Isabelle thanked her, shading her eyes as the door opened to dusty sunlight that swallowed Mildred on her way out.
*
The body grew accustomed to touch, used to conversation, and when it was gone the loss manifested itself in what Isabelle could only register as a mounting pressure, an itching wound, located in no one location but rather across her entire person. Mildred’s presence had helped, but the effects wore off like weak medication. Soon she returned to the same routines of isolation, knitting with no result in mind, taking stock of the cellar knowing it didn’t matter what she found there. Sometimes she busied herself to the point of delirium, snapping out of it only to realize ten minutes had passed, or an hour. Other times she would sit still, an image in her mind of an infant reaching out from the cradle, a single plump hand searching for its creator, seeking comfort, and how different really was she from that child?
She napped, having been up all night for the second night in a row, and woke to find daylight still burdening the blinds. There was a knock on the door. She realized it was the sound that had woken her. How had she not heard someone coming up the lane? How could she have allowed herself to fall asleep? She sprang up and straightened her dress before approaching the door. There was no time to grow worried or frightened. When she opened the door, the air, thick with the accumulated heat of the day, hit her like an open palm.
“Isabelle…” Wade Webler had his hat in hand.
She’d never known him to fail in meeting someone else’s gaze but he couldn’t even put eyes on her. So few things could bring a man like him to look down at a woman’s feet.
“Tell me,” she said.
He hesitated further.
“I don’t know what got into him. He just pulled that pistol out…”
She put her hand to her mouth, then to her chest, as if unsure which part of her might break first and need tending to.
Wade was clearly broken, too. Hackstedde, whom she had until now barely registered, moseyed up to his side, taking his time. He managed to tell her what had happened, with a measured steadiness she both resented and appreciated.
“He’s not dead,” Hackstedde reassured her, “although he seemed to think the end was inevitable. Can’t blame him. It bled hard, but it was just a shot to the thigh. Made sure to get him back before things got too dire.”
A surge of relief washed over her. She was looking at the man who’d shot her husband, and yet she had the urge to thank the sheriff for saving the very life he’d put in danger.
“We got him down there with Doctor Dover. You can see him when you please.”
She was holding her breath now. “And the boys. What of the boys?”
“Right,” Hackstedde said casually. “Those boys whose whereabouts you had no idea of. Well, a few of us turned back with Wade to get George home. The others who kept on ran into a man hunting hog. Told them Old Ox was on fire. They caught back up with us with the news and they were a bit more eager to see to their homes than to the fugitives. So we let that go.”
He shrugged, and never had an act so minor meant so much.
“All I can tell you is that they’re not in my possession. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I best go see to the town’s safety. People to protect and whatnot.”
She watched him turn and go off, racked by the news, her body nothing more than a trembling collection of parts. Wade was still silent before her. His face was shaded by his hat, which he’d replaced on his head during Hackstedde’s monologue, and eyed her from under its brim with great remorse.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I suppose I haven’t said that. The situation seemed to escape my control. Lost a handle on things.”
He looked out at the charred land then. The sky was a shade of mud and the ground beneath it burnt to a black crisp.
“And not only for George,” he said. “I fear that everything is gone.”
The smell of days of riding clung to the man, and the need to retch overwhelmed her. Her body was constricting under the challenge of tolerating his presence any longer—her fingers clenched, her throat latching shut against her will. A moment passed where she focused all her energy on calming herself, and then she managed to address him one last time.
“Go see to your family,” she said. “And don’t hide this pain, either. I want you to carry what you’ve done. But as far as I’m concerned, we’re never to speak again.” He made to utter another word, another sentence, but she wouldn’t have it. “I told you to leave, Wade.”