Teresa Bodwell

by Loving Miranda

  “How long will it take?” Mercy asked. “I’m starving.”

  Thad chuckled, his deep bass voice sounding like a steam engine rumbling down the tracks. “I thought you were wantin’ to kill the fatted calf in honor of your sister’s homecoming.” He placed a hand over Mercy’s middle. “Didn’t know it was this fella wantin’ his dinner.”

  “Well, I do want to celebrate Miranda’s arrival.” She placed a hand over his. “But, I expect it is this little one who has my mind on food in the middle of the afternoon.”

  “I’d best start supper then.” Thad looked at Miranda and winked. “For all three of you.” He chuckled. “If you’ll see to my horse, I’ll go straight to the kitchen.”

  “And Jonathan has something to show you!” Mercy called after her husband.

  “I already checked his sums. He ambushed me when I arrived.” Thad took a few steps toward the door, then turned. “There’s some biscuits left from breakfast, if you’re truly starvin’.”

  “I didn’t see any biscuits left,” Mercy said.

  “Good. I guess my hiding place worked.”

  “Thad Buchanan, you are a cruel man!”

  He laughed as he walked out the door. The light streaming through the window fell on Mercy as she watched her husband stride away. The expression on her face made Miranda wonder whether Clarisse was wrong, after all. Maybe it wasn’t only Jonathan that made Mercy radiant.

  It was a worrisome thought. A year ago, Miranda had hoped her sister would fall in love with Thad. At that time, Mercy had dubbed Miranda a “hopeless romantic.” Now, she was more realistic. True, her father and her Uncle Will were as dependable as the cycles of the moon, but that wasn’t the way of most men. Mercy turned to look at her sister, still smiling like a child on Christmas morning.

  “Pa and Thad alternate fixing dinner,” Mercy said as she prepared a bucket with grain for Princess. “They claim it is downright dangerous to let me loose in the kitchen. Can you imagine?”

  “Unless your cooking has improved in the last year, I’d say they’re very wise.”

  Mercy grinned. “You were right when you told me to open my heart again.” She squeezed Miranda’s shoulder. “I’m a very lucky woman.”

  Miranda forced herself to return her sister’s smile, hoping that Mercy was right. It was obvious that her sister wasn’t thinking clearly enough to look out for her own best interest. But Miranda would be watching. If Thad ever did anything to harm Mercy or their children, Miranda would make certain that he regretted it.

  Both sisters turned to the barn door as a tall, thin man entered with two dogs at his heels.

  “Miranda?” Pa called.

  “Pa!” Miranda was in her father’s arms instantly, breathing in the scent of horses and cattle. She could feel his ribs as she wrapped her arms around his lean body. He held her so tight she could scarcely breathe. It was wonderful.

  Mercy sat facing out the window as she ran a brush through her hair. Clouds had rolled in to cover the moon, so the yard was dark. A gentle breeze brought the smell of coming rain and she pulled her shawl tight over her cotton nightgown to ward off the chill. It would soon be time to sleep in her woolen gown. She smiled; she was going to need a larger one.

  Thad’s soft footfalls drew her attention to the porch. She pictured him following his evening ritual of filling the kettle at the well, so that they could warm water quickly in the morning. While he was outside, she knew he would also check the barn, then walk around the house making sure everything was secure, his family safe for the night. She could take care of herself and had for many years, but it was comforting to know that he was protecting her and Jonathan, too.

  The moon peeked through the clouds, briefly illuminating the apple trees that Miranda had started from seeds when they had moved here eight years ago. The trees had grown and matured enough to produce small apples. Miranda was no longer the little girl she had been either.

  The fluttering movement inside Mercy drew her attention away from the window, and she placed her hand over the baby. “Do you feel your papa coming close, Little One?”

  The door clicked closed behind her. “Talking to yourself, Mercy?”

  She felt a rush of pleasure when he spoke her name. The baby seemed to react, too, flitting against the walls of her womb.

  “I was chatting with your little one.”

  He bent over her, brushing a kiss against her temple as he wrapped his arms around her, one hand covering her belly, while the other captured a breast.

  “How is the little cub?”

  “Very active. I think he knows your voice.”

  “Really?”

  She put her hand over his and squeezed. “Well, he seems to react to you, or maybe he can sense my pleasure at having you near.”

  He rubbed his hand over her belly. “I wish I could feel him moving.”

  Mercy leaned back against her husband, his clothes still cool from the evening air. She rubbed her cheek against the rough stubble on his face. “It won’t be long now and you will.”

  He took the brush from her hand and gently gathered a handful of her hair, pulling the brush through.

  “It’s good to have Miss Miranda home.”

  “Mmm.” Mercy let her eyes drift shut.

  “I was wonderin’ . . . Did she say anything to you about how she came to have that scar?”

  “She said a buggy she was riding in overturned when a wagon loaded with fruit ran into them. She said such accidents are common in big cities.”

  Thad continued brushing in silence for a few minutes. The rain began and he stepped to the window, pulling it nearly shut, leaving a small gap for fresh air. They listened for a moment to the rain pattering gently against the glass.

  “You don’t believe her.” His voice was barely audible.

  “No, she would have written about that accident, or Lydia would have. Thad . . . she was in the hospital for a week.” Mercy shivered, thinking of her sister hurt and suffering so far from home. “Lydia certainly would have written.”

  “Unless your sister asked her not to write us about it.”

  “Exactly.” Mercy nodded. It hurt to think of Miranda wanting to hide something so serious from her. And it frightened her to think what it might be that she was hiding. “Whatever happened, it was something she doesn’t want me and Pa to know about.”

  Thad pulled Mercy from her stool, sat, and gathered her onto his lap. She rested her head on his shoulder, shivering a bit from the damp cold that was now blowing in through the window. He pulled her shawl tight around her.

  “Even though I haven’t laid eyes on Miranda since we’ve been married, I’ve come to think of her as a sister.”

  “The same as I feel about Clarisse.” She drew a hand along his jaw, brushing her thumb against his thick mustache.

  “I’m afraid Miranda wasn’t prepared for me greeting her with a hug, not even a brotherly one.”

  “You surprised her, is all.” She lifted her head to look into his eyes. “There was nothing wrong with you embracing her.”

  “It wasn’t only surprise.” His finger caressed her cheek, his hand bringing her head to rest back against his shoulder. “She was frightened.”

  Mercy’s stomach felt as though it were careening down a mountain in a wagon with no brake. “You think . . . ?” She couldn’t bring herself to complete the thought.

  “I think it is likely that a man has hurt her. Hurt her badly.”

  Mercy shut her eyes, seeing again the dark circles under her sister’s eyes, the prominent cheekbones that showed she had lost weight in the past year. “I never should have left her alone. I should have—”

  “Shh.” Thad placed his finger over her lips. “There’s no point blaming yourself. She’s a grown woman with a right to make her own decisions. You couldn’t have stopped her. Besides, whatever happened is in the past, and you can’t change it. You won’t be any use to her if you’re busy punishin’ yourself for what you think you should have
done differently.”

  They sat quietly for a few moments. In spite of her worry, Mercy began to drift to sleep in the shelter of her husband’s warm body.

  “You tired?” he whispered.

  “Exhausted,” she said through a yawn.

  “Best get you in bed, then.” There was a note of resignation in his voice.

  Mercy lifted her head, but she couldn’t see his face in the dark room.

  “I don’t think it would take too much effort to revive me,” she whispered.

  He stood with her in his arms, settling her gently on the bed before pulling his clothes off and sliding under the blankets next to her. They cuddled together in the nest at the center of the featherbed, shutting out worries about Miranda. Thad drew his wife into his arms and slowly, skillfully revived her.

  Chapter 5

  A loud cry brought Miranda out of a deep sleep. She sat up, disoriented, her heart pounding like the bass drum in the Fourth of July parade. By the time she heard the second cry, she knew where she was. Home. And it was her sister’s voice she heard. She was standing next to her bed, ready to run to Mercy’s aid, when she realized it was not pain or fear that she heard.

  Heat rushed to her face and she dropped back to the edge of her bed, acutely aware of every sound now coming from her sister’s bedroom. The soft rumble of Thad’s voice, the shifting of the bed. She put her hands over her cheeks, trying to cool them. She had nearly run into their room.

  Miranda tried not to listen, tried to focus her mind on anything else, but it was impossible. Surely Thad was careful not to hurt the baby. Even if Thad wasn’t cautious, Mercy would be. From the sound of things Thad was . . . enthusiastic to say the least. She thought of Lawrence—he’d told her that men needed to be rough in order to find their pleasure.

  The house was quiet again, and Miranda slipped back under the covers. She stared up at the ceiling, which also formed the floor of the loft above, where Jonathan was sleeping. The whole idea of joining with a man had seemed strange to Miranda when she was growing up. Living in this small house with Mercy and her first husband, Miranda had some idea that a husband and wife could both enjoy coming together. Mercy had told her it was nothing to be afraid of and could be downright nice. Though come to think of it, in all those years she had never heard Mercy cry out in pleasure as she had done tonight.

  Miranda had awakened more than once to quiet rustling from Mercy’s bed, and her adolescent mind had imagined something gentle and loving. It had been like that at first with Lawrence—gentle and tender. Until he lured her into his bed with words of love and promises of marriage.

  “A real man takes what he wants from a woman,” he had told her. “And a real woman is satisfied with that.”

  Satisfied? As if a pot was satisfied to hold the soup.

  Lawrence said there was something wrong with her if she didn’t enjoy what he did to her. Dammit, she had tried, had even felt a few times as though she was near to discovering something, but she was always disappointed. Maybe there was something wrong with her.

  She wouldn’t cry. She was done bemoaning her foolish mistakes. That wasn’t going to do her any good. What she knew for certain was that Lawrence was a cruel man who didn’t care one lick about her. She had no reason to believe anything he’d ever told her. All she could do was hope that someday she’d find a man who really cared about her. Maybe then everything would be different. She closed her eyes as a tear rolled down her temple and into her ear.

  Miranda finally began to drift back into a troubled sleep. Whether it was hours or moments later she could not say, but another cry brought her fully awake again. Her eyes sprang open, but she didn’t move until she recognized Jonathan crying for his mama. Miranda sat up, thinking to go to him, when she heard Mercy’s bedroom door fly open.

  “It’s Jonathan. I’ll see to him,” Mercy spoke quietly to Thad. “Go back to sleep, dear.”

  Miranda peeked through the opening at the edge of the curtain, which separated her bed from the main room of the cabin. In the darkness, Mercy’s white gown seemed to float across the room until she reached the ladder to the loft.

  “I’m here, sweetheart,” she crooned, and the boy’s sobs quieted. Miranda imagined the boy burying his face in Mercy’s chest as his sobs grew muffled. “What is it, son?”

  “I saw him . . . I saw Fa . . . Father.” The little voice choked on a sob. “He was black and gray, like the coals and ashes of my old house after the fire.”

  “Shh, shh. Let me climb into bed with you, it’s too cold to be standing here with bare feet and a thin nightgown.” The boards squeaked as Mercy moved onto the bed. “There, that’s better.”

  The boy’s muffled voice was difficult to make out.

  “It was a terrible accident, sweetheart. I told you all about it, remember?”

  “You said he was trying to get upstairs—to make sure I was safe.” The boy sniffled.

  “That’s right. Here, blow your nose.” Mercy’s quiet voice carried down to Miranda. “There now, that’s better. Your father loved you, Jonathan. I want you to always remember that.”

  “And his last thought was about me.”

  “He loved you so much he wasn’t thinking about himself even though he was badly hurt. . . . Do you remember Thad told us when he came into the house your father was crawling—he couldn’t even stand up, but he was looking for you. He begged Thad to find you and get you out of the house. And Thad did.”

  “Mama?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Do you think Father is in heaven?”

  Mercy hesitated, perhaps wondering whether she should lie to the boy. It would be impossible for her sister to imagine Arthur Lansing—the man who had nearly succeeded in killing her and stealing her ranch—in heaven.

  “I . . . I don’t know, for certain.”

  “You always say that.” Jonathan sounded angry. “Why don’t you know? Grandpa told me your mama and Miranda’s mama are both in heaven. How come he knows that, but you don’t know about my father?”

  “Jonathan, only God knows—”

  “Some other boys said my father was in hell and I’m going there, too, because he was a liar and a cheat and blood will tell.”

  “Who?” Mercy’s voice was suddenly much louder. “Who told you such a thing?”

  “George Meier.”

  The blacksmith’s son. He was years older than Jonathan and should have known better than to tease the boy. Miranda felt her own pulse increase as anger surged through her.

  “He had no right to say those things to you.” Mercy was obviously fighting to keep her voice quiet now. “Next time I’m in town, I’ll speak with that boy’s father.”

  “But . . .” Jonathan’s voice became even smaller and higher. “Is it true about my father?”

  There was no response for so long that Miranda wondered if Mercy would say anything. When she finally spoke, her whisper was difficult to hear. “Everyone makes mistakes, Jonathan, your father included.”

  “Was he a liar and a cheat?”

  There was another long silence.

  “Your father did a lot of things, Jonathan. Good and bad. No different from any of the rest of us. But the best thing he ever did in his life was to have you for a son. You’re a good boy, and you’re going to make a fine man. Don’t let anyone tell you different.” Mercy sighed. “You’ll make mistakes, too, I’m certain. But, use your head for thinking and your heart for caring about others and you’ll make mostly right choices.”

  Miranda could picture the scene in the loft above as Jonathan sniffled and Mercy spoke affectionate nonsense words to him, urging him to go to sleep.

  “Sing to me, Mama?” Jonathan asked, his little voice fighting through a yawn.

  Mercy sang, her alto voice so gentle and sweet Miranda found herself crying. She blinked once, then again, and pulled the pillow into her arms, squeezing tight as she rubbed her damp cheek against the smooth surface. In the solitude of the darkness, she allowed the tear
s to flow as she cried for herself, for the child she’d lost, and for the lullabies she would never sing to him. Tomorrow would be soon enough to begin forgetting.

  Miranda added another pancake to the stack on Thad’s plate, then turned to see her sister pour herself a cup of tea while Thad poured out coffee for all the other adults.

  “You’re not drinking coffee?” Miranda was beyond surprised. Mercy’s fondness for coffee was legendary.

  Thad chuckled. “She only just started letting us brew it in the house again.”

  Mercy wrinkled her nose in disgust. “The smell’s tolerable now, but I’m not going to drink that muck.”

  “It makes the baby sick,” Jonathan declared.

  “We thought about diggin’ Mercy her own privy, she was sick so often.”

  “That’s not funny.” Mercy placed her hands on her hips and glared at her husband.

  “Then we figured it might be easier to live without coffee for a while.” Thad pulled Mercy’s hands off her hips and dragged her to him for a kiss.

  “You get used to all that kissing,” Jonathan whispered to Miranda as she bent to fill his glass with buttermilk.

  He pointed to Mercy and Thad. Mercy’s cheeks flamed red as she broke away from Thad and turned to the boy. Pa cleared his throat, apparently covering a chuckle.

  “I reckon we’d better say grace before this fine breakfast goes cold.”

  Once everyone was seated, Miranda closed her eyes, listening to her pa’s quiet, steady voice as he asked a blessing over their food and their day. She’d missed Pa. If ever there was a man who should be called “gentleman,” it was her quiet, thoughtful father. Why was that word so often reserved for fancy, educated men with polished manners and no real tenderness? Ben’s fierce eyes came to her, making her stomach churn.

  “You’ve been quiet this mornin’, Miranda.” Thad refilled his own coffee cup, then reached across the table to fill hers.

  Miranda nodded her thanks, then reached for the cup. “I guess I’m still tired from the journey.” It was the truth—she was tired. Not to mention confused and unsure how she was going to fit into this household.