Heart of Stone

by Jill Marie Landis

  “Things change, Harrison,” Brand told him. “I imagine new folks moving in is good for business.”

  “That’s true, but we’d be better off if there was a way to let only upstanding folks in. Scum like that have no place in our town.”

  Laura weathered the comment by putting a placid “widow Foster” smile on her face.

  She turned to Brand. “What brings you here this morning, Reverend?”

  He smiled back. “I could say that I was here to fill an order for my sister, but since I’m not a liar, I have to admit I saw you and stepped inside to say hello—and suddenly you were flying to that child’s defense. Impressive, I must say.”

  “Impulsive and probably very stupid, but I couldn’t stand by and watch that man mistreat that child.” Embarrassed by his perusal, she tried to change the subject. “How have you been, Reverend?”

  “I’ve been busy sanding and refinishing church pews.”

  His answer surprised her. Although she knew from observing him every Sunday that he was physically fit, she hadn’t taken him for a man who labored much. On closer inspection she noticed the way his shoulders filled out his suit coat and the fact that his hands were not the hands of a man who shied away from hard work.

  “And you?” He seemed determined to keep chatting.

  “Busy as well, but I sorely needed an outing. I came in to see if Harrison has anything that might tempt me to spend some extra money this morning.”

  Harrison was still behind the counter. With a smile, he reached up and smoothed down the part in his well-oiled hair. “I was expecting Rodrigo, as usual,” he said.

  She offered him her list and basket.

  “I’ve a new display of lace and buttons I’d like to show you,” Harrison told her.

  She didn’t sew, but Laura excused herself anyway, thinking Brand might be too polite to take his leave. But as Harrison drew her over to view his new items, she noticed Brand appeared perfectly content to lean against the counter and linger.

  Brand was drawn to the graceful sway of Laura’s skirt as she moved across the store.

  He’d crossed the threshold just as the rancher had slapped his daughter and was on his way to challenge the bully when Laura suddenly stepped in. His fear for her was as great as his admiration for her courage. To hear her admit she had acted without thought for her own safety only underscored her selflessness.

  As he continued to admire her demure loveliness from his vantage point, he compared the sophisticated, polished woman she appeared to be with the brave, albeit somewhat foolhardy, champion of an ill-treated child. There was obviously far more to Laura Foster than met the eye.

  Brand selected a few items that he knew his sister, Charity, needed—a scoop of beans and a few eggs. He carried them over to the counter, aware of Laura as she moved around the store, stalling as he waited for her to finish shopping.

  “How are the children, Reverend?” Harrison had left Laura to her shopping and was behind the counter again, writing out a receipt.

  Brand knew full well that he spared the rod too often since his wife, Jane’s, passing. Charity did her best with Sam and Janie, but she wasn’t the strongest of disciplinarians—a reaction, no doubt, to their own strict upbringing. He’d tried to reconcile his own memories of their father, but time had not done anything to help.

  “Reverend?” Harrison drew him out of his dark thoughts.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I was just thinking—”

  “How are the children?” Harrison asked again.

  “Scamps. Incorrigible. Healthy as ever.” Brand paid for the beans and eggs and noticed Laura’s basket waiting for her on the counter. He watched as Harrison went to the small mail cubicles along the wall. He pulled a letter out of Laura’s box and placed it in the basket.

  Brand lingered, chatting with Harrison until Laura finally joined them. He waited while she paid for her items and picked up her basket.

  “I’m walking you home,” he told her.

  “Pardon me?” She seemed astonished.

  “I’m walking you home.” It wasn’t a request.

  “I can take care of myself, I assure you.”

  She might be lovely—ethereally so—yet in that moment the strength of will and determination in her eyes assured him she believed she could indeed take care of herself if need be.

  “So it seems,” he admitted, “but after what just happened, I’d feel better seeing you to your door.”

  “Really, Reverend,” Laura lowered her voice. “I’m perfectly fine.”

  She laid her hand on his sleeve for the briefest moment, as if trying to communicate through a gentle touch that all was well. The innocent touch did more than calm him. He became even more determined to escort her home—not only to offer protection, but to enjoy her company awhile longer.

  “Mrs. Foster, I insist.”

  For a moment he thought she would continue to refuse. Then she glanced out the front window and frowned. An instant later, she gave him a slight smile and shrugged.

  “Then you may walk me home, if you insist.”

  “I do.”

  As they left the store together, Reverend McCormick offered his arm.

  Slipping her hand into the crook of Brand’s arm was a perfectly innocent gesture—or so she thought until she felt his warmth through the fabric of his coat sleeve and caught her breath at her unexpected reaction. She hadn’t thought to be moved by the slight connection. She never, ever sought out intimacy. Too many emotions, too much sensitivity had been stripped from her as a child.

  She walked beside Brand and stared straight ahead, hoping to hide her embarrassment behind the lace-trimmed edge of her bonnet. But it was impossible to forget who she was and that she was strolling down Main Street on a preacher’s arm.

  Who would have thought?

  Truth be told, Brand McCormick was handsome personified. Tall, with thick light hair and green eyes, he exuded quiet confidence and charm. Surprising, since she’d always imagined a preacher to be much more reserved. But from what she’d seen of him, he always appeared cheerful, eternally optimistic, and compassionate.

  She glanced over at him, found him studying her intently, and felt the color rise in her cheeks. Her embarrassment surprised her. She’d been forced to give up all manner of shyness early in life.

  As her cheeks blazed, she again reminded herself he was a preacher. Not only that, but he was a father. A widower. A real widower with not one but two children. He was a pillar of the community, in many ways the closest thing Glory had to a mayor.

  Just as she was wondering how to fill the awkward silence, they passed the front window of the Glory Gazette building. She glanced inside and saw Hank Larson sitting behind his desk. Thankfully, he looked up, waved, and signaled for them to wait.

  “There’s Hank,” she told Brand. They paused and she slipped her hand off his arm.

  Hank hurried out. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, his bowtie askew. His brown hair looked as if he’d been raking his fingers through it, but there was a huge smile on his face.

  “It’s great to see you both. I’m avoiding work,” Hank said in greeting.

  Laura had never seen the usually thoughtful writer, publisher, and acting sheriff look as happy as he did now.

  Brand must have been thinking the same thing. “Obviously marriage agrees with you, Hank.”

  Laura studied Hank and found it curious that a forty-year-old man could actually be embarrassed by his friend’s comment.

  “I’m a happy man,” he said. “Now if I can just find someone to take over as sheriff…”

  Laura couldn’t blame him for wanting to hand the job over to someone else. After foiling a bank robbery—he claimed his actions were completely accidental—Hank had been proclaimed the town hero and railroaded into the job of sheriff until a replacement could be found. As acting sheriff, he’d almost lost his life in a shoot-out.

  “When can we expect a new edition of the Gazette?” She want
ed to put a smile back on his face.

  “Hopefully before the week is up,” Hank said. “By the way, Laura, I’ll never be able to thank you enough for hosting our wedding and reception supper.” He’d thanked her every time he’d run into her this past month.

  Brand laughed and nodded. “If she hadn’t stepped in, the wedding would have taken place right there in the middle of your surprise party.”

  Hank nodded. “‘Hold it right there, all of you!’” he mimicked Laura and she grimaced.

  Hank had nearly lost the Gazette when he ran out of funds and was laid up after the shoot-out. The town had gotten together to help him out and Laura had hosted a surprise party in her backyard. During the party, Hank proposed to Amelia Hawthorne, who was not only the town healer but Laura’s only close friend. Amelia had accepted and Brand had been ready to marry them on the spot.

  Laura remembered thinking What have I done? the minute she spoke up and stopped them. She was adamant when she said, “Hank Larson, this is your surprise party—not Miss Hawthorne’s wedding day. She deserves a celebration worthy of her and I for one intend to see that she gets it.”

  Laura cringed even now as she recalled the way she’d taken charge, but she hadn’t been about to let the menfolk rob Amelia of a lovely wedding day. She’d put on a very small but elegant event a week later in her drawing room and had even had Amelia’s gown made for her out of one of her own. To Laura, it was the least anyone could do for the man who had not only established Glory’s first newspaper, but had helped rid the territory of a gang of thieves.

  Knowing that she would never have a wedding of her own made Laura’s part in the planning a bittersweet affair but she took joy in the moment. When Amelia asked her to stand up for her, she’d humbly accepted, though she wasn’t fool enough to believe for a moment that Amelia would have befriended her had she known about Laura’s past.

  She had no regrets. The wedding had been perfect. She only wished the newlyweds would stop singing her praises.

  “Amelia is planning a dinner of her own soon,” Hank said. “You’ll both be our first guests.”

  “I’ll look forward to it,” Brand said.

  “So will I,” Laura assured Hank.

  Laura felt Brand’s gaze on her and turned his way. Staring into his eyes, she saw no lust there, merely respect. And tenderness.

  Laura looked away first. “I’d best be getting back. Rodrigo needs these groceries.” She held out her hand for the basket. “I can manage by myself from here, Reverend, thank you.”

  “You’re not going to let a pretty lady walk home all alone, are you?” Hank nudged Brand on the shoulder.

  Laura wanted to muzzle the newspaperman.

  “Of course not.” Brand kept a hold of the basket and offered his arm again. Unwilling to refuse in front of Hank, Laura hesitated and then accepted. The sooner she gave in, the sooner she’d be home. She took a deep breath and lightly rested her fingertips on the crook of Brand’s elbow again.

  By the time they reached the boardinghouse, they’d fallen into a comfortable silence that wasn’t broken until Brand said, “I had an ulterior motive for walking you home, you know.”

  “Don’t tell me you harbor any secrets, Reverend.”

  “I admit it. I’m guilty.”

  He stepped closer. There was less than a foot between them now.

  She wished he would step back, but he didn’t move. His nearness affected her in ways she couldn’t fathom. She stepped closer to the door. She might have been wary, but his eyes were not only smiling, but brimming with honesty. They weren’t full of blarney like her uncle Tim’s. Nor was there any lust or perversion there. They were open, honest, and filled with what she could only describe as hope. She was surprisingly moved.

  “May I call on you tomorrow?” the preacher asked.

  “Call tomorrow?”

  “To stop by and chat,” he clarified. “I was thinking of something in the nature of a social call.”

  Shock reverberated through her. Had she given him any reason to think she’d welcome him as a gentleman caller? Perhaps she’d stared at him a bit too long—smiled a bit too openly. She had taken his arm.

  She set the basket down beside the front door. There was a reason for the sign on the wall behind her. Women and Families Only. She wanted no single men under her roof. She needed to keep her reputation impeccable. Her standing in Glory, her business success, depended upon maintaining her spotless character. She hadn’t let herself know a man, socially or otherwise, in nearly five years. When she’d first moved to town, she’d turned down so many marriage proposals Amelia had told her the word was out: there was no need to try to woo the widow Foster.

  The answer to Brand’s question was simple: his intent might be innocent, but she was not. He was a preacher. She was a whore. If he knew that attending Sunday services was simply a part of her new persona and had nothing to do with faith, he wouldn’t be asking at all.

  Besides, Brand McCormick might smile down at her with the guileless eyes of an honest man and a preacher, but he was, after all, still a man. To allow him to come calling would surely open a Pandora’s box of trouble.

  “I’m afraid that’s out of the question. I’ll be rather busy tomorrow.” She glanced behind her, reached for the brass doorknob.

  “The next day, then?” he suggested.

  “I’m afraid I’ll be busy all week. I’ve a new round of guests arriving by week’s end.”

  “Ah,” he said.

  She wondered if there was some special punishment reserved for sinners who fibbed to a minister. Even if it was for his own sake.

  “Reverend, I’ve tried to be nice, but I am really not interested in gentleman callers.” There were enough black marks on her soul already. What difference did one more little lie make?

  She realized her rebuff had not dimmed the determined light in his eyes. Not one bit. Brand McCormick raised his hat and tipped it in her direction. And smiled that smile.

  “I understand. Some other time, perhaps,” he said.

  “I don’t think so.”

  He turned around and stepped out into the sunshine, into the Indian summer heat and dryness that was Texas.

  She reached for her basket and watched as he walked down the steps and out into the street. Then she let go a pent-up, heartfelt sigh.

  “Not at all, Preacher,” she whispered.

  Not tomorrow. Not next week.

  Not ever.

  Once inside, Laura carried the basket directly into the kitchen and set it on the wide work table in the middle of the room. She slipped out the letter Harrison had put in, bid Rodrigo good morning, and hurried upstairs to her room. Once there, she sat on the tufted chair in front of her dressing table, picked up a thick hat pin, and used it to open the envelope.

  Her fingers trembled as she carefully unfolded the page.

  Dear Mrs. Foster,

  I’m sorry to inform you that I haven’t any positive news to send along regarding the whereabouts of Megan Lane.

  Laura tried not to acknowledge the pain of her disappointment as she lowered the letter to her lap. She knew the rest of the page would detail how Mr. Abbott had spent the last of the retainer she’d sent him and how much more he would require to continue his search for her sister—for whom she had not one clue to help them with their search.

  If she hadn’t met Tom Abbott during the war, if she didn’t know him to be a fine upstanding employee of the famed Pinkerton Detective Agency, “The Eye that Never Sleeps,” then she wouldn’t even consider sending him another advance. But she did know Tom to be completely discreet and one of the best private investigators Pinkerton had ever hired. He’d honed his skills during the war as a spy for the Union.

  If anyone could find Megan after all these years, it was Tom.

  If he failed…

  If he failed she would have him start searching for Katie and Sarah.

  She refused to let herself dwell on failure. She’d planned too long,
paid too high a price to fail. She wasn’t about to give up hope.

  Not yet. Not until every means had been exhausted. She would find her sisters.

  She had to.

  THREE

  Foster’s Boardinghouse was full of life over the week’s end. There was much conversation and laughter at the dinner table with two families in residence, but no matter how full her days were, loneliness was Laura’s only companion when she locked the door and tucked herself in at night. The hours of darkness seemed to stretch on forever. Restless hours filled with glimpses of what should have been her childhood—or the years between then and now. Her sisters, a loving home, the innocence of a first love, not to mention all she had suffered…Memories fueled the regret and shame that she hadn’t been able to protect Megan and the others, to bind her sisters together.

  By day, she combated sleeplessness with hard work. She turned on her charm for boarders, making certain their stays under her roof—whether merely overnight or for an extended time—were memorable. She planned the details of every menu herself, inspected every cut of meat, every piece of fruit, every dish served. She oversaw the laundering of the linens, the polishing of the furniture. She taught Anna how to sprinkle lavender water on the pillows and turn perfect sheet corners.

  She set a demanding pace for the Hernandezes only because she demanded perfection of herself.

  Throwing herself into her work usually exhausted her by early evening, but invariably, she’d awaken long before dawn. Eventually she’d give up tossing and turning, light the lamp, and read.

  On Monday morning there were five guest rooms to clean, five sets of laundry to wash and hang, starch and press. She told Anna she would polish the silverware and dust the drawing room herself. She donned a full-length apron over a sprigged muslin gown, scooped her springy curls into a loose chignon, then made a head scarf out of a clean linen towel and tied it around her hair.

  She found polishing the silver soothing. Her hands worked as her mind wandered back to a time when her mother was still alive and her family was whole.