Saving Grace
By Trish
"Yes, most certainly."
"And if you see anything suspicious, anything at all, you are to get word to my office immediately." The sheriff stood just outside the doorway, his left hand resting on his gun belt.
"Yes, of course. Though I can't imagine why any outlaw would darken my door." She spoke innocently to the man with the gold star just outside her house. Her dark hair was pulled in a tight bun, a plaid dress tight around her small frame and a white apron tied around her waist. Her hands were buried in the apron's pockets.
"Well, I'm just going to each house. These outlaws are dangerous and we can't be too cautious. Are you sure you don't want me to leave someone from town to stay the evening?"
"Tom, I have barely been a widow for a year now. You know how all those hens talk in town. You leave a man out here overnight and my reputation will be no better than a saloon girl's."
The sheriff blushed, "Very well ma'am. Like I said, these outlaws are dangerous. Be sure to keep your doors locked and your guns loaded." With a tip of his hat, he turned, walked back to his horse, and rode away.
"Go ahead and close the door, all natural-like." A voice quietly spoke from behind as she did as she was told.
As the door shut, she turned to face the dark eyed man and the six-gun he held in his hand. "Satisfied?"
"You make a very convincing liar."
"I don't believe I will take that as a compliment." She spoke in a huff as she made her way to the back room, to the man that lay bleeding on her bed. Taking off her apron, she placed it on the dresser behind her as she sat to his side. Her dress was bloodied from what the outlaw had already lost. She pressed her hand against his forehead, "No fever, but if we don't get the bullet out of his side, he will bleed to death long before an infection has a chance to take hold."
The man behind her pulled the hammer back on his revolver, "I'd advise that you make sure that doesn't happen."
She glanced back, "If you really cared about your friend, you would have taken him to the doctor in town. You'd end up in jail, but at least he would live, or have a better chance of it." With her hand, she dug into the wound on his side, searching for the piece of metal. At the touch, he groaned and pulled away. "I have whisky in the kitchen, if you can get it down his throat it will help him feel less of what I'm doing."
As he left the room, she looked back at the door from which he exited. She had a clear sight of her escape, the front door. But she also knew she wouldn't get there without him seeing her, and even if she managed to open the door, he would shoot her before she could make it to a horse. Resigned that she would have to wait, she continued to work on the man bleeding on her bed. Just as she felt a piece of solid material he came back in, whisky in hand.
"I've found it. I need you to hold him down in case he tries to pull away."
Putting the bottle on the nightstand and the gun on the bed to his right, he placed both hands on his partner's shoulders. He saw her eyes go down to the piece, watched as she quickly calculated the odds, her lids slightly closing as she resigned herself to not trying, not yet anyhow.
Her hand dug deeper and with the penetration the man lurched, trying to get away from the pain. "Hang in the partner." He said as he held him down by the shoulders, as she twisted her hand, digging for that small piece of metal.
After what felt like an eternity as the Kid attempted to buck and pull away, she wrenched her hand free, a shiny, yet bloodied ball in her fingers. "Perhaps after this, you two might reconsider your chosen profession."
He nervously laughed, "Unlikely."
She dropped the bullet on the nightstand as she grabbed some cotton that had been waiting at the end of the bed. Placing it on the still bleeding wound, she applied pressure. "We need to tighten it. I have an old bed sheet in that closet," she motioned behind him, "take it and tear it into strips to wrap around him."
As he got up, he momentarily forgot about his gun, before he took a step away, he turned and saw her hand jerk back. Taking the weapon, he placed it in his holster and proceeded to his assignment.
With the bed sheet cut to form a long cloth, they wrapped it tightly around the Kid's waist, the cotton tucked underneath. As she tied it, she sighed, "There, now we just need to pray that God will lay His hands on him and stop the bleeding. I've done all that I can."
As she stood, he once again pulled out his gun. "And where do you think you're going?"
She tried to smile. "Well, mister…"
"Stevens."
"Well, Mr. Stevens," She spoke, unbelievingly. "I would like to wash your partner's blood from my hands and get out of these clothes, if you don't mind. If you wish to do the same, my husband was about your size, you can put on something of his if you would like."
"You aren't leaving my sight." He spoke, darkly.
Placing her hands on her hips, she pursed her lips. "I realize that chivalry is a rare commodity among men like you, but if you expect me to undress in front of you like some common whore, you are grossly mistaken."
Her sass surprised him, and he couldn't help but smile. "Very well, I'll go with you to get the water. You can then get fresh clothes. My friend's asleep; you can change in here, while I wait outside."
With the water from the well, they both cleaned their hands, scrubbing, desperate to get the blood off their skin. Once clean, she made her way towards her wardrobe and with him immediately outside the door, made quick work of changing into a clean dress. Glancing around, she scanned the room, desperately searching for anything she could use as a weapon. He had already taken out the guns, even the one she thought were well hidden. Though a dirty outlaw, he was smart. In the hour he had been in her home, he had proven that. Going to the window, she tried to open it quietly, but as the wood frame squealed, the door flew open. Without glancing, she knew the six-gun was again pointed at her back. Closing the window, she sighed, "Do you really expect me not to try?"
"No ma'am, I really don't."
The light from outside had faded as they sat around a small kitchen table. Between them sat a plate adorned with vegetables fresh from the garden: carrots, green onions, and tomatoes. In front of them was a steaming bowl of soup, a sandwich just nearby. Heyes hungrily consumed what had been placed in front of him, his stomach continuously rumbling from the moment she started cooking until the last bite.
"When did you and your friend last eat?"
Swallowing the last bit of soup, he wiped the sides of his mouth with his napkin. "Yesterday morning, ma'am."
"Is it wise to rob a train on an empty stomach? My grandmother used to always say, an empty stomach leads to an empty mind."
Heyes smiled, "Supplies have been running low, didn't have enough for everyone."
"So, the other outlaws ate and you went without?" She stared at him intently. "Is that why your friend's blood has stained my good bed sheets?"
He sat back, offended, "We were jumped by a posse. Having a full stomach wouldn't have changed that fact."
She smiled, "Perhaps."
She was getting under his skin; he was offended at her suggestion, offended at the idea that he could be responsible for his friend's suffering. Mostly offended because he had already considered it himself, he had already had that internal argument, reliving the moment he heard the posse approach, each decision as they fled, the sound of the gunfire, his friend's scream… There was nothing different he could have done, he had convinced himself.
When he glanced back up she was still staring at him. She was smart, too damn smart for his own good. From the moment she opened the door and realized who, or to be more accurate, what they were, she was planning her escape. It didn't take much to frighten her, brandish a gun and tell her to save his partner, but soon the fear subsided. In turn, it was replaced with determination; a fierce determination to overpower her captor, to get the upper hand. He was thankful she didn't own too many weapons. A shotgun she kept in a closet, two six-guns, one kept in the kitchen, the other hid under her bed. As soon as he emptied the chambers, he placed them in her front closet and moved a heavy cabinet in front of it. All the while, she watched. Her eyes would shift from her bleeding charge to an escape route. If his eyes left her for even a moment, she would get that much closer to achieving her goal. It was a goal he couldn't let her attain, not until the Kid was well enough to ride.
He was grateful that no one knew for sure who had held up the Western Pacific line. He had made a last minute decision not to identify himself to the train conductor, a decision that meant she didn't know who he was. This allowed him to play the part, the part of the evil outlaw that would kill a man as soon as look at them. It was a façade that he hoped she would believe. If she knew who he was, if she knew that he had never shot anyone, let alone taken a life, it would embolden her resolve, it would make her less inclined to do what she was told, it would make her dangerous.
She continued to stare, sizing him up, working on her next plan of action. Pushing away from the table, he announced, "It's time for bed." Fear flashed in her eyes. That wasn't what he meant. He wanted her to be afraid of him, but not in that way. "You have a nice comfy chair in your room. You can sleep there; I'll sleep on the floor by the door." Her eyes softened. "Give me your word that you won't try to escape, and I won't tie you to the chair. Can you do that?"
She took in a deep breath, obviously considering her options. With a nervous nod, she attempted a smile. "You have my word that I won't try to escape tonight."
He heard the qualifier, impressed at her subtlety. She would try to escape in the morning; he had been placed on notice. "As soon as my friend is healed, we will be on our way. As long as you do what you are told, you have my word that you won't be hurt."
"The word of an outlaw?" She scoffed.
The word of Hannibal Heyes, he wanted to say, there's a difference. Instead, he remained silent.
Breakfast was better than he had anticipated. Fresh eggs and bacon, biscuits, freshly squeezed orange juice and strawberry preserves. He hadn't eaten this well in years. As he mopped up the last bit of yolk with his biscuit, he smiled.
"I assume it is to your liking?" She asked.
"Yes ma'am. You are quite the cook."
"So tell me, Mr. Stevens, why do you and your friend do what you do?"
He took a deep breath. He'd been asked the question before, though his answers were usually flights of fancy; tales of being orphaned during the war, being turned out by loved ones, being desperate for just a meal to eat so they turned to outlawry just to get by. He would sometimes spice it up, add that their family were war heroes who died in battle, or taken by the enemy. Once he spun an elaborate tale of his parents being abolitionists that were captured smuggling slaves into the North, hung for their actions. Yet, their history would always remain elusive; his goal was to build enough mystery that no one would know the truth. Contrasted with so many others, their stories were unremarkable. They had been orphaned during the war, were sent to an orphanage, and ultimately ran away. Through it all, the undeniable truth was that they just made a string of bad decisions that one day landed them in an outlaw gang.
"It's easier to steal than it is to earn, simple as that." She didn't believe him; he could see it in her eyes. "What happened to your husband?" He knew it wasn't tactful to ask such a question, but he was desperate to change the subject.
"Typhoid fever. We had barely been married a year. We moved here two years ago when he was offered a management position at the bank. He was a good man." A look of sadness passed over her eyes.
"Where are you from?"
"Kansas."
The name of his home struck a nerve, but he didn't let it show. "Why didn't you go home, back to family?"
She gave a half- hearted laugh, "Why should I? Go home so my parents can fret about poor, poor, pitiful me? My home is here."
Heyes couldn't help but smile. "Wouldn't it be safer than living out in the woods, on your own?"
"Perhaps, but until you darkened my door, I didn't have to worry about my own safety." She stood, collecting the plates. "We should be getting ready."
"Ready?" He looked up, slightly confused. "Ready for what?"
Placing the plates on the counter, she turned back towards him. "Sunday service begins in less than an hour."
Standing, he walked directly in front of her. His eyes darkened, "We're not leaving this house."
Moving around him, and promptly ignoring the dark glare, she picked up the other items on the table. "Very well, just don't be surprised when Brother Henderson shows up at my door this afternoon. I haven't missed a Sunday service since Daniel passed away."
"He might just think you've taken ill."
She turned to face him, "Did you not hear me last night? The women in town are as nosy as they come. If Brother Henderson doesn't come out here, I promise you, one of them will… with their husbands. If you want to take that risk, very well, I will press the matter no further." Going to the wash basin, she filled it from the jug on the counter and made quick work of the dirty dishes, while Heyes paced behind her.
"Fine. You said I was about your husband's size? Can I assume that you still have something of his that I could wear to the service?"
Not turning around, "Yes, his Sunday suit is on the far end of the closet, you can change while I finish up here."
Not realizing he had come up directly behind her, he placed one hand on her hip and leaned close to her ear, "And give you a chance to walk out that door, get on a horse, and go straight to the Sheriff?" He paused, "After you finish up with those, you can come in the room with me; you have a nice privacy screen that you can change behind, while I get dressed as well. Once we leave this house, you will stay by my side. Don't give me a reason to…" He stopped.
She turned and stared into his steely eyes, "To what?" She dared.
"To do something we will both regret." Her eyes were bold and he could sense her planning, calculating her next move. After a moment, they softened; her calculations had not produced the answer she had been hoping for, "I just realized, you haven't told me your name."
"Sarah, Sarah McCaskill."
He smiled and fought back the desire to place his own lips on hers. Stepping back, he motioned towards the back room.
Once dressed in their Sunday's best and after checking on the Kid, who was sleeping soundly, they tethered the horses to Sarah's two-seat carriage and made their way towards town. Mid-way, they stopped.
"Is there something wrong?" She tried to innocently ask.
"Nothing wrong, we just need to agree on a cover."
"That's easy; I was going to introduce you as my brother, Clyde. He lives in eastern Kansas. I speak of him often, but he has never visited."
Heyes smirked, "Is that so? I think instead, I'll be your cousin, from Wichita. My wife was due to deliver our first born when your husband passed, that is why I was unable to make the trip at that time. My name will be Brent."
She laughed, "You don't trust me?"
"No ma'am. You came up with that cover too quickly. You've been thinking it over all morning."
She crossed her arms, looking away in a huff, "You're insulting. You're the outlaw, you're the dishonest thief, and yet you accuse me of actions that you would take."
Lightly, he brushed an errant strand of her amber locks behind her ear. "A good liar can always pick out another." Snapping the reins, they continued on their journey.
The town was bustling as men and women made quick work of tying their horses and leading their children into the local church. At the entryway, a tall man stood, bible in hand, greeting each parishioner as they entered the house of worship. Upon seeing Sarah, he greeted her with outstretched arms, taking her into a tight embrace. "Sarah! The Lord has heard my prayers."
Smiling nervously and ignoring the questioning glare she was receiving from her companion, she quickly pulled Heyes to her side, "Brother Henderson, I want you to meet my cousin from Wichita, Brent."
The pastor, with a firm handshake and an arm around his shoulders, greeted Heyes. "It is a pleasure to meet to you. Perhaps with your visit, our sister in fellowship will be able to resume her weekly worship." He turned toward Sarah, serious, "The church has missed your lovely soprano in our choir."
Heyes smiled, tensely, "Yes, pastor, she did mention that she was looking forward to renewing her commitment to the church."
"Excellent, excellent! Tell me now, Sarah, how is Clyde and lovely Mary Sue doing? I must say, I have yet to meet a man that spoke as passionately about the Pentecost as he did. In fact, I incorporated quite a bit of his insight into last month's sermon. I had hoped that you would have attended to bear witness."
She nervously laughed, "Oh, yes, I'm sure it was lovely." She glanced behind her, at the growing crowd impatiently waiting for their time to greet the Pastor, "It appears that we are holding up the line, we should speak on that topic later, please stop by the house, anytime."
Heyes tightened his hand on her elbow as he ushered her inside. After several "how-do-you-dos," they found an empty pew in the back and attempted to ignore the curious looks they were receiving.
Leaning towards her, he whispered, "What were you saying about me being the dishonest one?"
Politely nodding to a young family taking another glance their direction, she quietly hissed, "At least I don't rob trains."
Heyes took a deep breath and quickly looked to ensure that her words were not heard beyond their pew. Placing his hand on his gun in its holster, he removed the leather strap from around the hammer. "Once the sermon is over, we will be leaving, I'm sure you can make your apologies to the good pastor at a later date. It would be against everyone's good health if you decide to socialize any further. Do you understand?" His eyes darkened.
Her breathing became rapid as she moistened her lips. "I suppose I do."
As fate would have it, the Pastor selected his sermon from Proverbs, chapter 10: "He that uprightly walketh surely: but he that perverteth his ways shall be known." The seat upon which Heyes sat became increasing warm as the sermon continued. Though he was glad the Pastor refrained from the hell and brimstone that he had been accustomed to as a child, growing up in a good Baptist home, the increasing emphasis on truth, honesty, and walking in the Word made him exponentially uncomfortable. It wasn't like he didn't already know that his current path could lead to a "southern" afterlife, but the way the pastor approached it was different. All the other men of God he had listened to spoke with strict judgment and damnation. This one spoke of personal freedom from the chains of sin, inviting his followers to the proper life, not out of fear, but out of hope.
Looking to his right, he saw Sarah and couldn't help but note that she appeared equally uncomfortable.
After the sermon ended and the collection plate had been passed – he quickly placed a hundred dollar bill in the plate, hoping to assuage his own guilt – they made their way back to the carriage. As they rode away from town, Sarah finally broke the silence. "The money you gave the church, was that from the robbery?"
Heyes attempted to swallow the guilt the sermon had given him. "It was."
"Well, at least it went to something positive. Better the church than some whore in a saloon."
He slowed the horses down to a slow gait, "Why did you stop attending services?"
She shifted in her seat; he had struck a nerve, "Angry, I guess. My husband was everything to me, when he was taken away… I guess I just lost my way."
"Anger is a dangerous thing. It can cause good people to make bad mistakes."
"Is that what happened with you and your friend?"
"Perhaps, Lincoln's war created a fair amount of heroes, but it also created its share of outlaws."
"The Good Book says that through Christ, all is forgiven."
"It also says that you have to ask for it before it will be granted. I don't think we're quite there yet."
She reached over and squeezed his hand, "Perhaps soon."
As they entered to house, Sarah went to check on the Kid. From the living room Heyes heard her call out, "Mr. Stevens!"
Hearing the tone in her voice, he rushed to her side. Kid was lying on the bed; the sheets were soaked from the sweat, the bandage stained a deep red. He was trembling.
"His wound reopened; I don't know how to help him. He needs a doctor."
Heyes ran his hand through his hair; the Kid had been fine hours before, lucid even. "We can't get a doctor."
She stood and grabbed both of his arms. "Then he will die. He is more than just a member of your gang; I can see that in your eyes. Our Lord will forgive you if he dies, but will you forgive yourself?"
His stomach turned, placing both hands on the end of the bed for strength, his mind raced, searching for an answer. They had to abandon Kid's horse, blood was on the saddle. The law would know a member of the gang had been shot. If he went into town, if the doctor came out, he would know. There was no guarantee that the doctor would even help, not when he figures out who, or what they are. He would have to use force; he would have to, again, play the evil outlaw. Even if that worked, he couldn't hold the doctor as a hostage until Kid healed up.
Everything was unraveling.
He felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. "I will go into town and get Doctor Franklin." He looked at her, accusatory, "I won't tell him who you are, you have my word."
"You won't have to; they know the Kid was shot."
Her eyes changed, but just for a moment. She glanced towards the kid, and then with a steely determination, she looked deep in his eyes. "Then I will inform him that today's sermon has pressed upon me to be honest about all things, including the affair he has been having with the Sheriff's daughter."
Sarah quickly returned with the doctor, ushered him into her room and set him to work. As the doctor cut off the bandages and examined the wound, he cast accusatory glares back at the outlaw. From his bag he produced his suture kit, telling both Heyes and Sarah to leave while he desperately tried to save the wounded man.
Outside the room, Heyes paced, taking a deep breath at each turn, desperate to keep the sickness inside while visions of a life without his partner taunted him. As he turned again he saw her, down on her knees in front of her couch, the bible open on the table in front of her, her hands together, her eyes shut, her lips praying. A lone tear made its escape, slowly sliding down her cheek and onto the pages of the Good Book.
The door to her room opened, with a quick "Amen," she met the doctor with Heyes at her side. "Is he?" She nervously asked.
"I was able to stop the bleeding and sutured the wound. He's sleeping."
"Is he going to…" Heyes couldn't finish his question, too nervous of the answer.
"I can't rightly say one way or the other. He lost a fair amount of blood, but he's young and strong. I've seen older and weaker pull through worse, but I've also seen younger and weaker succumb to less." He cast a disapproving glare at Heyes as he walked out of the house, Sarah on his heels.
"Doctor Franklin, we do appreciate your help. Please give Jane Ann and the kids a hug for me." She turned back to the house, paused and turned around, "Or is it Katherine?" With a smirk, she made her way back inside, ignoring the dark glare she received at her back.
Inside, she found Heyes on a chair beside the bed, a cool cloth in his hand, nervous. "Is he going to the Sheriff?"
"His wife is a viper and her daddy owns half this town. If either of them find out about his little affair, they will run him out of town without so much as the clothes on his back. That's assuming they get to him before the Sheriff." She knelt down beside him and placed her hand on his knee. "Why didn't you tell me you were Hannibal Heyes?" He looked deep in her eyes, but stayed silent. "Please don't deny it. You called him 'the Kid.' I only know of one gang in this area that has someone among its ranks with that name – Devil's Hole."
Heyes stood, went to the window and stared out.
She sat in the seat he vacated and ran her hand through the blond curls. "His hair has gotten darker."
Heyes turned back around. "Excuse me?"
"It used to be the color of the snow, do you remember?" Heyes couldn't speak. "And he had the greatest laugh, especially when he was laughing at you." She turned to look towards him; he just stood there, silent. Standing, she walked up to him. "You don't remember me, do you? Sarah, Sarah Simpson."
He could barely breathe. "Sarah…"
She smiled, turned and went back to her charge. "My mother still prays for you, every night. I heard her when they came up for the burial. 'Dear Lord, please watch over young Heyes and young Curry. Keep them safe and free from harm. One day, I know they will come into Your kingdom in Heaven, please let their hair be as grey as a northern winter when they do.' She is convinced that angels watch over you, that they have kept you two alive."
Heyes took a step back and leaned against her dresser. In barely a whisper, "There was another farm. I thought about going there first, but I didn't… something kept me from stopping, when I saw the light in your window, I knew I needed to come here." He thought back to that moment. The other house was closer and Kid was losing consciousness. He knew he should stop at the first house, but something deep inside told him to keep going. He somehow just knew that that the next house would save the Kid.
"My grandmother used to say that the Lord speaks to our hearts, not our ears."
In barely a whisper, he agreed. "Maybe she was right."
A few Sundays later she came in the house, dressed in her Sunday best, with an apple pie in her hand. When she saw Heyes staring out the window, she laughed. "Doctor Franklin is so nervous he had Jane Ann make me a pie. You don't have to worry, he won't say anything."
As he walked away from the window, he put his gun back in its holster, "Can never be too careful." Looking over at the pie on the countertop, he smiled, "Maybe that will shut him up. He's been grumbling ever since you left. Seems to think he's going to starve if he doesn't get fed by noon." He smiled. He couldn't help but realize how often he had been doing that lately. Spending time with someone that knows them, really knows them, has been nice. They had spent the past few weeks reflecting on the prior fifteen years. Her folks still lived in the same house, the one he and the Kid ran to after they found their parents. They still go to the same church, they still shop at the same general store, and they still go to the cemetery every week to place flowers on the Heyes and Curry graves. Sarah would still visit on occasion, but the trips were becoming shorter and less often. They worried she would become an old maid, a spinster that would never have a man. Truth be told, she liked being on her own. She liked the independence and freedom, but admitted that it was sometimes lonely.
"So, is it safe to assume that he is feeling better?"
"He's still sore, but he should be able to ride in the next few days."
She stared at him, aghast. "He'll reopen his wounds. You can't leave yet."
As he looked in her eyes, he couldn't help but wonder if her protest was as much about not wanting him to leave, as it was about Kid's health.
"If we don't get back to the Hole soon, those boys are going to come looking for us, or looking for the money, at least." He smiled as he ran hands down her arms, "The last thing you need is for the women in town to find out an outlaw gang paid you a visit."
She shrugged, "Perhaps." She looked up, hopeful, "Are you sure you have to return to the gang? Wasn't watching the Kid almost die, enough?"
He wanted to say yes, he wanted to say that it was more than enough. He wanted to tell her that as he paced that day, waiting for the doctor to come out, he was praying as well. He was making promises that he knew he could never keep. He also knew that if God did hear him, He knew better. Just like when they were kids and they prayed for their parents to return, prayed for it to just be some horrible dream. How many promises did he make? Promise to never lie, promise to go to church – and pay attention, promise to eat all his vegetables. Empty promises to a God he was sure wasn't listening.
"The boys depend on us, we can't leave." He was lying. True, the gang did depend on them, but how many months has Wheat been flapping on about how he could be a better leader? They could walk away and the gang wouldn't care, but where would they go? They were facing twenty years a piece, even if they never robbed another bank. He felt sure that even the Almighty himself couldn't change that fact.
Fully aware of the lie she had been told; she returned to the pie, sliced off a piece and with a solemn glance back, went to deliver the dessert to her hungry friend.
Kid slowly walked to the horse they had just purchased from Sarah. She protested, refusing the money they offered. Little did she know they hid $200 in her nightstand. "I'm fine. You stay on your horse Heyes, I'll stay on mine." He grumbled as he shot his partner an irritated look. Since he finally woke up, Heyes had done nothing but fret over him like an old mother hen. He appreciated his partner's concern, but felt inclined to remind him that no grown man needed his partner to cause so much fuss, let alone a hardened outlaw. They did, however, agree that Sarah's fussing over them was down-right pleasant. She had made them comfortable, cooking for them every night; she even made her ma's famous meatloaf. As they devoured the meal, he couldn't help but remember hearing their parent's laughter, the smell of their old house. That was the last meal they had with their folks, a Sunday evening gathering of friends, the day before the raid…
"Fine, you start bleeding again, you're just going to have to wait till we get back to the Hole and let Crusher patch you up."
"Are you sure you boys can't stay another night?" Sarah stood behind them, a satchel filled with goodies in hand.
"No ma'am. The visit from Brother Henderson last night was too close. If he'd seen us, we'd be in jail right now." Heyes took the satchel and tied it down on the horse.
"Very well. But, oh, please be safe."
"We will, I promise." Taking her in his arms, he came down, lightly placing his lips upon hers. He had resisted the temptation for the past few weeks, but couldn't hold back any more. As she leaned into him, he deepened the kiss, desperate to imprint this memory, desperate to never forget how she felt, how she tasted. As they parted, he smiled. "Tell your ma we said hi."
"I will."
She watched as they rode off. As they disappeared from sight, she made one final prayer, "Dear Lord, please watch over young Heyes and young Curry. Please keep them safe and free from harm. One day, I know they will come into Your kingdom in Heaven, please let their hair be as grey as a northern winter when they do."