The Roswell Legacy by Frances Statham (parable of the sower read online .TXT) 📗

sharp pain cut across his palm as he grabbed for a limb and found thorns instead. A stone in place of bread. Separation instead of reunion. He belonged to no one, had nothing except his own tormented anguish. But in that instant of pain, a miracle occurred. All his anger and hostility toward God for taking away his dream was washed clean. And he knew he didn’t want to die. He wanted to live.

With that realization, a quietness, a strength came to him. He no longer reached out for every small limb and twig. He flowed with the water and the logs until he saw the chance for his and the boy’s survival. It was a giant, weathered tree, its fallen trunk hanging directly over the precipice.

“We’re going over the falls!” the child screamed.

“No. Hang on, son.”

Charles’s arms wrapped around the tree trunk; his feet came out of the water, while directly beneath him the logs surged and plunged downward into the rainbow-colored mists.

Surrounded by the roar of water, the battle of logs, Charles held tight to the tree trunk. Then, after a few moments of rest, he began the tedious climb along the trunk, edging little by little, toward safety.

When Charles finally reached the top of the deserted bluff and gently pried loose the small boy’s arms from around his neck, he lay on the ground, exhausted. “We’ll rest for now,” Charles said.

The child began to shiver. “I’m cold.”

“I know. So am I.” Charles drew the boy closer to him for warmth.

Later, when the trembling of his arms and legs had subsided somewhat, Charles stood. “It’s time to go,” he said.

But Charles did not return to the sluice. They were now on the same side of the river as the logging camp, and he knew it was more important to get the child into dry clothes than to waste valuable time looking for the father.

As Charles stepped into camp with the boy in his arms, one of the cooks, presiding over the fire, looked up from his cooking pot. “Mon Dieu,” he said, crossing himself. “I am seeing a ghost.”

“Not a ghost, Tony. Just two bedraggled river rats needing something hot to drink.”

With Hudson Bay blankets wrapped around them, Charles and the boy were sitting before the fire when three men returned to the camp.

The boy stood and ran toward one of the men. “Papa!”

“Edward! You’re alive. Someone told me, but I didn’t believe it.”

“We rode the logs, Papa. And almost went over the waterfall. But this man saved me.”

The child’s father walked slowly toward Charles. And in a voice filled with emotion, he said, “If you had one wish in all the world, monsieur, what would you wish for?”

Charles’s smile was ironic, for no one could grant him that. But as the image of the Wilderness battle flashed through his mind, the cries of the wounded surrounding him, he said, “I would become a doctor.”

On the yacht, Charles opened his eyes and glanced at the surgical kit within arm’s reach. On the day he’d saved the child, his second wish had seemed as impossible as the first. But then he had not known that the child, Edward, was the heir to the Bernet logging empire.

It was Alphonse Bernet, himself, who had arranged the London surgical training that was responsible today for Charles’s summons to the bedside of the president of the United States.

CHAPTER

5

On a tree-shaded knoll overlooking the long vista to the Washington Monument, a Georgian redbrick house sat majestically behind an iron fretwork fence. The matching iron gates were open, revealing a cobblestoned drive that pointed the way to the well-lit house.

The Meadors’s carriage followed the familiar drive and then, at the circular island closer to the house, swept its way in a wide curve, finally ending its journey directly before the house steps. White-coated servants, who had been standing on the porch, raced down the steps with umbrellas to shield the arriving guests from the rain. And just beyond the porch, Peggy and Tripp Drake waited by the door to greet their last guests.

With coats relegated to the maid’s arms and the senator steering Rad away for a private word or two before they joined the other guests, a relieved Peggy Drake gave Allison a perfunctory peck on the cheek. “I’m so glad you’re finally here, Allison.”

Allison looked at her friend of seventeen years. “Are we late, Peggy?”

“Oh, no. You’re right on the dot. But you can’t believe how edgy I’ve been after all that’s happened today. I’m counting on you, Allison, to keep this party tonight from turning into a complete fiasco.”

“I’m sure it will be every bit as enjoyable as the last one you gave, Peggy.”

Her assurance was greeted with a shake of the head. “You wouldn’t say that if you knew who Tripp made me invite at the last minute.”

For a moment, Allison felt a sense of terror. Please don’t let it be Araminta and Coin, she prayed. After so many years, she couldn’t bear to face her former husband in a room filled with Rad’s colleagues. Then she remembered. Coin was out of town.

“Who?”

Peggy looked around her to make sure that no one else was within ear’s reach. “That Maddie creature. You know, the barmaid that Senator Birmbaugh of Nevada married. Tripp said the senator is much too powerful to snub, especially with the session coming up, so I was to invite her. I told him I wasn’t about to speak to that woman, much less ask her to this house. And if he made me, then I just might pack up and go home tomorrow. But no amount of tears on my part could dissuade Tripp. She’s sitting in the parlor with the others right now.”

The distress in Peggy’s eyes prompted Allison’s compassion. “I’ll do whatever I can to help, Peggy.” And she added, “But things could be much worse. At least Frances and the president aren’t here.”

“I guess that’s my