, living in the tin shanties by the river.  She handed it to Brother Joseph.

Tears filled the monk’s eyes.  “Look, sister.”  He handed Sister Ignatius the sketch.

Sister Ignatius nodded solemnly.  She looked at Maggie.  “Thank you.”  She sighed.  “You had a gift for sketching, Maggie.  It’s a shame you stopped.”

Shyly, Maggie handed the sketchbook to the nun.  There were sketches of Ben and Frank and Sam.  And Flynn, of course.  But there were sketches of the men, women and children who had traveled over nearly 2,000 miles of wilderness to build new lives for themselves.  There was Melanie Meade and the twins, Ramon and Slim, Abigail and Jed Barrett as well as the men they had fed in Elmira.

Sister Ignatius smiled at her.  “I’m glad you kept at it.”  She looked pointedly at Flynn.  “Some things are worth holding on to.”

Maggie blushed.

After breakfast, Brother Joseph and Sister Ignatius stood in front of the church and waved them on their way.

*  *  *

Six weeks later, they rode into the hidden valley.  The cottonwoods were bare, but the scent of the pines drifted up toward them, and somewhere, a titmouse called “dee, dee, dee.”

Maggie sighed.  “We’re going to need firewood.”

Flynn nodded.  “And meat.”  He turned up the collar on his sheepskin jacket and shivered.

Maggie nodded back.  They descended into the valley and dismounted.  Flynn opened the door.  He hesitated.  Fear lay like a stone in his belly.

Maggie bit her lip.  “It’s all right, Flynn.  We can go to St. Jo instead.”

Flynn shook his head.  “I have to face this, Maggie.  Otherwise, I’ll spend the second half of my life running, too.”

Maggie nodded.  She held out her hand.  Flynn took it, and together, they entered the cabin.

Just inside the door, Flynn stood very still.  He shut his eyes.  For a moment, he heard the sound of artillery fire.  For a moment, he stood on Matthews Hill, looking down on the Union soldiers.

“Flynn?”  Maggie took his hand in hers.  Her hand was strong and warm.

And real.

Flynn opened his eyes.  He drew a deep breath.  “I’m all right, Maggie.”

“Liar,” she said softly.

Flynn laughed.  He sobered quickly.  “No, I’m not.  But I will be.”

Maggie nodded, but worry creased her brow.

Flynn went hunting.  It was easier to breathe outside, and the crunch of snow underfoot drowned out the sound of artillery fire.  He tracked a deer to the stream.  He sighted along the barrel of his rifle and squeezed the trigger.  The deer fell over on its side.  Its blood stained the snow.  Flynn knelt beside the deer and asked its forgiveness.  He felt the strength of the earth flow into him, and the sound of artillery faded into silence.

By the time he got back to the cabin, Maggie had a fire going.  The tin dishes were clean, and a pot of water hissed over the fire.  Flynn cleaned the deer and cut steaks—just like he had the first night they spent in the cabin.

Maggie reached across the table and squeezed his hand.

That night, Maggie slept on the bed, and Flynn lay in front of the fire on a bearskin rug.  He lay awake a long time, watching Maggie sleep.  Finally, he closed his eyes and slept without dreaming.

*  *  *

Maggie dreamed of the day her daughter was born.

It was hot and still in the wagon.  No breeze stirred the canvas flap.  Abby Barrett sat beside Maggie’s bed, knitting.  From time to time, she wiped the sweat from Maggie’s forehead.  The pains came hard and fast.

But the baby didn’t.

The hours crawled by.  Maggie began to wonder if she would have the strength to push when the time came.

Then, she heard the sound she had waited for, the sound of Wakta’s hooves pounding the dry, Nevada ground.  Flynn climbed into the back of the wagon.  He took a leaf from the pouch on his belt.  "Chew it, Maggie."

Maggie nodded.  She chewed the bitter leaf.  Strength filled her, as much from the presence of her husband as from the herb.  The pains came again, even harder than before, but Maggie was ready for them.

“Out!  Shoo!”  Abby pushed Flynn toward the back of the wagon.

Flynn backed away from the older woman as if she were a grizzly, and Maggie smiled.

Another contraction came.

Abby checked her progress.  “Well, I’ll be.  All right, child.  Push!”

Maggie pushed.

“Again!”

Maggie lost all sense of time.  She simply waited for the next contraction and pushed.

“One more time.  Push!  Push hard and keep pushing.”

It hurt.  It hurt more than anything else that ever happened to her, but she wanted to see her child.  She wanted to hold it in her arms.  And so, she pushed.

And suddenly, the pain stopped.  She was sore and tired, but the awful pain was gone.  Maggie lay with her eyes closed, panting.

And then she realized that the wagon was silent.  Her eyes opened.  “Abby?”

Abby didn’t answer.  She stood with her back to Maggie.

“Abby, where’s my baby?”

Still, Abby didn’t answer.  She heard the sound of slapping and then silence.

Maggie struggled to sit up.  “Abigail Barrett, if you don’t show me my baby right now, I’ll come over there and take it.”

Abby’s shoulders slumped.  “All right, child.”  She turned.

A baby lay in her arms.  Its tiny face was blue.  It was still and made no sound.

“No!”  A single sob tore from Maggie’s lips.  “Let me—let me hold it.”

Abby sighed.  She came over to Maggie and handed her the tiny bundle.

Maggie’s eyes blurred with tears.  “A girl.  A little girl.  She’s so perfect, Abby.  What happened?  Why did she die?”

Flynn’s head appeared in the opening.  “What’s wrong?”

Maggie looked away.  She couldn’t bear to look at the fear in his eyes.

Flynn limped across the floor and touched their child.  “She’s dead?”

Maggie nodded.

Flynn’s breath caught in something very close to a sob.

She turned back to him.  “Flynn, I’m sorry.”

He turned away and bowed his head.

Maggie tried to stand, but her legs wouldn’t hold her.  She fell back on the bed, still cradling her daughter.

And then the bleeding started.  Maggie felt as if the life were draining out of her body.  “Flynn!”

He left her alone in the hot, silent wagon.

“Flynn!”  She started to cry.

“I’m here, Maggie.  I’m right here.”  Flynn’s voice woke her.  She opened her eyes.  Flynn knelt beside the bed.  He looked worried.

Maggie looked away.  “I dreamed—I dreamed about Sarah.”  Flynn put his long arms around her and held her close.  The ice shattered around her heart, and she began to sob.  “Oh, Flynn, she was so perfect.”

“I know, Maggie.  I know.”  He held her and let her cry for a long time.  Finally, Maggie ran out of tears.  Or strength.  Or both.  She sighed and rested her head against his chest.  He tilted her chin up.  “Maggie, I give you my word that as long as I have breath in body, I will not desert you again.”

And she believed him.

Maggie shut her eyes again and sighed.

*  *  *

The winter days passed.  Slowly, tentatively, Maggie and Flynn began to get to know each other again.  He told her of his childhood in Virginia and growing up as a Lakota, and she told him of her childhood in Manhattan and the two years she lived with her grandparents.  He began to teach her the Lakota language.

And then, he spoke of the war.  He spoke of lying on Matthews Hill, watching the Union troops advance relentlessly.  He spoke of the slaughter of the 54th Massachusetts Regiment at Fort Wagner.