A Patchwork Family

by Charlotte Hubbard

  Adjusting his eyeglasses, Gabe nodded pointedly at their oncoming intruder. “So how long were you down in that root cellar, Billy? Could you hear the Indian attack going on?”

  Billy tried to focus on Emma’s swaying blond hair as she walked—or on her big blue eyes when she locked her gaze on him. Anything to forget that one triumphant war whoop, followed by an unearthly silence, when all they could do was wait in the cellar. And wonder.

  “Most of a day,” he replied. “Not near as long as you hid behind them bins that time, Gabe.”

  “He wasn’t in any hurry to go down in the cellar with us this time,” Emma said. She stopped in front of Billy, smugly crossing her arms. “We saw those Injuns coming in time to disappear, just like nobody was home. So they rode on to the next place, I guess. Shot arrows into a few hogs as they passed through, was all.”

  Billy closed his eyes against this image. In his mind, those arrows felled Judd and Nathaniel—and it was more than he could bear, to think of them writhing in agony while he’d been safe in the cellar. “Yeah, well, Judd and Nathaniel and Iry Barstow was out threshing the corn when them Injuns charged in from outta nowhere. Mercy shooed us into the house ’cause Judd told her to, so—so—”

  He swallowed the lump that made his voice jump; separated the two dogs snarling playfully beside him so Emma wouldn’t see his wet eyes. He fixed a phony-feeling smile on his face, but then grinned with quick inspiration.

  “Gabe says you been makin’ pies lately,” he remarked in a hopeful tone. “Since the men’re lookin’ over the rest of the corn crop, and the women’re talking to Mercy, I’m thinkin’ it’s the perfect time to snitch us a little dessert. Slip on out to your wagon and get that pie for us, Emma.”

  She smiled with the mischief of his idea, but then her brow puckered. Was he trying to get rid of her?

  “So how’ll we cut it?” Emma looked over her shoulder, to plan her path to the wagon. “Can’t just tear into it with—”

  “Asa gave me Nathaniel’s knife. To remember him by—and in case I ever need to use it.”

  His two friends went silent with awed respect as he lifted his pant leg to slip the sheathed blade from inside his boot.

  “Holy smokes,” Gabe breathed. “That’s the wickedest thing I ever seen.”

  The eight-inch blade glinted in the sunlight. Billy gripped its handle, wishing for the power and protection the knife represented. Wishing it hadn’t been lying useless in Nathaniel’s quarters in the loft on the day of the attack.

  “Nope,” he countered. “The wickedest thing you and I ever seen was the way men with murderin’ hearts tore apart families who did nothin’ to deserve it. I promised on Judd’s grave that someday I’ll make them killers pay for what they’ve done—to both my families. Are you with me on this, Mr. Getty?”

  Gabe sat taller, his face somber with thought. He looked older and wiser than his nine years—more like an early version of Abraham Lincoln than a kid. “I’m not much of a fighter, Billy,” he murmured. “But by golly, you’re right! If we don’t halt these predators in their tracks, why—they’ll just keep taking advantage of us!”

  “We oughta make a pact,” Billy whispered. It felt good to hear Gabe’s resounding agreement; the fire of a friend’s conviction. “Blood brothers?”

  The boy beside him hesitated when the knife’s edge caught the sunlight, but he rolled up his shirtsleeve. “Blood brothers. Just like the Indians do it.”

  “I’m not watchin’ this.” Emma’s hair and skirt swirled behind her as she turned to go. “If you cut off your fool arms with that thing, don’t come cryin’ to me!”

  Mike Malloy saw the wagons in Mercy’s yard and brought his horse to a halt, planning his strategy. Though he wasn’t surprised that neighbors had come to her aid, he hadn’t planned on parading his own assistance in front of folks who would jump to conclusions.

  His intentions were perfectly honorable.

  He just wasn’t crazy about the gossip this might cause, or about making Mercy react to his gift in front of other people. Bad enough that he felt as jittery as a kid at his first dance. Even though he was doing the right thing—helping her because Judd would expect nothing less—he’d be living with the consequences of whatever Mrs. Monroe said or did today. Time was short, before she had to be ready for winter, but people’s memories were not.

  Thinking he could leave his surprises in a grove east of the yard until the others cleared out, Malloy clucked to his horse. The two cows he’d brought had other ideas, however. When the wagon bumped against the ruts in the road, they began to bawl and balk. Four barking border collies—and the three kids they belonged to—immediately came running out to greet him.

  So much for secrets.

  “Hey there, Michael Malloy!” Emma called out. “We’re just fixin’ to eat! Can ya come and join us? Are those cows a present for Mercy?”

  The girl looked more grown up every time he saw her, but she still had all the subtlety of a six-year-old. Those blue eyes didn’t miss a trick, so he’d better lay his cards on the table. More or less.

  “How do you suppose she and Billy will get by without milk and butter?” he asked. He had to drive slowly, with four dogs running in circles around him, nipping at the cows in their excitement. “In a few days, another stagecoach’ll come through and . . . well! I see some of the horses are back!”

  “Yessir—and Mr. Lincoln, too! The Ferguses and the Clarks brung ’em!” Billy scrambled up onto the moving wagon’s seat beside Mike, looking vastly improved by the company of his friends. “George and Clyde’re gonna hitch up the threshing machine after we eat and get some more of the corn in—”

  Damn. That was why he’d brought this Belgian.

  “—and the ladies’re gonna help Mercy take care of Judd’s clothes and such.”

  Which meant she’d be in no mood to hear what he had to say. Mike flashed a smile at the redhead beside him, and then his eyebrows flew up. “What happened to your arm, Billy? Looks like you fought with a knife and the knife won.”

  The boy’s face, now lengthening with adolescence, set in a defiant smile. “That’s where me and Gabe just made a blood-brother pact,” he announced proudly. “Someday those Border Ruffians and the Injuns are gonna pay for wipin’ out our families. We’re gonna see justice done!”

  “Better justice than retribution and revenge,” Malloy replied pointedly. He waved to the lanky kid walking just ahead of him. Gabe was wiping a similar gash with his spit and then his shirtsleeve as he and Emma headed for the house. “And meanwhile, you’ll both have scars the rest of your days to remind you of this decision.”

  Malloy waited a moment longer so Gabe and Emma would be out of earshot. “Now—before she catches sight of me—how’s Mercy doing?”

  Billy’s expression lost its shine. He speared his fingers through his unruly red hair. “Okay, I guess,” he said in a low voice. “She don’t say much. I can’t think she was real happy to see these folks show up to-day—’cept they brought back some of the horses.”

  “They had to find out about Judd and Nathaniel sooner or later. But that doesn’t mean it’s easy.”

  “You’re double-dog right about that part.” As they got close to where the other wagons were parked, Billy looked behind them. “Thanks for these cows, Mr. Malloy. We’ll pay you for ’em when we get the corn sold.”

  Billy’s face was an open book; a story of fear and grief no boy about to turn thirteen should know. So Mike took his time about wrapping the reins on their hook, while Emma and her cousin entered the house. He sensed this boy needed to talk about things. And he was just the man who wanted to listen—because he cared, and because Billy would fill him in on things he needed to know about Mercy.

  “You know . . . it’s like Mercy realizes that Judd and Nathaniel—and the cow—got slaughtered the other day, but she don’t seem to do nothin’ about it,” Billy said in a shaky voice. “Sets on the stoop and stares a lot. I—I’m afraid winter’s gonna c
atch her unawares. Asa and me, we’ve been gatherin’ buffalo chips and gettin’ the rest of the garden picked, but with two men gone—”

  “That’s why I’m here, Billy.”

  Mike looked into blue eyes that burned bright with concern, and it occurred to him that bringing this abandoned boy to the Monroe place might have been the best thing that could have happened for all of them.

  “The way I see it, it’s up to you and me to take up that slack,” Mike said quietly. “Mercy’s still in shock. Still sadder than any of us can imagine. But she’s got a baby to think of, and we have to keep her strong and fit, so the birthing goes well.”

  The boy glanced away, as though the prospect of Mercy growing weak—maybe dying in childbirth—was a whole new weight upon his young shoulders.

  “It’ll be all right, Billy,” Mike said, hoping he sounded convincing. “Now let’s get these cows tethered, and we’ll pitch in to help these generous neighbors while they’re here. What Mercy has to know, though, is that after everyone else goes back to tend their own places and live their own lives, she can depend on us.”

  Billy’s smile crept back, giving a hint of the fine, considerate man he would become. “Double-dog right she can,” he stated—and he stuck out his hand to shake on their agreement.

  Mike smiled, sharing the kid’s grip.

  If only Mercy would be this easy to convince.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Malloy thought the meal would never end. While Emma’s flirtation with Billy relieved the heavy atmosphere in Mercy’s front room, the other guests at her table kept eyeing him. Fishing for information that had traveled along the telegraph wires and Wells Fargo line, but mostly being just plain nosy.

  Well, he’d dealt with contrary passengers for years. He could answer these people’s questions—or not.

  “Thought you’d be driving today,” George Clark said. “Didn’t quit your job, did you?”

  Mike smiled. That was closer to the truth than they needed to know. “It’s like I told you earlier,” he hedged, watching Mercy from the corner of his eye. “Now that Abilene’s a railhead, and the tracks go most of the way across Kansas, Wells Fargo’s not making as many runs. Can’t compete against that Iron Horse for speed and convenience when it comes to carrying people.”

  Mrs. Fergus clucked. “Why would anyone ride that bumpy road and eat dust when they could enjoy watching the countryside from the train?”

  “My point exactly. Plus the train provides a way to haul corn, wheat, and cattle to market,” Malloy continued. “It’s certainly turned Abilene into a boom town.”

  “Yeah, the paper’s saying Hell is in session, what with all those cowpokes carousing in the saloons these days,” Clyde joined in. “Not a place to take your wife and children, that’s for sure!”

  Mercy’s brow puckered in thought. When she fixed her red-rimmed eyes on him, Mike badly wanted to take her in his arms and tell her that things would get better. These well-meaning neighbors probably sensed his intentions, the way they were dawdling over coffee and pumpkin pie with a crust too thick to chew.

  “Are you saying we’ll no longer have the income from providing horses and food for the stage line?” Mercy asked. Worry edged her voice, as though her husband had never mentioned these financial matters.

  “That day’ll come, yes,” Mike said gently. “Which is why Judd planted more corn this year, and has experimented with that new strain of Russian wheat. I’ve sown several acres of Turkey Red myself, figuring that by this time next year I won’t be driving much.”

  By this time next year, Mercy Monroe, I hope to be your husband.

  He wanted to look deep into those mournful brown eyes and tell her that straight out; wanted to clasp those small, strong hands between his own and tell her of his plans. But that would have to wait.

  As he got up from the table with the other men, he felt Mercy’s gaze on him. Did she want to talk? Was she surprised—or impressed—that he’d become a landowner looking toward a more lucrative future?

  Malloy didn’t dare say more than a thank-you for the meal. Her neighbor ladies were already bursting with curiosity, ready to swoop like two magpies on the tidbits he’d tossed out—he, a single man, watching out for a good friend’s widow.

  It was hours later when he, Clyde Fergus, and George Clark finished with a cornfield and called it a day. From the basin in the shade, where they drank and then doused themselves with cool water, Mike saw Mercy coming out the kitchen door to lean against the side of the house. She shuddered with a sob, shaken by the painful task of sorting through Judd’s belongings. Probably also smarting from remarks her friends had made without realizing how deep her emotional wounds were.

  He wiped his face and bare chest with his shirt. If he couldn’t provide the care and compassion she needed, well—he had no business being here, did he? And if these neighbors had their suspicions about him giving her that comfort, well—he couldn’t live his life by their opinions, seeking their approval. Mercy Monroe had been dealt a losing hand of late, and he hoped to turn her luck around. That was all that mattered; this brave, hardworking woman needed to receive kindness, after years of giving it to everyone else.

  So he strode toward her, his heart pounding. He made enough noise and came at her from a visible angle, much like he’d approach a skittish mare. She needed to see he was coming straight on, rather than sneaking up on her at a vulnerable moment.

  Mercy looked his way, blinking. Slowly she raised her hand, to brush back the hair that had come loose from its ribbon. Lord, but she was pretty, even in her grief. Graceful, even with Judd’s child making her thick in the middle.

  He knew the two men were watching him from the barn, just as their wives would listen from inside, near the open window. But he had to state his case. A month from now the snow could be blowing.

  He stopped in front of her, drawn in by those doelike eyes, which hadn’t dropped their gaze. “Are you all right?” he whispered.

  What a stupid question! She was anything but all right.

  Yet her lips lifted in a half-smile of understanding. “No. But Nell and Rachel are helping in the only way they know how, whether I’m ready to pack away Judd’s clothes or not,” she replied. “It’s better than trying to come up with conversation while we wait for you men to finish.”

  Mike nodded, admiring her honesty. “Your crop’s real good. I’ll come back tomorrow and finish that last field, so I can haul it into Abilene for you.”

  “You’ll do no such thing, Michael Malloy.”

  He blinked, aware that she’d just refused his help—and that he was wadding his shirt between his hands rather than wearing it. “Mercy, if you wait much longer, the frost—”

  “I see no sense in your going all the way home and coming back, when you could bunk in the barn,” she informed him. “And maybe I should hang on to some of that crop. Grind it into cornmeal. It might be what we eat this winter.”

  A muffled sound came from the house. Oh, but they were clucking in there, and it was Mercy’s plainspoken practicality that ruffled their feathers.

  But she was listening to him. Making decisions without leaning on her women friends or wallowing in self-pity. Mike knew then that beneath her careworn appearance, this fine woman was stronger than she seemed. Stronger than any of them here, truth be told.

  “If you think that’ll be all right,” he replied, pointedly looking toward the neighbors on either side of their conversation, “then I’d be pleased to stay over. It’d mean Billy and Asa and I would have those extra hours of daylight to finish your fieldwork tomorrow.”

  “Thank you, Michael. Your help means more than I can say.”

  She leaned toward him, making his pulse pause as she held her belly. Mercy stood so close, and looked at him so earnestly, Malloy wondered if she was about to steal his thunder and mention marriage. Coming from an influential Eastern family that believed in educating its women, Mercedes Monroe was known for stating opinions and
taking actions lesser women considered improper.

  He held his breath. Though he wasn’t any more exposed than Clyde and George had been at the washbasin, right now he felt downright naked.

  “You’re a fine young man, Michael. An angel,” she murmured.

  His stomach kicked like a frisky colt. And coming from her, his full name sounded potent and powerful rather than like a starched collar his mother had buttoned on him when he was born.

  “You have my best interests at heart—and your heart’s as big as all of Kansas,” she went on quietly. “And I know you’ve always admired the way I made a cozy home for Judd and put good food on his table.”

  He swallowed. The other shoe was about to drop, and he hadn’t gotten a word in edgewise.

  “But I won’t marry you, Mr. Malloy. Not because these neighbors will be scandalized by your proposing so soon,” she said so Nell and Rachel could hear it on the other side of the log wall, “but because right now, I can’t give you the love and devotion you’re looking for.

  “Judd took my very soul to the grave with him. What little energy and ambition I have left, I’m devoting to his baby, and to Billy and Christine,” she went on with quiet conviction. “It was his last request, and I’ll honor it. An admirable man like you deserves a whole woman, Michael.”

  Mike’s heart thudded in his chest. She’d given the most respectable of reasons, but still—she’d refused him before he could even state his case.

  “Mercy, I understand—”

  “No, you don’t.”

  Her sad smile wrapped around his heart and squeezed until her pain made him lightheaded. He nodded mutely—because she was right, and because there would be no wheedling or sweet-talking Mercy Monroe into seeing his side.

  She was no ordinary woman. Which was why he wanted her. “I’ll ask you anyway, you know. My reasons are as right as yours,” he replied.

  “You’re a persistent man. I’ve always admired the way you live your convictions.” Her face softened enough to relieve the etchings of grief around her eyes. “Where would I be if you hadn’t insisted we give the Bristol children a home?”