back to carefree summers as a child in Alabama. Windows left open to catch the barest of breezes. She laughed to herself that the ladies thought Tucson humid. Even though it was a mite uncomfortable, nothing could compare with the buzzing, biting insects and steamy-hot dog days of Somerville, Alabama.
Thoughts zipped round her head like the lightning that danced and flickered in the far off clouds. She watched through the small window as the dark silhouette of the mountains ignited into view. The distant storms clung to the steep slopes like a lover, refusing to let go and bring blessed, cooling rain.
She turned over, her mind churning with images of Mara, of the man who had rescued them, of the one who had almost taken their lives. Sleep refused to find her, and she punched her pillow with a frustrated fist. Where could Bowen be? She hadn’t seen him since he had deposited her with the laundresses. She disliked the notion of waiting for his return but couldn’t help jumping whenever she saw a swiftly approaching officer. How he’d so quickly gotten under her skin!
As the dark, lonely hours ticked by, she prayed for Father Acuña and Mariposa; she knew in her heart they were doing everything for her sister. That Mara was healing. Still, she longed to see her sister with her own eyes. To kiss her hands and brush her hair and bring her out of this desert into their own promised land.
Her thoughts slipped to the man who had led them into such dire straits, and she had to pray for another strength altogether. El Tejano , his soulless eyes and featureless mask, his heart as black as the desert night. He took what wasn’t his without remorse and had no care for human life.
She could not find the words to pray for his soul, and even more so, she had to still her tongue before she prayed ill over him. This man, who had almost killed her dear sister; this mystery that threatened to consume her every thought. And all of it jumbled together with thoughts of the secretive soldier who had rescued them.
Each night, she saw Bowen’s face as she wrenched her mind from poisonous thoughts toward the thief.
Todo o nada resounded in her brain. She prayed for relief and dreamed of the mysterious soldier who had rescued them from the darkness.
****
RuthAnne inhaled the scent of warm sunshine from the clothesline. It was her last load of the day, and she could imagine the face of the young soldier who had dropped off his laundry bag that morning; Corporal Perry Finch, with his shock of blonde hair and piercing brown eyes. Though she’d be surprised if he were twenty years old, his face was weathered and tanned. He was gaunt from poor eating. While over six feet tall, the extreme heat and hardtack had its way of wearing a young man down.
She imagined him with a mother who worried over him, sending him letters that he probably responded to immediately. She knew a boy like this needed someone to give him extra care. He was still out on patrol and more than likely wouldn’t be back until late afternoon.
While a bevy of laundresses headed to the mess tent, RuthAnne unclipped Corporal Finch’s army issue shirts and trousers and folded them in her basket. She had already noted his pants needed patching at the knee and had managed to squirrel away just the right hue of swatch to fix it. Trimming a few loose threads at the cuffs should spiff up his jacket, and he was sure to lose a button or two if she didn’t shore them up. Humming while she sat with her sewing kit and scissors in the shade of a cottonwood tree on the edge of the Row, she set to caring for this soldier.
She could hear the whispers as she pressed his trousers with the iron, heated on the wood stove. Who pressed clothes for an enlisted man? RuthAnne actually found herself anticipating Abigail’s disapproving frown with each patch sewn and button re-secured. Still, when the men picked up their sacks, RuthAnne met them each with a word of kindness. Someone had to love on
Thoughts zipped round her head like the lightning that danced and flickered in the far off clouds. She watched through the small window as the dark silhouette of the mountains ignited into view. The distant storms clung to the steep slopes like a lover, refusing to let go and bring blessed, cooling rain.
She turned over, her mind churning with images of Mara, of the man who had rescued them, of the one who had almost taken their lives. Sleep refused to find her, and she punched her pillow with a frustrated fist. Where could Bowen be? She hadn’t seen him since he had deposited her with the laundresses. She disliked the notion of waiting for his return but couldn’t help jumping whenever she saw a swiftly approaching officer. How he’d so quickly gotten under her skin!
As the dark, lonely hours ticked by, she prayed for Father Acuña and Mariposa; she knew in her heart they were doing everything for her sister. That Mara was healing. Still, she longed to see her sister with her own eyes. To kiss her hands and brush her hair and bring her out of this desert into their own promised land.
Her thoughts slipped to the man who had led them into such dire straits, and she had to pray for another strength altogether. El Tejano , his soulless eyes and featureless mask, his heart as black as the desert night. He took what wasn’t his without remorse and had no care for human life.
She could not find the words to pray for his soul, and even more so, she had to still her tongue before she prayed ill over him. This man, who had almost killed her dear sister; this mystery that threatened to consume her every thought. And all of it jumbled together with thoughts of the secretive soldier who had rescued them.
Each night, she saw Bowen’s face as she wrenched her mind from poisonous thoughts toward the thief.
Todo o nada resounded in her brain. She prayed for relief and dreamed of the mysterious soldier who had rescued them from the darkness.
****
RuthAnne inhaled the scent of warm sunshine from the clothesline. It was her last load of the day, and she could imagine the face of the young soldier who had dropped off his laundry bag that morning; Corporal Perry Finch, with his shock of blonde hair and piercing brown eyes. Though she’d be surprised if he were twenty years old, his face was weathered and tanned. He was gaunt from poor eating. While over six feet tall, the extreme heat and hardtack had its way of wearing a young man down.
She imagined him with a mother who worried over him, sending him letters that he probably responded to immediately. She knew a boy like this needed someone to give him extra care. He was still out on patrol and more than likely wouldn’t be back until late afternoon.
While a bevy of laundresses headed to the mess tent, RuthAnne unclipped Corporal Finch’s army issue shirts and trousers and folded them in her basket. She had already noted his pants needed patching at the knee and had managed to squirrel away just the right hue of swatch to fix it. Trimming a few loose threads at the cuffs should spiff up his jacket, and he was sure to lose a button or two if she didn’t shore them up. Humming while she sat with her sewing kit and scissors in the shade of a cottonwood tree on the edge of the Row, she set to caring for this soldier.
She could hear the whispers as she pressed his trousers with the iron, heated on the wood stove. Who pressed clothes for an enlisted man? RuthAnne actually found herself anticipating Abigail’s disapproving frown with each patch sewn and button re-secured. Still, when the men picked up their sacks, RuthAnne met them each with a word of kindness. Someone had to love on
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