the unconscionable massacre at the Washita, over in a matter of minutes but horrific for its victims. “Sometimes there are no answers to the question ‘Why?’”
“God may know, but at times like this, that is little comfort.” She cocked her head to one side, studying him intently. “Tell me about your mother. How did you go on without her?”
He rarely spoke about that time before his mother died when she filled the house with laughter and song. About her cinnamon rolls which had spoiled him forever from savoring any others. About the way she cuddled him and his brother at bedtime and made Bible stories come to life.
He must’ve gone to another place, because Lily’s voice returned him to the present. “Forgive me, Caleb. That is an overly personal question.”
“Not between friends,” he said, swallowing hard. They resumed strolling. “As a little boy, I thought I was the luckiest child in the world to have a mother who looked like a princess. Ours was a happy family. My older brother, Seth, and I never tired of her songs and stories. But she also didn’t put up with too much mischief from us. As hard as I try, though, there are some things I can never remember. But I always knew she loved me.” He was silent for several minutes. “After she died, Father, Seth and I had difficulty speaking of her. It was too painful. Besides, boys don’t cry. It was easier to let baby Sophie divert us.”
“Your mother would be proud of the man you’ve become.”
“I hope so.” Yet even in that breath, guilt washed over him. His mother, who had revered each living creature God had put on the earth, would have been appalled by what happened with Black Kettle and his band and, no doubt, ashamed of her son’s role. And even though it was a necessary cause, could she have countenanced his behavior in the heat of battle in the War between the States when his very survival depended upon killing the enemy? He sighed as he thought about the dubious acts he had committed when following orders. Perhaps it was best that he would never know what his mother might have thought of his soldiering, nor was he eager for Lily’s opinion.
The two of them were approaching the hospital when she said, “Thank you for your concern on my account and for sharing memories of your mother. Death is hard, but perhaps it shapes us in ways known only to God. We must believe something good ultimately comes from such experiences.”
He prayed it could be so, but nightmares and insomnia argued to the contrary. “Your outlook is more sanguine than mine.”
She looked up at him. “It would appear we are both searching for answers.”
To lighten the dark mood, he said, “Perhaps we should turn to the poets. John Donne would say, ‘Death, be not proud.’”
She smiled sadly. “Indeed.”
They had reached her door. “Thank you for coming to my side this morning,” she said, her eyes glistening with unshed tears, the blue-gray cast to the skin beneath her eyes an indication of her exhaustion.
He gave a short bow. “Miss Kellogg, we seem to have traveled some similar roads. It is a comfort to know I am not alone.”
Now the smile relaxed and her eyes deepened into pools of blue. “Lily. My name is Lily. Your friendship is most welcome.”
He exhaled in relief. “Lily.” The name was melodic on his tongue. “Until we meet once more.”
He waited until she was safely inside and then ambled toward his quarters. The sun was full now on the horizon, and morning activity buzzed all around him. But he was ignorant of it, lost in the memories of his mother, the horrors of battle and of the one person who might either understand it all or condemn him. Lily.
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