Hill Country Courtship (Brides of Simpson Creek Book 8)

by Laurie Kingery

  Her eyes didn’t linger long on the elderly Scottish woman, though. Who could look at anyone else with Jonas MacLaren in the room? He’d also donned formal Highland dress for the occasion—a knee-length kilt of the MacLaren tartan topped by a short black velvet jacket and a snowy white shirt with a fall of lace at the neckline, as well as a fur pouch, that Maude had learned was called a sporran, that dangled in front of the kilt by silver chains. He wore knee-length stockings and black silver-buckled shoes. When he rose and bowed to her, she could see that a sash of MacLaren plaid draped down his back from a jeweled pin at his left shoulder. He looked even more splendid than he had that time she had daydreamed of him waltzing with her at the mayor’s mansion.

  “Maude, you look lovely,” he murmured, coming and kissing her hand as if they stood in a grand ballroom and not the dining room of a Texas ranch with his mother looking on.

  “And you, Jonas, are a s-sight to behold,” Maude stammered, when she could finally find her voice.

  He smiled. “I hoped you might find full Highland dress acceptable at an American feast,” he said. “The occasion seemed to call for something besides my denim trousers and dusty boots.”

  Acceptable? There wasn’t a woman alive who wouldn’t find the sight of him magnificent, she thought in a daze. “You might start an entirely new fashion among the men of Simpson Creek,” she said, amused at the idea.

  He chuckled. “I think not. Well, you’ve waited long enough for your Thanksgiving meal, and Senora Morales promises the bird is done to a turn. Come and sit down, sweetheart.”

  Sweetheart. Maude felt like a princess, floating in a dream as he seated her between himself and Coira. Jonas volunteered an eloquent blessing over the food, a fact that showed Maude just how far he had come on his spiritual journey. Hadn’t it been mere days ago when he’d scorned the idea of God caring about His people?

  The meal was delicious, for the cook had been wise enough to forego her usual selection of fiery Mexican peppers and herbs, and cook the turkey and trimmings the traditional American way. Maude rediscovered her appetite and did her best to do justice to the feast. When the pumpkin pie was served, though, she found she had no more room and declined it until later.

  Jonas stood. “I think it’s time to propose a toast.”

  Maude goggled as Jonas went down on one knee beside her.

  “Miss Maude, you have shown yourself an exemplary and devout lady, who has reminded me that the Lord never stops loving us. You have helped me relearn the value of mercy and of a relationship with our Heavenly Father. I cannot imagine my world without you in it. I love you. I love your daughter, too. And I want to be a father to little Hannah. Would you do me the extreme honor, unworthy as I am, of becoming my wife?”

  Maude felt the tears of joy coming then, and she nodded, murmuring, “Yes, Jonas, with all my heart. Nothing would make me happier.”

  He reached into his pocket and brought out a ring, which he held out to her.

  “’Tis the MacLaren betrothal ring,” he said, and held the sapphire up to the light so that the deep blue stone took fire from the candles and shone.

  “It’s beautiful,” she breathed, and he placed it on her finger. It fit as if it had been made for her by a master jeweler.

  “Welcome to the family,” Coira said. “I’m so pleased you’ll be a MacLaren. Thank you for making my Jonas happy again. I never thought I’d live to see the day. We have much to be thankful for, here at Five Mile Hill Ranch.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Maude said, her gaze locking on Jonas’s equally joyous one.

  “‘Maude MacLaren’ has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?” he said. “I’m hoping you’ll be willing to take my name before too long. I’m not a patient man, you know.”

  Maude felt as if she was cascading down a rushing waterfall. “Yes, we’ll have to discuss setting a date,” she said. She thought about walking down the aisle to meet him at the altar at the Simpson Creek Church.

  “Don’t let him rush you, dearie,” Coira said. “Take all the time you need to plan a proper wedding. Good things come to those who wait, as they say.”

  They made an early evening of it, all of them still tired from their recent ordeal. Jonas escorted her to her room, kissing her tenderly at the door and promising to see her on the morrow.

  “Ah, querida, you are glowing,” Juana said as Maude entered the room. “Was it a good dinner?”

  In answer, Maude held out her hand, letting the lamplight reveal her ring-clad finger.

  “Querida! You are engaged?” Juana exclaimed. “He asked you to marry him? When will it be?”

  “We haven’t set a date as yet. We’ll discuss that tomorrow, perhaps.”

  Juana chuckled. “But this is wonderful! I have news as well, mi amiga. Hector asked me to marry him tonight, too. We will not wed for a while, out of respect for my Tomás, and so that we may get to know each other better first.”

  Maude seized the other girl in a fierce hug of delight. “I’m so happy for you! Oh, Juana, hasn’t God been good to us?”

  Juana nodded. “He has certainly given me a good, kind man. Hector understands that Mrs. MacLaren will still need my help, even if I am Hector’s wife, and Hannah will still need me close for a while, so I must remain in the house, though it would be nice to have a cottage of our own. We are trusting that the Lord will show us a way.”

  “Perhaps the MacLarens would let the two of you have a room in the house, for the time being,” Maude said. “Would you like me to speak to Jonas about it?”

  Juana nodded. “But there is no hurry, Maude. Enjoy your happiness. Set your wedding date. Mi amiga, you will make the most beautiful bride!”

  “As will you, dear friend. I never thought my day would come, after so many of my fellow Spinsters’ Club friends have made their matches,” Maude murmured. “But there was a purpose in the waiting, wasn’t there? The Lord had picked the right man out for me—I just had to wait until the time was right for us to meet... Oh, my goodness, I will have to speak to Milly Brookfield about making me a wedding dress!” she exclaimed, picturing several trips for fittings to the ranch east of them. There was no more skilled dressmaker than Milly in all of Texas. And Maude needed to be a beautiful bride for the man she loved with all her heart.

  * * *

  The next morning Maude and Jonas had just found a few minutes to steal away to the parlor together to discuss wedding plans over coffee when Senora Morales came into the room to say that Jonas had a caller.

  “Who can that be?” Jonas growled, clearly frustrated at the interruption.

  “He says his name is Horace Wallace, and he’s the postmaster in Simpson Creek.”

  “Horace Wallace is here?” Maude asked, picturing her friend Caroline Wallace Collier’s kindly old father, who’d run the town’s post office as long as anyone could remember.

  “Show him in,” Jonas said, his brow furrowed. Clearly, he didn’t think this could be good news.

  Maude rose when the old postmaster was shown into the parlor. “Mr. Wallace, good morning. I hope you had a pleasant Thanksgiving.”

  “Hello, Miss Maude. Yes, we did. Sheriff Bishop tells me there was a bit of a ruckus out here, but that everything’s all right now.”

  “Yes, that’s true,” Jonas answered for her, with a touch of his old high-handedness. Maude could tell Jonas wanted Wallace to get to the point. “What brings you out this way, sir?”

  “Got a letter for you and your mother, Mr. MacLaren,” Wallace said. “I would’ve given it to you when y’all were in town the day before Thanksgiving, but it came just yesterday. I know you don’t make it to town often, and I thought it might be important, so I thought it best to bring it out.”

  “How kind of you,” Maude told him, touched that the postmaster would go to such trouble.

  �
��Not at all,” Wallace responded affably. “Can’t remember ever getting a letter from Scotland.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “The Brookfields and Mrs. Masterson get the occasional letter from their family in England, of course,” Wallace went on, “but we never got any letters from Scotland.”

  Maude turned to look at Jonas. His face had gone white as chalk. She ached for the sudden hunted look in those golden-hazel eyes.

  “Scotland, ye say?” His voice was strained, as if there was an invisible rope tightening around his neck.

  “Sure enough,” Wallace said, bringing a folded piece of paper out of his breast pocket and holding it out to him.

  Even from where she stood, a few feet away from her beloved, she could see the foreign stamps on it.

  “What’s all the noise and commotion?” a woman’s querulous voice demanded, and Maude whirled around to see Coira, with Juana at her side, coming into the room. “I’ve never had so many folks traipsing in and out of our house in so few days. A body can’t get a moment’s peace.”

  “Sorry to disturb you, Mrs. MacLaren, but—” Mr. Wallace began, then hesitated as Jonas crossed the room to his mother in a few quick strides.

  “Mr. Wallace,” Jonas said, “I’d like to introduce you to my mother, Coira MacLaren. Mother, this is the postmaster, Mr. Wallace. He...” He took a deep breath, then showed her the letter. “He’s brought a letter from Scotland.”

  He slid an arm around his mother—in case she fainted at the news, Maude guessed. Dear heavens, what was in that letter? If only the postmaster would go, so they could open it and find out. But did they really want to know?

  Coira gasped and her eyes went wide at the information, but conscious of their audience, she did an admirable job of maintaining her composure. “You don’t say,” she murmured. “Well, that is certainly an unexpected happening, to be sure. Thank you, Mr. Wallace, for troubling to bring it to us.”

  The postmaster grinned as if oblivious to the sudden tension in the little parlor. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am, I surely am, but I’d best not linger,” he announced. “It’s a long way back to Simpson Creek.”

  “But ye must not go all that way back without so much as a bit of nourishment by way of thanks,” Coira told him. Maude could only guess how much the effort cost her to be so convincingly gracious. “Senora Morales has some fresh-baked muffins in the kitchen, and I’m sure there’s a pot of coffee on the stove to wash them down,” she said, and Maude saw her catch the housekeeper’s eye.

  “Come with me, Senor Wallace,” the housekeeper said, and shepherded him out of the parlor.

  There was silence as Coira sank weakly into a chair, and Maude sent a quick prayer upward that whatever was in this letter would not be too shocking for an old woman, burdened with guilt, to bear. She wondered if there were any smelling salts in the house in case Coira collapsed, but thought it better not to announce her fear by asking.

  Instead, she poured a glass of water from the pitcher on the nearby side table and took it to Jonas’s mother.

  “What...do ye suppose it means, Jonas?” Coira asked her son in a quavering voice. All at once she was just a shadow of the imperious matriarch she had been. She seemed to have shrunk several inches in the past few minutes and looked at least a decade older.

  “I’m sure there’s no telling unless we open the letter,” Jonas said reasonably enough as he handed her the letter, but he knelt by the chair, keeping an arm protectively around his mother’s trembling shoulders.

  “’Tis James’s handwriting...I’d know it anywhere, even after all these years.” Her hand shook as she stared at the letter she held, as if it was a sleeping rattlesnake.

  “That’s impossible,” Jonas said in a flat, cold voice. “The man’s been dead for years. Here, let me see that,” he said, taking back the letter carefully.

  Maude went to them then, and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder in a gesture of support. She was rewarded with a quick look, immense gratitude lighting those golden, compelling eyes of his.

  Jonas picked up a letter opener that happened to be sitting on the end table beside them and slit open the envelope, then handed it back to his mother.

  Still shaking, she unfolded the letter and squinted at it. At last, she gave it back to her son.

  “Please read it aloud, Jonas. I find these old eyes can’t make out his script anymore.” Or perhaps she couldn’t read because her hands shook the paper too much.

  “Mother, I told you, it can’t be—” Jonas began, then stared at the letter. “Dear Coira and Jonas,” he read...

  “Yes, I am alive. I know you will be astonished to be reading this letter, much as I am to finally be writing it. It has taken me many years, not only to recover physically to the point where I could write it, and to come to the point where I felt able to adequately portray what is in my heart, but also to locate you. It has taken much investigative work by my skilled agent to find where you had fled to after leaving Scotland.

  “Before you read any farther, I want to allay your fears by telling you I have forgiven you for what you did. In your place, I would doubtless have done similarly, and probably would have reached my breaking point many years sooner, my poor long-suffering wife and son. There are not words adequate to express my sorrow about how I have treated you. Only now that I have seen the light do I realize how evil I was to both of you, and how justified you were in hating me.”

  At this point, Coira whimpered and began to weep—quietly, but the tears poured down her pale old cheeks. Maude handed her a handkerchief from her pocket, and when she had wiped her eyes, Jonas began to read again.

  “I do not know why I survived the beating, but I know it was God’s mercy to me, a sinner, so that I could learn of His love for me. And once I had fully taken that in—if ’tis even possible for us to comprehend the magnitude of it this side of Heaven—I knew I had to forgive you for what you had done in the extremity of your suffering. And I do forgive you—freely and wholeheartedly, and with the hope that you will one day be able to forgive me. I know that for me, it seemed like I had dropped a hundred-pound weight off my shoulders when I let myself forgive you, my dear wife and child. I would not have you carry such a weight of guilt.”

  Maude closed her eyes for a moment. Hadn’t she already thought of the guilt they carried as a burden?

  Jonas glanced up at her, but she motioned for him to read on.

  “Coira will remember, I am sure, that I am a few years her senior. I am writing this letter now, not knowing how many more years I will be given in this life, for my heart is no longer strong. I wish more than anything to see both of you again and tell you how sorry I am for having been such a cruel tyrant, rather than a loving husband and father. To receive your forgiveness would be a balm to my soul. I know that I do not deserve it, but I hope to receive grace at your hands, as I have from the Lord. It is a great deal I am asking, to be sure.”

  At this point, Jonas’s voice grew hoarse and thick, and Maude looked over and saw that he was struggling to hold back tears.

  “Let it go, Jonas dear,” she whispered. “It’s all right to weep.” He’d been holding these tears back for many years.

  After a minute or so he cleared his throat and said, “There’s just a little left to be read,” and took up the letter again.

  “Accordingly, I am setting sail just a week after posting this letter, and hope that it will reach you in advance of my coming. The steamer Victoriana is scheduled to depart from Southampton, England, on November 20 and reach Galveston on or about December 11 if all goes well.

  “If God wills it, I will survive the voyage and plan to take a room in a hotel there and await your coming. If you prefer that we do not meet and choose not to come, I will understand. But how I pray you will find it in your hearts to forgive me and that we can have a joyous Christmastime
reunion, and spend the remaining years of our lives together at your Hill Country Ranch—if you are agreeable. If you choose to forgive me, but prefer that we go on living separately, I will be at peace with that, too, and will return to breathe my last in our native Scotland.

  “But I am hoping for that joyous reunion to become permanent. I would cherish the chance to see the ranch that my son has bought, and to learn what has happened to you both during the years I lost with you.

  “God has promised to ‘restore the years that the locust has eaten,’ and I cling to that promise.

  “Writing in hope and with great love,

  James MacLaren”

  By the time Jonas had finished reading the letter, Maude was wishing she had a second handkerchief in her pocket, but in the stunned silence that followed, she forced herself to stop crying and see how the recipients of the letter were reacting.

  When she looked up, mother and son were staring at each other, thunderstruck.

  Coira was first to find her voice. “But how...how could he have been alive when we left him? I was sure he wasn’t breathing...”

  Jonas shrugged. “I checked for a pulse, and was sure there wasn’t one, but my fingers were shaking so badly I could have missed it. ’Tis amazing, that’s for certain.”

  “Aye...” Coira said, her lower lip trembling. “Jonas, what if it’s a trick? What if the constables are the ones who’ve been investigating, and wrote that letter, and when we appear, they’ll clap us in irons and take us back to Britain to hang?”

  “Why would they need subterfuge? Why wouldn’t they just appear at the ranch? Anyway, you said it was his handwriting,” Jonas said. “Weren’t you sure, after all?”

  She stared at it again. “Aye, it’s James’s handwriting,” she said. “No one forms a J the way he does, or writes with as bold and slashing a style. I should know, for I tried to forge his hand once,” she said, a trace of returning humor to her voice.