Julia Colton stood in the doorway of her home, caught
between two worlds. On one
side lay the dream--sunshine and warmth, the scent of earth
and grass and water, life
and freedom. On the other side lay reality--shadows and
damp, the smell of herbs and
medicine and sickness, death and drudgery.
Guilt flooded her, as it always did when she began to feel
sorry for herself. Her
life at least held the promise of life. Julia glanced back
at the still shape upon the bed.
Her mother’s life held only the certainty of death.
“Mama, I’m going down to the creek to get some fresh, cool
water. It’ll help the
fever.”
The shape on the bed shifted, moaned, then swallowed the
sound of pain, of
weakness. Elvira Colton’s gray, bone-thin face appeared from
the nest of blankets, and
her feverish eyes met those of her daughter.
“Go on ahead, darlin’, I’ll just sleep awhile. Why don’t you
take a little time in the
sun? I’ll rest better if I’m alone.”
Julia gave a quick nod and grabbed the bucket from its
resting place next to the
door. Then she turned away and plunged into the sunshine
before her mother saw the
tears spill from her eyes.
Mama would not sleep. The pain and the fever would not let
her. At times she
fell into an exhausted state that resembled death, and when
she awoke she was always
weaker than before. Whenever Julia urged her to rest, her
mother would only say, “I’ll
be restin’ for eternity soon enough,” and since Julia could
not argue with that, she did
not argue with Mama at all.
Mama had been bedridden since Julia was a little girl. The
combination of too
many births, too close together, had weakened her. Then a
few years back while the
boys and her husband had been off harassing the Kansas folk,
she’d been caught in a
burning cabin. Though Julia had awoken and dragged her mama
outside before they
both died, Mama’s lungs were burned from the smoke, and the
doctor said it was only a
matter of time until they gave out completely. Julia had
never forgiven herself for
sleeping too deep that night, nor forgiven the hell sent
Jayhawkers for burning the cabin
in the first place.
Her mother’s admonition to take a little time in the sun
only made Julia’s guilt
throb harder and hotter in her stomach. Mama knew she’d been
aching to get outside,
and in her typical, selfless way, had given Julia a reason
to go. Though she should stay
inside and do what she could for Mama, as she’d been doing
since she was old enough
to do for anyone beyond herself, Julia took the gift of
freedom and ran with it to the
creek.
The day was a sure-fire keeper. Too early in the year to
bring the stifling heat
common to a Missouri summer, instead a cool breeze that
smelled of new grass and just sprung flowers rippled the
shiny surface of Colton Creek. Julia put down the bucket
and stepped closer to the water. Clear as glass, she watched
fish shadows dance
above the multi-colored bottom rocks.
“Ho, there!” The distant call of her father to the plow
horses made her start and
jerk her head in that direction. With her four brothers gone
and joined the renegade
Confederate militia, more commonly known as Bushwhackers,
her father had more
work than he could handle.
Not that he begrudged his sons the fight. The Coltons had
been Jayhawker
haters since the word was invented, and since the immigrant
Irish, abolitionist Murphy’s
had gone and bought the Kansas land on the other side of
Colton Creek, Sam Colton’s
hatred had become an obsession.
There’d been arguments and fistfights whenever he and the
elder Murphy met
up, not to mention malicious mischief on both their farms
attributed to each other and
sniper fire blamed upon the same. Not that her father had
ever been an easy man, but
he’d become downright uneasy in the four years since the
Murphy’s arrived. He would
not be happy if he found Julia malingering at the creek when
she should be tending her
mama.
Julia reached for the bucket, then hesitated. Mama had asked
her to stay
awhile, and her father was too busy to leave the field
before sundown. He’d only come
looking for her if she didn’t bring him his dinner when the
sun stood straight up noon.
She glanced at the sky. She had at least an hour before then.
With a rare show of rebellion, Julia turned her back on the
bucket, pulled off her
shoes and stockings, hoisted her skirts and stepped into the
water.
“Eeek.” A short, sharp squeal of surprise escaped her lips
when the water, still
cold from the winter melt off, captured her feet. But after
the initial shock she began to
enjoy the tingle of the cold and the lap of the waves
against her calves. Her toes
scrunched into the smooth stones, and the fish flitted just
ahead of her as if leading her
onward to a secret, special place.
Mama said Julia was a dreamer. The life she led made her so.
Mama, once a
teacher in the East, had brought trunks of books along when
she’d married father and
come to Missouri. Julia blessed those books everyday.
Without them she would never
have learned anything about the world outside their cabin,
and though that world was
fiction, what she read gave her something to think about
other than sickness and death.
She and her mama read those books over and over until they
knew every line, every
word, every character, and sometimes they talked about those
imaginary folk as if they
were their best friends.
Julia became so enthralled with the game she played with the
fish, she didn’t
realize she was no longer alone until she laughed at the
antics of a particularly brave
fish and someone laughed with her.
Her head jerked up. A gasp stuck in her throat. Her heart
began to thud with
uncertainty, then fear. A man sat on the opposite bank of
the creek--the Kansas side--
and from the look of his clothes and his guns and his horse,
he was a Jayhawker--
renegade Union militia.
Trouble.