Spirit of the Wolf

by Loree Lough

  “She made me swear that I’d never tell anyone whose baby it was,” Bess continued. “And after she died, I asked Doc what would become of the baby, and when he said she’d likely end up in some awful orphanage, I came up with a way to save her from that and keep my promise to her ma.”

  He loved her so much at that moment that words failed him. She’d gone through so much, alone, while he’d been gone. “You’re the bravest woman I’ve ever known.”

  Bess blushed. “You talk as though I’m the first woman ever to adopt a child!”

  He looked deep into her eyes. “Well, you’re the first I’ve met who was willing to put her own reputation on the line to protect a total stranger.”

  The baby whimpered, and, smiling, he said “Can I…. Is it all right if I hold her?”

  Gently, Bess lay the baby in the crook of his arm.

  “She’s beautiful,” he said, pressing a light kiss to Mary Ann’s forehead. He stood then, and handed the infant back to Bess. “High time, don’t you think, that I make an honest woman of you?”

  Immediately, Bess’s eyes filled with tears. “Before I answer that,” she said, “you have a lot of explaining to do, Chance Walker.” She leaned closer and whispered, “Or shall I say W.C. Atwood?” A quiet laugh punctuated her question. “No need to answer right now. We have a lifetime to work out the details.”

  “A lifetime,” he said on a relieved sigh. Drawing Bess and the child close in a tender embrace, he raised one eyebrow. “Was that…was that a ‘yes’?”

  She nodded as a silvery tear rolled down her cheek.

  He lifted the shot glass he’d just filled when Bess appeared in the doorway. “Ladies and gentleman,” he announced, holding it aloft, “a toast to my daughter and the beautiful woman who gave her to me!”

  Bar patrons raised their glasses, nodding their consent as Chance placed a loving kiss on Bess’s waiting lips.

  Epilogue

  TWENTY-FIVE YEARS LATER….

  The quiet hour after supper had always been her favorite of the day. As a girl, she’d sit on this very porch, reading until the evening light faded, then listening to the songs of bugs and frogs as darkness pulled up over her world like a heavy black blanket.

  As a young woman, her dreams had been spun here.

  Today, it was where she counted her blessings.

  And she had much to be grateful for…a beautiful home on a productive farm, physical and emotional vitality. She could count four healthy children, all grown, and three of them now had youngsters of their own.

  Two little tykes now frolicked in the yard where she had played in as a child, while the third slumbered peacefully in the room that had once belonged to her brother, Matt.

  Her twin brothers had fought for the South during the Civil War, and thankfully, they’d both come home safe and sound. Chance fought at Gettysburg, too, and the Lord had seen fit to send him home to her, again.

  Yes, there was much to be thankful for….

  A hand over her mouth, Bess hid a grin, remembering how, on the morning he’d returned to Freeland, she had mistaken his rambling promises about taking care of his horse…for promises made to another woman.

  “What are you smiling about, pretty lady?”

  In place of an answer, Bess held out her hand. And, as always, Chance instinctively wrapped it in his own. It wasn’t necessary to look away from the children to know what she would read in his eyes if she turned her face toward him, and the mere thought of it swelled her heart.

  “Johnny,” she scolded gently, “don’t climb so high. How will you ever get down?”

  “Aw, Gramma,” Mary Ann’s four year old son complained, “don’t be such a worry wart. I always get down, don’t I?”

  “Yes, yes you do.” Sighing, she shook her head. “That namesake of yours is such a tease!” She squeezed Chance’s hand. “He’s so much like you, it’s terrifying.”

  Chance chuckled, returned the squeeze. “And he’s stubborn as the day is long, so there’s more than a morsel of you in him, too….”

  Standing, Bess stooped, kissed his cheek, then walked to the porch rail to stare into the yard. How many nights had she leaned against this same banister, looking past the sea of grass that separated the house from the river? How often had she peered into the darkening sky, ears tuned to the distant wail of the wolf?

  It wasn’t so very long ago that she’d come up with an explanation for the beast’s mysterious and sudden disappearance. What she’d been hearing hadn’t been a wolf at all, she convinced herself, but Chance’s wild, wandering spirit, calling to her, pleading with her to wait for him.

  If she’d shared her theory with anyone, they’d have thought her daft, but how else was she to interpret the fact that she’d heard the lamenting cry every night while Chance had been gone…and hadn’t heard it, not even once, since he’d come home again, home to stay?

  Hours later, after the grandchildren had been bathed and tucked into their beds, Bess and Chance said goodnight to their children, who’d come home to help them celebrate. Leaning on the rail surrounding the balcony outside their room, she glanced at her husband, slouched in the bentwood rocker that had been her father’s, whittling a toy truck for their grandson.

  He’d been a doting grandpa, a loving father, right from the start. Mary Ann and her sister Susan had always adored him, and their brothers, William—named for Chance’s father, and Micah, named for hers—felt the same way.

  “Now what are you smiling about?” he wanted to know.

  She faced the yard once more, where her mother’s birch trees continued to thrive in soil that everyone had been certain would kill them, where the red roses Bess had planted on her first anniversary still bloomed bright and bold from spring thaw to first frost.

  Suddenly, Chance was behind her, sliding strong sure arms around her waist. “Tomorrow’s the big day,” he whispered into her ear.

  “Every day I’ve spent with you has been a big day,” Bess replied, leaning against his chest.

  He kissed her neck. “I love you, too.”

  She turned, wrapped her arms around his barrel chest. “Seems like just yesterday we were married.”

  “In a sense,” she said, “it was.”

  “It’s been twenty-five years!”

  Bess nodded. “I know, I know, but I’ve come to the conclusion that I was born to be your wife. Every morning, when I wake up beside you, it’s as though I’m seeing you for the first time, and I fall in love with you all over again.”

  He hid his face behind one big hand. “Aw, I bet you say that to all the cowboys….”

  Pursing her lips, she said, “You know better. There’s never been anyone but you.” She took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “You know that porcelain vase in the dining room?”

  “The one on the mantel? With all the chips and cracks?”

  She nodded. “Before I met you, I was like that vase, fractured and nicked. And then you came along, filling all the gaps with your love, the way rainwater fills crevices in clay soil. You softened my hard edges, made me stronger, and whole, and—“

  “Remind me to send a prayer of thanks to your daddy.”

  Looking up into his face, Bess raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I like that! I’m the one who cooks your meals, cleans your house, raised your children, and—“

  “—and keeps me warm at night,” he said, pulling her closer. “Let’s not forget how good you are at keeping me warm at night….”

  “—and keeps you warm at night,” she continued, her voice softly flirtatious. “I do all that, and you’re thanking my pa?”

  Chance kissed the tip of her nose. “Well, without him, you wouldn’t be here, now would you?”

  She harrumphed. “Isn’t that just like a man. Mama did all the work, and Pa gets the credit!”

  His quiet laughter rumbled against her chest, and Bess tilted her face to accept his kiss. In one smooth move, Chance lifted her in his arms and followed the swath of moonlight that slan
ted across their room, gently depositing her on their feather mattress. Then, standing beside the massive four-poster, he shook his head. “I’ll never get my fill of looking at you, Bess,” he rasped, “not even if I live to be a hundred.”

  “Chance!” she scolded. “The children!”

  “They’re too busy being children to even notice we’re gone,” he said. “Besides, their parents are within shouting distance. They’re fine…which is more than I can say….”

  She’d been calling him ‘Chance’ since the day he arrived at Foggy Bottom. Only in the privacy of their room did she speak his given name.

  Bess whispered it now: “Walker….”

  He stretched out beside her, pressing kisses to her temple, across her cheekbones, on the tip of her nose. She knew what he was waiting to hear, and when the time was right, she would say it, just as she’d been saying it for twenty-five years.

  It was like a ballad between them, music that began after their wedding and continued to this very night. She snuggled close, her fingers combing silver-streaked blond locks from his forehead. Yes, it was time to sing the last note in their song, to say the words he so needed to hear. Propping herself on one elbow, she kissed him, then kissed him again.

  “I love you, W.C. Johnson,” she said, her voice filled with strong, abiding warmth, “and I always will.”