"Tully-Ben!! Why, you poor man! You're exhausted, and soaked to the bone! Come in, please." The woman ushered the weary pilgrims in the door.
It was an inviting, if old-fashioned house. What it lacked in modernity it made up for three times over in warmth.
The woman, Mrs Pettigrew Moffitt surmised, was tall and slim. No showstopper from Paris, not even close to the loveliest woman Jack had ever seen. But there was a quiet strength in her body, and a womanly charm about her. Even her freckles, old and new, lent a girlish fancy to her simple face. Hers was a rustic beauty.
She relieved Jack of his half-asleep, frozen burden, and placed Tully on her own hip.
Ushering him past the parlor, through the living room, they arrived in the kitchen.
A friendly blaze in the stone hearth banished all chill from the space, and its light flashing off copper pots and pans banished all gloom. Finally safe from the elements, Moffitt began to feel the fatigue creeping into his bones.
"My husband and I will never be able to thank you enough for finding Tully-Ben, sir." She pushed a long wisp of blonde, red hair back into her bun, "I'm Emma-Jean, Hank Pettigrew's wife. My husband and his brother have been looking for Tully-Ben since late this afternoon."
She sat Jack down at the oak, kitchen table. In his peripheral, he noticed two shying figures in the kitchen doorway.
"Seb, 'Tilda, get some quilts and some of your pa's clothes. Grab some things for Tully-Ben too." The little boy and girl spying from the threshold took off in a flash.
Several interrupted cups of tea sat around the table.
Emma-Jean set down another cup of steaming tea.
"It's fresh, and there's fresh cream and sugar too. When you're warmed up proper, I'll fix you two something to eat."
And she went to attend her little son. Who had recovered enough to guzzle the tea his mother gave him.
Jack didn't know what to say. He couldn't have if he wanted to. The last leg of their journey had been a slog through freezing mud, with the rain pouring through hair, and down faces, soaking through thin clothes.
But it all seemed so far away from this place. The dark woods, the mire, the drizzling rain… Had led them to their journey's end. He reached for the red china cup.
"Saints alive! Your hand!!" And she was on it like a hawk. Unwrapping the filthy, bloody handkerchief. She winced at the gash. Moffitt was sweating, trying to not react to her touch.
The two children, both older than Tully, returned with their arms full of folded, dry flannel.
"'Tilda, boil some more water. Seb, find a pillow case and rip it for bandages." She took the clothes and set them on the table, sorting out the adult from the child.
She plopped a shirt and pair of trousers in front of Moffitt.
"Dress close to the fire," she ordered, "get some of the chill out of your bones."
Scooping up Tully, she turned back to Jack.
"Can I know the name of my son's rescuer?" She smiled softly.
"Eh, Moffitt, Jack Moffitt."
With dry clothes and some good food in him, Jack found enough strength to relate the day's events to Emma-Jean. While she sat next to him, treating his hand. Receiving occasional input from Tully-Ben. Even Sebastian and Matilda warmed up enough to sit next to Jack, hanging on his words.
After Jack had finished their story, all three children went to sit at the hearth, where Tully regaled them with his side of the skunk story. Wherein the skunk miraculously grew to the size of a grizzly bear with "claws like knives and teeth like cleavers".
"My, my," Emma exclaimed while she finished wrapping Moffitt's hand. Little Tully's knee already had a bandage.
"I wasn't nervous when Tully-Ben didn't show up at noon. He almost never does," she added, "I was nervous when 2 o' clock came and he still didn't come. When Tut showed up on the front step with his game-bag, I panicked."
She paused to pour them both more tea.
"I told Hank, and he went to get his brother, who lives higher in the hills than we do. They took Tut and Buster, our other dog, and went to scour the woods. I'm so glad he was in safe hands the whole time." Emma gave him a radiant smile.
Moffitt colored a little and set down the cup.
"On the contrary, Madam, I believe it was I who was in good hands the whole day. You called me Tully's rescuer, today, Tully-Ben was my rescuer."
It was Emma-Jean's turn to blush. She quickly hid it under the pretext of clearing away the dishes.
"I can clear the cups in here, you should go rest in the sitting room. It's plenty warm in there, and the young'uns won't bother you." Jack rose respectfully, and headed out to the sitting room.
It smelled pleasantly of oak and lavender. Every flat surface was had its own hand-tatted doilies. Heirloom cross-stitch samplers hung on the walls, and grainy Victorian photos took the place of honor over the fireplace.
Another, smaller fire chatted in the hearth of this room, providing a cozy ambience.
Jack sank into an overstuffed chair and picked up a newspaper. The local paper, a week old. Casting an eye over the major articles, Moffitt folded the thin sheet and replaced it.
The flannel shirt was baggy on him, Hank Pettigrew evidently being the bigger man. The corduroy trousers were a much better fit. Even his hand wasn't troubling him, with Emma-Jean's salve.
After a few minutes, he surrendered to the warmth, the dry clothes, and his own heavy eyelids.
In his dreams, he heard a familiar sound. A sound he hadn't heard in three long years. The steady purr of an American jeep. Even through the falling rain, he could make it out, plain as day.
Unwilling to believe it, he opened his eyes. The sound grew closer. And stopped.
Work boots tramped up the back-steps to the kitchen door. Door hinges creaked and a low voice spoke with Emma-Jean. Jack pushed himself out of the chair and padded toward the kitchen.
"At least he's safe. We were scared when the dogs couldn't track them all the way. Buster found a suitcase in the woods."
"Where's Hank?" Emma-Jean asked.
"He's checking the pens." A wet coat was dripping from the hat pegs by the door, and Emma was pouring more tea.
"By the way, is Bobby Divvers here? Found his car on the road up there, but never him. Got kinda worried bout him."
Moffitt knew that voice. Perhaps the drawl had grown thicker, but still, he knew it like his own brother's.
He went to stand in the kitchen threshold.
Tully did look very different in civvies, Moffitt decided. But also, not quite so different.
He wore a red and brown and white flannel, with a white undershirt showing through, and a pair of those denim jeans. He looked the part of a farmer.
The quiet, self-assurance hadn't wavered, but there was a new, sober bend in his brow.
But then, the familiar auburn hair hadn't changed. Still up and out of his eyes, just like he'd done under the Africa sun. His work boots weren't much removed from the old combat boots. By the door he even saw a pair of muddy gaiters.
Most shocking was the familiar Bowie knife, still strapped to his right thigh. And apparently he still drove a Willis jeep, albeit an army surplus, not the same from all those months ago.
But one thing that grounded Moffitt when he looked at his old friend, and let him know he'd found him at last, was the red-tip match held in his teeth.
"Bobby hasn't been here all day? Who brought Tully-Ben home?"
The soft, brown eyes turned to Moffitt, leaning on the doorframe. They grew wide in shock. The match fell from his open mouth.
"Surprised?" The word was barely out of Moffitt's mouth when Tully was out of the chair with his arms tight around him.
"Jack?!!"
"It's good to see you again, Tully."