Captive Trail (The Texas Trail Series Book 2)

by Susan Page Davis

Cat left Ned at the parade ground and headed for the troopers’ barracks. Ned went to Captain Tapley’s office and gave him a quick overview of what he’d learned.

  “Would you like to write to this rancher down near Victoria?” the captain asked. “The Morgan girl seems by far the most likely candidate. If you give him some of these details you’ve learned, he should be able to tell you if this is his sister.”

  Ned spent an hour wording his letter to Judson Morgan. He described Taabe Waipu, with her light brown hair that might be blond in the summer sun, and her eyes as blue as an August sky. He told of her musical ability and her memories of songs and playing a flute or similar instrument and also a piano, and about the herd of dark horses and the kitten named Fluffy. At last he sat back and reread the letter.

  If these people claimed her, what would happen? Taabe would go away, that’s what.

  He added another paragraph, advising the man not to set out too hastily. Better to correspond until they were certain than to take a journey of three hundred fifty miles and then learn they were wrong. He asked if Billie Morgan had any scars or other unmistakable physical characteristics. He emphasized that Taabe had forgotten English, her family, and even her name.

  His steps dragged as he walked to the front of the station to give the letter to Herr Stein. It would go out in the next sack of mail heading south. If this was the Morgan girl, surely the things he had told them would confirm that. If not, they might still hope and insist on seeing her.

  Ned stopped at the front door and looked eastward, toward the mission. His jaw tightened and he reminded himself to breathe, but the anxiety didn’t lessen. He had to force himself to enter the building with the letter. He handed it to Herr Stein and watched him place it in the sack.

  As he trudged back around the house to the room he would share with Brownie that night, the question weighed heavily on him. He wasn’t sure he wanted to answer it, but it hounded him.

  Did he really want to find Taabe’s family?

  The changes at the mission confused Taabe and sometimes frightened her. Girls were flitting everywhere. Though the sisters admonished them to be quiet and to move slowly, she could often hear raised voices and running footsteps. Another girl came to stay, and all of the small bedchambers now had occupants. If more students arrived, the girls would have to double up.

  As colder winds and rain settled in, Taabe often donned a habit and went outside with the girls and one of the sisters. The students eyed her with curiosity, but seldom tried to draw her into conversation. Taabe assumed that Quinta had given them her own explanation of her presence. She was glad to see Quinta joining in games with the others and leading them in excursions outside the mission house. The energetic youngster performed her chores heartily, setting an example for the older girls, who seemed less eager to carry water, sweep the floors, and wash dishes.

  Quinta also led the class in mathematics. Eager to learn more about numbers, Taabe sat in on this class, which Sister Adele taught all four pupils daily. It was not a discipline the Comanche cared about, beyond the usefulness of being able to describe quantities and keep track of their horses. Taabe found the precision of numbers refreshing. Her fingers flew as she wrote them on her slate and solved the arithmetic problems Sister Adele set her each day. Her only true rival was Quinta.

  In all the other classes—literature, history, French, deportment, domestic arts, and catechism—Quinta lagged behind the others. Taabe thought this was because she tended to daydream and much preferred action to studies.

  Another mysterious body of knowledge to Taabe was the calendar. Sister Adele and Sister Riva spent many hours teaching her the rudiments of measuring time. At Sister Riva’s suggestion, each girl constructed her own calendar. Quinta’s featured her drawings of horses around the borders of each page. Next Sister Natalie set the girls and Taabe to stitching calendars for the following year—1858—as samplers. This exacting work frustrated Quinta, but Taabe found it soothing as she placed the tiny stitches and saw the procession of days flow from her needle.

  “If I ever finish this, I shall give it to Papa for Christmas,” Quinta said as she and Taabe sat in the parlor working on their samplers while the older girls took their grammar lesson with Sister Adele in the dining room.

  Taabe planned to hang hers on the wall in her room, to help her track the stagecoach days in the new year. But the idea of giving gifts seized her attention. She had heard people speak of Christmas several times, and Sister Adele had explained that it was a celebration of Jesus’s birth.

  “Give to Papa?” She raised her eyebrows at Quinta, which usually elicited an outpouring of information from the chatterbox.

  “For his Christmas present. You know. Or do you?” Quinta looked stricken. “Have you gone without Christmas for years and years? How tragic!”

  “Jesus,” Taabe said.

  “Yes. And we give gifts to the people we love. I shall make something for each of my brothers, and for Ned. I’ve asked Papa to send me some oil-tanned leather so I can braid a new set of reins for Marcos and one for Benito. I’m not sure about the others yet. Perhaps I could sew something—although I doubt I’ll finish this sampler in time to sew anything else before Christmas.” Quinta frowned and jabbed her needle through the linen. “I’m only up to February on my calendar, and that means ten more months to go.”

  “Sister Adele says be patient,” Taabe said.

  Quinta grimaced. “My horse calendar only took me two days to make. This will take me two months. And it’s all time I could spend doing other things that are so much fun.”

  The kittens tumbled in from the entry, swatting at each other, and rolled together across the floor. Quinta laughed and jumped up, casting aside her needlework.

  Taabe felt she ought to call Quinta back to her task, as any of the nuns would, but she didn’t want to. Instead, she laughed as she watched Fluffy and Mimi, the calico, chase the skein of floss Quinta waved before them.

  Many times Taabe felt she stood between adulthood and childhood, between responsibility and freedom. Quinta’s presence accentuated that. It was another tearing of her character, as was the tugging between the white world and the Indian. Most of the time she wanted to live in the world of the whites. She belonged here. She had the strong conviction that if she persisted in relearning the white culture, she could take her place in it again.

  But sometimes she looked back to her life with the Numinu and sadness caught her. Would she never see her sister, Pia, again? The tiny baby girl Pia had borne last summer had seized her heart, and Taabe loved holding the baby and helping care for it—though it reminded her of her own loss. Sometimes she shed tears when she recalled cradling a warm little body close to her heart. She’d come to love the little scrap of a child she’d had once—and had resolved at that time to be content as a Numinu woman.

  But that season had passed, and with it came much sorrow. When Peca began making advances, she had backed away. Pia and Chano saw no reason why she should not marry the warrior, but the idea troubled Taabe. When he staked out the horses before their lodge, Taabe’s uncertainties fled, and she had settled her mind and her heart once and for all. She had one last chance to be free, and she would not tie herself forever to the Numinu. She would never become the wife of a man like Peca.

  Although she’d accepted much of the Comanche life as normal, she never quite felt it was normal for her. Always, even when she could no longer remember the English words to the songs she used to sing, when she no longer knew the name of the little girl she had been, even then she could not bring herself to accept again becoming the wife of a raiding warrior.

  Now it seemed she had escaped that life. Ned spoke of a family who had lost a child who sounded like her. Would she soon meet her true family?

  The faint call of the horn reached them through the narrow window. Quinta’s head jerked around.

  “Stagecoach!” She leaped to her feet and ran to the entry to unbar the door.

  Taabe ros
e and put away her embroidery so the kittens wouldn’t play with it. She wanted to fly as Quinta had to the front yard. Ned was here—that knowledge always tugged her toward him. But now she always waited to see if he had strangers with him.

  Two of the sisters hurried past the doorway. Sister Adele paused and poked her head in. “You are all right, Taabe?”

  “I wait here.”

  Sister Adele nodded. Taabe leaned against the cool wall by the window, trying to see the stagecoach, but all that came within her view at first were the mules pulling it. They stood, stamping and snorting, and then she saw him. Ned strode past the leaders, lifting his hat then settling it onto his head. Taabe put her ear to the opening but couldn’t make out his words to the sisters.

  A moment later, Sister Adele came to the door. “Taabe, Mr. Bright is here to see you. He’s alone.”

  The nun stepped aside and Ned walked in smiling. His face was smoothly shaven this morning. The trail must not be dusty today, since rain had fallen lightly in the night—his blue flannel shirt looked fresh. He held his hat in one hand and extended the other to her.

  Taabe stepped forward and took his hand for a moment.

  “I have a message for you,” he said. “I hope it makes you happy.”

  She waited, not wanting to hope too much.

  “I wrote to the people near Victoria. The Morgan family.”

  “Billie Morgan,” she said, remembering the name he’d pressed her about two weeks ago. The more she repeated the name to herself, the more it seemed to belong.

  Ned’s eyes widened. “Yes. That was the name of the child they lost. She was nine years old, as I told you before. And she had a kitten. Taabe, Billie’s kitten was named Fluffy.”

  Tears rushed to her eyes so quickly, Taabe had no time to stop them. They flowed unhindered down her cheeks. She raised her hand to her face, overcome with relief, but not knowing what to do, how to act. She looked to Ned for a hint, and he held out his arms to her.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Ned stood for a minute, holding Taabe close and stroking her back with small, tender pats. She clung to him as Quinta would in a time of stress, and he tried not to read too much into that. Still, he couldn’t stifle the rightness of it. This was meant to be. God had placed her in the path of his stagecoach on that first mail run, meaning for him to find and protect her. Yet he was the messenger who brought the news that meant she would leave him.

  He rested his cheek against her cool, silky hair. “I believe you are the Morgan girl, Billie,” he said slowly, pronouncing each word carefully. “That is your name. Your brother wants to come and get you. If you want me to, I will tell him to come. Sister Natalie and the other nuns can help you prepare.”

  Her shoulders quaked, and she gave a small sob. Ned reached into his pocket for a handkerchief, and she disentangled herself and stood back. She took his bandanna, mopped her tears, and handed it back to him.

  “Write.” Taabe made gestures as though writing with a pencil.

  “You want to write to Mr. Morgan?”

  “Write. Billie Morgan.” She made the motions again.

  Ned smiled. “You want to write your name.”

  She nodded. In her eyes, Ned saw a longing and a resolution. This was a definitive action—the moment she would claim her true name. She would leave Taabe behind and become Billie.

  For a moment he wanted to discourage her—to tell her she should wait until Mr. Morgan came and they were certain. But that would only prolong her distress. In his heart there was no doubt, and he could not make her wait any longer.

  “I’ll tell the sisters.” He touched her shoulder gently. “I’m sure they will help you learn to do that, and that it won’t take you long.”

  She gave him a watery smile. “You write letter.”

  “I will. I’ll do it tonight.”

  “How long?”

  “How long before he comes here?”

  “Yes.”

  Ned shrugged. “It will take the letter several days to get there—perhaps a week or more. And he’ll have to ride …” He thought about the way the Comanche rode, day and night, disregarding hunger and fatigue. Would Judson Morgan ride that way, coming to reclaim his sister? Or would he take a stagecoach partway, or perhaps even drive his own wagon to take her home in?

  “I don’t know. I guess it will be a couple of weeks, maybe longer.” A thought struck him, and he smiled. “Not before the next full moon.”

  She nodded in perfect comprehension, and he hastened to qualify the statement.

  “I’m guessing. It may be longer, but not before then.”

  “I will … be ready.”

  He smiled, a bittersweet smile accompanied by stinging in his eyes. “I’m sure you will. But I’ll miss you, Taabe. If you go with the Morgans …” He shook his head and looked away.

  She laid her hand against the front of his jacket.

  “You.” She pulled her hand back and touched her heart.

  “Aw, Taabe, I don’t know what I’ll do if you’re that far away.” He looked at her face, wanting to say all kinds of things. But he couldn’t make any sort of declaration now—that might confuse the issue with her family. She had so much to think about, it wouldn’t be fair to ask her for promises when she didn’t know what her future would be. He managed a smile. “I’d better go now, or I’ll be crying next. Quinta wouldn’t understand, and Brownie would rag me all the way to the home station.”

  She pressed her lips together, as though unsure whether to smile. “You come back.”

  “I will. I’ll be here on Friday.”

  Her lips curved upward. “Stagecoach day.”

  “Yes. Friday is a stagecoach day. You’ve got my number, haven’t you?” Her blank look made him laugh. He reached for her hand and pressed it firmly. “It means you’ve got me all figured out. I wish I had you figured out. I’ll see you soon.” He went out, settling his hat as he walked down the steps. Quinta and Sister Adele were talking to Brownie, while Quinta stroked the nose of the near lead mule.

  “All set?” Brownie called.

  Ned nodded. “Let’s move. I’m afraid I took more time than I intended.”

  “Is Taabe leaving us?” Quinta asked.

  “Maybe. Her brother wants—that is, Mr. Morgan wants to come and meet her and probably take her home. If he really is her brother. But …” He looked at Sister Adele. “I can’t see much room for doubt. He was excited to hear about the music and the horses. It’s all true. But the kitten is what clinched it.”

  Sister Adele smiled. “This is what we’ve prayed for all these weeks.”

  “Yes,” Ned said with less conviction than he should. He tweaked Quinta’s pigtail. “I’ll see you Friday, chica.” “You’d better.”

  He grinned as he climbed to the driver’s box and gathered the reins. Brownie let go of the leaders’ bridles and clambered up on the other side. “Let ’em tear, boss.”

  Ned slackened the reins and clucked to the mules. “Tear, you fools.”

  The mules set out in a smart road trot. Ned looked at Brownie and shrugged. “Awful hard to get mules to break any faster than that.”

  Brownie shook his head mournfully. “You wasn’t hardly tryin’.”

  Billie woke each morning thinking, “Soon I shall leave here.”

  The sisters seemed more dear, now that she had this understanding, and each of their small kindnesses moved her. Quinta shadowed her whenever the nuns didn’t require her presence elsewhere.

  “I’ll show you your name, Taabe,” Quinta said the same day Ned brought the news. She fetched her slate and chalk and sat down beside her.

  “I am Billie. I am not Taabe Waipu.”

  “That’s right,” Quinta said. “You must call yourself Billie now, and think of yourself that way. I will help you by calling you Billie.”

  She wrote B-I-L-L on the slate and stopped, frowning.

  “Hold on.” Quinta rose and walked over to Sister Riva who sat nearby mending. “I
s it Billy with a Y or with an I-E? I’d think the Y way is for a boy.”

  Sister Riva smiled. “It is I-E. Mr. Bright showed us the letter from Mr. Morgan. She is named for her father, Bill Morgan, who died fighting—” She hesitated and her gaze flickered over Quinta. “I believe he died in battle.”

  Billie barely had time to realize she had understood not only what Sister Riva said, but also what she’d left unsaid—that her father had died fighting the Mexicans. Riva had swallowed that detail in deference to Quinta’s heritage. Billie’s love for the quiet nun swelled.

  Quinta nodded and returned to Billie’s side.

  “Did you hear that, Billie? You are named for a hero.”

  “Yes.” She smiled at Quinta and patted the cushion beside her. “You show me.”