Margaret Brownley (23 page)

“You mean the church.” Monica shook her head. “What are we going to do?”

Lucy squeezed Monica’s hand. “Like I said, it wasn’t your fault. I take full responsibility and I’ll find a way to pay for the building of a new church. Caleb should never have told you where to find me.”

“Don’t blame him. I made him tell me,” Monica said.

“But why?”

“I was worried about you. I knew you were up to something. I was afraid you were in trouble again. It never occurred to me that you would be with a
man
.”

“Shh.” Lucy lowered her voice to almost a whisper. “I wasn’t with a man. At least not the way you think. He was injured and in no condition to travel. I hid him in the church so I could take care of him. That’s the end of it.”

Monica folded her arms across her chest. “I know what I saw.”

“Wolf saved me from those stagecoach robbers. We’ve been through a lot together, but it can’t be more than that.”

Monica lowered her arms and leaned forward. “A woman doesn’t kiss a man unless she has feelings for him. I don’t blame you, I don’t. He is
very
handsome, but the fact that he’s Indian—”

“Part Indian,” Lucy said, trying not to let her irritation show. “And what difference does that make?”

“Oh, Lucy. Your father would never allow you to get involved with a half-breed.”

“I told you there’s nothing between us.” Startled by the memory of his arms around her, she impatiently pulled her drifting thoughts back to the present. “He’s a man with too many secrets.”

Monica lay back and studied Lucy. Apparently satisfied for the moment, she nodded. “I know how you hate secretive people. That’s why I didn’t understand why you were acting so secretive yourself.”

“I’m sorry, Monica. I should have confided in you.”

“Where is he now, this mysterious man of yours?”

“I . . . I don’t know,” Lucy said, her voice breaking. “Remember, you promised not to say a word about this to anyone.”

Monica’s hand dropped to her lap. “I won’t.” She tilted her head to the side. “Are you sure that’s the end of it?”

“He’s gone,” Lucy said. The only thing she could think about now was finding employment. Perhaps she should query
The Washington Post
. Surprised to find her hands shaking, she hid them in the folds of her skirt. She was greatly relieved when Doc Myers walked into the room carrying a tray.

It was dark by the time Lucy started home in her wagon. The night was beautiful and clear. The stars were bright and the moon cast a silvery glow upon the narrow dirt road.

Halfway to town, she spotted a man on horseback on the road ahead. Man and horse couldn’t have been more than forty or fifty feet away. They stood so still that at first she thought it was the shadows playing tricks on her. Alarmed, Lucy tugged on the reins easing her wagon to a stop.
Please, God, don’t let that be an outlaw out to do me harm
.

Her mouth dry, she stared. Something—

“David!” No sooner had she called his name than he took off.

Heart pounding, she listened, but all she could hear was the galloping sound of hooves fading in the distance.

It was David she saw, no question. Not only did he have a black horse, he sat forward, legs long, as only a man riding bareback would do.

The question was, why hadn’t he answered when she called to him?

And why was he in such a hurry?

She continued on her way. Apparently, when he’d said good-bye, he’d meant it in every sense of the word. It was for the best, it was; she knew it was. So why did she feel so utterly miserable?

Her father was asleep in his chair when she arrived home, an open Bible on his lap. The Bible surprised her. It wasn’t like Papa to read scripture outside of church. Had the fire really caused him that much distress?

Weighed down by guilt, she gently lifted the Good Book off his lap. He woke with a start and rubbed his eyes. “How’s Monica?”

After setting the Bible on the table, Lucy pulled off her shawl and hung it on a peg next to the door. “She’s doing very well,” she replied.

“Why are all these blasted windows open?” He rose and crossed to the nearest window.

“Caleb says fresh air prevents consumption.”

Her father slammed down a sash, and she sensed more than open windows were responsible for his bad mood. “So are we to die of pneumonia instead?” He spun around to face her. “What were you doing at the church so late at night? Tell me that!”

She suddenly felt tired. Exhausted.

“I was . . . helping a friend,” she said, praying she wouldn’t be required to reveal the friend’s name. The one thing she could not do was lie to her father.

“Some help. You almost got her killed.” He obviously thought Monica was the friend she referred to and she made no effort to correct his impression. He shook his head. “The church. Of all the buildings to destroy.”

“It was an accident, Papa. I’ll get the money to build a new one. I will!”

He scoffed. After a moment of silence he said, “Richard Crankshaw came to see me today.” He watched her closely. “He asked for your hand in marriage.”

Surprised, but no less grateful for the sudden change of topic no matter how distasteful, it took her awhile to respond. “We’ve talked about this, Papa. You know how I feel about him.”

“Things have changed,” he said, his voice thin with anger.

“What things? Certainly not my feelings!”

“You have to make things right—you owe the people of this town. Crankshaw has offered to build a new church in exchange for your hand.”

Her jaw dropped. “He wants to
buy
me?”

“That’s not his intention. It wouldn’t hurt you to show a little gratitude, young lady. Right now, he may be the only friend you have.”

“Maybe so, but that doesn’t mean I have to marry him.”

Her father heaved a sigh and his shoulders slumped. “Lucy, think about it. That’s all I ask. He’s a good man.”

His pleading tone melted away her anger but not her dislike for Crankshaw. “If he were that good, he would offer to rebuild the church without demanding anything in return.”

Her father turned to close another window. He lingered for a while, his back toward her, before turning. “I have some money put away. Not much, but it’s a start. And . . . if we had to . . . we could probably sell one of your mother’s paintings.”

Lucy’s mouth dropped open. Never did she think he would part with anything of her mother’s, let alone a painting.

“No, Papa. It’s my fault the church burned down and I’ll find the money to rebuild it. We’re not selling Mother’s work. Nor will I marry a man I don’t love.”

“Love is not the only consideration in a marriage,” he said, his voice surprisingly gentle.

“When I was twelve, I asked you if you would get married again and you told me you could never marry except out of love. Why am I not allowed the same consideration?”

“It’s different with you. You’re a woman. You need a man to take care of you. Never more so than you do today. There was no reason for me to marry again.”

Years of resentment welled up inside. “Yes, there was! I was a child,” she said angrily. “I needed a mother! Caleb needed a mother! That was reason enough.” A tearful sob escaped her. “More than that, we needed a father.”

She bit down on her tongue, but it was too late to take back her hurtful words. The mask of indifference left her father’s face and he looked stricken.

She started toward him. “I’m sorry—”

He held up his hand. “I don’t deserve to be your father,” he said. “I never did.”

Puzzled by his cryptic words, she didn’t know what to say. Not deserving? How could that be? No matter his failure as a father, she never questioned that he was a good man, a kind man. A God-fearing Christian. One who went out of his way to take care of his customers. Never once had he raised an angry hand to her or Caleb, though God knows they’d tried his patience—or at least she had.

By the time she found her voice, he’d already left the house. She closed her eyes and her heart ached. She knew from past experience that he would spend the night riding through the countryside, searching for the woman who was lost to him forever.

Eighteen

Pet owners beware: If you must subject Fido or even your horse to
the camera’s eye, resist the urge to be photographed together. You
will only subject yourself to an unfavorable comparison.

– M
ISS
G
ERTRUDE
H
ASSLEBRINK, 1878

L
ong after he spotted Lucy, Wolf rode Shadow hard through a meadow with nothing but the light of the moon leading the way. He reached the edge of the woods, and the trees closed in around him. Shadow’s mane coarse and wiry in his hands, he hunched down to avoid low-growing branches.

It felt good to ride again, the wind in his hair, his body in tune to the rhythm of his horse. He had tried using a saddle—the white man’s way—but it felt awkward and unnatural. Getting a saddled horse to do what he wanted required broad movements, and he much preferred subtlety. It was easier to communicate with the animal when riding bareback—a slight shift, a flex of a muscle. All he had to do was turn his head in the direction he wanted to go and the horse complied.

His leg began to throb. As if sensing his growing discomfort, Shadow slowed to a smooth gaited walk. Not a good thing, for it allowed Wolf’s mind to wander back to Lucy and the memory of her sweet lips.

He imagined he could still hear her calling to him. He ran away from her not because he wanted to, but because he had to. He had nothing to give her except misery. If marrying a half-breed wouldn’t cause her trouble enough, he couldn’t even give her his name, only Wolf. He had no knowledge of who he was or how he came to end up on those mission steps.

Now, leaving the woods behind, he rode across a moonlit meadow, scaring off a family of deer. His leg was no longer infected, but it tired easily and still ached. Only when the aching became unbearable did Wolf signal Shadow to stop.

The rushing sound of water told him he was close to the Rocky Creek River. He imagined hearing a young boy cry, the past clawing at him like a pack of angry wolves. But then the strangest thing happened. He thought he heard Lucy’s voice—her laughter—and the troublesome sounds of the past faded away.

“Lucy, wake up.”

Caleb’s insistent voice chipping away at her consciousness, Lucy moaned and rolled over. “Go away,” she muttered into her pillow.

He shook her hard. “Wake up. It’s time to get those two hundred and six bones of yours on the move.”

She groaned. The thought of moving that many bones so early in the morning was more than she cared to contemplate. “This better be important.”

She opened her eyes a slit and cried out. A furry object sat on the bed staring at her.

Suddenly wide awake, she sat up. It took a moment, but she finally recognized the ginger animal. “Extra?” There could be no mistaking the cat belonging to Barnes. It even smelled like printer’s ink.

She glanced at her brother. “What is he doing here?”

“That’s what I want to tell you,” he said, his voice tinged with excitement. “Your old boss has disappeared.”