Her Healing Ways (14 page)

He wanted to say, “No, I'm not.” Instead, he clapped his aggravation tightly under control. “Why would you tell Ma Bailey we kissed?”

“I didn't, of course. Does thee think I've taken leave of my senses?”

Now he burned with chagrin. Of course Mercy wouldn't have revealed the kiss to anyone, least of all
the town's busybody. Why couldn't he think straight when it came to Mercy Gabriel?

His irritation still molten, still flowing, he said, “Fine. Good. Great.” He turned toward the door and then said over his shoulder, “Tell Digger I won't be working at the mine tomorrow. I've got to leave Idaho Bend. It's time I finally got out of this town.”

With that, he marched out the door.

 

“Hey!” A hand shook Lon's. “What're you doin' here? You forget to get up for our breakfast meetin'? Digger's drinkin' coffee at the café, waitin' for you.”

It was Athol. Lon rolled on his back and stared up at the ceiling. He'd been bunking at the mining office, but last night he'd returned to the saloon. After working all day at the mine and gambling all night, he'd staggered here and collapsed, falling into an almost drugged sleep.

“I heard about you tellin' that sheriff and the Boise doctor off. Still hasn't got a lead on who stabbed you, huh? And that doctor has a nerve stickin' his nose into our town's business. Who does he think he is, tellin' us who we can have doctorin' us?” Athol asked. “My ma always said, ‘Keep your nose out of other people's business and it won't get snipped off.'”

Paying scant attention to Athol's rant, Lon thought over last night. He had hated every moment of last night's gambling. Why?

Mercy intruded into his thoughts unwelcomed. He might as well face the truth. He didn't want to spend another night gambling. What he really needed to do was leave the town. But he didn't want to leave Digger and the miners high and dry. At least that was what he told himself.

“Well, ya sick? Or you comin'?” Athol demanded.

“Isn't Digger well enough to go back to work?” Lon hedged.

“Needs his new leg the lady doctor ordered from Tarver.”

“Okay, then,” Lon capitulated. He rose, shortened his morning routine and was soon walking beside Athol and smoothing back his hair as he donned his hat.

Athol squinted up at him. “Heard you kissed the Quaker.”

Lon waited for a rush of irritation at this, but instead found himself amused to be discussing such things with Athol. “You did?”

“Yeah, and you know she's the kind of woman who gets under a man's skin.”

This keen observation startled Lon. “What do you mean?”

Shading his eyes, Athol looked to the clear sky directly above. “I'm not too good with words. But here's the thing. Most women're interested in doo-dads and furbelows and such. But the lady doctor's a woman who cares about what a woman ought to
care about—bein' kind and doin' good. That's what my ma said I should look for in a wife.”

“Is that why you're a bachelor, too?” Lon asked, grinning.

“Ain't a bachelor, I'm a widower.”

Lon instantly felt bad for making a joke. But Athol smiled in reverie. “I been married twice. First wife was Merrillee and the second was Violet. Both of 'em cared about bein' good to others.” Athol slanted a look up at Lon. “And good to me. If I were younger, gambler, I'd set my cap for the Quaker.”

“I'll take that under advisement, Athol,” Lon said lightly, as if the man's words hadn't been like an acid wash to the heart.

“You'd be smart to do so,” he replied.

 

Deep in the November twilight, Lon approached the snug little cabin on the edge of town. He'd spent a long day at the mine, and it had been a good one except for his regret over the harsh words he had tossed at Mercy the day before.

Snowflakes floated down around him. Winter was coming and this morning on the way to the mine he had bought himself a wool coat. The change in the weather mimicked the change in his life. He had come to town a cheerful gambler, living by his wits. Now, nothing much was fun.

He walked more slowly, trying not to reach her door before he could come up with what he wanted
to say to Mercy, how to apologize to her for his hasty, rude words.

The door opened and Mercy stood in the doorway. For a moment, he was transfixed. The candlelight behind her formed a halo around her slender, petite figure. He often forgot how dainty she was in body. Her spirit towered over most other people he'd ever met.

“Good evening, Lon Mackey. Come in from the cold.”

Her softly spoken words captured him. He hurried forward and slipped inside past her. She shut the door behind him. The cabin was lit with two candles and warmed by the fire. He was thankful to see that Indigo was not present. “Where's Indigo?”
That wasn't what I wanted to say.

“She is visiting a friend in town, a girl near her age. I'm very pleased that the girl's parents have welcomed Indigo into their home.” She held out her hand for his coat and hung it on a peg by the door.

He added his hat and stood awkwardly in the center of the small, sparsely furnished, one-room cabin. Her neatly made bed sat against the far wall, the table and chairs were by the window, and two rockers flanked the hearth. He felt like an intruder.

“Come sit with me by the fire,” she invited, claiming one of the chairs and waving him toward the other. “I thought thee were planning to leave Idaho Bend as soon as possible.”

Was she taunting him? He walked, feeling like a
windup toy, and sat down. The chair creaked under him in a friendly way, yet he was unable to relax. “I am leaving,” he said with emphasis, “but I came to apologize—”

“For what?” She looked at him, her gaze open and honest, as always.

“I wasn't very polite the last time I arrived at your door.” There, he'd admitted it. But he didn't feel any release of tension. He couldn't meet her gaze.

“Thee doesn't need to apologize for being concerned about me.”

“That's not what I was referring to.”

“Oh?” She tilted her face.

He ground his teeth, then said, “I know you didn't tell Ma Bailey about…” He couldn't bring himself to say the word
kiss.
He fell silent, nettled by her gracious words.

“So Ma Bailey broadcast…” Now she faltered. “What happened that night in the back of the church.”

Now her careful wording goaded him into speaking the truth. “You mean when I kissed you.”

She didn't reply right away. He waited as she rocked, the chair creaking in a steady rhythm that was making his neck tighten.

“Yes, when thee kissed me.” She looked down at her hands folded in her lap.

He had come here with the best of intentions. And here in this soothing setting, with this soft-spoken and
gentle woman, every word punctured his peace like sharp teeth. Where was this anger coming from?

“Thee is angry. I'm sorry, but I knew that Ma Bailey would not be able to keep a secret.”

“So you knew she'd seen us?” He nearly stood up.

“Yes, she mentioned it to me the day Dr. Drinkwater left. I don't know how she managed to see us. She must have been dozing in one of the back pews and must have heard us…and woke. But as I said before, Lon, I did not discuss what happened with anyone.”

“Now everyone knows.” His words came out more harshly than he'd intended.

“I have not replied to any plain or veiled questions about it. It will blow over.”

Her casual tone and the way she neutralized the kiss—which had shaken him to his core—infuriated him. He leaped to his feet, lifted her from her chair and kissed her again. For a second he felt resistance. Then she melted against him. He tightened his embrace and kissed her as if the world were about to end and this was his last chance to show her how much he cared.

The thought froze him in place.

M
ercy felt Lon's sudden stiffening and sensed what might come next. To prevent it, she wrapped her arms around him and hung on tight. As she had anticipated, he tried to pull away. She tightened her hold on him more, refusing to release him.

“Thee did that the last time, Lon. Thee kissed me and then left. This is all very confusing. What's happening?” She gazed at Lon's face. He looked as if he were in pain. Her throat tightened. “What's wrong, Lon?”

He looked upward, avoiding her eyes. “I shouldn't be kissing you. I know that.”

“That is not the issue, Lon Mackey. I am not married and thee is not…or are thee married? Is that it?”

“No, I'm not married.” He laughed in an unpleasant way. “She had the good sense to marry my best friend.”

Realization dawned on Mercy and her heart nearly broke for Lon. “Is that why thee runs off every time thee kisses me—”

“This is only the second time I've kissed thee, I mean you. Don't make a big fuss about it. You said yourself that Ma Bailey's gossipmongering will blow over.” His voice was climbing, sounding more and more annoyed.

“I am not making a fuss,” she defended herself. “I just want to understand. Thee is an honest man. Face the truth. Thee has kissed me twice, and more than just a gentle brushing of my lips.” The physical memory of how he'd kissed her thrummed through her.

“Thee has kissed me with…with ardor. I know a friend's kiss is different than…thy kisses.” She took his stubborn chin in one hand and tugged it down so he was looking at her. “Now who is this woman who married thy best friend?”

“I don't want to talk about her.”

“I probably don't want to hear about her, but tell me anyway.”

He looked startled by her admission, and something changed in his face. “I went to war. My friend paid three hundred dollars bounty for someone else to serve in his place. So she married him. That's all there is to it.”

Mercy brought her other hand up and captured his resisting chin within both hands, forcing him to look
at her. “What a dreadful woman. Thee is well rid of her, Lon.”

“In the end, she did me a favor. She was a woman with no loyalty. You, on the other hand…” Lon suddenly bent to kiss her again.

She stepped from his embrace, though it cost her. She wanted to stay within the circle of his arms. “Lon Mackey, I must be truthful and admit that I enjoy thy kisses, but now we must talk. Kissing means something more than friendship is forming between us.”

 

He couldn't help himself. He grinned. How like Mercy to come out and just tell him she liked his kisses. And how like her to insist on being told why he'd kissed her. He leaned his head back and exhaled. He felt her take his hand and then nudge him back into the chair he'd left.

“We will talk now, Lon Mackey. Thy troubled spirit has long been on my mind.” She moved her chair closer to his, but still faced the fire.

A log collapsed in the flames, sending up bright orange sparks. He rose and took the poker, pushing the logs around and adding one from the nearby stack. “Who's been cutting your wood?”

She chuckled. “Lon Mackey, I am not going to be distracted by such a foolish question. Now it is time for truth telling. A faithless woman abandoned thee for a friend. That is hurtful, but I cannot believe that is the reason thee denies who and what thee are.”

He nearly snapped, “Who am I then? And what?”
He caught himself. If he asked this woman those rhetorical questions, it was predictable that she would give him her opinions. And she had stated the truth. Janette's betrayal had not given him this deep hurt, this deep ache.

“Thee has no answer for me then?”

He sat back down. Her simple words were aggravating him, and he was aggravated at himself for being annoyed. “Why don't you tell me?”

She began rocking. “I already have told thee and on more than one occasion. This time thee must tell me what I do not know about you.”

“I don't want to talk about me,” he said, hating the belligerence in his voice.

“Has thee told anyone about what troubles thee? Why thee decided to become a gambler? Is there someone better than I who is willing to listen and understand?”

He pictured her with her stethoscope to his chest, listening to his heart. “Want to diagnose my illness?” he quipped.

She turned and looked at him full in the face. Firelight flickered shadows over her pale features. How had she become so beautiful to him? “I want to understand thee. I want thee to understand thyself so thee stops kissing me and leaving. And I want thee to stop going back to the saloon to gamble when thee knows thee doesn't want to.”

He began marshaling his arguments to avoid disclosure. Then he stopped. His feelings had suddenly
ignited. Scorching fury surveyed within him. “I'm so angry,” he blurted out.

She nodded. “I know. What fires thy wrath?”

The erupting anger became a volcano like ancient Pompeii. It uncapped inside him, scalding and bubbling. He felt her cool hand rest on his forearm. He tried to pull away.

She held tight. “Please, Lon Mackey, here in this room, just the two of us, thee can tell me. Purge the anger. I can stand the storm.”

An image flashed in his mind. Mercy and he at the mine, the storm pounding above. Drenched, they were running hand in hand. Another image seared across that one. In the midst of battle, he was urging his men forward. Grapeshot and bullets were whizzing through the air. His men were falling around him. He heard them screaming, calling for God. Fear and terror forced him out of his chair.

“Don't leave me, Lon.” Her voice was urgent, yet gentle and completely disarming.

He moaned God's name and then sank back into the chair and began sobbing. He tried to stop the wrenching cries that boiled up from deep inside him. He couldn't. He buried his face in his hands. Mercy knelt in front of him and wrapped herself around him, laying her head on his arm, a sweet presence. Tears poured down his face. Time passed, but he could not stop until finally he was empty, purged.

Finally, he opened his eyes and looked down. Mercy's white-blond hair had come loose and flowed
onto his lap. It reminded him of a painting he'd seen once of angels with hair like spun white-gold.
Mercy, what are you doing to me?
“I'm sorry,” he said, his voice still thick from weeping.

She raised her head and looked up into his face, a tender smile curving her pale pink lips. “Thee has nothing to apologize for. Thee has been carrying that heavy, sorrowful burden much too long.”

“Crying doesn't do any good.” He wiped his wet face with his hands.

“Oh, that's right. Boys don't cry.” She tilted her head. “But, in truth, they do, and men should sometimes, too. God gave us the ability to weep because sometimes we must weep. Jesus wept at the grave of a friend. Is thee better, stronger than he?” She rose then.

He wanted to pull her back, keep her close. His arms reached for her, and then he remembered that she didn't belong to him. He let them fall back to the chair arms.

She leaned forward and kissed his cheek, a soft, fleeting benediction he wished he could save. Then she sat in her chair and lifted some white yarn from the oak basket on the floor next to her. “Tell me.”

“Tell you? What?”

She gave him a narrowed look as if scolding him. “About the war. What thee hated most. Who thee misses most. What keeps coming up in thy mind that has the power to make thee try to be a different man?”

“That's a lot of talking.” He snorted. His limbs felt weak as if he'd just been ridden hard and put away wet. He couldn't have stood up if he wanted to. “It's too much.”

“I agree,” Mercy said. “It was a long, devastating war and the losses to all were overwhelming. Thee knows that I was there, too. Sometimes I wonder how I did what I did.”

His head felt heavy. Bending, he leaned his cheek on his upturned hand, hiding his face from her gaze. “I'm spent.”

“Weeping takes more energy than one would imagine.”

He leaned his head back against the chair and began rocking. The woman near him began knitting, and the rhythm of the needles joined the creaking of the two rockers. It had been a very long time since he felt this much at peace. The weeping had cleansed him somehow. Washed away the sins of the past.
I'm becoming poetical,
he jeered at himself.

Mercy knitted, clicking her wooden needles, and Lon rocked, matching her rhythm with the creaking of the chair. It was a companionable quiet, peaceful. She didn't push him to reveal more, but he knew she would not let this go. “You're right,” he admitted at last. “I don't want to gamble anymore. I used to, but that's changed.”

“Thee needed a break from responsibility. I see that.” She paused, studying her knitting. “But I think
that the cholera epidemic and then the mining accident forced thee to face who thee really is.”

“And who am I, really?” The fact that she insisted she knew him better than he did remained irksome.

“Thee is Lon Mackey, a good man, a born leader. Thee has a path, too. The war wasn't meant to be thy path—”

“I thought it was when I went to West Point,” he interrupted. Uncapped by her fearless words, emotions he couldn't identify easily were sliding, swirling through him. “I wanted to be an officer in the U.S. Army. And we see how wise that was.”

I've lost all my youthful zeal and idealism, Mercy. I can't get it back no matter what I do.

He gave a dry laugh. “Colonels are not as needed as before. What would you suggest I choose as a career now?” He couldn't keep the mocking note from his tone, even though it was directed at himself, not her.

“Thee must find that thyself. I have faith, however, that God will show thee the work, the path He has for thee if thee asks Him.” Her hands, pale in the dim light, worked the needles and white yarn.

Lon still couldn't wrap his mind around this woman's God. The faith he'd been raised with had failed him in the war. He'd called out to God during the cave-in, but that was not faith, merely desperation. “It's as simple as that?” he asked with an edge to his tone.

“People like to make God complicated. But once
thee accepts that He is God, Ruler of all who live, life becomes easier. He has a plan for each life.”

“God didn't hear my prayers in the war. Why would He now?” he grumbled. The old question still hooked him with a barb.

“We live in a fallen world. People like to think that God wants them to go to war in His name, but God doesn't want war any more than you do, Lon Mackey. Thee prayed and thy prayers did not appear to be answered because the war went on and on. But God cannot make humans do something they do not want to do. The Confederacy would not surrender until it could no longer go on.”

“So evil exists because people won't surrender to good?” he asked sardonically.

“Yes, thee has stated it very well.” She was counting her stitches on one needle, moving them two by two. “If we all put our efforts into doing the good for others that God wants for us, this world would be a better place.”

How could he argue with her about that? He didn't have the strength to form more words. But his mind took him back to the war. The few times he'd tried to protect his men in battle, his caution had only caused more loss of life.
I don't have your faith, Mercy. I don't see any path for me.

“Lon, how long will thee deny they true self and God? Thee does not want to play the gambler any more than thee truly wants to leave this town.”

He went to counter her words, but couldn't make the effort.

The door opened and Indigo walked in, letting in a rush of chill wind. “I'm home, Aunt Mercy— Oh!”

Lon rose from the rocker, feeling at least eighty years old. Mercy had exhausted him. “Good evening, Indigo.”

“Good evening, sir. I didn't know you were visiting.”

“We were just talking,” he said, feeling vulnerable, yet certain Mercy wouldn't betray knowledge of his loss of control. How had this happened? He hadn't wept like this even during the war over his fallen comrades in arms.

“If you two want to speak in private, I'll go see Mrs. Dunfield,” Indigo offered, staying by the door.

“No, no.” He went to the pegs and donned his hat and coat. “I'll see you ladies around town then.”

“Please think about what we have discussed. I will be praying that thee finds thy path.” Mercy had turned to him, casting her face in shadow. Still, her bright hair gleamed in the low light.

He conquered the urge to return and kiss her goodnight. “Indeed I will. Good night.” He opened the door and stepped out into the cold night. The darkness around him reflected his dim outlook. What was he going to work at now? And when could he kiss Mercy again? That last was a perilous question. She demanded a lot with her kisses. Would he ever live up
to her expectations? Or would he merely disappoint her? Could he live with himself if he did?

 

In the café's clatter of dishes and silverware and surrounding chatter, Digger, Athol and Lon sat around a table the next morning.

“Lon, I still need you for about a week or two,” Digger said. “I can walk now with this prosthetic leg but I don't have the stamina I need to work sunup to sundown. I'll go to the mine in the morning to look matters over, go back to the mining office and come back just before the end of the day.”

Lon nodded. He had been expecting this. But the question of what he would do now loomed, mocking him.

“Are you…I don't think…well…” Digger stammered.

“I'm not going back to gambling, if that's what you're trying to ask.” Lon felt his mouth twist down on one side. “But I don't know what I can do to make a living. The only thing I know besides gambling is the army.” He tossed up both hands and then folded his arms over his chest.