by Pam Hillman
Reluctantly she placed her hand in his, her fingertips registering the calluses on his palm—calluses that told of countless hours working with cows, horses, and the land. She couldn’t ignore their warmth or their strength as his fingers wrapped around hers and steadied her as she stepped up into the wagon.
All too soon, he settled beside her. She inched to the edge of the seat, uncomfortably aware of his wide shoulders taking up more than his share of the room. She stared straight ahead, gripped the edge of the seat, and resigned herself to an uncomfortably close ride into Wisdom.
As they lurched down the rutted lane toward the dirt road leading to town, every jolt threw her shoulder against his immovable solidness. He shifted his weight, but the movement did little to give her more room. It just served to remind her of his nearness.
The creak of the wagon and the jingling harness were about as unnerving as the intermittent jostling against her companion. Finally she blurted out, “I met your brother this morning.”
“Well?”
She frowned in his direction. “Well, what?”
“What did you think of my little brother?” Mariah didn’t miss the underlying wariness in his question.
Should she tell him about the incident with Giff? Would Buck want her to? She hesitated. “He’s been hurt real bad.”
“That’s obvious.” He gave a slight snort as if any idiot could see that.
“That’s not what I meant.” Mariah grabbed the metal railing and held on as the buckboard inched over a washed-out place in the road so deep it rattled her teeth.
“What did you mean?”
“By people. He’s been hurt by people who make fun of him.”
“Some people act like they’ve never seen anyone with a scar before,” he muttered.
She nodded. She knew all too well how the jeers of people could twist like a knife in a person’s soul. She’d lived with people making fun of her sister nearly all her life.
When they topped a rise, the small town of Wisdom came into view. There wasn’t much to see. A smattering of weathered buildings faced each other across a wide main street. A couple of side streets branched off, meandering in various directions into the countryside. Slaughter’s Sawmill and the railroad were about the only things holding the town together. A schoolhouse that doubled as a church nestled in a grove of trees off to their right.
“What happened to him?” The buckboard bounced across the railroad tracks, then started the slow descent into town.
“A wild mustang. Buck got thrown, and the horse stomped on him before I could get to him. He almost died. Took months before he could even walk across a room. He had another setback this past winter when he took sick with pneumonia.”
“It’s a miracle he’s alive. He’s got a lot to be thankful for.”
“Thankful?” He gestured at the town laid out before them. “He couldn’t even walk down those streets without every mother in sight shielding her children from him. And what about a wife and family? What woman will want to marry him?”
The bitterness in his voice masked his pain for his brother. She knew exactly how he felt: his guilt for not protecting his brother, the worry over how different Buck’s life could have been, what the future might hold.
Oh yes, she knew all about that.
Her thoughts turned to her sister. Amanda wouldn’t care about Buck’s scars. She’d care for the man inside. “Someday, a woman will love him for himself,” she spoke with conviction. “No matter what he looks like.”
Slade didn’t believe her, but now was not the time to argue as he guided the wagon into town. Wisdom resembled hundreds of other small towns he’d been through. And he figured the people were the same: close-knit, taking care of their own, suspicious of others.
He’d been an outsider all his life. He supposed he could thank his father for that. He couldn’t count the times he’d dragged his father out of some seedy saloon in Galveston, or the times he’d begged some cowboy to help him lift his drunken pa up onto an old swayback mare so he could take him home.
He’d known their pity and hated it, but his mother needed his help, needed him to take care of her and the rest of the family. So he’d swallowed his pride and did what had to be done.
After a while, it didn’t bother him that people didn’t trust him, didn’t think he belonged in their circle of friends, in their churches, or in their town meetings. He’d learned to live with rejection a long time ago. He didn’t need their approval.
But he wanted Buck and his mother and sisters to be accepted. He wanted a better home for them than some shack down by the tracks in Galveston. His mother deserved that after what his pa had put her through.
With the deed to the Lazy M, they’d have a chance at a new start. Making friends might take a while, but acceptance would come. He’d make sure of it.
He glanced at Mariah. A worried frown marred her smooth forehead, and her drawn lips thinned into a tight line. She pointed toward the far end of the street.
“The bank’s over there.”
They didn’t speak again until he drew up in front of the squat, whitewashed building with bars on the windows. He helped her down and saw the hopelessness written on her face. Then she replaced it with stoic acceptance.
His jaw clenched, and he turned away. He couldn’t let her plight sway him from his goal. Her thieving father had sent his father to an early grave and forced his mother to toil day and night to support her children.
Mariah was the interloper, not him.
He’d do well to remember that.
Inside the bank, Mariah fidgeted as they waited for Mr. Tisdale. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t look at Slade again, but almost against her will, her gaze slid across his blue visage, hardened with purpose and determination. Her heart skipped a beat. Did he hate her father that much? The look in his eyes and the threats he’d flung at her on Sunday told her he did.
The banker hurried out of his small office, and Mariah pasted on an artificial smile. He greeted her warmly. “Mariah. What a pleasure to see you.” He glanced at Slade, questions surfacing in his expression.
Mariah introduced the two men. “Mr. Tisdale, do you have a moment? I need . . . That is, Mr. Donovan and I have some business to discuss with you.”
He lifted an eyebrow but, without questions, simply nodded. “Of course.” He stepped aside, allowing her to precede him into his office.
Thankful for Mr. Tisdale’s discretion, she sank into one of the plush leather chairs facing his desk. The men sat down and the banker folded his hands together.
“How’s your grandmother?”
“Fine. Thank you for asking.”
“Now, what can I help you with, my dear?”
Where should she begin? She glanced at Slade but received a hardened stare for her effort. Lord, help me, she prayed silently.
She cleared her throat and plunged in. “Mr. Tisdale, I’ve decided to go to Philadelphia to be with Amanda. Mr. Donovan is going to be the new owner of the Lazy M.”
There. She’d told him. Had she said too much? Too little? She didn’t want to lie about the circumstances leading up to the transfer of the deed, but what else could she do?
Surprise crossed the banker’s face, but he masked it quickly. “I think that’s an admirable decision, Mariah. I know how hard it’s been for you since your father died. Maybe life in the city close to Amanda will be better for all concerned.”
“I hope you’re right.” She let out a slow breath and produced a small smile, thankful he didn’t ask for details. Her hands fluttered. “About the deed.”
“Of course.” He pushed away from the desk. “I’ll be right back.”
A heavy silence descended on the room. Mariah clasped her hands tightly in her lap to keep them from shaking. She wouldn’t look at Slade. She couldn’t.
Mr. Tisdale returned shortly, deed in hand. Before she lost her nerve, she signed the document where he indicated and passed it to Slade.
Sla
de pulled a leather wallet out of his breast pocket. “I’d like to open an account.”
The banker smiled.
Mariah rose from the chair. “I’ll wait outside if you don’t mind.”
Both men stood. She hurried outside, head held high, then steadied herself against the buckboard. She’d done it. She’d signed away the Lazy M. Almost penniless and at the mercy of Slade Donovan, she felt a terrifying sense of panic. What would she do if he threw her and her grandmother out now? How would they get to Philadelphia? Would she be able to find a job there? How would she take care of Amanda? The questions jumbled up in her head like the jar of mismatched buttons at the bottom of her sewing basket.
“Oh, Lord, did I do the right thing?” she whispered.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE SIGHT OF MARIAH slumped against the buckboard reminded Slade of his mother. Too many times he’d seen her with that look of defeat on her face, wondering where she’d get enough money to put one more meal on the table or to bail his father out of jail. But Mariah didn’t have to worry about food or a place to stay. At least not for now. And he’d see to it that she made it to Philadelphia when the time came.
As much as she refused to believe him, he wasn’t that heartless.
Slowly he walked toward her. She stood with her head down. He drew closer, noticing her lips moving. He stopped abruptly, not wanting to be privy to her prayers.
Her eyes, awash in tears, flew open and focused on him. He didn’t see accusation or anger, but a haunted look of vulnerability—a look he knew all too well. She turned away, fumbled in her drawstring bag for a lace handkerchief, and dabbed at her tears.
“Who’s Amanda?” Resting his forearms on the side of the buckboard, he stared across the street at the mercantile.
She sniffed and threw him a glance. “My sister.”
“You didn’t tell me you had a sister.”
“You didn’t ask.” She tilted her chin. “She’s been going to school in Philadelphia for about a year now.”
He sighed. Another complication. Not only did Mariah have an elderly grandmother to take care of; she had a sister intent on a fancy education. “Mariah, I’m sorry it has to be this way. Just remember, you and your grandmother are welcome to stay at the Lazy M as long as you need to.”
“I’ll stay until I have enough money to get us to Philadelphia. I don’t know how I’ll manage when I get there.” Bitterness tinged her voice, and she shrugged. “But you wouldn’t know anything about that. Being a man, you can come and go as you please, without any responsibilities.”
“You’re wrong, you know.”
The look she gave him dared him to explain himself. He had a sudden urge to prove to her that life hadn’t been a smooth ride for him either.
“My father drank himself to death by the time I turned nine. The bullet that almost took his life lodged in his skull, and he lived with the pain until the day he died.”
Mariah’s face turned white, and Slade could have kicked himself for reminding her that it was her father who’d fired the shot that almost killed his. But the truth couldn’t be sugarcoated. “I don’t ever remember him working a steady job. And when he did make a little money, he spent it all on whiskey. My mother worked day and night to keep a roof over our heads and food on the table.”
Her face softened, but he continued doggedly.
“I got my first real job at eight, but I’d been doing odd jobs and errands around town from age five or six.”
He felt her hand on his arm and looked down into her chocolate-colored eyes, now filled with compassion.
“I’m sorry, Slade. Sorry for the little boy you never got to be, and sorry that my father was the cause of it.”
He tried to ignore the warmth of her hand. “I don’t need your pity, Mariah. All that’s over and done with. But I want you to understand that I’ll do whatever I can for my family. They deserve better than they’ve got.” Abruptly he straightened, already regretting blurting out part of his past. “I need to go to the lumber mill,” he muttered. “You got any errands in town?”
“I’ve got a list from Cookie for the mercantile. Do you want to see it?”
“No. Just put it on the Lazy M account.”
“All right.”
He watched her walk across the street, thinking of the way her face had softened when he’d told her about his childhood.
His gut twisted. She’d had the same look when she’d tried to get the stray cat to eat: tender, caring, loving. Like she cared about his childhood and his family. Like she could fix what happened, make it all better.
But it couldn’t be fixed. Nothing and nobody could undo the past.
He jammed his hat on his head, climbed into the wagon, and released the brake. He made his way through town, noticing the well-kept stores with boardwalks running between them for those days when the mud could bog a wagon up to the hubs. A handful of flowers graced the entrance to the boardinghouse nestled close to the train depot. A weathered sign invited visitors to try the daily special at the café next door. The train station itself looked fairly new, and the wagons gathered at the lumber mill indicated a thriving business.
Slade halted the team in front of Slaughter’s Sawmill. The whine of the saw filled the morning air, one man running the saw and another removing the boards. A cluster of men stood outside under a huge shade tree, and Slade nodded as he hopped down from the wagon.
The men welcomed him into their circle. One older man with a shock of white hair sticking out from under his hat held out his hand. “Good morning, stranger. John Riker.”
Slade shook hands. “Morning. Slade Donovan.”
“Nice to meet you, Donovan. Those look like Lazy M horses. You working for the Malones?”
“No, sir.” Slade rubbed his hand over his neck and glanced toward the mercantile. “I’m taking over the Lazy M.”
“You don’t say? Mariah finally decided to up and sell the place, huh?” Riker grinned. “We’ll be neighbors then. My place is out that way.”
A stocky man spoke up. “That girl’s had it kind of rough the last couple of years, what with her pa getting sick and her sister in Philadelphia and all.”
“And don’t forget Mrs. Malone,” Riker added. “She ain’t no spring chicken either. She’s about the same age as Ma, and Ma’s nigh onto ninety.”
The men nodded.
“You got family, Donovan?”
“A mother and two sisters who’ll be along shortly. My brother came with me.” He headed off their next inevitable question. “We’re from down Galveston way.”
One of the men poked a younger man in the arm. “Girls, Charlie. You hear that?”
The young man called Charlie turned beet red when the group laughed at his expense.
The saw blade ground to a halt, and a man Slade assumed was the owner walked over, removing his gloves. Sawdust clung to his sweaty forearms, but he didn’t seem to notice. He scooped up a dipperful of water from a bucket and gulped it down, then motioned down the hill toward a shed filled with lumber. A couple of youngsters were tying down some of the lumber on a wagon. “John, the boys have got you loaded.”
“Thanks. This is Slade Donovan. He bought the Malone place.” Riker headed down the hill. “Nice meeting you, Donovan. Don’t be a stranger now. The turnoff to my place is not far from yours. Only three or four miles. You can’t miss it.”
“Thanks.”
The man stuck out his hand. “Thomas Slaughter, owner. What can I do for you?”
“I need some lumber to fix up the corral.”
“Got good seasoned boards down in the pole barn. Come on and I’ll show you.”
Slade followed the man down the hill and picked out the lumber. He paid with cash, and Slaughter’s two boys helped him load the wagon.
Slaughter grinned. “Enjoyed doing business with you, mister.”
“I’m hoping to snake some logs out this winter.” Slade squinted at the man. “Would you take part of the lumber as payme
nt? On halves, maybe?”
“Sounds good.” Slaughter glanced at the cluster of men standing under the shade tree. “Better get back to work. Just let me know when you’re ready and we’ll work out the terms.”
Slade turned the wagon around and headed toward the post office, the letter to his mother burning a hole in his pocket. A feeling of satisfaction gripped him as he posted the letter. He’d instructed Mr. Tisdale to wire enough money to Galveston for her expenses.
A wagon rattled past, loaded with lumber. The man on the seat dipped his head in a subtle sign of recognition. Slade nodded in return. The life he dreamed of for his family moved closer to his grasp.
The specter of his drunken father’s name wouldn’t overshadow any of them here.
Mariah riffled through the small selection of cloth in the mercantile while Mr. Thompkins filled Cookie’s order. But her mind wasn’t on the blue-checked gingham or the flowered calico.
Her thoughts centered on a small brown-haired boy desperately trying to provide for his family. She squeezed her eyes shut and prayed.
Lord, help me to be grateful. I’ve had a good home for twenty-three years. I’ve never worried about where the next meal would come from, if I would have a roof over my head at night or clothes on my back. I don’t know what tomorrow will bring, but You’ve supplied my needs all these years, and I know You’ll provide for me for the rest of my life.
She took a deep breath.
And, Lord, reveal Your love and mercy to Slade and Buck. They’re both hurting, Slade more than Buck, I think. Help him to learn to trust You and do Your will—
“Mariah.”
Startled, she looked up and found herself face-to-face with Frederick Cooper. One hand went to her throat and pressed against the collar of her high-necked shirtwaist. “Frederick, you scared me.”
“Sorry about that.” He offered her an apologetic smile. “What are you doing?”
“I was praying. For a . . . an acquaintance.” She smiled. “How are you?”