Solace stiffened against him, but Billy knew her mother wouldn’t let her off without punishment for what she’d done tonight. And though Temple’s words had taken him by surprise, this teacher had a sixth sense for seeing beneath the surface—for looking past Joel’s attitude and pranks. He admired her forthright response.
“I think Temple makes a good point—”
“And I think we’ll all see things more clearly after we’ve gotten our rest.” Temple stood up then, bringing the two girls with her and gazing purposefully at Solace. “Let’s go upstairs, ladies. We’ll get ready for bed again and say our prayers—again—because all we can do with a night like this is turn it over to God.”
Like a shepherdess, the young woman followed her flock from the parlor. She turned in the doorway, though, smiling sadly.
“I’ll say a special prayer for God’s grace on that boy,” she said. “I’ll ask guardian angels to surround him and guide him back to us, Miss Mercy. I’ll ask them to surround you with their love and light, too, Mrs. Harte. I’m so sorry for what’s happened to you—and to you, too, Mister Billy.”
The way she gracefully extended her hand, her expression keen with grief, made his throat close over a lump. His attempt to clear it came out as a cough that turned into a sob. How was it he could face Emma’s rejection, and fight fires all night, and look death squarely in the face, yet one word of whispered sympathy could wring him inside out?
“Oh, Mama,” he rasped. “Mama, I can’t believe Wesley—I’m sorry I had to—”
She rose from the couch and opened her arms. Fresh tears streamed from her red-rimmed eyes and she looked ten years older than she had at dinner. Her arms closed around Billy as though she were holding on to life itself.
“I’ve lost my boy,” she wailed, her body shaking. “Years went by while I could only wonder if Wesley was even alive—and then we shared a few brief words together—just enough to get my hopes up. But tonight he’s been snatched away from me! Forever!”
Billy closed his eyes but it didn’t stop his tears. Now that the fires were out and the dangers were behind them, he had to face what had really happened. “Mama, I didn’t think he’d come after the Malloys, or—or Emma! What’d she ever do to—”
“You should’ve left him alone, Billy,” Mama rasped. “You went back to Richmond with the best intentions, but if I could’ve talked to him first—just time alone with my troubled, wounded son—I could’ve coaxed him home with me. I could’ve taken care of him—persuaded him to change his ways and—”
“Mama, I was watchin’ his every move to be sure he didn’t use that pie knife on you. And Carlton was, too!”
She had curled in against herself, but Mama stepped back to glare at him. “I don’t believe that for a minute! I’m his mother!”
Mercy came to them, placing a hand on each of their shoulders. “Virgilia, I understand how devastated you must feel—”
“You have no idea!” Mama spat. “My son is dead! My heart has a hole in it that will never be filled! My life is over!”
Billy’s breath left him in a rush. He backed away, stunned.
Even though he’d seen his mother pitch many a fit and play the martyr like no other woman he knew, her barbed remarks pierced his soul. Hadn’t Christine once said Mama favored him so much that she and Wesley might as well not have existed? Now he felt she was blaming him for his brother’s death. As though he felt no loss himself.
He noticed then that Michael and Carlton had come inside. They were watching all this from the doorway when the detective said, “Virgilia, you’re distraught and—”
“Damn right I am! You people have no idea—”
Harte entered the parlor quickly, to embrace her. “If you’re going to point a finger, blame me. It was my bullet that took him down,” he said in a ragged whisper. “It was the last thing I wanted to do, Virgilia. I’ll regret it forever. But Wesley was like a mad bull—”
“Wesley only wanted what Billy had! A good job—a home—a woman who loved him!” his wife cried. She struggled to escape his grasp, but Harte held her fast. “If we’d given him a chance at those things, he might have left his outlaw life behind!”
Billy blinked, noting the wariness on the Malloys’ faces, because they, too, realized Mama was at the end of her tether. Mercy gazed at him with a tenderness that made him ache, while Carlton Harte was murmuring more words to quiet his mother.
Asa, thank goodness, entered the parlor just then with a tray of tea and cookies. He set them on the table, and, knowing this white woman would be incensed by his touch, he folded his hands.
“Miz Harte, I’s seen a lot of trouble and sorrow, but I aches for you,” he murmured. “That was your boy, and you’s gonna feel this loss the rest of your days. This special tea won’t fix what’s broke, but it’ll make you sleep, so’s you don’t feel the pain for a while.”
“Thank you, Asa.” Carlton led his trembling wife to the settee, keeping his arm firmly around her waist. “You’re going to drink this now, and then I’ll take you upstairs to get some sleep, sweetheart. We’ll all—”
“What if he’s trying to poison me?” she demanded, glaring at the cook. “It’s not natural to allow—he’s trying to shut me up because I’m causing a—”
“I’ll drink a cup of it myself,” Harte insisted. He reached for the large ceramic teapot, but Mercy grabbed it first and began pouring.
“I’ll have a cup, too,” she murmured pointedly. “Asa’s herbal potion is exactly what I need tonight.”
“Pour me one while you’re at it,” Michael said, “and Billy’s no stranger to pain, so he’ll be wanting some, too.”
Mama blinked, watching them with her lips pressed into a thin, ungiving line. “Don’t you dare patronize me! This is all a ploy to—”
“Believe what you want, Virgilia, but I intend to get some rest tonight so I can think straight tomorrow.”
Carleton raised his cup in a sad salute to the others, and they returned the solemn gesture. Everyone sipped deeply, savoring the tea’s sweetness and warmth.
“As you can see,” the detective continued, sounding tired but sly, “we’re all sipping Asa’s tonic, and we’ll soon be at peace with what’s happened tonight—at least until morning. Which means you’ll have no one but yourself to blame if you’re confined to bed tomorrow with exhaustion. And no one to listen to you any more tonight.”
Billy pressed the rim of his cup against a grin. Already the warm liquid was settling him, and it did his heart good to see, once again, how Mama had met her match in Carlton Harte. She sat stiffly, looking mightily peeved at them for downing Asa’s tea, but she finally took a swallow.
Setting his empty cup on the tray, Billy sighed. “It’s time I turned in,” he said sadly. “I’ve had all of this day I can handle.”
Joel jerked upright. Had someone called his name? His head spun with hunger and the stifling heat, and then he remembered: He wasn’t in his room. He sat on the floor of Obadiah Jones’s carriage, wrapped in darkness as thick as a blanket.
Closing his eyes against the heat, he listened for voices—or the sound of saloon pianos, or trains whistling in the distance. He sat up straighter, ready to spring away if Jones opened the door. It was hotter than blazes in this closed-up carriage, and the scent of the leather seats reminded him of saddles taken off horses after they’d worked up a lather—and how much farther away he could be right now if he’d ridden Hickok instead of stowing away with Jones.
But that wouldn’t have worked, of course: Solace would have noticed right off that his horse was gone. She was pretty good at keeping his secrets—and taking his double-dog dares—but she would have sounded the alarm as soon as she realized he was gone.
He’d miss her some. But not enough to stay. Not enough to put up with Temple’s lectures and all that religious malarkey his father and Mercy tried to drill into him. Especially since he now knew Michael Malloy wasn’t as spotless as he’d made himself out to be.
His stomach rumbled, and he needed to relieve himself, but Joel sat tight. He’d be collared if anyone caught him slipping out of the carriage: The do-gooders in this town knew he was a Malloy. They’d see to it that he walked the straight and narrow back to the ranch—
“Enough of that,” he muttered, and reached up to unlatch the door.
Cool air that smelled of horses teased his face; quiet nickerings told him those Morgans Jones had corralled near the rail head were still here, waiting for their train, while Obadiah spent the evening with one of Abilene’s fallen angels. “Mattie Silks” was the name he recalled from the cattle baron’s overblown conversation with the station clerk. From the tone of their talk, Joel gathered Miss Silks ran a fine house with high-class ladies. Served only champagne to her clients, he said.
Curiosity had egged him to follow the fat, swaggering Texan, to learn more about night life and liquor and women—women like his mother must have been. He needed to know about such things—to understand the ladies polite folks only whispered about with self-righteous shakes of their heads. Didn’t he have that right?
There it was again—like somebody was calling his name.
But when he poked his head outside—saw the full moon fading off in the distance as a thin ribbon of light appeared on the horizon—Joel realized the train station would soon be coming to life. Obadiah Jones had left orders for his new horses to be herded into straw-strewn livestock cars, and this carriage hauled into his private boxcar for the trip across Kansas, which was not where he intended to hole up. Not if Jones would ride in the plush Pullman car he used for his cross-country business dealings.
Nope, Jones was a high roller—whatever that was. Joel figured he could impress the Texan with his ranching experience and land himself a job working with those horses at Army outposts—or better yet, head to Texas and bunk with cowboys who used to drive cattle into Abilene and shoot the place up—and had probably visited his ma! It sounded like a much more rewarding life than he’d ever know at home.
“Passengers traveling to points west, on the express run to Omaha, Ogden, and San Francisco, should proceed to the platform, please!” a station agent called out. “All aboard for California!”
No one would spot him in the shuffle of luggage and travelers, so Joel slipped out of the carriage with his bundle of clothes. He stretched, looking out across the rows of railroad tracks and side spurs, among dozens of boxcars, to find that fancy Pullman car. How hard would it be to hide himself in it until the train was rolling? A man like Obadiah Jones would admire his pluck; his desire to work hard at such an early age.
Sure enough, there it was! The private parlor car—with a porch!—and the sleeper car hitched to it were painted a royal blue with black and silver trim. The ornate initials “O.J.” proclaimed these cars his ride into a bright future, so Joel ducked through the crowd. He stepped onto the Pullman’s porch wearing a big grin.
He was reaching for the door handle when a voice stopped him.
“You there! Boy who’s up to no good! Back away, or I’ll have to shoot!”
Joel froze. Should he hit the floor, duck inside, or do as the man said?
“Ih—it’s just me!” he replied, wheeling around with his finest smile. “I’m workin’ for Mr. Jones, and I was told to—”
“Nice try, kid.” A man in a black broad-brimmed hat strode toward him, with his jacket pulled back to reveal a holstered pistol. “I work for Mr. Jones, and he would never hire a scrawny, smart-mouthed—”
“Why not?” He’d branded himself and blown his story, but he kept trying. “I’m here to fetch—”
The door to the parlor car opened behind him, and Joel jumped a foot. Obadiah Jones, resembling a cross, crazy-haired Santa Claus in his red longjohns, scowled down at him. The scent of perfume drifted out around him, along with a honeyed female voice.
“Who is it, Obie? Why, have you had our breakfast delivered here before the trip, you sweet thing?”
The Texan’s frown dissolved with his abrupt laugh. “No, darlin’, it’s just some no-account kid who—wait a minute! It’s the Malloy boy! Does your daddy know where you’re at? Your mama’s gonna tan your hide for—”
Joel dodged the arm that shot toward him, to hit the ground running. Past the laughing watchman he sprinted, knowing he was done for: Jones would order his guard to catch him and take him home—or throw him in jail—or—
He could take no chances. Joel raced behind the train that was pulling away from the platform. Great white bursts of steam rolled around him as the cars eased into a clackety-clackety rhythm that seemed to call his name.
Jo-EL Mal-LOY, Jo-EL Mal-LOY—
He tossed his clothes, grabbed a railing, and swung onto the steps of the caboose. His heart was pounding so hard, it was all he could do to hang on and look back at the rail yard, where the train station—and Obadiah Jones—were growing smaller by the second.
Jo-EL Mal-LOY, Jo-EL Mal-LOY—
Did he remember right, that this was the express train to California? It hadn’t been his original plan; but then, what kind of traveling man would he be if he couldn’t take advantage of a change in plans? And a train ride across the West!
Maybe later he’d drop Solace a note and brag about his fine new life. But right now, he just wanted to sit on the back of the train and watch the countryside go by.
Chapter Twenty-four
Breakfast was later than usual and a somber meal: The girls sat sadly, picking at their fried mush and glancing at Joel’s empty seat. Billy ate, but he had no appetite. He was thankful Asa’s tea had settled Mama last night, and that she sat quietly now, staring at her food without seeing it.
Michael swallowed his last bite of bacon with a sigh. His eyes looked bloodshot from fighting the fires.
“Virgilia, this is a hard time for you, but I’m sure you understand that with the heat, we need to make decisions about Wesley’s burial today,” he said softly. “You’re welcome to lay your boy to rest here on the ranch, or—”
“Wesley should be beside his daddy. In the family plot back home.”
Mama’s voice was expressionless, but at least she was thinking clearly. Billy closed his eyes, praying for the strength to be a good son—a son she would appreciate and love again.
Malloy nodded, encouraging her with his gaze. “The undertaker in Abilene has a selection of caskets, or I can build you a simple—”
“My Wesley deserves better than an ugly pine box,” she said, her chest heaving with a sigh. “I—I just don’t have the heart to choose a—”
“I’ll go, Mama.” Billy looked intently at her pale, haggard face, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I’ll head into town first thing and get Wes a—a real nice one.”
“And while they’re gone, I’ll clean him up and—”
“You’ll do no such thing, Carlton.”
Mama straightened then, her chin quivering but held high. “It was the last thing I could do for Owen when he was shot down, and you will not deprive me of this privilege. I know you’re trying to protect me from how horrible he must look.”
“I’ll help you, dear,” Mercy joined in. “We’ll find some clean clothes and wash him as best we can—with Carlton’s help.”
Mama nodded, not wiping the tears streaming down her cheeks. “I—I don’t know what to do about a preacher. I’ve not attended services in Richmond since—”
“Don’t you worry about a thing, Virgilia,” Michael replied. “I’ll ask Reverend Larsen to speak, or I’d be happy to say a few words, or—”
“Maybe Mother would play—and Reverend Searcy would preach—if you had the funeral at church,” Eve offered. She bounced Olivia on her lap to keep the baby from fussing during this conversation. The dark circles under her eyes bespoke a sleepless night. She had food on her plate, but she’d moved it around rather than eating it.
Mama found a small smile for her grandchild, and Billy sensed the little girl would be her salvation in the coming mo
nths.
“I don’t want to impose on her, dear, since I know she didn’t . . . approve of Wesley,” Mama replied with a hitch in her voice. “Let’s keep things as private as possible. A simple graveside service. No sense in inviting a lot of tongues that would ask questions and wag all over town later.”
Carlton nodded beside her. “Probably best not to announce Wesley’s death in the papers, either. We don’t need trouble during the service, if his cohorts feel he owed them payment—and it’ll be a way to watch the unsuspecting thugs who come to visit the house, not knowing he’s been shot.”
Resentment flashed in Mama’s eyes. “Carlton, must you conduct business when I’m—”
“These are desperate times in Missouri, sweetheart. Your safety is my first concern.” The detective took her hands in his. Then he looked around the table, his expression taut. “I must insist that you all keep silent about my position with the Pinkertons, of course. The welfare of everyone here might depend upon that.”
“You have our word on it—and our thanks,” Malloy said. He stood up then, smiling at Billy. “Let’s you and I go to town for that casket. We can ask around about Joel—”
“B-before we leave for Wes’s funeral, I’ll be packing my things to—to take back home.” Eve’s voice wavered, and she sounded ready to cry. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am for bringing on this trouble by coming here when—”
“Eve, that’s not so!” Mercy rose to stand beside her.
Michael, too, went to her side, placing a gentle hand on her shaking shoulders. “We don’t see it that way at all, honey. It wasn’t your doing that Wesley came here to—”
“But if I hadn’t interrupted the wedding, looking for Billy’s help, none of this would’ve happened!” she wailed. She handed Olivia up to Mercy so she could blow her nose on a handkerchief that was already saturated. “If I hadn’t come here, Billy would have a wife—and a new house! And—and your livestock wouldn’t be wandering loose, and your stables—”
“It were Wesley’s meanness that brought ’im here, not you, child,” Asa murmured. He began stacking their dirty dishes. “He was crazy mad at Mister Billy—drunk, I suspected—and he was strikin’ out like a wounded animal.
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