A Patchwork Family

by Charlotte Hubbard

  His somber warning brought the meal to an end, and when he stood up, Mercy and Judd followed him out to his buckboard.

  “Can’t thank you enough for all your time and effort,” Judd said. And in a voice low enough not to carry back to the house he added, “I know it was a thankless job, bringing her back against her will.”

  Mike shrugged, but then he shook the big hand extended toward him. “I felt responsible—to you folks, as much as for Christine. Knew she’d be a handful when I left her here, and I never intended—”

  “She’s got a mind of her own,” Mercy reminded him, “and at thirteen, she thinks nothing bad can happen to her.”

  He chuckled then, deepening dimples she’d never seen in his tanned cheeks. His hazel eyes shone like polished stones in his dusty face, and even with his hat-matted hair and gritty mustache, he struck her as a fine-looking fellow. A lot younger than she’d figured before. In his many comings and goings, while she was busy dishing up dinner for a dozen passengers, Mike Malloy’s boyish features had gotten past her.

  “She’s older than you think,” he remarked, “and I don’t doubt for a minute that she’ll try this again. Too feisty to leave it alone. But then, if it was my mother caught up with the likes of Richard Wyndham, I guess I’d be chasing her down, too.”

  Judd’s dark eyebrows went up. “Did you hear anything about—”

  “Nah, she’s keeping all that to herself, like a big, juicy secret—if she really learned anything,” he replied. “You can tell by looking at him that Wyndham’s got a story for every occasion, and he probably changes names like you and I change our shirts. The war’s brought his type out to play, and good honest folks are the ones who’ll pay for it.”

  He smiled at Nathaniel as the tall, dark man brought two fresh horses to hitch to his wagon. Again Mercy was struck by his integrity, his concern about a runaway and those she left in her wake. Many of Holladay’s drivers had a wild and woolly reputation for consuming all the liquor and women that came their way, so it was pure pleasure to meet a young man with values and principles. A man they could call a true friend.

  She grabbed his muscled hand between hers. “Thank you again,” she said in a voice that shook more than she anticipated. “If there’s ever anything we can do for . . . She had us mighty worried, even if she is too big for her lacy little britches, and—”

  The hitch in her voice brought the tears that had threatened to fall ever since she’d come running from the house. Mike was kind enough to squeeze her hand and keep smiling.

  “Mrs. Monroe,” he said when she’d gotten herself together, “after a long drive’s behind me and I’m fed up with the dust and the cranky passengers and the threat of those Indians, thinking about your dinners gives me a reason to hop on that stage and do it all again. You and Judd are fine folks, and I’m glad I’ve come to know you.”

  As though his sentiment had caught him off guard, Mike hopped onto his bench and laced the reins between his fingers. With a tight nod and a “giddap!” to his horses, he was off.

  “Good luck with that Bristol girl!” he called back to them. He drove off in a billowing cloud of dust.

  Mercy leaned into her husband as he slung an arm over her shoulders. “You certainly have a way with the menfolk, Mrs. Monroe,” he quipped, and then he kissed her soundly. “Good thing I found you first.”

  Mercy flushed with the warmth of his humor, reveling in the strength of the bond between them, as solid as this man’s body. Her mind was already at a canter, like those horses Nathaniel had provided in place of Mike’s tired ones.

  “I know that look. What’s going on inside that pretty head of yours?”

  Chuckling, Mercy laced her fingers between Judd’s as they walked back toward the house. “I just thought of the perfect antidote to Miss Christine’s penchant for turning everyone’s lives upside down on a whim. At least it worked on me when I was her age.”

  Judd’s blue eyes caught the sparkle of the afternoon sun. “You going to share this with me—or do you keep deep, dark secrets like our little flame-haired angel does? Of course, who would believe Miss Mercedes ever needed an antidote for her perfection?”

  Mercy’s laughter bubbled up inside her, itself the perfect antidote to the worries she’d prayed about these past few weeks.

  “Aunt Agatha Vanderbilt,” she replied smugly. “Otherwise known as the headmistress of Miss Vanderbilt’s Academy for Young Ladies.”

  Chapter Nine

  Christine awoke the next morning with the glow of sunlight on her face muted by muslin curtains. Stretching like a languid cat, she reveled in the way the feather mattress wrapped around her, in a house that smelled like fresh bread and bacon rather than rancid cabbage. It felt so good to be clean again, and to have the tangles combed out of her hair. She was even glad to be back with Billy, although her wild-goose chase to find Mama had taught her a valuable lesson in trusting herself and her own instincts. Oh, the Monroes were good people, and maybe they wanted the best for her.

  But this would never be home.

  Propping herself on her elbows, Christine gazed around the humble room with its dark log walls and chinking the color of the muslin at the window. The fabric seemed to vibrate with the light of the sun—why, it must be nearly noon! And they’d let her sleep undisturbed.

  She snickered. That would never happen again! And as the images from her dreams resurfaced, she envisioned a pleasant face framed with unruly black waves; cheeks defined by a coal-colored beard as thick as the bristles in Daddy’s shaving brush.

  Tucker Trudeau. She could still hear the roll of his accent and feel the grip of his fingers, and these memories felt so clear, so distinct, it was as if he’d joined her here, filling a void in her heart like the sunlight enlivened this room.

  Did he like what he’d seen in her? Or had he only seen through the stories of a lonely girl who hungered for her mother’s love again? Maybe she was just one more waif in the aftermath of the war, and her rumpled clothes and dirty face had inspired his pity rather than a spark of potential affection.

  Maybe she would never hear from him again.

  This thought jarred her from the bed to fetch the photograph of Mama and that slippery Wyndham—which she’d locked in a trunk so Billy wouldn’t sneak in and get it. Without its glass, the likeness shone less with Mama’s newfound brightness and took on an earthier tone.

  But it was hers. Perhaps the last memento of her mother she’d ever have. Thank goodness Tucker had been kind enough to let her keep it.

  Furtive footfalls on the stairs made her hold her breath. She braced herself for when Billy would burst through the door to rail at her for still being in bed, her mind racing over the details she might reveal and those she refused to share. She held the portrait to her breast like a shield, her most intimidating expression in place.

  Yet when Billy peered through the crack, as though afraid to approach her, Christine softened. He was just a kid. He’d been Mama’s favorite, so he felt her abandonment much more acutely than anyone else would. His loyalty to the Monroes was his way of shoring himself up for whatever might lie ahead, now that everyone they’d loved had left them.

  “Come on in, Billy. I just woke up.”

  He looked a little taller than she remembered, but his walk had lost its happy-go-lucky spring. When his gaze fell to the photograph, she lowered it so he could at least see it upside down.

  Billy eyed the likeness somberly, letting one finger drift alongside Mama’s smile. “So what’d you find out? Did that photographer fella—”

  “His name is Tucker. Tucker Trudeau.”

  “—hazard a guess as to where they was headed? What they was gonna do together?” her brother asked in a voice edged with pain. “She looks purty again, don’t she? Too happy to be thinkin’ about the farm. Or findin’ us.”

  Christine closed her eyes. How could she explain, without wounding him further? “Tucker said Richard Wyndham wrote him a worthless check on a bank acco
unt that didn’t even exist—and then never came back to claim this picture. Probably just sat for it to stifle Mama’s whining. Tucker said they’d just come from the justice of the peace. Wanted a wedding picture.”

  “Mama?” Billy whimpered. “Already got herself married again? And she didn’t want us there with her?”

  His mouth opened and closed a couple times. Then he focused his pale blue eyes on her. “You’re not pullin’ my leg, are ya? This is the God’s honest truth, and there ain’t nothin’ we can do about it? And Daddy not dead six months yet.”

  “That’s about all I know, yes. Tucker was nice enough to—”

  “Tucker this and Tucker that!” Billy jeered—and then he leaned in close to stare straight into her eyes. “You didn’t get yourself hitched, didja? Just because Mama—”

  “What if I did? Who’ll I ever find out here in this wasteland?”

  Christine shoved him away, all compassion for him gone now. Marrying Tucker Trudeau had certainly occurred to her these past few days, but that dream was something she knew better than to share with anyone!

  “If you’re going to talk crazy like that, get out of my room! Get out anyway!” she amended curtly. “Make yourself useful and fix me something to eat while I dress.”

  Billy planted his fists on his hips as though to challenge her, but then he turned on his bare heel and stalked out. The silence he left behind rang with unspoken accusations—or was that her conscience prickling? After all, if she kept pushing him away and hurting his feelings, who would do her bidding? It was pointless to be a princess if she had no one to step and fetch for her.

  Christine smiled as she got out of bed. In her mind, Tucker Trudeau was flashing a winsome grin at her, grabbing her hand to show her the lot he’d just purchased as he described the fine house he intended to build her. It sounded a lot like her home in Missouri, but grander—more like the pillared mansion on the manicured estate owned by Leland Massena, the banker.

  She plucked the folded paper from her carpetbag and held his handwritten address to her lips. She’d write him a letter soon. To thank him for Mama’s portrait, of course.

  Mercy looked up from the large camelback trunk in the curtained-off room where she and Judd slept. She silently thanked Billy for being enough of a thorn in his sister’s side to make her squeal; make her reveal her girlish imaginings more in what she didn’t say than in what she admitted. And thanks to the round metal grates that allowed heat from a winter fire to rise into the rooms upstairs, she’d heard every word. But that would be her secret!

  Her plan for the fanciful, pampered Christine was falling into place nicely, and not a moment too soon. And Billy, bless him, had sprinted outside to help the men rather than bowing to his sister’s breakfast wishes.

  So now was her best chance for some girl talk. Time to plant seeds that would bear fruit for both of them before Miss Bristol took a notion to do something foolish. Like claiming to go after her mother again, when it was a certain man in Atchison she’d really rather see.

  “Good morning, Christine. Did you rest well?” she called out cheerfully. Miss Bristol wasn’t the only female here who knew a little about leading people in her own direction. “I’d like your opinion about some new dresses, when you’ve got a moment.”

  A hand pushed the red calico curtain aside and her unwitting victim peeked in. Mercy looked up from the beautiful gowns she’d spread across her bed in a rainbow of satins and taffeta, praying for the words that would bring Christine closer . . . tempt her to take the bait before she realized any ulterior motives were hidden in it.

  Those green eyes widened. Like a moth to the flame, Christine walked toward the fine dresses with her fingers extended to touch them, not even realizing how much she revealed in the simple, universal gesture of a woman who enjoys pretty things. Mercy saw the yearning in the girl’s eyes and felt it in her own soul, as well; she truly understood how difficult it was to go from riches to rags, if appearance was the way one measured success.

  “You know, I’ve been keeping these dresses packed away—realizing, of course, that fancy balls and evenings at the theater aren’t likely to happen any time soon for us homesteaders in—”

  “These are yours?” Christine’s face lit up with amazed curiosity. It hadn’t occurred to her that Mercy had lived a different life before coming west four years ago to help claim this land.

  “Oh, yes! Philadelphia was an exciting place to grow up,” Mercy said with a smile. “You probably think I’m hopelessly old, but it wasn’t that long ago when I had my coming out. Lawn parties and holiday balls were the highlight of my life then. I loved to dance and play the piano and gossip with my friends about which young men we wanted to—”

  “And you married Judd?” Christine blurted. “I mean—he’s a very fine—”

  “He was the handsomest thing you ever saw in a suit,” Mercy confided, “even if it took him a while to realize what a wonderful wife I’d make him. Papa’s money frightened him, you see.”

  She paused to let these details sink in. “But I knew he was the right man for me when he insisted on making his own way, rather than following in our family’s financial footsteps. Why, managing one of those huge carriage factories in the city would’ve been as poor a fit for Judd Monroe as trying to squeeze his feet into my kid slippers.”

  Christine’s face lit up with interest in the secrets being shared.

  “So I married him!” Mercy continued with a girlish grin. “It was such a beautiful day, with a church full of my family and friends. And thanks to Mother’s prodding, Papa saw fit to give us the money for more home-steading supplies than most folks out here could ever dream of. This log house, the barn, and the corrals were my dowry, Christine. But it was Judd’s sweat and effort that built them.”

  Her little lecture wasn’t entirely a lure; she hadn’t forgotten her parents’ reservations about the life she and Judd would lead on the untamed prairie. Judd’s dream had never been the same as theirs, and each winter when the wind howled around this little house, driving snow inside through cracks in the logs, she recalled the comforts she’d given up.

  “Were you ever . . . sorry?” the girl asked, her gaze drifting to the finery spread before her.

  Mercy let out a little laugh. “I can’t say it’s been easy. You know very well how difficult it is to lose a life of luxury and the friends who were a part of it. You probably think I’m a heartless shrew who’s been so dried out by the Kansas wind she’s forgotten about fun and—”

  “No,” Christine interrupted pensively. “I just don’t understand why you’d choose to live this way. I mean—it’s not that I—”

  “Believe me, Christine, there are days when I wonder about that, too,” Mercy replied quietly. “It certainly wasn’t the life I prepared myself for, much less dreamed about when I was your age. So I’m thinking we should send you to a reputable school—perhaps the one I attended in St. Louis. You’d have to board there full-time, of course. Abilene will someday be civilized enough to have its own schools and churches, but I can’t think you’ll be happy here.”

  The flaring of those bright green eyes told Mercy she’d set the right hook. It was tempting to weave in a little homily about God’s providence and the rewards to be had in working the soil rather than making another needlepoint sampler, but Christine didn’t want to hear that. At thirteen, nobody did.

  “You’d—you’d send me to school? Even though I’m not your daughter?”

  “Miss Vanderbilt’s Academy for Young Ladies is the ideal place for a girl of your abilities and station in life,” Mercy continued with enthusiasm. “You should know how to manage a household and the staff who maintain it. Along with such social graces, Miss Vanderbilt insists her students excel in literature, geography, French, and art, as well as useful skills like cooking and sewing.

  “And,” she went on in a lowered, more confidential tone, “it’s the best place to meet girls whose brothers might become suitable matches som
eday. I’ve found out you’re quite capable of thinking—and acting—independently, Christine. But I doubt you want to be a woman alone.”

  The girl’s lips twitched with a secret: Christine was adept at holding her cards close, and playing her aces at just the right time. Those catlike green eyes narrowed as she caressed the dresses.

  “Why are you doing this for me?” she asked warily. “You obviously can’t afford to—”

  It was the perfect occasion to recall the story of how Jesus encouraged His disciples to feed the hungry and clothe the naked, but Mercy refrained. The last thing this willful young lady wanted to be was a charity case. She would turn a deaf ear—and turn away from a plan that would keep them both sane.

  “We would be remiss if we didn’t help you become a personal and social success,” Mercy began, focusing directly on her charge’s freckled face. “My family firmly believes that girls should be educated. If I ever have a daughter of my own and circumstances would separate us, I hope someone would do the same for her.

  “And while I’m willing to remake these dresses for the social events you’ll be attending, you’ll earn part of your tuition by taking on jobs at Miss Vanderbilt’s academy—just like the other girls who attend,” she stated. “But won’t that be better than living in isolation here with us?”

  Christine blinked with sudden awareness. “Miss Vanderbilt . . . you mean the millionaire Vanderbilts who built the university?”

  Mercy nodded, keeping her smile under control. She, too, knew when to play her aces.

  “But with a fortune like that, why is she running a school? Why, she could be living in a mansion—”

  “Indeed she does. But the palatial home Agatha Vanderbilt inherited is more of a nuisance than a boon to a woman who never married. So she’s made it her mission to instruct girls in how to lead useful, purposeful lives.”