by Barbara Goss
Despite her pleasing looks and delightful smile, Brook took an instant dislike to Melita. Wasn't this the woman who had hurt Captain Grant so badly that he had been reluctant to help find her family? Yes, Brook decided, she would not like this Melita Coopersmith.
“Won't you join us for coffee?” Flora offered a bit stiffly. “I'd like you to meet our houseguest, Brook. Brook, this is a family friend, Melita Coopersmith.”
Melita smiled briefly at Brook but looked after Flora with concern. “Flora, it isn't like you to hold a grudge.”
“What makes you say that?” Flora asked, red faced.
“You wear your heart on your sleeve.”
“I never could hide my feelings,” Flora admitted. “Sit down, Melita. I'll get you a cup.”
Melita sat and removed her gloves. She smiled at Brook again. While Flora poured her coffee, Melita said sweetly, “It’s nice to meet you, Brook. Will you be here long?”
Before Brook could answer, Flora said, “She'll be here for good, we hope. She's planning to stay in Fort Worth. Jeremy brought her back from Oklahoma.”
Brook knew, despite Flora's polite nature, this rose had thorns. She had purposely misled Melita into thinking that she and Jeremy were friendlier than they were. Brook would have to remember that anyone who messed with Jeremy would answer to Flora.
“Perhaps, I should go upstairs. You two probably have a lot to talk about.” Brook excused herself and stood.
“No,” Flora cried, with a definite edge to her voice. “Sit down and drink your coffee.” With one eye on Melita, she added, “Melita may be able to give you some information on the McCallisters. She is practically related to them.”
Slightly amused, Brook obeyed, sipping her coffee with wide-eyed anticipation.
“Flora!” exclaimed Melita. “Will you allow me to explain why I did what I did?”
“It wasn't so much what you did, but the way you did it,” remonstrated Flora.
“I agree with you,” the girl answered humbly. Melita patted Flora's hand. “I'm sorry for the whole thing. I came to apologize to you and Jeremy. Is he home?”
“No, Jeremy is in town.” Flora rubbed her temples and took a deep breath. “Heavenly Father, help me,” she whispered. “What is wrong with me?” Returning Melita's hand, she gave it a quick pat. "I apologize, too. I've told myself and the Lord so many times that I'd forgiven you, yet when you showed up here—I don't know what came over me. Will you forgive me, Melita?”
The blond woman nodded. “I understand. You love your son more than anything. But people make mistakes, and I admit that I acted impulsively. Jeremy was away; Ram was here. Ram seemed so exciting—”
“And now?” Flora asked suspiciously.
“Now?” Melita repeated, toying with her cup. “Now, I don't know. But I wanted to apologize to you both.”
“Apology accepted,” Flora said, “but while the wound is healing, it's still sore.”
“What does that mean?” Melita asked.
“I'm not even sure myself, except it may take a while for me to forget and trust you completely. I'm even afraid to ask if you're going to try and get back with Jeremy.” She hesitated, “Are you?”
“To be honest with you, I don't know. I'm still seeing Ram, but I doubt it will ever amount to anything. I'm fond of him, truly, but there's something untamed about him that frightens me.” She shivered. “I didn't come here to win Jeremy back, if that's what you mean. I felt I owed you both an apology, that's all.”
Flora rose and hugged the girl. “Just tread lightly for a while, all right?”
“Of course,” Melita said, returning the embrace. “Now what's this about your friend? How did you come to be a visitor in the Grant home?” She swung to face Brook. “Are you Flora's guest or Jeremy's?”
“Brook is my guest,” Jeremy's authoritative voice caused all three ladies to jump. He walked into the kitchen, out of the dining room, from an angle none of the women faced. “I brought her home with me from Oklahoma,” he added, pouring himself a cup of coffee. He stood beside Brook.
Brook studied Melita's face. Surprise and what Brook thought could have been jealousy spread across it, but only momentarily. She quickly hid her thoughts behind a large smile.
“How wonderful. And it's so delightful to see you again. How are you, Jeremy?”
“I've never been better,” he replied cheerfully.
“Could I have a private word with you before I leave?” she asked. “It will only take a minute.”
“It isn't necessary, Melita. Your apology is accepted. I hold no hard feelings. Actually it worked out for the best. Those things usually do.” He held out his hand. “I sincerely hope we can be friends.”
Melita met his grasp, and they shook hands. “I'm so glad. I felt terrible about things. As your mother said, it isn't so much what I did, but how I did it. It's a relief to know all is forgiven. Yes, we will be friends.”
Before leaving, Melita turned to Brook. “We didn't get a chance to talk, but whatever your connection is with the McCallisters, I'll be glad to help wherever I can. Just let me know. I live behind the bakery. Flora can direct you. It was a pleasure meeting you.”
Brook thanked her but felt angry inside. How could she dislike such a remarkable young woman? Despite everything, Brook didn't dislike Melita Coopersmith, she liked her, liked her very much.
Approaching the McCallister's ranch, mid-morning on Wednesday, Brook purposefully studied its perimeters more carefully than before. After all, this might soon be her home. Off to one side were several fenced areas. One contained horses; the others appeared empty. The house sat between the fenced areas and a narrow stream framed by sandy hills and sparse evergreen trees.
The ranch house was not impressive, like the Garrisons' city home. Yet it seemed appropriate to its rustic setting. Made of logs, the house was long and appeared L shaped. A long porch ran along the front, and several old rocking chairs graced its length. The colorful chair covers gave the outside of the house its only splatter of color, besides the bright-red welcome mat.
Smoke streamed from one of the three chimneys, testifying that despite the stillness, someone was up and about inside.
Tying the horses to a hitching post, Brook and Jeremy crossed the yard and approached the front door. After one small knock, the door swung open, and Maggie stuck out her head. Smiling with both mouth and bright-blue eyes, she waved them inside.
She put one finger to her lips, to silence them, and they followed Maggie on tiptoe down the long hall to Angus McCallister's room. Again Maggie motioned them to wait while she went in ahead.
This time Jeremy put his arms around Brook and drew her close. His nearness triggered an emotion in Brook, and she prepared to back away. His soft whisper in her ear stopped her, “Promise me you won't expect too much.”
“What do you mean?” She whispered back, confused by his closeness and his words.
“If Angus is a disappointment, don't let it upset you too much. You still have God. He's your Father, and you will never be disappointed in Him. You always have Mother and me. We're good as family—and will be for as long as you'd like,” he whispered tenderly in her ear.
“My disappointment matters to you?” A new and unexpected warmth singed through her.
He looked deep in her eyes and swallowed. “It matters.” His voice was calm, his gaze steady.
“Do you feel sympathy for me?” she asked boldly, pulling away.
He hesitated. “A little, but—”
“Don't feel sorry for me. I'm tough, I lived with Indians, remember?” She took a deep breath and tried to relax. “The last thing in the world I want from you or anyone is pity.”
Jeremy started to reply, but Maggie appeared and motioned them into the well-lit room.
Standing inside the door, Brook gazed around the masculine apartment. The quilt-covered bed was empty, and her eyes moved beyond to the chair by the open-draped window. There sat a burly, weathered man with the brightest, r
eddest hair Brook had ever seen. He had large, bushy eyebrows to match, sprinkled with gray.
His eyes followed Brook into the room and never left hers. No one spoke. Maggie and Jeremy were merely bystanders to the meeting of two matching souls. At last he spoke, “Genevieve!”
Chapter 8
Maggie ran to Angus's side and gently slapped his hand to get his attention, but his eyes remained fixed on Brook. “It's my own Genevieve!”
Taking the man's head and turning it to face her, Maggie made him look at her. She shook her head violently, then released his head and rocked her arms, as if she held a baby.
The red-headed man's face showed understanding. He smiled. “Not Genevieve. Yes, I know, my Genevieve is dead. Yet she could so easily be her, except for her hair. But no, it isn't Genevieve. This is our baby, my long-lost baby— Laurel Ann!”
Maggie jumped up and down in excitement, nodding in agreement.
Brook and Jeremy's eyes met. Jeremy mouthed the name softly, “Laurel,” and smiled.
Brook felt a warm glow pierce her. She ran to Angus and put her arms around his neck and hugged him. Just as Jeremy had told her, she knew! This was her father.
A name! She now had a name and a family. Laurel—what a lovely name—just like the nature she loved. Laurel Ann McCallister. She belonged.
As if noticing Jeremy for the first time, Angus offered him an outstretched hand. Jeremy walked to him, and they shook hands heartily.
“Thank you for returning my daughter to me. I am in your debt, sir,” Angus said, with emotion in his voice and tears in his eyes.
Laurel watched Jeremy shift his eyes downward and answer softly, “My pleasure. You owe me nothing.” He looked at Laurel. “I suppose you'll move in here now?”
Laurel looked anxiously at Angus.
“Of course she will!” he bellowed with a powerful voice. “She's a McCallister. This is where she belongs.”
His masterful voice frightened Laurel, and she shrank back somewhat. Noticing, Angus motioned her closer. “No need to ever fear me, lassie. I may be big, and I may roar like a lion, but I'd sooner put a lance through my own chest than harm one hair on your head.”
Drawing courage from his words, Laurel straightened her back and boldly asked him what she feared asking the most: “What about the firewater? I will not live with you, father or not, if you continue to drink that poison.”
Her question seemed to stun Angus and Maggie, but Jeremy smiled proudly at her. He seemed to admire her spunk, Laurel noted.
“Firewater?” Angus asked.
“Excuse me, Sir,” Jeremy said. “I believe she means whiskey. We were here last Sunday.” He looked about uncomfortably.
“That was last Sunday!” he roared. “And this is this today!” Angus hugged Laurel to him. “I have in my arms the result of my love for Genevieve Beauforte McCallister: my own lost daughter, Laurel. What reason do I have for drinking firewater now?”
“Promise?” Laurel asked in a small, girlish voice.
Angus scratched his head. “Now, lass, I must be honest with you. I've been drinking that rotgut for years. With you and your mother gone, I found life easier to face that way. It won't be easy, but I promise to try.”
“But you married Ada. Surely you love her.”
“Love Ada?” He laughed. “Yes, I guess you might call it that.” He faltered for the right words. “It wasn't the same, Laurel. I tried. Ada's a good woman, but…. Your mother and I had—something—something no one else can understand.”
“Ada didn't want us to see you. Why?” Laurel asked. “Because of your condition or because she doesn't want me here?”
Angus looked tired and old suddenly. “I don't know, maybe a touch of both.”
“Will my coming here start trouble?” she asked.
He took her face in his hands. “My dear Laurel, nothing will keep you from me now. Nothing. One thing you'll learn about me: I may be loud and boisterous, but I'm honest. I'll never lie to you or anyone. Yes, there may be trouble. We can weather it. You and I are McCallisters. We can see it through. I will, however, talk to Ada; Ram, too, I guess.” He uttered a mild oath.
“That's another thing that will have to stop,” Laurel said stubbornly. “The Indians didn't curse, and the Tatums taught me better than to even think a swear word, and my short stay with the Grants showed me why.” Her look softened somewhat when her eyes met a pleased, proud Jeremy's.
“What?” roared Angus, "A wee lass like you telling me I can't drink, and now I can't even swear like a man?”
Hands on hips, Laurel demanded firmly, “It'll be all women in heaven, then?”
Angus's mouth fell open; then he burst into the heartiest laughter Laurel had ever heard. When he finally stopped, he said with a proud look and a tear in his eye, “You, my dear, are indeed a McCallister.”
Laurel prepared to move into her family home. Flora cried. Jeremy moped.
It was simple to appease Flora by telling her she'd visit often, and they'd get together to shop and have coffee. But Jeremy was another matter. Laurel wasn't sure how to approach him. Ever since the night of the fire she felt Jeremy’s feeling toward her change. How did she feel about Captain Jeremy Grant? She wasn't sure, but she definitely had lost the anger she had felt toward him at the beginning.
At breakfast, the day before she was to move to the ranch, Dusty joined Flora and Laurel. Flora heaped enough bacon and eggs on his plate to satisfy a whole stable of horses. He ate heartily.
“So you're really a McCallister?” he asked.
“Yes. I am Laurel Ann McCallister. My mother was Genevieve Beauforte, of Chicago, and my father is Angus McCallister, of Fort Worth, Texas.” She smiled proudly. “It is so comforting to have a past and future.”
“I'm real happy for you, Br—, I'm sorry, Laurel.”
Laurel touched his hand. “You'll visit me?”
“Sure. But, don't ask me to socialize with Ram Atwood.”
“Ram?”
“Yep, he's not too popular.”
“Why?”
“He's a wild one. Mixes with the wrong people. I've been doing some detective work, and he's definitely into something other than blacksmithing. He has too much money and too many bad connections. Don't trust him. In fact, if I were you, I'd stay clear of him altogether, if possible.”
Laurel bit her lip. “I'll remember that.”
Dusty's words haunted Laurel all morning. She wondered if she should call on Melita. Hadn't she invited her to? Would she sincerely help? Could Melita Coopersmith be trusted?
Laurel wondered how Ada and Ram had taken the news of her moving to the ranch. Would there be trouble? What type of reception would she get when she moved in?
When Laurel went up to dress for dinner, a pink chiffon party dress was laid out for her. She shrugged and put it on. If Flora had gone to the trouble of buying it, she'd humor her and wear it.
A few minutes later, Flora appeared and fixed her hair. Flora often helped Laurel braid her hair, but tonight she suggested something different. Scooping up the thick, auburn tresses, she pinned them high and let the curls cascade down Laurel's back. At her ears, Flora used a curling iron to coil a few strands. Laurel gasped when she looked at the results in the full mirror. The light reflected her hair just enough to sparkle the red highlights, giving her a distinctive air. Spinning before the mirror, Laurel found it difficult to recall being Running Brook, clad in buckskin, sleeping in a drafty tepee.
As she descended the stairs for dinner, Laurel was pleasantly surprised to find Jeremy waiting at the foot of the steps to escort her to the dining room. Dressed formally, he looked quite handsome. Love for the Grants poured through Laurel. They were making a fuss for her tonight because they cared. She would truly miss them.
Jeremy stared up at her, as if in awe. Laurel's mouth curved into an unconscious smile. She did look fine, didn't she? She liked being an attractive young lady. Stirrings within told Laurel she liked Jeremy's look and the fact that he
found her lovely. Joy bubbled in her heart and shone in her bright-blue eyes.
Yet when they approached the dining room and Dusty, who stood lounging against the wall, gave her the same look of approval, disappointment overwhelmed Laurel. Dusty, her pal, shouldn't look at her that way. Yet she was an attractive woman, so why should he not? What was the matter with her?
Dusty looked crestfallen when he saw her on Jeremy's arm. Had he hoped to escort her to dinner? Laurel realized she must be careful if she did not want to cause any rivalry between the friends. She smiled at Dusty and took his arm also.
Between the two men, Laurel McCallister made her first public debut, for inside the dining room sat people she did not recognize. She gasped in surprise.
Flora approached and took charge of Laurel, leaving Dusty and Jeremy to stand behind their chairs while Flora took her around the table and introduced her to their many friends and neighbors. One face Laurel recognized: Melita Coopersmith. She sat with an elderly woman whom Flora introduced as Melita's mother, Cora Coopersmith. Laurel expressed delight at seeing Melita again, which seemed to please the woman.
Finally escorted to her seat, Laurel found herself next to Jeremy, who sat at one end of the large table. Across from her sat Dusty, Melita, and her mother. At the far end the other guests and Flora graced the table's head.
Laurel felt as if she would awake from this dream soon. She'd actually been introduced as Laurel McCallister. She was someone!
Jeremy said grace beautifully, and everyone enjoyed a delicious dinner. Laurel felt regal. Laughing within herself, she wondered how these people would react if she ate as she'd eaten when she lived with the Comanche. Silently she asked the Lord to bless Mrs. Tatum and Flora for teaching her critical skills that had once seemed unimportant.
Preoccupied with her own dream world, Laurel hadn't thought about Melita and Jeremy. Once the thought crossed her mind, she began watching them to see if one or the other showed any sign of affection. Melita gazed at Jeremy often during her meal, but Jeremy did not look her way at all. He looked mostly at his mother or Laurel. Did he no longer care for the girl he'd planned to marry? Or was he playing games with her? Would Melita resent her because of Jeremy's attentiveness? One thing Laurel knew for certain: She liked Jeremy's attention, and she'd have been hurt had he been attentive to Melita and not to her.