A sequel to 'Red', we selfishly enjoy the mixed feelings Anna must endure while considering Simcoe's willingness to defend her.
Anna gave another pump and clear, crisp water gushed from the well's spigot. Cicero rubbed his hands together in the surge, scrubbing at his small palms. She could see the water coming away salmon-colored in the dim light of the candle that sat on the stump and looked down to her own hands. Dark stains covered her delicate fingers and seeped under her nails. As she ran her palms across one another, she could feel the stickiness of the blood tacking her fingertips together. Shivering in the coldness of the night, she tugged at the painfully cold handle again and a fresh gout splashed out; Cicero's hands were coming clean, but she noted the blotches on the front of his coat. Looking down, it was even easier to see the blemishes, black in the night, on her stark sleep clothes, visible under her dark woolen cloak. They would all have to be salted until she again awoke in several hours, when the scrubbing could begin. Sighing with exhaustion, her breath puffed in fleeting clouds in the winter air, curling delicately around the petite snowflakes. They scarcely landed, resting gently on her pale skin just long enough to be noticed. Anna brushed a particularly large specimen out of her eyelashes. She traded places with Cicero and he tugged at the handle, a cold stream rushing forth. Her skin prickled as she thrust her hands under the spout, scouring quickly as she could.
"What're we gonna do with them?" She looked up to see Cicero's gaze lingering on the still, shadowy shapes that lay in the dead grass near the barn. Returning her attention to her palms, she paid special mind to the stains between her fingers.
"Tomorrow, we'll tell the major what happened," she explained, motioning for another spray from the spigot; he obliged. "I imagine he'll send a cart and some men and that'll be the end of that. 'Tisn't our problem." Cicero nodded, eyes lingering on the dead men. Anna shook the water from her cleaned hands, wiping them dry on her cloak. Concern was still evident in the boy's face. She found herself missing Abigail's company in times like these; the woman had a far greater talent for reassurance than Anna, particularly for her own son. She took the youth by his shoulders.
"Don't you trouble yourself with them. The Strong house is still a safe one. We've God watching over us and he'll protect us." Cicero nodded and Anna was hopeful that her words rang true; she hardly felt herself fit to be reassuring others when she couldn't find much confidence in her own words. Seizing one of the buckets on the frozen ground, Anna hooked it on the spigot and Cicero pumped water until it was full.
"Maybe that's why the captain's here." Anna paused, her hands resting on the oaken edge of the vessel as the water lapped at its walls. The trickle at the tap petered to a quick drip, sending ripples through the surface of the pail.
"What d'you mean?" she asked. Cicero shrugged, careful to keep his eyes on the iron handle in his dark hands.
"Maybe he sent the captain to protect us," the boy murmured, "Since Mister's gone." Anna stiffened at the mention of her husband. She could understand how Cicero might assume that the former followed the latter, but she hadn't decided yet if the redcoat had a direct hand in Selah's imprisonment, and consequently his death. Perhaps he was simply taking advantage of it. She didn't feel it mattered; he didn't belong. It was he and his soldiers bringing the war home with them, along with the good men accused of deeds they had no such hand in and the profiteers that tried to take advantage of the chaos.
She cast a glance to the still shapes in the barn's shadow and her anger faltered. Whether or not she would admit it, Cicero had a point. Simcoe had protected them this time. If it happened again, she had no doubt he'd again risk life and limb to safeguard them. Had it not been for the clamor caused by the scuffle downstairs, Anna likely would never have woken, and the thieves would have made off with a great many of the House Strong's valuables. As if it weren't bad enough that she hardly owned the property anymore, she thought ruefully. Still, had the men less than honorable motives…
"Maybe he did," she nodded rigidly as she recalled jolting awake to the sound of a shot fired, having heard no ruckus before it. The men might have been upon her room before she'd even stirred. Simcoe, though, was a dog of war, trained to rouse at the quietest disturbance. No trespasser would make it past his door unaccosted, let alone to her own. There was a certain amount of solace she allowed herself to take in that. Offering Cicero a disingenuous smile, she turned her attention back to the bucket swaying gently at the tap. "Let's get these inside and we can show him our thanks with clean water for bathin'."
Heaving the filled bucket away, she replaced it with its twin, which was filled in kind. Each of them took one up by its wooden handle and she retrieved the candleholder, the brass chilled by the frigid air. Setting off for the relative warmth of the house, their shoes crunched in the frosty remnants of the lawn and the candle's flame sputtered out in the wind.
While writing this installment, I must confess that I required more words to share it with you than I anticipated. As such, it will be separated into three chapters. I hope you enjoy each more than the last!