Where Leads the Heart, Page 3

  The train whistle blew again, and he peered out the soot-streaked window. He was almost home; eagerly, he scanned the rolling pastures outside the window. There was the Johnson place; it looked as neat and well tended as usual. The Larsen farm looked unharmed. The train slowed as it began its descent into the valley. Through clearings in the lush canopy of glowing leaves, he could see the sparkling river and the town just beyond.

  The town of Wabash nestled between two steep hills, with the courthouse on the far hill overlooking the sprawling brick and wood buildings that clustered neatly below it. He drank in the familiar buildings and the glimmer of water that ran in front of the town like a silver ribbon. During the heyday of the Wabash-Erie Canals, the river bustled with boats of all types and sizes, but since the railroad came, the canal traffic slacked off, and the river once again resumed its placid course. Hungrily he watched for a familiar face. But the streets and boardwalks were almost deserted. The few people he saw hurrying along were strangers.

  But the town looked just the same. The ravages the war had left behind seemed very far away from this peaceful town. There was Beitman & Wolf’s. And Martha’s Millinery, her fly-specked window crowded with bonnets. Several old-timers in bib overalls lounged outside Lengel’s Gun Shop.

  Did the younger members of town still patronize the Red Onion Saloon? he wondered. He grinned at a sudden memory of the last ruckus he’d gotten into at the saloon, much to his grandma’s dismay. She was always quoting Proverbs to him after an escapade at the Red Onion.

  Those Bible verses he’d memorized at her knee were one of the things that got him through the horror of prison camp. He didn’t really understand some of them very well, but they were somehow very comforting. Maybe when his life settled down a little, he could study the Scriptures for himself.

  His smile faded. He knew the war had changed him and not for the better. Something inside him had turned hard and cold, and he realized that in reality he had little desire to study the Bible. After what he’d seen in the war, God didn’t seem too likely. He pushed his grandmother’s memory away and gazed out the window intently.

  The train gave one final, wheezing bellow, then came to a shuddering stop under the overhang of the depot. Rand took a deep breath and stood up, pulling his haversack out from under his seat. His heart pounded as he limped toward the door. Wouldn’t it be grand if Pa or Jacob were in town? No chance of that, though, he thought as he watched through the windows. For one thing, he was here a good week earlier than he’d written he’d be. Lot more likely to find them in the field on the way home, if Jacob were even here. And if he survived the war, an inner voice whispered.

  His weak leg, cramped by the long trip, gave out as he stepped down, and he fell into an elderly, stooped man’s surprised face. “Why—I–I cain’t believe it! Rand Campbell, is it really you?” Liam, who had run the train station for as long as Rand could remember, grabbed him by the shoulders and peered into his face.

  His hair was even more grizzled than Rand remembered, but his breath stank of garlic like usual, and Rand suppressed a grin. Liam’s wife believed in garlic’s medicinal qualities, so most folks steered clear of her specialties at the church picnics. “It’s me all right, Liam.”

  “Rand,” the old man gasped again before enfolding him in a bear hug. “We heered you was dead, boy.”

  Rand hugged him back until his words penetrated, then drew back in shock. “What do you mean, dead? I wrote my folks and Sarah every few weeks. I’ve been in the hospital in Washington.” No wonder he hadn’t heard from his family, he thought.

  Liam pulled a filthy handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face shakily. The surprise was almost too much for him. “Wait till Myra hears ’bout this!” He put the dirty cloth back in his pocket. “Don’t know nothin’ ’bout no letters. No one here got no letters, I’m sure. Yer folks been grievin’ themselves to death over you. Had a memorial service at church for you last spring, and I ain’t never seed so many people at one of them things.” He stared in Rand’s puzzled face. “I’m tellin’ ya, we all thought you was dead, boy!”

  Rand felt like he’d been punched in the stomach; he couldn’t catch his breath. How could something like this have happened? “I–I sent a letter with Ben Croftner to give to Sarah,” he stammered. “Didn’t he make it back here?”

  A look of surprise and something else Rand couldn’t identify flickered across Liam’s face. “Yeah, he got back—let’s see. Must be pert near six months ago.” He paused and glanced quickly at Rand’s face before continuing. “But he didn’t say nothin’ ’bout no letter.”

  Rand stared at him, a puzzled frown creasing his broad forehead. There was something odd in Liam’s manner. “What aren’t you telling me?” he asked, his keen brown eyes fixed on the old porter’s face.

  The man flushed. “Well, now—I–I guess you have to hear it sooner or later,” he stammered. “Ben’s s’posed to marry Sarah tomorrow. Right after church. Whole town’s been invited. Ben’s been struttin’ ’round all important like.”

  The strength left Rand’s knees, and he sat down on the passenger bench outside the depot. The implications of what Liam said began to sink in, along with a bitter anger at Ben’s betrayal. And Sarah’s. “He let her go on thinkin’ I was dead,” he said slowly. He stood up angrily and slung his haversack over one broad shoulder. “He let my family go on grieving and suffering. He’ll pay for this,” he spat through clenched teeth. Abruptly he turned south and strode off without saying good-bye to Liam, his slight limp more pronounced because of his fatigue and agitation.

  The old man stared after him, a grin on his weathered face. “Sure would like to see Rand light into that Ben. He’s been no-account since he was knee-high to a grasshopper,” he muttered as he turned to go back into the depot. “ ’Bout time he got his comeuppance.”

  Rand clamped down on the rage that was building in him. How could Ben do such a thing? And Sarah. How could she be so fickle? Why, he must have been declared dead only a few months before she took up with Croftner! Was that all the time she mourned someone she was supposed to love? His emotions felt raw, and he just couldn’t seem to make any sense out of it.

  By the time he made his way to the livery stable, paid for a horse, and swung up into the saddle, he was shaking with fury. He dug his heels into the mare’s flank and set off toward home.

  Being astride a horse again for the first time in a year cleared his thoughts, and he was more in control of his emotions by the time he pulled the mare off the road and headed up the deeply rutted track that followed the river. The fields were tawny with drying corn. Harvest would be in a few weeks. His heart quickened as the white two-story home on the hill overlooking the river came into view. Home! How he’d longed for this moment.

  He pulled the horse up sharply, undecided. Should he go home first or go see Sarah and demand an explanation? He could just see the roof of the large Montgomery house over the next rise, and he let the horse prance on the path for a moment as he decided what to do.

  No, he thought grimly as he dug his heels into the gelding’s flank and turned up the Campbell lane. My family first—at least they’ve mourned for me.

  By the time he reached the front yard, his heart was pounding and his palms were slick with sweat. A nagging headache persisted just behind his eyes. He pulled his horse to a stop and dismounted, a little disappointed no one was outside. As he approached the back door that led to the kitchen, through the window he could see his mother washing dishes. A wave of love welled up in him as he saw the new gray in her hair and the fine web of wrinkles at her eyes. He breathed in the familiar scent of apple pie baking in the oven.

  His mother’s back was to the door, and he watched her a moment as she picked up a dish and proceeded to wash it. “I think I heard a horse,” she said to the little brown dog lying on the rug by her feet. “Probably one of the menfolk home.” The little dog pricked up her ears and whined as she looked toward the door. His mother dippe
d the soapy plate in the pan of rinse water and laid it to drain on the wooden chopping block beside her.

  Rand let the screen door bang behind him, but she didn’t turn. “Don’t bang the door,” she said automatically just as Jody yipped and launched herself in a frenzy toward the door. She wiped her soapy hands on her apron and started to turn to see why the dog was so excited.

  “Ma.” Rand knelt and picked up the little dog as he stared at his mother.

  She froze and Rand saw one emotion after another chase across her face. Uncertainty, disbelief, hope. She clutched her hands in the folds of her apron and swung slowly around to face him.

  “Ma, I’m home.” Rand patted Jody and laughed as the dog wriggled in his arms and licked his face joyously.

  Her mouth gaping, Margaret stared at the figure standing in the sunlit area by the door.

  “It’s me, Ma. It’s really me. I’m not dead.”

  Her own Rand, recognizable in spite of his gauntness, stood in front of the screen door, his brown eyes soft with love, the golden September sun shining on his handsome, square-jawed face, his deep dimples coming and going as his face worked with emotion. For just an instant, she thought it was a vision or an angel. Then she saw the deep lines of pain beside his mouth and the way his blue uniform hung on his thin frame and his ragged haircut. All these imperfections convinced her this was really her boy.

  “Rand?” she croaked as she took a faltering step toward him. “Rand!” With a noise something between a cry and a croak, she threw herself into his arms as the tears started down her cheeks. After several moments, she drew away. “I can’t believe it! Let me look at you.” She held him at arm’s length, then hugged him, laughing and crying as Jody licked both their faces and whined and wriggled in ecstasy.

  Rand clutched his mother so tightly he was afraid he hurt her. For over a year, ever since he was captured, he’d longed for his ma’s gentle touch on his brow. At night when he awoke bathed in sweat from the pain, he had ached to lay his head on her breast and hear her soothing voice as she sang to him. He had been so hurt and bewildered at her silence after his release. Every time the door to the hospital ward opened, he had expected to see her anxious face.

  They both finally calmed down enough to sit at the kitchen table so he could explain what had happened. Margaret kept touching him to convince herself he was real while he talked and talked. He was on his third cup of coffee when they heard several horses cantering into the yard.

  §

  Jacob looked in puzzlement at the strange horse tied to the hitching post. “You expectin’ anyone?” he asked with a quizzical look at Shane and his pa.

  Jeremiah shook his large head. “Looks like that new bay from Larson’s livery. Must be someone from out of town.”

  They tied their horses to the post and headed toward the kitchen door. A low murmur of voices drifted out the screen door, and Jacob paused. That almost sounds like Rand, he thought, pain stabbing him. He didn’t think he’d ever get over his older brother’s death. There were even times when he thought he caught a glimpse of Rand in his favorite red plaid flannel shirt stride past just out of the corner of his eye. He shook off the memory and pushed into the kitchen as a dark-haired man, dressed in a blue Union uniform, rose unsteadily from the kitchen table and turned to face him.

  “Jake.”

  Rand had coined his nickname, and no one said it quite the way he did. Jacob opened his mouth to question this smiling, dark-eyed stranger who looked like—but of course couldn’t be—he was too thin. But the smile! And the look in those brown eyes, and those dimples!

  “Rand!” Shane shrieked his brother’s name and flung himself into Rand’s waiting arms. A moment later all four men were hugging and slapping one another on the back, unashamed of the tears streaming from their eyes.

  “It’s really you, it’s really you,” Jacob said over and over as he stared at his brother as if memorizing his features.

  “The good Lord answered our prayers after all.” With a shaking hand, Jeremiah wiped at his eyes with his bandanna. He was breathing hard, as if he’d just run all the way from the back pasture to the house.

  They sat down around the kitchen table as Margaret hurriedly poured them each a cup of coffee and joined them. Just as she sat down, they heard the front door slam.

  Hannah, the eldest and only girl, hurried into the kitchen. “Sorry I’m late, Ma,” she panted. She stopped short and looked at the group clustered around the table. Why was everyone crying, and smiling, too? Her puzzled stare stopped when her eyes met Rand’s. She opened and closed her mouth several times, but no sound escaped.

  “What! My gabby sister with nothing to say?” Rand stood, a teasing light in his eyes.

  Hannah screamed and dropped the basket she was holding. Potatoes rolled across the wooden floor and she almost tripped on them as she rushed toward her brother. She threw herself into Rand’s arms, and he picked her up and swung her around, kissing her soundly before setting her on her feet again.

  “Let me look at you!” She held him at arm’s length and frowned as she saw his thinness. “What’s happened to you? We thought you were dead!”

  She hung onto his arm as he limped back to the table and sat down. “I was just about to explain when you so rudely interrupted,” he said with a grin. “Of course, that’s nothing new—you’ve never learned how to be quiet.”

  “Very funny!” She punched him on the arm and sat down beside him.

  “Ouch.” He rubbed his arm, then grinned at his family. “Now, as I was about to say, I was captured outside Atlanta in August of ’64. I’d been on reconnaissance trying to see where the heaviest troops were. That’s how I spent most of the war, slipping back and forth through enemy lines. The Rebs took me to Andersonville prison camp—”

  “Andersonville!” Jacob interrupted, his voice filled with horror. “That camp is notorious. I heard the Union army found 12,000 graves there when the war was over.”

  Rand nodded. “I was lucky I wasn’t one of them. You can’t imagine how bad it was. We had to build our own shelters, usually just a lean-to made with whatever we could find. Blankets, clothing, sticks. Some of the men could only dig a hole in the ground and cover up with a single thin blanket. There were so many of us we just barely had enough space to lie down. And the food—”

  He broke off and took a deep breath. “Well, it wasn’t like yours, Ma. We were lucky if they gave us a little salt, maybe a half a cup of beans, and about a cup of unsifted cornmeal. A lot of men died from the inflamed bowels the stuff caused. One day I helped bury over a hundred bodies in a common grave.” His face was white with the horror of the memories.

  Margaret laid a trembling hand on his arm. “I just thank God you survived it, Son.”

  He covered her hand with his and smiled before continuing. “I was delirious by the time we were freed, a combination of dysentery and malnutrition.” He smiled grimly. “The doctors tell me I weighed less than a hundred pounds when I was brought to the hospital. A skeleton really. I’ve spent the last six months at Harewood Hospital in Washington recuperating.”

  “Why didn’t you write?” Hannah burst out.

  “I wrote several times. At least once a month.”

  “We never received a single letter. Just a notification from the army of your death about the same time you say you were captured.” Jacob’s look was puzzled.

  “I knew you weren’t dead. I just knew it,” Shane put in excitedly. “I told Sarah just last week!”

  At the mention of Sarah’s name, Rand looked at Jacob, his eyes no longer smiling. “What about Sarah, Jacob?”

  Jacob started, then forced himself to look in his brother’s hurt eyes.

  “I already know she’s going to marry Ben Croftner. How could she do that—didn’t she mourn me at all?” There was a bitter taste in his mouth as Rand spat the words out.

  “Mourn you? You idiot!” Hannah interrupted, standing up and raking a hand through her mane of chestnut hair.
“We all feared for her sanity! She refused to eat for days. Even now she hardly smiles. And you know what a perky, bubbly little thing she has always been.”

  “Then why is she marrying Ben?”

  Hannah hesitated, her eyes searching her brother’s face. “William is dying,” she sighed as she sat back down beside her brother. She took his hand gently as his face whitened in shock. “Sarah doesn’t know, but William and Wade have pushed her to marry Ben right away. And Ben has promised Wade that fifty acres of prairie he’s always coveted as a marriage settlement, Rachel told me. Wade’s taken advantage of Sarah’s apathy since the news of your death to convince her she owes it to the family to do this.”

  “Wade’s always thought of himself instead of his family,” Rand said angrily. “But there’s something else you don’t know.” He stood and paced over to the window at the front of the kitchen, then wheeled to face them. “Ben has known all along I wasn’t dead.”

  “What!” Margaret stood in agitation. “Are you sure?”

  He nodded grimly. “Ben was with the troops who liberated the prison. I even gave him a letter to give to Sarah.”

  “Maybe he thought you died after he left,” Margaret offered.

  Jacob shook his head thoughtfully. “He knew we read it in the paper last fall. And that we received an official notification shortly after that. I’m positive he never gave Sarah any letter.”

  “What about all the letters I wrote from the hospital?” Rand sat down and stretched his aching leg out in front of him, rubbing it absently as he tried to figure out how Ben had pulled his little drama off.

  “The mail service has been wretched,” Jeremiah said. “Maybe they were lost.”

  “All of them?” Rand shook his head. “Not likely. Ben must have gotten hold of them somehow.”