Part 3 (2/2)
more patience than anyone I ever knew.”
Cynthie smiled.
”Thanks. For now, send Greg up to the house. He can help me get some things
ready for Mr. Sutton.”
”Yes, ma'am.” He started to leave but turned back.
”The cousin bit was a good idea.”
She smiled as she watched him close the door.
Hours later, Cynthie sat down at the small writing desk and turned up the
lamp. The house was quiet. Greg was tucked into his bed upstairs.He hadn't been happy about being called away from Peter and the horses buthad helped her eagerly when she had explained about the new houseguest. In his excitement, he had had trouble keeping his voice at what his mother considered an acceptable level.
She needn't have worried. Winn hadn't stirred since he arrived, but he might
awaken in the night and need something. Fearful that she wouldn't hear him from her room upstairs, she had brought down a blanket and planned to spendthe night in a chair in the front room.
Now she took white paper from a drawer and dipped the pen in the ink.
She wrote the doctor in New York who had tried to save her father's sight,
hoping with each stroke of the pen that he would know what might save Mr.
Sutton's.
Winn awoke with the uncomfortable feeling that he wasn't alone. Had he heard
some small sound, or was
it his imagination? He blinked, trying to adjustto the darkness, and remembered that the darkness didn't go away. d.a.m.n, hewould be glad when this pa.s.sed!
He heard something again, a small sigh, he thought. ”Is someone there?” he asked. There was a shuffling noise, and a floorboard creaked. It seemed odd that his visitor didn't identify himself. He felt a p.r.i.c.kle of alarm.
He felt more helpless right now than he could remember ever feeling.”Who's there?” he asked again.”Greg,” a small voice answered.Winn smiled. The tiny sound, the hesitancy to answer and the shuffling feet all fit together to form a picture of a little boy. He thought he couldremember Mrs. Franklin mentioning a son, but he wasn't sure. So much of his memory seemed to be hazy.
”I'm Winn,” he said, reaching his right hand toward the sound.”It's nice to meet you, sir.” A very tiny hand tried to shake his large one.”How do you do?” The child giggled.”Are you Mrs. Franklin's son?” Winn asked, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and coming cautiously to a sit ting position. His head hurt but it was a clear sharp pain with little of the groggy feeling.
The effects of the laudanum were wearing off.
He hadn't heard an answer to his question but he felt the boy climb up beside him on the bed. He guessed that Greg had either nodded or shaken his head.
”Is your father around?”
”No,” came the reply.
”He's dead.”
Winn was startled by the matter-of-fact tone and wished he could see the
child's face.
”I'm sorry,” he said.
”Do you have a daddy?” Greg asked.
”No, I'm afraid mine's gone, too.”
”Yeah,” the child said as if that was to be expected.
”This is my grand daddy's room but I'm afraid he's gone, too.” The child wiggled around on the bed until his legs were free to swing against the side.
He set up a rocking motion that threatened Winn's sense of balance.”Maybe you can help me with something,” Winn began. He was suddenlyuncertain how to ask this. He brought a hand down instinctively to still onesmall knee. He cleared his throat.
”I need to relieve myself but I can't see. Can you help me?”
Greg was silent for a moment.
”You need to go to the outhouse,” he said, delighted that he had figured it
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