Seasons of Glory

by Cheryl Anne Porter

  Thoughts of the night to come had Glory clutching at her gown. And then, he was there and smiling down at her, holding his arms out to her. Eagerly, Glory stepped into his embrace. To her surprise, he swirled her around and around. Scurrying away and laughing, their guests quickly made way. Riley didn’t bring them to a dizzying stop until he had her alone, over by the staircase. Then he turned her with him, and they bowed for the applause coming their way.

  As the guests turned away, allowing the newlyweds their moment alone, Riley leaned back against a wall and circled her waist with a hard-muscled arm. Pulling her tight against him, between his spread legs, he gave her a private grin. “What was wrong with my bride back there?”

  Glory shook her head, felt her trailing long curls caress her shoulders, which were bared by the gown’s low-cut bodice. “Nothing. I just missed you.”

  Riley bent over her to place a nipping kiss on her nose. “Then you shouldn’t have wandered away, Mrs. Thorne.”

  Batting him away, Glory teased, “I didn’t. You did, silly goose.” Then, caught up in Riley’s infectious teasing, she circled his neck with a hand and pulled him to her, wanting his ear close to her mouth. Going up on tiptoes to reach him, she whispered, “I’ll be glad when we’re alone.”

  Riley’ pulled back, stared down into her eyes, and then leaned over her again to whisper, “Will you now? Does it have anything to do with…” He named an act so decadent that Glory squealed and pinched his arm, struggling playfully against him. But he held her rigidly in place.

  She hit at his chest and whispered, “You’re awful. People don’t—do they? They do? I never—What if I can’t? What if you don’t like me … like that?”

  Riley coughed, ran a hand over his mouth and chin. Then he assured her, “I think I’ll like you just fine … like that.”

  Feeling suddenly very warm, just trying to picture what Riley’d suggested, Glory bravely plowed onward. “Well, I can only hope so. I promise to like you like that, too.”

  Riley gaped at her, burst out laughing, and hugged her to his chest, clinging to her as he all but collapsed against her struggling efforts to pull away. Which forced Glory to do her fussing into his stiff and starchy-smelling shirt. “Riley Eugene Thorne, you let me go this instant. What will our guests think?”

  It was useless. He was too tickled to respond. But she didn’t really want him to let her go, not with the heady scents of his clean and masculine musk reaching her with every breath. She wriggled against him, making a show of protest. But a grin tugged at her lips, a grin for Riley’s rare happy abandon. He was always so serious. He needed to laugh more, Glory decided. And she would see that he did.

  * * *

  A week into Glory and Riley’s honeymoon, the morning began like all the others, and yet was different. The winter sun rose to reveal a sprinkling of snow, like so much delicate lace, adorning the land. Feeble light bathed the main bedroom in ever-lightening shades of gray. And in the wide marriage bed, where before J. C. and Catherine Lawless had loved, now their Glory Bea learned how to be of one soul with her husband.

  On fire with need, Glory moaned and writhed under Riley. With her legs wrapped around his hips, with her fingernails raking his back, she raised her head seeking his mouth, wanting even more. Riley obliged, claiming her lips, using his tongue to mimick the action of their hips. Glory clutched at his shoulders when she neared her moment. Riley’s rhythm became fevered. Finally, the hungry needing burst.

  She took Riley with her, pulling him deeper into her with each rippling, intense wave. He cried out, held himself rigid over her, gave himself up to her. And then, when he had no more to give, collapsed atop her. After a moment he slid out of her and rolled to lie next to her. Glory faced him, as spent and weak as he was. She grinned as she gasped for air. “I like this.”

  Riley nodded. “I know you do. You’re killing me.”

  Glory’s grin broadened. “Then maybe we’d better quit doing it.”

  Riley frowned. “Now you’re really killing me.”

  Glory slapped at his shoulder and giggled. “Come on, get up and help me. I want to surprise Biddy and make her breakfast.”

  Riley blinked, didn’t move. “Now you’re trying to kill Biddy.”

  Glory sat up and bopped him with her pillow. He grabbed for her, but she squealed and rolled off the bed, dancing away from him. Across the room now and tugging into her nightgown, she begged from somewhere under its voluminous folds, “Riley, I have a good feeling about today.”

  She blinked in surprise when Riley tugged her gown over her head and helped her settle it over herself. Standing in front of her, muscled and gloriously naked, his big hands smoothing across her shoulders, he smiled but appeared hesitant. “You’ve said that every day since our wedding. Yet each day passes, and they don’t come home. And then you cry. I hate to see you hurt, Glory.”

  Glory slipped her arms around his waist, resting her cheek against the black and crisp hairs sprinkling his broad chest. “I know, but I really feel it. You’ll see. One of my sisters will come home. Because today is different.”

  * * *

  The day wore on, cloudy and no different from any of the preceding days. The lacy snow melted away before a frigid cold gripped the land that afternoon, forcing man and beast to seek warmth and companionship. Out in the bunkhouse, the Lawless hands slept or played poker or cleaned gear. Inside the main house, Biddy and Smiley fussed over a game of checkers in the kitchen. Skeeter dozed at their feet. And Riley sat in J. C. Lawless’s office, in the leather chair, poring over the accounts.

  And Glory sat alone in Catherine’s parlor, her hands folded in her lap as she quietly, lovingly looked around … and waited. Hour after hour.

  Until … Skeeter’s low warning woofs and the clicking of his nails against the hallway’s wooden floors as he padded by the parlor wrenched Glory from her expectant pose. Could it be—? Her breath caught at the very notion. Then suddenly, Biddy and Smiley crowded the doorway, their expressions agog with hope. Behind them appeared Riley. Glory sought his dark eyes, begged.

  Riley smiled. “You were right. Today is different. Someone’s here.”

  “Someone’s here,” she whispered, tears springing to her eyes. Then she jumped up and began running. The threesome in the archway laughingly parted for her and then followed close on her heels. When she rounded into the entryway, she saw Skeeter nosing the front door, whining and wagging his tail. He turned his big head to her and barked. Glory reached the heavy door on the fly, yanked it open. Then, she froze, staring … not believing. “Hannah,” she breathed.

  * * *

  The afternoon blurred into joyful tears and happy hugs. Everyone talked at once as the grand party—followed by four huge, quiet men Hannah introduced only as her damned Yankees—swept into the great room. Making them all laugh right off was Skeeter’s instant fascination with Hannah’s impossibly huge and playful puppy, Esmerelda. The dogs eyed each other, nosed each other, and then bounded off on a galloping, baying romp through the house—and promptly got themselves corraled and tossed outside for a spell.

  Following that bit of chaos, Hannah pulled her tall husband, Slade Garrett, forward and introduced him to her family. And then spent a long time explaining him to Biddy—lady’s maid all those years ago in Boston to Catherine Wilton-Humes, a young socialite who’d been wronged back then by his father. But she relented quickly enough, even hugging this handsome Garrett, when Hannah announced her expectant condition. Then they all exclaimed over Glory and Riley being married. And finally … Hannah missed Jacey, and asked where she was.

  The room quietened. Slade caught Riley’s eye and the two men excused themselves to go oversee the unloading of the huge traveling carriages. Smiley followed them. Trailing him were the damned Yankees. Glory and Biddy eyed those quiet men curiously, drawing Hannah’s laughter. They turned and saw she’d shed her bundling, revealing her loose clothing. Gone for the moment were unspoken fears for Jacey. Hugging and laughter
accompanied patting “the baby” before the three women sat down to visit, as if Hannah’d only been away on a holiday.

  Before the painfully avoided subject of Jacey could come up, Slade and Riley returned, each one drawing near to his own wife. Slade insisted Hannah rest, but she assured him she was fine, that she wanted Glory to catch her up on the past months here at home. She laughed, saying after the horrors in Boston, nothing could be better for her than to hear the everyday, unchanging news of home. She wanted to hear Glory tell her how boring the past months had been—except for her marriage, of course.

  The room again got quiet. The moment stretched out until the day’s shadows seemed to have lengthened before anyone spoke. Hannah looked in turn at Glory, Riley, and Biddy. What had happened here? And where was Jacey? Why wouldn’t anyone tell her? At the mention of Jacey, Glory burst into tears again. She just knew it was because of her that something awful had happened to Jacey. Shocked at such a notion, Hannah asked how that could be.

  Tearfully, Glory told of the journal Jacey’d sent her, how it revealed her true identity—Hannah’s mouth dropped open—and how that related to Kid Chapelo, and ultimately Señor Calderon’s elaborate plot against them. He’d sent the trackers who killed Papa. At this point, Hannah gasped and turned to Slade—this explained what the events in Boston hadn’t. She urged Glory to continue. Glory then had to tell Hannah that Señor Calderon’s grandson, Zant Chapelo—The Kid’s son—had Jacey prisoner, the last she’d heard.

  Stunned, not able to take it all in, Hannah sat numbly, sadly, for long moments. Then she quietly told Glory the truth behind Mama’s death. She spoke of Cyrus and Patience, of their diabolical greed, of all the murders they’d committed and why—for Mama’s vast inheritance. Not only had their great-aunt and uncle had Mama killed, they’d also murdered her estranged parents—and even her grandmother, the beloved Ardis, the one in the missing portrait. Her mention of Ardis sparked a memory in Glory. One of the trackers had taken the painting with him back to Mexico.

  Why would he do that? Why would he want it? No one could come up with a logical reason. Which forced them to accept that between them, they didn’t have all the answers. They lay in Mexico. Glory’s troubles here pointed to the wickedness there … where Jacey was. So, until she came home, they could not lay to rest all their heartache, all their sorrow. When Hannah teared up, Slade knew why—he instantly assured her that they would not return to Boston until this feisty sister he’d heard so much about came home.

  * * *

  Later that evening, after a big supper, Riley and Slade took their whiskeys and settled in the great room, warming up to the blazing fire in the grate and to their topic of conversation—their wives. Meanwhile, Skeeter made a lovesick nuisance of himself by pining after Esmerelda, who ignored him in favor of investigating the house and, with happy swipes of her long tail, knocking over everything not nailed down. Biddy gave up herding the dogs and finally made a nuisance of herself by spoiling Hannah’s “damned Yankees.”

  Upstairs, Hannah and Glory sat atop the quilted cover adorning the big bed in their parents’ bedroom. Propped up with pillows at their backs, their legs stretched out in front of them, the sisters visited. Just the two of them, for the first time in a long time. “Riley and I’ve been … sleeping in here. But you and Slade can, if it’s more comfortable for you. Do you want another pillow?”

  Hannah chuckled. “I’m fine, honey. And we’re fine in my old bedroom. You’re worse than Slade. He’s worn me out fussing over me all the way here.”

  Glory sat back and grinned. “I like him. Have you noticed how much he and Riley look alike?”

  Hannah nodded, “Scary, huh? And they both look like Papa.” Then she sent Glory a tender smile as she reached up to smooth a curl back from her baby sister’s cheek. “I’ve always thought Riley was the one for you. He’s the only man around who didn’t fall down at your feet in worship every time you batted an eye. I just wish I’d been here for your wedding last week.”

  “I wish I could have been in Boston for your wedding, too.”

  Hannah startled Glory by bursting into laughter. “There was no wedding. There was barely a ceremony—and a horrid one at that. Or so I thought at the time. I’ll tell you all about it one day—after you’ve had time to form an unshakably high opinion of Slade.” Having said that, she subsided into quiet chuckles and then pointed over at the journal in Glory’s lap. “Is that it?”

  Glory nodded, met Hannah’s hazel eyes as she handed over the worn journal. Riddled with guilt and fearful of Hannah’s reaction, Glory lifted her chin defensively. Her voice, even to her own ears, sounded as harsh as her words. “Here. Meet my mother and father, Laura and Seth Parker. Hello, I’m Beatrice Parker—the baby in there that got your father killed and quite possibly Jacey, too. I’ll understand if you want me off Lawless land after you read this.”

  Hannah’s knuckles turned white around the slim book. Her expression clouded, reflecting a shocked grimness. Then, carefully, as if it were a living thing she didn’t wish to awaken, she placed the journal next to her. Finally, she shifted her weight until she faced Glory and could take her hands. When she spoke, her voice quaked with emotion. “First of all, Glory—this is your home. It always has been and it always will be. You and Riley will continue to live here. There. That’s settled.

  “Now—how can you think you got anyone killed? You were a helpless baby. Papa acted out of compassion and goodness. But some evil man twisted it into a bad thing. How are you responsible for that? Was Papa wrong to bring you home and let us all love you and spoil you? No, he wasn’t.”

  She pointed to the journal and said, “What’s written on those pages only tells you who brought you into this world. And we love them for doing that. But, Glory, it was Papa who gave you life. Papa. And Mama. And in my heart, you are my sister, my flesh and blood. Every bit as much as this baby I carry. Honey, I’ve already lived through all the pain that I ever care to. I’ve had to say good-bye and bury and give up too many people I love. So don’t ask me to give you up. Because I won’t do it.”

  The tearing note in Hannah’s voice as she broke off on a deep sob wrenched Glory into her arms, crying. She clung to Hannah, cried into her sister’s hair. “I’m sorry, Hannah. I’ve just been so scared for so long.”

  “I know, honey. We all have.” After a moment, she pulled back and held Glory by her arms. “From this day forward, we’re going to laugh together and love each other, Glory Bea. And we’ll watch me get fat with this baby. And together, we’ll wait for Jacey to come home.”

  * * *

  Hannah’s sincere sentiment proved easier to say than it did to live with. Or to believe. Especially when the days of waiting turned into weeks. During that time, the damned Yankees took up residence in the bunkhouse, much to the narrow-eyed wariness of the Lawless cowhands, who didn’t cotton much to Easterners. In the main house, Biddy insisted that Hannah and Slade take her downstairs bedroom with its wide bed. “Our little mother doesn’t need to be climbing up and down them stairs, now does she, Mr. Garrett?”

  With the blame put on him in that way, Slade made damned sure their belongings were moved to Biddy’s room. She then insisted he and Riley wrestle Hannah’s old bed downstairs and into the parlor for her. With Christmas almost upon them, she needed to be close to the kitchen. She had a lot of baking to do. Couldn’t have Jacey coming home and no pies and cookies to greet her.

  So, busy and hopeful, if not cheerful, they all pitched in to prepare for Christmas. Presents were made and hidden. The house was decorated, the tree was trimmed. The Yankees and the cowhands came in for singing and punch. And they determined to be happy. But it turned to an aching emptiness when Christmas came and went. Without Jacey.

  Each snowfall, each howling blizzard, drooped their spirits further. The snows would only be heavier in the mountains Jacey would have to travel through to get home. That’s what was keeping her, they told themselves, on New Year’s Day, 1874. The snows
in the mountains. Made them all but impassable until spring. So, they might as well relax and wait it out. But when January began to wear on, Slade and Riley declared themselves in a state of siege.

  By late January, they were at their wit’s end with trying to entertain their wives. One deeply cold and blustery day, they threatened to leave them and go find Jacey themselves, if Hannah and Glory didn’t wear something besides long faces and moping spirits. The sisters stared at their angry husbands, looked at each other, and burst into tears.

  Cursing, Slade and Riley threw their hands up. Biddy came running from the kitchen. On her heels, and stuck behind her bulk in the narrow hall, were the impatient Esmerelda and the love-besotted Skeeter. But when the dogs gained the entry, they didn’t follow Biddy to the source of the noise in the great room. Instead they made for the front door, jumping at it, adding their baying and yapping to the general cacophony.

  Riley split his gaze between his crying wife and the howling dogs. Then, with violence in his heart, he stomped over to the door to let them out before he could … well, he didn’t know, but it’d be painful. “Get outside. Go.” He yanked the door open and stood back, eyeing the hounds and waiting. But they just stood there, panting and staring up at him. Riley’s eyebrows dropped dangerously low over his nose. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Well, for one thing, I’m about to freeze my ass off, Thorne. For another, what are you doing in my house? And what the hell kind of a dog is that?”

  Riley froze. Only one woman in the whole territory had a mouth like that. He wrenched around to face the doorway. Sure enough, there she stood—bundled up to her eyeballs and glaring at him. Laughing, Riley called over his shoulder, “It’s Jacey! She’s home!”

  One second of follow-up silence shattered with the sound of running feet and joyous cries of “Jacey’s home!” As happy as anyone, Riley nudged the dogs aside and grabbed her up in a big bear-hug—despite her loud protests—and swung her around. Within a second of being mobbed by her squealing family, he set her down and got out of the way. Glory, Biddy, and Hannah pounced on her, all but knocking over this orneriest of the Lawless sisters. Grinning broadly, Riley caught Slade’s eye, but the man’s grim nod to indicate the open doorway behind Riley sobered him into pivoting around.