Margaret Brownley, Robin Lee Hatcher, Mary Connealy, Debra Clopton

by A Bride for All Seasons

  Astonishment suffused his face, as well it should. Let him find anyone more accomplished and she would eat her hat.

  “Somehow, I think he expected . . . someone with different qualifications,” he said, clearing his throat. Was it scratchy? He seemed to be having some sort of throat trouble.

  “I can play a tune on a penny whistle,” she added. “And I can cook. No one cooks possum as good as mine. The trick is to feed them corn and—”

  He cleared his throat—again! “Miss Parker—”

  “I can also whip up something for your throat trouble,” she added. “You can’t beat hot peppers and—”

  He held up the palms of his hands. “Stop!”

  She gaped at him.

  “He wanted someone who could straighten out the boy. Teach him manners. He thought that since your father is a preacher—”

  She sat back in her seat. “Daniel told you my father was a preacher?”

  “Not in those precise words. He said your father was in the profession of hope and faith. I just assumed—”

  She burst out laughing. “I never heard it put that way, but I guess you could say that. My father lives on hope and faith, all right. He’s a high roller.”

  You could have cut the silence that followed with a knife. He took a quick swallow of coffee and dabbed at his mouth. “Are . . . you saying he’s a gambler?” He made gambling sound like a hanging offense.

  She nodded. “He’d rather win a quarter on a bet than earn ten.” For all his winnings, after her mother died she might have starved to death had it not been for her aunt.

  When she saw the disapproval on the sheriff’s face, something snapped inside her. She was sick and tired of being judged as lacking because she was a gambler’s daughter. As if she had a choice in the matter.

  She tossed her napkin on the table and reached for her reticule. “Obviously you didn’t know your brother as well as you thought.” She dug for her money and a deck of cards dropped to the floor.

  He leaned over to retrieve it, handing her the small rectangular pack. He didn’t say a word; he didn’t have to. His tight face and narrow eyes said it all.

  She stuffed the pack back into her small fabric purse without explanation. They were her pa’s lucky cards and the only thing he ever gave her. She wasn’t about to apologize to the sheriff or anyone else for carrying them. She tossed two coins on the table.

  He pushed the coins toward her. “I’ll take care of it.”

  Leaving the money on the table, she stood so abruptly her chair flew backward.

  He stood too. They stared at each other like two hostile animals at a watering hole, before she turned and walked away.

  SHAKING FROM BOTH HER MEETING WITH DANIEL’S brother at the restaurant and the cold morning air, Mary-Jo arrived at the train station. She was surprised to find it deserted and the ticket booth closed. She walked into the telegraph and baggage office. The same youth from the day before greeted her with a nod.

  “Did you find the person you were looking for?” he asked.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact I did.” She cleared her voice. “I would like to purchase a ticket to St. Louis.” From there she would have to transfer trains.

  “Train left already,” he said.

  “Left? But it’s only eight thirty. The schedule says the train doesn’t leave until nine o’clock.”

  “It’s after nine,” he said, pointing to the clock. “The train runs on railroad time.”

  She stared at him in dismay. After everything that happened, she’d completely forgotten about railroad time, which seldom corresponded with local time. “Then the train I heard earlier . . .” She forced herself to breathe. “Isn’t there another one today?”

  He shook his head. “Not eastbound. Sorry. Do you want a ticket or don’t you?”

  She hesitated. “Yes, please.” After purchasing her ticket, she had little money left. She could afford a meal or two but not a hotel room.

  She considered storing her sewing machine at the station but decided against it. Should something happen to it she’d be in a fine fix. Dressmaking was the only trade she knew. She turned away and, not knowing what else to do, headed back to town.

  On the way, she stopped beneath a windmill and stared down a well built from rocks. She set her baggage down and dug a penny from her purse to toss it into the watery depths. The problem was, she didn’t know what to wish for. She once hoped to find true love, but that was when she still believed that God cared for her. She now had two very good reasons to believe that He didn’t give a whit about her—she had two dead fiancés.

  Loud voices caught her attention. A crowd stood in front of the general store. Curious, she gathered her belongings and crossed the dirt road. Stepping up to the boardwalk, she carefully avoided walking on a crack.

  A half-bald man stood shaking his fist, his red suspenders stretched to the limit by a protruding stomach. “I’m telling you somethin’s got to be done with the boy. If the sheriff won’t do it, I will.”

  “Come on, Pete,” someone shouted from the crowd. “The boy just lost his pa.”

  “That don’t give him no right to go stealing from me.”

  Mary-Jo rose on tiptoes to peer over the crowd. Just as she suspected, the boy in question was Eddie. He held a half-eaten apple in one hand. The man named Pete held him by the ear.

  Her temper flared. Of all the—

  Pushing through the crowd, she worked her way to the front. “Let him go.” Everyone was talking at once, so she repeated herself, this time louder. “I said let him go!”

  This got everyone’s attention or at least drew silence.

  The shopkeeper glared at her. “I don’t take no guff from strangers.”

  “That makes two of us.” She turned, so incensed she accidentally dropped her sewing machine on his foot.

  The shopkeeper yelled, “Ow!” He let go of the boy and hopped around, holding on to his sore foot, cursing a blue streak.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  Eddie pushed past her and took off like a cat with his tail afire. All he left in his wake was an overturned barrel of nails.

  Pete shook his finger in her face. “Now look what you’ve gone and done.” He stalked into the store and slammed the door, rattling the windows and causing a display of shovels to topple over.

  The crowd quickly dispersed, but some glared at her before taking their leave. Mary-Jo picked up her Singer, surprised to find the penny meant for the wishing well still in her palm.

  Standing in the middle of the deserted boardwalk surrounded by scattered nails, she held her sewing machine in one hand and lost dreams in the other.

  The sun sank below the horizon and Mary-Jo’s spirits sank with it; it would soon be dark. Cold air blew from the north and she shivered. She pulled her shawl tight, but it offered little warmth against the cutting wind.

  It had been a long and tiring day, and her arm and shoulder hurt from lugging her sewing machine around town. It was too cold for the park bench and the hotel proprietor had pointed to a No Loitering sign and chased her out of the lobby. With no money for a room she headed for the train station. At least she could rest there.

  The telegraph operator had left for the day and the station was deserted. Feeling as homeless as a poker chip, she finally walked back to town, just to be around people.

  The lamplighter whistled as he made his way up Main with his long pole. The sound of a tuneless piano drifted from a nearby saloon. Laughter rolled out of another.

  She looked around for a place to spend the night. A stoop-shouldered woman walked out of the church and that gave Mary-Jo an idea.

  Much to her relief, the church door was still unlocked. The rusty hinges creaked as she slipped into the narthex.

  It was dark inside the sanctuary except for a couple of burning candles. The flickering flames cast a golden glow upon the stained glass windows. It was still cold, but at least she was out of the brisk north wind.


  She picked a middle row and set her sewing machine down on the pew before taking her seat. Her carpetbag made an adequate pillow. Though the pew was hard, she soon fell asleep.

  Something woke her. For a moment she didn’t know where she was. It all came back in a flash. The coffin. Two coffins. The sheriff’s disapproving look. She blinked the memories away. The candles were still burning so she hadn’t been asleep for long.

  Footsteps on the slate floor made her heart thump. “Hello.” She peered over the top of the pew. “Eddie!”

  The boy looked startled and poised to run. Obviously, he hadn’t expected to find anyone inside the church.

  “Don’t go. Remember me? I’m Miss Parker. I won’t hurt you.” She sat up. “What are you doin’ here? Why aren’t you home in bed?” Why, for that matter, wasn’t she?

  “I—I was lookin’ for Pa.”

  At first she didn’t know what he meant. “But your pa—” Of course. Eddie last saw his father here. He didn’t realize his father had been taken to the cemetery.

  “Come and sit down,” she said. She moved her sewing machine from the pew to the floor, leaving a space by her side.

  The boy walked slowly down the aisle clutching his hat. Finally he slid onto the polished pew next to her.

  “Your pa’s not here,” she said gently.

  “Is he in the ground?” Eddie asked. “Like Ma?”

  Something in his voice tugged at her heart. “His body is, yes, but not his soul.” Someone had said those exact words to her after she lost her ma. As a child they had comforted her and she hoped they comforted him. She pointed at the stained glass window that depicted the Lord holding out His arms. “Both your pa and ma are in heaven.”

  Eddie didn’t say anything but his gaze was riveted to the altar. The memory of Daniel’s coffin was very much on her mind and she imagined it was on Eddie’s mind too.

  “I’m sorry ’bout your pa,” she said.

  He continued to stare dry-eyed at the spot where the coffin had been. She wondered if he held back his tears on purpose or simply had none to shed.

  “It’s okay to feel sad.” She heaved a sigh. “I feel sad too.” She studied the boy’s pale face.

  Eddie sniffed but still no tears. “I didn’t say good-bye,” he said.

  She swallowed hard. “I didn’t either.” Saying good-bye had been the last thing on her mind. For several moments neither spoke. Finally she asked, “Does your uncle know you’re here?”

  “He’s gone. Out looking for the man who killed Pa.”

  It was all she could do to keep her temper. What was the matter with the man, leaving his young nephew to fend for himself? “Don’t you have other relatives? Someone to care for you?”

  He slid a glance in her direction. “I don’t need a nursemaid.”

  “No, I don’t reckon you do.” She pushed a strand of hair out of his eyes. “But surely you have family.”

  “Just my uncle.”

  “I see.”

  One of the candles sputtered and went out. Soon they would be left in darkness.

  “I know why Pa didn’t tell you about me,” he said.

  She arched a brow. “How do you know he didn’t tell me?”

  “I heard my uncle tell Deputy Barnes.”

  “Eavesdropping, eh?” She studied the boy. “So why do you think he didn’t tell me?”

  “’Cause he hates me.”

  Hates. Not hated. He still hadn’t accepted his father’s death. That would explain the lack of tears. Not that she blamed him. She was having trouble believing it herself.

  “I don’t know why your pa didn’t tell me, but I know he didn’t hate you.”

  “Did too!” he said. “He hates me for what I did to Ma.”

  His sudden outburst surprised her. “What . . . did you do?”

  “I gave her smallpox. I got sick and gave it to her.”

  “Oh, Eddie.” She laid a hand on the side of his face. “You poor sweet boy. Don’t you know it was an accident? You weren’t to blame. No one was. It wasn’t your fault.”

  “Dad blames me.”

  She drew her hand away. “Did . . . did he say that?”

  “Nope, but I know that’s what he thinks. That’s why he won’t . . .”

  “Won’t what?” she prodded gently.

  “He won’t take me fishing no more.”

  She moistened her lips. “I’ll tell you what I think. I think your pa stopped taking you fishing ’cause he was sad. When adults are sad they stop doing fun things.” She certainly had after her first fiancé died. She took the boy’s hand. It felt like ice. “You’re cold.” She pulled off her shawl and wrapped it around his thin shoulders. “It’s late. You better go home.”

  “I don’t want to. I’m . . .”

  “You’re what?” she urged.

  “Nothing.” He hesitated. “I don’t want to leave you here all alone. There are bad men out there. One of them shot Pa.”

  Scared. The boy was scared. Maybe for her, but mostly for himself. “Your uncle will protect you,” she said.

  “He won’t be home till tomorrow.”

  She chewed on her bottom lip. “Do you think he would mind if I spent the night at your house?” She couldn’t think of any other way to make the boy go home.

  Eddie brightened. “You can sleep on the couch.”

  “Well then.” Compared to the church pew, the couch sounded like heaven. She stood and gathered her carpetbag and sewing machine. “Lead the way, young man. Lead the way.”

  IT WAS WELL AFTER MIDNIGHT BY THE TIME TOM Garrett reached Mrs. Hoffmann’s Boarding House, a two-story brick building just outside of town. A headwind not only slowed his journey but chilled him to the bone. April sure had come in like a lion.

  Normally he would have flopped down in an out-of-town hotel for the night, but he didn’t want to leave the boy any longer than necessary. It was good of his landlady to agree to watch him, but she had a bad back and was no match for an active eight-year-old. Especially one as wild as Eddie.

  He still didn’t know what to do about his brother’s house. Would living in the home he shared with his pa make things better or worse for Eddie? Maybe it would be better to sell the house and buy another; one that wasn’t a constant reminder of all that they’d lost.

  After settling his horse in the stable for the night, he climbed the stairs of the wraparound porch and let himself in the front door. The smell of cooked cabbage, no doubt left over from supper, mingled with the kerosene odor of the still-burning lamp in the front parlor.

  He lit a candle and took the stairs two at a time, careful to make as little noise as possible so as not to disturb the other boarders.

  His room was at the end of the hall, the door ajar. Mrs. Hoffmann must have left it open so she could hear the boy. He entered quietly and stopped. The light from his candle revealed an empty bed. A quick glance around confirmed it; Eddie was gone!

  No longer concerned about waking the other boarders, he stomped down the hall and pounded on the widow Hoffmann’s door. The light at his feet told him she was still awake. It seemed to take forever but the door sprang open. Wearing a white dressing gown, the boardinghouse owner’s gray hair hung to her shoulders.

  “Where’s Eddie?”

  She looked startled and said something in German before switching to English. “I thought he was in your room.”

  Drat! He whirled around and rushed down the stairs.

  Dan’s house was a little over a mile away from the boardinghouse. Tom didn’t bother saddling his horse. Instead, he ran most of the way, reaching Dan’s place in little more than ten minutes.

  The house was dark and looked desolate even in the full moon. He’d only been here a couple of times since his brother moved back to town. Guilt cut through him every bit as much as the icy wind. Would things have turned out differently if he’d been a better brother? A more involved uncle? Likely not.

  It wasn’t until he reached the porch that he noticed t
he curtains moving. Had Eddie opened the window? Or had someone else?

  He pushed the door open and the hinges creaked. Moonlight streamed through the open window. If something happened to his brother’s son, he would never forgive himself. At the sight of the mound on the sofa, relief flooded through him.

  But why was Eddie sleeping out here and not in his own bed? Garrett tiptoed across the room. The boy had kicked off his covers. He bent to pick the blanket up off the floor and caught an unexpected whiff of lavender. That was odd.

  Straightening, he leaned forward to cover the boy and froze.

  He would recognize the blond hair feathered across the pillow anywhere. Miss Parker . . .

  But what was she doing here?

  Her creamy complexion glowed softly in the moonlight. Long lashes shadowed delicate cheeks. A memory of blue eyes and proud turn of her head came to mind.

  Could she have been telling the truth about Dan? Had his brother really neglected to tell her about Eddie? It didn’t seem likely, but what reason would she have to lie?

  He covered her with the blanket, careful not to wake her. He straightened and when she didn’t stir, he tiptoed to Eddie’s room.

  The boy was sound asleep. Thank God for that. Perhaps he owed the lady an apology.

  He blew out his breath and pinched his brow. He’d fought in the war and chased down some of the meanest, most ornery criminals in the county. But he hadn’t the foggiest idea how to care for an eight-year-old boy, especially one who wanted nothing to do with him.

  Satisfied that Eddie was all right, at least for tonight, Garrett let himself quietly out of the house.

  A picnic basket in one hand and a blanket in the other, Mary-Jo waited for Eddie to open the iron gate leading to the church cemetery. By now, she expected to be on her way home, but she couldn’t leave town until Eddie’s uncle returned.