CHAPTER THIRTY

FOR THE SECOND time in so many months, I awoke to the low, soothing cadence of Miss Alice's voice. "Christy? Christy, dear, wake up."

It was astoundingly difficult to prise my eyelids apart, and the instant that fact registered in my mind, my attention was consumed by the deep ache that throbbed throughout every fiber of my body. Someone groaned, and it took me a moment to realize that the pitiful whimper had emanated from my own mouth.

A sliver of brilliant light stabbed my eyes, and gradually Miss Alice's face materialized in front of me. She was pale, her hair untidily piled atop her head, and as I focused on her, the fretful lines in her brow vanished.

"What happened?" I rasped, hardly recognizing the hoarse, guttural voice as my own.

Miss Alice's soft hands cradled my face tenderly. "Darling girl, you cannot seem to keep yourself out of mischief for more than a week." She spoke in a hushed whisper, the reason for which became immediately apparent as I noticed Neil's sleeping form crammed into the tiny sofa in the corner of the parlor.

"Neil?" I felt a restless longing to have him closer.

"He deserves a rest," Miss Alice said gently, compelling me to turn my concentration back to her. "He has been up with you all night, and most of the day; he refused to take so much as a few minutes to tend to himself. I doubt he will be asleep long – he might as well enjoy what rest he can now."

Grudgingly, I leaned back into the pillows, my desire for Neil taking a reluctant second place to concern for his health. As I shifted, however, I become aware of a dull pain in my right hand – I looked down, only to discover that my arm had been swallowed up in a thick swath of white gauze. I tried to wiggle my fingers, an action I soon regretted. "Ooh!"

"Don't try to move, dear. You've burned your hand – you need to let it heal properly."

"Burned it?" I stared down at the colorless fabric before a surge of sensation rammed into me. Of course – fire. There had been a fire.

"I know you must be confused," she continued, "but you are safe now. There was a fire in the house last night; it started on the staircase and burned up to the second floor. No one was seriously hurt – you were the only one to sustain any injuries.

"I am afraid your bedroom has been too damaged to salvage any part of it. The Iversons' room was half-burnt too. Reverend Iverson rang the bell, and help arrived quickly, so the fire was extinguished before it could extend to the rest of the house."

I nodded, my head still abuzz; my eyes were drawn over involuntarily to Neil. "Is he...?"

"He's perfectly sound," she smiled at me, "but he will be far better when he knows you are recovering." Reaching out, she smoothed the bedclothes. "Do you want to sleep a little more?"

Despite my confusion, I was too alert for sleeping. "I don't think so. May I have some water?" My throat was parched.

Miss Alice left, and no sooner had she disappeared into the kitchen than Neil began stirring in his chair. I held my breath and watched, hoping rather guiltily that he would wake up; I wanted to hear his voice – I wouldn't be completely at ease until I did.

He turned on the cushions, stretching like a great cat, and yawned once. One blink, another blink, and then his sleepy eyes met mine. For just a moment, it was silent as we looked at each other, and then my wakefulness seemed to penetrate his consciousness.

"Christy!"

He was off the sofa in seconds, his hand clapping instinctively over my forehead to check for fever. I smiled and reached out for him, only to remember at the last moment that my right hand was useless – I stretched out my left instead, touching his cheek.

"How are you feeling?" He bent over, all business as he scrutinized me for any new medical complaint.

"Not too poorly." I laughed a little, making an odd wheezing sound. "I don't think I'll be teaching any penmanship lessons this week, though." I gestured to my limp hand.

His face became stony, troubled, and a little spark of fear leapt through me as I realized that my injury might be more serious than I believed. "I..." My voice cracked. "Is my hand...will I never use it again?"

Neil's look of surprise was enough to reassure me. "Hmm? No, your hand should heal well. It is a superficial burn – with the right treatment, you should regain full use."

"Oh, I thought...You looked like something was wrong."

"It may scar, Christy." The thought seemed to pain him. "I'll apply what salves I can, but I can't promise it will look the same."

A little scarring wasn't anything too awful – but then it occurred to me that maybe it would be to him. I gazed down at the soft, unblemished skin of my left hand. Perhaps that was what distressed him so much. "I'm sure it won't look very pretty," I hurried to say, assailed by sudden insecurity, "but it's only my hand, right? It will hardly be noticeable."

His mouth was set in a stubborn line. "You shouldn't have even a few scars," he said abruptly, angrily. "Why is it that everything seems to end with you hurt?"

I looked away, ashamed. "I can hide them, I'm sure. I'll ask Mother to send some powder; you won't even know they're there."

"Powder? Christy, what...You don't think that I care about a few scars?" He seemed torn between amusement and indignation. "As lovely as your hands are, my commitment to you doesn't depend solely on them."

I laughed, a little sheepish. "I'm sorry, Neil. I'm having difficulty being rational."

"Understandable – you've been out for the past fifteen hours." He leaned over to kiss my hair.

With every passing minute, the fog around my mind dissipated more, until I could recognize the heavy scent of lingering smoke. The parlor was close to the stairs, and Miss Alice had said the fire started there....Wait. The fire had started on the staircase?

"Neil, how did the fire start?" I demanded. "Miss Alice said something about the stairs...."

That flinty expression surfaced again, and he wouldn't answer at first. It took several more attempts to coax the truth out of him.

"We don't know exactly who was responsible yet, Christy – a few of the men are looking into it – but we do have a fairly clear idea."

I gasped. "Someone purposely set the fire?"

"Yes. Bird's-Eye spoke to Alice last night after we pulled you out of the house. It seems that after he shut down his stills, some of his associates weren't pleased with him. They weren't content with just hurting him last week – they had meant to kill him, Christy. When that attempt didn't succeed, they came after him again last night. We can only assume that they had heard he was staying at the mission and believed that he was sleeping in the house. They forced the lock and torched the house from the inside." His voice grew cold, brimming with suppressed rage. "And so they nearly killed you, all for a few gallons of whiskey."

"Neil, I'm here. I'm safe now." I ventured a tremulous smile, but the attempt quickly failed. "Those men – they're gone, aren't they? They won't be back?"

"Not if they value their lives," he swore. "We'll be keeping a closer watch for strangers from now on."

I felt obligated to scold him for those unchristian sentiments, but my own terrifying experience was too fresh for me to feign outrage at his need to protect me. "And Bird's-Eye? Was he hurt?"

"Not at all – the men must not have realized the bunkhouse was there; it is hidden fairly well in the brush."

Footsteps sounded in the hallway, interrupting our conversation. I tensed before realizing that Miss Alice must have come back. It wasn't Miss Alice, however – Reverend Iverson stepped into the room, holding a glass of water.

"I'm mighty glad you've decided to come back to us, Miss Huddleston," he said kindly, handing me the glass. "I hope you are feeling better?"

"A little," I said, taking a sip of the water gratefully – it soothed my throat at once. "Thank you."

Neil helped me set the glass down on a nearby table before he turned to the Reverend. "Was Bird's-Eye resting when you left him?"

"Pardon me?"

"Mr. Taylor – did he rest any?"

The Reverend's bewildered expression didn't change. "I'm sorry, Dr. MacNeill – I'm afraid I don't understand. I haven't seen Mr. Taylor since this morning; he said...."

There was a pregnant pause. As if a notion had just struck him, Reverend Iverson bolted out of his chair with a low exclamation and was out of the front door in a flash. Exchanging a startled look with me, Neil rose and hurried after him. Ignoring his instructions to stay put, I threw off my quilt and stood up shakily. Tucking my bandaged arm carefully against my chest, I ran out the door, following his retreating figure toward the bunkhouse.

Neil was far stronger and accustomed to labor, but I was faster. I easily outdistanced him, trying not to listen to his furious demands that I return to bed. It took only a minute to reach the bunkhouse, and I stopped on the porch steps. The Reverend had frozen just outside the doorway, where the door gaped open. With an uneasy feeling rising in the pit of my stomach, I peered around his shoulder into Bird's-Eye's room.

The bed was empty.

A/N: Hello, thar! It's been awhile, but I hope this chapter provided a few answers. Poor Bird's-Eye -- the man just can't get a break.

Anyway, we're starting on the home stretch now; there will probably only be about six or seven more chapters. A HUGE thank you to all of you who have stuck with this story, despite the atrociously long pauses in between posts. :D I really, really do appreciate everyone who has taken the time to read and/or review this story! Your responses have been so encouraging -- thanks for leaving me so much love. ;)