In His Eyes(77)

On his way out of town he was able to procure some of the Martin women’s supplies from the quartermaster general. What he couldn’t get from the man, he determined he would have to search out later. The three bags of rice, four bags of dried peas, and a few pounds of salt pork would have to do for now.

As he turned the bony horse toward Belmont, Westley tried not to let the fact that he only had a few coins remaining in his pocket bother him. Once the funds arrived from his bank, the matter of the plantation would be settled.

The town buildings passed from view, and he was glad to see the bright trees again as opposed to the grays of Greenville. He looked up at the sky, noting how pristine blue it seemed today. He turned his focus back to the road, but after only a moment or two his mind once again wandered.

By the time he arrived at Belmont, the day had grown to be one of vibrant sunshine and air washed clean by the rains. He drew a lungful of it and let it out slowly. It was peaceful here. And peace had not been something Westley had longed for in quite some time. He’d dashed off to war with hopes of great honor and glory. Instead, he was tired, war weary, and lame—likely for the rest of his life.

Westley pushed the bitterness aside before it could take root and ruin the peace that nature had granted. He would not let his lameness define him. To do so would only make of him an even weaker man. And he had too many responsibilities to succumb to that.

Westley reached the barn, which could certainly use a fresh coat of whitewash. He kicked open the doors from where they hung up on the untrimmed grass and led the horse inside the dank interior. He frowned. It seemed no one had been in here in quite some time. Westley turned the animal around in the dusty aisle.

He patted the horse’s neck. “Too pretty of a day to keep you in that dark barn. How about I hobble you here in the yard and you can help me tame some of this wild grass?”

The horse’s nostrils quivered and the gelding tugged on the bridle, plunging his muzzle toward the ground. Westley laughed and after a brief survey of the barn for a bit of rope, secured the horse’s legs so that the gelding could wander about the yard without running off. Then he gave the beast another pat and turned toward the house.

His hand had barely rested on the doorknob when an agonizing scream cut through the house and sliced into him. Startled, Westley wrenched open the door, dropped his cane at the bottom of the stairs, and took the steps two at a time.

Ella’s wails came from behind her door and his heart lurched. The boy. Fear gouged him, making mincemeat of his insides. He stood frozen in the upper hall, unsure he wanted to see what waited on the other side of the door.

Please, God, I beg of you. Don’t take the boy from her.

The words leapt forth, seeming of their own accord. But God would not listen to the likes of him. Whatever they faced, they would face it on their own. With a fortifying breath, Westley jerked open the door, taking in the scene in a single glance. Ella clutched the child to her chest and sobbed, her shoulders heaving. Basil stood in the corner wringing her hands with tears streaming down her dark face, and Sibby stared at the child, her features stricken.

He must be dead.

Westley hardened his jaw and walked to Ella with a hitched gate. She looked up at him, her eyes vacant and red-rimmed. The haunted look twisted his gut.

No! Had the woman not suffered enough? He clenched his teeth so hard he thought they would break.

“Oh, Ella. If only there were something I could do.” He reached out to touch the babe’s head, then let his arm drop to his side and closed his eyes.

Where are you, God? You are not who my mother claimed. You do not care about us suffering souls banished to your creation.

He opened his eyes to find Ella staring at him.

“He…he’s barely breathing, Westley,” she said, blinking up at him with desperation as though he could do anything in the world to stop what would come next. “I…I tried to pray, but….” her voice disintegrated as she stared at him.

Westley knew, from somewhere deep within him that he could not explain, that if this child died, the woman before him would never again be the same. The little dragon who had set her claws so deeply into him that he would never again be the same would shrivel into a mere shadow of the fiery woman he had come to know. And he could not abide by that.

God, I need to know. If you exist, let me see it. Show me. Please, I beg of you, sinner that I am, hear me!

Westley reached out his hand and placed it on the baby’s head. For her. This he could do for her. “God of creation, the one my mother called the One True King, Maker of heaven and earth, I beg of you to hear my plea.”

Ella stilled, her eyes growing wide. Westley’s pulse quickened. He had not prayed since he was a child. Who was he to call on God now, when he had never submitted to any of the Creator’s ways? He bowed his head anyway. If there was any hope at all, even as unlikely as this may be, it would be in prayer.

He cleared his throat. “Lord, forgive me, a worthless sinner who has done much evil in your sight, for coming to you. But Lord, this child needs you. I beg of you, show us that we are not completely forgotten, and that somewhere up in the heavens you still hear the desperate cries of men.”

The baby stirred under his hand, and began to cough weakly. A tingle ran through him, starting at his core and shooting like lightning to his fingers. He drew a quick breath. “God, I beg of you to heal this child as you did people when you walked the earth. I….” He hesitated, and his voice grew raspy. “I believe in you, and that you are able. Please, Jesus, be willing to heal this boy.”