by Linda Ford
“I understand.” With tears clinging to her eyelids and her heart ready to burst with sorrow over the child’s loss, Birdie dared not look at Clay. How could anyone destroy a child’s cherished doll? Why would anyone threaten the child?
Megan slipped from Birdie’s arms, sat down on a large rock, and stared at the river.
Clay went to her side. “Can you skip rocks?”
“Don’t know how.”
Birdie could see Clay meant to divert Megan from her sorrow. What a strange mixture of hard and gentle, withdrawn and helpful.
“I’ll teach you.” Clay showed her how to select a flat rock and how to throw it. When hers sank, he knelt behind her, held her arm, and guided her as she threw it. It skipped, and she crowed with delight.
“Auntie, did you see that? I can do it.”
“I saw. Do it again.”
Megan scrambled to find another flat rock. Clay helped her.
Satisfied that Megan didn’t need her, Birdie sat on a rock and opened her sketchbook. She drew the rock bouncing off the water. She sketched the fluffy clouds over the trees with the river in front. Seeing a magpie on a nearby branch, she quickly drew an outline of it.
She finished one sketch and began another—this one of Megan squatted down and looking for rocks. As she worked, Birdie thought of sayings or verses to go with them. Sometimes, it was as simple as Have a Good Day. But she found the most satisfaction out of matching Bible verses to the pictures. Her mind worked on an idea, and she turned the pages back to the rock skipping on the water. Throwing a rock seemed meaningless, and yet the beauty of it skipping meant there was more to it than a random toss.
Wasn’t that the way life was sometimes? It could feel so meaningless, yet God could turn what looks like happenstance or tragedy into beauty and purpose. A verse came to her. How precious also are thy thoughts unto me, O God! how great is the sum of them!
She sometimes wondered if her selections made sense to others, but the publishers had never complained or suggested changes.
Even though this was only a sketch, she carefully printed the words on the page, seeking the best balance of lettering and picture. She would adjust it when she did the final copy but was reasonably satisfied for now and held the picture up to view it from all angles.
“It’s very nice.”
Clay’s voice behind her startled her. “I thought I told you not to sneak up on me.”
“I wasn’t exactly soundless, but you were so engrossed you didn’t notice.”
She gave a tiny laugh of embarrassment. “I know I get absorbed in my work. Megan gets that from me, I think.”
“Megan said you needed to get some done. What did she mean?”
No point in not telling him now. “I sell these for reproductions as postcards.”
His eyes widened, then his eyebrows rose. “Wow. What an honor to have your art used. You must be proud.”
His reaction was everything she’d wanted. Harrison had acknowledged it with a passing glance and a tossed out comment, “Nice you have something you enjoy doing.”
Cosette had admired it with reservation. “Why people send postcards?”
Her father, before his passing, had lamented her mother was dead and could hardly see past his own grief.
Clay alone had offered affirmation.
Her cheeks warmed. “I enjoy knowing others appreciate what I do.”
He sat nearby. “Can I see?”
She hesitated then handed him her sketchbook, her heart quivering with anticipation and fear. Would he like what he saw or toss it aside?
He turned the pages slowly, drew in his breath at the picture of a cat chasing a feather. He went through her entire sketchbook, slowly, as if enjoying each drawing.
With every turn of the pages, her anticipation grew. Why was he not saying what he thought? Perhaps she didn’t want to hear.
She’d learned to guard her heart from the unkind remarks of men and she didn’t mean only her art work. How often had she heard things like how plain she was? Or words of praise that were really inappropriate advances from a man. She knew Larry was to blame for much of it because of the ugly rumors he’d spread. And so she’d closed her heart to anyone but her family. Now she discovered she longed for this man, practically a stranger, to voice approval. She did not examine why it should be so. She only knew it was.
He closed the sketchbook but did not hand it back to her. “I enjoyed every one. They’re alive with the things of nature. Where did you learn to draw like that?”
She couldn’t speak for a moment, just letting his words seep into her heart. “My mother taught me to draw. She would take me on walks in the country, and we would sketch. She taught me about perspective and shading, how to use white space. Even after she could no longer go out with me because of her bad heart, she insisted I walk, draw what I saw, and bring it back to her. She admired what I did and gave me suggestions when she could.” Birdie stopped to swallow the lump in her throat. “I miss Mama, but I feel like she’s still alive when I draw.”
“I’m sorry. When did you lose her?”
“I was twenty. I took care of her from the time I was sixteen. After she passed, I stayed to run the house for my father. He died suddenly when I was twenty-seven. A year later, Megan’s mother succumbed to the influenza, and Harrison asked me to come West, to help him. God had a plan for my life that enabled me to be free to help those who needed me.” Why was she telling him all this? He wouldn’t care why she was unmarried at her age.
“I have an aunt who cared for my grandparents until they died.” He looked beyond her into the distance, perhaps into something in his past.
“Then what happened to her?”
“A neighbor lady fell and broke her arms, and Aunt Helen went to help her.”
“Where is your aunt now?” Birdie longed to hear him say his aunt had met the neighbor lady’s brother and they’d fallen in love and now Helen was happily married.
Clay shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t heard from her since…” He shrugged again.
Birdie would not admit her disappointment. How foolish could she be? She’d long ago given up dreams of having her own home and a man to love her.
Clay shifted his attention to her sketchbook. “I’m curious about how you got involved with postcards.”
At least he hadn’t said anything about art being a suitable hobby for a spinster. After the way Larry had treated her, the words he’d spewed at her, and the way other men had been toward her, she’d learned to be wary around men. She’d found comfort and safety in her drawings.
And yet she sat here with a man and felt no fear. Odd. Especially given the sort of man he seemed to be—one her brother would ask to come when he wanted a bodyguard for his daughter.
She realized Clay waited for her to answer his question. “One day back East, I dropped my sketchbook in the store and a stranger picked it up. He took the liberty of looking at some of the pictures then told me he ran a print shop that produced postcards. He offered to buy my pictures. I was surprised that he would be interested and even more surprised at the price he offered me. Before the afternoon was over, he had shown me what he needed, and I’d signed a contract.” Despite what Larry and the men after him had said about her being a worthless spinster, she’d learned that one man valued her work, and many others enjoyed it.
“That must have made you feel good.”
“It did, indeed.”
She saw the darkness in his eyes and recalled that they had an unfinished conversation. “What did you mean when you said Harrison found you down?”
It was an innocent enough inquiry, but he grew very still as if her question had offended him. Or frightened him.
That couldn’t be, could it?
Chapter 5
Clay had let the pleasantries of the day slip past his defenses and now Birdie’s question drew him up hard like a cruel rider jerking on the reins.
“It means nothing but that.”
She studied him so l
ong he had to look away. Not that doing so stopped her interest. “I think otherwise.” Although her words were soft they roared through his thoughts.
He jerked his focus back to her. “What gives you that idea?”
“Let’s see.” She held up a hand with her fingers spread. “Number one, you were down but not hurt and Harrison helped you.” She bent down her index finger. “Number two, you said pain is part of life, which it seemed you knew from personal experience.” She bent down the next finger.
He bit his tongue to keep from arguing.
She continued. It seemed she heard more than he intended to convey.
“Number three, you hide up in the line cabin winter and summer.” She bent another finger.
“I trap in the winter,” he said.
“Number four, you socialize with a dog and a horse. Sounds like a man whose been hurt by others.” She paused, offering him the opportunity to speak.
He had no intention of doing so.
She bent the fourth finger but before he could hope she’d run out of reasons because she’d run out of fingers, she held up her thumb. “Number five, you haven’t heard from your aunt Helen since—” She broke off just as he had.
Neither of them spoke. How had he gotten involved in this conversation? He was here only to guard Megan. And Birdie. He shifted his attention to the girl. “It’s too bad about her doll.”
“Indeed.” Birdie got to her feet and gathered her sketchbook and pencils. “We need to get back for dinner.”
He glanced to the sky. The sun was high overhead. Noon already. How had that happened? The morning had flown by but the afternoon looked long and bleak. How was he to be close enough to see Megan while keeping a good distance between Birdie and her probing questions?
She must have seen his quandary. “Don’t look so worried. I’m not going to eat you up.”
“I’m not worried.” Except he was.
They called Megan. Clay followed them through the woods. Before they left the shelter of the trees, he called them to stop. “I’ll have a look around first.” The narrow path necessitated that he plant his hands on Birdie’s shoulders and turn her sideways so he could ease past. He dropped his hands as soon as he could but not soon enough to quell a hunger deep inside.
Of course he was hungry, he mocked himself. It was noon, and he hadn’t eaten since breakfast.
He paused at the edge of the trees and studied the surroundings. He gave special attention to the verandah but saw nothing to be concerned about.
Angus crossed the yard toward the back door. He waved. “The missus has dinner ready.”
Clay turned back to the others. “Let’s go eat.”
Megan scampered ahead. Clay would have hurried away too, leaving Birdie to follow, but he wouldn’t be rude. He slowed, allowing her to fall in step with him.
She lifted a hand. “Number six, the way you run from ordinary conversational questions.”
“I can see you find it hard to let go of an idea.”
She huffed. “Are you saying I’m stubborn? Bull headed? What?”
“Yup.” So much for not being rude.
She laughed and held up her hand. “Reason number seven, you expertly deflect questions.”
He dared a glance. Was she angry? But her eyes sparkled with amusement. He couldn’t look away.
She nudged him. “You hungry?”
He jerked forward. He was like a man who hadn’t seen food for days only, in this case, it was the fun and challenge of daily conversation that he’d craved for so long that he was gorging on it now.
Mutt pressed to his side, his faithful companion. Clay’s gun hung from his hip. This was who he was. Not the sort of man who should be around people.
They reached the steps. He let her go ahead. Took his time following as he studied every detail of the verandah and swept the rest of the yard with his glance.
He saw nothing to alarm him, and yet his senses tingled as if an unseen danger lingered nearby. He hesitated but the smell of food made his stomach rumble and he stepped inside. He hung his hat but kept on his gun belt and then joined the others at the table.
Cosette and Angus sat with them. “Harrison said we should keep you company,” Angus explained.
“’Preciate it,” Clay said as he sat.
Birdie rolled her eyes. She probably guessed he was glad to have someone else at the table so she couldn’t pursue their discussion.
He pretended he didn’t notice.
Angus asked the blessing, Cosette passed the victuals.
Clay did his best to think only of the food—hearty stew, baked beans, and cornbread with molasses. Cold water from the well. He might have succeeded in his focus if everyone else had concentrated on the food. But that was not to be.
He didn’t mind when Megan chattered about the kittens. “Yours is named Happy,” she told Angus and Cosette, “’Cause you guys are so happy. But Happy will have to stay with his mama until he’s bigger. Lots and lots bigger.” She broke off suddenly.
Clay along with three others looked at her. Her head was down, but he could see that her bottom lip trembled, and a tear dropped to the table. His heart twisted so hard he had to bite back a groan.
Thankfully, everyone else was focused on Megan. Birdie hugged her. “Honey, what’s wrong?”
“Why do kitties get to have a mama and I don’t?”
Oh, child, Clay thought. Like he’d said to Birdie, life is full of pain, but children should be spared. Another thing he didn’t understand about God. Why would He allow innocent little ones to suffer?
Birdie sent him a look brimming with helplessness.
He was here only to guard them, but he longed to ease the girl’s pain. If only he knew how.
Birdie pressed a kiss to Megan’s head. “I can’t answer why.”
Angus cleared his throat. “One thing, young miss, is without their mama, the kittens would die, but you have lots of people to love and take care of you.”
“It’s true.” Megan gave a wobbly smile. “Papa always says Mama would want me to be happy and I try.” She laughed a little. “Most days I don’t have to try very hard.”
The atmosphere lightened with her smile and words.
Clay ducked his head. He wished he could as easily switch back to the happy man he’d once been. But then what value would the hard lessons have had?
Cosette served them rich butterscotch pudding, and he thought of nothing but the pleasure of good food.
The meal over, Clay thought of retiring to the verandah, but last time he’d done that, Megan had disappeared. So he settled back with another cup of coffee as Angus left the house and Megan and the two women cleaned the kitchen. He was about as comfortable as Mutt would be in a pen of cats, but he had no intention of letting Megan out of his sight.
Birdie sidled over to him. “I’m perfectly capable of watching her.”
He raised his eyebrows but said nothing.
“Well, I didn’t expect her to leave from her window.”
“I’ll take care of that. You have a hammer and nails handy?”
Cosette heard him. “On the back step.”
He found both and headed down the hall. “Which is Megan’s room?”
Both Megan and Birdie followed him. Cosette watched from the kitchen.
Megan ran ahead and stood in a doorway. “Whatcha gonna do?”
“Watch and see.” He shut the window and drove a nail above the bottom frame.
Megan crossed her arms and scowled at him.
He flicked her braid. “No one can go out and no one can get in.”
He guessed Megan had used the window as a door on more than one occasion by the way she flounced from the room
“I never thought of that,” Birdie murmured.
“Harrison expects me to think of such things.” He looked out the window. Why were his nerves so jittery? He could detect nothing outside to suggest a reason.
Birdie gasped. “Look.”
He turn
ed to see. She stared at a picture of a young woman framed and hanging on the wall of Megan’s room with a knotted rope. Like a noose.
“It’s Megan’s mother.” Birdie’s words seemed to come from a hollow cave. “Someone has made it look as if she’s being hanged.” Birdie snatched the rope away. She turned to Clay. “Someone has been here.” Birdie shuddered. “Here. In our home. In Megan’s room.”
That explained his tingling senses. “Where were Cosette and Angus this morning?”
“Cosette would be at her house and Angus taking care of the stock.”
“Megan is safe, at least.”
“Who is doing this?” Birdie’s voice rose. “Why Megan?” The last was uttered with despair.
Clay put a hand on her shoulder. “Shh, we don’t want Megan to hear.”
Birdie nodded and sucked in a deep breath. “I’ve changed my mind.”
“About what?”
“About you. I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad for the gun at your side.”
“Show me the rest of the house.” They stepped into the hall.
“What are you doing?” Megan bounced after them as Birdie led him to the sitting room to the left of the kitchen area.
Clay stopped and faced the little girl. “You stay with Cosette.”
The woman seemed to understand what Clay couldn’t say and pulled the girl to her side. “Come, little one. We make us some cookies.”
Clay waited until Cosette and Megan returned to the kitchen then slipped his gun from the holster and moved toward the doorway. He eased forward to look around. A brown sofa with a knitted blanket in bright blues, greens, and reds hung over the back. Two arm chairs, also with bright knitted blankets over their arms, flanked the wood-burning heater. A bookcase crammed with books, a roll top desk, and an open cupboard with various items. The room had a neglected feel to it. Probably wasn’t used much in the summer months when they could sit on the verandah. He saw no sign of an intruder.
“Does it look like someone has been in here?”
Birdie was at his side. “Looks okay to me.” Her voice was tight.
He dropped his hand to her shoulder again, felt her tremble, and wished he could erase every fear and concern. “I’m here to make sure you and Megan are safe.”