She turned around to face the carriage, but then glanced over her shoulder once more.
Not a sign of him.
Taking a few more steps toward the carriage, she allowed her gaze to glance up to her grandfather’s bedroom window. A slight rustling of the curtains told Lillian he was watching. The ache in her chest built. She wanted so much to ease his pain and worry . . . and to have his approval.
“Good-bye, Grandfather. I love you.” Her whispered words seemed to bounce back from the brick walls of the house. The curtain above went still. The tall clock down the hall chimed the hour. As it echoed through the foyer and out the door, the finality of the moment struck her. A hollow loneliness engulfed her. Lillian’s time here had come to an end.
With a deep breath and lift of her chin, Lillian turned and headed down the steps to the hired carriage. Could she really leave like this? With her grandfather—her only living relative—so angry? And all because of her? Tears threatened to spill once again, but she held them at bay.
Stanton helped her into the carriage while the driver who’d already packed the two trunks came and took the bag Stanton held. Lillian could see the sadness in the butler’s eyes. She wished she could say something to comfort him—all of them. The staff were like family to her, and she would miss them.
Stanton closed the small carriage door. He leaned toward the open window. As if reading her mind, he spoke with a smile. “You will be greatly missed, Miss Lillian. Fletcher Manor won’t be the same without you.”
She nodded and bit her lip to stave off the tears yet again as she gazed up at the redbrick exterior of her home. Would she ever see this beautiful place again? Would her grandmother be proud of her for following her dreams, or would she scold her for abandoning her grandfather?
As the driver maneuvered the carriage away from the immaculate house and grounds, Lillian closed her eyes. She could almost see her grandmother again reaching out to her in those last moments. “Your mother . . . she wasn’t wrong in leaving. . . . The Lord just had a different plan than we expected, and He gave us you. Follow your dreams, dear girl. . . .”
Tears choked her as they exited the gates outside her home of twenty-one years.
Lord, please make my paths straight. Forgive me for leaving Grandfather in such a way. I want to follow You.
She checked her small overnight bag and then patted her reticule containing her money and train ticket. The blessed peace that filled her heart soothed the aching places inside. There was a seven-year-old boy who awaited her on the other end of her journey. A little boy who needed healing. A little boy whose tragic story had pricked her heart from the very beginning. Lillian nodded. God’s plan for her was in California. She knew it deep inside. But she couldn’t rid her mind of one rather sickening thought.
Her grandfather had made it perfectly clear . . . she could never return.
Angels Camp, California
Woody Colton found himself in Clark’s general store in the small town of Angels Camp against his better judgment. Most times when he was in need of supplies, he trekked twice the distance to Copperopolis or put in his order with the Stickle brothers’ mercantile, but he didn’t have the time this month to spare, and Stickle Bros. was closed. So he’d had no choice. And now he was paying for it. Most people with a lick of common sense would have thought all the rumors and gossip would’ve died down by now. But no. They had only gotten worse.
Herman Clark, the owner of the general store, scowled across the room at Woody. Twelve customers had come and gone since he entered, and yet he still waited to be helped.
“That’s him. He’s the one I was tellin’ you about,” one lady whispered to another as they swished by, their chins high in the air.
“Do you think he’d hurt anyone else?” The lady’s response cut him to the quick as they left the store.
The bell jangled over the door, and Woody glanced around the room. He’d been waiting thirty minutes. Guess his business wasn’t as good as everyone else’s.
After three more customers left with their goods, Woody could take no more and rang the bell on the counter. The Lord had given him enough patience to make it this far, but good grief, he wasn’t a saint.
The shopkeeper just glared. “What do you want, Colton?”
“Herman, now I’ve held my tongue while you served everyone else who walked into your store, but I’ve had just about enough. You’ve known me for six years, and I’ve done a lot of business with you. What is it going to take to get my supplies?”
“Just because the judge let you go doesn’t mean that anyone in this town has to trust you.” This man he’d once called friend sneered at him, his face full of disgust.
So that was it. Everyone believed the accusations, even though he’d been found innocent. Not only had his heart been ripped out, but now they’d decided to trample it into the dust. As if his loss wasn’t enough. “I’m not here to cause any trouble, Herman. I just need some supplies. And I’m paying cash.”
Herman’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t know why I am even talking to you—”
“Herman!” Carla Clark’s shrill voice from the back of the store shut the man up. With her hands on her ample hips, she shook her head at her husband. “I can’t believe you are treating Woody that way. Why, we sat next to him and his wife in church for years. We prayed together and ate together and served together.”
“Humph. Sittin’ next to someone in church don’t mean nothin’, woman! Just because someone sits in church don’t make them God-fearing.”
“Well, then, you wouldn’t mind sleepin’ down here in the storeroom, would ya?” Carla reached for Woody’s list. “’Cause I shore don’t want anyone but my God-fearing husband upstairs with me. And the man next to me right now ain’t actin’ like he’s God-fearing. Especially when his opinion seems to be based on a bunch of malicious whispers rather than fact. As I recall, maliciousness and whisperings are sins that are listed right there with murder as to being disfavored in the eyes of God. It’s all right there in Romans chapter one.”
Herman sputtered as his face turned red. “We will discuss this later.”
“Sure, we will.” Carla handed Herman the list. “Right after you fill this customer’s list and remind yourself what John chapter thirteen says in the Good Book.” She turned toward the door as two more ladies walked in but threw over her shoulder, “Verses thirty-four and thirty-five, I believe.”
“Stop throwing your Bible Scriptures at me, woman.”
As soon as Carla mentioned the reference, the verses floated through Woody’s mind. A new commandment I give unto you, that ye love one another; as I have loved you, that ye also love one another. By this shall all men know that ye are my disciples, if ye have love one to another.
Herman must’ve known the verses by heart, as well, because he began filling Woody’s order without another word. A lot of slamming and thudding accompanied his work, but no words. Woody’d heard enough words today anyway. No wonder his orders for olive oil had all but diminished from Angels Camp. Granted, there was great demand for it in neighboring areas, but his own town ostracized him.
He hauled out all the bags and boxes to his wagon and noticed a small crowd of people out of the corner of his eye. As they inched closer with every trip he made to the wagon, he figured it would be prudent to head out of town as soon as possible. Maybe staying away from Angels Camp would be the best idea from now on. No matter what. He couldn’t put Jimmy through this.
As he left the store for the last time, Carla caught him at the door and patted his shoulder. “How’s little Jimmy? We miss seeing him.”
“He’s fine.” Liar. His son was thin as a rail and wouldn’t speak.
“Well, good.” She stuck a small brown sack in his shirt pocket. “It’s candy for the boy. You’re welcome here anytime, Woody.”
He shook his head. “I wish that were true, Carla. But thank you for your help today.”
“You know I’m a stubborn old biddy and c
an hold my own. I won’t stand for people treatin’ you wrong. It ain’t right.” She said this loud enough for the bystanders to hear.
Woody noted that a few of the gatherers left the group, while the others seemed fixed to the place where they stood. Carla blinked a few times, and Woody spotted the tears in her eyes.
“It stabs me in the heart when I see and hear these good folks believin’ the lies. The good Lord done taught me a powerful lesson about gossipin’, but by then I’d done too much damage with my tongue. I may never see my daughter again because of it, but I aim to shuck gossip and malicious whisperings clean out of Angels Camp.” She crossed her arms and eyed the remaining crowd across the street. “They’ll come around. Just have faith. Which reminds me, when can we expect to see you and Jimmy back in church?”
Woody pasted on a smile. “I don’t think the church folks are ready to have us back.”
“Stuff and nonsense. I’m gonna speak to the reverend about this right away.”
Mrs. McCarthy approached the door and sidestepped Woody. “Good morning, Mrs. Clark.” She rushed inside the store like her dress was on fire.
“Good morning.” Carla turned to go inside but looked back at Woody. “We’ll get it all straightened out. These are good folks.”
Good folks. Who gossiped and allowed their fear to guide them.
He nodded as the door closed and turned to his wagon. Across the street, the crowd that had gathered moved toward him. When they were within ten feet, three men walked to the front of the group. The ringleaders, no doubt. Arms crossed, eyes narrowed, it was clear they weren’t a welcoming committee.
“We don’t want you in our town, Colton.” The biggest of the group spat on the ground.
“Well, I’m leaving, so you get your wish.” Woody climbed up into his wagon and took the reins.
The men made a half circle around his horses. “What we’re sayin’ is that we don’t want you back here. Ever. Not after what you did.”
Woody took a deep breath and lowered his head. He knew these people. Each and every one of them in the group. A new ache crushed his chest. He looked back up at the men and shook his head. “I’m sorry you feel that way, but let’s get one thing straight, right now”—he released the brake, then lifted the reins to signal the horses—“I did not kill my wife.”
CHAPTER TWO
The train’s whistle woke Lillian from a fitful sleep. Every inch of exposed skin felt gritty and covered in dirt as she attempted to work the kinks from her limbs. Ouch! And her neck didn’t appreciate the hours it’d spent on her makeshift pillow, either.
The conductor strode through the car as if on a Sunday walk. Lillian had tried to master walking with the lurching and swaying of the train, but with little success. He reached her seat and tipped his cap toward her as she adjusted her hat. “We’re still in Nebraska, miss,” he blurted out before Lillian had a chance to ask the question on her mind.
“Thank you.” She hoped her smile would help to smooth over his agitated demeanor that she’d apparently caused. It hadn’t been her intent to nag the poor man every time he passed through. Honestly. She’d just have to put more effort into keeping her curiosity at bay.
Nebraska proved to be a wider state than she remembered learning from her schooling days, as the train had traveled for many hours already. At this rate, she’d be able to finish reading her book, eat dinner, and still be in the same state by bedtime.
Oh, why couldn’t they be to California already? Impatience frayed the last of her nerves. Nerves that reminded her of all the what-ifs. It was bad enough that she’d deserted her grandfather and defied him in such a way, but now she had to endure the endless hours of the rocking train day in and day out with nothing to occupy her but her guilty thoughts.
Lillian stood, all the while holding tight to the back of the seat lest she fall flat on her face. She stretched, attempting to get rid of the remorse, as well as her stiffness. Grandfather’s words returned again and again to haunt her. “. . . your mother’s dream ended in death. Death . . .” The reminder of following her mother’s dream—her own dream now—filled her with a sense of dread. Was she doomed to repeat her mother’s mistakes? Grandfather Fletcher was a wealthy man. He’d made a fortune in all his business ventures over the years and couldn’t bear it when his only child left to pursue her dreams of the West.
The story told throughout the household of Fletcher Manor was that when Lillian was only a few months old, her father died and her mother Mary fell apart. The grief too much to bear, she resorted to memories of happier years and all the dreams she’d shared with her husband. Dreams of owning land in fertile California. Dreams of fruit orchards and olive groves on their own prosperous farm. And dreams of vacations on the famed Pacific Ocean. So Mary had left in the middle of the night with a small purse full of money from her mother. Her only good-bye had been in the form of a note on the fireplace mantel that said she would send for Lillian once she was settled. But disaster had struck before Mary could ever see the beloved ocean.
Thoughts of her mother brought Lillian full circle and back to her present situation. Two months ago, an advertisement for a nanny position on an olive farm in California ignited a spark of memories and the desire to follow her parents’ dreams. All the stories about beautiful, headstrong—always the dreamer—Mary came rushing back. Granted, she had no real memories of the woman who’d given birth to her, but oh, the tales her grandmother had told her as a child. The elderly woman grieved the loss of her only child and often mentioned that she wondered if she had been at fault by giving precious Mary the money. Would she still be alive? With them? But Grandmother always ended her stories with a smile and poured her heart and soul into Lillian and loved her unconditionally.
When Grandmother passed and Grandfather turned into a mean and angry old man who held no resemblance to the man who’d raised and loved her, Lillian’s mind wandered to thoughts of the man and woman who gave her life and their westward dreams.
All she really longed for was a life that mattered. To make a difference. Grandmother understood that. Even though they’d sheltered and guarded young Lillian for so long, Grandmother shared her heart on her deathbed and knew that Lillian needed to spread her wings and fly.
Grandfather had understood it while his wife still lived. Adam Fletcher—wealthy widower, angry and bitter tyrant drowning in his grief—did not.
The train car passed over a rough span that nearly sent Lillian to the floor. She felt her face redden as several men glanced her way as if to lend aid should the need arise. Taking her seat again, Lillian ducked her head, thankful for the brim of her hat. The last thing she’d wanted to do was draw attention to the fact that she was traveling alone. Proper young women didn’t do such things, but then this entire trip hadn’t exactly been what a proper young woman might do.
Doubt crept in. Had she made a mistake?
To ease her worries, Lillian opened her carpetbag and pulled out the correspondence from Mr. Woodward Colton she’d stacked and tied with a ribbon. Stanton had secreted the letters to her as well as posted her responses. With plenty of time to dispose of, she decided to study the letters and see what she could do to better prepare herself for her upcoming position.
The stationery was high quality and his penmanship that of an educated gentleman. It had impressed Lillian from the start. As she opened the crisp letters and placed them in order of date, she allowed a little thrill to jolt through her and diminish the doubt. How exciting to be on her own and away from the domineering, overbearing, and suffocating presence of her grandfather. With a gasp, she glanced heavenward, almost expecting a bolt of lightning to strike for her disrespectful, ungrateful attitude. She allowed her breath to release and closed her eyes. Lord, forgive me for my horrible thoughts. I promise to work on my love toward Grandfather.
The train jerked over another rough stretch of rail, causing Lillian to glance out the window. The vast expanse of prairie rolled by in what seemed an incredible
speed. Train travel was such an amazing thing and one she had always wanted to experience. However, the comfort wasn’t as great as she’d hoped. Of course, Mr. Colton had purchased her standard tickets, and why wouldn’t he? She was traveling to be a nanny, not as the wealthy granddaughter of Adam Fletcher. But if she had the opportunity—and funds—next time, she’d prefer traveling in style, using one of the grand and glorious Pullman cars. She’d heard tell they provided a traveler with cushioned chairs and beds to sleep in. How wonderful that would be. Her aching backside attested to the fact.
The train began to slow for what seemed like the hundredth time. No doubt they were approaching yet another tiny town whose very existence relied upon the railroad. They’d just taken on water at the last stop, so perhaps this would be nothing more than a slowing to grab the mail off the high hooks next to the tracks. The conductor had informed Lillian that this was one of the best ways for them to keep the mail moving. Once the mail was snagged, they immediately took it to the mail car, where a clerk would sort through it. That way they could leave letters off at the various towns as they headed west. It was all quite fascinating.
Just as she’d suspected, the train only slowed, and the tiny town passed by with nothing more than a blur. Once they’d regained their speed, Lillian refocused on the letters in her hands. Reading through them, she wondered about the family she would be serving.
Thirty-year-old Woodward Colton was a widower with a seven-year-old son named Jimmy. There was no mention of how his wife had died or how long she’d been gone, but it had been devastating to their little boy. It seemed the child hadn’t spoken since his mother’s death. Mr. Colton wanted her to be a nanny, teacher, and companion to the young boy, since they lived quite a ways from town and the elder Colton was busy long hours each day tending his olive groves. He’d requested that she come as soon as possible—immediately was his exact wordage. Concern for the lad oozed through the pages. The man must care a great deal for his son.
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