Sarah Godfrey
© 2015 Kathy Blackwelder
Chapter One - The Stranger
Red and gold aspen leaves swirled through the meadow as the small group of children played tag on the browning grass. Soon these autumn jewels would all be gone. Thick gray clouds had begun to stream across the snow-capped Rockies that rimmed three sides of the mountain valley.
One boy halted his play. "Stranger coming, Miz Godfey." Sarah strained her eyes to the north where he was pointing.
"How do you know it's a stranger, Joey?" she asked him. The breeze that was waving his flaxen hair had turned chilly, and she pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders.
He grinned at her, showing the big front teeth he would eventually grow into. "No hat or horse like his in these parts, Ma'am." Joey was the brightest of her younger pupils, and she reckoned he would be right. As a newcomer only last year, her knowledge was no match for his nine years of growing up with the local folks.
The horse and rider disappeared for a moment, then crested the nearby hill and descended into Sarah's pasture. The children stopped playing their game and watched him approach the teacher.
He tipped the brim of his hat with his hand, the fringe on his buckskin shirt swaying with the gesture. "Howdy, Ma'am. Might I have a drink from your well?" The polite, resonant voice came from a solid though not large man. Sarah looked into sky blue eyes that held a curious mix of kindness and caution.
"Of course you may. There is a cup tied to the bucket." He dismounted, dropping the reins to the ground. A well-trained horse that will stay put, she thought. He reached for the handle and lowered the bucket. Tiny bits of blood began to trickle from a makeshift bandage around his hand. "Sir, your hand needs attention. Let me rewrap your wound."
"It's nothing," he said. By now the children had gathered around to look over the stranger. "Thanks for the water. I'll be on my way." He smiled and nodded at the group as he swung back into the saddle, then rode purposefully away. He paused at the stream that bordered her meadow to let his horse drink, then crossed the water and headed east into the trees toward the Long Draw trail. He seemed to know where he was going.
"Children, it's time to get back in inside," Sarah said, her mind still on the bleeding hand. This was a perplexing man, seemingly gentle yet one who had met with some kind of recent violence. That was the pronouncement of the inner voice she had learned to trust. A pity for him to pass up her skills at wound dressing and perhaps spare himself new troubles. She paused on the steps to look in the direction he'd gone and wondered what kind of wound it was? Knife? Ax? Bullet? She had seen them all. And worse.
As the group hung their jackets on the pegs in the schoolroom, Joey put another log into the pot-bellied stove, sending the popping sound of fire meeting sap into room. Little Louise stood beside him and swept the chips into the small shovel, then through the stove door before Joey closed it firmly. The slight chill in the room was chased away by the new warmth.
The shuffling of the six children into their seats quieted, and Sarah picked up a book from her desk. "You all did such a good job with your arithmetic lessons before recess that I'm going to begin reading a book to you now, a story I think you will enjoy. If you have any questions as I'm reading, please raise you hand, as usual, and ask me. Are we ready?"
Sarah, new to teaching children, was feeling her way about what worked well and what didn't. She believed with all her heart that reward worked better than punishment to mold behavior, and this group of children, probably like children everywhere, loved a good story read aloud. Her choice for this reward was The Adventures of Pinocchio.
She thought that even Benjamin, the oldest of her pupils, would enjoy this book, but he wasn't at school today. As she pulled down the world map to show the story's location in Italy, she wondered why he was absent. However it wasn't unusual for the number of students to vary each day as their parents needed them for tasks at home. Life in this valley with its small town was not easy for most folks.
The children seemed enchanted by the story and no one noticed that snow was falling in giant flakes that swirled softly to the ground. The horses in the corral began to neigh, followed by the sound of a clattering wagon. Soon Benjamin was coming into the classroom, his arms loaded with bundles. Lanky yet muscular, the 15-year-old was already getting a man's physique, but his face still had the innocence of a boy.
"Sorry to interrupt, Miz Godfrey, but Pa says there is a mighty storm moving in and it's gonna make itself at home. The kids need to get to their homes before the road gets bad." Like Joey and the stranger, there was no reason to doubt Mr. Sweeney. He had known the seasons here for many years. With a good look out the window, Sarah knew that winter was arriving in her meadow.
"Of course, Benjamin. Children, get your wraps and do as Benjamin tells you."
"There's room for everyone in the wagon, so tie your own horses to the back and climb in," Ben said. "You bigger kids watch out for the little ones." Then her turned to Sarah. "Here's some extra food for you, Ma'am, in case you get snowed in. Shall I leave it here or put it in your kitchen?"
"Let me help you." Emma sprang to his side, leaving her sister Louise to struggle with the buttons on her thin coat.
"The kitchen will be best, Ben. Please tell everyone thank you." He nodded and disappeared through the nearby doorway with the smitten Emma close behind.
Now a woman of means, Sarah had intended that her school be free, but the mothers had found a way to repay her from time to time with dried venison, gutted fish, plucked chickens, lovely brown eggs, and fresh milk. The fathers contributed by hauling, chopping and stacking her wood and bringing the blocks of ice for her kitchen. Even the children helped out by filling the wood boxes by her stoves and sweeping the wood debris off the porch.
Sarah knelt beside the delicate 6-year-old to help finish the buttoning task. "Louise, I have a package for you to take to your mother. Can you do that for me?"
"Oh, yes, Teacher." Her arms reached out eagerly as Sarah fetched a bundle wrapped in waxed brown paper tied with strong string from the shelf above the coat pegs. "There is a note inside, so mind you take good care."
The big green eyes above the tiny nose were bright with enthusiasm. "Yes, Ma'am. I will be very careful."
Benjamin returned with empty arms, and Emma followed to collect Louise. "Let's get in the wagon, little sister," she said with sweet sugar in her voice. She's trying to impress the boy again, Sarah thought. The girls headed for the wagon with Louise clutching her package tightly.
"What's that?" Sarah heard the older girl ask the younger one.
"It's something for Mama from Teacher," Louise answered firmly. She will hold her own with Emma today, Sarah decided with satisfaction. It wasn't just the age difference that brought out some bossy ways in the older girl from time to time. The blossoming 14-year-old was recently experimenting with what she imagined were grown-up behaviors.
Ben halted at the door. "I'm sorry that I missed school lately, Ma'am," he said, "but Pa has needed me at home to help get ready for winter."
Sarah smiled at this earnest young man with his chocolate brown eyes and thick brown hair that fringed his coat collar. "Of course, Ben. Come back whenever you can. You're always very welcome. Book learning will wait for a body. It's not like a crop that's got to be cut or it's ruined."
"You take care in this storm, Miz Godfrey," he said. "Don't get too far from your cabin. Pa thinks this winter is going to be one of the worst, not like your first one here."
"Wait a minute, Ben." She picked a book from her school collection, her precious copy of The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood, and handed it to him. "Take this to read when you have some time to sit." Like all her treasured books, it had traveled west with her, but this one she had not opened since last reading it to Davey. "I think you'll like the story.
He touched the book with respect, running his hand over the colorful cover, then fingered through it. "Miz Godfrey, I don't know some of these words."
"Here," she said, handing him a second book, a small dictionary kept on the shelf beside her big one. She snatched a bag from its peg and handed it to him. "Wrap them both in this. Now run along and get everyone home safely."
She followed him to the gate, wrapping her shawl over her head, and waved at the shivering group huddled in the wagon as Benjamin climbed onto his seat. "Wait, Ben, wait!" Joey yelled, leaping over the side and running through the accumulating snow to give his teacher a hug. Then he climbed back aboard and hunkered down between his brother and the [NAME] twins, leaving just enough room for the sisters and [NAME].
"Bye, Miz Godfrey," the chorus of young voices hollered.
~~~~~
Sarah was now accustomed to being called Mrs. Godfrey. Like so many going out west, she came to make a new life where she wasn't known. It was true that she was a widow, which is as much as the locals knew, but she had abandoned the name she had once worn, like shedding a bad dream. Mrs. Rupert Tisdale did not exist.
Noticing that the snow was already covering her shoes, she went inside to put on her boots so she could tend to chores best done before the storm got worse. She filled the log and kindling boxes for both stoves from the stack by the corral, leaving the nearby stacks on the porch to be used later. Next she headed to the shed that formed one side of the corral. As she fed her horse Patsy and mucked the stall, thoughts of the traveling stranger returned. How was he going to fair in this storm? Where would he find shelter? She shook off the musings and pushed the buggy farther inside so that it wouldn't accumulate snow. Thinking all was well there, she returned to the warmth of her home.
When she had decided to open a school, she chose to have it be part of the structure she was building a mile north of town. The schoolroom half would be separated from her living quarters by a wall with a doorway at one side and would have its own stove. She had the means to build just what she wanted. She had Rupert's money—all of it—to spend as she wished since there was no law to keep her from inheriting that fortune after she served her time. Her friend and lawyer Jordan Witherspoon had kept whatever he could safe for her.
She had chosen a simple cabin style, adding screen doors and other comforts. Her cook stove and icebox were the best quality Montgomery Ward had for the size that fit her space, and she had plenty of glass windows to take in the spectacular mountain views. Those helping her with the planning had made useful suggestions, like elevating the building above possible flash floods and extending the eaves to protect the windows and doors. The large porch could be reached from four sets of steps, two on the school end and the others at her front and back doors.
The local men who erected the structure had done a skillful job. The lumber had come from the local mill, but nearly everything else was hauled into the mountains by mule teams. She knew at the time she was the talk of the town because she seemed to be willing to spend what it took.
The building enterprise and her frequent shopping for supplies also introduced her to the townsfolk and allowed her to plant her idea of a school in her home when she learned there was no local teacher. The idea took root and spread around the area and now she had seven students. She had set up eight desks and would find a way to make room for even more if the need arose.
Dusk had become dark as Sarah put away the food she'd been given and prepared herself an evening meal. She had pushed back the colorful quilt, which hung down from a horizontal rod near the ceiling, to open up the room. It was there only to separate the parlor space from the sleeping area in case she had callers, and she much preferred having the entire room in her view.
Washing her dishes, she realized the she had best bring in the buckets under the eave by her back door or surely the water would freeze. The snow was now so thick in the air that she could barely see the shed. Back in her kitchen, she noticed that the steam from the simmering kettle was clouding up the windows. What a lovely warm, snug cave for waiting out the storm, she thought as she unfolded the shutters to cover the windows against the cold.
With no need to plan lessons for tomorrow, she picked up the book lying on the lamp stand, settled herself in the rocker and began to read at the place of her crocheted bookmark. The bookmark had been a childhood gift from her mother. She paused a moment and looked with a sense of bittersweet at other treasured items that had been part of her family life.
The blue satin sofa that matched the rocker rested under the north window where it would not fade in the bright Colorado sun. Pastel doilies lay under each lamp, a porcelain teacup and saucer nested carefully on a shelf, and an embroidered spread lay across her bed like a garden of daisies. Much loved possessions made a dwelling truly a home, and such things of hers Rupert had never allowed in his house. Now as many treasures as she had been able to salvage lived comfortably with her here.
Sarah sipped on the cup of minty tea she had made and returned to the pages of Ben Hur until she found herself yawning. Time to go to bed, she thought. Before putting on her nightgown, she knelt by her cook stove just inside the back door and banked the log remnants to keep the fire going.
As the crackling of the flame settled, she could hear Patsy whinnying loudly in the shed. What was upsetting the horse? Something serious enough that she must check. Maybe a cougar? Sarah owned no gun but thought of the big shovel hanging just outside the door. She pulled on her boots and hooded cloak, then fetched the kitchen lantern and slogged toward the shed with the shovel in hand.
~~~~~
The corral gate was slightly open, and in the light from the lantern Sarah could see bright splotches of wet crimson in the fallen snow. Blood, she knew immediately. What had happened to Patsy? Had she forgotten to close the stall door, giving some predator a chance? Then she noticed a different horse and the fallen rider lying in a heap on the cold ground. It was the stranger.
She urged the man's horse into the corral and on to the second stall, grabbed a scoopful of oats to throw in its trough, shut the stall door, and hurried back to the motionless body. Instinct and training told her he was badly injured, but unless she could get him inside the house, she couldn't learn much. "Help me, Father God," she said aloud.
The voice that answered her was the stranger's, just enough of a sound that she knew he was somewhat conscious. She rushed back into the cabin, setting the lantern down on the porch as she went. Inside she grabbed a canvas, clean and ready for use, and threw it across the bed. Then she returned to the man who was now her patient.
"I'm going to help you stand up so we can get inside," she said, hoping he could understand. She quickly ran her hands over the nearest arm, his left, to check for injuries. As he made no objection, she began to pull on it to nudge him up. He made no sound but got to his feet with her help, stooping as if to protect his right side. Then she saw the source of the blood. What obviously had been an oozing stream was now a trickle running down his right pant leg from beneath his jacket. Hunched together in a crouched position, his left arm around her shoulders, they wobbled toward the lantern and up the few steps. Thank goodness he is not a large man, she thought.
In slow movements she got him to the far side of the bed. With an involuntary shudder, she removed his concho-studded gun belt and with it the ivory grip Colt revolver still in the holster. Gently she helped him first to sit, then to lie down on the canvas. He made only the sound of catching his breath, as if even to groan was an effort beyond him. From this side of the bed, whatever his injuries proved to be, she would have better access to him, as well as the room to push her table into a useful bedside position.
Her training returned in a rush, as it always had when she'd needed it. She fetched suitable pots and pans, placed them on the stove, ladled water into them all, and built up the fire to roaring. As the water was heating to boil, she retrieved the lantern and put it by the stove, then brought her other lamps to the table. Her mind raced to think of more things she would need, and she quickly fetched a supply of towels and an old slicker.
From a high shelf on the far wall Sarah lifted down a bundle that held a sterile apron and cap and sterile towels and pieces of sheets of different sizes. She placed the package on the bed and opened it, avoiding contact with anything inside. Next to it she put a black valise taken from the same shelf. The name R. L. Godfrey, M.D., in handsome bronze letters was attached to its side. It was her father's bag, not hers as she had not been able to finish medical school. Out of habit from training she had always kept it stocked with sterilized instruments for various needs and with other supplies wrapped in sterile cloth. She had used it only a few times since arriving in Colorado, mostly to attend to the children's minor cuts and scrapes, but it was ready for bigger challenges.
Was she ready? Subliminal self-doubt crept in for a few blinks. "Way will open," she heard herself say.
Sarah returned to the bedside to begin the difficult task of removing the stranger's clothes and to discover what this medical challenge would be. The black leather boots pulled off with firm tugging and were tossed aside, but tugging at his trousers brought a muffled cry from the injured man. So with her sturdy kitchen scissors she cut away the bloody buckskin and the drawers under them. There was no wound visible on his leg, but his skin felt feverish.
The problem must be higher on his body. With her arm around his shoulders, she eased him up far enough to remove the wool jacket and push it aside. The fringed shirt was soaked in sticky blood around a hole near the bottom rib level. It seemed the blood was beginning to clot, a promising sign. Soon she would have to probe, and she would probably get fresh flow as she did so. The wound, she thought, was likely from a bullet.
He was silent but his pain-flecked eyes were wide open, watching her face as she worked to cut away the buckskin and flannel shirt underneath. Finally the raw gap in his flesh appeared. The bullet had entered at an upward angle, but she could not see it.
"I need to remove the bullet and that will take some preparation so that you don't get infected. Do you understand what I'm saying?" she asked. He muttered and nodded.
She turned her attention to the pots of boiling water, one with the metal ladle she'd left hanging to sterilize with the water, and pushed them to the back of the stove where they would cool quickly near the wall. Gently she shoved the slicker as far as she could under the quiet man and added a few layers of towels to soak up the water she would ladle over him when it cooled enough. That would be her best chance of cleaning the wound area.
The water ready, Sarah explained as she worked, then looked into his flushed face. "I'm going to have to cut around the wound," she told him, "and it's likely to hurt a lot. I'd like to give you some ether, which will knock you out for a while."
"No," he said, his voice barely audible. "I want to be conscious."
"As you wish," she answered, " but you must stay perfectly still. Do we have an agreement?"
"Yes," he said clearly.
She fetched the cap and covered her hair. Pouring some of the boiled water on herself, she soaped, scrubbed, and rinsed from fingertips to above her elbows where she had pushed her sleeves, drying with a cloth from her sterile supply. Then she put on the apron, tying it carefully without her fingers touching her clothes. Unwrapping her instruments from the package she had placed on the table, she chose what she would need and began to explore the bullet hole area, cutting with her scalpel where necessary.
Blood came forth. Sarah blotted it away with sterile cloth, then let her fingers explore until finding the bullet. Soon she had extracted it with a small forceps. It had not entered the inner sanctum of the abdominal area that held the vital organs nor injured any major blood vessels. Good luck or a blessing? She didn't know, but she did notice that her patient had lost consciousness.
As swiftly as possible, she stitched the area closed, layer by layer, blotting as needed. She applied pressure to stem more bleeding before putting a thick dressing in place. As she finished, it occurred to her to look at the hand she had noticed bleeding earlier in the day. Was that only this morning?
This, too, must have been a bullet wound, she decided. The bullet itself had been extracted by someone, leaving its crevice on the back of his hand untreated. That wound was putrefying, perhaps giving his body as much grief as the second wound. Again she was applying sterile water and cleaning the area. Then she cut away dying tissue and forced the opening to bleed out as much infection as possible.
The remaining gap was too wide for sewing shut. She could only apply iodine ointment and a sterile dressing with some pressure to help clot the blood. He seemed to be a healthy man and it was likely new tissue would grow to cover the gap. The body was marvelous at adapting, she had learned, but he would no doubt have a large scar there. Finally she checked his forearm for the marks of blood poisoning. There were none, and again she wondered at his combination of good and back luck.
As for herself, she was exhausted. "Father," she prayed aloud, "this man is Your creation. I don't know whether he has lived a good life or a bad one, only that I have used the skills You gave me to create a chance for him to have more life. I bless him and leave him in Your hands."
She wanted to collapse and sleep, but training and good sense kept her going. Stepping outside, she filled a basin with fresh snow that was upwind of any drifting ash from the chimney. As it melted to cool in the warm kitchen, she wet a cloth and squeezed it out time and again to wipe down the face and exposed skin of her fevered patient. The body of the man lying under her touch was firm and toned, not like Rupert's pale and flaccid figure. She chilled with the memory of that naked body thrusting itself upon her without regard to her pain.
Shaking her head to clear her mind, she wrung out the cloth once more and placed it across the stranger's forehead, pushing his flaxen hair out of the way. Then she turned to the next task. The instruments and wrapping cloths should to be sterilized again in case she needed them. As she gathered the articles from the bedside, she looked down at the bullet lying on the table, a bullet that had not killed. Not like the last one she had seen.
Suppressed memories overwhelmed her and she dropped into her chair. Evidence of violence always forced that door open. Davey with his head crushed. The recoil of the shotgun going off in her hands. Blood.
Her patient moaned, pulling Sarah's mind to the present. She still had much to do. The cleanup and sterilizing still awaited her. Wet towels and the slicker beneath them need to be taken up and the bedding under the canvas checked to be sure it was still dry. His bloody clothes needed to be removed and warm blankets spread over him. Having a chill set in was not a risk she wanted to take.
First, however, she needed to take that gun belt with its deadly payload and put it out of her sight. It would go into the hidden compartment beneath the floor on the far side of the bed, along with the bullet she had removed. The sanctuary of her home had been violated by the work of a gun and now she must restore her peace. The hiding done, she pulled the rug back into place and remained kneeling by the bed to pray again. "Father God, I walk the path of peace," she affirmed. "I am in the peace of Your love."
As Sarah went back to work, an inner quiet returned to her, and the cocoon of the snowy night settled around her. She concentrated on the comforting sounds of simmering pots, the crackling fire under them, and rhythmic breathing of the man on the bed. Finished with the immediate tasks, she lay down on the sofa, gave way to her fatigue, and slept.
~~~~~
A gasp of pain snapped Sarah awake. In the light of the bedside lamp she could see that her patient was trying to sit up.
"Please lie still," she pleaded as she felt his forehead. Thank the Lord, no sign of fever. The clock on the bookshelf told her a few hours had passed.
"Where is my gun?" he murmured.
"Put away. I shall give it to you when you leave."
He said nothing.
"My name is Sarah. What shall I call you?"
He seemed to hesitate. "Sam," he finally said.
"I'm glad you found your way back here, Sam."
"Where did you find me?"
"By the corral. I heard the horses getting acquainted. You were just conscious enough to help me get you into the house."
"I don't remember." The deep voice was slightly more than a whisper.
"Shock will often obscure memory." She hoped she sounded reassuring.
"How is my horse?" he asked.
"She's fine. No bullet to take out of her."
He moved again, grimacing. "Who took out the bullet?"
"Sam, you will do yourself a favor if you lie as still as possible. I took the bullet out. It lodged in your abdomen."
"I guess I should thank you."
"No, not me. I would rather you thanked the Lord for my medical knowledge and for His guiding you back here. Now rest again please. It will speed your recovery."
Sam's eyes drifted closed, and Sarah went back to the sofa. Exhaustion had brought her sleep before, but now her mind wouldn't rest. The soft ticking of the clock brought memories of another louder clock, the one in the prison's makeshift infirmary. Tick...tock. Time moved very slowly there unless you stayed busy and useful.
That was the past, and the past will not rule my present, she told herself, and closed her eyes to pray again. The pale morning light of a gray stormy day was the next thing she saw.