The wheel of a cigarette lighter grated in the silence followed by the flicker of a small flame. Judd brushed past her as he stepped to the stairwell and hit a light switch. The single light bulb at the top of the stairs popped on, throwing a ladder of light on the weathered steps. He took the steps slowly, talking. “About nine or ten women lived here at a time. The stories are that the women in this house were the cleanest, most respectable whores in the territory.” His foot hit the top step and he paused, waiting for Callie to catch up. He gestured to the main room. “This was the parlor where the girls entertained the men until they sought the privacy of their rooms.
“Their clients were, for the most part, wealthy and influential men. Government officials, investors and drummers came here on business and usually stayed at the hotel. They’d sneak across the catwalk, visit a while with the girls, then head down that staircase,” he said, indicating the second staircase on the far side of the room that led to the bar. “They’d have a couple of drinks in the Blue Bell, then cross the street to a gaming hall, using the underground tunnel. For the most part, the citizens of Guthrie were never the wiser.”
“This is all very fascinating, but what is your point?”
Judd ducked his head and stuffed his hands deep into his jeans pockets. “Lizzy Sawyer was the madam.”
Callie’s chin dropped and her arms fell limply to her sides. “What did you say?”
“I said she was the madam. You do know what a madam is, don’t you?”
“Y-yes, of course I do.” Shock gradually gave way to anger. “Why didn’t you tell me this before now?”
“I didn’t think it was necessary. Your opinion of the woman was already pretty low.”
“And it appears that I was right,” she said, folding her arms at her breasts. “Mary Elizabeth Sawyer was exactly what her family claimed she was, a spoiled woman who thought only of her own selfish wants and needs.” She unfolded her arms and lifted her hands to cover her mouth as her thoughts raced ahead to the effect this would have on her great-grandfather. “Poor Papa,” she murmured against her fingertips. “I can’t imagine how upsetting this will be for him.”
“She wasn’t a bad woman, Callie.”
Callie wheeled to stare at him. “Not bad? For God’s sake,” she cried, tossing her hands in the air. “She was the madam of a whorehouse, shipped her own son off to be raised by his grandparents, whom, by her own admission, she detested. And you say she wasn’t bad?”
“I don’t know anything about how she became known as the madam of the whorehouse, or what transpired with her son. But I do know a little about her.” He caught her hand and dragged her to a window. “See that church over there, the one whose steeple is peeking up over the trees?”
“Yes.”
“Miss Lizzy worshiped there every Sunday. In the early years of the settlement, times were hard. There were droughts, sickness and crop failures. Miss Lizzy cared for those who couldn’t care for themselves. She nursed them and provided food. During the depression she started a clothes closet to serve the needs of the community. She provided supplies and helped cook and served meals to those who wouldn’t have eaten otherwise.” He took her shoulders and turned her slightly, angling her a little to the left. “And that building over there? See it? That’s the old library. There’s a new one now, and the old building has been turned into a museum, but the original library was kept open partially by the generous donations of Lizzy Bodean.”
Callie pressed her hands over her ears, unwilling to hear anymore. “Stop it!” she cried. “I don’t want to hear this.”
Judd dropped his arms from her shoulders. “No, I guess you probably don’t.” He crossed to an old trunk, one that Callie hadn’t found the time to dig through yet. He lifted the lid and poked around a bit, then lifted out a book. He crossed back to Callie, extending it to her.
She doubled her hands into a single fist at her waist, refusing to take it. “What is that?” she asked, her eyes riveted to the faded leather volume.
“Miss Lizzy’s journal of her journey to the Oklahoma Territory and her first year here.” He prodded her hand with the book, forcing her to accept it. “You might want to read it.”
Her gaze flicked to his. “Why?”
“It might help you understand her more.” He stepped back, knowing he’d done all he could to remove the ill feelings she held for her great-great-grandmother, the woman whose legacy threatened to rob her of her creativity. The rest would be left up to Miss Lizzy and the power of her words...and the story she had to tell.
* * *
Callie tossed the book to the table and dragged the plastic from her statue. She didn’t need to read the journal to know what kind of woman Lizzy Sawyer was. She was selfish and cold-blooded, just like the rest of her family. So what if the woman spread a little of her wealth around? She’d probably done those good deeds to ease her guilt over abandoning her son.
Sniffing, she sank down on the stool and picked up a sculpting knife. She gently rolled it back and forth, warming the wooden handle between her palms, while she stared at the blank face before her. She didn’t have time for thoughts of Lizzy Sawyer Bodean. She had work to do.
Carefully and methodically, she emptied her mind of thoughts of her sordid relative. She closed her eyes, willing the emotions she needed to the surface.
Slowly they washed over her and the image appeared behind her closed lids. A mother. Gentle, loving. Holding her baby for the first time. Emotions pushing at the young mother’s throat, gathering behind her eyes as she marveled at the miracle before her. A part of herself, created in love, nourished by hope. Born of strength and determination.
Callie slowly opened her eyes, the emotions fresh, the sculpting knife warm in her hand. She lifted the tool, her eyes unfocused, still seeing the mother’s face in her mind. She shifted on the stool, bringing the knife and the image to the clay. Her hand stopped an inch short of the statue, as if grasped by a hand from behind. She strained against it, fighting to hold on to the emotions, needing to sculpt that image before it was lost...but her hand slammed to the table. The knife shot from her grip, cartwheeled across the table and fell to clatter against the hardwood floor.
Dropping her head to her hands, Callie heaved a deep, shuddery breath and gave in to the anger. Hot tears streaked down her face while she funneled her fingers through her hair.
Callie, dear, don’t cry.
Callie snapped up her head, her heart thudding at the sound of the familiar voice. “Who are you?” she whispered, her voice tinged with fear. Her question echoed hollowly in the empty room. Slowly she spun on the stool, dragging her fingertips beneath her eyes to clear them, but saw nothing but the cracks in the walls and the cobwebs draping the corners.
“Please,” Callie begged, her voice thick with frustrated tears. “Tell me who you are, what you want from me.”
The voice came again, this time from behind her.
I want nothing, only to give. Read the journal. Perhaps then you’ll understand.
Callie whirled to find the doorway behind her empty.
* * *
The leather spine cracked and popped like an old woman’s knees as Callie laid open the book. The handwriting was familiar, the same flourishes and sweeps of the diary she’d read earlier.
Scowling, she settled into a corner of the tattered sofa and began to read.
January 3, 1890:
I cannot believe I found the courage to do it! My heart races at the very thought! Sneaking out the window, sliding down the roof, the frightening climb from the branches of the elm tree...and Ethan, my love, my champion, waiting in the shadows beneath it.
Callie’s fingers tightened on the book’s faded leather covers as she realized the stories Papa had told her about his mother running off with a man to the Oklahoma Territory were true. She swallowed back the sense of dread and made herself read on.
January 15, 1890:
Ethan worries so about my safety and my health, alt
hough I assure him I feel fine. He even suggested I return home, promising to send for me later. But the birth of our child is months away, and I am sure we’ll reach the Oklahoma Territory in ample time to prepare for the arrival.
She was pregnant when she left home! Anxious to find the details of Papa’s birth, Callie flipped pages, skimming ahead.
February 19, 1890:
I try very hard not to worry, but I am afraid I fail miserably at the task. Ethan assures me that when we reach St. Louis, he will send a wire to his bank and request they transfer his funds to him there. In the meantime, my reticule grows lighter and lighter.
He’s using her for her money, Callie thought with a stab of anger. No wonder her parents didn’t approve of Ethan. She’d fallen in love with the lowest form of man...a gigolo.
March 20, 1890:
My heart feels unusually heavy today, for I had to sell Mother’s pearls. They were given to Mother on her sixteenth birthday and in turn she gave them to me on mine. I had always thought I would pass them down to my daughter. But I must not think such forlorn thoughts! I am here, traveling across the country with the man I love. And Ethan has promised to buy me a hundred strings of pearls to replace the ones we sold. That is what I shall focus on. A gift from Ethan. A string of pearls. If I close my eyes, I can almost feel the weight of them around my neck.
April 23, 1890:
Almost three months have passed since we first left Boston. I sometimes wonder about my family, what they are doing, whether or not they miss me. Silly thoughts, really, for I know that when I left, they closed the book on my life, just as they threatened if I persisted in seeing Ethan.
The train ride, though thrilling, is grueling on my back. I suppose it is all the sitting required of me. As I pen this, Ethan is in the lounge playing a game of cards with some gentlemen he met earlier. I wish I were there with him. Anything to escape this suffocating car with the windows blowing cinders in my face.
Angered by the woman’s blind loyalty to a man not worth the ground she walked on, Callie flipped pages.
June 9, 1890:
Ethan’s absence is distressing, at best. I cannot bear to think what might have delayed him. Mrs. Grindel continues to look at me with suspicion, always inquiring about Ethan’s return. Oh, Ethan, please come soon and take me away from this horrid house.
June 14, 1890:
I’m writing by lamplight, which I’m sure Mrs. Grindel will complain about tomorrow when she discovers the oil is low. I cannot sleep for the pain keeps me awake. My back again, lower and much more intense than ever before. I am so frightened! I fear the baby will come before Ethan’s return. If so, who will assist at the birth? With whom shall I share the glorious arrival of the birth of our child?
June 17, 1890:
My heart is shredded into a thousand pieces. Our child is dead. A son. Ethan would have been so proud to have a son carry on his name. Mrs. Grindel and her sister Lucinda attended the birth. They said the cord was wrapped around his neck and there was nothing they could do to save him. My heart grieves for him, for I never even saw his face or held him in my arms. Mr. Grindel buried him properly and has promised to take me to his grave as soon as I’m able to travel.
Writing is difficult, for my hand shakes uncontrollably and my head swims in confusion. The medicine Mrs. Grindel gives me makes me sleep and dulls my thoughts. Oh, Ethan, please come soon. I need you so. How will I ever find the strength to tell you our son is gone from us?
Callie closed the book and dropped it to the floor, tears streaming down her face. Lizzy hadn’t sent her child away. She’d really thought he’d died. She’d loved him, grieved for him...and she’d done it alone, without her precious Ethan or her parents’ comfort and support.
Standing, she swiped the tears from her cheeks and crossed to her workroom. She bent to pick up the knife from the floor, then scooted the stool close to the table and sat before the figure. With her eyes flooded with tears, her heart filled with the emotions transported through time by words, she lifted the sculpting knife.
* * *
Judd closed the door behind the last customer, twisted the dead bolt in place, then turned and ran for the stairs, taking them two at a time.
He’d given Callie the time alone he’d thought she needed. He’d worked all day with one ear tuned to the noises upstairs. He’d heard the reluctant scrape of her shoes on the floor overhead and the squeak of cushions when she’d flopped down on the old sofa. He’d suspected she’d given in enough to at least read the book. For hours he’d paced, listening, waiting on customers, making himself stay away. He’d heard the book hit the floor, and the first strangled sob. He was almost to the foot of the stairs when he’d heard the hurried patter of her shoes as she crossed back overhead to her workroom.
Stopping with his hand on the worn bannister, he had turned back to the bar and his customers, knowing he had to give her the time and the privacy to conquer her demons herself.
But now the bar was closed, the customers gone, and it had been hours since he’d heard a peep from upstairs. He had to check on her, see that she was all right.
He hit the top step running, then slowed to cross quietly to the far corner where her workroom was situated. The light was on, its rays spinning to silver the fine coat of dust on the main room’s floor. He saw her through the open doorway, her rear end jutting off the stool, her heels hooked over the rung. One arm pillowed her head on the table, while her hand limply held a knife.
He tiptoed closer and peeked over her shoulder to find her eyes closed. He eased the knife from her hand, laid it aside and stooped, intending to pick her up. But then he saw it. The statue’s face. The sight of it stole the breath from his lungs and the strength from his knees. He sagged against the table, flattening his hands on its top to support himself, his eyes riveted on the mesmerizing face.
The eyes were soft, full of warmth and love, and carried the sheen of unshed tears. The lips curved slightly in the barest hint of a smile as she looked down upon the babe in her arms, her eyes filled with a mixture of wonder and love. A tender finger lay gently on the cheek of the babe suckling at her breast.
Sweetness. Gentleness. Femininity. All woven together with an inner strength and pride. Callie had accomplished all she’d hoped for and more.
Turning to her, Judd scraped back a feathering of hair from her face and pressed a kiss on her cheek. Bending close, he eased her into his arms. She complained only slightly as he lifted her to his chest, but then she wound her arms around his neck, turned her cheek against his and nestled close.
His heart pounding with his love for the woman in his arms, he hit the light switch with his elbow, throwing the room into darkness.
Bless you both.
Judd stopped and glanced back. Moonlight streaked through the window, spotlighting the statue of the mother and her babe in its heavenly glow. A slow smile curled one corner of his lips as he whispered in return, “And bless you, Miss Lizzy.”
Eight
Callie didn’t stir again until Judd attempted to lay her on the bed in her hotel room, then it was only to tighten her arms around his neck when he started to withdraw. Touched by her unconscious need for him, he sank a knee into the cushiony mattress and laid down beside her, gathering her close to his heart.
She slept while he kept watch.
* * *
Hours later when she awakened, his gaze was still on her.
She never questioned his presence in her bed or how she’d arrived there. The fact that he was there with her was enough. She smiled sleepily up at him. “I did it,” she murmured.
Because he was an artist of sorts, he understood the satisfaction in that accomplishment. He squeezed her against him. “I know. I saw.”
“I couldn’t have done it without your help. Thank you.”
“Miss Lizzy is the one to thank.”
Callie smiled wistfully, remembering. “Yes, but without your insistence, I wouldn’t have read her journal and disco
vered the truth.”
Sure that she’d found something in the book he’d missed when he’d read it over a year ago, Judd lifted his head. “The truth? You mean about the grave?”
“No. I’ll probably never know that. But I discovered something more important. Mary Elizabeth Sawyer wasn’t the person her family portrayed her to be. I found her to be loving and generous to a fault. And I truly believe that she thought her son died at birth. When she wrote of it, I felt her grief as strongly as if it were my own.”
“So the mystery is solved?”
“For me it is. So much time has passed that it really doesn’t matter why Papa was sent away to Boston. What matters is that his mother didn’t do the sending.”
Her satisfaction in resolving the mystery surrounding her great-grandfather’s mother was obvious. Although Judd wanted to share her happiness, he couldn’t, for with the resolution came an end to her reason for remaining in Guthrie. “I guess you’ll be going back to Dallas, then,” he said quietly.
Callie tipped her face up to his and saw the trace of uncertainty in his eyes. Theirs was a tremulous relationship, based more on emotion than time, both reluctant to voice their feelings, unsure whether they were offering too much too soon. Wanting to ease his uncertainties—and in doing so, hopefully a few of her own by buying more time with him—she laid a fingertip against his lips. “Tracing my great-great-grandmother’s past wasn’t the only reason I came to Guthrie,” she said helpfully.
His lips curved beneath her finger in the beginnings of a smile. His gaze on hers, he caught her finger between his teeth. “Why else did you come?” he asked, then closed his lips around the slender appendage and drew it deep into his mouth.
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