Free Shadow of Dawn by Debra Diaz Page B

and prayed with the dying.
When she arrived home at night she bathed, ate, then read for a
while to Andrew and went to bed. By keeping herself busy, she hoped
to be able to forget that she was, in fact, neither wife nor widow,
but something in between.
     
    One evening a few days later she came home
earlier than usual, entering as she ordinarily did by the kitchen
door so she could wash her hands and leave her apron to be
laundered before going upstairs. Hester had just finished plucking
a chicken.
     
    “Lawd, Miz Catherine, I’m mighty glad you’re
home. My hands is tuckered out and they hurt too bad to cut up this
chicken. Jessie out with Miz Sallie to the dressmaker and I don’t
know where Ephraim is. I ’spect he in the barn bawlin’ out Joseph
for bringin’ mud in on his shoes.”
     
    “I’ll see to it, Hester. Just let me go and
change my clothes.”
     
    Wearily Catherine went through the dining
room and into the hallway. Bart stood there, taking off his coat
and hat and hanging them on the rack.
     
    “Good evening, Catherine,” he said, and his
eyes went up and down her figure.
     
    “Hello, Bart. I’m sorry, I just got in from
the hospital.”
     
    “You always look beautiful,” he said
gallantly, “no matter what you’re wearing.”
     
    He always delivered his compliments in a
somewhat mocking way that annoyed her.
     
    “Oh, Bart, Hester is waiting for someone to
help her cut up a chicken. Could you do it? I’m afraid I’ll be a
while and it may delay supper.”
     
    “Of course,” he said with good cheer. “I
think I’ve done enough hunting in my day to know what to do with a
hen.”
    He went off whistling to the kitchen.
Catherine hurried upstairs, washed again and put on a clean dress.
She had just finished brushing her hair when she heard Hester
scream. By the time she opened her bedroom door, Hester had
screamed again. Mrs. Shirley appeared at her own door.
     
    “Come with me,” Catherine called, beginning
to run downstairs. Mrs. Shirley followed, more sedately.
     
    Catherine gasped as she ran into the kitchen.
Huge splatters of blood covered the kitchen table and the bowie
knife that lay upon it. Bart stood holding his hand, his face
white.
     
    “He cut hisself!” Hester cried. “Just about
cut his thumb off!”
     
    “Get a towel,” Catherine said. “Bart, let me
see.”
     
    “If I take my hand away, it bleeds too much,”
Bart said in a thin
    voice.
     
    Catherine turned to Mrs. Shirley. “You’re a
trained nurse. What can we do?”
     
    Mrs. Shirley stepped forward, and to
Catherine’s utter amazement, took one look at the situation, turned
as white as Bart and dropped like a stone.
     
    Catherine wrapped Bart’s hand in a towel.
Sallie came running from somewhere just as Ephraim entered from the
kitchen door; it was instantly decided that Ephraim would drive
Bart to the nearest hospital so that a surgeon could sew up his
hand. Sallie, surprisingly calm, went with them.
     
    Catherine and Hester bent down to pull Mrs.
Shirley to a sitting position.
     
    “Put your head down for a moment, Mrs.
Shirley,” Catherine directed, her voice shaking. She had been as
much unnerved by Mrs. Shirley’s collapse as she had by Bart’s
accident.
     
    The woman’s eyes opened and she rested her
head for a moment between her knees. She opened her mouth to take a
deep breath.
     
    “Do you need smelling salts?” Catherine
asked.
     
    Mrs. Shirley shook her head, saying at last,
“I’m…sorry. It was the blood. I can deal with anything but the
sight of fresh blood.”
     
    “Are you all right?”
     
    “Yes, madam, just give me a moment.”
     
    Catherine set to work helping Hester scrub
the kitchen. There was a lot of blood, but she would never
have expected such weakness from Mrs. Shirley. It only added to the
mystery that surrounded the woman.
     
    ***
     
    The first of December brought a blast of
bitter cold. Tad and Joseph were kept busy bringing in wood for