by Jodi Thomas
Chapter 2
Reining in at the front door of his ranch, Clint jumped from Reb and bounded up the stairs in two long strides. Grasping the door handle, he hesitated long enough to take a deep, bracing breath, preparing himself for whatever he might find on the other side. Opening the door slowly, he walked inside, the thump of his boots echoing around the silent room. “Ma?”
No response. He walked through the front room to the back bedroom. The door was slightly ajar, and when he pushed it open, he saw the bed was empty. His mother’s favorite handstitched quilt embroidered with lilies of the valley was neatly draped over the feather mattress. Glancing around the room, he saw nothing out of place. It looked exactly as he remembered, neat and tidy, just as his mother left it every morning. Clint swiped his hand over his face. He didn’t want to think about what he would find outside.
He ran from the room, not stopping until he reached the small knoll a hundred yards from the back of the house. Clutching the gate leading to the family cemetery, Clint stood with his heart in his throat, scanning mounds of earth beneath the massive white oak tree. Grass had not yet covered the four freshly dug graves. He slowly opened the gate and walked inside, remorse heavy on his shoulders. Unlike the other graves of past generations, there were no markers—no one left to see to that last task of memorializing a life. Clint reminded himself he hadn’t been there to handle that chore. Removing his hat, he stood silently, not praying as much as regretting. He glanced up at the old oak spreading its strong limbs as if protecting those buried beneath. That old tree had seen a lot of death. He was the only Mitchum left. He’d been so selfish, thinking only of what he needed while his mother had to face the loss of those dear to her all alone. His regrets were too many to count.
Much later, Clint fed and brushed his horses before he stabled them. He walked back to the house, hung his hat on the hook inside the door and looked around at what once had been a vibrant household. The stillness of the room made him feel more alone than he’d ever felt. He wished he could sleep for a week and awake to find this had all been a nightmare. Yet, he knew sleep would evade him again tonight. After making some coffee, he walked to the rocking chair by the fireplace. Seeing something in the chair, he reached down and picked up an old, tattered cloth doll. He sat down in the rocker with the doll in his hand, wondering who had left it behind. The poor thing had seen better days. The doll’s threadbare dress, made from an old flour sack with faded yellow flowers, might have been pretty a long time ago. One button eye was missing, and the other eye was broken, leaving only a small fragmented piece behind. That eye reminded him of his life.
Leaning back, he drank his coffee as he thought about the many times his mother sat in that chair sewing when he was a young boy. She was an excellent seamstress and often made dresses for other women. Glancing back down at the doll in his hand, he thought someone had probably asked her to make a new dress for the sad little figure. After he finished his coffee, he stood and returned the doll to the chair. He roamed around the house until he finally made his way back to his mother’s bedroom, where he sat on the side of the bed and picked up her Bible from the bedside table. He smiled at the memory of her quoting a scripture or two when she thought he needed to hear something in particular. A strip of old leather was sticking out between the pages, marking what he assumed was a passage his mother had been reading. He recognized the old, worn bookmark he’d made for her when he was five years old. On one side, he’d written the verse, Honor thy mother and father. I love you Ma. A folded piece of paper tucked between the pages drifted to his lap. He picked it up and recognized the note was written in his mother’s hand.
Son, if you are reading this I know you have found your way home. Please do one last favor for me and find Amelia Wakeland. I want you to help her if she is in need. I have never met a sweeter soul, and I’m worried about her.
Your loving mother
Clint read the note several times before tucking it into his shirt pocket. He placed the bookmark back in the Bible and returned it to the table. Walking from the room, he thought he’d done little over the last few years to show his mother how much she meant to him. What a fool he’d been. He’d do this one last thing she’d asked of him.
Feeling as if the walls were closing in on him, Clint walked outside to look over the ranch. He thought about his future without his family. Even though he’d been far away, he always knew he had a place to call home. But could the ranch be a home without his family? He didn’t think so. He walked until he was exhausted, mentally and physically. That night, after he checked on his horses once last time, he returned to the house and tossed his bedroll on the floor in front of the fireplace. But sleep didn’t come.
* * *
The next morning before dawn, Clint was on his way to the Wakeland ranch. As he approached the house, he looked over the land. Like his ranch, it appeared desolate, no cows or horses grazing in the pasture. It felt like every person and animal had disappeared from the face of the earth. He was just about to rein in at the house when a man walked from the stable.
“Can I help you with something?”
“Hope so.” Clint took the man’s measure. He looked to be younger, but he was almost as tall as he was, just not as muscled. He looked none too pleased by the interruption. Clint pushed back his hat on his head and rested his hands on the saddle horn. “I’m Clint Mitchum. I’m looking for Amelia Wakeland.”
If the man recognized Clint’s name, he gave no indication. “She left with Tom Nelson two weeks back. Headed to the Llano River.”
“That river covers some territory,” Clint replied.
“That’s all I know,” the man responded curtly.
Clint could tell he didn’t want to offer more information. “Thanks.” He turned Reb back in the direction of his ranch. His mother had asked one last thing of him. He’d failed her when she was alive; he wouldn’t fail her in death. He’d find Amelia Wakeland no matter how long it took.
* * *
Returning to his ranch, Clint walked to his mother’s bedroom, picked up her Bible and headed for the door. He stopped in the front room, his eyes drawn to that raggedy little doll in the rocking chair. Something seemed to be telling him to take the doll with him. It was just a brief thought that made no logical sense, but he walked to the rocker and grabbed the doll. After he stuffed both items in his saddlebag, he loaded his packs on Champ and rode out. He didn’t know if he was leaving the ranch for the last time. He didn’t want to think about the future now. It might take a few weeks, a few months or a few years to find Amelia. After that, maybe he would be in a frame of mind to plan his future.
He rode at a slower pace because his horses hadn’t had time to recuperate from the grueling ride on the way home. Riding always helped him sort things out in his mind, but it also gave him too much time to think. He wished he’d asked the man at the Wakeland ranch more questions. Grief had taken hold of his every thought, and he hadn’t been thinking straight at the time. He realized he didn’t have much information to go on. He wondered why that man had stayed behind at the Wakeland ranch when the place looked to be abandoned. He’d have to focus on what he did know. Amelia Wakeland was alive two weeks ago, and she was headed to the Llano River. He decided to ride to Honey Creek to find Whitt and the boys. The odds of finding Amelia in the same location were not in his favor. Although Whitt had told him several families from La Grange were headed to Honey Creek, so it was as good a place as any to start looking for Amelia.
* * *
Days later, Clint arrived in Honey Creek at dusk. It didn’t take him long to find Whitt Newcombe once he described the boys to a family he’d passed camping on the river.
Whitt saw Clint as soon as he reined in at their campsite. “I can’t believe you’re here.”
“I left the day after I arrived in La Grange,” Clint said as he dismounted.
Whitt understood what Clint was saying. He gripped Clint’s shoulder. “I’m sorry the news wasn’t bett
er.”
“Me too.” Clint looked around for the boys. “Where’s Bo and Boone?”
“Over by the stream where we’re panning. They think looking for gold is fun.” Whitt laughed. “I hope after a month they still enjoy it.” Whitt poured Clint some coffee. “I just came to grab some grub and coffee.”
“Any luck yet?”
Whitt reached in his shirt pocket, pulled out a small pouch that held gold flakes along with several tiny nuggets and held them out for Clint to see. “I remember my pa always told me gold will follow a certain path in a streambed, from inside bend to inside bend, so I looked for slow-moving water that ran in that direction. He also told me when I found black sand, that was a good sign. I searched all day for what I thought would be the best spot. When I saw the logjams and idle pools of water here, I thought it was the perfect place to start.”
Clint inspected Whitt’s findings. “It does look like you found a promising location.”
Whitt tucked the pouch back in his pocket. “You’re more than welcome to join us here if you’re interested. Come on; the boys will be excited to see you.”
As soon as Clint and Whitt reached the streambed, Bo and Boone dropped their pans and came running to Clint. He picked up both boys and swung them around. “I hear you men are working hard.”
Bo nodded. “Yeah, this is a lot of fun. Did Pa show you the gold?”
“Pa said if you came here, you could pan with us,” Boone told him.
“Please stay with us,” Bo pleaded.
It touched Clint’s heart that the boys wanted him to stay with them. “If your pa is sure he doesn’t mind me joining you.”
“I think more and more people will be coming, so it’ll be safer as a team. We can take turns sleeping,” Whitt replied. He didn’t want to scare the boys by saying their safety could become an issue if word got around about finding gold.
Clint nodded his understanding of what was on Whitt’s mind. He agreed with Whitt about safety in numbers. He’d heard stories about greed overruling common sense when men had gold fever. With two boys to protect, it made sense that Whitt preferred to have another man around. Clint placed the boys on the ground and shook Whitt’s hand. “I’ll stay, but I have one thing I need to do before I start working. I need to find Amelia Wakeland.”
“Is she the woman who cared for your mother?” Whitt asked.
“Yes. My mother left me a note asking that I find her. I think she must have been worried that Amelia might become ill. I need to see her and make sure she’s well.”
“I think I know where she is. You told me she was planning to leave with the Nelson family. I saw Ben Wilburn a few days ago, and he said the Nelson camp was less than a half mile from his.” Whitt told him how to get to their camp. “But don’t stop at Ben Wilburn’s camp. Ben’s son is sick with influenza. At least Ben said it was influenza, but there’s a chance it could be yellow fever. They need to keep him away from everyone until they know for sure.
* * *
The wagon at the Nelson campsite was well-hidden behind a row of pecan trees, not far from the water. Clint saw a woman cooking over the fire a few feet from the wagon. Hearing his horse, the woman stopped working and watched him approach with a wary look on her face.
Dismounting, Clint politely removed his hat, hoping to put her at ease as he kept some distance between them. “Morning.”
The woman gave him an almost imperceptible nod.
“Whitt Newcombe told me I could find Tom Nelson here.”
“Yes.”
“I’m Clint Mitchum . . .”
Her expression registered her surprise. “Ingrid’s son?”
Clint nodded. “Yes, ma’am, and I’m looking for Amelia.”
“I’ve heard about you.”
Clint wondered if his mother had told her how disappointed she was that he hadn’t come home in years. No, his mother wouldn’t tell anyone that her eldest son had caused her grief. She’d always given him much more understanding than he deserved. He watched the woman as she turned back to the fire and lifted the coffeepot.
“This is fresh coffee.” She picked up a cup from a makeshift table near the firepit. The woman pointed to some stumps that had been conveniently situated around the fire. “Please have a seat.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Clint settled his hat back on his head and gratefully accepted the cup of coffee. As he took a drink of his coffee, he thought about what he wanted to say to her. He didn’t know what he expected Amelia to look like, but she was considerably older than he thought she would be. She was also almost as round as she was tall, and he was gratified to see she looked healthy. “My mother . . .” Clint halted when he heard voices approaching.
The woman looked at him and smiled. “Here’s Amelia now.”
Clint’s brow furrowed in confusion. His gaze shifted to two young girls running toward them. The smaller girl ran right to him, while the older girl hung back a few feet. Clint thought they were two of the cutest little girls he’d even seen. They both had long, curly, dark hair and big blue eyes.
“Who are you?” the younger girl asked.
“Remember your manners, girls,” a woman trailing behind them instructed.
“Yes, ma’am,” the girls stated in unison.
Clint glanced up at the woman admonishing the little girl for her question. A beautiful young woman returned his scrutiny. Clint quickly jumped to his feet and removed his hat again. Like the little girls in front of him, the young woman had long, dark, curly hair, lighter blue eyes and porcelain skin.
When Clint felt a tug on his shirtsleeve, he forced his eyes from the woman to the little girl in front of him. She was staring up at him with an impish smile revealing two dimples. “I’m Annie. Who are you?”
Clint chuckled, amused by her direct manner. “I’m Clint Mitchum.”
“Amelia, Mr. Mitchum is looking for you,” the woman he’d mistaken for Amelia announced. She glanced at Clint, giving him a slight smile. “I’m Sophie Nelson, Tom’s wife.”
Clint knew she’d intentionally wanted him to believe she was Amelia. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Nelson.”
“Call me Sophie.”
Clint nodded. His eyes move to Amelia again. “Amelia?”
“Yes.” She placed her hand on the older girl’s shoulder. “This is my daughter, Katherine, and you’ve met Annie.”
“Everyone calls me Katie,” Katherine told him.
Clint inclined his head. “Hello, Katie.”
Three more children walked toward them, a boy and two girls, and Sophie made the introductions. “This is my youngest grandson, Mark. We lost the eldest, Matthew, to the fever. These are my granddaughters, Hannah and Bonnie.”
Clint judged the boy to be about twelve or thirteen years of age, and the girls were a little younger. “Nice to meet you.”
“We’ll give you some privacy.” Mrs. Nelson motioned for her grandchildren to follow her away from the camp.
“Please sit down, Mr. Mitchum.” Amelia sat on a log near Clint with the girls at her side. She glanced at him, waiting for him to speak first. Ingrid Mitchum had told her that her son was a handsome man, but Amelia hadn’t expected him to be such a large, imposing man. And she certainly hadn’t expected him to be quite so handsome. Dark hair, dark eyes, a strong chiseled jaw, wide shoulders and a trim waist—no, he was not lacking in masculine appeal. The pistol he wore low on his hip didn’t escape her notice. Most of the ranchers of her acquaintance carried rifles.
Clint cleared his throat, buying time to find the words without becoming emotional. “My mother asked me to find you. She wanted to make sure you were doing well.” He wanted her to know how much he appreciated how she cared for his mother. “I also wanted to meet you to thank you for staying with my mother.”
“Oh my! You rode all this way just to see if I was well?” Amelia could hardly believe he’d come so far to check on her. “How is your mother?”
Clint stared at her, trying to make sense of her
question. “You weren’t there when . . .” He couldn’t bring himself to finish his sentence.
Amelia looked at him quizzically. “Did something happen to Doc Sims?”
“Doc Sims?” Clint repeated.
“Yes, he was very ill when we left. I wanted to stay to help nurse him, but Mr. Nelson wanted to leave.”
Clint shook his head. “I don’t know how the doctor is doing.”
Amelia gave him a questioning look. “Your mother didn’t have a relapse, did she? Does she need me?”
“I don’t understand,” Clint responded. “Did you not stay with my mother to the . . . to the end?”
“The end?” When she realized what Clint was saying, her lips started to quiver. “You’re not saying that Ingrid . . . that Ingrid. . .” a tear slid slowly over her cheek “. . . died?”
Chapter 3
“I thought you knew . . . since her grave was . . .” Clint swallowed hard. Seeing Amelia’s tears freely flowing was nearly his undoing. He stood and walked to her. His first thought was to comfort her, but he hesitated because they were complete strangers. He started to place his hand on her shoulder, but to his surprise, she jumped up and threw herself into his arms. A heartbeat later, the girls were clinging to him, all three crying as if their hearts were breaking. Clint put one arm around Amelia and one arm around the girls. “It will be okay.” His own emotions were so raw that he could hardly speak. He clenched his jaw, trying to maintain his composure and stay strong for the grief-stricken females in his arms.
Minutes later, Amelia pulled away and swiped at her tears with the back of her hand. “I’m sorry, Mr. Mitchum; we should be the ones comforting you.”
Clint pulled his bandanna from his pocket and handed it to her.
Katie dried her tears on her sleeve. “We loved Miss Ingrid.”
Annie pulled up her skirt and wiped her face. “She was going to make Lucy pretty again.”
Clint started to ask who Lucy was, but Amelia said, “Mr. Mitchum, we were all very fond of your mother.” She picked up Clint’s forgotten cup, filled it with fresh coffee and held it out to him. “Girls, why don’t we let Mr. Mitchum sit and drink his coffee?”