Angel's Embrace

by Charlotte Hubbard

  “And you look like you were born to be doin’ that. Not just drawin’ Lily’s likeness, but showin’ Gracie how it’s done.”

  Where had that come from? He was treading cautiously with Eve; didn’t want to lead another young woman on, only to disappoint her. But it was true. He’d seen the way Eve Massena studied her subject while that pencil kept moving over the paper, as though it were a magic wand that reproduced what her eyes were observing.

  She shrugged prettily. “We girls had some time before dinner, so I thought I’d see if I remembered how.”

  “Let me see!” Lily wheedled, inching to the edge of her chair.

  “All right, dear. I’ve sketched enough so that for our next lesson, I’ll mix my paints on a palette and start the actual portrait.”

  Billy chuckled when Princess Lily hurried over to lean on Eve, her eyes bright as her hand slipped around the young woman’s arm. “You drew all that in just a few minutes?”

  “Will you paint my portrait, too?” little Grace piped up. “And Olivia’s?”

  “All in good time,” Eve assured them, her face alight with affection. “We need to clear away our art supplies and help Temple set the table for dinner.”

  All in good time . . . a time for every purpose under Heaven, Billy mused. He watched them as long as he dared, aware of how the little girls had taken to Eve and her baby, not to mention how settled Miss Massena seemed, here among folks who loved her. As a kid, he’d thought she was a little snooty—and way too well-behaved in church, sitting there as though she were actually listening to Reverend Searcy’s sermons!

  Billy now realized that he, too, felt calm and in control when he was doing what he loved—what he was meant to do: horses had always been his passion, and he was a natural trainer. It was only when he strayed from that path—like when he’d gone looking for Wesley, expecting to be welcomed back—that things went wrong.

  Which explains why Emma’s so peevish, doesn’t it? All she ever lived for was to be your wife.

  He went outside to wash up in the basin beside the barn. Splashing the cool water over his dusty, wind-burned face made him feel better on the outside, but he wasn’t sure what would help him heal on the inside. He’d made such a mess of things for the woman who’d been his friend practically forever.

  It helped that the Malloy family was following the patterns he’d known since he was Joel’s age: The girls had set the table and were carrying out plates of fried chicken and bowls of string beans they’d picked this morning. Temple’s dark face beamed as she helped them, listening to Grace’s excited account of her first drawing lesson. Asa was scrubbing a few pans while the others made their way to the table.

  And then it was Michael’s calm, reverent voice as he prayed over the food, and Mercy urging the children to eat a little bit of everything—this aimed at Joel, who scowled at anything from the garden. Billy passed the food and ate, and felt the contentment of this happy home. The others talked about the picnic after church tomorrow.

  “I think you should take a big bowl of your corn pudding, Mama!” Gracie suggested with shining eyes.

  “Nah—biscuits!” Joel crowed, drizzling honey over the one he’d split on his plate. “I want a pile of biscuits! And apple fritters! And Asa’s shoofly pie!”

  “Nuh-uh!” Solace chimed in. “We gotta take fried apples—and Asa’s cherry pie! Right, Billy?”

  Billy smiled at her over a forkful of green beans. “Back about the time you were born, little girl, Asa was makin’ me the thickest, sweetest punkin pies, weren’t ya?”

  “Pumpkin,” Lily said quietly, patting his wrist to soften the correction.

  “Well, whatever ya wanna call it, Mister Billy could do a punkin pie justice like nobody I ever seen!” the old colored man said with a laugh. “That’s what we made fer ’is birthdays, ’stead of cake, you see. He thought it was a fine thing, that you could lift a slice outta the pan and not need a fork to eat it.”

  Billy chuckled at this memory, and then felt Eve looking at him from across the table. Her face was alight with what she was learning about everyone’s tastes in food, as well as a secretive something that glimmered in those green eyes.

  “I recall a Sunday when Billy’s bottom was so sore he could hardly sit through church,” she offered with a lilt in her voice.

  The younger faces around the table lit up with anticipation.

  “What’d he do? Get a lickin’?” Solace asked with a gleeful giggle.

  Eve grinned at the recollection of it, while Billy’s cheeks flushed.

  “The Bristols had a cook named Beulah Mae,” she told her eager listeners, “and on the day before they had the preacher and his wife over for Sunday dinner, she made two fine pumpkin pies. As I recall it, Billy’s twin brother bet him he couldn’t eat a whole one by himself.”

  “So didja?” Gracie nipped her lip, which showed how she’d lost a front tooth last week.

  Billy chortled. “I gave it my best shot—but that doesn’t mean it stayed down. Worse yet, Wesley bolted for the barn when he heard Beulah Mae squawkin’ about those pies bein’ gone. I was still bein’ sick outside the kitchen door, so I caught the switch, and had to explain to the preacher about why we didn’t have pie the next day.”

  Joel, in his offhand way, squinted as he considered this. “This the same brother who was shootin’ atcha couple days ago?”

  A collective sigh went around the table, and Billy nodded. “Yep. Only brother I’ve got.”

  “So how come you didn’t turn out like him? How come you always get caught and gotta take the blame?”

  The room went quiet, except for the pulse pounding in Billy’s ears. He focused on Joel, with his rumpled brown hair and slender face, and those dark eyes that never quite met anyone else’s.

  “That’s how I was made, I guess,” he replied after he thought about it. “Never could seem to run from trouble, maybe because I wasn’t as big or as fast or as ornery as Wes—”

  “And maybe because you wanted to please your mama,” Eve remarked.

  “And maybe because you wanted to be like Jesus,” Temple Gates cut in. While the young colored woman didn’t belabor her faith, she made the most of examples from real life for the benefit of her young charges. “He always caught opposition and ended up dying to pay the price for all the times we don’t do the right thing, didn’t he? I’ve always believed Billy to be a lot like that.”

  The burn crept higher in his face, but he flashed her a grateful grin. He wished he could live up to Temple’s high opinion of him—especially lately, when he seemed to stir up nothing but trouble with Emma. And Wes.

  Michael, meanwhile, was rising from his place at the head of the table to take the large Bible from the sideboard. “Seems a good time to share our reading for the day,” he said as he riffled through its pages. “It’s Jeremiah who tells us . . . yes, here it is—the words of an Old Testament prophet who spoke to this subject long before Jesus taught about it.”

  His eyes met everyone’s in turn, until he was sure even the youngest at his table was paying proper attention. “I’ll read from the seventeenth chapter, about what befalls those who don’t follow the Lord’s ways, and those who do. This was a favorite way for my own ma to point up that God was watching, and would reward me according to my behavior.”

  Mercy smiled at him from her end of the table, an example to her children about how to listen when it mattered.

  “‘Thus says the Lord: Cursed are those who trust in mere men and make flesh their strength, whose hearts turn away from the Lord,’” he began. Then he looked up, to continue in his own words. “They shall be like a shrub in the desert, and they won’t see when the rain comes . . . they’ll live in parched places of the wilderness, in an uninhabited salt land.”

  “Kind of like Kansas in the summer,” Solace remarked.

  Billy laid a hand on her arm, smiling to himself. She was a pistol, this tomboy, but at least she was listening. And thinking.

 
Michael smiled and went on. “But blessed are those who trust in the Lord,” he paraphrased in a more hopeful tone, “whose trust is in the Lord and whose trust is the Lord. They shall be like a tree planted by water, sending out its roots by the stream. It won’t be afraid when the drought comes, and its leaves will stay green. It does not cease to bear fruit.

  “And here’s the whole crux of it,” he said, laying the large book on the table to address them. “The heart is devious above all things. It is wicked and perverse—who can understand it? I, the Lord, test the mind and search the heart, to give to all my people according to their ways—according to the fruit of their doing.”

  “That is so true,” old Asa said. “Ain’t nothin’ the Lord don’t know about every single one of us. We gotta be doin’ good, while we’s still got the chance!”

  “And I think we need to pray on it while it’s fresh in our minds,” Mercy said, reaching for the hands on either side of her.

  Billy took hold of Lily’s slender fingers on his right and felt Asa’s bony ones gripping his left. As he bowed his head, he sat in awe of the power in this simple ritual: the way ten people ceased to be separate beings when they joined together in these devotional moments. Even Eve, across from him, held onto Grace and Temple despite the way she’d railed at her mother’s religious zeal. She made him think of a pretty, slender tree who’d sent roots into the wellspring of this family and was flourishing because of it.

  Emma’s image flashed in his mind, and Billy grimaced. She was so alone; as dry and brittle as that bush withering in the desert.

  Hold her in your hand, Lord, he prayed before Mercy began. I tried my best, but you’re right—I can’t understand her heart. And I can’t heal it the way you can.

  “Precious Lord, we thank You for being present in our home and in our hearts,” Mercy said in a quiet, melodious voice. “We ask Your blessing on the reading of this lesson, just as we require Your grace to live the way we were created to—in Your image. Watch over us this day, and cradle us through the night, that we may rise with the sun to praise Your name all our lives long.”

  “Amen,” echoed around the table.

  Amen, resounded in Billy’s heart.

  He wasn’t sure why, but as they rose from the table he looked at each of the people he loved so dearly—yes, even Eve—and hoped Mercy’s prayer held true for all of them.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Billy went out early to do the morning’s chores before church. He nodded to Asa, who was stirring up batter for fritters to go with the rasher of bacon waiting to be fried. When he stepped outside, the stillness of the July dawn warned him it would be a hot day with no rain or relief in sight.

  The leaves of the cottonwoods along the river seemed to hold their breath—but they were still green, while the grass around the house and in the pasture was looking dry. It brought to mind Michael’s message from last night, about how those who loved the Lord were like the trees who sent their roots into the stream and flourished.

  Was he faithful enough? He’d spent a fitful night, wondering if he could have said something different to Emma. Wondering if his feelings for Eve and Olivia were the beginnings of a lifetime of love the Lord had sent him, or just his sense of duty kicking in. Once more Wesley had made a mess of things and he, Billy, the responsible twin, was making things right.

  He stopped at the barn to gaze back at the white house in the shimmer of the sunrise. Feelings welled up within him, for this had been his home—and yet it really wasn’t. The Malloys had taken him in and loved him like family, but he was a Bristol. And that would never change.

  He turned his face from the sun as warring emotions punched him in the gut. Much as he loved Michael and Mercy and the family they’d pieced together, he wanted to go home. Here in the summer sun’s unflinching light, he realized he had no desire to finish that little house at the corner of the homestead—whether Emma decided to live there or not. He wanted that place in Richmond with the white pillared porch and the lilacs, even if the fences were falling down and the windows were broken.

  A sigh escaped him, and bitterness rose up in his throat like bile. Best to feed and water the horses like always: Obadiah Jones had sent word yesterday that he’d be coming for his horses this week. They figured he’d show up today for Sunday dinner, as he always did.

  Billy swiveled to go inside the barn, but then gasped. Michael was standing there, watching him. His hair was still mussed from sleep. His golden brown eyes were as devoted as an old hound dog’s.

  “Mighty serious thoughts, Billy,” he observed. “If something’s on your mind—and it’s been that kind of a summer—I hope you’ll tell me about it. It’ll go no farther, you know.”

  Billy’s eyes smarted with unshed tears. He suddenly felt like that ten-year-old waif this compassionate man had taken up onto the seat of his stagecoach, after he’d been abandoned and his sister Christine became such a pill.

  “You always know when I’m stewin’ on somethin’,” he breathed, “so tell me this, Michael: why can’t I think of nothin’ but going back to that house in Richmond? Why do I feel so—so mad at Wesley, because he got the place by bein’ devious and underhanded?”

  Billy stopped, amazed at how his heart was racing. Years it had been since he’d felt so upset—so cheated. And it didn’t feel good.

  “Anyone could understand your anger, Billy. Only natural to champ at the bit when your brother throws you off the place as a trespasser,” he replied, slinging an arm around Billy’s shoulders.

  Billy nodded, still blinking. It felt odd to have this man comfort him now that he was twenty, but he didn’t shrug out from under Malloy’s hug.

  “Am I bein’ ungrateful, wantin’ to leave here?” he rasped. “Is it childish to want the Bristol place just because Wesley took it—just like when we were kids?”

  Michael smiled with the infinite patience Billy had always admired. His face took on that same ethereal glow artists painted on the face of Jesus—a real comfort when a crisis crowded out that still, small voice he should be listening for.

  “You’ve heard me tell this, but when I was your age, Billy, I’d already fought in the war, and came home to find my ma had just died. Then I went out with a couple of friends, to see the young lady who became Joel’s ma as a result of my selfish behavior,” he recounted quietly.

  Malloy’s brow furrowed with his recollections. “It’s natural for a young man to leave his home—to see something of the world and find his own place in it. Yet in your disappointment and anger, I don’t see you lashing out like I did. I don’t see you taking out your grief and frustration on Emma—or Eve. You’ve always had a good head on your shoulders, and you heart’s in the right place, Billy.”

  “Oh, I got Emma good and riled up, to the point she never wants to see me again.”

  “But she’s been a party to that problem, hasn’t she?” Michael pointed out. “Though we all feel bad about her situation—and understand her need for love and her desire to marry you—we’ve wondered if she wasn’t forcing your hand a bit. Emma’s shown a different side during this crisis, and it’s not a very flattering picture, is it?”

  A grateful grin curved his lips. “I thought maybe I was the only one who saw it that way.”

  “Nope.” Michael’s smile hit him like a little jolt of lightning. “You’re our boy, Billy, and we want what’s best for you—what God has in his plan. And we always hoped you’d look farther than Emma.”

  Billy felt his load lift. He stood taller and found his smile again. “Guess I shoulda followed my gut instead of—”

  “And you did, when you tended Eve at the church and then announced the wedding was off,” Michael insisted. “Although you certainly waited until the last minute to tell Emma how you really felt!”

  Michael’s soft chuckle made Billy feel better. But his situation hadn’t really gotten any easier.

  “So now I’ve gotta think about Eve and Olivia,” he murmured. “But I still don’
t know whether that’s the right path to follow, or if I’m just so used to fixin’ what Wesley’s messed up, I’m actin’ out of habit.”

  “Time will tell, son. At least now Eve has some options, and she’s mothering that baby like she ought to. She can behave as she normally would, instead of running scared. We’ll gladly help her for as long as she needs it.”

  “Yeah,” Billy said with a nod, “you’ve always been Good Samaritans, that’s for dang sure.”

  “I have a soft spot for girls in her predicament, same as I did for Joel’s ma,” Mike replied wistfully. “You might’ve been too young to realize it, but my helping Lucy Greene with grocery money—and the way little Joel flung himself at me when we came out of church one day—nearly turned Mercy away from me. It was easy to see what sort of woman Lucy’d become.”

  Billy smiled as he recalled that Sunday morning. Easter, it was; the day Solace was christened. “Good thing we got home to find Lily on the porch, or you’d have caught the cold shoulder a whole lot faster!”

  He nodded, smiling. “And when Lucy was killed, and I took Joel as my own, it strained our romance even more. But Mercy and I look back now and see it as God’s hand guiding our lives.”

  “So what sorta woman was my mama? Did she get shot down ’cause you were bein’ such a do-gooder?”

  They both whirled around to see Joel standing behind them with a pitchfork. Wiry as he was, with his hair still in clumps from sleeping, he didn’t look big enough to be handling horse chores—nor did he ever look happy about it. His sullen eyes were throwing darts at Michael Malloy.

  “Son, don’t misunderstand me when I say—”

  “Am I really your boy? Or did ya tell that story so’s it would sound good to the neighbors?” he demanded shrilly. “Was I just a way to make Mercy feel sorry for ya after Ma got shot? I remember that like it was yesterday—and I still ain’t figured out why you didn’t stop those guys with the guns!”

  Billy swallowed hard. How would Michael answer these questions, fired at him like the bullets that had killed Joel’s mother? Was there a way to help this man who’d saved him from more difficult situations than he could count?