if he wasn’t reminding himself.
“What are you saying, Joe?”
“I’m just saying don’t get attached. She burned herself trying to save those Comanche things. No matter what you’d like to believe, she’s not one of us. I’m telling you she’ll turn on us as soon as she gets half a chance.”
The girl was watching him very closely, as if straining to understand.
He flicked his gaze away, willing himself to look anywhere but into her eyes. There was no way he’d let himself grow soft toward her. No way he’d drop his guard. He wasn’t about to start thinking of her as anything but what she was—the enemy.
“Where’ve you gone, Joe? Where has your faith and the love in your heart gone?”
Hattie’s whispered words were barely discernible, and yet he’d heard them, just as he heard the sorrow laced through them. His mother was looking at him as if she didn’t really know him at all.
She already knew the answer as well as he did.
Where was his faith? What had happened to the love in his heart?
“The Comanches took them,” he told her.
Hattie surprised him by giving a slight shake of her head.
“No, son. You and I both know your faith faltered long before the Comanche attack. What I’ll never understand is why. ”
Without waiting for an explanation, she turned to lead the girl back to the house and left him standing alone with his guilt, his doubt and his suspicions.
He knew that no matter how much he wanted to blame the Comanche, his mother was right.
He’d lost his faith long before that dark and terrible night.
Somehow they got through supper.
Before she pulled a meal together, Hattie treated the girl’s burns with a poultice of raw potato scraped fine and mixed with sweet oil. Then she bound them with clean strips of cotton from the scrap basket she kept for quilting.
The former captive sat in silence with her burned hands resting in her lap. She watched Hattie work, either out of curiosity or sullenness, Hattie couldn’t tell which.
Though the girl never once reacted, Hattie explained what she was doing every step of the way and kept up her stream of chatter, hoping that something she said or did might trigger the girl’s memory.
She rang the dinner bell and called Joe in from the corral where he was working with a new foal. He walked into the kitchen and ignored the girl, but Hattie felt undeniable tension in the room from the minute he crossed the threshold.
As she drained boiled potatoes, she offered up a silent prayer, asking the good Lord for guidance in dealing with the girl and patience toward her headstrong son.
When supper was laid out, she sat the girl opposite Joe even though it was easy to see the two young people were determined not to look at each other.
The girl stared down at the layered beef and mashed potato bake on her plate.
“Join hands and we’ll give thanks for God’s blessing.” Hattie reached for Joe’s hand and for the girl’s bandaged hand, careful to touch only her fingertips.
“Take her other hand, Joe, and close the circle.”
“She’s a heathen, Ma. She’s got no idea what you’re doing.”
“By some accounts you’re a heathen, too, son, but you still bow your head as I pray over our meals. So can she.” Hattie waited.
Grudgingly, Joe reached across the table. When the girl hid her free hand under the table out of his reach, Joe shrugged.
“Guess she’s doesn’t want to touch me any more than I want to touch her.”
“Bow your head, then.” Hattie motioned to the girl, who watched Joe bow his head. Though the girl didn’t oblige, Hattie began anyway.
“Lord, thank you for this food. For this day. For bringing this child into our lives. Let her grow in understanding. Let her come to know You and Your mercy and wonder. Reunite her with the family that surely loves and misses her. Amen.”
Joe waited until Hattie took her first bite before he dug in. The girl watched them for a few seconds more, then, ignoring the flatware beside her plate, she grabbed a piece of beef with both hands, wiped off the potatoes and shoved it in her mouth.
Hattie was shocked into silence. Joe almost laughed.
“Ma, I believe this is the first time I’ve ever seen you speechless.”
The girl was quickly shoveling pieces of meat into her mouth with both hands, her bandages hopelessly soiled.
Hattie rolled her eyes heavenward and finally admitted, “This may be more of a challenge than I’d bargained for.”
You got yourself into this.
Joe was tempted to say I told you so as they watched the girl shove food into her mouth. By some miracle, she didn’t spill any on the front of her dress. Much to Joe’s amazement, his mother allowed the girl to eat without trying to cajole her into using utensils.
“She’s been through enough for one day. Morning will be soon enough to work on using silverware,” Hattie explained.
Darkness fell before supper was cleared and the dishes were done. When Joe came in from bedding down the stock and making the rounds, securing the gate and checking the boundaries of the yard, he found his mother and the girl seated in the front room of the main house. Hattie formally called it the parlor.
A mellow glow from the oil lamps cast halos of light around the room. The walls appeared to close around them as shadows wavered on the flickering lamplight.
Hattie was seated in her rocker with her Bible open on her lap. It was her habit to read from the Good Book at the beginning and end of every day, always starting where she’d left off. He had no idea how many times she must have read the entire Bible straight through.
She never missed a day, not even when times were at their lowest ebb and things seemed hopeless.
The girl was seated across the room on the upholstered settee, one of the only pieces of furniture that the Ellenbergs had brought with them when they immigrated to Texas. Elegant and finely crafted, it was as foreign to the rough interior walls of the log home as the girl seated on it.
Hattie had braided the girl’s long hair in two thick skeins that draped over her shoulders. The creamy yellow of the shiny taffeta gown complemented the tawny glow of her skin. Every so often, her eyes would close and Joe couldn’t help but notice how long and full her eyelashes were when they brushed her cheeks.
Hattie had taken time to change the bandages that hadn’t survived supper. Barefoot for lack of any shoes that fit, the girl sat pressed against the arm of the settee, cradling her wounded hands in her lap. Dozing off and on, she was the picture of peace and contentment.
If
