Daughters of the Heart (18 page)

Clay filled his lungs then smiled. Or was it a grimace? Jethro wasn’t quite sure with the boy’s lips so swollen. “You, sir, and Elijah, maybe even Mister Moses Jones some.”

“Me and Moses? You left that beautiful young lady you love to come see us?”

“Yes, sir, and…well…you see… I’m the baby, and my Ma…oh, Lord. Truth is she about smothers me. And Pa…well…him and the brothers lets her. Guess it keeps her off them. Anyways, I figured if I was out here with y’all, you and Elijah –”

“Stop right there.” Jethro held his hands up. “First off, if you plan on getting past Henry Buckmeyer, then you need to always think before you say a word. About anything at any time.”

“Yes, sir. Elijah said you and Wallace Rusk were the only two men alive who’d done just that. And that Captain Rusk backed into it ’cause of Levi Baylor and him rangering together.”

“First of all, never ever underestimate Wallace Rusk, either. But yes, he and I are the only two. So guess our Elijah here’s number three, and he tells me you’re his choice for Gwendolyn.”

“Yes, sir. I hope so, sir. Any way you could help will be boss, sir.”

That exact moment, Gwendolyn sat at her writing desk struggling to find the precise words she needed. An afternoon shower had cooled the house enough to bear being upstairs with the door shut.

If only she and CeCe hadn’t pestered Daddy to go see Clay and Elijah off. But she had, and she’d given him false hope.

But now she had to tell him.

She crumpled the last draft and retrieved another leaf.

That was it. No way around the facts. No two pages of boring news. No nothing but the truth, tell him what’s in her heart.

The quill paused over the inkwell like it refused to be party to the bad news that compelled her to write. She set the feather down, reread Braxton’s latest letter, steeled her hand, and dipped the tip into the poisonous liquid.

August 6th, 1853

Dear Clay,

Hope this letter finds you well and safely arrived in San Francisco. Did you give Mary Rachel my love?

Stop it, put your heart on the paper and be done with Clay Briggs for once and for all.

I’ve come to know something I must share…from my

heart. You see, I love Braxton. As soon as he and I can

convince Daddy that the Good Lord truly fashioned us for

one another, I have agreed to wed him. So we will be

married. Probably before you ever even get back to Texas.

So I wanted to let you know there’s no hurry in returning, and not let you continue thinking I’m here waiting as that would be less than honest and certainly not one bit fair to you. I saw your folks at church on Sunday—except your pa, he stayed home. Not feeling well, your ma said. The rest were all fine.

Your mother acted as though she was upset with me. Most likely because she said you haven’t written her either, and well, guess she thought you’d been writing me every day. Thinking how you supposedly loved me… I don’t know if you professed your love for me to her. I can only assume…but then I also assumed you’d write.

Anyway, after I let her know I haven’t heard a word from you either, she acted sorry for my sake.

Clay, somewhere out there, a girl is waiting on you. She’ll be perfect, but I advise that when you meet her, you do not run off halfway around the world and leave her alone. She’ll be right for you, but that woman is not me. I once thought so, but know now for sure and for certain.

Please don’t hate me, and I’ll always be…

                                         Forever your friend,

                                         Gwendolyn Bell Buckmeyer

She held the single page up, and waved it slightly, pondering, until past time enough to dry. But, instead of folding it and placing it into an envelope, she opened the desk drawer, and laid it on top of the stack.

Had she really shared her heart with him? Did she truly love Braxton? She’d known Clay her whole life.

Writing it made her shaky inside…and sad.

Once she’d been certain he was the one.

Why had he run off to California with Elijah? The turkey buzzard. Gone and left her there alone. And then not bothered to write. How dare he value her so unworthy of his thoughts or time.

She stood and walked to her balcony. If only she knew for sure.

How could she?

Why Lord, did they both have to run off?

The next morning while Gwen and
her sisters helped Mama May boil the laundry, she vacillated over sending the letter to Clay, then in the end, decided it could wait. Wasn’t like Braxton had come back.

Mercy though—as her father was want to say—the man could definitely pen a moving letter, and so many thrilled her.

What a stroke of genius him sending her that poetry book. Once she figured out his true feelings for her encoded within the pages, she loved him even more. But what difference did any distance make?

New Orleans might as well have been as San Francisco; gone was gone. Still, at least he worked on a worthwhile project, while she had no idea of Clay’s goings-on.

Still, not one word from him.

Even raising money during the day for the Sisters of Mercy and spending his evenings helping the Nuns care for the poor orphans and widows, Braxton found the time to write faithfully once a week.

The convent spent their every dime out of compassion for their parishioners so devastated by the fever.

What a good man her beau proved to be, helping them.

Another black mark against Clay. He was off playing in the gold fields like a ten-year-old with Elijah, while Braxton helped those less fortunate. That’s what Daddy would do. Her Louisiana man valued and deserved her hand so much more.

“Come get me, Mister Hightower. I’ll happily work right alongside you.”

“What did you say?”

Gwen looked across the wash pot. “Oh.” She chuckled. “Didn’t mean to say a word out loud. Only thinking about Braxton. How different he is from Clay Briggs.”

Bonnie glanced over her shoulder, then leaned in resting on her stir paddle. “I don’t know, Sister. If it were me, I’d pick Clay for sure and certain. He’s twice the man of that dandy.”

“You can’t say that!”

“Sure can to. Just did.”

“But you don’t know any such thing. You’ve been sweet on Clay forever, and don’t think I haven’t noticed. But he’s nothing but a plow boy. Braxton’s a gentleman.”

“Mama and Daddy don’t think so.” She glanced back again, then leaned in even closer. “Yesterday when we were playing hide and seek, I hid in the hayloft, and they came into the barn just chatting up a storm.”

Her baby sister grinned, like she wasn’t going to tell her what they spoke about, or exactly what they said.

“Go on.” Ooops. Miss Jewel glanced up from where she sat snapping beans into her lap. Had Gwen been too loud?

The little know-it-all looked over her shoulder again then smiled. “They’re concerned about Braxton sending you so many letters and gifts. Him being such a scoundrel and all.”

“Did our stepmother call him that? Or Daddy?”

“Both of them.” The big brat smirked an exaggerated nod then leaned back and made a show of stirring the wash.

She wanted to twist her ear until she took it all back, but… Mama May walked toward her cradling her medium-sized tummy. Why had she gone against Gwendolyn and sided with her pigheaded father?

A mother knows more how it is. But then May had never been a mother before Crockett was born, even though way past old enough.

To hear Henry Buckmeyer tell it, no man would ever be good enough for any of them. If only her stepmother would be a voice of reason. Mother or not, she knew the ways of a woman, and should’ve helped convince Daddy.

But no, instead, she’d swallowed a big dose of his stubbornness.

Wasn’t fair.

Never had a grandmother…then losing her mama right after her tenth birthday.

As the muggy Louisiana summer turned into a steamy fall, Braxton slowed his letter writing and gift giving considerably. But last night, the first semi-cool evening in all of October, his father reminded him over a nice gumbo of being tardy, that the next missive was overdue. Why did he have to keep such an eye on him?

“Yes, Father, I’m working on one.”

“What about another gift? Get her something expensive, a locket perhaps.”

He shrugged then glanced at Sofia, hating the sadness in her eyes, but what could he do? She knew the conditions of her purchase and what his father expected of him. He’d also told her over and again that the Texas gal meant nothing to him.

And explained every detail of the deal he’d agreed to in order to buy her, so she couldn’t complain, except she did.

“Get her something special to make up for not writing.” The old man extracted his wallet from his breast pocket and handed over several bills.

Braxton scooped them up without counting, a small consideration.

Soon his father turned his attention to his week-old New York news, and nodded toward Braxton’s room. He got no joy from deceiving Gwendolyn, but didn’t see a way around another letter. Poor girl wasn’t even born when her father bested his.

If the truth turned out more like the version Claude heard—God rest his sorry hide—that the first fight had been a draw up to the point when General Jackson stopped the bout.

But loudmouth Buckmeyer claimed he’d won based on the rules they fought under. He’d knocked the great Bull Glover down in the last round, so that made him the winner.

Nevermind, he toed the line and answered the bell for the next round.

Again, according to Raines, who actually witnessed their latest encounter, if Levi Baylor hadn’t pulled Buckmeyer off, he would have killed dear old Dad. Wouldn’t have been such a bad thing.

For sure, Braxton would never have gone to Texas and wouldn’t be penning nauseating love letters to a girl he had not one whit of interest in wedding.

Sofia swept into his bedroom, her full skirt swaying with each step. “Here.” She handed over a tumbler half full of single malt Scotch.

The one bright spot of living in his old room, his father’s hooch…and a lesser advantage, the old man’s cook—almost as good as Henry’s. Why couldn’t he have been born a Buckmeyer instead of a Glover?

He took the offering, sipped a taste, then returned to his almost blank piece of paper.

“Missy Gwen pretty?”

“Not tonight, baby. I need to get this written which I cannot do with you on my mind. But yes, she’s a very pretty young woman, just like I’ve told you a thousand times. You, my love, are a thousand times more beautiful.”

She kissed his neck and whispered into his ear. “She’ll hate me.”

“No, she won’t. She’ll love you, just like I do.”

“No, she’ll hate me every time you look my way.” She leaned back and batted her lashes. “And see your son running around, calling me Mam.”

He jumped to his feet. “Oh, Sofia. A baby? Are you sure?”

She smiled. “Maybe, maybe not. You want me to…” She grimaced.

“No, my love. Never. Don’t even think about that.” He wrapped his arms around her and smiled. “A baby.” He held her tight and swayed, singing softly in her ear.

Henry eyed the package sitting atop the stack of mail his friend placed on his desk. The three weeks without a letter from Hightower afforded a measure of false hope, but the scoundrel was at it again. He smiled at Jean Paul. “No papers? My New York Tribune is overdue.”

“No, sir; I asked.”

“Thanks. Anything new or interesting afoot?”

“Mister Briggs has taken sick. Ran into Jake, in town fetching medicine.”

“He say how bad?”

“A cold that turned into a hacking cough. Doc’s been out twice already.”

Henry hated to hear it. “Let’s remember to pray for him.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Anything else?”

“That first cotton draft come in. I took it on to the bank.”

“Good.” He eyed the neatly wrapped box. “If you see Gwen…”

Jean Paul backed up a step. “Yes, sir, she and the other ladies are out back boiling laundry.”

Of course, he knew that. “Leave her be, but see if May can join me.”

His young friend smiled. “Yes, sir.” Then the ex-slave disappeared.

Slowly, Henry unwrapped the package then extracted the jewelry box and letter. He ought to burn them both, but sooner or later, the toady would show up and asked about it, and stool him off. He flipped the box open. A gold locket. He pried the lid up, the man’s tiny image stared back at him.

If only he could change things, go back to that day so many years ago and swallow his pride. Agree the fight had been a draw. But he’d so enjoyed needling Bull. Would they have charged him with murder if Levi had left him alone?

Mercy, the man was trying to kill him. And now, he had sicced Hightower on Gwen. He studied on the locket. Not extravagant, but not cheap either. What had a picture that small cost him?  

“That for me?”

“I wish. Hightower sent it.”

“Oh.” May slipped into the wingback, holding her tummy. “Let me see the letter.”

He handed it over then watched her read it. How was it possible that she had gotten even more beautiful?

She held it up to the window. “Nothing nefarious, that I can tell.” She nodded toward the gift box. “Any notes in there?”

He shrugged then handed that over, too.

“I was hoping he’d had a falling out with Bull.”

She nodded then placed them both back on the desk and sighed. “I was, too.”

“Still think we should not tell her what we know?”

She snickered then shook her head. “Ever wonder why it was Eve and not Adam who took the first bite?”

“Word says she was deceived, but he knew what he was doing. That what you’re talking about?”

“It says that? Where?”

“One of Paul’s epistles, but what does that have to do with telling her?”

“I’d like to know exactly where that is, but it just makes my point all the more. Forbidden fruit, especially of the male variety, is hard to resist, but if our letter to Mary Rachel puts the bug in Clay’s ear that he best write….”

He mulled over his wife’s word. Made sense, but so did killing the young man next time he showed his lying face. Only took one no vote to hang a jury. “You’re right. If we tell her she can’t write him or receive his letters, the fop will only seem more attractive.”

“Exactly.”

“Oh, speaking of Clay, Jean Paul said old man Briggs is bad sick, a cold turned into a hacking cough.”