Mission of Hope. Allie Pleiter
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“Not at all. I’m only saying we can’t be too careful. ‘Wise as serpents,’ the Bible says. Taking on evil—even with the best of intentions—is always a dangerous endeavor.”
Quinn muttered a thing or two about the snakelike nature of a certain army major as Bauers bound off the bandage. The wound smarted for a dozen different reasons, only half of which could be attributed to Reverend Bauers’s enthusiastic doctoring.
“Think of it as a repayment,” Bauers said, raising a disapproving eyebrow to Quinn’s muttered insults. “You do remember the very nasty gash you gave Mr. Covington on your first meeting? The cut you lads gave Matthew was much bigger and twice as deep. All for his noble effort to try and stop you two hooligans from stealing from Grace House. Why, I stitched up his arm in the very next room. After twenty-odd years, has a bit of balance to it, don’t you think?”
“No, I don’t.” Quinn flexed his arm. “And this hurts.”
“Good. Now—” Bauers changed his tone as he put the medical supplies back in their box “—have you given thought to the message system?”
“It’ll go up just before dark tonight,” Quinn replied. “If I’ve got both arms to use by then. I found the wood yesterday, and with a bit of help I can have the post up in an hour. Right across the street from where the mail cart comes in.”
Bauers smiled. “By the mail cart. What an extraordinary coincidence.”
When the mail cart pulled up the next day, Nora noticed a large square post had been erected across the street. A sort of column made from pieced-together planks of wood now stood in the passageway between two shacks. People crowded around it, and it was a minute or so before Nora realized small pieces of paper and scraps of wood and material were stuck to the thing.
She’d heard about a fountain downtown that had become a message board of sorts. People fastened messages or notices or sad notes like “Can’t find Erin Gray since Tuesday” on Lotta’s fountain at Kearny and Market streets. It had become a vital communication place, a gathering spot for the lost and those who had been found. Logistically and emotionally the center point of town. Someone—someone very clever—had thought to do the same here.
When Nora looked out over the crowd, her suspicions proved correct, for her one raised eyebrow of silent inquiry was met with Quinn Freeman’s grinning nod.
“The mail can’t all be headed out of town,” he said when he ambled across the street. “Folks here need to send messages of a smaller sort, too. Took all of an hour, once I found the wood.”
She noticed he had a bandage on his right forearm. “It took a bit more than that, it seems,” she said, pointing to the wound. “That wasn’t there yesterday.”
From behind her at the mail cart, Nora heard her father make a grumbling sort of noise, as if he wasn’t much fond of his daughter noticing the state of some man’s forearms. When she turned, he shot a look of warning between them, as if telling her to stay on the cart while he climbed down to hoist another mailbag off.
“A fencing injury,” he said, pleased at her concern. “I won the duel, anyway.”
What a wit he had. “Now, Mr. Freeman, what sort of man has time for fencing these days?”
“You’d be surprised.” His eyes fairly sparkled. He had the most extraordinary vitality about him. An energy, an inner source of power that stood out like the noonday sun in such a sea of weary souls. And when he looked at her like that, a spark of that power lit up inside her own soul. It was at once thrilling and dangerous.
Nora hid the blush she felt creeping up her face by changing subjects. “How is Sam?” she said brightly, fiddling with a stack of mail. “All healed?”
“Soon enough. He was asking to come over here this morning, but Ma held him off one more day. Fairly bursting to run around, he is. Ma threatened to put him on a leash yesterday afternoon after you left.”
“How resilient children are,” she sighed, sitting down on the edge of the cart. “I think they’ve fared the best of all of us.” Mrs. Hastings’s visit had cheered Mother and Aunt Julia for a little while after, but the dark melancholy had returned within a few days.
“We do fine. Well, as much as we can. You should come over and look at the post. There’s happy news there, as well as the sad news.” He pointed toward the wooden column and extended a hand to help her out of the cart.
Her father didn’t look pleased, but neither did he voice an open objection—that would have to do for now. Nora took Quinn’s hand, forgetting she’d removed her gloves, for it was nearly impossible to handle stacks of paper and the other odd forms of mail with gloves on. He clasped her hand, stunning her with the touch of his rough palms. They were working hands, large and calloused, yet strong and steady. Warm. Something unnamed shot through her, something far more alarming than what his eyes had done. Nora tried to brush it off as something from a dime-store novel, a juvenile thrill, but it felt so…important.
A touch. Quinn Freeman had touched her. Papa was undoubtedly cross, even though it was something as genteel as helping her out of the wagon. Still, she wasn’t the least bit sorry she wasn’t wearing gloves.
He winced, and she realized he had helped her out of the wagon with his injured arm. “Goodness,” she said, “You really are injured there.”
“Only just,” he said, still smiling. “I’ll be fine.” She knew by the way he looked at her that he was as aware of their touch as she was. He held her hand for a fraction of a second longer than was necessary before letting it go and motioning toward the post. She felt that tiny linger—a trembling sensation in her hand—as if her palm would somehow be able to retain the feeling. Nora felt as if she would look at her hand an hour from now and find it physically changed.
She saw, out of the corner of her eye, that Quinn ran his thumb along the tip of each finger. He felt it, too. They walked quietly toward the post, each of them a little bit stunned, pretending at normalcy when nothing at all seemed normal.
Notes of every description, on every kind of material, had begun to cover the post, tacked and pinned or stuffed into cracks. One small corner of a newspaper held the message “Looking for Robert Morris.” Another read “A.D.—I’m fine—M.T.” One heart-wrenching note read “Josiah Edwards born Tuesday morning.” Nora hadn’t even thought about the fact that babies were still arriving. It was cheering to know life went on, but what sort of anguish gripped a mother bringing a precious new life into the wake of catastrophe?
Quinn noticed her eyes on the announcement and nodded at her. “I saw little Josiah yesterday morning. Fine and healthy and hungry as any baby ever was. He’s hurting for a few necessities, but I gather he’ll make out just fine.”
Nora thought of all the soft, clean pampering that surrounded the last baby she’d seen. Babies should never know hardship—it was just wrong. “What’s he missing?”
Adjusting his hat, Quinn pursed his lips in thought. “The usual things—diapers, cloths, jumpers and such. Soap, too, I suppose.” Getting an idea, he began to walk around the post, one hand roaming over the fluttering papers. “Oh, here’s one. ‘Baby arrived. Need sheets, shirts, cloths and pins.’ You know, that sort of thing. Ma found a clean pillowcase they cut down for Josiah to wear and a pair of little socks from a doll somewhere, so things find their way.”
Nora began to look all over the post now, scanning for any requests like the baby’s. There were half a dozen, maybe more, and the post had only been up one day. “I want to write these down, like I did the others. Surely we can find some of these things.”
“Could you make me a copy, like you did before?”
“Of course I could. Do you have any ideas where we might find some of this?” The “we” had slipped out of her mouth unawares.
“I’ve a few thoughts,” he replied. His eyes glowed again, and