A Patchwork Family Page 8

  Tucker looked more closely at the photograph. “She’s very pretty, your mama. You and your brother must miss her, even after the way she’s behaved, non? So I want you to have this.”

  He eased the frame into her hands, closing his fingers around hers.

  Her eyes went wet, and despite the rage Richard Wyndham’s oil slick of a smile inspired, she hugged the picture to her chest. “I don’t know what to . . . Thank you,” she murmured. “Thank you so much for understanding.”

  “We’ll hope it’s not the last time you see her, Christine. Although she’ll be showing up in your own mirror as the years go by.”

  He leaned toward her, his gaze more speculative. “I’d help you more, but the only thing Wyndham really mentioned was land speculation. ‘Invest in the Kansas Pacific Railroad,’ he told me. Like he was letting me in on a big secret.”

  “May I have your address? And I’ll give you mine—in case you hear something about them?” she gushed. It meant he’d have to send any letters in care of Judd Monroe, but it was a way to stay in touch with this fascinating man.

  “My paper and pencils are at the studio. We should get you a bed ready—”

  “I—I have a room,” she reminded him, flashing her best grown-up smile. “It’s close to the depot—so I can catch the first train bound for Denver. And I’d hate to trouble your mother, Mr. Trudeau. If we could stop by your studio on the way to the hotel . . .”

  Tucker’s grin made him look boyish, yet aware of her wiles. And she liked it.

  “That’s best, perhaps, oui?” he agreed. “Maman is a fitful sleeper. Tends to wander the house at night. Especially if the spirits are restless.”

  Spirits? As Tucker turned to address his mother in that breakneck French, Christine felt an immense relief. The sooner she left this dreary little shack and its odious aromas—and those ghosts—the better! Mrs. Trudeau’s knowing, animal-like eyes would no doubt glow in the dark all night, watching her. Such bad dreams might haunt her forever, and she already had enough on her mind. She said her polite good-byes and wasted no time in walking out the front door toward civilization again. Toward Mama, she hoped.

  The moon shone like a beacon in the clear night sky, and a warm breeze stirred her skirts as they walked. Tucker strode beside her, shortening his strides to match hers as he carried her carpetbag and the photograph. It felt exhilarating, having such a nice man walking close enough that his boots occasionally brushed the hem of her skirt—even though he was far too old to be seen in a romantic light. Far too old.

  But then, Papa had been several years older than Mama. And Judd looked at least five years older than Mercy. Most men established themselves in some line of work before they went after a woman, and from the looks of Tucker Trudeau’s photography shop, he was well on his way to being a prosperous businessman here in Atchison. After all, what family didn’t want to have its portrait made on important occasions?

  And as she paused at the plate-glass window while he unlocked the front door, she was also aware—even in the dusk—of the skill required to capture the grandeur of those Western landscapes . . . the silent, somber dignity of soldiers come home from the war . . . the unabashed glee of those twins with their mastiff.

  She followed him through the unlit waiting room, watching his quick, efficient movements as he lit the lantern and wrote out his name and address. His boldly looped penmanship showed a flair for the artistic, too. And when he handed her paper and pencil, Christine forgot why. She was lost in his smile.

  Had he really let his fingertips linger on hers just now? Or was her imagination running away, like Mama’s had, at the first sign of interest from a handsome stranger?

  She quickly wrote her name, followed by Judd Monroe’s, in Abilene, Kansas. “This is where we’re staying for now, watching for Mama on westbound coaches,” she explained. “How much do I owe you for this picture? I can’t believe Wyndham cheated you—”

  “Not a thing. The pleasure, is mine, Miss Christine. I’ll pray your search is successful.”

  This time there was no question—he squeezed her hand! And as he escorted her toward the hotel, she couldn’t hide her smile in the fineness of the summer night. It was a moment—a triumph!—she would remember forever.

  “Thank you so very much for your help, Mr. Trudeau,” she said as they reached the steps of the hotel. “I’ll be forever indebted—”

  The brush of his lips across her knuckles sent her heart skittering up into her throat.

  “A great pleasure it’s been, Miss Bristol,” he said, gazing at her with azure eyes that twinkled like stars. “I so much admire your efforts, and I hope you find your mother soon. Maman, she can be difficult, but I can’t imagine my life without her. Au revoir, Christine.”

  Until I see you again.

  She nearly stumbled up the stairs, and then turned to watch him go, waving when Tucker looked back at her from up the street.

  So excited she couldn’t count—didn’t care what it cost—Christine laid out some money for the man at the hotel’s front desk. Her simple room felt like Heaven after so many days and nights on the road: she had clean sheets, painted walls that didn’t move, and the privacy to review her amazing afternoon—when she wasn’t gazing at that photograph.

  “I’ve got you now, Mama,” she whispered to it.

  Christine fell into a deep sleep on a feather mattress that wrapped around her like her mother’s arms once had. Visions of a male face framed in a close-cropped sable beard played in her mind, and she awoke smiling.

  In the morning, she felt refreshed and had a new sense of purpose: she would head west as far as the Kansas Pacific would take her, and then use the stagecoach ticket in her carpetbag to get to Denver. When the coach stopped at the Monroes’ way station, she wouldn’t go into the house. The sooner she followed Mama’s trail, the better chance she had of finding her and that scalawag who’d suckered her into some nefarious scheme.

  She poured water from the pretty pitcher into its bowl, washed, and then smoothed her hair back into a crumpled lace cap. Her dress from the O’Tooles’ was dusty, but so what? She would never see these people again. And she’d certainly have better dresses along the next time she met Tucker Trudeau!

  Head held high, she thanked the man at the counter for a lovely night’s stay and sashayed to the train station. What a difference a day made! How fine it felt to have someone believe in her purpose, rather than trying to talk her out of it.

  “And how may I help you, young lady?” the railway agent behind the ticket window asked.

  She smiled up at him as she dug out her money. “I’ll be traveling west to Denver, and I’d like a ticket on the next westbound—”

  A hand clapped heavily upon her shoulder.

  “No, Miss Bristol, I believe you’ll be traveling with me instead.”

  Chapter Eight

  “Somebody’s a-comin’ down the road!”

  Elbow-deep in dishwater after the stagecoach’s departure, Billy lit up at the hopeful tone in Nathaniel’s announcement. It was an occasion when someone came along, and even though nearly two weeks had passed since his sister had disappeared, he looked for her to return at any moment. He simply couldn’t believe Christine had fallen into the wrong hands. She was too feisty for that.

  “Why don’t you see who it is?” Mercy wiped sweat from her brow on this especially hot August day, and then brought another stack of plates to the sink. “Might be somebody needing Judd’s help. Considering what that new stage driver said about those Cheyenne raids, we might need to prepare ourselves.”

  With dripping hands, Billy ran out the back door, past the pecking chickens, to where Nathaniel and Judd were cutting new sections of corral fence. Sure enough, a distant dust cloud in the east foretold a visitor. Somebody in a wagon, rather than a coach as big as the Holladay stage that had pulled out minutes ago.

  His feet took off without his head telling them to. Out here on the plains, with only the growing corn crop to w
hisper secrets to him, an approaching wagon was too exciting a thing to let go by—even if he only stood by the road to wave as it clattered past. Shielding his eyes from the midday sun, Billy could make out a slender fellow driving—effortlessly, considering how dang fast that pair of Morgans was coming at him. It was an open buckboard wagon like most families hereabouts owned, and—

  His heartbeat raced like the horses’ hooves. That figure beside the driver had rust-colored hair waving wildly in the wind, and looked no bigger than a minute sitting there beside—

  “It’s Mike Malloy!” he hollered over his shoulder. His bare feet slapped against the hard-packed road, while his mind raced with possibilities. Maybe his prayers were about to be answered!

  A loud creeeak of the brakes rang around him. The wagon kicked up a whirlwind of dust as it slowed to approach the farmyard. Billy cried out before he even knew what he was saying.

  “Christine! Christine—is it really you?”

  With a leap and a whoop, Billy vaulted up over the wheel and onto the bench seat before the buckboard came to a full stop. Lordy, but he couldn’t hug her hard enough—couldn’t dare to believe that she’d really—

  “No, silly, I’m your sister’s ghost. Now let me down from here before I die from all this dust.”

  For just a moment, she let down her guard and hugged him back. The embrace told him she’d missed some meals—and maybe missed him. And for just a moment, he buried his head against her neck and allowed himself a single sigh of relief.

  Then, of course, she became the Christine whose peevishness put him in his place again. He eased away, blinking to see her more clearly.

  She widened her eyes—as though he should know what came next.

  “Well, are you going to just sit here?” she asked archly. “I see you had cherry pie for dinner and got it all over your shirt, like always. My bag’s in the back—”

  “I missed you, too, Miss Priss,” Billy countered, sticking out his tongue.

  He then turned to the driver with a huge grin. “I knew you’d find her, Mr. Malloy. Yep, she weren’t near as smart as she figgered, and I’m dang glad of it!”

  Mike clapped him on the back, happy to see someone who appreciated his efforts. “We’ve got lots to talk about, but it all turned out for the best, Billy. And how’s everybody here on the Monroe spread? Good to see you folks.”

  Judd and Nathaniel had dropped their saws to hurry over. Asa had left the pail of scraps he was taking to the pigs, and Mercy was trotting out of the house, drying her hands on a flour sack. Her tied-back hair came loose in the hot wind, and her red calico dress blew tight against her slender frame as she hurried toward them. But it was the expression on her face that Billy knew he’d never forget.

  “Christine Bristol!” she hollered, half an accusation and half a greeting that resounded with her relief. “If you knew how worried we’ve . . . how hard and often we’ve prayed you’d be . . .”

  She stopped beside the buckboard, struggling to catch her breath, wiping her tear-streaked cheek with the flour sack. “Next time you plan to run off, young lady, I’ll help you pack, understand me?” she demanded. “That way you won’t have to steal the napkins my grandma embroidered for my—”

  “What she’s saying,” Judd interrupted in a low, purposeful voice, “is that we’ve been worried sick about you. If that means nothing to you—if you don’t care that you tore your brother’s heart out—well, you can just keep on riding, Miss Bristol. You’ve got a ticket to Denver, as I recall. The stagecoach is only a couple miles out. Mike’ll have no trouble catching up—or I’ll drive you myself.”

  Only the next gust of wind interrupted the tight silence.

  Billy’s heart ached with the finality of Judd Monroe’s edict. But he understood it. This whole family had spent sleepless nights since his sister had run off, and they had no time or energy to spare for such foolishness.

  At least Christine had sense enough not to sass back. Her green eyes widened in a pale face caked with dust. She shuddered once, before finding that core of control and incorrigible pigheadedness that always determined her next move.

  “I found what I was looking for,” she replied with a lift of her chin. “And though I intended to travel to Denver in search of my mother—until Mr. Malloy here changed my plans—I now realize what a waste of time that might be. I—I had no idea anyone would be upset by my absence. I’m sorry if I caused any inconvenience.”

  Another painful silence had Billy holding his breath, searching the earnest faces around them. A deaf man could have heard the self-righteous edge in Christine’s sorry attempt at an apology, as if she thought nobody here wanted her in the first place. Girls were too proud that way. His sister became as standoffish as a cat when folks told her what to do.

  Luckily the Monroes saw through her. While Judd helped Christine to the ground, Nathaniel reached behind the seat for her carpetbag. Billy exhaled, aware of the sweat trickling down his spine.

  With a grateful smile, Billy turned to Mike. “Just so happens we’ve got us a cherry pie, and some fried-up prairie chicken and biscuits,” he chirped. “Betcha could use some lemonade to wash that down. I’ll go set your plates out.”

  Malloy’s bronzed face creased in a grin. “Best offer I’ve had in days, Mr. Bristol.”

  Billy sprang from the wagon, and with a parting swat at his sister’s backside, he sprinted toward the house. His feet felt light, like he was bouncing on clouds. She was back! She didn’t much like it, but just maybe she’d learned her lesson. And she said she’d found what she went after—whatever that meant. What if she’d seen Mama? And caught up to that trickster, Richard Wyndham?

  He hung on Christine’s every revelation at the table, between her bites of chicken and gravy-laden biscuits she would have turned up her dainty nose at before.

  “—and after I got off the train in Atchison, I got myself a room at the hotel—”

  “Money comes in handy, doesn’t it?” Mercy murmured, glancing across the table at Judd.

  “—and lo and behold, as I strolled down the sidewalk I came to a photographer’s shop,” Christine continued, her eyes lighting up like green fires. “And there, for God and everybody to see, was a picture of Mama. Right there in the front window! So of course I went in—”

  “Lemme see it.”

  Billy had half a mind to tell her this whole made-up story was wearing him thin. She hadn’t said a thing about how she’d found her way to Atchison, except to hint that it was all a part of her plan for tracking down their mother. She wasn’t that good at getting around.

  Christine glared at him, looking tired and then peeved. As if he’d forced her into a corner she hadn’t figured on getting trapped in. And when she realized that Mercy, Judd, and even Mike now expected her to back up her tale with this evidence, she licked the thin line of her lips.

  “Like I was saying,” she went on, her voice a notch higher, “the photographer—his name was Tucker Trudeau, and he spoke with some sort of a Frenchie accent, and he had black hair and a beard that hugged—”

  “Lemme see it!” Billy grabbed her elbow, forcing his sister to look at him. “She’s my mama, too, dang it! You’re just stringin’ us all along, with your mucketymuck about this Tucker fella!”

  Her eyes narrowed in that superior, feline way he knew so well. She jerked her arm free. “Patience is a virtue, William,” she cooed, “and I can see you’re still lacking in it.”

  The heat in the room increased with the silence. Expectant gazes awaited whatever she’d found. Christine looked like a cornered animal for a moment, and then slowly rose to fetch her carpetbag.

  “I can see no one believes me,” she muttered, yanking it open. “You all think I’m too stupid to find my way across this godforsaken prairie, just because I’m a girl. Well, here! See for yourself what I found!”

  She brought out a framed picture, thrusting it at whoever wanted it first,

  Billy sprang up from the bench seat to g
rab the other end of it. And when he caught a glimpse of that smiling woman with her arms around a very dapper, satisfied-looking man, he wished he hadn’t.

  “Mama,” he murmured. It was all he could do not to bawl in front of everybody.

  Then he challenged his sister with a glare. “You sure this is the same fella Mama talked about in her diary? The one who—”

  “You saw him, too! Stop making it look like this is all my fault!”

  She let go, and he’d been pulling just enough that the frame flew backwards out of his hand. It hit the floor with a sickening tinkle of glass.

  Christine looked so hateful, he thought she’d slap him into Kingdom Come. But before she could accuse him of being ignorant and stupid and clumsy, Mike Malloy rose from the end of the bench to pick up the picture.

  The man who’d fetched Christine straightened to his full height as he studied the likeness. The lines of his face grew tight, and Billy thought this man—who could deftly handle six horses at a full gallop across the rutted stage trail—might just crumple up, as sad as he looked.

  He gently handed the picture to Billy, but his words were for Christine. “Honey, I know you’ve gone to a lot of trouble to find your ma,” he said softly. “Heading to Denver from Atchison—and I bet you’d’ve made it, too.

  “But you’re better off to just leave it be,” he went on with a sigh. “A man like Wyndham can make himself as invisible as the wind, and your mother’s chosen to go with him. Probably best to remember her as the dear, sweet woman you loved before all that trouble found your family. I’m thinking that gang of Border Ruffians stole her soul as sure as they took your daddy’s life and your other brother.”

  Christine’s eyes got as wide as her plate, and looked just as empty. Then she blinked, defiance shining in her unshed tears. “We’ll see about that, Mr. Malloy,” she replied tartly. “I thank you for your concern and for the ride back.”

  “It’ll be the last one,” Mike countered just as sharply. “Mr. Holladay was good enough to give me time off to go after you when we got Reverend Larsen’s note about how you abandoned his horse. You grew up in a privileged home, Miss Bristol, and I’m sorry you lost all that. But folks in these parts have problems just as worrisome as yours. You’ll be wise to remember that, if you get the itch to take off again.”