Part 25 (1/2)

”Let's go back to town,” Madison said. ”There's nothing you can do here.”

”I've got to find Papa,” Fern repeated ”He must be miles away by now,” Madison said. ”We'll never find him in the dark.”

When he tried to pull her away, she shrugged his arm off her shoulder.

”He's not here,” Madison said fifteen minutes later when they still had found no sign of Baker Sproull.

”He wouldn't leave,” Fern insisted, looking at Madison for the first time since they had reached what was left of the farm. ”This farm was the most important thing in his life.”

Madison realized Fern was in shock. She had lost her hat, and her hair hung down in a wet tangle over her shoulders. She hardly knew what she was doing. But it was her eyes that unnerved him. They were wide open, staring, as though she had lost touch with the world.

”Your arm,” she said, some semblance of life returning to her eyes. ”I'd forgotten about it.”

”I hadn't,” Madison said with a trace of a smile.

I promised to bandage it when . . .” Her voice trailed off. ”It can wait,” Madison said. ”We ought to be going. You're drenched to the skin. You'll be lucky if you haven't cracked some more ribs.”

”It's gone. Everything. Just like that.”

Madison wanted to say something, but what do you say to a woman who has lost her home, who may have lost her father? He had lost both, but Fern hadn't hated her father or longed to escape her home. For him, relief had blunted the pain.

She only had the pain.

”Your father can rebuild.”

”It makes everything seem so temporary,” Fern said, ”so futile.”

”Let's go. You need to get into bed.”

Fern made a brave effort to smile. Her failure tore at his heart.

”Here you are trying to get me to take care of myself, and you're the one who's wounded. You must think I'm an awful fool. I didn't mean to shoot you, but you frightened me coming out of the dark like that.”

”You've got to get some streetlights out here,” Madison said. ”A couple of good gas lanterns would work wonders. You could use a couple of street signs as well. I'm surprised people ever manage to find their way around this prairie.”

He was talking nonsense, but it made him feel better to see a weak smile. When he brought her horse, she mounted up. They rode out of the yard without looking back.

”I've got to find somewhere to stay,” she said, half to herself.

”I'm sure Mrs. Abbott will let you stay on until your father decides what to do.”

”But your family has hired the house. I feel as if I'm intruding.”

”Rose enjoys your company. George has been gone an awful lot. I know she'll be glad when Jeff gets back from Denver.”

”I really think I ought to stay somewhere else.”

Madison listened as she cataloged the houses where she might board and then enumerated the reasons why each would be unsatisfactory. Certain she would soon talk herself into remaining with Mrs. Abbott, he turned his thoughts to her dilemma.

He had no idea what they would do about the farmher father would make that decis...o...b..t he wasn't going to wait for Baker Sproull. The man had never concerned himself with Fern, and Madison didn't expect him to start now.

But Madison couldn't interfere without a good reason.

And he wasn't sure he had one, at least not a sufficient one. Interfering in people's lives implied a willingness, no, a desire, to a.s.sume responsibility for them. He felt quite strongly about Fern now. He liked her, a lot, but he didn't know exactly what he wanted to do about it.

He was definitely angry at the way everybody treated her. She deserved more, and he was going to see that A gasp and a strangled cry brought him plummeting back into the present.

Fern slid from her horse and ran a short way into a cornfield flattened by the winds. When Madison reached her side, he found her kneeling over her father's body. He could see no wounds, but Sproull's body lay at such odd angles with itself that Madison was certain most of his bones were broken. He must have been sucked up by the wind and flung a long distance.

”I knew he wouldn't leave the farm. It was all he ever cared about.”

Fern touched him in little ways, brus.h.i.+ng wet hair out of his eyes, b.u.t.toning his s.h.i.+rt, wiping mud off his cheek, but she didn't straighten his limbs. It was as though she couldn't face the final proof he was dead.

”He made Mama leave her family to come out here. He made her have another baby so he would have a son to leave this place to. Everything had to be sacrificed for this place. Even me.”

Madison couldn't think of anything that would ease the hurt she must be feeling, the pain of losing her father, the feeling of being lost, homeless, and alone. He had endured the same things, so why didn't he know what to say?

Because his own wounds weren't healed.

George was right. Madison wasn't ready to live life, to build, to sow and reap.

Madison took Fern by the shoulders and tried to lift her, but she wouldn't stand, just continued bending over her father's body. He would have felt better if she'd broken into hysterical weeping, but she remained dry-eyed.

Taking her hand with his good arm, Madison pulled her to her feet. Ignoring the pain of his wound, he drew her closer. She came to him, her back to him, her eyes never leaving her father's body, letting him put his arms around her, accepting his warmth and comfort.

Then the tears came. She cried softly, her body shaking as he held her, tears rolling down her cheeks and dropping onto his arms.

”He did love me,” she said. ”He just wanted a son so much he sometimes forgot.”

Madison didn't tell Fern what he thought about Baker Sproull, but if he could have gotten his hands on him, Baker Sproull would have died a second time that night.

”We have to get him to town,” he said. Madison brought up her horse. Fern, her gaze never leaving her father, gripped the horse's bridle while Madison draped the body across the saddle. Madison s.h.i.+vered with loathing. Everything felt loose inside Sproull's skin, like beans in a bag. Securing the body was almost more than he could endure.

He was glad that Fern hadn't been alone when she discovered her father. He doubted she would have ever gotten over it.

”We can take him to the livery stable until you can make arrangements,” he said.

She stared at him out of sightless eyes. She had no strength left, no more resources to absorb shock. He led her to Buster and lifted her into the saddle. She made no comment when he mounted behind her. Leading her horse, they started toward Abilene.

Eddie Finch glared at Madison out of wrathful eyes. ”I ain't eating a bite.”

”You might as well,” Madison answered, unmoved by Eddie's anger. ”It's not easy to get food to you without anybody wondering where it's going.”

”I don't care. I ain't eating it,” Eddie repeated.

”Suit yourself, but you're staying here until Hen's hearing in Topeka. You'll get awfully hungry before then.”