Waiting for Patrick by Brynn Stein Page A

head onto his lap. “What was I supposed to do, just leave you to bleed to death in a thicket by the battlefield?” When I don’t answer, he goes on. “There’s a house up there. I’m taking you there. Maybe the people there will help.”
    “We’re Union soldiers. We’re in the South. For aught I know, we could have killed their brother, or husband or something. They’re not going to help.” I turn my head to face him as best I can.
    “We won’t know till we try.” He leans over and places a kiss on the top of my head. He gently lays my head back on the ground and stands up, then bends over and does some complicated maneuver until I’m draped across the back of his neck, hanging over each shoulder. It hurts like tarnation and I cry out. “God, I’m sorry, Ben. I truly am.” He shifts me on his shoulders, trying to find a more comfortable position. “I reckon that hurts. I tried to carry you in my arms, but my right arm is too weak and I almost dropped you. That won’t help anything.”
    “I’m not… sure… this is… either.” It takes forever to get the words out because I can barely breathe, both because of the position and because it simply hurts so wretched much.
    “I’ll be as swift as I can,” he promises and walks faster.
    I never thought I’d be pleased by fainting like a girl, but I’m relieved when I feel myself start to pass out.
    I don’t know how long I was in limbo, but now the pain is back in full force. We’re in a stable, and horses are venting their gall over our presence in their diggings. I feel the hay prickling my arms and the back of my neck. Patrick has gotten water and cloths from somewhere and is trying to clean my wound, but every time he touches my stomach, it’s like he’s thrusting a knife through my gut. It takes everything in me not to cry out.
    The horses must finally have gotten used to us because they have settled down, and I relax a little. That probably means the owner won’t come in to see who is here. But Patrick perks up even more now that they are quiet.
    “Shhh,” he tells me, even though I’m not making any sound. “Do you hear that?”
    I don’t at first, but then I finally hear what he’s talking about. It sounds like children crying.
    “Kids?” I must be more out of it than I thought.
    “That’s what it sounds like.” He goes to stand up, but then looks at me and picks a piece of straw out of my hair. “Ben, will you be well on your own if I go investigate?”
    I nod and he leaves. My eyes slip closed against my will, but I hear the scuffs of straw getting quieter and farther away.
    I think I fell asleep because he’s jostling me awake now. He has a big smile on his face as he strokes my cheek.
    “I think the lady of the house will be sympathetic to our cause.”
    “Why do you say that?” I turn my face into his touch.
    “The kids crying? There’s a false wall back there and several families of contraband. This is a stop on the Underground Railroad.”
     
     
    ELLIOT MET Sheri and Malcolm in the park for lunch the next day. The sunlight danced off the metal picnic table as though celebrating the weather and life in general. It was a beautiful Saturday, and throngs of people were taking advantage of the warmth and sunshine, but Sheri had found a table on the top of a small rise away from everyone else.
    “So this event tonight is going to be so great,” she gushed as she laid out the picnic lunch she’d brought. “It’s a charity event for children who have cancer, and there will be a number of celebrities there.”
    Malcolm groaned as he fished out a chicken leg. “She’s forcing me to go with her. I had to rent a tux and everything.” For a man who seemed to wear suits all the time, he didn’t appear at all happy to have to wear a tux. He was as dressed down today as Elliot had ever seen him: starched white shirt and dress pants—to a picnic—but no tie or suit jacket. For Malcolm that was positively