Ghost? She flipped her attention to Mr. Lewis’ hazel gaze. Whether from the way they'd met or some other means, she felt a connection to him.
He dipped his head as if feeling her uncertainty and turned to Marty. “We were in the snow, Marty.” Law, the way that man's voice smoothed out his words could calm a whole host of wounded men, snow ghosts, or wild horses. Was it his voice, or the underlying gentleness couching his words? “No ghosts, just a snowstorm.”
Marty nodded slowly, his hands fisting and unfisting the blanket. “The horses?”
“They're fine,” Mr. Lewis continued. “Safe and warm in the stables.”
“They … they didn't run over my legs?” His words trembled in a pitiful sort of way before he sucked in a quiet sob. “My legs. Where are my legs?”
Case turned wide eyes to Kizzie as if she knew what to do, but as far as she could tell, Marty's legs were right beneath his blankets. She looked back at Mr. Lewis, and after a moment, he gently touched Marty's hand.
“Marty, do you feel this?” Mr. Lewis touched the man's thigh and then moved his hand a little farther down. “This?”
The weeping man nodded.
Mr. Lewis moved his touch down below Marty's knee. “And that? Do you feel that?”
Marty sniffled and nodded again.
“Those are your legs. They are right here with you.”
The man relaxed into the raised pillows, his shoulders shaking a little from his sobs.
Case backed toward the door and leaned near Kizzie. “Has he lost his mind?”
Well, Kizzie didn't have a heap of experience with folks who'd hit their heads, but she hoped for a sound guess. “Probably not lost, just shook up a bit.”
And then, out of nowhere, the idea to pray for the weeping man popped to mind. Kizzie only had a couple weeks of solid praying experience, and she'd never prayed out loud in front of other folks before, but since Marty was scared and Case seemed worried … Well, she'd read something about God helping folks with both of those ailments, so why not ask Him for help?
“Mr. Marty.” She approached the bed, near enough to note the massive welt on the man's forehead in the dim light. “Would you mind if I pray for you?”
The room fell quiet for a moment before Marty whimpered. “Iamgoing to die.”
“No.” Kizzie lowered herself to the bed. “But I hear that if we're afraid, God wants us to let Him know, so He can give us courage. And I reckon it can't hurt none to ask Him to help your head and legs too. Would you be fine with that?”
The man nodded despite the fact his eyes grew as wide as skipping stones.
Well, at least God understood her intentions. So if her words came out wrong, He'd take care of the rest. She kept her prayer short. Simple. Thanked God for His protection of Marty and Mr. Lewis. Even the horses. And asked for His favor on their healing, ending with prayers for any folks out in the storm and gratitude for Mr. and Mrs. Lewis’ kindness in allowing her to stay with them.
When she opened her eyes, Marty lay back against the pillows, eyes closed and incredibly still. A chill swept over Kizzie's whole body. Was he dead?
And then the man's chest swelled with a long breath.
“Well, I see everything is well in hand.”
Kizzie looked over her shoulder to see Mrs. Lewis standing in the doorway, tea tray in hand and pale brow raised. She stepped into the room, and her son walked to her side and took the tray from her hands. Mr. Taylor followed behind her, gripping a large cloth sack. He immediately began clearing a broken lamp from the floor near the head of the bed. Likely the result of one of the crashing sounds.
“I suppose the chamomile tea is not as effective as prayer at calming a man's nerves.” Mrs. Lewis sent Kizzie a soft smile.
Kizzie stood, folding her hands in front of her. “I reckon God can use chamomile tea too.”
Mrs. Lewis’ lips quivered wider, and then she gestured toward Marty. “At least he's resting again.”
“And, despite some odd behavior, there was some coherence blended in with his confusion.” Mr. Lewis placed the tray on a nearby table. “Should we attempt to wake him for the tea?”
Mrs. Lewis approached the bed, her tall, willowy body poised so perfectly Kizzie thought of what a lovely statue she'd make. She'd seen pictures of marble statues in a book once and wondered how on earth any person held the talent to make rocks so lifelike. Though her daddy and Jeb shared the ability to turn wood into beautiful creations, so she reckoned talent to work other small miracles of creativity waited in all sorts of places and people around the world.
“I'm not sure, but my first inclination is to let him rest.” Mrs. Lewis studied Marty. “I recall Father speaking about how the brain heals during sleep, but I think it's good for someone to stay by his bed, in case he wakes again. He may still be confused.”
