The man Serenity had seen by the barn stood near a cupboard against one wall, hat in hand. Serenity judged him to be not much older than herself. He was quiet and reserved, but it was obvious that he was very interested in the visitors. The older woman waited by the large table, her hands folded in her apron.
“Cousin Serenity,” Elizabeth said, indicating the woman, “this is Grace Hollander.” She smiled at the young man. “And this is Virgil Thompson.”
Surprise momentarily halted Serenity’s reply. “Virgil Thompson?” she repeated.
The young man stepped forward, smiling warmly. “Thee remembers me, Serenity Campbell, though it is long since we were children together?”
A very long time. Yet they had been friends when she was ten and he twelve, before Virgil had left with his family to settle in Colorado. Serenity even remembered having admired him in the way of a girl on the cusp of womanhood.
“I remember,” she said, offering her hand.
His fingers were calloused and warm and held hers with gentle pressure.
“I have heard thy name spoken often these past months, Serenity Campbell,” he said. “It is a blessing that thee has come back to us.”
Serenity slipped her hand free and smiled at all three Friends. “I thank thee for thy hospitality,” she said, slipping easily back into the mode of speech she had grown up with. She beckoned Victoria, Zora, Caridad and Jacob forward to introduce them to Virgil and Grace.
Grace was obviously shy, and responded by bustling into the kitchen to fetch a pitcher of milk, some cheese and a loaf of bread. Virgil studied each of the women in turn, frowning a little as he tried to make sense of their appearance. Then he looked at Jacob, and his expression went flat.
It was no wonder. Though she had asked him and the others to leave their weapons with the horses, as she had done herself, everything about him, from the way he carried himself to the look in his eyes, marked him as a man who had known violence. The Quaker women were careful not to notice, but Virgil was evidently not so reticent.
“Will you sit?” Elizabeth said into the silence, gesturing toward the table.
Well aware that she was far too dirty to help the Quaker women in the kitchen, Serenity motioned the others to the sturdy chairs neatly tucked around the table. She felt as if she were moving in a dream, part of her acting within it and the other part observing from without. Every gentle word Elizabeth spoke drew her deeper into the past she had tried to forget. She could almost imagine that Virgil was Levi, gazing upon his future wife with affection as she worked beside the other women in the kitchen, preparing the evening meal.
Virgil, however, remained standing, and his gaze was fixed on Jacob. Feeling Jacob’s eyes on her, Serenity nibbled at the bread and cheese the Quaker women offered. Her stomach rebelled, but she didn’t want him or any of the others to know just how unbalanced and confused she was. It was up to her to make her friends feel as comfortable as possible…and never to let on to the Friends how little she wanted to be here.
“You will wish to rest after you eat,” Elizabeth said to her guests with a firm authority that belied her humble manner. She looked at Serenity. “Thy uncle, Leah Burns and Rebecca Dale have gone to Kerrville, and should return by nightfall. William Burns, Adam Egan and Jonathan Dale are out with the cattle or working in the field, and Jane Goddard is with the children, but they also will be back soon. Grace and I will draw water for bathing, and find a place for thy friends to sleep.”
“We don’t want to be any trouble,” Victoria offered shyly.
“I’ll be happy sleeping in the barn, ma’am,” Jacob said, perched on the edge of his chair as if he were in some dangerous situation that required his constant vigilance.
“I am certain we can find rooms for all of you,” Elizabeth said, “if you do not mind sharing.”
“We will be grateful for any shelter,” Serenity said, setting her plate aside. “But perhaps I should see Aunt Martha before I do anything else.”
“Would thee not rest longer?”
“I am fine, cousin. If my friends might stable our horses…?”
“I’ll see to it,” Jacob said, almost jumping to his feet.
“I’ll help,” Caridad muttered.
Cari’s sudden spirit of cooperation didn’t surprise Serenity, since she looked just as ill at ease as Jacob.
“Of course,” Elizabeth said. “Please let us know if there is anything you require. Virgil, will thee see if Martha is awake?”
The young man nodded, cast another cool glance at Jacob and walked out the door at the back of the kitchen. Jacob left by the front door with Caridad, the two of them for once in perfect accord. Grace was gathering up the almost untouched plates when Virgil returned.
“She is awake,” he said, “and asks that Serenity Campbell come to her.” He looked at Serenity. “Will thee come with me now?”
“Do not trouble thyself over thy friends,” Elizabeth said. “I will see them to their rooms.”
Serenity got up from the table. “I thank thee, Elizabeth Selden, for thy kindness,” she said, and then turned to Victoria and Zora. “I will see you again tonight.”
She went with Virgil out the back door and followed him along one of several intersecting paths that connected the main house, the cottages and the outlying farm buildings.
He turned toward one of the smaller cottages not far from the main house and slowed his pace so that Serenity could catch up.
“May I ask a question, Serenity Campbell?” he asked.
“Only one?” she asked, attempting a smile.
He stopped. “I did not mean to offend thee.”
“Thee didn’t.” She sighed. “We have ridden a long way today.”
“I understand.” He glanced down gravely at his folded hands. “I am sorry about thy parents and intended.”
Serenity knew, of course, that everyone at Tolerance would be acquainted with the tragedy; word would have reached them in San Antonio long before the letter she had sent after her escape from the Reniers. She knew that they had believed her dead along with Levi and her parents until they had received the letter, but there had been nothing she could do to contact them before she reached Bethel. They would have looked after what remained of the farm and perhaps spoken over the ashes, but she had never come back to see.
“I thank thee for thy sympathy,” she said.
“I was told thee had settled in New Mexico Territory, that thee has a ranch there.”
He would know that, too, since it was unlikely Uncle Lester would hide such information from another in the community. The second and only other letter Serenity had sent to San Antonio, before the group’s return to Tolerance, had been vague about her whereabouts but would not have made it impossible for them to locate her with a little effort.
“Yes,” she said. “We call it Avalon.”
“And thy companions…they live with thee there?”
“Yes, with several more women who are still there.”
He peered at her keenly. “With their husbands?”
“None of us are married.”
“Indeed?” He raised a fair eyebrow. “Thee surprises me.”
“There are no men at Avalon.”
“Saving this Jacob Constantine.”
It seemed peculiar that Jacob’s presence would be of more concern to Virgil than the fact that women could run a ranch alone. Even in the egalitarian Quaker society, few would find that either appropriate or sane.
“Jacob Constantine has been temporarily working at the ranch while we looked after the branding,” she said. “When I received Uncle Lester’s letter, he offered to accompany us.”
“To watch over thee?”
“The land we passed through to get here has been known to harbor outlaws, as thee must know.”
“He is good with a gun?”
The Friends so seldom spoke of such matters that Serenity was a little startled. “Thee need have no fear of trouble,” she said, meeting Virgil�
��s gaze. “He offered to camp by the river, but I assured him he would be as welcome here as I am.”
Virgil had no ready answer for that, so they continued on to the cottage. “This is where Martha Owen rests,” he said. “It is the house set aside for those who are ill or need special care.”
Serenity hesitated at the door, gathered her courage and went inside.
Aunt Martha lay on the simple bed that took up much of the single room. The walls were bare, the furniture exceedingly plain, but everything about it seemed to encourage healing and rest.
The woman on the bed was shockingly changed from the one Serenity had known seven years ago. Her skin was withered, her eyes sunken, her body thin and frail, as if her very bones had shrunk. Her eyes were closed, but when Serenity approached the bed she opened them and tried to focus.
“Serenity?” she croaked. “Is it thee?”
Any resentment Serenity still felt dissolved with her next, painful, breath. She rushed to the bedside and dropped to her knees.
“Aunt Martha,” she said, laying her hand over the fragile fingers lying on the quilted bedcover.
The old woman sighed. “Serenity,” she whispered. “It is good to see thee.”
Serenity raised Aunt Martha’s hand to her cheek. “Forgive me,” she said. “Forgive me for not coming sooner.”
“We were afraid the letters would not reach thee,” Aunt Martha said. “It had been…so long since we had heard from thee.” A tear rolled from the corner of her eye. “I did not want to trouble thee with this, but Lester…”
“Hush,” Serenity murmured. “I am here now. I will stay by thy side as long as thee needs me.”
Aunt Martha lifted her other trembling hand to touch Serenity’s hair. “I have been so long troubled,” she said. “I have prayed thee would forgive Lester and me. We have prayed that thee found peace in thy new home.”
Serenity clasped her aunt’s hand in both of hers and gently laid it down again. “There is nothing to forgive. I will not have thee worry over me when thee needs rest.” She glanced at Virgil, who was standing in the doorway, then turned back to her aunt. “I will come see thee again tonight, after Uncle Lester returns.”
“Yes.” Aunt Martha closed her eyes again. “Yes.”
The effort of speaking seemed to have wrung all the strength from her, for within minutes she was asleep. Serenity rose and backed away from the bed as quietly as she could. Virgil stepped outside to allow her to pass, then closed the door behind her.
“The physician has been to see her?” she asked him, struggling with her own tears.
“Several times. He says it is a cancer and cannot be cured by mortal man. We pray for her daily.”
Of course they did. But Serenity had long since ceased to believe in the efficacy of prayer.
“Thee will stay?” Virgil asked.
“Until my aunt no longer needs me.”
“We had hoped…thee would stay longer.” He searched her eyes earnestly. “Every Friend here has prayed not only for thy safe journey but also that thee might consider returning to thy people for all time.”
Serenity had thought herself prepared for this. She hadn’t been sure how quickly they would recognize the changes in her, but her family would naturally encourage the return of their little lost lamb. It was her own fault for failing to make clear right away that she would never be one of them again.
The time to tell them must come soon, but not now. “Again, I thank thee, Virgil Thompson,” she said, “but perhaps we may speak of these things later.”
“Of course, Serenity Campbell. Thee must have time to recover from thy journey.”
They walked back to the main house. As they approached the back door, Serenity heard the rattle of a wagon, and she and Virgil went around the side of the house to look.
The horses were gone, evidently taken to the barn by Jacob and Caridad. The wagon was a sturdy buckboard filled with sacks and boxes, driven by Uncle Lester and carrying two female passengers, one of whom seemed familiar to Serenity. Lester stopped in front of the gate to let the women get off, and then drove toward the barn without noticing the observers.
“Serenity,” Elizabeth said, emerging from the front door. “I see that Lester Owen has returned. Virgil, will thee help him unload the supplies?”
With a long glance at Serenity, Virgil set off for the barn.
“I hope thee found Martha well?” Elizabeth asked.
“She was sleeping soundly when I left,” Serenity said.
“Ah, that is good. The bathwater is prepared. Would thee care to make use of it?”
Unfailingly polite she might be, but Elizabeth’s meaning could not be mistaken. The truth was that Serenity felt as if she had rolled in the mud with the pigs, and she couldn’t resist the lure of a hot bath.
“The others—” she began.
“There will be more water when they need it,” Elizabeth said, steering Serenity back along the path beside the main house. Just outside the kitchen door stood a small building that served as a bathhouse, where a large cast-iron tub had been filled to the brim with steaming water.
“Will thee need help?” Elizabeth asked.
“Thank you, but I can manage.” Serenity looked down at her filthy clothing. “But if thee can lend me clothing until I can wash these…”
“Wash day is tomorrow. I have a dress that I think will fit thee.”
A dress. It wasn’t unexpected, but Serenity would have given much to be able to ask for trousers and a boy’s shirt instead.
But Elizabeth wouldn’t understand. And it wouldn’t be appropriate to wear outsider clothes while she remained at Tolerance.
“I thank thee, cousin,” she said.
Elizabeth left, and Serenity undressed. Even her tangled emotions couldn’t erase the sheer pleasure of sinking into the hot water, and scrubbing the dirt from her skin and hair. She became acutely aware of her body, the firm muscles of her legs, developed from hard riding; the flatness of her stomach; the swell of hip and breast.
Oddly enough, in a place where physical matters were so much less important than the spiritual, such thoughts seemed almost safe. No one would know she was having them, or that her mind kept wandering back to Jacob…his burning eyes, his powerful arms, his demanding lips on hers.
Uncomfortable and increasingly all-too-familiar sensations began to trouble her peace, so she climbed out of the tub and used one of the flour sacks hung on a nail in the wall to dry herself. The water she left behind was tea-colored instead of clear. One more person might be able to use it, but the others would have to wait.
She was feeling a little guilty over that fact when Elizabeth returned with a plain gray gown, simple cotton undergarments, wool stockings, shoes and a bonnet. Serenity asked if more water might be heated, and Elizabeth returned to the main house to refill the reservoir on the stove.
Putting on the simple Quaker clothing felt to Serenity like donning medieval armor. But she was grateful; wearing one of the restrictive garments considered essential for outsider women would have been completely unbearable. There was, thank God, no real corset, only a starched garment just stiff enough to support her breasts. The bodice was loose enough to let her breathe almost as well as she did in her boys’ shirts, though the high collar seemed to bind her neck like a noose. Nor was there a true bustle; the simple petticoats gave the skirts more fullness than was fashionable, designed for ease of work and movement. The sturdy shoes were too small and felt ridiculous on feet accustomed to working boots.
The bonnet came last, a relic from another era. Serenity pinned up her hair and settled the bonnet over it. Now she was the complete Quaker woman, modest and sensible.
And safe.
But safety was an illusion, even here. She had learned that hard lesson far too well.
Serenity shook her head and made the final adjustments to her dress. There were few mirrors in the settlement, of course. Not that it mattered; her appearance meant no more to her here th
an it had at Avalon.
Even though Jacob will be seeing you in a dress for the first time? Would he be shocked? Approving? Amused? She had no way of knowing. He had never once spoken of her choice of clothing, or indicated in any way that he would have preferred to see her dressed as an ordinary woman.
Much more nervous than she had expected to be, Serenity ventured outside. The air was releasing the heat of a long summer day, a pleasant temperature for the heavier weight of her clothes. She pretended her legs didn’t feel confined under the skirts and walked back to the kitchen.
Elizabeth looked up from her pots, pushing aside the damp brown hair that escaped from her bonnet. “Thee is comfortable?” she asked.
“Yes,” Serenity said, permitting herself the smallest of lies. “Thank thee for the dress.”
“It fits thee well,” Elizabeth said, as much of a compliment as one Friend was likely to give another on such a subject. “We were not certain what clothing to give to the others.”
Now, Serenity thought, the questions would begin to come in earnest.
“Men’s dress is best for traveling and the work we do at the ranch,” she said.
“Ah, yes. Thy ranch. Thee and thy friends all own it together?”
She must have spoken to Victoria or Zora, Serenity thought. Most likely Victoria, who seemed to feel more at home here than she herself did.
“Yes,” she said.
Elizabeth moved to the ancient stove, where the bathwater was heating, and poured tea from a kettle into a teapot. “It must have been difficult to begin this ranch with only women to help thee,” she said.
“Quaker women are taught to be strong and work hard,” Serenity said. “Does it surprise thee that others might be equally strong?”
“I do not doubt that thy friends are capable,” Elizabeth said, returning to the table with the teapot and two cups. “But how did thee come to find such a place?”
How much to tell? Serenity thought. Explaining in too much detail might give Elizabeth ideas about Serenity’s fate after the fire.
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