At Liberty to Love (Texas Romance Book 7)

by Caryl McAdoo

  “Marcus. Did he get his bags?”

  “No. They’re still there, would you mind fetching them? The key is on my dresser, and…” Could she stand seeing his things?

  Filling her lungs, she determined of course she could. He was the one who ran off when all he had to do was accept the Lord’s gift of life, but…. “Put them in my room. I’ll see to them.”

  Francy stood. “Yes, ma’am. Anything else while I’m out?”

  “No, not that I can think of.”

  As Rebecca feared, the man’s bags proved a constant reminder, and instead of her pain lessening, spotting the grips rubbed salt into her wounded heart.

  Three days out from Panama City—according to the purser—she took to her knees when night fell and prayed until the wee hours. Finally, a peace settled over her soul.

  His grace was sufficient.

  She had her boys, and they needed her. They were her life now, her focus. It would have been horrible for them to have a heathen for a father.

  In three weeks or so, she’d be home, with plenty to fill her days. She slipped in next to Michael. He still asked about Mister Marc some, but once in Texas, he’d have plenty of men folks, and a pony and puppy and….

  She snuggled him in tight. Better than all that, a mother who loved him with her whole heart.

  Just as she slipped into a light doze, another reality engulfed her. She had no business marrying anyone. And with Wallace hardly cold! What would he think of her jumping into marriage with the Major?

  Probably turn over in his grave, especially with Marcus not being a believer.

  Little hands on her cheeks woke her way too soon.

  “Mama, Gabe’s stinky and hungry.”

  She pried one eye open. That was her life now, and she loved it.

  On the exact same morning, over a thousand nautical miles north, Jethro Risen, too, had been up late praying. But instead of waking with the Lord’s peace, an unremembered dream hung over his soul like a horrible storm rolling in from the ocean.

  Throughout his morning routine, occasional rays of light pierced the gloom. If only the Lord would speak. But no word came as to battling the evil that threatened.

  The instant his foot touched the carriage’s iron step, the night vision returned.

  MARCUS NEEDS YOU

  “Lord?”

  His driver who held the door turned toward him. “What did you say, Mister Risen?”

  He held up his hand. “Take me to the wharf.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  In the few minutes it took to reach the docks, Jethro prayed. Though the remembered dream made no sense, no other word came. Who could the woman holding a baby, trudging through waist high swampy water be?

  Fear cloaked her like a death shroud. Who could she represent?

  Their skin sickly pale—hers and the baby’s—stretched taunt over their faces. Around her sunken eyes, a pale gray shadowed.

  Did they have the fever?

  Why was he seeing the horror?

  The coach came to a stop. Its driver jumped down and opened the door. Jethro climbed out, but wasn’t sure where to go or what to do. For a while, he strolled along the docks, then a three-story hotel that sat along the water’s edge caught his eye.

  MARCUS NEEDS YOU

  Jethro marched through the lobby to the main desk. The clerk looked up. “Good morning, sir. A room with a view is only a dollar extra.”

  “I’m looking for a friend of mine, Marcus Ford. Is he registered?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Have you seen him this morning?”

  “No, sir. To my knowledge, he hasn’t left his room. Barely picked at the meals he ordered, too. Leaves them outside his door. The bellman has inquired as to his health, but the man claims he needs no assistance.”

  Jethro fished out a half dollar and placed it on the counter. “His room number.”

  “Third floor, sir. Room sixteen. It’s on the ocean side.”

  What had happened for Marcus to miss the boat? Last he saw of him, he and Rebecca walked up the gangplank hand in hand. Jethro found the door with the brass numbers and raised his hand.

  Before he could bring his knuckles down, a knowing overwhelmed him.

  He stood in the corner of the bedroom lit only by one oil lamp. The swamp lady and her baby lay in a bed drenched in sweat. A much younger Marcus took turns mopping the mother’s brow then daubing the child’s cheeks and neck.

  The vision faded then reappeared, but then the Major knelt in a cemetery full of ornate crosses and little concrete houses.

  The man mourned his dead.

  A hand tugged his coat. He turned.

  A twelve or thirteen-year-old girl stood behind him. “Tell Daddy not to miss heaven. Tell him it’s wonderful.”

  Instantly, the knowing came. The young lady was Marcus’ daughter. But Jethro wasn’t the least bit troubled by the ghost. “I will.”

  “Tell him his Mimi girl will be waiting for him.” She smiled then vanished.

  Jethro filled his lungs then tapped on the door.

  Nothing. No sounds within.

  He rapped harder, again only dead silence. Upon turning the knob, it moved in his hand and he cracked the door open. “Marcus?”

  Nary a word. Jethro walked through the sitting room to the bedroom’s entry. The man he sought sat in a chair beside the window. His chin rested on his chest. Was he dead?

  Nearing, he spoke louder. “Marcus.”

  Like a foghorn off in the distance, his name followed by soft words rolled around Ford, but gave no direction. Swamp waters lapped at his chest, higher with each step, as he slipped deeper into the mire and muck.

  Snakes slithered by, darting their forked tongues. Moss hung from branches he couldn’t reach or even see the trunks they grew from.

  Flies and mosquitoes buzzed, and biting fish and turtles nipped at his legs. The stench of rotting flesh filled his nostrils.

  So what if he was lost. What did it matter? She’d left and wouldn’t be returning. Cursed, that’s what he was. All his loves—dead or alive—lost to him.

  Something touched his shoulder. A voice shouted his name. One eye cracked open. Jethro Risen stood next to him, neck-deep in the swamp. “Save yourself. I’m doomed.”

  The man tugged on his arm. “No, you aren’t. Come on, friend, I’m taking you home.”

  Ford let his love’s brother-in-law leverage him to his feet. How had he gotten to dry ground? “Leave me be, Jethro. She doesn’t love me. Nothing else matters.”

  “That’s a lie. Rebecca loves you. What happened? Why’d you miss the boat?”

  Tears welled. His head hung low.

  “She said… She couldn’t marry me.” He filled his lungs, sniffed, then heard her words again for the thousandth time; the pain they caused still as fresh as the moment she spoke them. “She said I had to believe, and.…”

  He pushed away from Risen, but his knees gave.

  The man caught him just as the fog engulfed him again. Once more, he trudged through the swamp, neck-deep water, wanting only to slip below the murky surface and find peace for his aching heart.

  Strong hands lifted him up and dragged him from the ill-sustaining refuge. Then somehow, he rode in a carriage with Jethro Risen.

  Someone gave him a drink of water and a piece of bread.

  Half-carried, half-led, he climbed the stairs to his old familiar room. The last domicile in which his heart knew joy and peace. Why not? They would know if Rebecca returned and rouse him.

  He crawled into bed and slept practically before his head touched the feather pillow.

  The aroma of fresh-brewed coffee wakened him. Where were his clothes? Instead of hanging over the chair where he usually left them, he discovered three new shirts and a pair of trousers hanging in the chifforobe.

  The chest of drawers held everything else needed, and his boots stood beside the wingback freshly shined. Dressing quickly, he made his way down to the kitchen. Was it morning or n
ight?

  Jethro Risen sat at the table sipping from a steaming mug. The cook spotted him, grinned her toothless smile, then fetched him a cup with two sugars and a splash of milk, exactly how he liked it. “Here you are, sir.”

  “Good morning, Marcus. How are you this fine day?”

  He shrugged. “Same I guess.”

  “Hungry?”

  “Coffee’s fine. Where are my clothes?”

  “Off to the laundry.”

  “Do I have any money left?”

  His host chuckled. “You do. Over two hundred, and I’ve got it in my office for you.”

  Ford wasn’t exactly sure what to make of Risen. “Why?”

  The man who should be his brother-in-law, but would never be, shrugged. “Why what?”

  “Why’d you bring me here?”

  “Yesterday morning, the Lord told me you needed me. I thought you’d left, and was a bit confused, but He’s the one who led me to you.”

  Ford studied the coffee in his cup. Great. How could a rational man believe that God would care enough to send Risen to find him? He looked up. The cook grinned at him on her way out, and he faced his friend. “I don’t care to argue with you, Jethro, over what’s true and what you believe, but that’s not much of an answer.”

  “I had no way of knowing you weren’t steaming toward Panama.”

  “No difference. Rebecca’s gone. Just like Julia and Michele. So, that’s that.” The words stabbed his heart anew. Gone, they were all gone.

  “Night before last, I dreamed about you and your family. At first, I didn’t remember it after I woke up, then just as my foot touched the carriage’s step yesterday morning, it all came back.”

  “Tell me more.”

  “You were frantic, trying to bring their fevers down. I sensed your pain and heartache. Then when I got to the wharf, I wasn’t sure where to go. I glanced at the hotel, and the Lord told me the same thing again. He said, ‘Marcus needs you.’”

  “So you’re saying this Almighty God knows me by my name.” He couldn’t help the sarcastic tone. “Come on, Jethro. I’m an intelligent man. I mean, I admit being in a fog, but….”

  “Once I thought the very same way. I did. I thought Moses Jones was a fool for buying into religion, full well knowing that had been one of the main reasons that drew me to the man and made me want to partner with him.”

  “Easy to understand.”

  “I saw Jesus in him—His love and peace and wisdom. I just didn’t know at the time that’s exactly what it was. I do now.”

  “Hey. Moses is a good man. So are you, Jethro, but explain to me then why your God isn’t so nice. Why does this supposed benevolent Creator allow so much evil in the world? How could He let my Julia—who’d never done anything to anyone—die? And my daughter! She was only six months old. Didn’t even see her first birthday. Tell me why.”

  The man stared at him for the longest, then smiled. “I saw her twice. Once in the dream…a baby…then again right before I knocked on your hotel room door.”

  Ford shook his head. What rubbish. “That so?”

  “Yes, sir. A beautiful young lady—maybe twelve, not more than thirteen—she looks nothing like you, Marcus, but in my heart, I knew she was yours. She said, ‘Tell Daddy not to miss Heaven. It’s a wonderful place.’”

  How cruel could someone be? Claiming to have seen his baby all grownup was nothing but heartless. But…she would be that age, and how could the man know? He glared. “Did she say anything else?” He hated being so cynical, but Risen deserved it.

  “Yes, she did. Said, ‘Tell him his Mimi Girl is waiting for him.’ ”

  “What? Who told you I called her Mimi?”

  “It’s what she said. God allowed for Samuel to come back to talk with King Saul, and Jesus saw Moses and Elijah on the mount. Some folks believe that when you dream about a loved one who’s gone to Heaven, it’s the Lord letting them come visit.”

  If only it could be true. A spark kindled a burning in his soul. “What did she look like?”

  “Shoulder length dark brown hair, brown eyes, button nose. High cheek bones, her face a bit on the slender side, but it all worked so well together.”

  Tears overflowed. The man described Julia to a T.

  “Oh, yes. For some reason, I noticed her right eye was darker than the left by a few shades. I almost forgot that. But it didn’t distract from her beauty.”

  He had seen her. Could it be? His baby lived and waited for him in heaven? “Help me, Jethro. If all this is real, I don’t want to miss Heaven. What must I do?”

  “Confess Jesus as Lord and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead.”

  “That’s it? That’s all I have to do? Confess and believe? Nothing else?”

  “No, sir. That’s it. We’re saved by grace through faith.”

  “I don’t have to join a church?”

  He smiled. “Believers are the church.”

  Ford filled his lungs. His heart pounded against his ribs. Could it be real? It sounded as though this God was reaching out to Him.

  IT IS REAL YOU ARE MY BELOVED AND I DESIRE THAT YOU COME TO ME

  “Jesus is Lord, and….” He glanced at his friend. “Like that?”

  “Yes, sir. Exactly like that.”

  A warmth washed over his soul and he closed his eyes for what seemed like several minutes, before he opened them and looked again at the man. “And God raised from the dead?”

  “Yes, Marcus.”

  “And I need to believe it though?”

  “With all your heart.”

  “My heart, not my mind?”

  “Believe with all your heart, your soul, and your mind.”

  He exhaled, then smiled and closed his eyes again. “Help me, Lord. Help me believe.” He cleared his throat. “I believe that You raised Jesus from the dead…with all my heart…all my soul…and all my mind.”

  The instant the words left his lips, a weight lifted off from him. His heart…was new. He was free, clean, like he’d never been before.

  “Wow! I never… It’s awesome. What now?”

  “Nothing that you have to do, though there’s a lot you’ll want to do.”

  Didn’t make much sense. But then God loving him didn’t add up either. Why would He?

  “Explain yourself.”

  Lack of movement brought Michael all the way awake. He rubbed his eyes real good, rolling over to be sure. His mama stood by the little window. “Are there pirates?”

  She turned around and smiled. “No, sweetie. We’ve arrived at Panama City and will be going ashore in a few minutes. Would you like that? There’s so much I want to show you!”

  He snorted. Where were all the swashbucklers? That’s who he wanted to meet. He and his mother and brother had been on the high seas forever and nothing! “Is this where we ride the train?”

  “Yes, sir. It certainly is.”

  “Will Mister Marc be here?”

  “No, baby. He’s back in San Francisco.”

  “I’m not the baby, I’m the big boy, remember?”

  “Yes, I do. Sorry, sugar.”

  “Me and Gabe miss him. When is he coming? I thought you said he was coming.”

  “I did. I thought he was. And so do I miss him, but…” She hiked her shoulders like she wasn’t sad and didn’t care that much, but she sounded sad a little.

  He stood on the bed and bounced several times, laughing. He could cheer her up. She held her arms out, and he flung his arms wide and jumped. She caught him then pulled him in tight. He sure loved his new mama, loved the way she smelled.

  No one he ever knew smelled as good as her.

  But he loved Mister Marc, too. He leaned back and looked her in the eyes, just like she’d taught him. “Do him a letter, tell him to hurry up and come to Texas.”

  His mama smiled, but not her real happy one. He hadn’t seen that biggest grin since the night of the party. “Not a bad idea. We’ll do that exact thing. Will you help me? Maybe
paint him a picture.”

  “I’ll color pirates and ’gators and…” The images swirled. He wiggled down, ready to draw that very minute. Looked around. “Where’s my special paper and watercolor paints? And I need them brushes Mister Marc gave me.”

  “Those brushes, my sweetest heart.”

  “Yep, you’re right. I need those brushes.”

  “Michael…remember? Yes, ma’am. It isn’t polite for big boys to say yep to an adult.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Got to show reeee-spect! Right?” He climbed into the chair in front of the small desk and swung his feet.

  Francy loved Panama City. Even more, she loved getting a couple of hours alone with Bonnie Claire. Having an aunt only two years older proved so much fun. The foot traffic throbbed in the heart of the city.

  Festive shops with their bright colors and merchandise obviously from all over the world lined the streets. And the prices seemed so reasonable! She paid for her latest purchase, waited for Bonnie to do the same, then nodded toward a café across the plaza.

  “Care for a spot of tea?” She used a contrived British accent and giggled.

  Bonnie raised her nose half an inch then stiffened her upper lip. “Bloody good idea, my dear.”

  Her fake English sounded better, but then she’d been there. Wouldn’t that be a lark? Touring Europe with her famous step-grandmother author.

  Except, since Francy was adopted, yet so accepted as a family member, she figured dropping the step would be a great idea. After all, MayMee was the only grandmother she’d ever have.

  On her first trip to Texas, she’d not really been aware of MayMee’s fame or storytelling powers. This time would be different. She’d been a kid back then. Wouldn’t such a trip be something to tell her children? She grinned at Bonnie.

  “So tell me true, Auntie.” She teased her with the relational moniker. “How’s married life?”

  Her aunt giggled. “Well…” Her eyes widened, and she leaned in. “I never dreamed…” She hugged herself. “I mean…well…” She looked off, smiled even bigger, then looked back. “All I can say is that you best snag yourself a Briggs man before they’re all gone.”

  “Gwen told me the same thing.” She looked around the sidewalk. No one seemed to be paying any attention, neither looking nor listening. “I’ve been toying with the idea of going back to San Francisco from here.”