Healing Grace (18 page)

Etienne’s head jerked up at the sound—what sound, he didn’t know, a screech, or a yelp, maybe?—underscored by pounding hooves. A flash of black cut across his eyes. He blinked and his vision cleared.

“No!” he shouted as he propelled himself out from the trees.

The spook had hit the wire. Where exactly it caught him, Etienne didn’t know, because he’d missed the impact. But the man wasn’t sprawled in the dirt the way he was supposed to be. His foot was stuck in the stirrup, his black-clad torso slapping and scraping the road like a ragdoll alongside the rear hooves of the speeding horse.

Etienne spiraled onto Igore’s back, cursing as he had to duck under branches to get out from the depths of the trees. The minute he hit the road, he dug in his heels. Getting to Igore had taken too much time!

The spook’s powerful horse was still dragging the black-clad rider, but they were so far ahead, Etienne could no longer see them. He knew though, from the distant sound of those thundering treads, the horse was still racing onward. All he could do was give chase, praying the animal would slow enough for him to catch up. If he could catch up and rein the horse in, if he wasn’t too late, the spook might survive.

Etienne came hurtling around the bend, his squinted eyes scouring the road ahead so fiercely he didn’t see the black mass in the ditch to his right. And he wouldn’t have seen it, had Igore not suddenly bucked. It took all of Etienne’s horsemanship to keep from being thrown. As it was, when Igore landed, Etienne was straddling the stallion’s side more than his back. He swung his leg the rest of the way over and stumbled when he hit the ground.

Pain spiraled through his ankle, but he didn’t have time to think about it, or about yelling at Igore. The spook’s foot had wrenched free from the stirrup. Etienne could still hear the breakneck horse barreling onward in the distance, but the man himself was sprawled on the side of the road, and he wasn’t moving.

After such a punishing drag, the spook was most likely dead. If not dead, then pretty badly injured. Still, Etienne didn’t rush over. He drew his revolver and approached with caution, taking in first the arms and legs. None looked grotesquely distorted as they would be if the limbs had been ripped from their sockets, or shattered, but that didn’t mean bones weren’t cracked. As expected the rider wore knee high boots and his hands were gloved.

Once freed from the stirrup, he must have rolled a time or two. He was lying more on his side than his front, with his back to Etienne, and he was a slight figure, not particular tall, and slim—like a jockey. It was no wonder he was so fast on horseback. Oddly enough, neither kerchief had come off, though they were both askew. Even so, it was still impossible to see the hair or even the man’s profile.

Etienne’s ears were on high alert, listening for a moan or other evidence of life, as he took one step, and another. He got close enough to nudge the spook with his boot. That was his initial intent, but he thought better of it. The last thing the poor guy needed, after what he’d just been through, was to be jostled more, no matter that he was an enemy and probably deserved it. He wasn’t conscious, that much was clear. Etienne was about to lower to his haunches, to check for a pulse, to wrest the kerchief away, when something in the dirt at the man’s nape caught his eye—something that moved under the kerchief tie.

Etienne’s first thought was a snake, and that was enough to make him take a hasty step back. It wasn’t unusual to see black snakes in these parts, especially on hot summer days. A second look told him it wasn’t a snake, though it moved again, unraveling a little more from its coil. It was… hair… tightly
braided
hair…

Soldiers didn’t drop their weapons, and never would a highly trained officer, but in that instant, Etienne did. The revolver plopped onto the dirt a second before his knees came down.

“No, no, no!” He was frantic, his hands shaking, as he ripped his gloves off then carefully tugged the kerchief from her face. “Constance,
ma chérie!
Oh, god, what have I done?”

He wanted to grab her up, take her in his arms, breathe life into her again, but he couldn’t. Doing so might only hurt her battered body more. He didn’t know yet if she was even alive.

Tremors still scored him, not just his hands, but his entire frame, as he slipped his fingers under her chin, under the high black collar seeking a pulse. It was there. And she was breathing.

With fumbling fingers, he had to get the ties undone—the ties of the facial covering, and the cravat-like thing constricting her throat. That completed, his next course was to run his hands over each limb, seeking the protrusion of bone, swelling, anything to indicate significant injury. Her clothing was snagged, torn, even gaping in spots, but he felt no broken bones. Even the vertebrae in the back of her neck felt right. And she wasn’t bleeding anywhere, at least not profusely. Scratches and cuts weren’t easily visible in the darkness. The only way to truly assess the extent of her wounds would be to get her inside, under lamplight.

Etienne’s initial plan, as he carefully gathered her into his arms, was to take her to Grace Manor. Jessica and Emily would be able to help. Trent and Julien weren’t without knowledge of what to do for injuries, either. And they could send Wally or somebody for a doctor. This idea seemed the best, but once Etienne was on his feet, looking at Igore patiently munching grass just paces away, he realized wherever they went, he would have to carry her. There was no way to put her on Igore. She couldn’t sit up on her own, and he’d be damned before he laid her stomach-first over the saddle.

He thought about going to the nearest house, asking to borrow a buggy or wagon, but the closest house wasn’t close, and he couldn’t leave her lying alone by the side of the road while he went running off, risking he-didn’t-know-how-many refusals before he found someone willing to help.

In the end, he kept her in his arms and walked. He clucked to Igore, to get the horse to follow, but didn’t much care whether Igore heeded. He was more concerned with making sure he wasn’t hurting the delicate creature he held. No matter how much he talked to her—reassuring her that he would take care of her, that she would be okay, telling her he was sorry—she didn’t stir, and this only increased his already heightened anxiety.

Of course for the first half mile or so, she wasn’t heavy. By the time he could make out the schoolhouse in the distance, his shoulders and arms were burning so badly they were beginning to numb. Only God knew where Izzy was and of course, Igore hadn’t listened. Without a horse to hitch to it, Constance’s buggy was useless.

“We’re almost there,
chérie
. It’s just a little farther,” he murmured. “Then you can wake up and everything will be okay.”

Rex was barking before Etienne reached the yard. Although most of the windows appeared closed, he could hear the dog’s bellows from inside. His next dilemma was a key. Constance wasn’t carrying one on her, which meant Izzy had it. Picking a lock wasn’t out of the realm of things Etienne knew how to do, but for time’s sake, he hoped at least one of the doors wouldn’t be locked. Thankfully the rear one wasn’t.

Through the darkened house Etienne went, trying not to trip over Rex. He’d never been in Constance’s bedroom, and with the curtains drawn, even though his eyes were well adjusted, he could barely see the silhouette of the bed.

Carefully he lowered her. Without giving himself a moment to shake his arms out, he lit lamps, heated water, grabbed soap and whatever salves and linen for bandages he could find. The last thing he retrieved was a nightgown. In digging through dresser drawers, he discovered a revolver. A nice one—Smith and Wesson .38—but he didn’t have time to admire the weapon.

Taking his time he stripped her, bathed her and treated the abrasions that riddled her flesh. The worst of them were on her back, near her shoulders, though they weren’t as bad as they could have been. Her clothes had done a decent job of shielding her skin. Her elbows were both raw as well. The lump he discovered on the back of her head—the size of a genuine goose egg—explained her lingering unconsciousness.

She was bandaged, gowned and under the covers, and a tray with tea, water, bread and butter was on the end table, when finally Etienne pulled a chair to the bedside.

“I won’t leave you,
chérie
,” he kept on with the rambling one-sided dialogue that he’d been spouting non-stop since the road. “Why didn’t you tell me? Hmm? I wouldn’t have chased after you all these nights if I’d known. You know, if you enter the Independence Day race, you’ll win. No one will beat you—”

Her soft moan cut him off and brought him out of the chair to sit once more on the bed.

It was hard to speak over the lump in his throat. As it was, he choked, “Are you waking up,
chérie?
Please, wake up. Please. Please tell me you’re okay.”

“Mmm…” she moaned again and mumbled something he didn’t quite catch. Only a few words came through. “…mmm… hate him… want to ki… juh…”

Etienne took the folded cloth from her forehead, wrung it out in the basin and gently reapplied it. He had to do something to keep from succumbing to the unraveling emotions.

“Me? You hate me?” he murmured as he worked. “Yes, you probably should after what I did. But I’m going to make it up to you. I’m going to take care of you. If you’ll let me…”

Her eyelids flickered, though her eyes didn’t open. Her next words, however, weren’t nearly as muffled. And they were enough to catapult him off the bed, to make him stagger into the chair and send it clattering.

Briefly his eyes settled on the revolver he’d left lying on the end table.
Her
revolver.

She’d mumbled the name before, but he hadn’t caught on. This time around she still didn’t say the full moniker, but the portion that came out of her was clear enough to Etienne. What sounded like ‘Juh,’ was the beginning of the name, ‘Julien.’

“…is… juh… dead?” she said. “Did I kill him?”

“Read the passage, Archie!” Sadie bristled.

“No,” the youngster spat. “I ain’t gonna, and you cain’t make me. Yer not my overseer.”

“Actually, yes I am. Your brother asked me to see that you get some of the Good Book in you since you didn’t go to church today, and that’s what I’m doing. I read the first part. It’s your turn. Read. Verse twelve.” As an afterthought, she added, “Please.”

“No!”

“Oh, for god’s sake,” she muttered.

“Awww! You took the Lord’s name in vain!”

In attempting to get the yellow-headed monkey to read the Bible, Sadie had chosen Exodus, Chapter 20, because, of all people, Archie Murphy needed some ‘Ten Commandments.’ It was hard, sometimes, to remember he was just a young boy. But at least he’d been listening—he’d caught her commandment violation.

Sadie got up from the sofa to cut an imaginary circle around the small sitting room, and she mumbled under her breath, “You’re a pain in the behind, white boy.”

“I heard that,” Archie griped. “I’m gonna tell Sam and he’ll throw you out. He won’t let you in his house anymore.”

Sadie rolled her eyes and fired back, “Go ahead. Tell him. I don’t care.” She knew she shouldn’t let the child get to her so easily. She was supposed to be the more mature adult here. But the boy was just so… so…

“I cain’t read it, ’cause I don’t know this word,” he muttered.

When Sadie turned around, she saw his yellow head bent over the book open on his lap. Instantly contrite, she asked gently, “Can you try to sound it out?”

“Ho…hon…hono…” He knocked the book aside, crossed his arms over his chest and stuck his bottom lip out. “I cain’t do it. I ain’t smart like Sam. I ain’t never gonna read books like him.”

“That’s not true. I’m sure when Sam was your age he couldn’t read that word, either. When I was nine, I didn’t even know my letters yet.”

“That’s because yer a dumb… a dumb
black
.”

Sadie closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She should be grateful. At least, for once, he hadn’t called her the other word used so often to derogatorily describe her race. Sam, she guessed, was responsible for that particular change in his young brother’s vocabulary.

“What principle does an army soldier—an officer like Sam–value above all else?” she asked.

“Honor. He values his honor.” Archie’s mouth opened to form a round O, and Sadie smiled. Archie grabbed the book, ran his finger down the page, and read, “Honour thy father and thy mother—”

Hammering at the door interrupted Archie before he could finish the verse. Sadie couldn’t imagine who would be there, and knocking so forcibly. Even the tall colonel Sam worked for, who could be awfully demanding sometimes, had never battered on the wood like that.

“Open thith door!” a gruff male voice yelled. “My boyth in there! Artthie, come out here!”

Archie’s eyes turned into saucers and he jumped up so fast the Bible fell from his lap and landed on the floor with a loud thump.

“It’s my father,” he murmured.

Sadie put her finger to her lips, to indicate he should keep quiet, then called out, “Ya mus’ be mistaken, sirah. Dis be a nigga’s house. Hain’t no white boy in here.”

“Yer lyin’, gal. Thith ith where my thon Tham ith thtayin’. He’th keepin’ Artthie here and I know it!” Edward Murphy hollered.

“I ain’t gonna open that door, sirah!” Sadie called back, while Archie sidled silently to stand behind her. He was so close, he was stepping on the hem of her skirt and she could feel his breath on the back of her arm.

“Open thith door, or I’ll break it down!”

Sadie didn’t respond. She was about to send Archie to the bedroom to hide, but wasn’t fast enough. Something struck the door and it swung inward so fast, it slammed into the wall with a loud crack. Edward Murphy, paunch and all, marched in.

“Told ya, you wath lyin’,” he spat. “Archie, let’th go. We’re goin’ home.”

“I ain’t goin’. Sam said I can stay here and I’m stayin’!” Archie hollered.

“Why you intholent little cuth. Don’t you dare talk back to me! You’ll pay for that.”

The man strode forward and Sadie reacted on instinct, raising her arms to guard Archie. “You can’t take him. Sam said he’s to stay here.”

“Well, lookie there, a nigger talkin’ all high and mighty,” Edward sniveled. “Get outta my way, gal. That’th my thon and he’th comin’ with me.”

“You’re not taking this boy,” Sadie repeated.

The next thing she knew, something plowed into her cheek. Whatever it was—a backhand, maybe?—whirled into her so rapidly, she hadn’t seen it. But she surely felt it. Momentarily seeing nothing but stars, she reeled, crashing into Archie then stumbling into the wall.

“Sadie! Help! Sadie!”

Sadie heard Archie’s panicked cries. She heard other things too, like a chair falling, a table being knocked on its side. Archie was putting up as much of a fight as he could. To clear her head, Sadie had to shake it. Only then did she see Archie’s father had him by the collar. Despite the boy’s piercing wails, Edward Murphy was dragging him toward the door. Sadie’s head was still off-kilter, but she rushed after them. Just before they crossed the threshold, she caught Archie’s arm.

“Sadie! Don’t let him take me! Sadie!” Archie wailed.

“Let go, Mr. Murphy!” Sadie hollered.

“Ath if I would ever take orderth from a nigger gal.” He had hold of Archie’s other arm and yanked enough to cause Sadie to stagger forward.

The child became the rope in a mean game of tug of war. Shouts prevailed over the din, and all Sadie could do was pray silently that someone, anyone, would hear and come to help. She prayed her father wasn’t at the barn, but at home, and that Sam would return from whatever he was doing for the colonel right then.

But none of those things happened. Archie’s whimpers turned into bellows as he was manhandled back and forth. The only difference between Sadie’s yanking and Mr. Murphy’s was that Sadie used every bit of her strength, while Mr. Murphy sniggered. She would never get Archie free. She wasn’t strong enough, and they were hurting him.

Sadie let go.

“Saaadiiiiieeee!” Archie cried. He was still flailing, reaching out to her.

“Sam will help you,” she called out. “He’ll come for you.”

She ran out after them, but there was nothing she could do as Edward Murphy hauled Archie up into the wagon seat, laid him out and sat on top of him to hold him there. Then Mr. Murphy released the brake and slapped the reins so hard, both horses shrieked.

“Saaaadiiiiiiie—oooommmm!” Archie cried, but his father’s hand slapped over his mouth and drowned him out.

Sadie raced after the wagon, but it easily outdistanced her. Archie’s father didn’t keep to the trail that would take him around the manor house and out the front entrance. Instead he veered the opposite direction across an unfenced field.

Her cheek was smarting so badly, Sadie could barely keep the eye on that side of her face open, and tears were pouring out, trailing down her cheek and jaw. She even felt them dampening her dress, but this didn’t deter her. With her skirt hiked up, she raced onward, this time toward the main house.

She was still running, though her lungs were ready to burst, when she spotted the children playing in the yard. Lucy was with them, but so were others. “Mr. Trent!” she hollered. “Mr. Julien!”

They both spun, as did everyone else. Sadie was moving so fast, if Mr. Trent hadn’t caught her by one shoulder and Mr. Julien by the other, she might have plowed them both over. As it was she tripped over Mr. Trent’s boot.

“Sadie, good god, girl, what happened to you?” Mr. Trent said as he and Mr. Julien tried to steady her.

It was a good thing they had a hold of her. Sadie was sure her knees would buckle at any second, and her breath was heaving so badly, she could barely get the words out. “That… Mr. Murph… y took Archie… He took… him.”

“Sweetie, where’s Sam?” Mr. Julien asked.

He looked concerned, and Sadie was glad. That meant they would go after Mr. Murphy and get Archie back. “I… don’t… know,” Sadie managed. “But he said… Archie wasn’t… supposed to… go with… Mr. Murphy. He… took Archie… through the… west field…

“Sadie, how did this happen? Did Edward Murphy hit you?” Mr. Trent cut her off. To her nod, he blasted, “Son of a bitch!”

By now, the women who worked in the kitchen had come out onto the porch. In the next heartbeat, Miss Emily and Miss Jessica were there, as well. Miss Emily took one look at Sadie and began propelling her toward the house, spouting out instructions for water and bandages. It was just like Miss Emily to make a big deal out of nothing. Sadie’s face barely smarted any longer, but there was nothing she could do to keep them from leading her along. They were almost to the porch when out of the corner of her eye, she saw her father hurrying from the barn.

And Sam… Sam was with him.

Sam was staring at her as his hurried steps turned into a full-out run. He was moving so quickly, Wally couldn’t keep up. The expression on his white face was as stricken as Mr. Trent’s and Mr. Julien’s.

“Sam…” Sadie murmured, though no one paid attention. And she had to remind herself Sam wasn’t running to her. He was running because of Archie. Mr. Trent and Mr. Julien would tell him Mr. Murphy had come and taken Archie away. Sam would go after his brother and bring him back, and then everything would be okay.

“Sam, where’s Etienne?” Julien called out.

“I don’t know, sir,” Sam said, but he was still looking at Sadie.

The last thing Sadie heard before the kitchen door closed behind her was Mr. Trent raging, “Murphy will pay for this!”