by Caryl McAdoo
She wagged her head from side to side. “Yes, ma’am, and no, ma’am. I’m definitely sure about becoming a mother and certain that those two little fellows are mine. Just as sure I do not want to look further.”
“Might go easier if you picked out a baby girl.”
“No, the baby looks exactly how I always pictured Wallace’s son, and the big brother puts me in mind of my dearly departed. It’ll be like having Mister Rusk as a boy. By the way, what’s his name?”
“No one knows, and he’s not saying. We’ve been calling him Big Brother.”
“Who named the baby Rooster?”
“He did. Bonnie reads to them, and after hearing Mama’s stories about the gentleman pirate, the boy’s been calling his brother Red Rooster. Sometimes just Red and sometimes, Rooster.”
Well, she’d change that soon enough. Would she want to saddle the big one with Wallace? Could the world stand two of them?
Ford dipped the bowl in the vinegar water, put it on the stack, then reached for another. Weren’t any. He did a three-sixty. Not a dirty pot or pan anywhere. He took off his apron and went to drying the stacks of dishes.
Once finished, he headed upstairs and found the Purser in his little cubby hole of an office. “I’m finished. Come for my money.”
The man nodded. “Cookie said you’s about done.” He pulled out a metal box, opened its lid, and pulled out three green backs and two silver half dollars. “If you need a berth going back, I can always use a good man.”
Ford pocketed the money, but didn’t comment. Wasn’t sure if washing dishes was worse than shoveling coal, but he’d just as soon walk back if he couldn’t stand a ticket. “Thank you, sir. Any idea when the next boat to shore’s due?”
“Last I saw, the barge was only half loaded. If you’re in a hurry, I’d catch a ride on that. The skiff is liable to be another hour or better.”
“Yes, sir. Take care.” He backed out as there was hardly enough room to turn around.
Boredom put him to helping load the barge. Plus, anything to get to shore quicker. Then finally, he stood on San Francisco’s wharf. He found Broadway easily enough and followed his nose east, just like the map he’d memorized.
Only took him an hour or so to locate the Lone Star Mercantile.
The young lady behind the front counter couldn’t be Mary Rachel, not if Wallace Rusk had told it true. But he had to be in the right place. Couldn’t be two stores with the same name on the same street in the same town.
The female looked up. “Afternoon, anything I can help you find?”
“I’m looking for Rebecca Rusk. Her sister owns the Mercantile. Any idea where I might find her?”
“And you would be?”
“A friend. Do you know her whereabouts? And if not, is Mary Rachel available?” He racked his brain trying to think who the young lady might be, but the sister’s mother’s namesake—Susie if he remembered, short for Susannah—couldn’t be old enough….
How old would the baby be? Ten or twelve at most.
The young lady eyed him hard. “I’ll fetch Mama, but only after you tell me your name, so what’s it going to be?”
A sassy young miss. It suddenly came to him. “I remember now. You’ve got to be Francy, right?”
“So fine. You know my name, but that doesn’t mean anything. So do half the people in this town. Maybe more. And I’m still not getting my mother until you tell who you are.”
The mental image Wallace painted of the young lady at nine hiding under boy’s clothes sure didn’t fit the lovely person standing before him, but the sass did.
“Marcus Ford, Major Marcus Ford. I served with Wallace Rusk and Levi Baylor under General Buckmeyer’s command, and I think I’ll call you Shorty. I like that better than Francy.”
The young lady grinned. “Best not. I can hit like a boy.”
“Hmm. Francy it is, then—if you’ll tell me where I can find your Aunt Rebecca.”
“Isn’t here. She’s at Mercy House Orphanage. Been there better than a week now.”
“And how do I find this place?”
“Well, it’s south of town. About five miles out.”
Picturing the map he’d been studying, he mentally matched the directions the young lady gave and decided he could find it. He tipped his hat—except he didn’t have one—picked up his grip and bundle of canvases, then headed out.
He’d followed her for over two thousand miles. What was another seven or eight? At a forced march he’d be there in less than three hours. He’d see Mary Rachel later. Only one woman he couldn’t wait to feast his eyes on again.
Once on the street, his heart conspired with his feet and put him at double time. Way before the city gave way to the countryside, Ford slowed, but refused his legs any break, did allow a half-mile or so of short stepping a bit, just to change things up.
Then he was there.
The huge arch over the front gate announced ‘Mercy House.’
A grand main structure guarded an even bigger barn. A lush pasture dotted with fat black and white cows surrounded both. Picture perfect, but nowhere in sight was the vision of loveliness he came to see.
Oh, how he longed to feast his eyes on his love’s face again.
His love. Except…was she?
Setting his bag and bundle of canvases on the front porch, he tried the door. Locked. Tapped on the glass, and went suddenly dry-mouthed. What was he doing? What a bona fide lunatic he’d turned into.
A pull string hung on the jam. He drew it downward, and a faint tinkle sounded somewhere in the distance. He refused the desire to yank it harder. Surely someone would come. For all they knew inside, he’d come to drop off a foundling infant.
Finally—mercifully—the door opened, revealing an older lady who looked rather perplexed. “Sir? Do you have an appointment? No one informed me. And I’m certain nothing was written down.”
“I, uh….”
“Where’s your mis’sses?” The matron looked past him. “And your carriage?” She glanced downward with some disdain on her face. “Is that your bag and bundle?”
Because of the alarm in her voice, Ford backed away a step. “Yes, ma’am. That’s my grip, and no, ma’am, I did not have an appointment. My wife and baby girl died of the fever back in ’53.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.” She eased the door toward shut. “Well, I’m sorry you came all this way, but we’re not buying anything. Good day, sir.”
“Wait, ma’am. You see, I’m a friend of Rebecca Rusk. That’s why I’m here. I’ve come to speak with her.” His face warmed, and a wave of stupid washed over him.
“May I say whose calling?”
“I’d, uh, prefer to surprise her. I’ve come a long way. She thinks I’m in Nashville.” He flashed his best little boy grin.
The lady studied him for a dozen booms of his heart. “Are you a man of honor, sir?”
“I am. Yes. I assure you.” He smiled his biggest, best grin and hoped it looked sincere.
Ah, the woman returned it, gesture then nodded. “Well, alright then. But you wait here on the porch. I’ll fetch her.”
The seconds seemed like minutes or longer. Had he made a horrible mistake in coming? No. Didn’t matter if he played the part of the fool, he had to know.
The door creaked as it swung open. His love stood there…at last in his presence again.
For a heartbeat or two, she just stared. Then a scratchy screak escaped. “Marcus?” Wide-eyed, she cleared her throat. “What in the world…are…you…..” She flung herself at him, catching him a bit off guard, but he caught her and held her.
Her lips pressed against his.
She did care.
He wrapped her tight and kissed her back.
Rebecca loved him. He hadn’t been wrong. This proved it.
What had she done? Rebecca put her hands on his chest and pushed back.
He released her.
“Oh my! Marcus, please forgive me. I can’t imagine what came over me.
That was so inappropriate. I’m so sorry.”
Then he flashed that grin she’d replayed a million times on the stage of her mind where lived her crazy and unfitting infatuation with the man. He reached out and touched her cheek. “Don’t be. I’m not.”
“Where? How….?” She glanced behind her. Bless God that no one witnessed her complete meltdown, making a fool of herself. Why…she was worse than a trollop. “How’d you get here? Did they turn you down in Nashville?”
“Didn’t go.”
“Why not?”
“Because of you.”
“Me?”
“When you left Jefferson, I realized what a fool I’d been. I should have asked you to stay…wasn’t ready to be parted. After your steamer disappeared…I tried to get on with my life. I did…but…”
His sky blue eyes sparkled, and she almost swooned, trying to keep herself under control, her composure intact.
“Out of the blue, a waitress told me about her brother needing pole men going to New Orleans.” His smiled widened. “I just missed you there.”
“That was you standing on the wharf! I could’ve sworn I… But I knew it couldn’t be. Or at least thought…”
“Yes, it was, and it broke my heart anew being so close yet watching you go…again.” He took a step back. “I have something for you.”
Digging in his bag, he pulled out two roundish objects encased in newsprint, and it appeared more like them waited in the case. He handed her the bigger of the two.
“What is it?”
“Unwrap it. You’ll see.”
The paper unfolded easily. A hand-painted, porcelain teapot. How odd. “It’s exquisite, Marcus. Where’d you get it?”
“Took it for pay. I painted it, you see. Just after your ship sailed and the next one didn’t leave for three days, so I went to my dad’s old shop. The lady who’d bought it from my mother hired me, but….”
“That makes it even more lovely.”
With a bit of blush, he shrugged and unwrapped the second bundle of newsprint. “There’s six matching cups with saucers. And a creamer and sugar bowl with a lid. It’s a whole set.”
He smiled like the Cheshire cat. The man was so cute!
“Oh, dear Marcus. I’ll treasure it, truly. What was the but? The lady hired you, but what?”
Waving her off, he shook his head side to side. “She didn’t have enough cash, and I didn’t want to wait on it, so I got it for you. Then I almost had to sell them in Panama City. I hated the thought….”
“Oh, really? What happened?”
“I found the money you’d put in my Bible. I even considered selling that, too. Short of a steamer ticket, I’d have sold the shoes off my feet.” He picked up the cloth-draped rectangle bundle next to his carpet bag.
“Well bless the Lord.”
“If you want, guess you just did. I was offered thirty dollars for this, but I couldn’t bear the thought of parting with it, shoes or none.” He untied the string, holding what appeared to be a towel in place, then exposed the canvas.
Her breath caught. “Oh, Marcus. It’s exquisite. She’s beautiful. If only I looked like that.” She swallowed then remembered to breathe.
His laughter fractured her astonishment. “No, dear Rebecca. This painting is a poor second to the real you. And even more than your physical beauty is your heart of gold.”
“I’m so…” She tore her eyes away from the portrait to his face. “So flattered, and…so very glad to see you again.”
A familiar tug yanked her skirt. She looked down to her little cherub.
“Mama, who’s him?”
So she’d found her son.
The handsome young lad with an angelic face peered at him. He knelt and wanted to introduce himself as his new father. Would that be too big a presumption? Possibly.
“Hi, I’m Major Ford. What’s your name?”
The little guy wrinkled his nose, pursed his lips, and shook his head. “Ain’t saying. What am a major?”
What a cutie, acting all tough. How could you not like the little man? “An officer in the army, though I’m not anymore. But your mama’s daddy was General Buckmeyer, and I fought in his brigade during the war.”
The boy looked at Rebecca. “Him did, Mama? You know him?”
“Yes, Michael. He’s my friend, Marcus.” She touched the tip of his nose. “Mister Ford to you.” The lady tousled the little fellow’s hair then picked him up and sat him on her hip. “Would you like to introduce our friend to Gabriel?”
The boy shrugged then buried his face in his new mother’s shoulder.
Ford stood and grinned. “So. You decided on two?”
She nodded and held the door open with her free hand.
Mercy House seemed like a well-oiled machine to Ford. Every child spit polished, well fed, and happy as far as he could tell. The boy’s baby brother seemed just as fat and sassy as the rest.
Two sons, a ready-made family. Fine with him so long as he had their mother’s hand in his. He’d take the two little scalawags on without a word.
His soul mate, the love of his life. If only it had been his fate to come across Rebecca the day he found Julia, his heart could’ve been spared so much grief. But then…he probably would have had to kill Wallace Rusk.
With Levi Baylor watching his back, that wouldn’t have proved an easy row to hoe.
Finally, when the brothers had full stomachs, a bath, and lay bedded for the night, he had her all to himself in the front parlor. Of course, her sisters were in the next room with the adjoining door open.
Heaven forbid their big sis should be in his company unchaperoned. He’d like nothing better than holding her in his arms again.
Instead, she poured from her new teapot. He took a sip then set down the cup on its matching saucer that rested on the fancy side table. Proud he’d hung onto the set and resisted selling it.
Of course…only due to her generosity. For once in his life, opening the Bible had come through for him.
The lady of his heart sat the padded Queen Anne across from him. He leaned back a bit. “How long you planning on staying in San Francisco?”
Gently blowing her tea, she held the cup with both hands below her chin. “It depends. I’ve filled out all the paperwork and hired an attorney to help me adopt the boys, but Mercy House has a board of directors. Those men have the final say. I’ve got to go before them next, then visit with the judge. Maybe three…four more weeks. If it all works out, I’ll travel home with Bonnie and Jasper.”
“Jasper? As in Private Briggs?”
“One and the same. The boy’s been in love with my sister forever, and…” She grinned then proceeded to tell him about the general enlisting the young man to watch over Rebecca on the way there.
Ford loved the way she told the story of how she and the old lady got the drop on him.
She giggled, covered her gorgeous mouth, then shook her head. “If I live to be a hundred, I’ll never forget the look in Jasper’s eyes when he turned around with me holding my pistol on him.”
“I always liked that boy. All the Briggs for that matter. Good men and good soldiers.”
“You know that his Uncle Clay married my sister Gwendolyn, right?”
“I do.” If only he were saying those words to her before a judge with the authority vested to pronounce him man and Rebecca, his wife.
She took another sip of tea. “And what are your plans? Were you thinking to apply to St. Mary’s or Heald College as a professor?”
“No.” He laughed. “I don’t think the sisters would take kindly to such a sinner teaching tomorrow’s generation. All I could think of was you, Rebecca. Seeing you again. Now that I have, I’m more sure than I’ve ever been about anything. Let’s get married, and we’ll figure the rest out later.”
“Is that supposed to be a proposal, Marcus Ford? How romantic!” The sarcasm in her voice told him he’d been wrong to blurt it out.
He instantly regretted his impulsiveness.
>
After clearing her throat as though she realized how harsh she’d sounded, she shook her head. “If I were to agree to your rash idea, I definitely would not want to marry here. And most certainly would never consider marrying without Daddy’s blessing.”
Well, at least her no was conditional...wasn’t it? “So…is that a yes once the General blesses our union?”
Both shoulders bobbed half an inch. “My dear Marcus, I do admit that I thought of little else the whole way here. I could not get you out of my head. But we’ve spent a total of…what? Thirty hours together?”
“Seems like more.”
“Even if, I hardly think that qualifies as enough time to know one another and make such an important, life-long commitment. We need –”
“What? What do we need, sweet lady? The way you kissed me spoke volumes.”
“An imprudent mistake. You surprised me so. And if you’ll remember, I immediately asked you to forgive me.”
“What’s to forgive? Nothing at all. If you’re concerned that I’d take liberties, I never would.”
“No, of course not.”
“The whole time from the minute you went out of sight that we were apart, I couldn’t think of anyone or anything but you. In Panama City, I was short of cash for a steamer ticket, figured I’d paint a nice landscape to sell to some well-heeled traveler.”
“You could have, you know. Your talent is a gift from God.”
“I don’t know about that, but when I got my pigments and canvas out, all I could paint was that portrait of you. No matter what I did—not that I tried very hard—I couldn’t get you out of my heart or my mind’s eye. What difference does it make how long we’ve known each other? My heart knows what it wants.”
“That’s simplifying it quite a bit.”
“Well, what’s your heart telling you?”
“A heart is an impetuous organ, Marcus.”
“But what more do you need to know about me? Other than I’m madly in love with you, Rebecca? And that what I desire above all is to spend the rest of my life making you happy.”