Billy ducked from under Judd’s hand and ran like his life depended on it.
“Christine!” he cried, his bare feet pounding the ground. “If you find out where Mama is, you tell me, and I’ll chase her down for ya! Hear me? Ya hear me, Christine?”
He ran until his lungs caught fire, until he stumbled in the rutted road. But he was just a kid, and those powerful Morgans would carry out their driver’s need for speed—until they were out of sight of the way station, anyway. Gasping for air, his eyes fixed on the swaying backside of the Concord coach, Billy watched until it was only a tiny speck on the horizon.
When he could see no more, do no more, think no more, he ambled back toward the house. The men had returned to their chores, which gave him a few minutes to compose himself. Maybe splash his face in the basin before he joined them.
But the lone figure in brown calico showed no inclination to go inside. The hot wind whipped the chest nut hair around her face, flattening her skirt against her legs.
Mercy saw two wet trails cutting the dust on Billy’s cheeks, and her eyes, too, filled with tears.
“Why’d she do that?” Billy rasped. “I didn’t get to say good-bye to—”
Mercy held him until those bony shoulders stopped shuddering, wondering why a boy so small had been called upon to bear such a burden.
“She didn’t want you to see her cry, Billy. Christine’s plucky, but she’s not nearly as brave as you are.”
Chapter Fourteen
When Billy saw Judd, Nathaniel, and Asa hauling the long wooden benches from the barn, his heart beat faster. “Time for another one of them Sunday socials?” he asked. He steadied the end of a bench, helping the wiry colored man settle it into the grooves that remained from previous meetings.
“Yessir, in a couple days Mr. Holladay’s clerk’ll come ’round, and then folks from along the stage route’ll be here for some preachin’, some catchin’ up on chat, and some mighty fine eats,” Asa replied happily. “Hardly seems possible it’s almost October. Used to roll my eyes at Grandpappy when he said time flew by faster, the older he got. But by golly, he was right!”
“It’s almost October?” Billy considered this, and got fluttery inside. “Then it’s almost my birthday. Wesley and me’ll be eleven, come the third. I keep believin’ he’s alive, ’cause when I think about him maybe bein’ dead, it just don’t set right.”
“Not a bad way to look at it,” Judd replied. His tanned face lit up with a smile that made Billy feel good from the inside out. “More times than not, our intuitions prove right—and faith in God’s providence is never wasted, son. Just a couple more benches and we’ll be ready to haul out the platform. You’re mighty good help, you know that?”
“Thank you, sir. You’re mighty good help to me, too.”
He shaded his face from the sun, which shone at a more intense angle these days. “So what kind of pies you makin’, Asa?”
The old cook’s grin flashed white. “Depends on what we find for fillin’s. We’ve used the last tin of Miss Mercy’s cherries, but the supply wagon always has dried apples. Sometimes dried peaches and raisins. Or,” he added with a tantalizing rise in his voice, “we’ve got some nice pumpkins in the garden. And there’s always eggs and milk for custard. What’s your favorite, Billy?”
Thinking back to the sweets Beulah Mae used to bake especially for Sundays, he let out a wistful sigh. “Been a long, long time since I tasted raisin pie. Or punkin, with lots of spice in it,” he mused aloud. “Our cook back home made her punkin pie about three inches thick, and it set up so solid and sweet you could lift up a wedge and eat it without a fork. ’Course, we didn’t let Mama catch us at it.”
The memory made him grin. “Once, me and Wesley snatched a pie apiece and snuck ’em into our room the night before we’s to have the preacher’s family over to Sunday dinner. Bettin’ each other we could eat a whole pie, you see.”
Judd’s eyes twinkled. “Who won?”
“Well, we both got sicker’n dogs. But Wes felt it comin’ on, so he hightailed it out behind the barn,” Billy recounted with a shake of his head. “He was always smarter’n me that way. Once I was done throwin’ up, Daddy marched me outside to cut my own willow switch, and I had to clean up my mess.”
“Your brother didn’t get punished?”
“Oh, Beulah Mae was madder’n a wet cat about them pies bein’ gone. Turned Wesley over her knee before he knew what hit ’im, and he didn’t sit down all week!” The memory of his twin’s red face—and matching backside—had him feeling better than he had since his sister left. “He had to explain to Reverend Searcy why there weren’t no dessert, too.”
“Ate humble pie for a while, did he?” Asa teased.
The male chuckles around Billy made him feel accepted . . . maybe even loved like a son the Monroes wished they had.
And Sunday, when the folks who’d passed him up in July began rolling in with their baskets of food, it was as though he’d always been here on the Monroe homestead.
“Why, Billy, I believe you’ve grown a foot taller!” Mrs. Clark crowed as she handed him her basket. “If you’d put that on the table for me, I’ll see if Mercy needs any help.”
“Yes, ma’am. Smells awful good.”
“Take mine, too, Billy!” A stout, pleasant woman he recalled from last time—Nell Fergus, he thought—wedged a basket into the crook of his other arm. “Don’t let those beans slosh out, now!”
He was easing these warm, weighty hampers onto the table when somebody swatted his right shoulder. He jerked his head that way, only to hear a familiar giggle from his left side. “Hey there, Billy Bristol! You gonna dance with me this afternoon?”
“Well, hey there, Emma! I—I dunno—”
“Well, you darn well better eat with me,” she said, arching her brows, “or you won’t hear my story about Injuns.”
Fast as a field mouse, she scampered off. Billy watched her blond ringlets bounce down the back of her pink gingham dress, which made her look frillier than he recalled. He wasn’t sure what that meant. But maybe her Injun story could save him from admitting he’d been the clumsiest boy in Mrs. Rayburn’s dance classes back home.
He wasn’t sure who that skinny kid in the spectacles was, either, but when Emma grabbed the boy’s hand to show him around the yard and corrals, Billy frowned. Who did she think she was, taking the boy inside to meet Mercy? As though she had no intention of spending time with him—or letting him size up this other boy face-to-face!
But here came the Barstow family, with cotton-haired kids spilling out of the wagon in every direction. Then Reverend Larsen arrived in his threadbare frock coat, riding Moses and leading the Morgan he’d borrowed after Christine ran off. With so many wagons to be parked and horses to be corralled, Billy and Judd and the two hands had all they could do to keep up.
Enough chill nipped the air that shawls and autumn bonnets graced some of the ladies, while their men sported heavier shirts. As though on cue, when the last family had arrived and the circuit rider was stepping up to his platform, the sun broke through the puffy, pearl-gray clouds. The sunbeams glowed with God’s own glory. When the breeze caught the cottonwoods along the creek, their leaves shimmered like gold coins.
Billy slipped onto the end of a bench beside Mercy, sighing with satisfaction. He couldn’t see where Emma was sitting. And at this moment, happily anticipating the church service and a big dinner, he didn’t rightly care if she was holding that other kid’s hand or not.
“Friends, it’s good to gather here once again,” the preacher said in his Scandinavian cadence, “and it’s kind of the Monroes to offer their hospitality. Before Judd begins with the Scripture reading, though, he has a very special announcement.”
Billy smiled, for Judd Monroe was a man among men, broad and tall and strong—like the tinted picture of King David in Mama’s Bible. Respected by every neighbor here. And when those deep blue eyes met his, Billy’s heart skittered up into his throat.
A movement caught Billy’s eye, and here came Emma Clark and her friend, carrying a large, round pan between them. They walked carefully, so the big candle in the center wouldn’t blow out . . . came right at him . . . although Emma was focused on the other boy as though they shared a secret. Maybe something Billy didn’t want to know.
But he caught the aroma of cinnamon and spice, and saw glazed white letters that said HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BILLY. His jaw dropped, and he sprang from his seat.
“Why, that’s the biggest dang . . . Asa, did you make me this fine punkin pie?” he piped up. “If you’re lookin’ to outdo Beulah Mae, well, you done did it!”
Asa, who was standing over beside the corral, tipped his hat, and everyone began clapping.
“Make your wish, Billy,” Mercy encouraged from beside him. “Make it a special one before you blow out that candle.”
Possibilities raced through his mind, but most of them—about life returning to the way it used to be—weren’t really possible. So he squeezed his eyes shut, letting images of Daddy, Mama, Wesley, and Christine linger for a moment . . .
And then it came to him: I wanna be like Judd and Mercy—good enough to be their son now. Good enough to be family.
When he leaned toward the candle, the new boy’s lenses reflected the flame—and that flash took Billy back to when Wesley would blind him with Mama’s little needlework magnifier. Wes pestered anybody he considered a runt, and more times than he cared to recall, Billy had been the object of his attentions.
He blinked; took in this kid’s worn suspenders and baggy britches, and the way he chewed his lip as he waited for this birthday tribute to be over. That big pan of pie wobbled between the kid and Emma when he shifted his skinny legs, nervous-like. No doubt he’d been teased and called Four-Eyes on account of those specs. So as Billy aimed and blew, he tacked a new ending onto his wish: I wanna be this kid’s friend.
“Don’t guess I know ya,” he said as the applause rose around them. “I’m Billy Bristol. Lost my home and a lot of my family after the war, but I like it here now. How ’bout you?”
Emma grinned over the pie at him. “This here’s my cousin Gabriel Getty from out in Colorado. He’s come to live with us—but that’s part of my Injun story, and we’d better go set down. Happy birthday, Billy!”
He barely heard a word of Judd’s reading; caught only an occasional phrase of Gregor Larsen’s sermon. As he sat close enough to Mercy to appreciate the warmth of her soul—and the way she blocked that breeze from the north—Billy felt strangely, wonderfully settled. But more than that, he felt he was about to walk down a whole new path.
Had it appeared as part of his wish? Or had it always been there, and he could see it now because he was turning eleven?
“Amen!” rose around him, and then everyone stood up. The men lingered to chat, but the women hurried toward the baskets they’d brought. While they clucked like hens who arranged their eggs to best advantage, Billy ambled through the crowd toward the Clark family.
Now that he was paying attention, Gabriel did resemble Emma’s lanky mother, Rachel: same straight brown hair hanging limply over his ears, same gaunt, studious look about him—which those round, wire-rimmed spectacles seemed to magnify. There was something else about the boy, something Billy couldn’t put his finger on. Until he got close enough to look Gabe Getty in the eye.
This kid, who seemed a little older and stood taller than he, wouldn’t return his smile. Wouldn’t even focus on him.
“Let’s fix our plates ’fore everybody else gets all the good stuff! Then we gotta cut ourselves a huge slice of that pie,” Emma declared. Her blue eyes sparkled as she grabbed her cousin’s hand and then latched onto Billy’s, too. She was leading them toward the tables as though Gabe’s behavior was perfectly normal.
“Yep. If I’d knowed it was your birthday, Billy, I’d’ve brung you a snake to tease your sister with,” she went on brightly. “Now that it’s colder, they’re movin’ slow enough I can catch ’em. But then, I guess Christine went off to school, huh?”
“St. Louis,” Billy replied, pleased that he could say it in a stronger voice now, without the pang he usually got. “And I’m guessin’ Mercy’s Aunt Agatha’ll put that girl through her paces, too. You got a sister, Gabe?”
He was just making conversation, but as soon as the words were out, he wanted to kick himself. The kid’s agonized expression was Billy’s punishment for his stupidity: If he had a sister, she’d be here, too, wouldn’t she? “What I mean is—”
“That’s part of the Injun story I gotta tell ya,” Emma said, her expression none too cheerful. When she jerked her head toward the corrals, Billy followed her away from the folks filling their plates at the tables.
“Out in Colorado a few years back, there was a Sand Creek massacree, where a buncha Colonel Chivington’s soldiers attacked a tribe of peaceable Injuns. So all the tribes banded together, and they’ve been fightin’ back ever since,” Emma related in a low voice. She was still holding Gabriel’s hand, trying to get this part of the story over with.
“Mama’s brother and his family ran a little tradin’ post, with supplies for trappers and gold miners and such,” she continued. “Them Southern Cheyenne’re still peeved about the massacree, and the way whites is settlin’ their land and killin’ off their buffalo. So they attacked the store and the cabin, ridin’ around on their horses shootin’ fiery arrows. Gabriel here was the only one they didn’t find. The soldier who brung him to us thinks he seen ’em kill his ma and pa and three little sisters, but we can’t be sure.”
Emma’s voice had fallen to a sympathetic whisper, and her eyes glistened like wet blue plates. “They found him huddlin’ in the root cellar behind a bin of turnips. He’s only eight, Billy. Ain’t said a word since it all happened. Ain’t that just the sorriest thing you ever heard?”
Billy looked up at Gabriel again—and then looked away so the poor kid wouldn’t think he was staring. Stories about Indians had always intrigued him, and small groups of them passed this place now and again—squaws walking with papooses on their backs, following men on painted ponies. He’d never known a victim of an Indian attack, but he sure knew how it felt to be victimized. He’d watched men on horseback destroy his home and family, too.
Clapping Gabriel gently on the back, and noting how bony he felt, Billy smiled. “You and me got a lot in common, ya know it?” he offered awkwardly. What should he say to a boy who looked too lost in his fears to answer?
“One of these days I’ll tell ya ’bout how Border Ruffians done the same nasty stuff to my family. But right now, you got some catchin’ up to do at the table, Gabe.” Billy started toward the food again, glad the silent boy went wherever Emma led him. “And since it’s my birthday, I’m thinkin’ we should start with dessert! Ain’t nobody brought anything half as good as Asa’s punkin’ pie, so I’m gonna cut you a big piece, all right?”
Was that a flicker of a grin? Or had the poor kid’s specs slipped down his nose?
Suddenly feeling very fortunate, Billy led the way to that wheel-sized concoction of pumpkin and sugar and eggs. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BILLY, it said in Mercy’s pretty script—and he realized that she and Asa must have stayed up half the night baking it so it’d be a surprise.
The knife left a well-defined groove in the pie, just the way he knew it would. Without regard for the niceties of size or shape, he carved out three blocks that accounted for nearly half the pie.
“Here ya go,” he said, lifting up the first chunk with a pie server. He sighed with sheer joy: it was a full three inches deep, with a sweet, spicy-smelling middle that stood proud and
firm when he offered it to his new friend.
“See there? We don’t even need no plates!” he crowed as Gabriel took it between his hands. “Now, that’s pie!”
Chapter Fifteen
Dear Billy,
Be glad you’re not a student at Miss Vanderbilt’s Academy for Young Ladies, because that white-haired battle-ax who took such a shine to YOU can’t find enough ways to torture ME! To earn part of my tuition, I’m sewing school uniforms, and they’re so ugly I refuse to wear them in public: plain brown jumpers with butternut blouses. First thing I did when I arrived was suggest a new color and design, and all the girls agreed with me!
Miss Vanderbilt, as you can imagine, is reluctant to change her school’s sacred tradition. She says a uniform keeps everyone equal. Well, why would I settle for being equal, when Mama raised me to reign from several rungs above my peers?
But yes, it’s better than living in that dim, disgusting log house out in the middle of nowhere. At least we have running water and a real furnace.
I’m making friends, and tomorrow we’ll be attending a charity event, la-dee-dah: if you call serving up soup at the Friends of the Homeless Mission an event. No, I’ll not be splattering any of Mama’s pretty made-over gowns there.
I’ve heard no more about Mama from Tucker Trudeau. This puzzles me, as I’ve sent him a note with my new school address. If Mike Malloy brings any mail for me to the Monroes’ house, you keep it safe for me! Mercy appears to be a very dedicated woman, but I believe she sent me to her maiden aunt’s academy as much for spite as for my education.
BUT DON’T BREATHE A WORD OF THIS, UNDERSTAND ME?
I’ll see you at Christmas. Try to behave.
Your dear sister,
Christine
Billy read the small, flowery script again, and again, and then he chuckled out loud. “Don’t sound like Christine and your Aunt Agatha’s gettin’ along too good,” he remarked. “But then, that’s Sis for ya.”
A Patchwork Family Page 14