"Thea," MaryRuth prompted gently from the doorway.
Thea returned to Zoe, who was playing with scraps of material on the table. "Your uncle is here, Zoe."
Color drained from the child's face. Her eyes widened into two enormous pools of liquid blue, and her pale lips formed an anguished O. She wadded a piece of fabric in her fist and shook her head, vehemently.
"He's a very nice man, and he loves you," Thea coaxed, praying for strength. She knelt beside Zoe's chair and gazed into her anxious eyes. Zoe bolted from the chair and wrapped her arms around Thea's neck in a viselike death grip. Numbly, Thea murmured something soothing and heard MaryRuth open the door behind her. Her heart pounded in her chest until she thought it would explode. Against her breast, she felt Zoe's heart hammering even faster than her own. The child's distress shot pain more devastating than anything she had imagined knifing through her chest.
The terrified child clung to her, and Thea knew she was staring at the familial intruder over her shoulder. Thea stood. She turned and forced herself to look at Mr. Hayes and the agent. Zoe burrowed her face against Thea's collarbone.
"Hello, Miss Coulson." Mrs. Vaughn drew a paper from her handbag and unfolded it. "I have papers here to prove Mr. Hayes's credibility and right to Zoe. Would you like to see them?"
Thea shook her head as best she could with Zoe's head lodged beneath her chin. "No," she whispered. She trusted the agent.
Mrs. Vaughn gave her a sympathetic shrug and a half smile. "Zoe looks wonderful. You've taken good care of her."
Thea's gaze inched from the agent to Zoe's formidable uncle. Dressed in black trousers, a white shirt and string tie, he presented a challenging picture of strength and confidence. His hard-boned face bore an unreadable flush. Neither his expression nor his voice bore an apology. "Let's get this over with," he said roughly.
Thea forced her wooden legs to carry her across the room. MaryRuth gathered the drawstring bags made from flour sacks that contained clothing and toys Thea had made and led the way outside. Mrs. Vaughn followed. Thea fell into step behind her, and Hayes took up the rear. The July sun beat down on her hair, but Thea's insides trembled with a cold, hopeless ache.
Dazedly, she watched MaryRuth place the bags in the back of the springboard and recognized Mrs. Vaughn's distress in the nervous twisting of her handbag.
Hayes stepped in front of her, filling her line of view. His attention centered on the blond head beneath Thea's chin, his eyes never rising. "Come, Zoe," he said softly. "It’s time to go."
Zoe's arms tightened to a stranglehold around Thea's neck. He reached for her, securing his hold at Zoe's armpit, his other hand cupping her chin. Her surprising strength cut off Thea's breath.
"It's all right, darlin'," Thea coaxed. "You'll be safe. I promise." Saying the words she prayed were true, she raised her questioning gaze to the man who held Zoe's future in his hands.
His dark eyes rose to hers, finally, and he answered with a reassuring nod.
Thea reached behind her neck and pried one of Zoe's hands loose. Hayes struggled with the other hand, a long strand of Thea's hair catching painfully. It took MaryRuth to loosen the tress and unwrap Zoe's legs from Thea's waist. In a moment of vivid clarity amid the chaos, Thea met Zoe's eyes as her uncle wrenched her away, and the little girl's silent, fear-contorted face twisted her heart and took her breath away.
At first Thea thought she'd made the sound herself: A high, keening wail of grief and misery that started as a mewl and grew in alarming intensity. She folded her empty arms against her ribs and saw Zoe held against the man's body, her back to his massive chest, her mouth open. Stabbing realization slowed her pulse to a near stop and then chugged it like a freight train, her ears roaring with shock. Zoe. The mournful sound came from Zoe.
Thea clapped her hand over her mouth to keep from echoing the pain-induced cry. Her heart lurched up into her throat. Her sister wound her arm around Thea's waist and urged her to turn toward the house.
Zoe's cry bled into a howl, a lamentable, plaintive cry that reverberated off the buildings and shattered Thea's last shred of composure. She stumbled on the stairs. MaryRuth steadied her, led her into the house and slammed the door against the shrill sound of Zoe's distress.
Thea accepted her sister's embrace, sobbed against the top of her head for several minutes, and eventually realized MaryRuth was crying almost as hard as she was. She rubbed her sister's shoulders soothingly.
From the back bedroom, David's cry alerted them that his nap was over. MaryRuth wiped her eyes on her apron and hurried to tend him. Thea fled up the stairs to her room. Closing the door behind her, she slumped against the cool wood. She'd known better. She ran to the window and parted the lace curtain.
The wagon was gone.
She'd known better, but she'd barged ahead anyhow. What else could she have done? Nothing. Though these precious weeks with Zoe had keenly pointed out the void in her life, she wouldn't have missed them for anything. She would tuck away the hurt and cherish the memory like a heartwrenchingly beautiful sunset or a spring flower—an exquisite but fleeting joy. She turned back to the silent room, the pristine spread, the neatly folded quilt, the hope chest at the foot of her four-poster.
Hope.
Thea's disconsolate gaze fixed on the wooden chest. Fruitless, broken, withered hope. Hopeless was more like it.
Anguish as deep and volatile as raging floodwaters engulfed her soul. Thea kicked the chest with all her pent-up hurt and frustration, kicked it again for good measure, and sank to the bed's edge, her toes throbbing. Zoe had never been hers. The knowledge didn't make her loss hurt any less.
Resolutely, Thea swiped at her tears with an impatient hand. She would get over it and go on. Like she always had. Like she always would.
* * *
The firelight at his back, Booker towered above the cot, casting a dark shadow over Zoe. She lay curled in a ball, the cloth doll clutched to her chest.
She'd stopped screaming a few miles from the Coulsons', thank God. Her frantic desperation had unhinged his resolve. That pathetic wail had lacerated his heart, and the screams... Lord, those screams.
Poor Mrs. Vaughn had been as much at a loss for a means to comfort the child as he. She had carried Zoe's belongings into the soddy behind Booker. Once the agent was gone, Booker attempted to prepare a pot of stew. His biscuits didn't turn out as well as Lucas's, but he'd done his best.
Lucas had appeared miraculously as Booker placed the food on the table. He glanced at Zoe where she lay facing the wall, showed Booker that he'd washed his hands outside, and sat. Booker had coaxed Zoe, had even gone so far as to carry her to the table, but she'd scurried back to the cot, gathered her things around her and acted like the rest of the world didn't exist. He'd expected it to feel good having Zoe with him, but already he doubted his decision. Booker and Lucas had eaten in silence, each occasionally casting a glance across the room.
Booker studied her now, her once perfectly braided hair loose and tangled from her earlier struggles. Each time he'd tried to stow her clothing away, she'd grown agitated and wrestled him for possession. Finally, he'd given up, allowed her to arrange the toys made from wooden spools and clothespins beside her, and ignored the flour-sack bags at her feet.
"It's time we got ready for bed, Zoe."
The fingers of one hand moved against the doll's blue-checked dress. She held her other fist tightly clenched.
"Can you help me find your nightclothes?"
No response.
"We'll get you changed, and then I'll fix you some hot cocoa. Maybe you'd like a biscuit. You have to be getting hungry."
No response.
He took that as a good sign and stealthily worked open the drawstring on the first bag. His search revealed brightly colored dresses and ruffled aprons, all new, all painstakingly sewn and perfectly pressed. The second bag held tiny underclothing trimmed with delicate lace and embroidery. Pink ribbons adorned drawers, chemises and a petticoat. Nightg
owns, stockings and extra shoes lay at the bottom. Shaking a lightweight gown out, Booker imagined Thea stitching each seam and hem. In his mind, he painted a domestic picture of her long fingers touching the material, heard her speak softly to the platinum-haired child at her side and saw her lips curve into an indulgent smile.
He held the fabric in his palm and studied Zoe. Grief, deep sorrow and confusion engulfed his senses. A stranger had cared for Zoe with as much love and care as her own mother would have. Julia would be comforted to know that Thea Coulson had taken such an avid interest in her daughter. She would be delighted to see the clothing and toys lovingly made by hand just for Zoe. A dark thread of concern wove its way through his conscience. Would Julia be as pleased to see his intervention?
He had loved his sister deeply. Zoe was his only link to Julia. He was Zoe's only family now, and Julia would want him to care for her, he assured himself.
The child's lack of response dredged up other emotions as well. Uncertainty. How long would it take her to come around? Indignation. The Coulson woman had gained his niece's affections. Jealousy. Zoe had clung to her in terror and wanted no part of him. Rankling determination. He would make this work if it killed him.
"Come on. Why don't you sit up for me?" Booker brushed her tangled hair back from her face with his fingers. Her thick lashes blinked with each stroke. Her coloring was so like his sister's, looking at her anchored a sorrowful joy in his chest. At his gentle urging, Booker's fingers met resistance in her diminutive shoulder. He pulled her to face him.
Zoe crumpled her face against the doll, and silent sobs racked her small body.
"Hush, don't cry, now. I just want to take care of you. Won't you give me a chance?" Booker recognized the odor at the same time he spotted her wet clothing and the soaked bedding beneath her. A tremendous rush of guilt and incompetence shook him to the core.
"Zoe," he whispered hoarsely, and touched her forehead with his lips. "I'm sorry." Tears welled behind his own lids. "It's my fault," he said against her temple. "I didn't show you where to go. I didn't even ask if you had to. Don't feel bad. We'll just change you and get you comfortable again."
What was he doing? What in heaven's name did he know about taking care of a little girl? Another rung on his ladder of confidence splintered, and he had to catch himself. He would learn. This was all new to him, but he could learn.
Eventually, he coaxed her from the wet cot, leaving the doll within her sight. One fist remained curled solidly around something he'd begun to wonder about. He undressed her awkwardly, sponged her sturdy little body with water Lucas had warmed on the stove and showed her the chipped chamber pot under a rough-hewn washstand. He and Lucas used the outhouse, but since she didn't seem inclined to inform him of her needs, he deemed this arrangement best for her.
She didn't touch the mug of cocoa until Lucas held it to her lips and gave her a nod. Slowly, she raised her gaze to Lucas's face. Blue eyes, agonizingly like Julia's, flickered across the youth's face, and with something like cautious cooperation, she took a sip. Booker almost groaned with frustration. Instead, he turned his back on them and remade Zoe's cot with clean bedding.
When he turned back, she still hadn't touched the biscuit, but half the milk was gone. Booker nodded his appreciation to Lucas and tucked Zoe into her bed. "Tomorrow we'll put up more hooks for your clothes," he promised. "You can sleep with your doll and toys if you want to." One hand remained tightly fisted.
Zoe snuggled into the fresh bedding, the doll beneath her chin. Within minutes, she slept. Long lashes fanned across her pink cheeks, her bow-shaped lips parted slightly. He watched her even breathing. Cautiously, he opened her relaxed hand with one long finger, and frowned in perplexity at the treasure she'd held clenched in her fist since that morning.
An acorn?
* * *
The night before, Lucas, pretending not the least concern, had watched Hayes wheedle and cajole Zoe. He'd stifled his amazement when the hard-faced man had knelt and kissed her head. And he'd gained insight into the big man's character when Booker had changed her bedding and bathed her as gently as anything he'd ever seen. Lucas had taken his share o' lickin's for bed wettin', so he had no point of reference for the man's casual acceptance.
Lucas had hidden out long enough for the Home agent to come and go. He'd certainly been surprised to see Hayes's niece turn out to be the quiet little girl who'd come west on the train with him. Zoe had recognized him, but there was no harm in that. She couldn't talk. Lucas felt reasonably safe here.
He'd made tolerable flapjacks this morning while Hayes shaved and tended the stock. The man had eaten them without complaint. Zoe hadn't touched hers. Hayes watched her whenever she wasn't looking at him. He frowned and scowled a lot, too.
After breakfast, Hayes had strung lines from the lean-to to a slim tree, filled a tub with water and set about laundering their bedding and clothes.
Now, his dungarees and boots still damp, Hayes led Gideon from the lean-to and adjusted the saddle. "I'm late for the work crew, Lucas. You coming?"
For the last two days he'd helped Hayes dig and haul fieldstones, and he'd managed to stay far enough from the crew that no one from town would recognize him. "What about her?"
Booker glanced into the soddy. "We should have enough stones to start building the fireplace today. We'll rig her a tent out of the sun."
Lucas fetched Zoe, and Booker harnessed the team to the wagon. Booker had given the house and mill sites a lot of consideration, mapping out on paper where each field, creek, stream, ditch and natural object was located. He'd selected a spot for the house with a south and southeast slope to check cold winds and snow in winter. The house and barn would act as windbreaks to the yards, at the same time being open to the sun. To use the railroad and stream to the best advantage, the mill would be built to the far east.
Zoe sat in the shade beside the wagon while they dug the last of the stones. Because of the heat, Booker forced her to drink water, but she stubbornly refused to eat. Back at the house site, he stretched a tarpaulin between two wagons for shade, and Zoe napped into the afternoon.
Ezra Hill had the foundation ready. He and his crew, John Stames and Wren McPeters, helped Booker construct the fireplace. Finished, it was a masterpiece of workmanship, eight feet wide with a low, flat hearth. Flat stones to serve as shelves jutted from the chimney in staggered succession. Ezra whistled through his gray-shot beard and declared he'd never seen the likes.
Hot, tired and filthy, but satisfied with the day's work, Booker led the children and animals back to the soddy. He stared at the bedding and clothing still flapping on the line, a curse on his tongue. His stomach growled, and he wanted nothing more than to bathe in the cool creek water.
"I'll start supper," Lucas offered, lifting Zoe from the wagon.
Booker nodded in gratitude, pulled the wagon beside the soddy and unhitched the team. He led them into the lean-to and scooped grain into the wooden trough, fatigue further undermining his confidence. How was he going to manage all of this on his own?
He hadn't the vaguest idea.
* * *
The next two days passed much the same. On the third night, after a battle of wills over supper, Zoe again went to sleep without eating. This couldn't go on.
Booker didn't know which was worse: her initial fear had been hard to accept, but this—this apathy—shot fear through his heart. A six-year-old who didn't care to eat, play or share the company of others was disturbing to see. Unmindful of thirst or hunger, she lay or sat in neutral listlessness wherever she was placed. She made occasional, perfunctory use of the chamber pot, and sometimes stroked her doll or twisted a rope of wooden spools.
She didn't speak or walk or give any indication of acceptance. Booker worried that her withdrawal would become so complete she'd stop seeing or hearing.
Smoothing her hair from her face, he studied the hopeless tangle he'd attempted to brush and tie back that morning. The ribbon hadn't lasted past the f
irst hot breeze, but Zoe hadn't seemed to notice.
What was he going to do? He couldn't let her waste away before his eyes! He'd been so certain that he could do this. That he could care for her and make a home for them and do the right thing. But the right thing wavered more and more out of focus all the time.
Booker stood, taking stock of Zoe's small form beneath the light cover. He simply wasn't going to be able to do it alone. Work on the house was barely under way. The heavy construction came next, the barn following, and then weeks and weeks on the mill. Lucas's help was invaluable, but still insufficient. Booker needed someone to care for Zoe.
Someone who could get her to eat. Someone to be a mother to the girl. And though it pained him to admit it, just anyone wouldn't do.
Zoe needed Thea Coulson.
He turned. Lucas sat at the table, sketching a horse on a piece of bark with a charcoal sliver. "You're good," he said.
Lucas's head shot up. He shrugged his bony shoulders. "Nah."
"You are, Lucas. That looks just like Gideon."
The boy half smiled. "It is."
Booker touched his shoulder, and Lucas flinched. Booker drew his hand away with a frown. "I'm going to the creek to wash, and then I have some business to tend to. Will you watch after Zoe?"
"Sure."
Booker gathered clean clothes and his hat. "You're earning your pay. I couldn't have done as much without your help."
Lucas flushed at the compliment. "Yeah, well. I need the money."
Lucas was obviously a perfect example of someone who'd grown up without a loving touch. If it was within Booker's power, he'd see that Zoe didn't suffer the same negligence. He took his gun and left.
* * *
Thea listened to Madeline and her stepmother coo over the progress of The Dress as they prepared themselves cups of tea and returned to the sewing room. She sighed and turned back to her task.
If she had to listen to one more word of praise for the nuptial garment, she'd scream. After borrowing a book from Thea, Lexie had wisely escaped to her room for the evening.
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