A Patchwork Family

by Charlotte Hubbard

  Mercy was placing candles in all the windows. She waited until the tiny flames cast a steady, funereal glow over the front room, and then looked at him. “I’m sorry this happened, Billy. I know you had nothing to do with it.”

  He swallowed hard, nodding. Her sympathy struck a soft spot that nobody else had found, and before he could catch himself, he burst into tears. Appalled at his girlish behavior, Billy turned toward the door, but two arms caught him before he could stumble up the stairs.

  “This is no time for either of us to sit alone,” Mercy whispered. “Hold on to me, Billy. We’ll both feel better for it.”

  She sat down on the stoop and he crawled into her lap. His arms twined around her neck, and then Billy broke down. Fear and anger drove him into a mindless state; he cried so hard he couldn’t even think. When his daddy died, he had to be brave for Mama. When Wesley didn’t come home, he had to be the man and deny an even deeper loss. Mama’s abandonment stung him like a fresh wound. And now his sister had left him, too.

  Mercy rocked him, amazed that one small body could generate such heat. She closed her eyes to savor the moment, because she hadn’t held a child this way since she’d left nieces and nephews behind in Philadelphia—and she sensed that Billy would never succumb to his tears again. Her heart ached for this lonely little boy, and as she peered over his shoulder into the vast darkness, she prayed that God would watch over Christine and bring her back—if only because her little brother needed her.

  When Billy’s sobs turned to sniffles, she loosened her hold on him. He rested, silent and spent, with his face pressed against her damp shoulder.

  Billy let out a long breath, drained. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d sat this way. Mama had favored him with such affection long after Wesley wiggled out of her embrace, yet he’d sensed it wasn’t a manly thing to do. Mercy Monroe smelled of dust and supper and the evening’s heat, an earthy combination that soothed him because it was so much like his own scent. Plain. Natural.

  With a sigh, he slipped out of her lap. Then he squinted west, toward where the Clark farm would be. “That a firefly or a lantern?” he mumbled.

  Mercy followed the direction of his gaze. “Someone’s heading back. And there’s another light, coming from the river. Why don’t you fill the washbasins while I see what’s left of the lemonade. They’ll be hot and tired.”

  He nodded, glad for the chance to splash his own face before the men arrived.

  They came back without Christine.

  “We’ll tell Malloy to put the word out along the stage line tomorrow,” Judd said quietly. His face was lined with exhaustion, and he looked older. “I can’t think she’d stray far from the road—which would be the logical place to look for her mother, anyway. I don’t suppose she left that diary behind?”

  “If she did, it’s locked in a trunk,” Mercy replied.

  Billy listened glumly. Christine had hung those keys on a little chain beneath her clothes, and he had no doubt they were still there.

  “Let’s turn in and try again tomorrow. Gregor, you can have her room tonight. We’d all rest better if you led us in prayer.”

  Billy bowed his head, but the preacher’s words didn’t fill the emptiness inside him. He said his good nights quickly and went upstairs. Asa and Nathaniel talked quietly on their way to the barn. Reverend Larsen entered the room across the hall. And then the creaking and settling of beds faded into the night.

  Staring out his window, he saw an infinite blackness broken only by the stars and a small patch of light below him, where a candle burned in a window. He wished Christine Godspeed while hunting for Mama, and prayed for their safe return.

  But when a wolf wailed in the distance, Billy wondered if he’d ever see either one of them again.

  Christine had watched the men’s lanterns disappear in different directions, while the glow of candles came into each window. As she’d figured, the search party had kept close to the road. This cottonwood grove due north of the house—which she’d spotted from her room—had made the perfect place to wait until they’d gone the other way and the guests were headed home.

  Everything had fallen into place so perfectly! She felt bad about leaving Billy, but he was better off with the Monroes. His wheedling and stalling would only slow her down.

  “Come on, you old nag,” she muttered to the preacher’s horse.

  She’d had plenty of nicer animals to choose from, but the neighbors’ draft horses looked too large to saddle. And Judd’s Morgans usually hauled stagecoaches at breakneck speed, so she wasn’t sure she could handle one. She figured Reverend Larsen’s horse was used to walking a long way without much to eat, and the saddle resting on the partition beside him had seemed like a lucky omen.

  Christine mounted awkwardly, clinging to the animal’s neck. The dark prairie loomed endlessly in every direction. It occurred to her that if she fell off the horse and the wolves got her, it might be days before anyone found her remains.

  But she nudged the horse anyway. If she caved in now, she’d look like a fool. A sneaking, thieving fool. She had money, and fresh cornbread wrapped in napkins, and a passage from Mama’s diary to spur her on: Richard says we’ll take a few days in Leavenworth, to get better acquainted and plan our trip west. If she waited any longer, she’d miss them.

  Christine settled herself in the worn saddle. This tributary of the river roughly followed the stage route, and would also provide the cover of the trees along its banks. By tomorrow, Mike Malloy would know she was missing and spread the word, so it was best to avoid the main road.

  She smiled, thinking about the note she’d mail to Billy when she found Mama. Thinking about how he and the Monroes and Mr. Malloy would have to admit she was pretty smart, for a girl.

  A mournful howl made her shiver. Those wolves sounded closer. She’d read how a pack of these vile creatures would surround its prey and then close in, lunging when the victim fell, scared and helpless, to the ground.

  The coppery taste of fear filled her mouth. Christine licked her lips and glanced over her shoulder at the house, a dimming beacon in the distance.

  But she couldn’t turn back, and she’d never forgive herself if she allowed her mother to run off with Richard Wyndham. She didn’t know much about men—or the Bible—but she recognized that smooth-talker in the checkered suit as the very same snake who’d corrupted Eve in the Garden.

  At dawn Billy stopped tossing in his bed and got up. He scanned the horizon from his window, desperate for a sign of his sister. But Christine was gone. He slipped into his overalls and went down the stairs, hearing the reverend’s lusty snores from across the hall.

  The chickens pecked at the corn Judd had tossed them. The cow bawled as Nathaniel milked her. The corn crop swayed in the wind, tall and proud and green. He smelled sugar and cinnamon and roasting meat, signs that Mercy and Asa were preparing dinner for the stagecoach passengers who would arrive later.

  How could everything seem so normal—so peaceful—when he felt so agitated and alone? How could he possibly get through this day, not knowing where his sister was or what trouble might have found her in the night?

  Billy blinked hard. Before anyone could catch him crying, he walked to the washbasin and splashed his face. He should be helping Judd move those benches back into the barn, or fetching buffalo chips for Mercy’s cookstove, but he just couldn’t face the Monroes yet. The sympathy in their smiles would only make him more miserable.

  So he stood with his eyes shut, letting the cool water drip down his face. If Wesley or Christine saw him this way, their catcalls would brand him a sissy. Right now that didn’t matter, though. When he thought about either of them, his heart turned into a big, aching knot.

  He was about to slip around the side of the house where he could cry unnoticed, when a hand closed over his bare shoulder. Billy opened his eyes to see Reverend Larsen smiling kindly at him. His sandy waves were wild from sleep, and he looked like anything but a preacher without his shirt,
yet his presence was comforting.

  “Your sister impresses me as a . . . resourceful girl,” he said quietly. His voice had a foreign lilt that made Billy smile in spite of his agony. “We’ll have to have faith that between Christine’s pluck and God’s purpose, some good will come of her little adventure.”

  Billy sighed, nodding. He’d never seen a preacher half naked, and it fascinated him that Gregor Larsen’s narrow chest sported the same coarse hair his daddy’s had.

  “And she took the best horse for the trip, you know,” he added. “Moses stops at every house he sees, hoping to be fed. Won’t be long before some homesteader recognizes him and brings Christine back.”

  “Prob’ly so,” Billy mumbled.

  “Meanwhile, you’ve chosen the wiser path. You’ve accepted the Monroes’ hospitality—the love they long to lavish upon children—and this gift of yourself is marvelous in God’s eyes. You and Mercy and Judd will all be blessed because you stayed here.”

  Billy didn’t completely understand these words, but they made him feel better—like maybe he was giving as much as he got in this awkward situation. When he stepped into the kitchen, the greetings confirmed this.

  “There’s our boy!” Asa called out from a corner of the table. Pies were lined up in front of him—apple today—for the oven.

  Mercy, too, gave him a warm smile. The circles under her eyes betrayed her sleepless night. It touched him that she cared enough about his runaway sister to lie awake worrying about her.

  “I could use some butter and cream from the spring-house,” she said. “And on your way back, tell Judd and Nathaniel to come eat. I’m sure Reverend Larsen wants to be on his way.”

  Billy nodded, glad for the diversion. He was hungrier than he realized when they all gathered around the table for biscuits and bacon and stewed apples left from the pie-making. As they bowed their heads, Mercy’s hand found his under the table. The reverend prayed for Christine’s safety, and for their faith in her return before he blessed their breakfast.

  Nobody speculated about his sister’s motives or mentioned the things she’d stolen, for which Billy was grateful. In Judd’s eyes he saw compassion rather than pity. They all had their separate tasks in order to prepare for today’s stagecoach, yet he sensed a unity in the room. A strength born of concern and love and hope, as voiced in the preacher’s prayer.

  Billy wasn’t surprised that Gregor Larsen rode off on a fine Monroe Morgan, with clothing of Judd’s and a quilt from Mercy’s cedar chest, to replace what Christine had taken with her. Mercy wrapped the remaining biscuits, a chunk of cheese, and a small jar of jam in a cloth bag for him, too.

  As the preacher rode toward the rutted road, Billy realized that he sat in one of only two saddles from the barn—yet another toll Christine’s escape had taken on the Monroes’ precious possessions. It would take weeks of serving meals to recover what his sister had ridden off with, yet nowhere did he see signs of anger or malice. Judd and Mercy were discussing what needed to be done before noon, when Mike Malloy would pull in with his passengers.

  The more Billy thought about it, the heavier their kindness weighed upon him. “I—I promise I’ll pay back every single thing you had to provide for that preacher!” he blurted. “We Bristols honor our debts. Daddy always said so.”

  Judd’s tanned face creased with a smile. “I’ve never doubted your integrity, son—or your intentions. For now, though, you carry a heavy enough load just worrying about your mother and Christine. But comes a time when I can use some extra effort, I’ll let you know, all right?”

  “Yessir. I’ll be right here.”

  Chapter Six

  For the next few days, Mercy watched Billy struggle valiantly with the absence of his entire family. They’d done all they could to find Christine. At Billy’s suggestion, Mercy had opened Mrs. Bristol’s trunks with a key from her own luggage, but his sister had taken the diary with her. The boy repacked his mother’s things with great sadness, placing all he’d ever loved about his former home in a casket and then closing the lid on it. How young he was to grapple with such a profound loss!

  Judd broke the news of Christine’s disappearance to Mike Malloy, while his passengers washed and crowded around the table.

  The driver sighed as though he’d anticipated this. “I’ll send word along the stage line. Maybe look for her myself, after I finish this run.”

  “I’d be forever grateful,” Judd replied quietly. “I’d go after her myself, but with other stages stopping, and the Indian trouble they’ve had farther west, I don’t want to leave the place for that long.”

  “It’ll be like hunting a needle in a haystack,” Malloy agreed. “I don’t like to think about what might happen to a girl alone on the prairie. I doubt she’s got much sense of direction, or the know-how to protect herself.”

  “She ain’t much of a rider, neither,” Billy mumbled.

  Mike rested his hand on the boy’s auburn hair, his hazel eyes narrowing in concern. “Can you recall anything else about this Wyndham fellow? Or about what Christine said before she slipped away?”

  “Nope. Mama’s diary made it sound like she and him was better friends than we thought. Like maybe they’d been plannin’ to head west for quite a little while.” Billy considered this glumly. “That would explain why he didn’t wanna buy our place, wouldn’t it?”

  Mercy glanced at the two men. “Christine’s sharper than we think, if she managed to sneak off during a gathering of nearly forty people. Let’s assume her determination will make up for any lack of experience, and hope for the best. We just have to leave the whole matter in God’s hands now.”

  She said this to make Billy feel better, and to convince herself his sister would be all right. Her cooking, washing clothes at the river, and tending the garden at its midsummer peak couldn’t come to a halt so she could fret over a runaway. Miss Bristol had feigned illness and then stolen from her with the finesse of a professional hustler. She would no doubt prove herself a worthy match for whatever might come her way.

  But that was small comfort as the days went by without any word from her. Billy buried himself in chores, mucking out the barn with a vengeance, as though shoveling out all the loneliness and heartache heaped upon him by his mother and sister. He didn’t have much to say, and his blue eyes remained clouded with concern.

  A note from Reverend Larsen came on the next stagecoach.

  My horse Moses has returned home, the squared lettering announced. He was saddled, but Christine wasn’t on him. Nor were any clothes or food. My prayers continue for Billy as we all keep watch.

  Billy gazed at the paper as though his whole life resided in those few lines. “Guess she’s makin’ her way back to Missouri, then. Or back to where Mama took out with that English fella,” he said quietly. “Much as you folks tried to make her welcome, she just didn’t take to the dust and the hard work and the wide open spaces.”

  “Understandable, for a girl,” Judd reassured him.

  “It’s a good sign if the saddlebags were empty,” Mercy said around the lump in her throat. “It means she found a place to stay, or a faster way to travel. And she still has the money.”

  An uneasy silence surrounded them. It went unsaid that she could have met up with Indians, or shiftless men on the trail who’d relieved her of her belongings.

  Billy nodded, as though convincing himself that the better options were true. “She made her own choices, didn’t she? I couldn’t never convince her to see things my way, even before we lost Daddy,” he recalled with a halfhearted grin, “so I gotta stop worryin’ over it. Worry won’t change nothin’ about Christine.”

  Little they could do would console him, so Mercy and Judd kept their conversations to the tasks at hand whenever Billy was around. Even references to his life before the war, before his daddy’s death and his twin’s kidnapping, brought pain to his slender face. Billy spent the next several evenings flipping through the padded velvet photo albums, as though committin
g each image from his past to memory. Neither Mercy nor Judd could imagine the loneliness he suffered, the losses he’d borne at such a tender age. The degradation of knowing that his mother and sister had chosen to leave him behind.

  Asa brought the boy out of his misery by telling tales of his childhood in the South. He’d been a favorite with his master’s family, and showed an early aptitude for learning—enough that he sat in on lessons with his owner’s children. Desperate for something to occupy himself, Billy asked the colored hand to continue his schooling. Mercy was happy to provide a slate and some books she’d used in school, so she and the boy and the black man could do lessons in the evenings.

  “Billy’s no slouch,” Judd commented as he sat with Mercy on the back stoop one night in early August. “Listen to him! He’s reciting his multiplication tables without a second’s hesitation.”

  “You should hear him spell,” Mercy added proudly. “He can recite the countries of Europe and their capitals, and then rattle off the letters in those foreign names as though he were spelling his own.”

  “Can better grammar be far behind?” her husband teased, and for the first time in days they laughed.

  The sound was sweet to Mercy’s ears. She delighted in Judd’s kisses, and the sparkle in his deep blue eyes, and his whispered endearments as the dusk fell around them. The stars came out to a chorus of katydids, like diamonds dancing in a velvet sky.

  The peacefulness of the prairie settled over her, as though the Lord were sending His reassurance that everything would be all right. As she and Judd came in for the night, the lingering scents of roasted beef and buttery corn settled her soul; the sight of her familiar furnishings in the cozy lamplight restored the warmth Christine had taken away on the reverend’s horse. Knowing better than to kiss Billy—for the boy would be mortified if Judd saw—Mercy just brushed his hair back from his brow.