Ciana stopped in front of what had been the feed store. A bulletin board had been erected, and the townspeople had turned it into a streetside memorial. Flowers and candles, toys and stuffed animals were gathered and heaped at the base of the board. Messages holding prayers and comments had been stapled and tacked up on the wood. In the center, a list was also posted: In Memoriam. Ciana’s heart grew heavy when she read the nine names of those who had died. The oldest had been seventy-five, the youngest eleven months. She hung her head and shed private quiet tears. So much loss.
At the bottom of the list were verses from the King James version of the Bible: “The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away. Blessed be the name of the LORD.” And another: “I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help” and another, “Bind up the brokenhearted.”
Ciana was struck again by the resiliency of the people, country people. Her people.
She returned to the hospital at dusk, relieving Angela so she could go down to the cafeteria, and took up her vigil at Jon’s bedside. She turned on the light above his bed to better see his face, sat, laid her head on her arm, placed her mouth inches from his ear. “Let me tell you what I saw today when I went home.” She told him of her day trip, of riding the land, of feeling sunlight warm her skin, and of how people were digging out, rebuilding, starting over. She told him, not of ruin, but of hope and the future.
Finally she sighed, stroked his hair. “Come back to me, Jon Mercer. Let’s go home together. I miss you so much. I love you so much. You’re all I want for the rest of my life. Houses can be rebuilt, but you come along once in a lifetime. I want you back. Please … please, come back to me.”
She lifted her head, leaned forward and, as she’d done so many times before, she pressed her lips to his. And his lips moved under hers. She flew backward, strangled out a cry, and stared down into his wide-open eyes.
“Jon!” Her heart thumped wildly. “Jon? Can—can you hear me?” He didn’t respond and her elation turned to cold fear. She racked her memory trying to recall what Dr. Patel had told her about coma victims awakening. Can be a slow process … possibly impaired … don’t expect too much.
Ciana leaned forward, touched his cheek, watched his pupils attempt to focus. She should ring for a nurse, but couldn’t force her hand to the call button. “Jon … do you know me? I—I’m Ciana.” She awkwardly introduced herself. He blinked, his expression unchanged. She took his hand, pressed her lips to his palm, dread knifing her stomach. “Do you remember me?” What if he was lost, awake, but not cognizant? Hadn’t the doctor said it could be a possibility? “We … we were—” She paused, searching for a word that would fit.
His gaze slowly sharpened. “I … I … loved … you.” His voice wasn’t more than a hoarse whisper.
“Loved?” Had she heard the word correctly, in the past tense? “Yes … you did.” Her own voice was scarcely a whisper, too, barely audible above the thump of her heartbeat.
“Love … you,” he said.
Tears filled her eyes. “Yes. And I love you. Forever.”
Over the next few days Jon’s awakening was the buzz of the floor. Angela was ecstatic. He knew her, but was confused as to why she was with him. His hospitalization was explained to him, as well as his injuries, coma, and broken leg, but the story of his being hammered in a tornado left him confused and agitated. He remembered nothing from that day. Dr. Patel told Ciana and Angela that parts of Jon’s memory were damaged, most notably his short-term memory, and Patel said not to press him. He warned them that there were things Jon might never remember, even people and places. He also cautioned that Jon’s confusion could likely hang on and be expressed with bursts of anger. “It’s post-traumatic stress disorder,” Patel said. “Like a soldier home from combat. His psyche is wounded. Be patient with him. Don’t take outbursts personally. Reintroduce elements and people from his life gradually. Don’t force anything.”
Ciana understood Patel’s message, but her only question was “When can we take him home?”
“I want him evaluated by a psychologist before I release him—just a precaution,” Patel added. “And I want his physical therapist to continue to work with him too. His cast may prove problematic, and he’ll need to be proficient on his crutches.” Patel patted Ciana’s hand. “He will come back. Give him time.”
The question she was unable to ask was the one that most haunted her: What if he doesn’t come all the way back?
Jon regained his strength more quickly than his memory. He forgot words, names of common items, had episodes of bad dreams. Sometimes when Ciana or Angela patiently explained details, his expression clouded over and he seemed to space out, which always caused Ciana’s stomach to clench. She wanted him all the way back. She wanted his playfulness and the teasing glints to return in his green eyes. She wanted to lie in his arms and kiss away his confusion and doubts. While he’d been unconscious, his cuts had healed, stitches been removed, and bruises had faded. Only his mind was struggling, and no one could predict how long that journey might take.
The toughest time for all of them was when Alice Faye, Eden, and Garret came to visit. Jon recognized the two women, but although Jon tried to be friendly, it soon became obvious that he had no recollection of Garret. The big Aussie looked momentarily hurt, but his face quickly brightened. He offered his hand. “I’m Garret Locklin. We’re mates, so I expect you’ll recall me soon enough. We built a stable together at Bellmeade, and I’ve got it all repaired now, so no worries about it.”
Jon nodded, and returned the smile, but his forehead remained furrowed.
Garret leaned down, said, “No worries, mate, I’ll grow on you. Like a fungus.” He waggled his eyebrows and everyone in the room laughed, relieving the tension.
Ciana remained cheerful and positive around Jon, but privately, with Angela and her friends, she was less upbeat. Jon couldn’t recall even a minute of the day of the tornado. “So what?” Eden told Ciana when they were together in the waiting area drinking coffee during one of Jon’s therapy sessions. “The day was a nightmare for you both. And I think once he gets back to Bellmeade, he’ll be better. Just wait and see.” Eden offered a mysterious smile. “Besides, we have a surprise for you.” She patted Garret’s leg. “My man here has gotten a trailer for us, and it’s parked beside the barn on Bellmeade property.”
Garret gave a thumbs-up. “Your government secured trailers and doled them out to storm victims, especially you blokes who lost your homes. After a mass of paperwork, and my constant pestering, they gave us one of them. I think mostly to be rid of me … Woman interviewing me couldn’t understand a word I was saying.”
Eden nibbled on a cookie. “I went along as his translator. Tennessee Southern clashing with Aussie outback was just too funny. Anyway, we ended up with a nice trailer. It has a kitchen and a bedroom and a seat that turns into a bed.”
“Nice to have a stove again,” Alice Faye said. “We were thinking the sheilas”—she gave Garret a wink—“can stay in the trailer, Jon can have the tack room, and Garret can remain in the loft.” Alice Faye turned to Angela. “Plan to stay with us until you return to Texas.”
Angela nodded gratefully. “Just for a while after he’s released, and thank you for offering.”
And just that easily, the plan was set to return Jon to Bellmeade and resume the picking up of the pieces of the life they’d once known. Ciana’s mood brightened, but it wasn’t until the first time she crawled into Jon’s hospital bed and he wrapped her in his arms that she felt her spirit totally at rest. Cradled in his embrace, she felt as if her universe had finally righted itself. No matter how long his recovery took, she would walk the road with him. Together, they could do anything.
Summer sunshine set tree leaves aglow, and a breeze cleansed by recent rain set them dancing on the day Ciana drove Jon home to Bellmeade from the hospital. Over a month had passed since the tornado. The grass had greened, and the front yard was clear of all debris, but the long d
riveway bore the scars. Jon said, “The trees … I didn’t imagine so many were gone even though you told me.”
“We saved the wood,” she said simply. “And we’ll plant more trees.”
She stopped the truck beside the cream-colored trailer that they now called home. But as she helped Jon with his crutches, Soldier came bounding across the grounds, wagging his tail and wiggling for joy at Jon’s feet.
“I think he missed you,” Ciana said.
Jon’s face broke open in a grin. “Hey, buddy.” Soldier had been trained never to jump on people, but Jon tapped his chest, inviting the dog to put his paws there, and Soldier did. Jon smoothed the shepherd’s fur and praised the animal, for Ciana had told Jon how the dog had lain by his side while she’d gone for help.
The trailer door opened and Angela and Alice Faye stepped out wearing beaming smiles. Angela had come back with Alice Faye the night before. Ciana’s mother said, “Welcome home! Eden and Garret drove into town for groceries. The old Piggly Wiggly is mostly repaired and open for business. Folks are real happy about that.”
Jon shifted the crutches, looked over to where the house had once stood. “Can I get a closer look?”
“Go on,” Alice Faye said to Ciana and Jon. “We’ll get your things from the truck and put everything away in the tack room.”
He hobbled across the expanse of lawn with Ciana beside him, paused where the veranda had been. His gaze swept the now cleared space, stopped at the stack of the old chimney. “Hard to believe it’s gone.”
Ciana hooked her arm around and under the crutch. “We were able to save some things, but most of the stuff is a total loss. Swede is storing the salvage for us. Swede is—”
“I know who Swede is,” he said, sounding curt. He took a deep breath. “Sorry.” She waited for him to gather his temper and his thoughts. Seconds later, he asked, “You going to rebuild?”
“This is still my land. What else would I do?” Then another thought crowded out all others. She stepped in front of him, chewed on her bottom lip. “Are we …? Do you still want to get married?”
He held her gaze, his green eyes serious. “That’s your call, Ciana. I’m not the same man I was before the storm. I don’t know that I ever will be again.”
The sadness in his voice made her shiver. “None of us are the same, Jon. The storm changed everybody and everything. What it didn’t change was how I feel about you.”
He searched her face. “You should have a choice.”
“Between what and what?”
“My head gets all crazy. I can’t—” He halted, stared at the ground. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to work like I used to.” He gave a rueful smile. “My head gets all jammed up, and things that should be simple for me to do aren’t. Can’t make many mistakes on a job.”
She understood his fears. He was a man used to being in control. What he didn’t know, what he couldn’t know, was whether he could ever work with wild horses again. Dr. Patel had warned them both about the severity of his concussion, and said he should do everything possible to protect himself from another head injury. “No more bronc riding,” Ciana said quietly. “Is that so terrible?” But she knew before he answered that for a man like Jon, it was. “You can still work with and train horses here on Bellmeade just like we planned.”
He stared, saying nothing, and finally turned back toward the barn.
She was determined not to let him dwell on his fears. “Come with me. There’s one other female in your life who wants to see you.”
He scowled. “I—I don’t know—”
She led him to the fence beside the pasture, where they could see the horses grazing at the far end. There were only four now. The older married couple of her boarders had lost their home to the storm and had taken their two animals and moved to Arizona to live with a son.
“Whistle for her,” Ciana said, nodding toward Caramel. “She’ll come. She’s missed you hanging around almost as much as I have.”
But he didn’t have to whistle. The buckskin had caught his scent on the breeze. Her head flew up, and she came toward the fence in a fast trot. Ciana opened the gate. Jon limped in on his crutches and Ciana backed out and closed the gate. She walked away, only turning when she was at the trailer. She crossed her arms and watched.
Caramel trotted straight to Jon, making a low rumbling sound in her throat. The great animal nudged Jon, butted her forehead into the center of Jon’s chest, then stood quietly, eyes half closed. He anchored his crutch in the ground, put his hand on Caramel’s neck, scratched behind her ear. Ciana’s heart swelled at the sight. She watched through a film of tears as Jon bent forward and began to speak in the secret language of all horse whisperers, reconnecting with the filly—old friends, separated, but never parted.
Over the next few days, Jon acted less angry and short-tempered. He was moody, but also able to forgive himself over memory lapses. He gave up one of his crutches, too, and although he couldn’t yet ride because of the cast, he resumed many of his former chores. At first Ciana mucked the stalls, and he hobbled around and pitched in clean straw, but by week’s end, he was doing both. Once he was sure of his footing and balance, the second crutch was also discarded. He and Garret worked on the roadbed to the new stables, the one he and Ciana had been shaping when the storm hit. She named the road Tornado Alley, and Garret cut a sign, burned in the name, and hammered the board to a post at the road’s start.
Living in the trailer was cozy—almost too cozy. Angela was given the bedroom, Alice Faye took the cushion for a bed, and Ciana used a sleeping bag in the loft of the barn with Eden, forcing Garret into the bed of his camper truck. “Just until Jon’s mother leaves,” she told Eden and Garret apologetically. “I mean, I can take the camper if you two want.”
“A few girlfriend sleepovers are fine,” Eden told her. “Garret and I’ll be squeezed into the camper together soon enough.
It’s okay.”
“No room in Jon’s bed?” Garret mused.
“It’s a cot, Aussie-man. Hardly room for him.” In truth, Jon was keeping his hands off her. He kissed her, continued to say he loved her, but she felt an invisible barrier between them. She knew she loved him, yet they were stalled, Jon by his doubts and memory losses, herself by the overwhelming tasks of working her fields, and shaping a plan for Bellmeade’s future.
“You going to rebuild the house anytime soon?” Alice Faye asked as she and Ciana were weeding the replanted garden together. “That trailer’s no home, you know, for you and Jon once you’re married. And speaking of that, when are you two getting married?”
Her mother’s words touched a nerve. She and Jon hadn’t discussed their wedding since the day he’d returned. She was beginning to wonder if they would marry, the doubts too painful to voice, even to Eden. “Not sure how to go about it just yet. What should I build?” She concentrated on her mother’s rebuilding question, purposely pushing aside the second. “What do you think? The same old Victorian? Something new and radical?”
“Radical? What’s that about? What’s wrong with one like we used to have?”
“Why build the same old thing?” She hedged because the details of rebuilding were overwhelming. How large a house? What should it be built of? How many rooms? And what about her mother? Would she want to remain at Bellmeade? She’d talked of moving out once before. The questions churned in Ciana’s head endlessly, stymieing her into a standstill. “Costs money to rebuild,” she said.
Alice Faye straightened, blew out an exasperated breath. “You need a place to live, Ciana. Take the insurance money and build a house.”
“Insurance money?”
“Are you serious? Your grandfather, Charles, was an insurance salesman before he married Olivia. One thing we got is insurance! Go see Mr. Boatwright.” He was their attorney and handled the farm’s legal interests. Ciana recalled writing insurance premium checks—large checks that she had resented doling out money for in lean times. Suddenly those payments didn’t se
em so odious. “I’ve never read the policies, Mom. I guess they’re gone with the tornado too.”
Her mother shook her head. “The company will give you a reprint of the policy. Mr. Boatwright will handle it.”
Just then, a dark green truck crunched up the driveway, and without the house to impede the view, Ciana saw clearly that Cecil Donaldson was in the driver’s seat. She dropped her hoe and hurried to meet him. Alice Faye waved but continued hoeing. “New truck?” Ciana asked the minute he climbed out.
“Got two. This is my Sunday truck,” he said with a grin. He looked as grizzled and weathered as ever. “Heard Jon’s out of the hospital.”
“He is. Working back at the stables with Garret.”
“Glad he’s all right.”
She waited for him to tell her why he’d come, because Cecil wasn’t the kind of man to just drop in for chitchat. “You lose anything in the storm?” she asked.
“No, but you did, and I’m not just talking about your house.”
“What else?”
His face broke into a grin. “Well, seems like Hastings is pulling out. Man’s lost a bundle with the storm and the mood’s changed in town. People who wanted to sell off their farms have changed their minds. Seems like the tornado helped Windemere to see there’s more to hold on to than to let go of.”
“I’d have thought they’d be all the more eager to sell.”
“Don’t seem like it. People’s roots go deep. Can’t just walk away. The legislature won’t okay the highway exit either. Seems like there’s too many other places for the money to go, so the exit lost its priority and its funding.” He took off his ball cap, smoothed his white hair.
Ciana realized that at any other time such news would have excited her. Now it meant little. “Well, thanks for the news, Cecil. But I never will sell … not then, not now.”
He glanced around, evaluating her progress. “Lot of work ahead for you.” He resettled his ball cap. “One other thing. You don’t have to worry ’bout them men coming round hassling you.”