Beneath a Thousand Apple Trees (9 page)

T
he movement around Willa startled her awake, which resulted in excruciating pain shooting through her head. Malcolm must have hit the left side of her head soundly with the shovel, she thought, clamping her teeth together in response to the pounding. She lay still, waiting for it to ease, and realized that she was cocooned in soft and comfortable warmth. She needed to open her eyes and figure out where she was, but she needed to do so carefully and slowly without letting anyone who might be there with her know that she was now awake.
Thank you, blessed sweet Jesus,
Willa thought, as she pulled in a deep breath.
At least I can breathe again.
Carefully she cracked open her right eye to assess her surroundings. And as she did the thought flashed through her mind that depending on where she was, she might be sorry she'd somehow managed to survive her midnight swim.

Through blurry sight, she saw a gigantic bear leering down at her. Survival instincts took over once more, and Willa jumped out of bed, frantically twisting around, looking for a way out. Quickly glancing at the bear again, she realized that there wasn't a body attached to the mounted head, and her adrenaline rush began to dissipate, causing her shaking legs to fold beneath her. There was nothing to grab onto and Willa crumpled down into a heap on the oak floor.

* * *

“Good God, woman! Whatcha tryin' to do? Finish yourself off?” A male's voice came from above her. She looked up at him, but her concussion made it impossible to see him very clearly. Willa knew it wasn't Malcolm, though. Her husband's voice was gravelly and hard;
like his heart
, she thought. This stranger's voice, though low in pitch, was gentler sounding, although at the moment it was urgently insisting that she return to bed and rest.

Two strong hands reached down and grasped Willa underneath her arms, then lifted her up from the floor and helped her back into bed. And she let him. He pulled the covers over her body, which was now clothed in a man's nightshirt, she realized, and moved the lantern off the nightstand and away from her light-sensitive eyes.
Here I am,
she thought
, in a strange man's cabin—and bed!—at the mercy of his whims. I'm in the middle of . . . God only knows where...
but she thanked her maker that she was wherever this warm, comfortable place might be. She'd rather take her chances with a stranger, in his cabin, than be back at her own home, surrounded by the familiar, including her abusive, battering husband. Both she and her unborn baby might actually have a chance for survival, she thought. However, once she—
they
, she had to think in those terms now—did return home, all bets were off.
But we can't go back. How do we go back when death may well greet us at the door? Or has death already stolen one of us?
she wondered, for she hadn't felt the baby move. Not since running away from Malcolm. How long ago was that? Willa, still exhausted, needed sleep now far more than answers, and drifted off into that peaceful place of nothingness.

She quietly awoke to sunlight pouring through the window. She saw the stranger through the open bedroom door, sitting at the kitchen table restringing a snowshoe, but he caught the movement as Willa swung her legs over the side of the bed and slowly began to try to sit up. Immediately, he jumped up and came to her.

“How ya feelin', miss?” he inquired softly. Willa was alert enough now to see the concern in his intense brown eyes. Relieved that she was finally able to see him and everything else clearly again, she gave herself a moment to look closely at the man. His hair was a thick, wavy gold, and his smile was bright and genuine. Of medium height and build, he looked as though he was quick and agile, and his movements had confirmed that in the way he'd lightly and smoothly moved to her side to assist her.

“Let me try puttin' my body fully upright,” she replied, “and I'll let you know then.” With that, she carefully began the task of standing up, and, with the man's hand under her arm for support, Willa drew herself up and stood there, albeit swaying, but she stood nonetheless. The man cautiously let go of her but stayed close in case her legs couldn't hold her up.

“I need water and the outhouse,” she said, “and I'm not sure which one first. My mouth is as dry as cotton, but my bladder couldn't hold a drop. Best show me to the outhouse first, I guess. Oh, um . . . would you have a coat I can throw over myself?” she self-consciously asked. Her legs were still too shaky to worry about getting back into her own clothes at the moment, but she couldn't parade around in his nightshirt, injured or not. The man grabbed a black wool cape from the hall closet, wrapped her in it, then took Willa's arm and guided her out the back door.

A worn path ran through the middle of the backyard and beyond to the outhouse, which was about a hundred yards from the house. As they made their way, Willa looked back at the log cabin she'd been sheltered in for . . . how long? The cabin was rather small and weathered brown. A large river-rock chimney shot upward from the middle of the house, which made her recall that one side of the fireplace faced the small living room, while the other side of it opened to the bedroom she'd been staying in. Then Willa turned back around and took note of a garden that lay just ahead and to the right, with a few remaining vegetables in it that were more than ready to be harvested. To the left was a fenced-in chicken coop, with several hens and a rooster picking at potential edibles in the dirt. And just beyond the garden, Willa saw a dark gray, soot-streaked smokehouse. Finally, they came to a narrow footbridge that spanned a full, broad creek, and Willa could see the outhouse standing in a small clearing just beyond. In stark contrast to the weathered building was a bright smattering of black-eyed susans, mountain honeysuckle, and echinacea coloring the sun-washed ground.

“Where exactly are we?” she asked, while holding tightly to the railing as she crossed the bridge. “And how long have I been here?”

“You've been here for two days now,” the man replied, following closely behind her. “We're at my place on Bolsey Creek, a branch of the bigger river of the same name.”

“I know the river well,” Willa replied. “I live on a northern branch of it. It's just lovely here, though. Where I live is more rugged and . . . I don't know . . . kind of stark-like.” She looked around, feeling an unaccustomed peacefulness in this simple, unassuming place.

“It's home, miss, and has been since my grandpap first laid a claim here. He had a hundred and five acres to begin with, but sold most of it off over time. You might say he wasn't a very good business man, and was an even worse farmer,” he laughed. “I've managed to hang on to the remaining twelve, though sometimes even that seems to be too much. My farmin's about as good as his was.” He smiled.

“Well, it's just beautiful, Mr . . . ah . . . I'm sorry, I don't know your name.”

“It's Harold, Miss. That ain't the first, though, it's the last. My name's Samuel Cornelius Harold. Sure is an important soundin' name for a man who ain't so important.” He smiled easily again.

“I wouldn't say that. You saved my life, Mr. Harold . . . or was it Samuel?” She frowned. “I'm sorry. I guess I'm still not quite right.”

“It's Samuel Harold, miss, and you're doin' just fine.” With that, they reached the outhouse, and after checking to make sure no animals of any kind had found shelter within the dark shack, Sam walked politely away; far enough to allow her the privacy she needed, but close enough to hear her if she called for him.

Several minutes later, they began walking back up the same narrow path that they'd come down. When they reached the creek, Sam pulled a small tin cup from his overall's pocket, squatted down and scooped up a cup full of the creek's cold water for her. Willa gulped the water down, not caring that streams of it ran down both sides of her mouth. Then, squatting down at the bank's edge, she drank two more cups full of the cold water before finally stopping long enough to gaze at her reflection. A quiet little pool had been damned off from the rest of the creek with a deposit of small logs and broken branches, courtesy of a family of thick-pelted beavers. She lowered her face to the pool and began scrubbing away the last remaining vestiges of dirt and dried blood, and, as she did, she became painfully aware of a very tender area just above her left temple. Turning her face so that she could better see her injury, she spotted a jagged line of red, sutured flesh that was about two inches long. She gently cleaned it with more of the creek water.

“I remember feelin' like my head exploded when I was in the water. And that's about all. What happened after that, Mr. Harold? How did I make it to your place?”

“I'd headed north on the river to set a couple more traps in an area that'd seen a lot of action in it lately. As I was settin' one of them up, I saw you go divin' into the drink. I thought, is she crazy? Has she had too much 'shine? That's when I saw that man followin' you on the bank. God, but I almost run into him! There wasn't any moonlight, and we just about collided into one another. I couldn't understand how he didn't hear me walkin' so near to him, but then I guess I'm used to hearin' sounds over the rush of the river. Not everyone is, though. I knew he was real trouble, and I wasn't prepared to be on the other end of it. And I had a bad feelin' he wasn't there to help you out any. So, as quiet as I could, I got behind a big old oak tree, and watched
him
watchin' for
you
. There's one thing I'm good at that not all men are, and that's seeing in the dark. I'm used to it, with trappin' an' all. I could see him lookin' for you, but I knew he couldn't see me watchin' him. So I waited and let him get a little ahead of me, just to be sure he wasn't gonna catch me. And then I followed. Guess after a spell he either got tired of followin' ya down the river, or, more likely, he just couldn't keep you in his sight, so he gave up. Probably figured you'd drown, if you hadn't already. He turned around an' went back the way he came.

“Soon as he was gone, I hurried on down the river, lookin' for ya. And, lo and behold, there ya were, about a quarter mile down. You was hung up on the rocks—wedged between two good-sized boulders, actually, and it was hard to see you. Your head was bleedin' something fierce, but through the mercy of God Almighty, you had turned face up when you'd been conked on the head by one of them rocks. If you hadn't, you'd a-drowned. Another thing lucky was that the rock didn't hit you on the temple, but got you just above. I fished you out, with you a-thrashin' a bit and sayin' somethin' about ‘shovels. ' You was somewheres else, that's for sure. I drug you up on the bank, got you into my wagon, and hurried back to my place. I knew the darkness was on my side, but the light would be on that man's, and he'd come back a-lookin' for ya. That was two days ago.”

“And were you the one that did the sewin' on my head?”

“Naw. I was afraid I'd scar you worse than you might be otherwise. Besides, I was havin' trouble rousing you. So I fetched Doc Newton. I hated to leave you, but I was afraid you might bleed to death if I didn't. So I raced over to his place, a couple of miles from here, and he come right back with me.

“Miss, I don't mean to meddle in your business, but if you don't mind my askin', who was that man lookin' for you?”

Willa couldn't look Sam in the eye to answer his awkward question. Self-consciously looking down at her water-stained, worn out shoes, which she'd slipped on before leaving the cabin, she said, “I'm ashamed to say he's my husband; has been for the better part of a year now. Knowin' him, he'll keep lookin' for me, wanting to make sure I'm as cold and blue as he's hoping I am, so I'll make my stay a very short one, Mr. Harold.”

“Miss, that man—that so-called husband of yours—ain't gonna find you here, no way, no how. Lordy, woman, we're so far back in this holler that even
I
get lost tryin' to find my way back home again.” He laughed, clearly trying to reassure her, to make her feel safe and protected, as well as bring some levity to a most sad and serious situation.

“Mr. Harold, I can't tell you how grateful I am for all you've done. I . . . well . . . I don't know what would . . .”

“I did what I bet you'd do if you saw what I seen that night.”

“You'd lose that bet, Mr. Harold.”

He looked hard at her and said, “I don't think so, Miss. I surely don't. Someone that has blue lightnin' for eyes don't back down too easy. No, ma'am.”

She smiled at him, then turned to continue walking down the path. After a minute filled with a comfortable quiet, Sam said, “Miss, I'd be grateful if you'd do two things for me. The first thing is to call me Samuel or Sam. My dad was as mean as a bobcat, and the name
Mr. Harold
—not to mention every belt I see—only reminds me of him. That's why I wear only overalls or suspenders.” He laughed, but she could tell it was forced. “And the other thing you can do for me is to tell me your name.”

“My name's Willa. And as far as my name goes, that's all you need to know. I'm pleased to make your acquaintance, Sam.” She reached her hand out to shake his. Suddenly, she began to laugh as she realized the absurdity of her attempt at proper etiquette. After all they'd already been through and she was
pleased to make his acquaintance
? She threw her head back and laughed; at the ridiculousness of herself, her seemingly impossible situation, and with the miracle of being alive. But most of all, she laughed with joy over the fact that her baby was busy kicking away at her insides.
And with the strength of a mule
.