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bell clapper. Tapping it down smartly, she lay there in the darkness, struggling to make sense out of the unfamiliar surroundings.
    A strong gust of wind slammed into the bunkhouse, rattling the little wooden structure. In a rush, it all came back. Culdee Creek Ranch … her first day of work for the MacKays. Then, following swiftly on the heels of that came the all too familiar, agonizing swell of remembrance.
    Remembrance of that hot July day when they’d brought Thomas home, his bloody, mangled, lifeless body lying in the back of a buckboard, covered by a canvas tarp. Vaguely, Abby remembered ignoring the hands outstretched to help her, and crawling awkwardly on her own up into the back of the big wooden wagon. She remembered ripping back the tarp, then staring down at her husband, so shocked and horrified that, at first, she didn’t even recognize him.
    It had all seemed like some horrible dream, a dream from which she prayed soon to awaken. Then a big horsefly buzzed by, circled Thomas’s face, and landed on his nose. For a crazy instant Abby watched, fully expecting her husband to open his eyes and, with an indignant snort, to swat away the fly. When he didn’t, the utter, ugly reality of the situation hit her, slamming into her gut, sucking the breath from her lungs. She sank to her knees, buried her face in her hands, and wept.
    Now, with a shuddering sob, Abby shoved out of her bed and knelt beside it.
    For a long moment, she drowned in a flood tide of tears. Even after all this time—if there could ever be sufficient time to adequately mourn the loss of loved ones—it hurt just as deeply as those first days. It hurt so very, very badly.
    Lord, help me through this day, Abby begged, her hands clenched before her, the tears spilling down her cheeks. Come between me and this pain. Grant me strength, and patience, and guide me in Your ways …
    Yet, though she shut her eyes and clung as hard as she could to thoughts of God, little by little, like a chill, heavy mist, the hated, unwelcome memories seeped back again. She saw Joshua, lying in his little bed, his skin gray, his lips blue, struggling for breath. She saw herself bend down for the hundredth time, brush aside his sweatdarkened blond hair, and wipe his brow with a damp cloth, all the while consumed with a helpless panic and a sick fear that grew with each passing second. Then, at long last, the minutes and hours of that hideous, harrowing vigil were over. Joshua lay there, cold, silent, and still—gone away … away from life … from her.
    Wave after wave of regret and unrequited longing washed over Abby, gradually undermining her pain, sucking away her emotions until she was, once more, blessedly numb. Only then could she pray anew, though the words gave her little comfort. She prayed on, nonetheless, her thoughts lifting heavenward by sheer force of will.
    In time, though, Abby wiped away her tears, rose, and lit the kerosene lamp on her bedside table. With a sudden shiver—as the early morning chill struck her now with a vengeance—she hurried to the pot-bellied stove and threw a few sticks of kindling into it. After a few good puffs, the glowing embers again flared to life. Soon, the kindling caught on fire. Abby then added a fat, split pine log.
    The pot of water she had placed atop the stove last night was lukewarm. She bundled up in a woolen shawl and climbed back into bed. Even with the fire now burning hotly, it would take at least another twenty minutes for the water to heat sufficiently to use for washing up. Time enough, Abby decided, for a short reading from the Scriptures.
    Gradually, tendrils of vapor began to waft languidly upward from the pot of water on the wood stove. Abby reluctantly set aside her Bible, climbed back out of bed, and carried her porcelain wash basin to the small worktable. She placed a clean washcloth, bar of lavender soap, and a fresh towel beside the basin, then retrieved the now steaming pot of water.
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