“How can I ever thank you, Laura?”
She was seated beside Janie on the swing, focused on what the girl was saying as she stroked Laura’s cat. Peaches had survived Sam’s idle threat and was curled up in Janie’s lap.
Laura turned. “Pardon?”
“I was thanking you. You were wonderful in the carriage house. All I could do was wait to catch her when she fell.”
“It was quite a shocking sight.”
“But you didn’t hesitate to act.”
“You might say I’ve had a lot of experience with emergencies.”
He noticed how a flush of color always fanned across her cheeks when she was embarrassed.
“I guess you’ve seen about everything running a boardinghouse,” he mused. He was still amazed by her courage. Not only had she stood up for the child in the mercantile, but when Hank Larson had been wounded in a shoot-out nearly six months ago, Laura had stepped in without being asked to help Amelia nurse Hank. “Amelia still credits you with helping her save Hank’s life,” he said, thinking aloud.
“I was just there as another pair of hands and to act as chaper-one.” Blushing, Laura dropped her gaze to her folded hands. “My being a widow and all,” she added softly, “I was able to save Amelia the embarrassment of having to bathe Hank when he was feverish—” She abruptly cut herself off, as if she’d said too much.
From the far end of the veranda, Sam interrupted.
“Am I gonna have to sit here forever? I’m so thirsty, Papa. I might just keel over right here and die.”
“You may apologize to Mrs. Foster.”
Sam leapt off the stool and crossed the veranda. When he reached the swing, he stared at the floor and mumbled, “Sorry.”
“Mean it, please, son.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Foster, for leaving Janie hangin’ in your barn.”
“And…” Brand prodded.
Sam swallowed. “And for saying I was going to skin your cat.”
Brand watched Laura reach for Sam’s chin, tilt his face up, and made him look her in the eye.
“Would you really skin my cat? Or any cat, for that matter?”
Sam mumbled something.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you,” Laura said. Her voice was soft, melodic, yet laced with steel.
“No. I wouldn’t hurt your cat. Or any cat.”
“Yes, he would,” Janie piped up.
Laura gently took hold of Sam’s hand, effectively keeping the boy close. Brand watched with admiration and amazement.
“I’m talking to your brother right now, Janie. If he says he’s not going to hurt Peaches, then I’ll take him as a man of his word.” Laura turned to Sam again. “Are you a man of your word?”
Brand watched as his son stood a bit taller and squared his shoulders.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m a man of my word.”
“Then that’s all that needs to be said,” Laura told him. “I forgive you. I think you need to ask your sister to forgive you too. She’s the one you left in such a precarious position. You need to make her a promise as well.”
Laura let go of Sam’s hand. The boy scooted over to stand in front of Janie.
“Sorry,” he told her. Then he glanced at Laura and added, “Sorry, I left you hanging like that. I won’t do it again.”
Janie stared at him for a moment, then said, “Wanna pet Peaches?”
When Sam said yes, she proceeded to scoot over and let him sit beside her.
Brand let go a sigh of relief. “We’ll take that lemonade now,” he said. “If it’s not too much trouble.”
Laura asked Brand to have a seat while she went inside and told Anna to bring them some lemonade. When she came back, she found Brand seated in the middle of the swing, next to Janie and Sam. If she joined them all, she’d be forced to wedge herself in beside him. Instead, she leaned against the veranda railing. She left her apron on, a reminder that they had interrupted her at her task.
Still, her relief that Janie was safe was so great, she realized she wasn’t in any hurry to have them leave. At least until they’d finished their lemonade.
As if he had read her thoughts Brand said, “We won’t take up much more of your time. I haven’t forgotten that you refused my request to call on you, but what kind of a man would I be if I gave up without a fight?”
His open smile was far too tempting.
“Sensible?” She continued to find herself inexplicably drawn to him.
“And why is that?” His voice was low and warm.
She glanced at the children. They were whispering over the cat.
“Because if you’re looking for a romantic relationship, Reverend, I’m not interested.”
“Your penchant for turning down marriage proposals is legendary, Mrs. Foster.”
“Is it?”
“Very much so.”
Good, she thought. Then you won’t be shocked or disappointed when I do not attend the choir performance.
“I realized this morning I don’t know much about you, Mrs. Foster.”
“That’s because I’m a private person, Reverend McCormick.”
He didn’t question her. Instead he said, “I suppose my life is pretty much an open book.”
“I suppose it has to be, doesn’t it?” She tipped her head, studied him carefully. The faithful had a right to know all about this man who was charged with their salvation. They would also want his associations to be of the highest standards and morals.
“That’s right.” He appeared thoughtful.
“So, tell me about yourself,” she said. An expert on men, she hadn’t met one yet who didn’t care to talk about himself more than anything else.
Brand set the swing rocking to a gentle rhythm. “I was born and raised in Illinois. When the war broke out, I enlisted in the Union Army.”
“Were you a chaplain?”
He shook his head no and paused a moment before he went on. “I had a spiritual awakening on the battlefield. After the war, I went back home, met and married Jane, my late wife, and became a minister. I was blessed. Our lives were everything we’d dreamed of when the children came. Then, when Janie was a year old, Jane fell ill and died very suddenly. God presented me with the challenge of living through my grief and raising my children. With the help of my sister, I decided to come to Texas and start over, like so many folks did after the war.”
Standing on the veranda of the grand home built from the shame of her past, Laura could barely speak above a whisper. “Texas is a fine place for that.”
She’d chosen Texas for its size, hoping she was as well hidden here as a needle in a haystack.
Anna appeared with a tray of glasses and a pitcher of lemonade and set them on a wicker side table near the swing. Laura poured the lemonade, gave some to Janie and Sam. As she handed Brand a glass, their fingers met. The touch was entirely innocent, but an unexpected wave of longing hit her. She never sought a man’s touch, never welcomed one. But this—this gentle brush of his fingertips was something altogether different.
She glanced up and found Brand staring into her eyes. Had he felt it too?
She tried to look away but couldn’t. Silence stretched between them, silence full of tension that the children beside him were oblivious to. As much as Laura wanted the startling moment to end, a part of her wished it could last forever.
Brand found himself in no hurry to leave as they sipped lemonade and chatted awhile longer, and then he told the children they could start walking home, but to wait for him at the corner. He wanted to bid Laura good-bye alone.
Before today, he’d never entertained any opinions about whether or not Laura Foster would make a good mother for his children. He hadn’t thought any further than inviting her to the choir performance on Saturday night. Now he had no doubt that not only was she caring, forgiving, and strong, but loving and gentle.
The direction of his thoughts surprised him. It had been forever since he dared to think about marriage again. Laura would be an
easy woman to love.
Laura busied herself with the refreshment tray as Brand watched the children dash across the front yard and head toward the corner. When he turned to her, she appeared to be waiting expectantly for him to take his leave.
“I’ve kept you from your duties long enough. I’m sorry about what happened—”
“Don’t think about it. Children can be unpredictable.” Such deep sadness filled her eyes that it took him aback.
He spoke before he thought. “It’s unfortunate you and Mr. Foster never had any children. You’re very good with them.”
She stared silently back. Almost as if she couldn’t comprehend a word he’d just said. It quickly dawned on him that his comment had wounded her. Laura might have wanted children desperately.
“I’m so sorry,” he said quickly. “That’s none of my business.”
“I—”
“Really, forgive me.”
“There’s nothing to forgive, Reverend.” She looked away for an instant, as if collecting herself. “Thank you for the hand cream. It’s lovely.”
It was a clear hint that he should be on his way.
“I’ll look forward to Saturday night.” He reminded her that he would see her again soon. “The choir performance starts at seven. Would it be all right to come get you at six-thirty?”
She hesitated a moment. “I’ll meet you there. In case I’m detained by my guests,” she added.
“It’s no problem, really. Charity and the children have to be there early.”
“I’d prefer meeting you there.” Her tone brooked no argument.
Her independent streak presented a challenge, but he wasn’t about to risk giving up on her.
The beguiling Mrs. Foster had just met her match.
FOUR
Two days later, Brand finally had time to hunt down Hank Larson. He spent a harrowing morning with the church board, during a meeting in which a heated discussion arose over whether or not it was proper to charge folks for a cup of coffee after church. Members nearly came to blows until he stepped in to remind them they could surely find a peaceful solution to the problem.
Afterward, he hightailed it over to the Glory Gazette office, only to learn from Richard Hernandez, Laura’s employee and Hank’s apprentice, that Hank had ridden a mile outside of town to do some target practice. Brand found the gun-toting journalist shooting cans off a fallen cottonwood log.
“What brings you out here, Reverend?” Hank holstered his Colt. “No trouble, I hope.”
Thinking of the board meeting, Brand said, “Nothing a little prayer won’t help.” He tied his horse’s reins to what was left of a four-foot cottonwood stump.
“Actually,” he added, “I came looking for advice.”
“You’re usually the one dispensing advice, Preacher.”
“Not this time. This time it involves an affair of the heart. Since you are newly married, I think you’re just the man to help.”
“This doesn’t have anything to do with the beautiful Mrs. Foster, does it?”
Dozens of rusted, bullet-ridden cans lined the ground around the fallen log. Brand planted a boot on it. He shoved his low-crowned hat off his forehead.
“How did you guess?”
Hank laughed. “Oh, could have been the look in your eye when you were strutting down Main with Mrs. Foster on your arm a few mornings ago. Or the fact that you called on Amelia and you let Sam and Janie choose one of her salves for Laura.”
“All true, I won’t deny it. When did you know for certain you were ready to marry again?”
“The day I realized I couldn’t live in the same town with Amelia without having her by my side. But I did have to propose quite a few times before she finally said yes, remember?”
“So many times that you’d about given up hope.”
Hank stared at him for a moment.
“Mind my asking how long ago you lost your wife?” Hank asked.
For the longest time, Brand had experienced a sinking feeling when anyone mentioned Jane as his “lost” wife or his “late” wife. But now, although the pain was still there, it was muted, not as swift or razor sharp.
“Almost seven years ago,” Brand said.
“You’ll love her always, but she’s in heaven and you’re still here. It’s natural to worry about being disloyal. Believe me, I know.” Hank had been a widower himself before he married Amelia. “If there are qualities in Laura that you admire—”
“Laura’s unlike any woman I’ve ever known. She’s wealthy, refined. Independent.”
“Not to mention stunning,” Hank added.
Brand smiled. “I’ve noticed. Believe me.”
Hank began to line up more cans.
“A few months back you assured me that Amelia wasn’t one to judge a man by the size of his bankroll. If a wealthy man is what Mrs. Foster requires, then she’s not the woman for you,” he said.
“I’ve got two children and Charity to support,” Brand reminded him.
“Love finds a way, Brand.”
“I’ve asked Laura to the choir performance on Saturday night.” Brand shook his head, hoping he’d done the right thing.
Hank looked at him for a long, telling moment. “A good start, I guess.”
“Not very romantic.” Brand shrugged. He wasn’t used to feeling helpless.
“Did she accept?”
Brand nodded. “I think Janie and Sam had a lot to do with her agreeing to go.”
Hank patted Brand on the shoulder. “Congratulations. It’s a start.
“You just keep the faith, Reverend, and take it one step at a time. Meanwhile, I’ll ask Amelia if she’s got any ideas. Women are a whole lot better at these things than we are.”
The week flew by all too quickly for Laura.
She awoke each day determined to send Reverend McCormick a note to let him know she wouldn’t be able to attend the recital. Each time, she balked. It was one thing to live a lie. Quite another to keep lying to a preacher.
Saturday morning she sat alone in her drawing room trying to practice an organ piece. In a valiant attempt to cultivate gentility before she moved to Texas, she’d taken lessons from an ancient gentleman in New Orleans. Monsieur Beaurevaus was patient and talented. He kept his hands to himself and taught her a few basic songs. She could use more lessons, but decided she didn’t have the temperament to succeed.
When the doorbell rang, shrill and insistent, she went immediately to the entry hall. Kansas state representative Bryce Botsworth and his family were on their way to San Antonio. The Botsworths and their two daughters were scheduled to stay only one night.
Laura opened the door to greet them, focusing on Mrs. Botsworth first. The woman was short, just an inch or two over five feet. Her hair was bright red, her skin white as a dove’s wing. Her eyes were bright green.
Her daughters, reed thin and a bit taller than their mother, favored her coloring. Both girls appeared to be under twenty.
“Welcome,” Laura said, smiling at the woman and then the young ladies. “I’m sure you’re ready for some tea or other refreshment. Do come right—”
She paused the minute she finally turned to Mr. Botsworth. He was of medium height, portly, with short, thick hands. Dressed in a somber black suit with a silk cravat and diamond stick pin, he whipped off his hat, exposing a bald pate.
When Laura looked into the man’s eyes, she couldn’t help but notice his speculative stare. Her speech faltered. Her blood ran cold. It took all of her will not to turn and leave them standing there on the threshold.
“Do come in. Please. I’ll just…I’ll…Please, step right into the parlor. Let me go find Richard. He’ll take your luggage up…upstairs.”
“Thank you so much,” Mrs. Botsworth said, leading the way into the drawing room. “Come, girls.” She moved into the drawing room. “Oh, my. This is quite lovely. Very unexpected for a small town like this. Just look, Bryce.”
Bryce was looking, Laura noticed, but not at the d
rawing room. He was staring at her. Then, without a word, Mr. Botsworth turned and followed in his family’s wake. He didn’t break stride, nor did he look at Laura again. Had she imagined his interest? She couldn’t be at all certain.
Laura took a deep breath and hoped no one noticed that her hands trembled slightly as she smoothed the front of her gown. “Make yourself comfortable,” she said.
She hurried down the hall to the kitchen, forced herself not to run. Once there, she shoved open the swinging door and, without thinking, collapsed against the wall. She pressed her hands to her heart, afraid it was about to beat its way out of her chest.
“Señora?”
Rodrigo was at the sink, peeling potatoes. He glanced over his shoulder and, the minute he saw her, set down the paring knife and dried his hands. Concern marred his dark features.
Laura waved him off when he rushed to her side.
“Please, keep working. I’m fine. It’s…it’s just the heat.”
“Agua?” He offered. “Water?”
“Yes. Yes. Some water. And put on the teapot.” She gave the bellpull near the door a yank. Soon Anna would come running.
Laura tried to rein in her emotions. She took a deep breath, reminded herself that there were guests to be settled, refreshments to be served.
She tried to convince herself Bryce Botsworth had never, ever laid eyes on her. She didn’t recognize him at all—but hundreds of men had passed through her life, hundreds had taken pleasure in her arms while she willed herself to feel nothing.
Something in Botsworth’s stare sent chills down her spine.
Help me.
The plea for help came from somewhere deep inside. Certainly not a prayer; she never prayed. If there was a God in heaven, He would have never let two innocent children enter that house on Rue de Lafayette.
She took another deep breath. Inhaled the scent of beef and onions roasting in the big stove across the room. Studied the carefully placed crocks and pitchers on the dry sink, the china collection in the cupboards, the starched, lace-trimmed curtains hanging across the wide bank of windows along the back wall.
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