Promise Bridge (2 page)

“You have nothing to prove, Colt,” I said, so he would not feel like a failure.

His finger tightened again. “Yes, I do, and it’s time this big ol’ coward proves it.”

With that, a shotgun blast echoed through the surrounding mountain canyons. Colt’s rifle kicked him back a step or two, and the burn of gunpowder filled the air.

“Aaaaaaeeeh!” An odd squeal came from within the thicket across the meadow. Colt and I stared at the rush of movement shaking the weeds where the shot was fired. The sharpness of the cry was muffled as quickly as it rose, then continued low and distressed.

“Good gracious, Colt,” I finally murmured. “What is that?”

“I’m not sure,” Colt said, lowering his rifle and moving toward the thicket. “Maybe it’s a wild turkey.”

Shadowing his footsteps, I held tight to the tail of his jacket. “I never heard a bird make such a desperate sound. Perhaps you hit a bobcat. Now, wouldn’t that make ol’ Uncle Mooney eat his sharp-tacked words?”

We stepped cautiously together through the elbow-high ragweed. Colt raised his rifle again as we neared the tall grass still pulsating with a low gurgle. “Stay behind me, Hannah,” Colt whispered as he probed the barrel of his gun low into the grass and gently parted the thicket before us, combing it to one side.

A stunned “Gracious be” rolled from my lips as there, hidden among the buzzing bees and grasshoppers, lay a wounded mahogany-skinned girl cradled in the powerful dark arms of a growling buck slave. He held one hand firmly over the terrified girl’s wrenching mouth and the other hand fisted like a shield between the sobbing girl and the cold steel of Colt’s lowered rifle.

“God have mercy!” Colt gasped as he staggered back against me. “I’ve shot a pickaninny.”

Without thinking, I ducked under his shoulder and knelt on the grass. The sallow whites of the wounded girl’s eyes grew wide as I reached out a hand toward her blood-soaked cotton dress. Her protector’s swift, callused fingers swiped between us and clamped fiercely around my forearm, bending my elbow up and away from the cowering girl, who was not a child, but, much like me, on the youthful brink of womanhood. His powerful grip tightened when I looked from my throbbing arm up into the hard determination of his unflinching face. The wild emotion of his eyes bore deep into mine, flashing fear and defiance in a way no living thing had ever looked at me. My heart skipped with terror as the rules and proprieties long understood and obeyed by all involved fell away in the still seclusion of the hushed meadow.

“Let go of her arm,” Colt said with recovered strength and resolve as he raised his rifle and pointed it down at the crouching aggressor’s glistening forehead. Colt’s targeted eye flickered above the metal sight of his gun as his command set off a scattering of a dozen other frantic, unseen souls retreating through the tall ragweed in every direction like voles laying tracks in a turnip patch.

“Runaways,” I whispered in utter astonishment. “Right here in Echo Ridge.” My vised arm pulled free as the clenched fingers loosened. The defiance that glared from the darkened eyes moments earlier, now drained into a surrendering gaze; the image of a defeated warrior realizing he was abandoned by his troops before the battle had even begun.

“Oooooh,” the wounded girl moaned, curling like a ball of yarn with her hands pressed against her right hip. From his knees, her protector gathered her into his arms; then he carefully leaned his broad cheek against the end of Colt’s rifle barrel, yielding his threatening pose to one of submission.

“Don’t care what you do to me,” he said, as if sensing the sympathic tug of my heart. “Jes’ gots’ta get help for my sister.” He flinched again as I reached toward the girl, but relaxed as I moved slowly and gently to pull open the strawberry-sized hole in her reddened dress. His face loomed near my ear as I wiped the blood thickening across the girl’s wound. My hair, pulled neatly behind my ear in the sanctity of my bedroom at sunrise, fell loose and swayed in rhythm with his breath across my down-turned face. I sorrowed at the girl’s trembling, until I realized it was my own hand shaking with fear. What were we to do? I imagined Aunt Augusta’s shrill voice in my head, saying,
“Hannalore Blessing, a proper young lady should not be engaged in slave matters.”
A runaway slave was always a serious matter, to my recollection, but in recent years it had become a fiery issue. Any proof, or mere suspicion, of man or woman entertaining a sympathetic notion toward runaways and the beliefs of the North resulted in shunning, beating, destruction of property, or worse. My thoughts never dwelled on it much because Echo Ridge was a secluded town protected from the uprisings along the border territories to our north and west. I was content in my oblivion, I suppose. But I never expected oblivion to be here in front of me; breathing, bleeding, and needing my help. The twinge of compassion in my heart and the burn of fear in my belly challenged me to act as I believed rather than adhere to the expected.

Gracious be, I suppose
proper
never suited me anyway.

Chapter 2

T
ouching my fingers to the small, hardened knob under the flesh of the wounded girl’s hip, I glanced back at Colt. “Feels like it’s wedged against the bone.”

“That don’t sound good,” the gruff buck snorted through my dangling hair.

Afraid to engage the renegade slave, I forced my eyes to remain fixed on Colt. “It could be worse. The bone kept the pellet from going into her belly. The same thing happened last year, when Twitch had a snoot full of brandy, and he decided to use Willy Jack for target practice. Remember? If we settle her and stop the bleeding, we should be able to help her.”

“Hannah! Are you crazy?” Colt’s shadow glided over the three of us. I stood and intercepted Colt, who was still clinging to his pointed rifle.

“Put your gun down, Colt,” I said, using my hand to ease the barrel down and away to avoid another accidental shooting. “They mean us no harm.”

Colt’s jaw clenched with tension. “But they are
runaways
.”

“Does it look like this poor girl is up to running anywhere? Now, we must figure out what to do.”

“What’s there to do, Hannah? It’s not like finding a baby robin fallen from its nest. We have no choice here. Perhaps it is best if you run on home so I can decide what should be done with the two of them.”

“I shall do no such thing, Colton Mooney. What have you a mind to do? Why, you’ll probably march them right down to the Ridge so that hateful viper Twitch can chain them to his wagon and drag them back to wherever they came from. What are you going to do, wrestle him for the reward money?”

“Hannah,” Colt whispered with a fretful wince. “Is that what you think of me?”

Guilt instantly snuffed the fire building in me. Of course Colt was nothing like Twitch, but his conforming nature blocked any other options from consideration. The thought of turning them over to Twitch was unacceptable to me. I reached up and touched Colt’s cheek. “Under the circumstances, maybe you are the one who should go along home.”

He shook his head decisively. “You know I can’t do—” Colt’s words were cut short by what at first sounded like geese honking through the distant clouds. Colt’s eyes locked with mine as the sound sharpened into frantic, bellowing hound dogs deep in the pines sloping from the far end of the meadow toward the family acreage and river beyond.

“We gots’ta go,” the male slave grunted as he struggled to his feet, with his sister moaning in his arms. “Them’s trackin’ dogs!”

I grabbed Colt by the sleeve. “There is no time for debate. Please help me hide them.”

His wild eyes searched mine for an avenue of reason. When he found none, and the savage yelps grew nearer, Colt pulled his hat from his head and fisted it in frustration. Then pointing to a path parting the stony ridge behind us, he said, “Up toward the peak to Copperhead Cave.”

“Perfect,” I exclaimed, pulling him down close enough to plant a kiss of relief on his cheek. “I knew you would never let me down.”

“Not another moment.” He held his arms wide and herded the three of us through the weeds until we reached the shadow of Echo Ridge’s rising mount. Colt motioned me to lead the way up the narrow path winding out of sight and into the crevassed terrain ahead. From the grunts of the runaway behind me, I knew he was struggling to keep his footing as he carried his wounded sister up through the twists and turns of the mountainside. Halfway there, he paused to catch his breath and shift the girl in his arms. Colt stepped forward and lifted the girl from the man’s exhausted embrace. Without missing a stride, Colt continued onward. The runaway trotted on Colt’s heels, eyeballing him with a distrustful frown.

I could navigate this route with my eyes closed, having traced these steps hundreds of times in the twelve years since misfortune brought me to Aunt Augusta’s emotionally barren household. One of the few joys I held dear was the friendship and adventure Colt and I shared, sneaking off from monotonous chores to pick blackberries and swim in the brisk, sparkling waters of Emerald Cove. Not far beyond this secluded mountain gorge was a serene hollow within a forest of knotted pine and white birch that gave way to a ridge of mossy rock formations. Amid these rocks was an entrance, no bigger than a wagon wheel, opening into a cave as wide as a dozen corn cribs. Inside, a luminous beam of sunshine cut through the darkness above us where the rocks gaped enough to give light by day and serve as a warm fire’s smoke flue by night.

“You are well hidden here,” Colt said as he settled the girl back into the runaway’s arms. “I’ll fetch some evergreen boughs so she can rest comfortably.” With that, Colt disappeared out the exit.

With our thoughts and reactions unfolding so quickly, I had not given thought to what would come next, or consider the repercussions if we were discovered. Fretful notions tightened in my bosom as the runaway and I cast wary glances at each other. It was an unsteadying anxiety, much like approaching a stray dog whose unblinking stare masks whether it will wag its tail or bite a hand. The isolation of the cave magnified the awkwardness and left me wondering if the protector was pondering similar thoughts.

“Hush now, Livetta,” he said tenderly. “Nobody gonna wrestle you from me. Not even the Lord Almighty hisself.”

Well-bred manners along with a lack of anything better to say had me murmuring in their direction, “My name is Hannah.” They both looked over at me with guarded nods. I realized it was the first time I had spoken directly to them, a fact that struck me odd under the circumstances. But then again, Aunt Augusta had always made a conscious effort of keeping my interactions with the slave help at a minimum. Other young ladies of my needlepoint circle spoke with great affection of mammies who coddled them like mothers, and of grandfatherly storytellers who entertained them with tall tales and Bible musings. I, on the other hand, hadn’t enough interaction with either the field or house slaves to form any meaningful attachments. The exception was Winston, who as coachman drove us to social and dutiful outings. Winston’s mother, Granny Morgan, was in charge of the cookhouse, and her presence in our kitchen made her equally attentive toward me.

“They call me Marcus,” the protector said with an intense directness that left me stammering an unintelligible response. I had never been left unattended with a stranger, let alone with a man whose musky, dark skin glistened at me from the shadows. Colt’s voice saved me from my reeling senses.

“Hannah, give me a hand with these branches,” Colt called out as he pushed an armful of snapped evergreens through the cave entrance. I blinked free of Marcus’s clutching eyes, but felt them pulling at me, daring me to look his way again. My shameful thoughts reminded me that a young lady with my upbringing should maintain the appearance of disinterest and superior restraint. I quickly gathered the boughs Colt tossed inside and arranged them into soft bedding for the slave girl, Livetta. Colt slipped his coat off and threw it over the needles. As Marcus lowered his sister onto the makeshift pallet, I pulled my bonnet from my pocket and tucked it under her head.

Colt knelt near the girl and eyed the fresh blood leaking through the tear in her dress. He spoke to Marcus, who knelt opposite him. “Can I have your neckerchief?”

Marcus untied the faded blue chambray cloth knotted loosely around his broad neck and handed it to Colt. Colt wrapped an end in each fist and strained until it frayed apart into two pieces.

“She gonna be all right?” Marcus asked.

Colt carefully fingered the hole in Livetta’s dress, then tore it wide enough to shove one piece of the cloth in against the wound. “This will help stop the bleeding for now.” As Colt moved to his feet, Marcus stood with him.

Marcus jutted his chin toward the cloth still wrapped around Colt’s hand. “What you gonna do with the other piece?”

“I thought it best if I went down to the meadow to see about those hounds. If they are sniffing after you, I’ll use what’s left of your neckerchief to drag your scent in the direction of the river.”

I was amazed Colt was being so nonchalantly clever. He was always bright and schooled in ways that most of the farm boys from these parts rarely cared to aspire to, but this was out of character even for him. A worrisome thought tugged inside me, making me wonder if dear Colt had something else in mind. He was a predictable soul who could be counted on to do what was expected of him. And we both knew that what we were engaged in was in direct conflict with all expectations of a Southern gentleman. He was no heroic upstart shaking his fist at the ways of the world, like the fiery Northern abolitionists cursed by the locals in every tavern, on every street corner, and hearthside from Richmond to Charleston. Colt had simple hopes and needs, and they were to be a good son, a good friend, and a good man. I said a quick prayer that being a good friend would outweigh the other two at this moment.

“Will you be comfortable here until I get back?” Colt’s question startled me from my thoughts.

“I will be fine,” I said, lowering my voice to a whisper. “Now, don’t you go and do anything foolish, Colton Reynolds.”

Colt glared at me, then stepped back with harnessed indignation. His eyes revealed a strange glimmer and his chest inflated as if words were rising from his belly. But his mouth clenched and the words were swallowed. Instead, he turned and handed me his rifle.

“This is all the protection you have,” he said. “Keep it at your side and use it if needed.” Then, without further instruction, Colt disappeared through the jagged hole in the cave wall, leaving me alone and uneasy with our reluctant foundlings. I clutched the rifle against my breast to steady my shaking hands, as my head swirled with an equal mix of fascination and fear.