Angel's Embrace

by Charlotte Hubbard

  Mercy, who’d been watching this exchange, resumed her pie slicing. “Let’s not rush that, Mr. Jones. My girls have plenty of time to discover who they are, and who they’re meant to marry.”

  Then she looked at him pointedly. “And by that time, I hope they’ll know they don’t need a man who expects them to wait on him hand and foot! Lily, Solace and Grace are much too remarkable to be caught in that trap.”

  “You are so right!” Mama chimed in, “and I applaud the way you’re raising your daughters. Encouraging their education and talents—just the way you did for my daughter Christine!”

  Jones stuffed a large bite of pie into his mouth, sensing he was outnumbered by outspoken females. Billy felt a surge of admiration for Mercy Malloy: She would never have survived the hardships of her earlier life, had she been dependent on a man. Nor would Judd Monroe or Michael Malloy have loved her so much if she’d been biddable and complacent.

  Billy smiled at her, drinking in her modest summer dress of yellow and a face that radiated compassion. He’d be a different man today were it not for the example Mercy had set, about the qualities of a good wife who kept her home in harmony.

  He suspected Obadiah Jones wouldn’t give a woman like Mercy a second look; wouldn’t tolerate her opinions or methods of managing a household. Which was just as well. As Michael came back downstairs, brushing his wife’s cheek with a kiss, Billy felt order had been restored: God was in his heaven and all felt right with the world.

  “Shall we take a look at those horses?” Malloy said when they’d finished their pie. “I’m sure you’ll feel they’re worth the higher price we’re charging now. Mr. Bristol’s the backbone of my Morgan operation, so I pay him what he’s worth to keep him here.”

  “You get what you pay for—in horses and help,” Jones agreed, clapping Billy on the back. “Since the government’s paying me to supply Army outposts all over Kansas and Oklahoma now, I hope you’ll sell me a lot of Morgans for a lot of money, son. You’ll be doing your part to protect our settlers from those shiftless, warmongering Injuns. Know what I mean?”

  From his window above the dining room, Joel stared out at the corrals of horses, and the barnyard where chickens scratched, and the barns where milk cows swatted flies with their tails. Manure. Those animals were all about manure, and he was damn tired of shoveling it.

  Gripping the windowsill, he listened to that Jones fellow brag about paying top dollar for Triple M horses. That Texas twang rang with a devilish aura of power: painted pictures of cattle herds on vast acres of pastureland. Manure landed there, too, but he mostly heard the jingling of coins. Jones swaggered in here every summer, and the grandiose life he spoke of called to Joel’s lonely heart.

  In Texas, a kid didn’t have to step and fetch. There was hard work, yes, but he wasn’t afraid of that. He’d been chained to it all his life.

  In Texas, only the whisper of the wind, the pounding of horses’ hooves, and the jangling of the cook’s triangle would dictate how he spent his days.

  No more sermons on Sundays, or evening devotions. No more lessons from a school marm who preached about how much better he could do at his lessons.

  No more putting up with three sisters who could do no wrong.

  And no more obeying a lofty father and a substitute mother who spouted Bible verses at every wayward thought that popped into anyone’s head.

  And yet, for all their righteous ways, Mike and Mercy Malloy had cheated him, hadn’t they? They minced words, in pinched voices, about the kind of woman his mother was—implying he might be tainted, too. Constantly watching over his soul, hinting it was time he committed himself to Christ this summer, so he wouldn’t follow in Lucy Greene’s soiled footsteps, no doubt.

  But he would make his own decisions now. And as he watched the dandified Texan swaying between the leaner figures of his father and that redheaded Bristol he hated so, Joel’s heart beat faster and harder.

  Surely a man with spreads in Texas and ranches sprawling all the way between here and the Rio Grande could use another set of hands.

  Surely Obadiah Jones would put him up in a bunkhouse and let him become a man on his own terms. Anybody could see the Texan took instruction from no one. He was a self-made man, unhampered by the constraints of faith; a man who gave the orders and rewarded those who carried them out.

  He was down there at the corral now, viewing the Morgans Billy paraded before him. He signaled with a nod, scribbling notes on a tablet, as the minutes and the horses went by.

  It was now or never.

  Joel spread a shirt on his bed. He tossed some clothes on it, and then tucked in the top and bottom, tying the long sleeves to form a bundle. With a last glance at the room he’d grown up in, he slipped quietly along the hallway to his parents’ bedroom. As he’d done on dozens of fine summer nights, when the moon called to him and the coyotes, Joel deftly hoisted himself over the railing of their widow’s walk to scoot across the roof. Then he shinnied the length of the downspout.

  Quickly, while the girls were in the kitchen doing dishes, he sprinted across the yard to the glossy black carriage parked in the shade. The matched team of blacks eyed him as he opened its door. Plenty of room inside the bin beneath the back bench seat, and as Joel climbed into it, he grinned.

  This time tomorrow, he’d be far, far away!

  This time next week, he’d have a whole new life!

  Chapter Twenty

  “Well, son, for a day that started out on the rough side, it turned out all right!” Michael said, looking ready to whoop. “We were concerned about Jones paying the higher rate, and he took two dozen horses! More than ever before!”

  “You’s to be congratulated,” Asa agreed. “Goes to show how hard work makes its own reward, and how the Good Lord looks after his own.”

  As Malloy handed him the large envelope of money, Billy glowed with satisfaction. They’d taken the Morgans into Abilene by tethering them to the backs of three wagons pulled by the largest of Jones’s new horses. So now, with the twenty-four fine animals corralled for the night, they were heading back to the Triple M in one wagon with the others hitched on behind them.

  Tomorrow Jones would escort his new mounts south and west on the train, to Fort Wallace, Fort Hays, and army outposts in Oklahoma before heading back to his spread in Texas. He always rode in fine first-class style, parking his carriage in a private boxcar that connected to his personal Pullman car—a palace on wheels with a colored butler and a custom-painted design on the outside for all to marvel at. Never let it be said that Obadiah Jones spared any expense when it came to his own comfort.

  And now that he’d earned himself and the Triple M a good profit from this transaction, Billy relaxed on the wagon seat. “Thanks for helpin’ out,” he said, wrapping an arm around the men on either side of him. “Say all you want about me trainin’ those Morgans, but I’d never have gotten very far in this world without you two.”

  Asa slapped his thigh fondly. “You’d’ve done just fine, Mister Billy. You’s just made that-a way. Never gave nobody a lick of trouble!”

  Michael’s chuckle sounded wistful as the evening breeze riffled his sandy hair. “Too bad Joel’s done everything in his power not to follow your example.”

  “Was he all right when you went to check on him?”

  Malloy’s mustache twitched around his dimples. “He was stewing in his own juice, too stubborn to talk about his mother any more. Nor did he really accept my apology for the way things went this morning. But I felt better for making the effort.”

  “Mister Joel’s not an easy nut to crack,” Asa observed. “Been livin’ his life under a dark cloud so long, he don’t recognize it when you offers ’im a way into the light. Needs our prayers, that boy does.”

  “Especially since Mercy’s determined to see him baptized—which, at his age, calls for a public profession of faith.” Michael grunted softly. “Should’ve seen to that when he first came to us. Could’ve had him christened with Lily o
r Grace.”

  “He’s the kinda boy who needs to say those words of his own free will,” the old Negro said. “You’s done right by him, Mister Michael. Ain’t nothin’ more that boy coulda asked for—even if he don’t see it that way. In the end, we all has to speak for ourselves and own up for all we’s done.”

  Billy reflected on this for the next few miles. Ahead of them, the twilight sky was fading into azure and a few fluffy clouds caught the last rays of the sunset. A full moon was on the rise, and all around them the nightly chorus of cicadas sang.

  It was his favorite sight, right here along the Smoky Hill River, where the Triple M first came into view. He recalled the prairie grass and the rutted stagecoach road that cut through it when he was a kid first coming here. He got quivery with pride, seeing the white two-story house near the road, with two stables and a barn arranged around the corrals behind it. And then, as far as the eye could see, the corn crop stood tall and proud on one side of the road while the Turkey Red wheat resembled a lush green lawn.

  It gave him a sense of pride and belonging, knowing he’d helped build the Malloys’ dream into this fine spread that glistened in the sun’s final brilliance.

  Was it wrong to go home to Richmond? To start up his own place there, raising horses like his daddy had? Knowing how Mike Malloy depended on him here—how well the family had treated him—made the choice a tough one.

  Billy sighed, and then sat straighter. “What do you s’pose that smoke’s from? Way over yonder, where the Clark land borders ours?”

  “Good-sized fire,” Asa remarked. “You don’t think a spark from the train set the pasture ablaze?”

  With a clap of the reins, Michael urged the horses into a canter. “Better ride over that way to find out. Dry as it’s been, a prairie fire’ll spread faster than we can control it.”

  An odd tightness clenched in Billy’s gut. What if it wasn’t a train? What if Emma had done something careless, like forgetting to douse an outside fire she’d cooked with? Or what if she’d set the house aflame to spite him?

  Surely she knew better! He was allowing his imagination to run amok when he should be thinking of ways to prevent a disaster to their homes and crops.

  They barreled into the driveway at full speed, halting the horses near the first stable. “Asa, I want you to get buckets ready and warn the ladies to change into old clothes,” Michael said as they clambered from the wagon. “Might need to form a brigade from the river, if the wind kicks up.”

  “Yessir, I’ll do that!”

  “And Billy, you ride on over to the Clark place,” Malloy continued. “Let’s hope George didn’t set the house afire trying to fry up some dinner. I’ll have Reuben and Sedalia round up their hands to carry water as soon as we find out what’s burning.”

  “See you later! Be careful!” Billy called over his shoulder. Within minutes he’d saddled Pete and was headed down the road at a full gallop.

  He clung with his knees, riding easy yet swallowing back panic. Bad enough that George Clark had never really recovered from his wife’s death last summer: if the Clarks lost their crop again this year, they wouldn’t survive the winter here. And Emma would find a way to blame it on him, for backing out on her.

  As darkness fell around him, he prayed for safe travel—for all who would ride mounts over gopher holes and in the presence of fire. Billy prayed for guidance, too, because his years on the prairie had taught him how precarious life became when people made mistakes and Mother Nature magnified them.

  When he arrived at George Clark’s, however, the homestead’s original log house sat intact. The front window was so dirty he could barely make out the flame of a candle inside.

  “George! Emma!” he called as he dismounted. “Everybody all right here?”

  No response.

  Billy yanked open the door, ready to yell again, when he saw Clark slumped in a kitchen chair. An empty bottle sat on the table in front of him. The place smelled of cooking grease and unwashed clothing, which littered the floor near the curtain that marked off the old man’s sleeping area.

  “George! Wake up, dang it! Fire!”

  “Uhn?” Clark shuddered before slowly lifting his head.

  “Where’s Emma? She out back—or over at the other house?”

  Even in the dimness, Billy saw George Clark’s unshaven face curdle in a scowl. “Dunno,” he slurred. “She ain’t here, takin’ care of me, that’s fer damn sure.”

  Sensing that George would be no help, Billy quickly ladled water from the bucket near the table. “Drink this! Shake yourself awake!” he cried. “You’ll need to head for the river with your livestock if the fields catch fire. I’m goin’ to find Emma.”

  Behind him he heard the thunk of George’s head hitting the tabletop, but he couldn’t worry about the old man: that pillar of smoke must be coming from the unfinished house at the corner of the two homesteads. And Emma must be there!

  Urging Pete along the darkening trail, Billy prayed to God that he’d find her safe. As he rode closer, he saw that angry red-orange flames had engulfed the roof—smelled the tang of new wood and squinted at the intense light from the fire. Pete was starting to spook, so Billy hopped down and wrapped the reins around a fence post. He tried not to think about their plans for a chicken yard and a garden in this spot.

  “Emma! Emma, you here?” he cried.

  The roof beams made a gut-wrenching groan as they collapsed, pulling the top of the house into the inferno with them. No sign of her on the front stoop, thank goodness, because tongues of flame were licking at it now.

  Frantic, Billy dashed around to the back. If she was inside—if she’d gotten hurt somehow and couldn’t move—or God forbid, if she’d seen this as a way to end her misery—

  But he had to keep his thoughts logical. It wasn’t like Emma to give herself over to a disaster. Not after she’d remained the sane, competent family member who’d seen to her mother’s burial and then found the pluck to propose to him. When her dogs began to bark, he looked in their direction.

  “Emma! Emma, can you hear—”

  “Don’t you come a step closer, Billy Bristol!”

  The air rushed from his lungs as he peered through the darkness toward her voice—although it sounded like she might be aiming a rifle at him. When his prickly eyes focused on the two walnut trees—the place they’d planned to hang a swing—he saw the top of her blond head behind the trunk on the left.

  And yes, she was pointing something at him.

  “Emma, what in tarnation—”

  “I said halt, before I fill you fulla holes, Billy!” Her voice wavered, but her wrath came through loud and clear. “Tried to burn me out, didn’t ya? Thought you’d be rid of me once and for all, but—”

  “What’re you sayin’?” He inched closer, wishing the smoke didn’t obscure Emma’s eyes. She was talking crazy, scared out of her mind. As though he had set this place aflame!

  “Seen you with my own eyes!” she cried over the crackling of the fire and her frantic collies’ barking. “Ridin’ past here a couple times, to be sure I was watchin’ when you tossed your torch through the front window!”

  “Emma, I would never—”

  “Don’t gimme that, Billy!” she screamed. “Ain’t nobody else in these parts with red hair like yours! I’d’ve known your voice anywhere, when you said I was gettin’ the hellfire I deserved! I didn’t do nothin’ to you, Billy! Nothin’ that deserves—”

  Billy’s gut bottomed out. He had not thrown a torch through the window or hurled such words at this woman, but he suddenly knew who had.

  And if Wesley had wreaked his vengeance here, nobody in Dickinson County was safe.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Billy wanted to grab Emma by the shoulders and shake some sense into her. The “weapon” she was pointing was probably a broom handle. By the time he could convince her his malicious twin was responsible for this disaster, however, the nearest field of corn would be aflame.

>   “I’m goin’ for help, Emma!” he hollered as he headed toward Pete. “It doesn’t much matter who started this fire, if it wipes out all your crops while you stew about it!”

  He rode hellbent toward the little log home where Mercy and Judd Monroe had taken him in, where Reuben and Sedalia Gates now managed the crops and horses on the original homestead. Again he prayed for God’s protection as Pete galloped across the familiar but potentially dangerous terrain in the moonlight.

  Now that his eyes had adjusted to the countryside, enveloped in evening’s deceptive cloak of serenity, he could make out a wagon coming down the road toward him. Familiar voices were speaking urgently.

  “Over here!” he yelled. “Can you help me with this fire?”

  “We’s on our way Billy! Go on back to keep Miss Emma safe!”

  The familiar rasp of Reuben’s voice steadied him, and Billy wheeled Pete around to follow the Negro’s suggestion. This sort of prairie disaster had been a factor in choosing the site for their new home: it was close enough to the Smoky Hill to draw water—both for everyday use and to quench the flames that ravaged the plains during every summer’s dry spell.

  He was pleased to see Emma returning from the shoreline with buckets in each hand. It struck him how very small and defenseless she looked in the glare from the fire, one woman battling an inferno that involved far more than beams and rafters and lost belongings. Hattie and Boots panted beside her, protecting her but knowing to stay out of her way as she trotted along. Instinctively they kept their distance when Emma got near enough to the fire to throw water on it.

  Billy grimaced at the hopes and dreams they’d built on this spot, and tied Pete to a fence post farther away this time. He ran to grab a sloshing bucket from her hand.

  “Reuben’s on the way with more help,” he rasped. Together they doused the nearest edge of the fire and hurried back toward the river. “This is no time to argue my point, Emma, but I hope you’ll figure out that the man who did this was bigger than me, and he rode a different horse—”