A Journey of the Heart Collection

by Colleen Coble

  Emmie rubbed her eyes. “I’m sorry for the mess. The funeral and all—” She broke off on a choked sob.

  Her visitor nodded as she settled the little boy on her lap and removed her gloves.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.” Emmie’s gaze was caught by the pity in the woman’s eyes. She caught a whiff of a faint lilac sachet as the woman pleated the folds of her dress nervously. She used to wear the scent herself, but Monroe didn’t like it, so she’d switched to lily of the valley.

  The young woman took a deep breath. “This is going to come as quite a shock to you, and I’m truly sorry for that. I’m Mrs. Monroe Courtney. Catherine Courtney. Monroe was my childhood sweetheart. We were married three years ago in Cleveland.”

  Mrs. Monroe Courtney. The words had no meaning to her. How odd that they were married to someone with the same name. Then the pity in the woman’s gaze penetrated her stupor. Surely the woman didn’t mean she was Monroe’s wife? Beginning to tremble with an awful premonition, she stared at the woman.

  At Emmie’s silence, the woman tipped up her chin. “Surely you wondered why he never brought you to meet his family? He didn’t dare reveal he was a bigamist.”

  Bigamy. There had to be some mistake. Emmie wetted her lips. “He said they were all dead. That they died in a train accident when he was seventeen.” Emmie’s lips barely moved as she spoke in a whisper.

  Catherine’s mouth tightened, and a flush stained her pale cheeks. “He has four brothers and three sisters. His mother and father are both in excellent health. They’ve been very hurt by his silence.” She opened her reticule and drew out two pictures. “Here’s a family portrait of Monroe with his father and the rest of the family. It was taken just before he disappeared. This one was taken after our marriage.”

  Emmie took the first picture and stared down into Monroe’s familiar laughing eyes. An older man with a curling handlebar mustache sat in the middle of a group of young adults. There was a marked resemblance between Monroe and the other people in the photograph. They all had the strong jawline that made her husband so attractive, the same large, expressive eyes. The second showed Monroe with his arm around this woman, and she smiled up at him.

  Something squeezed in her chest, and she handed back the photographs. “If you were married to him, why were you living apart?”

  Catherine drew a deep breath and adjusted her little one on her lap a bit. “We had an argument. It was silly—over nothing, really. But he’d been acting restless and short-tempered for several weeks. He took off, and I never heard from him again. I saw his obituary in The Plain Dealer just this week. He didn’t even know about Richard here.” She indicated the little boy, who had his thumb corked in his mouth.

  “Monroe was never very good at responsibility. Even as a child he enjoyed pretending to be someone he wasn’t. There were spells when he’d take off, but he always returned in a few weeks. This was the longest he’d ever been gone. I heard he passed himself off as a lawyer here too. The truth is, he only got about halfway through law school before he grew bored and quit.”

  Emmie gripped her hands together. Monroe already married? Where did that leave her? She couldn’t seem to take in the horror of her situation. Bigamy. The very word brought a wave of shame and nausea. Monroe had always seemed mysterious. That had been part of his magnetism. And it was true he was easily bored. But his eagerness for new adventures was part of his charm.

  “You still have not shown me any proof of this marriage.”

  “I have an affidavit from his father and my marriage lines, of course. I will present them to Monroe’s lawyer tomorrow. I can show them to you if you insist.” She leaned down and pulled the documents from her purse. Keeping a hand on them, she showed them to Emmie.

  Emmie read over the affidavit. There seemed little doubt the woman’s claim was true. “What do you want from me?”

  Catherine looked her over. “I wouldn’t have come if it wasn’t for my son. But my family is poor, and Monroe’s father has been supporting Richard and me. But he’s struggling too. I heard that Monroe had amassed a small holding here. It’s only Richard’s due that he inherits his father’s possessions. You’re young, and you don’t have a baby to worry about. You can always go home to your family.”

  Emmie wanted to burst into tears and wail aloud, but she held her head up. There was pity in the woman’s face. Emmie was sure Catherine thought she was a fool for believing Monroe’s lies.

  But who could have suspected Monroe capable of something so heinous?

  Catherine shifted little Richard to her shoulder, then stood. “I’ll leave you to consider all I’ve told you. If you need to contact me, I’ll be at the Blue Goose Inn.” She gazed down at Emmie’s face. “I’m truly sorry.”

  Blood thundering in her ears, Emmie watched Catherine leave with a last pitying look. That’s whom the child looked like. He was a younger version of Monroe right down to the pouting upper lip. She sat rigidly in the chair with her hands clenched. What was she going to do now?

  TWO

  As Emmie sat in the overstuffed chair in the law office of Taylor and Eddingfield, she felt as though she couldn’t handle any more shocks. Catherine had left her documents with James Eddingfield, Monroe’s employer, to check.

  At his desk, Mr. Eddingfield looked through his wire-rimmed glasses and pursed his thin lips as he studied the documents. “These seem to all be in order. If I could discount her claims, I would. I sent a telegraph to Mr. Courtney yesterday, as well as to his banker for verification of her identity. I received an answer this morning. The woman is Monroe’s real wife.”

  “Do I have any rights at all?” Emmie asked.

  “I’m afraid not. Only what you brought into the so-called marriage. Your personal belongings and any dowry.”

  “I didn’t have a dowry yet. The house Ben promised us as my dowry is still tied up until his debts are paid. I don’t have any money until then.” Ben had fled town after a scandal involving Sarah Montgomery and Rand Campbell. When the townspeople found out about his deceit, all his debts had been called in. Rather than face what he’d done, he had taken off out West.

  James laid down the documents. “Unfortunately, the law is all on Mrs. Courtney’s side. And she does have Monroe’s child to consider.” He rose from behind his gleaming desk and came around to stand in front of her. “I’m sorry, Miss Croftner.”

  Miss Croftner. With those words, the impact hit her and she shuddered.

  Mr. Eddingfield reached down and took her hand. “Is there no one who would take you in? Your brothers, perhaps?”

  She didn’t like the feel of his moist hand or the way he was looking at her, and she tried to discreetly pull her hand away. “No one. I don’t even know where Ben and Labe are.”

  James squeezed her hand tighter, then lifted it to his lips. “I’ve always admired you, my dear Emmie. And, uh, tendered a certain regard for you. I would consider it an honor if you’d let me take care of you. There’s a lovely little house on Sherman Street I own. Secluded and private. I could visit you there and see to all your needs.”

  The meaning of his words eluded Emmie for a few moments, but the greedy look in his eyes didn’t. She gasped when she realized at last what he meant. She yanked her hand out of his grasp and rose shakily. “Mr. Eddingfield, please! I thought you were Monroe’s friend—and mine!”

  “What I offer is the best you can hope for once everyone knows you lived with Monroe without benefit of marriage.”

  Was there something about her looks that made men think she was a loose woman? She’d always wondered if she was truly a Croftner. Her raven-black hair and violet eyes were so very different from her brothers’ fair hair and pale
blue eyes.

  Her face burned, and she wanted nothing more than to take a bath. “I did nothing wrong, Mr. Eddingfield. The fault does not lie with me.”

  His eyes narrowed to slits. “Perhaps. Who can say for sure what you really believed? At least that’s what people will say. My heart goes out to you, my dear. I want only to help. I offer you a respite. If you can find it in your heart to receive my goodwill, I think we’ll both be the happier for it.”

  She gathered up her belongings, bile rising in her throat, and stumbled toward the door. She had to get out of here. “Recently I’ve learned that the heart is a poor discerner of a prudent path. I must reject your offer, Mr. Eddingfield. Please, let’s no longer speak of something so shameful.”

  “You’ll come crawling back when you see no one in polite society will accept you,” he shouted as she closed the door behind her.

  A half hour later, drained and disheartened, she let herself inside the cool, dark house she’d called home for three months. Mrs. Hatters must have been here while she was gone—she could smell the faint scent of lemon and wax, and the house shone as it always did after her housekeeper’s ministrations. It would probably be the last time Mrs. Hatters deigned to work for her once the town knew about her shame. Not that she could afford her now, of course.

  Her steps echoed on the oak floor as she took off her bonnet and walked wearily to the parlor. The house seemed so empty and desolate. Was it just a week ago that it rang with voices and laughter at the elegant dinner party they’d had?

  She looked around at her home. She’d brought so few personal belongings. According to Mr. Eddingfield, she wouldn’t even be allowed to take enough to set up housekeeping elsewhere. Just her mother’s cedar chest packed with a few linens, her own clothing, and a chipped Chippendale tea set that had belonged to her grandmother.

  What was she to do? Where could she go? Could she find employment here in Wabash somewhere? But she had no skills, no special training. And what if Eddingfield was right and she was shunned by polite society, by the very people she’d thought were her friends? She buried her face in her hands and gave in to the tears she’d managed to keep at bay for the past two days. She’d tried to be strong, stronger than she felt. But fate seemed determined to keep her down in the mire. She was just the daughter of the town drunk, after all.

  After a few minutes she raised her head and wiped her cheeks. There had to be an answer to her dilemma somewhere out there, but where? She bolted upright as a sudden thought took hold. What about Sarah Montgomery? She’d run into Sarah’s mother-in-law, Margaret, at Beitman and Wolf’s dry goods counter last week. Margaret had said Sarah was pining for some female companionship, and Margaret wished she knew of some young woman to send out to keep Sarah company.

  Would Sarah welcome the sister of her ex-fiancé? She had always treated Emmie like an older sister and acted as though she genuinely cared about her. She’d even sent a congratulatory letter when she’d heard of her marriage to Monroe.

  Emmie rose and went to fetch her bonnet. At least there was hope.

  THREE

  SEPTEMBER 1866, NEAR FORT LARAMIE, WYOMING

  The stagecoach lurched and rolled its way across the arid landscape with sage and cactus poking through the sandy soil. The air inside the stage was thick with the odor of sweat and hair tonic. Emmie clutched the seat to keep from falling across the lap of the soldier sitting next to her. She still could hardly believe she was out here in the Great American Desert.

  A grizzled soldier in the seat across from her leaned forward and smiled a gap-toothed grin. His angular face was rough and reddened from the sun, and his uniform was none too clean. But he’d been friendly without being too familiar during the entire trip from Fort Leavenworth. “We’ll get there today, miss.”

  Finally her new life was about to begin. “I’m ready to be off this stagecoach.”

  Catherine Courtney had given her a month to find other living arrangements, and surprisingly, the woman had been kind every time they met. After a flurry of telegrams and last-minute plans, Emmie had embarked on a train journey to a far-off place she’d only vaguely heard of. Now, ten days later, her journey was about to end. She bit her lip and tried to still the nervous pounding of her heart.

  She peered out the open window. Dry buffalo grass, sage, and weeds undulated as far as she could see in every direction. She already missed the soft greens of Indiana. No towns or settlements, just endless plains of wilderness without much promise.

  But there was no other option except the one offered by Mr. Eddingfield, and almost anything was better than that.

  “Ever been West before, miss?” the soldier asked.

  “Never.” Emmie fanned her face and tried to keep her stomach from roiling at the stench of his breath mixed with the smell of rank, unwashed bodies and dusty leather in the tightly packed stagecoach.

  “You ain’t seen nothing until you seen them mountains out here. Lots of wide-open spaces.”

  The stage lurched again, and one of the soldiers up on top shouted, “Laramie up ahead!”

  Emmie craned her head in a decidedly unladylike way out the window and tried to see, but the laboring horses threw up too much dust. She drew her head back in as the driver cursed at the flagging horses and urged them toward their destination. They stopped briefly at a swiftly running river, then the driver cracked the whip again and urged the team onto a waiting ferry. Her heart pounded as the fort grew nearer.

  She pulled a handkerchief out of her reticule and wiped her face with it. She must look terrible. Her face and neck felt gritty with cinders from the train and her scalp itched. Large patches of dust and mud clung to her skirts and shoes. She tied her blue bonnet firmly under her chin as the driver pulled the team to a halt beside a crude adobe building. Soldiers milled around outside, and just across a wide parade ground, Emmie saw a neat row of whitewashed adobe buildings. This was the famous Fort Laramie? This assortment of rough buildings and barren wasteland? Her heart sank at the thought of living in this primitive place.

  As she stepped off the stage, she gasped and almost fell when she caught sight of a throng of Indians outside the entrance to the building. Their buckskin clothing was in sharp contrast to the colorful blankets they had pulled around their shoulders. She tightened her grip on her cloak as a shield. She’d heard of all the Indian atrocities just a few months ago. The papers had called 1865 “the Bloody Year.”

  Her garrulous soldier friend chuckled at her small sound of dismay. “They won’t hurt you none. Those Injuns are Laramie Loafers. They’re too dependent on gov’ment rations to cause a peep of trouble.”

  She hesitantly followed the soldiers into the building. Inside even more Indians milled around. A counter made of rough wooden planks and piled with all kinds of necessities lined the back of the store, much like a general store back home. Barrels of sugar, flour, and tea sat off to one side, and wide shelves behind the counter held a wide assortment of items from coffee grinders and Arbuckle coffee to ribbons and beads and boots. The smell of coffee, dust, and sweat was almost overpowering. A single kerosene lamp swung from the ceiling, and its sickly glow cast a yellowish pall over everything.

  Suddenly aware that the overwhelming babble had ceased and every eye was staring at her, Emmie flushed and forced herself to approach the sutler standing behind the counter. “Excuse me, sir, but could you tell me where I might find Lieutenant Rand Campbell?”

  “That lucky lieutenant always has purty wimmenfolk lookin’ for him.” A scrawny soldier with bright red hair stepped up beside her before the sutler could answer. “I can take you to his wife, Miss Sarah.” He thrust out a brown hand. “I’m Private Jackson Wheeler, but you can call me Rooster.”

  Emmie hesit
ated, then shook his hand gingerly. “I-I’m Emmie Croftner.” She’d debated about what name to use and had decided on her legal one. She wanted to try to forget all about Monroe, if she could.

  “Let’s get out of this here crowd of buzzards. The lieutenant’s little place is over yonder on the other side of the parade ground.” Rooster opened the door for her and grabbed her satchel from her unresisting hand. “They’ll be tickled pink to see you. You here to help with the wee one?”

  “Yes.” Emmie let the soldier ramble on. She was too tired to think or respond. She spared a glance around at her surroundings as she followed Rooster around the parade ground.

  Soldiers stood in neat lines at attention as the trumpet blew a vaguely familiar tune. Two more soldiers lowered the flag from the flagpole in the middle of the field. Emmie felt a twinge of excitement and admiration at the rows of blue uniforms. There was something so masculine and attractive about a man in a uniform. Not that she was interested, of course. Between her shiftless brothers and her lying “husband,” she’d had enough of men to last a lifetime. She just wanted a place to heal and a friend to talk to.

  She couldn’t help gawking as she followed Rooster’s spry steps. A surprising amount of activity went on all around the fort. She could see a forest of tepees on the north side of the grounds, with Indian women stooping over campfires and half-naked children shouting and running between the tepees. Horses pranced around the stable on the far side of the field, and beyond that, the barren, sage-dotted landscape stretched right up to the edge of the purple mountains in the distance.

  Rooster stopped outside a neat white bungalow with a wide front porch. He bounded up the steps and pounded on the first of two doors.

  Sarah opened it with a squeal of delight and flung her arms around her. “Emmie! Oh, I’m so glad to see you. The stage must have been early—I intended to be there to meet you. Come in, come in.” She motioned her in and waved her thanks at Rooster before she shut the door.