The Huntress ✓

24. Expectations

The door creaked open and a small woman entered carrying a tray with a bowl and a glass. Graying hair was pulled in a tight bun and over her sandy almond dress, she wore an apron. She sat the tray down on a table beside the bed and offered Bronte a warm smile.

"I thought you'd be up soon." She took a rag from a basin of water sitting nearby and dabbed at her swollen face. Bronte flinched and grasped the woman's wrist to stop her. The women merely smiled and took her hand back.

"My name is Myra. My husband is Pastor Matthews and this is our home. Your friend brought you here last night."

Bronte sat up and closed her eyes while the dizziness passed. She grabbed the glass from the tray and tried to take a gulp. Water dribbled out of her swollen mouth and the woman dabbed at it with a napkin.

"That was quite a beating you took; your friend was concerned. He should be in anytime now. We didn't have room for him here but he said he could find other accommodations."

Bronte imagined what the accommodations might be but didn't smile. She was certain it'd hurt. A knock sounded from somewhere in the house and the woman rose.

"That'll be your friend now. Try to eat some broth if you can." She shut the door behind her.

Bronte didn't want any broth. She doubted she could ever feel hungry again the way her stomach was rolling. Instead she swung her legs over the side, relieved to find herself fully dressed aside from her boots which, with many a grimace, she pulled on. She looked around for her rapier but it wasn't there. Sam's voice seeped under the door. She pulled it open and entered a small room that seemed to be multipurpose, having a table on one end and a hearth with a couple of rockers at the other. Sam knelt on the floor looking at one. He turned to see her emerging stiffly from the bedroom. A low whistle escaped his teeth as he studied her face.

"That's some shiner ya got," he said.

Bronte grunted. "What are you doing?" she asked, only it didn't sound like that. It sounded more like, "Whap ah you booing?"

Myra kindly pretended not to notice—but not Sam. A grin, wide as Bronte had ever seen, spread over his face. "Forgive me. Say again?"

Bronte scowled at him (as well as she could with one eye) but didn't repeat herself.

Myra cleared her throat. "Sam's offered to repair my chair, among other things, in exchange for your stay, though we assured him it wasn't necessary. We're happy to help those in need. We wouldn't accept his money so he graciously offered his services for a few days until you've recovered." She turned and smiled at Sam.

Bronte was on the verge of pronouncing herself in no need of a recovery period when she caught Sam's eye. His look reminded her of a puppy dog pleading for table scraps. The door opened and someone else entered the cabin. A woman. A woman that made Bronte clamp her sore jaw shut and nod in agreement.

A gray-haired Alice bustled into the room carrying preparations for the morning meal. The same Alice she'd wondered about last night. The same Alice who'd raised Bronte on her knee. Bronte remembered the last words they'd spoken.

"I'm not afraid!" a young Bronte answered stubbornly.

Alice smiled. "Yes ya are, even if not for yerself."

That was on the night she ran from the only two people on earth who loved her, and away from the life they didn't want her to have.

Alice deposited her goods and turned to survey the occupants of the room. As her gaze fell on Bronte she paused and narrowed her eyes for an instant. "What dat young man doing out of bed?" she directed to no one in particular. "Him almos' beat ta death an 'e should be restin. I found me a doctor in town and he promise ta come by later."