instructed without paying a price? Because on that day, if she'd gone with her son to the root cellar as her husband had insisted, she'd have escaped the oncoming flames.
The thick wooden door of the root cellar had blocked out all light , all sound. Jake waited down there for hours in the dim glow of a single candle's flame, pacing the dirt floor as he'd waited for his father's signal, as he'd waited for his pa's permission to exit.
H alf a day later, when Jake climbed from the sweet-smelling pit where he'd been surrounded by dusty jars of peaches and beans and tomatoes that lined his mother's crude-built wooden shelves, much of the smoke had already cleared.
There had been a prairie fire years earlier, and its hungry flames had greedily devoured the chicken coop and the hog pen before his pa got it under control. Remembering the destruction of that blaze, Jake ran for the house, yelling at the top of his lungs.
When no one answered, he'd balled up his fists and fought the urge to cry. Round and round he'd turned, surveying the silent, smoky world that had been his home. In place of the whitewashed barn, a pile of smoldering boards. The tool shed had become a blackened splotch on the earth. Stepping cautiously through the rubble that had been their kitchen, he'd called out for his parents.
Hours later, when his uncle rode in to investigate the ugly curls of dark smoke churning above his brother's house, he found his nephew at the end of the drive, clutching his father's gold pocket watch to his chest. Jake had tried to say "'T’weren't my fault, Uncle Josh." Tried to explain that he'd stayed in the root cellar because his pa had told him to. Wanted to say that he'd found his pa, barely breathing, in a smoldering pile of wood that had once been the kitchen, and that he'd dug around back there in the hope of finding his ma, too.
To this day, he wondered…
…if he'd had the courage to disobey his father, as his mother had, would one more pair of hands, fighting Mother Nature's fiery temper, have made the difference between life and death for his parents? If hadn't cowered in the root cellar as long as he had, would he have emerged in time to save them?
The boy woke again, forcing Jake to shove the thorny thoughts aside as he groaned right along with Matt each time a bump in the road worried the broken leg or the injured arm…and only the good Lord knew what damage he’d suffered, internally.
It took nearly eight hours to get back to the manor house, and when at long last they arrived, Doc Beck, Bess, Mark, and Micah were there to meet them. "You were smart not to try and splint these," Doc said after inspecting the boy's injuries. "That's a compound fracture he's got there. Repairing it is going to require surgery."
Matt took a deep breath. "Surgery? Pa, do I really have to get an operation?"
Mark hovered in the background, wringing his hands, and Micah stood beside him, chewing his lower lip. Only Bess braved the sight of blood and exposed bone to step up close. She knelt beside her little brother, oblivious to the gravel and grit that soiled the pale blue skirt of her dress. "Hush, now, Matthew," she crooned softly, patting his hand. "We're going to do whatever Doc says, 'cause he knows what's best, you hear?"
His big dark eyes swam with unshed tears of fear. "But Bess," he whimpered, "I'm scared to get cut...."
"'Course you're scared, but there's no need to be." She leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss upon his cheek. "Doc's scalpel won't do you near as much damage as I will if you don't lay back and keep quiet," Bess scolded gently, running her fingers through his dark, perspiration dampened curls.
Her presence, her voice, her touch seemed enough to calm him, and Matt nodded weakly. "Okay, Bess. Whatever you say."
Doc put a hand on her shoulder. "I'm going to need some help. Think you're up to it?"
Bess swallowed and took a deep breath , and, standing, raised her chin and faced the doctor. "Just tell
The thick wooden door of the root cellar had blocked out all light , all sound. Jake waited down there for hours in the dim glow of a single candle's flame, pacing the dirt floor as he'd waited for his father's signal, as he'd waited for his pa's permission to exit.
H alf a day later, when Jake climbed from the sweet-smelling pit where he'd been surrounded by dusty jars of peaches and beans and tomatoes that lined his mother's crude-built wooden shelves, much of the smoke had already cleared.
There had been a prairie fire years earlier, and its hungry flames had greedily devoured the chicken coop and the hog pen before his pa got it under control. Remembering the destruction of that blaze, Jake ran for the house, yelling at the top of his lungs.
When no one answered, he'd balled up his fists and fought the urge to cry. Round and round he'd turned, surveying the silent, smoky world that had been his home. In place of the whitewashed barn, a pile of smoldering boards. The tool shed had become a blackened splotch on the earth. Stepping cautiously through the rubble that had been their kitchen, he'd called out for his parents.
Hours later, when his uncle rode in to investigate the ugly curls of dark smoke churning above his brother's house, he found his nephew at the end of the drive, clutching his father's gold pocket watch to his chest. Jake had tried to say "'T’weren't my fault, Uncle Josh." Tried to explain that he'd stayed in the root cellar because his pa had told him to. Wanted to say that he'd found his pa, barely breathing, in a smoldering pile of wood that had once been the kitchen, and that he'd dug around back there in the hope of finding his ma, too.
To this day, he wondered…
…if he'd had the courage to disobey his father, as his mother had, would one more pair of hands, fighting Mother Nature's fiery temper, have made the difference between life and death for his parents? If hadn't cowered in the root cellar as long as he had, would he have emerged in time to save them?
The boy woke again, forcing Jake to shove the thorny thoughts aside as he groaned right along with Matt each time a bump in the road worried the broken leg or the injured arm…and only the good Lord knew what damage he’d suffered, internally.
It took nearly eight hours to get back to the manor house, and when at long last they arrived, Doc Beck, Bess, Mark, and Micah were there to meet them. "You were smart not to try and splint these," Doc said after inspecting the boy's injuries. "That's a compound fracture he's got there. Repairing it is going to require surgery."
Matt took a deep breath. "Surgery? Pa, do I really have to get an operation?"
Mark hovered in the background, wringing his hands, and Micah stood beside him, chewing his lower lip. Only Bess braved the sight of blood and exposed bone to step up close. She knelt beside her little brother, oblivious to the gravel and grit that soiled the pale blue skirt of her dress. "Hush, now, Matthew," she crooned softly, patting his hand. "We're going to do whatever Doc says, 'cause he knows what's best, you hear?"
His big dark eyes swam with unshed tears of fear. "But Bess," he whimpered, "I'm scared to get cut...."
"'Course you're scared, but there's no need to be." She leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss upon his cheek. "Doc's scalpel won't do you near as much damage as I will if you don't lay back and keep quiet," Bess scolded gently, running her fingers through his dark, perspiration dampened curls.
Her presence, her voice, her touch seemed enough to calm him, and Matt nodded weakly. "Okay, Bess. Whatever you say."
Doc put a hand on her shoulder. "I'm going to need some help. Think you're up to it?"
Bess swallowed and took a deep breath , and, standing, raised her chin and faced the doctor. "Just tell
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