These two men were less than one and trusting them to care for an injured man worried her. “Listen to me. Those girls need to get home.” She looked outside at the approaching night. “Now.” She walked around to their side of the bed. She figured direct eye contact would help. “So, please take them to the central market in Plainville where their folks are waiting. Then get the doctor and the sheriff. Bring them here. I’ll stay with Mr. Coffman.”
They nodded and started out. “By the way, where is the brother? I heard he has a brother.”
“He lives at the lake, ma’am, but by the time we get your errands done, it’ll be too late to get to the lake and back.”
“My errands?” She toned down her temper. Curiosity took over. “What lake? Oh never mind, just get moving.” She soon heard the team pulling her choir girls home, but their usual singing and giggles had ceased. She didn’t blame them. Their new driver required two heads.
Wondering when Molesley and Herman would return with help, Dianna started exploring the small four room house for supplies. She was pleased with the apparent cleanliness and the lack of clutter, but not the lack of medical needs.
Her patient hadn’t responded or moved, even when she wrapped his ribs with her own torn petticoat. She wanted to get some warm soup, or at least water into him. She had cleaned his bruises and cuts and wiped his lips with a clean rag soaked in cool water. She lit candles and took note of the home decorations, as limited as they were. Either Mr. Coffman was married with children or the Jacksons left in a hurry. The mixed pictures were not uncommon, just not helpful.
The shouts from outside froze her progress. “Coffman, get out here. We’re not done.” The laughter of at least a half dozen men urged Dianna toward the gun rack. She knew nothing about guns. She didn’t like guns. Her parents wanted her to carry one when she insisted on chaperoning the choirs.
“Why would I need a gun in church?”
Her father’s sarcasm and quick wit often sent his message loud and clear. “A woman responsible for a black female choir traveling in the swamps of North Carolina? Well now, you’ll probably be arrested for being stupid.”
She grabbed what looked like the most dangerous of the collection. An outside warning shot dashed her decision about whether her choice of weapon would be loaded or not. It was too late.