“Love is sanctuary, a safe haven and place to rest.” Theodore Volgoff
Southern Appalachia, 1932
The woods were deathly silent except for Devon's gasping breath as she ran between trees and through brambles, dodging low lying branches and stumbling over roots and other debris in her desperation to escape the nightmare following her. Her long hair, normally the color of wheat now dulled with grime and sweat, repeatedly caught on bushes and small trees but she didn't stop, thus leaving small tufts and strands behind in her wake. It seemed she had been running forever and though she no longer heard the sounds of his pursuit she didn't dare slow down. She had no doubt he'd kill her if he caught her, and who would be any the wiser? It wasn't as if she would be missed.
The toes of one small, bare foot didn't make it over a narrow log and she went sprawling face first into the dirt and dying leaves. She tried to get back up but her thin body, starved of air and nourishment, refused to obey. Sobs escaped as she lay there, hope dying as her heart slowed. She'd tried. God, how she'd tried. She'd fought and taken her chance. Is this where it would finally end?
After a few minutes, she raised her head and looked about her. It was late afternoon and the dappling of the sun through the trees was rapidly giving way to the shadows of dusk. Somewhere nearby she could hear the sound of water flowing and she reacted instinctively. Dragging herself first to her knees then unsteadily to her feet, she stumbled in that direction until she found a small creek meandering along the forest floor, almost hidden beneath layers of old growth and rotting vegetation. There she once again pitched forward until her face fell half in, half out of the cold water. Greedily she began sucking it between her lips even before she could get her hand to her face, feeling it go all the way down and shivering as the chill spread through her. Finally, she drug herself away until she could rest against the trunk of a massive maple. There she surrendered to exhaustion and her body slid sideways until she settled, unconscious, against an exposed root. Night continued to fall and the temperature to drop. She never felt the arms that lifted her and carried her deeper into the forest.
The enticing aroma of food somewhere nearby brought Devon slowly to consciousness. Eventually she realized that she was warm for the first time in a very long time and she stirred, moaning as her body protested. Slowly, her eyes flickered open and after taking a few moments to adjust to the low light she cautiously looked about her. She found herself in a largish room made of rough hewn log walls studded with pegs bearing what looked like articles of clothing and various other paraphernalia. There was a door with a single window to one side and a massive fireplace with a fire burning cheerfully, a cast iron kettle hanging near the flames. There was a large chair with a cushion for a seat in front of the fireplace while a small wood table with two chairs on each side sat in one corner, an oil lamp with the flame burning low sitting atop it. A cast iron stove took up another corner while a wash stand with a hand pump stood near the door. There was no sign of anyone else.
Bringing one hand up to rub against her forehead, she realized that she was covered by an old pieced quilt and as she shifted beneath its weight she felt numerous stings and other small pains from a myriad of scratches and cuts erupt across her skin. After a moment she tried to sit up then had to wait until the room stopped spinning. Gradually she was able to lean up on one arm and when the blanket fell away she realized she was clean and dressed in a soft cotton shirt that almost swallowed her whole. Where was she?
At that moment, the door opened with a blast of cold, night air, and a tall, imposing figure entered bearing an armful of wood. Devon immediately recoiled in fright and he paused when he realized she was awake. For a long moment they stared at one another until he shouldered the door closed behind him and carried the wood across the room to the fireplace. After setting it down he rose again and turned to face her.
“Don't be afraid.” His voice was deep and soothing. “You're safe here.”
She stared at him for a moment, gradually calming as she perceived no threat in his manner. His face was shadowed in the low light of the room but she could see it was clean shaven and made up of high cheekbones and harsh plains. His hair was long, hanging past his shoulders, and the firelight behind him caught its darkness, giving it deep red highlights.
“Who are you?” she finally asked, watching as he removed his heavy flannel jacket and hung it on a peg beside the door.
“My name is Jackson Cole.”
And she started as she recognized his name.
“I know you. From a long time time ago.” Gingerly, she sat up the rest of the way, pulling the quilt up around her chest as she tried to peer closer, “We went to school together, only you were a couple of years ahead of me.”
Taking a few steps away he crossed to the table and turned up the light in the oil lamp. When he turned back she saw the large port wine stain covering one side of his face and suddenly she remembered the taunts and ridicule he had born as a result of it. Being part Indian had only added to the cruelty of others. His expression was guarded as he met her gaze unflinchingly, as if daring her to react to his appearance. When she didn't, his head tilted slightly in inquiry.
“What is your name?”
“Devon Peters.”
He thought for a moment before he relaxed and a small smile of recognition lightened his countenance.
“Yes, I remember you now.” Turning to the fireplace, he took a ceramic bowl from atop the mantle and began to ladle stew from the kettle into it. When he stood back up he took a spoon from the mantle then held them out to her, “Here, you should eat.”
“Can I use the toilet first?”
“Oh, yes.” He set the bowl on the table then crossed to help her up from the bed, his hands gentle on her arms. “It's cold outside. Let me get you my jacket.”
He retrieved the jacket he had just shed, helped her put it on, then led her out the door and around the side of the cabin. The outhouse sat a few yards away, tucked well back amongst the trees. It didn't take her long to finish her business in the chill of the night before he led her back inside and to the bed. By the time she was sitting upright against a couple of pillows and covered once again with the quilt, she was sagging with exhaustion, but she was able to take the bowl from him with a murmured thanks. After a couple of hesitant bites she finished the stew in no time then paused, hesitant to ask for more. But he took the bowl from her and refilled it without comment. After she had finished it she accepted a cup filled with water and was then replete, her belly full for the first time in days. She watched him where he sat at the table with his own bowl of stew.
“What were you doing out in the woods?” he asked between bites and she shivered at the memory of her terror.
“Running.”
“From?”
“Silas Whitaker.”
Jackson's expression hardened. He had his own memories of Whitaker.
“Why were you running?”
There was a long moment as she toyed with the spoon in her empty bowl. Then she sighed before she began to speak in a hushed voice.
“My father sent me to live with them when Silas' wife took sick. I kept house for them and took care of her until she died. Then Silas wouldn't let me leave. Said he needed a wife.” She shuddered as she remembered. “I refused. So he basically kept me prisoner. He beat me and tried to force himself on me. But he couldn't...”
There was another moment of silence. Jackson had forgotten all about his stew as he listened, his gaze intent on her as she struggled. In his heart he felt anger building toward his old enemy as he imagined how alone and helpless she must have felt.
“While fixing dinner I was able to catch him unawares and hit him with a heavy crockery bowl, then I started running. He chased me for a long time. Then I didn't hear him any longer, but I kept running until I couldn't run anymore. I remember finding a creek and drinking some water but nothing else until I woke up here.” She looked up at him. “How long have I been here?”
“Two days. I found you and brought you back here. You were almost dead from cold.”
“Oh.” Then, “Thank you.”
“You're welcome.”
With some difficulty, Jackson made himself finish his stew before standing up and taking his now empty bowl and hers to the wash stand. As he washed them out, Devon shifted restlessly on the bed until she had found a more comfortable position. The quilt had slipped to her waist and she became aware once again of the shirt she was wearing. It wasn't thin and with its large size it afforded her plenty of modesty. Still, there was something disturbingly intimate about wearing his clothes. Especially since she wore nothing beneath it. She found herself blushing furiously at the thought of his removing her clothes and bathing her unconscious body.
“Where are my clothes that I was wearing?”
He motioned with a quick movement of his head to a dark corner behind her, “I washed out your undergarments but your dress was little more than rags. I saved it but it really isn't much good for wearing.”
At the mention of her undergarments, her blush deepened still further.
“May I see them?”
Setting aside the bowls to be more thoroughly washed later, he dried his hands on a towel then retrieved the clothes from the corner, handing them to her in such a matter of fact way that she wasn't any more embarrassed that she already was. As he had said, the dress was in tatters but her panties and camisole were in good shape, if a little stiff from having been washed and air dried.
“You're right, the dress is ruined. But the others...I-I'd like to put them on, if you don't mind.”
He helped her up from the bed, then, after steadying her as she leaned her legs back against it, he turned his back, affording her privacy while remaining close enough should she need help. It took some time but she managed to get them on, then after smoothing the shirt back down over her body until it hung half way down her thighs, she sat back down on the bed, trembling from the efforts. At her murmured “okay,” he turned back around then helped her backward until she was once again lying with her head on the pillows, then pulled the quilt over her.
“You should get some sleep.”
She nodded and closed her eyes. Within seconds she was asleep.
It was a little past dawn when Devon again awoke. It took her a second to remember where she was before she sat up. Her body protested some but otherwise she was feeling much better. Looking around she found Jackson still asleep on a pallet before the fireplace, facing in her direction. She took a moment to study him, taking in his hard muscled , lightly furred chest where it lay bare of his quilt and remembered back to when they were kids. He'd been big for his age, bigger than the other kids, but somewhat awkward. While he may have been able to handle himself in a fair fight, when a bunch of boys had ganged up on him it had been no contest. Still, she remembered he had stood his ground until they wore him down with their fists and clubs. No one had stood up for him, but she remembering screaming at them to stop and even shoving at a couple of the smaller boys, only to be sent sprawling. Her futile defense had won her few friends and the gang had derided her cruelly when they were finished, leaving Jackson lying bloodied and beaten in the dirt. She remembered going to him only to have him shove her away before rising unsteadily to his feet and stumbling down the street to the shack where he lived with his mother at the far end. Eventually, when he was almost grown, his mother had died and he had disappeared from town.
Looking at him as he slept, so big and strong, she considered the differences between then and now. She hated to think what the outcome would be if he were provoked. She was pretty sure he could inflict some serious damage, fair fight or not.
As if feeling her gaze, his brown eyes opened sleepily and immediately met her blue.
“Good morning,” she greeted him softly and smiled, her delicate, piquant face amused, when he merely grunted before turning onto his back and sleepily scrubbing his whiskered face with his hands. Obviously not a morning person.
Finally, he sat up and shook his head before looking at her with slightly less than bleary eyes, “Good morning. I think.” He yawned hugely and stretched. “How did you sleep?”
“Good, thank you,” she responded, “I'm feeling much better this morning.”
He nodded then shivered, briskly rubbing his arms before standing. Barefoot and wearing only an unbuttoned pair of jeans he used a poker to stir the embers in the fireplace, added a bit of kindling until the flames caught, then fed progressively larger pieces of wood until the fire was once again warming the room. Next he moved to the cast iron stove and started a fire in it before filling a coffee pot with water and coffee and setting it it toward the back to brew. Turning back to her, he reached for a flannel shirt draped over the cushioned chair sitting beside his pallet and yawned again as he slid the shirt on before motioning with a quick flick with his chin toward the door.
“C'mon, I'll take you to the privy then I'll start some breakfast.”
A few minutes later they were back inside where he quietly and efficiently rolled up his pallet and stowed it before turning his attention to breakfast. Taking first a cast iron skillet off the wall and putting it on the stove, he then took a burlap sack down from the shelf above and withdrew a slab of bacon, took up a large butcher's knife, and began to saw off slices and put them in the skillet. It didn't take long before the smell of it frying had her stomach rumbling. As he worked she asked him about the farmstead, about the two horses in the small corral and the flock of chickens she had seen penned up in the coop next to it. She marveled at his self sufficiency and his seemed insulation from the depression that was affecting the rest of the country.
After sliding the finished bacon onto a waiting plate, he lifted down a basket full of eggs then cracked two into the grease left behind in the skillet. As they fried and splattered he glanced her way before turning his mind back to the task at hand.
“I'll be going into town later for supplies. Would you like to come with me?”
Fear ricocheted along her nerve endings.
“I think I'd rather stay here, if you don't mind.”
He shook his head, “I don't mind. You're welcome to stay as long as you like.”
After plating up the eggs, he set them and the bacon on the table, then returned to crack four more into the skillet. While they were frying he helped her to stand and walk to take a seat on one of the chairs beside the table.
“Go ahead and start eating,” he invited with a smile, “You need food.”
She responded with a smile of her own, “I'll wait for you.”
Shortly thereafter, he returned with his own plate of eggs, a jar of honey, and a plateful of biscuits from the stove's bread warmer, and they shared their meal companionably. At one point he commented on her unusual name and she told him about her grandmother being from Devonshire, England, adding she guessed she must have been homesick when she named her granddaughter. Devon went on to say that her mother was her father's second wife and that he'd married a third time shortly after her mother had died when Devon was five, only that wife had died two years later in childbirth. He hadn't bothered to remarry.
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
“Six brothers, all older.” She finished her eggs and bacon then reached for the biscuits and the jar of honey. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
He shook his head, “No. My real ma died when I was just a baby and I was raised by my aunt. I never knew my pa.”
She thought of how sad that was but said nothing as she poured honey over half a biscuit and ate it with relish. After the meal he refused her offer to help with the dishes, telling her to just sit and heal. She could help once she was stronger.
Once the dishes were finished he helped her back to bed where she dozed off and on as he came and went while doing his morning chores. A couple of hours before midday he announced he was leaving for town.
“Don't open the door to anyone while I'm gone,” he cautioned before giving her a reassuring smile and walking out, locking the door behind him. Moments later she heard him drive off in his truck.
The day passed with Devon napping off and on until boredom drove her from the bed. She was still weak but she managed to carefully move about the room by holding on to furniture or bracing herself with one hand against a log wall. There wasn't much more to see than what she had first noted, though she found a three drawer chest with a small selection of books on top of it and the boxes containing what remained of his provisions in the space beyond the bed where she couldn't see. Fatigue finally drove her to choose a book and retreat to the cushioned chair in front of the fireplace. After poking the fire and adding a small log, she settled in and began to read of Gulliver's Travels. Soon she was was once again asleep.
Jackson returned late in the afternoon. Hearing the truck approach, Devon had carefully made her way to the door, unlocking it just as he reached to open it.
“You shouldn't be up,” he commented as he entered, carrying a couple of boxes of canned goods and staples and she grimaced when, after setting the boxes down, he helped her back to the chair in front of the fireplace.
“I'm about to go stir crazy,” she complained, but sighed once her hind end settled on to the cushion and she leaned against the back, “How was your trip?”
“Fine,” he responded before heading back out the door. “Be right back.”
She heard him moving around outside as he unloaded larger items from the truck bed followed by the squeaks and groans of the doors opening on the small barn back beyond the corral. The horses whinnied and she surmised that he must be feeding them. The chickens were already at roost in the hen house. A few minutes later he returned, this time carrying three paper wrapped parcels and set them down gently on her knees.
“I brought you some clothes and a pair of slippers,” he said quietly, “I had to guess at the sizes.”
Her mouth fell open in dismay but she could hardly object since she didn't have a stitch of her own other than her undergarments. Tears welled in her eyes as she carefully opened the packaging and found two dresses, one in a heavy blue ditsy cotton and the other in a rich brown corduroy. There was also a wool jacket. Her hands shook as she unwrapped the third parcel to reveal a pair of leather loafers and two pairs of socks.
“I-I,” she swallowed, awash in emotion, “Thank you, Jackson. They're lovely.”
He smiled and moved away to remove his jacket.
“Town was quiet. I didn't hear anything about your being missing.”
“No, I don't suppose you would. For all anyone knows, I am still living with Silas.” She sighed. “I can only imagine what they must think of me by now.”
“People are going to think what they're going to think,” he responded and she conceded to herself that he would know that for a fact.
“The important thing is what you think of yourself,” he added, then rummaged through the boxes until he withdrew a large can of beans.
“Dinner is rather simple tonight. Beans. But I did find a few cans of mixed fruit for dessert.”
She smiled reassuringly, “That's fine.”
Days passed and Devon's strength gradually returned. She began to worry about where she would go next, thinking she couldn't impose on Jackson forever. But when she broached the subject he was quick to reassure her that she had no need to think of leaving just yet. He seemed content to have her there and, truthfully, she was in no real hurry to leave. She felt safe for the first time in a long time. Safe and at peace with his strong and gentle presence nearby.
Eventually she assumed the duties of keeping house and slowly their relationship began to quietly blossom. She found him watching her more and more often in a way that caused her heart to flutter. She, on the other hand, became increasingly aware of his presence and she began to long for an unknown something. Occasionally the closeness of the small cabin would cause them to brush against one another and she would catch her breath while he would stiffen slightly in response. The tension between them mounted until Devon was hard pressed not to become contentious over things that really shouldn't have meant anything. She was confused and achy, and becoming highly emotional. Jackson, on the other hand, was becoming more and more distant. Occasionally his words would betray his irritability but while Devon wasn't certain what to make of what she was feeling, Jackson knew exactly what was bothering him.
He wanted Devon in a way he hadn't wanted a woman in a long time. Her closeness was eating at him and it was becoming increasingly hard to keep his hands to himself. He found himself wanting to touch her. Her hair, her face. Her body. He wanted to hold her, feel her close against him. He imagined what she would taste like. At night as she slept he listened to her breathe, giving little sighs when she stirred, and fought the urge to climb into bed beside her. In defense, he began spending more and more time away from the cabin, wandering the woods in search of the game whose pelts, hides, and meat could be cured and sold in town., leaving Devon alone...and vulnerable.
Silas Whitaker spent days watching the little homestead, learning the routines of its occupants and waiting for the right moment to make his move. It had taken him weeks to learn of Devon's whereabouts using subtle means. He hadn't wanted to announce to the world that she had gone missing. Hell, he hadn't wanted to remind the world of her existence, period. Her father had turned her over to him and promptly forgotten about her and he hadn't been a man to look a gift horse in the mouth. He had needed another woman when Edith died and, after two years of waiting for his wife to die, he had been more than ready to finally take up where Edith had left off. Only it hadn't gone as planned. The girl had resisted and his own body had betrayed him, something that he bitterly blamed her for. He had never had that problem with Edith. It only made him more determined to force Devon into compliance. She was his, his to do with as he pleased, and damned if he wasn't going to do just that!
Silas watched as the big Indian loaded up one of the horses with gear then disappeared into the trees. He waited a long time, making sure that the man was long gone and knowing that he would be away for several hours, if not the rest of the day. In the process he watched Devon come and go from the outhouse and as she hung out the laundry on the line strung between two posts in the yard. It was unseasonably warm this late in the season so her hair was piled on top of her head and he could see the topmost buttons on her light colored dress were undone in deference to the heat. Her sleeves were rolled up as much for comfort as to keep them out of the wash water. He could hear her humming to herself as she worked.
When she returned inside he made his way stealthily across the yard until he was up against the cabin wall. Drawing the hunting knife from its scabbard at his side, he began to advance around the corner, lips drawn back over tobacco-stained teeth in a feral grin as he anticipated how this would end.
After emptying the large galvanized tubs used outside for the laundry, Devon collected a tin of mealy oatmeal and left the cabin once more, intent on taking it to the chickens. When she rounded the corner, she came nearly face to face with Silas and froze for an instant, her horrified eyes going from his face to the knife in his hand before self preservation kicked in. Throwing the tin at his head, she turned and ran screaming for the trees, calling Jackson's name with ever step. But Silas was close behind and before she was half way across the yard he had tackled her, taking her down to the ground with the force of his greater weight and knocking the breath from her so that her screams were abruptly silenced. When he turned her over she began to fight in earnest, kicking, biting, and even grabbing at the knife, catching it by the blade and causing it to slice into her hands and arms until blood from numerous deep cuts covered them both. Safe in the knowledge that Jackson was nowhere to be found, he found himself growing excited by her struggle. He panted, chuckling as she fought, his foul breath and spittle spewing across her white face, until he felt her begin to cave. His entire focus was on subduing her.
Suddenly, he felt something hard against the side of his face and then the unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked.
“Get up,” a deep voice growled, and Silas froze, the knife inches from her throat.
“Get up, now,” the voice ordered once again and slowly Silas sat back and rose carefully to his knees.
“Throw the knife over there.”
He did as he was told, throwing it several feet away.
“Now stand up.”
The end of the barrel never left his face as he rose awkwardly to his feet. New sweat beaded his forehead as he faced the very real possibility that he was going to die.
“L-Look,” he stammered, only to have a burst of stars and blinding pain erupt when the butt of the gun connected to the side of his head. He fell back to earth, out cold.
After a quick, hard kick to the Silas' leg, Jackson stooped and pulled Devon to her feet, pulling her close in a hard hug as she continued to shudder and cry in terror against his shoulder, her fists pounding helplessly against his chest.
“Oh god! Oh god! Jackson!”
“It's okay,” he whispered over and over, his eyes closed tight in relief, “It's alright now.”
As she calmed he gradually pulled away enough to briefly cup her deathly pale face then to bring her hands to where he could see them. Renewed fury filled his eyes as he found the blood seeping and pouring from cuts across her palms and fingers, and up and down her arms. Quickly pulling his shirt over his head, he wrapped it around her hands and pulled her close again, burying his face in her
hair where it had come undone in her struggle.
“I'm so sorry,” he groaned against her ear,” So, so sorry.”
When her shudders had abated to trembles, he carried her into the cabin. Setting her down on the side of the bed, he promised to be right back and went back out where he mercilessly hogtied Silas and left him where he lay, still unconscious, before returning to the cabin. There he pumped water into a shallow bowl, grabbed a towel, and knelt before her. Taking her hands in his he began to gently wipe the blood from her skin, apologizing again and again as she gasped with the pain of his ministrations. When at last the bleeding had stopped, he wrapped her hands in clean rags then pulled her close again. Her arms went around him and clung.
“I should never have left you.” His voice was soft, the tone broken.
After a moment she sighed and pulled away to smile tremulously into his tortured brown eyes. Unshed tears were gathered in their corners.
“It's okay now,” she whispered and wiped his long hair back from his dear, stained face with one bandaged hand, “You came back, that's all that matters.”
For a long moment he lay his forehead against hers before finally releasing her to rise to his feet.
“I need to take him in and let the law know what has happened.” He paused uncertainly. “Will you be alright? I won't be long.”
She shuddered for a moment then lifted her chin, her expression vaguely defiant.
“Yes, I will. Just, just hurry back, okay?”
He nodded then after a quick kiss to her cheek he left and shortly thereafter she heard the sound of the truck driving away. Slowly she lay back on the bed, curled into a fetal position, and cried.
An hour later, Jackson returned with the sheriff following close behind. She had managed to change out of the torn dress and create some order with her hair, and was poised, if subdued. After questioning her and inspecting her hands, he left with a promise that Silas would be charged and most likely convicted of her attack. Jackson walked him out then returned to find her still sitting on the side of the bed, staring unseeing at the fireplace. Taking a seat beside her, he pulled her to him until she rested against his chest, her arms going about him as he leaned back against the wall. For a long time they simply held each other, saying nothing, and there was only the muted sounds of the birdsong coming from outside. In that time they each accepted the truth of their feelings for each other, and he came to a decision.
“Jackson?” she finally whispered.
“Yes?”
“Thank you for saving my life. Again.”
He squeezed her shoulders then lifted her chin until he could see her face. For a long moment he stared into her eyes before brushing her cheek with the backs of his fingers.
“I can't remember ever being so scared as when I heard you scream.” His voice was gruff, his gaze intent. “Then when I saw...” He looked away and took a deep breath before meeting her eyes again. “I can't bear the thought of losing you.”
She smiled softly before raising her bandaged hand and laying it against his cheek, the fabric stark against the port wine stain.
“You won't. As long as you want me here, I'll stay.”
He hesitated for the slightest moment then, with a whisper of her name, he lowered his head and brushed her lips with his. Drawing slightly away, he again caressed her cheek.
“Then, will you to stay with me? Forever?” His expression was open and vulnerable. “I haven't much to offer but this cabin and homestead, and I know I failed you today but I can promise my protection from now on. Will you consider...Will you marry me?”
Tears filled her eyes as she nodded, "I love you."
Then, pulling him down, she whispered, “All you had to do was ask.”
The End.
**Dedicated to the honor and memory of my maternal grandmother, Nancy Ruth Upton Frye, and my paternal grandfather, Charles Clinton Russell, and to all of Appalachia's Cherokee "Black Irish"**
A very romantic, almost idyllic love story that relied a great deal on chance. First, the chance that Jackson would find Devon just as she was about to die from exposure. The chance that Jackson was living alone and quite self-sustaining. The chance that somehow, Stiles found Devon at Jackson's place without the help of anyone. Perhaps because he had followed her trail and it led him close to where the Jackson place was. Finally, the chance that Jackson was in earshot when Devon called out to him in peril.
Of course the ideal combination fragile, beautiful young woman and tall, strong and striking -looking man who is gentle to a fault, is going to lead in only one direction.
While depression Appalachia is a good setting for this story, abusive husbands like Stiles, were common throughout the entire United States. They were often known about in the communities they lived in, but unless a "crime" was obvious, their women often had no other choice.
Otherwise, another superbly written romance. Wish they all could be that way.
Southern Appalachia, 1932
