Rekindled (8 page)

Larson’s heart thudded against his ribs as new hope kindled inside him.

Soft humming in a masculine timbre hovered toward him. Burnt-orange flame flickered and played off the walls. Lying prone, he could make out the vague outline of a dresser and cupboard within his limited view. An aroma conjuring comfort and home filtered through his uncertainty. A sharp pang jabbed his abdomen, slowly registering as hunger. The sensation felt both foreign and familiar.

Larson tried to swallow but his throat closed tight. He heard the
plunk
as an oil lamp was set on a table. Then a shadowed figure, barely distinguishable from the darkness, loomed at the foot of the bed.

“Lord, lay your healing hand on this child of yours.” The same deep voice, then more humming.

Larson could almost make out the tune. It was one Kathryn sang. Oh, to hear her sweet voice again. A cool draft wafted over his legs and up his chest, and he shivered at the undeniable bond of human touch.

The humming ceased, and the man leaned forward. A chuckle cleaved the silence. “Well, praise Jesus.” He turned away. “Abby, come quick.”

The laughter gurgling up from inside the man resonated in Larson’s chest like a life-giving stream. Larson felt a smile tug the edges of his parched lips. The pale yellow light illuminating the room suddenly curved and swung before arching over the bed. For a moment all Larson could do was stare at the dark face and beaming smile of the man standing over him.

He was older than Larson would have guessed from his voice. Fifty, if he was a day.

The black man reached out a massive hand and gently laid it on Larson’s head. The touch felt strange somehow. And while the fatherly gesture offered Larson immense comfort, it opened a floodgate of emotions that were foreign to him.

“My wife said you’d be joining us today.” The man laughed as though he’d told a joke. “My Abby has that way about her, you know.”

Larson suddenly became aware of his own breathing. Shallow, rasping. He tried to fill his lungs with air, and his chest burned from the effort.

“You just take it easy now.” Compassion registered in the dark eyes holding his. “You’ve been through the worst already.”

Soft footsteps drew Larson’s attention, and a woman walked into the pale glow. She tucked herself beneath the sheltering arm of her husband, now drawing her close. Her pale blue eyes and silvered blond hair reflected the soft light. She put a hand to her open mouth, looking as though she wanted to speak but couldn’t.

Larson stared at the couple, his eyes going wide. The woman’s skin, the color of fresh cream from the pitcher, contrasted with the deep mahogany complexion of the man beside her. Suddenly Larson was glad he couldn’t speak. He feared he might have said something unfitting. But certainly his expression revealed the whole of his shock.

As though reading his thoughts, they smiled at him, then at each other.

“My name is Isaiah,” the man said softly, his voice sounding like the force of mighty waters tumbling over smooth rock. He lowered the lamp and set it on a table beside the bed, then placed a hand on Larson’s shoulder. “Abby and I welcome you to our home.”

Isaiah rearranged the sheets draped over Larson’s body, then slipped an arm beneath his shoulders. Isaiah’s touch exuded confidence, and Larson drew strength from it. Abby propped pillows behind his back as he leaned forward. The room swayed as Larson sat up. Shutting his eyes, he fought the disturbing feeling that he hadn’t done this in a long while.

As though sensing his unease, Abby laid a cool hand to his forehead, and he had a peculiar sense of well-being. Once the world stopped spinning, Larson opened his eyes.

He was in a bed under a contraption unlike anything he’d seen before. His arms and legs were draped with sheets and suspended above the mattress by means of ropes. His eyes trailed up the rudimentary pulley-type system to the ceiling and then back down again.

Waves of dread expanded through his chest. Using his right hand, he strained to reach the edge of the sheet. He peered beneath.

A strangled cry rose from his chest. Sickness twisted his gut.

The scarred, furrowed flesh of his legs, arms, and chest blurred before him as reality shredded his hope. The body on the bed resembled nothing of what he remembered. While patches of skin on his legs and arms remained seemingly unscathed, the majority bore the carnage of the flames. His abdomen, once lean and muscled, looked as though fiery talons had clawed him raw, leaving shallow welts of white-ribboned flesh.

An ache started in his throat and he dropped the sheet. The air left his lungs in a rush.

Isaiah laid a hand on his arm. “I know what you’re thinking . . . that you’ll never walk again. That you won’t be able to do the things you did before. But that’s a lie.”

Larson turned away, but Isaiah gently drew his face back.

“Don’t listen to that voice. Part of healing involves believing that you will be healed. Abby and I learned long ago that it means giving the Almighty your mind—” Isaiah touched his broad forehead, then covered the place over his heart—“along with your body and heart, and letting Him take charge.”

Despite the assurance in Isaiah’s voice and the compassion in Abby’s gaze, panic tightened Larson’s chest. Isaiah nodded to Abby and she left the room, closing the door behind her. Then Isaiah slowly lifted the sheets.

Cool air prickled the flesh on Larson’s legs and arms. It took every ounce of courage within him to look down again.

His stomach churned at the hideous scars.

“Like I told you before,” Isaiah said as he laid a hand atop Larson’s, “you’re through the worst of it now. But you still have a hard road before you. I’ve seen men in the mining camps blown up and burned so badly you’d think they’d never live through the night.” Isaiah smiled, and the effect resembled the youthfulness of a young boy far more than a huge mountain of a man. “But the Great Physician hears their prayers, and they live.

“I’ve worked with men before to help them regain their strength. And I can help you too.” Fierceness settled behind the man’s dark eyes. “You have a fight in you that only a few men possess. I saw it during the first days you were here, then after that in the weeks you fought the infection. You have something worth living for. I don’t know what it is. Or who . . .” He paused. A gleam lit his eyes. “But I suspect her name is Kathryn.”

Isaiah’s words pulsed with Larson. But something in particular made his mind reel.
“In the weeks you fought the infection.”

Straining, he reached over and took hold of Isaiah’s shirt. Larson moved his lips but nothing came out. He tried again. The words scraped over the tender cords in his throat. “How . . . long?” he rasped.

Isaiah didn’t answer for a moment, then nodded once. “You’ve been with us for over two months. It’s the second day of March.”

Larson let his hand fall free. How could so much time have passed? Harold Kohlman at the Willow Springs Bank. The loan payment coming due. What must Kathryn be thinking after all this time?

Isaiah placed his hand upon his head, and Larson suddenly realized why the touch felt so different. He was feeling flesh on flesh.

Understanding weighed Isaiah’s expression, and Larson’s chest ached.

He thought God had spared his life for a reason, when all along it had been a cruel, horrible joke. How was he supposed to live like this? Provide for Kathryn? Be a husband to her? He imagined what her response would be to him now, and the result sickened him.

He turned away from Isaiah, ashamed of his tears, ashamed of what he’d become. Why hadn’t God just let him die that night? Why?

Some time later, Abby appeared by his bedside cradling a cup in her hands. Steam rose from its contents. “The tea will give you strength and help you find your voice again.”

Kindness wrapped itself around her voice, but Larson sensed an iron will at its core. He lacked the strength—or the ability, he thought bitterly—to refuse. He drank as she held the cup to his lips.

The warm liquid burned at first, and he choked on the first two swallows. But after a few sips, the muscles in his throat relaxed and the bitter brew washed down to his stomach. Abby’s movements were swift and efficient, and belied the soft lines of age crinkling the corners of her eyes and mouth when she smiled.

Larson found himself self-conscious under her gaze. He looked away. Then it occurred to him that while tending him Abby had no doubt become familiar with his scars, and far more—the same as Isaiah. The realization didn’t lessen his discomfort.

His eyes grew heavy, and he suspected the ingredients in Abby’s tea had a sedating effect.

When Larson awakened, he saw Isaiah reaching into a cupboard on the far wall. Isaiah hummed as he took several containers from the shelves. He meticulously measured out ingredients and replaced the containers before grinding what he’d taken with a mortar and pestle. He emptied the contents from the mortar into a wooden bowl, then drew a bottle from the highest shelf. Pouring a dark liquid over all, he began to blend the mixture.

Larson watched him, wanting to tell him not to bother if the concoction was for him. What difference did it make now? On the heels of his hopelessness, he thought of how kind Isaiah and Abby had been to him, of all they’d given. What caused people to be so generous? He was a stranger to them, yet they’d taken him in and cared for him, had tended his wounds and fed him. He looked down at his withered body. Well, they’d kept him alive anyway. Larson doubted that even Kathryn’s cooking could layer his bones again.

Kathryn . . .

Isaiah turned and looked at him, and Larson felt as though the man had heard every unspoken thought.

“Good morning.” Isaiah brought the bowl with him and sat on a chair beside the bed. As he mixed the contents, a pungent scent spiced the air. “You’ve been asleep for two days.” He winked. “I forgot to tell you, watch out for Abby’s tea.”

Despite not wanting to, Larson smiled in response. Something about Isaiah—Abby too—skirted his defenses and infused him with unsolicited hope.

Isaiah lifted a brow. “Well, that’s a little something, at least.”

Larson swallowed and glanced at the bowl. “I hope that’s not breakfast,” he whispered, testing his voice. His mood lightened at Isaiah’s smile.

Isaiah looked down at the bowl dwarfed in his hands. When he lifted his head, all traces of the smile were gone. “Tell me your name.”

Larson stared at him a moment. “Larson Jennings,” he rasped.

“As I see it, Larson, God’s given you a second chance. You can have your life back. Not as it was, but as it is now.” He set the bowl aside and leaned closer. “When I found you in that burned-out shack, the only reason I pulled you out was to bury you. There is no earthly reason why you should be alive right now, so there must be a heavenly one.”

Larson watched Isaiah’s rugged face fill with emotion. A single tear trailed down the man’s rough cheek.

“I normally don’t go through that ravine. I travel around it.” Isaiah glanced down at his clasped hands. “You might say my former life instilled a sense of caution in me. I like to know what’s around me, and I don’t like closed in spaces. Especially at night.”

Larson read the pain in Isaiah’s eyes and suddenly wanted to know more about this man. “Where were you . . . before this?” His voice resembled a rusty hinge.

“I was born in Georgia and worked for a time on a plantation there and in South Carolina. I came out west almost twenty years ago with a man who won a hand of poker. I was the prize. Oh, I didn’t mind leavin’ the South, not one bit. The man who won me was a physician.” He gave a soft laugh. “As it turned out, he was an excellent doctor but a poor gambler. Years later he was shot for cheating. But the day he won me in that card game, bless him, I became a free man.”

Isaiah spoke the last words with a sigh, and Larson suspected that whatever Isaiah’s life had become after that day, it wasn’t what he had expected. Strangely, that thought brought him hope, and spurred further questions within him. Was there a chance that God hadn’t forgotten him after all? And what had Isaiah said about a heavenly reason for him having survived the explosion?

Larson remembered Kathryn sharing a Bible verse with him once that spoke to that thought, or close to it. Something about God’s ways being different from ours. Kathryn often read their Bible in the rocking chair by the hearth at night. Recalling how she looked, her features softened by firelight, her honey hair reflecting the glow, sparked a longing inside him.

Unlike Kathryn, he’d never taken much stock in reading the Bible. If obliged to give answer, he would concede that the Bible was God’s Word. But the simple truth was, it had never made any real difference in his life. How could dried words on a page, written hundreds of years ago, make a difference in a man’s life? Hard work and making a success of yourself were what counted. God invested abilities in a man and then expected a return on that investment. Surely that was what mattered.

Unexpected doubt goaded Larson’s certainty. How would he ever make a success of himself now? All of his dreams, money, and energy were tied up in the ranch. If he lost it, he lost everything. He did a quick calculation. On the sixteenth of March the next loan payment would come due. If he was late again, Harold Kohlman would surely follow through with his threat.

“Larson, are you hungry?” Isaiah’s voice drew him back. “Abby has breakfast ready.”

Larson looked up, distracted. “Sure,” he whispered. Then he leaned forward, wincing at the soreness in his back and legs. “But first, I need to ask you to do something for me.”

Isaiah’s eyes lit, conveying his answer.

“What’s the closest town with a telegraph?”

Isaiah didn’t answer immediately. His broad forehead sunk low. “Why?”

“Because I need to send a wire to a man at the Willow Springs Bank.” Larson took a deep breath and tried to ignore the pain. “It’s urgent that I get word to him. I could lose everything I have in this life, everything I own. My ranch, my land.”

Isaiah stood abruptly. “I’m afraid that’s impossible.” He turned away, grabbed the bowl on the table, and stalked back to the cupboard. He kept his back turned. “It’s been snowing for days now, heavy and wet. It’ll be at least a month before the passes are clear enough to travel. And that’s only if we get fair weather.” He threw a hasty glance to the window. “That’s doubtful at this point.”