© Copyright 2004 by Elizabeth Delayne: the final installment of the Lawton Springs Trilogy! See When Comes the Sun the first installment or The Light of the Moon for the second.

"What happened to me?"

Cara Ann looked up through bleary eyes at the woman above her who bathed her face with a cool cloth. Her throat was dry, her side on fire.

The flood.

She jerked as she remembered being swept down stream, the water rearing over her head.

Ben reached out. He did not catch her.

"You've had quite an adventure." The woman asked back with a smile. "Been in and out of fever—we haven't been able to decipher who you are, where you're from. My name's Lucille."

"Ben—"

"Ben who?"

"Ben and Abby. Ben Davis. My husband."

"Haven't heard that name before, but you weren't found in these parts. The Indians brought you in."

"The Indians?"

"Mmm. Do you know where you're from?"

"We have—had a farm near Lawton Springs. The floods came. Ben."

"I'll get a rider. Don't worry."

Lucille ran a hand over Cara's forehead, then discarded the cloth. She lifted her skirts as she got up from the chair and hurried away.

For a long time Ben had been her light, her friend. He'd been full of life, fun. When his wife died, her brother had worked him through his grief. When her brother died, nearly two years later, it had been his shoulder she'd leaned on, his arms around her, his smile she'd looked for.

She's fancied herself in love with him and when he'd asked her to marry him, she'd consented, believing in childish dreams.

Ben didn't love her—couldn't. He ached for his first wife, the mother of his daughter, the sweetest joy Cara had ever known.

Did they survive? Had they perished? Her heart ached, her eyes blurred with tears. She couldn't loose Ben.

Cara looked around at the long room. She saw the rows of beds, the other people lying within in the dim light. Someone coughed. Only two small candles were lit, one on each end of the room.

It was dark outside the window, but she heard the spurs walking on wood outside, heard the horse, and found comfort in the speed in which the rider rode away.

Lucille walked back, stopping momentarily to straighten the covers on another patient.

Cara watched and waited until Lucille regained her seat. "Where am I?"

"Fort Letterow."

"The river brought me this far?"

"No-no, dear. You were brought—" she stopped and set the cloth aside. "I should start from the beginning—or from what we have put together. You remember the flood?"

Cara saw the water, felt herself being swept away. She saw Ben and blinked, bringing herself back. She nodded, the words stuck in her throat.

"After the flood you were found by a party of Indians. You had gained a horse and some men's clothing that belonged to a friend of theirs. The horse brought you toward their village. When they found you, supplies were gone—you'd been stabbed."

The men had guns, Cara remembered. She saw their faces, remembered grabbing the reins of the horse—the horse that had found her. All of it was just flashes of light, still images.

"There was food—a little money. They took it—everything."

She put a hand to her side, remembered jumping on the horse, the knife.

"The Indians took you back to their camp. When they couldn't get you well, they brought you here, thinking someone might know you—recognize you or look for you here."

"How long—" Cara started. "How long since the flood?"

"Three weeks, about."

"Three weeks," Cara repeated. "Ben—"

"Ben will be happy to know you're alive."

"He'll have found another wife for Abby."

"Abby?"

"His daughter. We married—he wanted a mother for Abby. He was my brother's best friend. My brother died. Ben just wanted a wife for Abby."

Lucille lifted the cloth from the basin and rung it so that the water ran over her fingers. "Men sometimes need to miss the person God puts within their arms. He'll come, you'll see."

"We were friends," Cara murmured as her eyes slid closed. She was suddenly very tired. "He was wonderful ... he hasn't liked me in a long time."

Lucille pressed the cool cloth to Cara's brow. "Things will seem much better in the morning."





Cara woke to the sunlight. For a moment, the mattress at her back, the pillow under her head, she nearly tossed off the covers. It was morning—time to get breakfast, Abby up.

God please let Ben love me again—even if it is only the love of friends.

The prayer was automatic, words she begged of God every morning. Ben had not spoken to her in days. He didn't look at her. How she missed his smile! They were strangers in their own home.

His home, she reminded herself. His daughter. Abigail—his first wife's—beautiful things.

The moan that escaped her lips surprised even her. She heard the water slosh, then felt the cool cloth on her forehead. Her side ached—hurt.

"Cara—you're alright. Everything's going to be alright."

The voice was familiar. "Beth—"

Cara opened her eyes and blinked against the sunlight to see her dear friend's face. "Beth—"

She had dreamed she told herself. It had only been a dream.

"Ben—"

"Ben's coming. Hawk—Mr. Hawkens—rode back days ago himself. We were at the Indian village and we heard a tale of a woman who'd come riding in on Hawk's horse." Beth wiped her forehead.

"Then I'm not at home? It wasn't a dream?"

"You're at Fort Letterow. We arrived—Pastor Bryan and his wife—this morning. We left the village and headed this way as soon as we heard."

"Hawk lost his horse, you see, when he was trying to get to Fort Letterow."

"It found me," Cara murmured. She'd always felt that the horse had known where she was. "It waited for me—let me eat from its bags, change into the clothes. I was cold. So cold."

She shivered now and burrowed into the thin wool blanket.

"Oh—Cara, it sounds like you've been through—I can't imagine. We prayed so hard. Ben's been a mess."

"Has he married again?"

"Married?" Beth asked. "Honey, he hasn't even been able to care for Abby. He hasn't stopped looking for you. The men have dragged him back to town again and again."

Cara shook her head. "That's not Ben."

"He's been out of his mind."

"We haven't even talked ... reasonablely in weeks."

Beth frowned. "But you two were so close—"

"For awhile, but then things just—" she waved a hand in the air, "fell apart. You and Joseph visited a few weeks ago—or weeks before the flood. It was a terrible day. Ben told you a lie about why we hadn't gone to church. The horse did stamp his foot—but it was my fault. We'd been arguing again. We argued a lot. He was angry, tired of me. He hated me."

"You haven't seen him, Cara."

"I don't know what I'm going to do it he doesn't come for me. I don't know what I'm going to do if he still hates me. I have no where else to go."

Lucille stopped at the foot of the bed. She looked at Cara, then at Beth.

"It seems," Lucille said quietly, "that your young man has come. He's here, Cara, demanding to see you."

"Ben—"

"You'll have a few minutes together—but the doctor still needs to see you."

Beth squeezed Cara's hand. "I'll pray," she whispered, and lifted her skirts as she followed Lucille out.

Cara Ann closed her eyes.



Coming out of the dream, she sat up, covered her face with her hands. The dreams plagued her. They'd climbed on top of the house, the rain streaming around them, the river shaking the house. It had been so wet, so slick. She hadn't been able to hold on.

"Ben!" She cried out his name as the house rocked. She slid, grasping reaching, her fingers catching the rough wood. He'd reached for her, his hand coming out, terror in his eyes.

It was the terror she remembered as she fell into the river.

"Cara."

She blinked as Ben's arms came around her. Sunlight streamed through the windows. He'd come for her. Ben had come for her. They were both safe. They were both alive.

"Ben." She turned into him, breathed in his scent and listened to his heartbeat. It was strong and sure. So Ben, she thought.

"You've been out working," she murmured, closing her eyes as she rested in comfort.

"You've been sleeping." There was laughter in his voice. "How do you feel."

She reached to touch the bandage at her side where she'd been stabbed. Lucille had redressed it just that morning before Ben dropped in to share breakfast with her.

"It doesn't hurt so much anymore."

"The doctor says that whatever herbs the Indians put on it really helped. As soon as we get back, I'm to ask Hawkens to come back, to bring some of his Indian friends with him."

"I think Beth and Mr. Hawkens ... well, I wouldn't be surprised if they have a wedding one day." Her friend and the pastor and his wife had stayed at the fort for a day until they were sure she was surely healed. "Her eyes light up when she speaks of him."

He gently guided her back to lay against the mattress, his eyes intent on her face.

"I don't remember the Indians."

"From what I understand, you made quite an impression on them."

Cara smiled. "Abby will love the story. Should you be getting back to her?"

"Not without you."

She'd never seen Ben the way she saw him when he walked into the hospital. He'd never treated her so precious, never looked at her so longingly. There was something in his eyes that she'd never seen, something in his voice, deep and scratchy, that she'd never heard.

They talked over the next few days as they'd talked before Joseph's death. She enjoyed his banter, his wit, his love.

The doctor loaned them a brass chess set and they moved to a small table outside. They talked until her voice was hoarse. They enjoyed the silence. He touched her in the simplest ways, holding her hand, helping her to stand, brushing away a strand of hair that blew in her face.

They'd lost their home, but they could rebuild. Abby was safe. Most of their crops were salvaged. While she slept, he worked odd jobs around the fort. He proved skilled with carpentry, with his hands, and one job led to another. They would have supplies to take back, to start over with.

"You're safe—alive," he'd said, his hand on her cheek, in his eyes an intensity that brought tears to her own. "I know things were bad between us for awhile, but I never wanted to loose you. I never wanted things to be that way."

He loved her. He'd told her a dozen times.

She smiled over the words, as he came out of the hospital and draped a blanket around her shoulders. They were sitting outside in early morning light, the sweetness of the dawn in the air. As was their habit, they were enjoying the early morning and a game of chess. Ben had found a couple of crates to use as a table and chairs.

"Ben!" She laughed, and tugged the blanket around and into her lap. "I'm not cold."

"Are you sure? It feels damp out here. A person with a fever might not feel cold."

"I don't have a fever. I'm perfectly fine." She reached for his hand, drew it to her forehead. "See—no heat."

His eyes darkened and his hand lowered and turned to caress her cheek with the back of his hand. "Then why hasn't the doctor said you could go?"

"I don't know. He's just being careful, I guess. I told him this morning that I was feeling good and he smiled and said that he thought I was looking good. How long of a ride will it be?"

"We'll have to stop for two nights, possibly three." He dropped his hand and placed it in hers. "I want to be alone with you."

"Soon." Was all she said. It was all she could say. She wasn't used to the intensity she saw in his eyes.

He swallowed and ran his thumb over the curve of her palm all the way up her thumb. "There's something I need to tell you."

"That you love me?" she asked, referring to the other times he had made the statement over the last few days.

"Yes," he said, but his eyes remained serious. "But there's something else. You need to understand that I thought you were gone. It had been over two weeks. Everyone said I needed to be there for Abby—but I couldn't stop looking."

Don't, she wanted to tell him. Don't remember. "Everything's fine now."

"It will be ... but I have to tell you. I don't ever want anything to come between us again. I thought you were gone. I found your trunk—the one that belonged to your mother. We found it down stream, wedged into the land. I took everything out set it out to dry. There's a little water damage, but most everything is in good enough shape."

"Ben..." Cara wasn't sure what to say. He'd lost his home, lost so many of his own possessions, but he'd thought of her, been thinking of her.

"Everyone was telling me to stop looking. I couldn't ... I couldn't. One night, I put Abby to bed and I was laying there ... thinking about you. I got up, to check your things, to touch them. It was all that kept you sane. I thought I had lost you. Your diary was there. I thought ... I thought you were gone or I would never have—"

"What are you saying?" Suddenly his agony made sense. Her hand slid from his and clutched at the blanket, drawing it over her shoulders. She didn't need him to tell her. She knew. "Ben—it was private. You shouldn't have done that. You weren't supposed to—"

"I know. I—"

The door to the hospital opened and Lucille hurried out. "I have news!"

Restless, Ben stood.

Lucille turned to Cara. "The doctor's recommended your release."

Cara's eyes trembled closed. After all the sweetness she'd shared with Ben over the last few days, to end, to go home, with the same fueling fires between them ... Cara wanted to weep. She wished that he had kept the truth to himself.

"I'll get the wagon ready. Load our supplies."

She listened as he walked away, unable to watch. When she opened her eyes, Lucille was still there.

"Oh dear," she murmured, taking Ben's place at the makeshift table. "I had thought things were better between you."

"They were," Cara worried over the words. "But then—I just can't believe—"

"Whatever it is, remember how things have been between you over the last few days. The man who came here was not a man who married you for his daughter—or would, for such a reason, if the marriage was tomorrow. Don't forget the man who's stayed here, at your side. He didn't find another wife. He is seeing to you, knowing his daughter is safe of course."

"I have prayed so dearly for the two of you. I even got the doctor to extend the time of your stay, to give the two of you time to heal. Relationships can receive wounds as well."

"You had the doctor—"

"He's a romantic at heart. And so is your husband. Remember that."



Cara nearly wept with gratitude when Ben arrived with their new wagon—one he'd been given in exchange for working a few hours. Though old and small, simple in style, Cara thought it was beautiful. It was theirs and they had so little of their own. It was drawn by Old Will—a welcomed old friend. He'd been Jacob's horse. He'd survived the flood.

Ben said little as he loaded their supplies, their set of crates they'd been using as a table, and the small satchel that held Cara's nightgown the hospital had released to her. She wore her only dress.

She watched him silently as she stood at the front of the wagon, rubbing Old Will's dark mane. I don't want it to go back to the way it was, she thought, and then realized that she'd been directing her thoughts to the old horse. She turned the words up to God in prayer.

Ben helped her into the wagon without looking at her. He climbed in, took the reins, and thanked the doctor and Lucille.

Then they were off, riding through the wide gates of the fort toward a very uncertain home.



The morning slowly passed as Cara sat beside Ben, worrying and praying. How often had she prayed for Ben during their short marriage? She had prayed that he would love her and like her again, but how often after the first few weeks had she prayed for God to take care of him? To nurture him? To show her, not how to make him love her, but how to love him?

Ben Davis was such a good man. He was a hard worker. There were times, even when things were bad, that she would slip onto the porch just for the chance to watch him work. And she'd wish, so desperately wish, that she knew how please him.

"Ben—" she said suddenly, unable to bare the silence anymore. She reached for his hand that held the reins and felt his tension. "Please stop—let's stop for a minute."

He drew Old Will to a stop and hurried around to help her down. He looked around the open prairie that just weeks ago had been devastated by flood. "I don't know that there's much privacy, but the ground dry."

"I don't need to relieve myself. Not in that way." She looked up at him, and unable to resist, reached up and ran a gentle finger over his lips, as if to erase the frown. "I'm not mad at you for reading my diary. I'm upset that you did, but not mad."

"I did, said some horrible things to you."

"And I wrote them down, in the worst possible way, and read over them time and time again. I expected too much. It was wrong of me to do that. To ... keep a record of wrongs."

"You didn't know who to talk to. You should have been able to depend on that."

"I should have talked to you anyway. We had shared so much."

"I made your feel that you couldn't—don't argue about that. I didn't want to hear your feelings—because I didn't know what to do with my own," he cupped her cheeks with his capable fingers and drew her eyes to his. "You were right when you wrote about me making you feel like you were second hand, a replacement. There were days, hours, that I would see something of Doris's and I would writhe in guilt. If she had lived, I never would have loved you or looked at you beyond being Jacob's sister."

"I loved you, Cara, before I asked you to marry me. It felt so strong, so overwhelming when I brought you into my home, as my wife. I thought things would continue as—I thought things would be the way they were with Doris. The happy times I remembered. I forgot how much work it was, at times, to make those happy memories. I didn't fight for you, for our feelings, as I should have."

For a minute, he simply stood looking at her, studying her face, her features. The look in his eyes was intense.

"I need you to believe me."

Cara swallowed. "I believe you. I always have."

Then he drew her into his arms and held her close. She sighed and rested her head against his chest so that she could hear his heartbeat. It was strong, steady, so much a part of her own.

She leaned back and smiled up at him, feeling the freedom of the simple act. "I want to destroy that diary when we get home. I don't want to remember."

He brushed her hair back away from her face. "We'll have a ceremony—celebrate starting over. We'll light a fire."

"A big, blazing fire." Like, she thought, the fire that raged in her heart for him.

"But—" he tightened his grip as she started to step back. "I'm in no hurry."

HEY! and don't forget to e-mail me if you have a comment!







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