Mariposa forced another bite of potatoes into her mouth even though she’d barely tasted the first one.
“There was nothing much our father could do. Charlotte was of age, and she’d clearly gone of her own choice and hadn’t been kidnapped. All my parents could do was wait for the inevitable, and that day did come about eighteen months later. After all that time with no word, now Charlotte was back, carrying the most beautiful baby I’d ever seen in my life.”
Ellen paused to wipe her eyes. “She told us that Che had been gambling on a riverboat on the Mississippi and had shot a man over a card game. He’d been taken off to jail, they would likely be executing him, and she needed a place to be. Of course, my parents took her right back in, and I was delighted to help care for you—especially since it seemed I’d been deemed unmarriageable for some reason and had no domestic responsibilities of my own. Charlotte’s grief over her situation consumed her, and she became sick and withdrawn. She passed from pneumonia that winter, largely due to her weakened state of mental health.”
Brant shifted in his chair, and Ellen held up her hand. “I’m nearly finished, Mr. Fielding. You shall have your say.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he mumbled.
“Our father was devastated over Charlotte’s loss, and he wanted to make sure Lopez really was in jail or had been executed. He sent some men to investigate, and they reported that Lopez had escaped custody, saying something about going to find his daughter. So, our father did what he felt was best. He liquidated all his assets, gave them to me, and gave me the most important task I’d ever received in my life—he asked me to raise you. I was to move you frequently so Lopez could never find you, and I was to write home often and tell them how you were progressing. I’ve done as I was asked, bringing you up and making sure you had everything you needed, hopefully giving you a loving home. And I do think I’ve done a rather good job of keeping you safe if it took all these years for Lopez to track us down.” She cast a pointed look at Brant.
“So . . . we’ve been in hiding all this time?” Mariposa asked. The questions she’d been filing away the whole time her aunt had been speaking were pressing on her brain, making it ache. “We’re fugitives?”
“We’re not hiding from the law, dear. Just from Che Lopez.”
“Why? Why are we hiding from him?”
Ellen looked at her in shock. “Because he’s a murderer! Because he’s an outlaw! If he had ever found you, what sort of father do you suppose he would have made? You don’t mean to say you wish he’d found you, do you?”
“Of course not. I just . . . I just wonder. Did my mother ever say he’d been unkind to her or to me? Do we know that I would have been in danger?”
Ellen tossed her napkin onto the table. “I’m flabbergasted, young lady. Are you taking his side in the matter?”
“I’m not taking anyone’s side! I’m just trying to understand what happened.” Mariposa’s stomach was churning, and she wished she hadn’t eaten those potatoes. “Brant, what’s your side of the story?”
Brant seemed a little startled to have the attention turned to him. He wiped his mouth and set his napkin back down. “Everything’s the same right up until the altercation on the riverboat,” he said. “Che had caught the other man cheating and called him out on it. The man had some friends there in the room who decided they didn’t like what Che was insinuating, and shots were fired. Che was actually hit first—the bullet went through his right forearm. He fired in self-defense, and that’s what the court of law determined at his trial.” He’d been speaking to Mariposa, but now he turned and made eye contact with Ellen. “He didn’t escape, ma’am. He was released from custody because he was found innocent of murder.”
“And you have evidence of this?” Ellen asked.
“Yes, ma’am. He has a court document folded up in his vest pocket that he carries around with him at all times, and he showed it to me.”
Mariposa felt unaccountably lighter hearing that news. She turned to her aunt, hoping to see that Ellen was glad too, but she didn’t seem to be.
“I suppose that next you’re going to tell us that Lopez gave up gambling and became a preacher,” Ellen said. “He travels the country sharing the gospel and seeking his daughter so she can become a worker in his ministry.”
“Actually, no. He’s still a gambler, and a rather unrepentant one at that. He believes that as long as men are going to lose their money over a silly pastime, they might as well lose it to him.”
Mariposa hid a smile. Her father was not only alive, but he was an unrepentant gambler. Oh, gracious. Could this day become any stranger?
“And Mariposa is now supposed to associate herself with this man, this gambler and this accused murderer? What sort of life would that be for her? What kind of stability, what kind of reputation would she have? I feel as though I’m the only one seeing sense here, that I’m the only one who understands her needs and is working to fight for them.”
“Miss Granger, I believe we all want what’s best for Mariposa, but shouldn’t she be the one to decide what that is?”
“How can she know what that is? She’s just a child!”
“She looks like an adult to me!”
“Please stop!” Mariposa rose from the table. “This has all been far too much to take in. I need some time to rest and to mull things over, all right? Aunt Ellen, thank you for dinner. Brant, thank you for eating with us. I’m heading up early, and hopefully by tomorrow, things will look better. For right now, I’m going to bed.”
She climbed the stairs and closed the door to her bedroom. She felt bad about leaving Ellen alone with the dishes, but if she hadn’t pulled herself away from the conversation right when she did, she wouldn’t be able to handle it.
Instead of changing, though, she lay on her side and stared at the picture of her mother. Charlotte Granger, wife of a professional gambler. Living on a riverboat, no sense of grounding or permanence. That part sounded familiar. With the water constantly moving beneath her feet, perhaps that’s why she was so amenable to Ellen’s plan to move so frequently—things were constantly changing, always shifting, and that’s all Mariposa had really known.
Chapter Three
Mariposa’s dreams had been so odd the night before. She dreamed about fleeing through the night, being chased by a cackling man whose face was in shadow. She dreamed about Brant going down on one knee and professing his love only to jump back up and say he was just teasing. By the time dawn crept over her windowsill, she’d only managed to get a few solid hours of sleep, and she knew that’s all she was likely to get because her brain just wouldn’t stop its roiling thoughts.
She headed downstairs and set about preparing the laundry. It had been forgotten when Brant showed up the afternoon before, merely shoved back into its basket. Now she pulled it out again and set the water to boiling, needing to stay busy while she sorted through everything in her mind.
When she opened the back door to step outside, Brant was in the yard, catching her by surprise.
“Do you have something against me doing the laundry, Mr. Fielding?” she asked, setting the basket of clothes next to the washtub. “Your timing is uncanny.”
“I’m sorry, and I also apologize for coming over so early,” he replied. “I couldn’t sleep last night, and I was eager to make sure you’re all right.”
“Since you’re here, I might as well make use of you. There are some kettles of hot water on the stove. Would you mind bringing them out here and pouring them into the washtub?”
“Of course not.” He sprinted up the steps and had the task done in half as much time as it would have taken her.
“And now would you please refill them and set them back on the stove?” She gestured toward the pump that stood halfway between her house and the one next door.
Again, he did her bidding without complaint. She wished she had a much longer list of chores for him to do, but sadly, that was all she could think of at the moment, and he came back to stan
d in front of her.
“You didn’t answer my question,” he said. “Are you all right?”
“I don’t know how I am.” She paused in the middle of scrubbing the tablecloth from the night before. “It’s not every day you learn that your deceased father is actually alive, has been charged with murder, and wants to see you again.”
“Yes, I imagine it’s quite a blow.” He didn’t ask—he just rolled up his sleeves, picked up the other end of the tablecloth, and started soaping it. “I didn’t realize how little you knew. I wish I’d broken it to you more slowly.”
“If you’d spoken any slower, I likely would have thunked you on the head,” Mariposa retorted. “So, where is he now? Che Lopez,” she added, even though it was obvious who she meant.
“He’s in Ironwood. He’s waiting for me to contact him with my findings.” Brant paused. “I should have telegraphed him yesterday to let him know that you’ve been found, but I wanted to make sure that’s all right with you first.”
“I don’t mind if he knows I’m found, but I’m not sure about telling him where.” Mariposa worked a little harder on a gravy spot than she really needed to—she just didn’t want to make eye contact with Brant. “It’s one thing to hear his side of the story, but quite another to want him in my life.”
“I understand, and so does he. For right now, he’d probably be content just knowing that you’re happy. He says he trusts that Ellen has done right by you all these years, but having it confirmed would mean a lot to him.”
“She’s done everything in the world for me,” Mariposa said. “I’ve never wanted for anything—except to stay in one place for more than a year at a time. But I can’t fault her reasoning now that I know what it is. Her family was eager to protect me, and how can I resent that sort of devotion?”
“You can’t.” Brant dunked his end of the tablecloth, and together they wrung it out and hung it to dry. “So, what should this telegram say?”
“It should say that you’ve found me, I’m safe and well, and that I need time to think,” she replied. “I also need to talk it over with Ellen. She’s been both mother and father to me my entire life, and I wouldn’t make a decision like this without her.”
“I understand, and I think it’s admirable.” Brant leaned on the railing of the porch steps and studied her. “I’ve missed you since you left Ironwood.”
Mariposa was already a bit flushed from exertion, but now her cheeks felt even warmer. “Yes, it’s hard to say goodbye to friends,” she said lightly.
“I confess, I always wondered what would have happened between us if you’d stayed.”
“What would have happened?” She blinked, squeezing the napkin she was rinsing. “Little to nothing! You’d already moved on—I was no longer interesting, if you’d care to recall.”
“What are you talking about? Oh, do you mean Gladys Brown?” He chuckled. “But I told you about her. You knew there was nothing in the offing there.”
“You told me that a business associate of your father’s was coming to town, and that you’d be busy at home. You never told me that included taking the daughter of the associate to every single social event of that season, laughing with her at parties, dancing with her at balls, and ignoring me the entire time.”
Brant looked away. “It’s true—I could have handled it so much better than I did. And by the time she left, you’d moved. I guess I’ve been searching for you for my own personal reasons and not just your father’s.”
“I’m not ready to call him that.” Mariposa plunged the next few napkins in the tub. She had some clothing to wash as well, but she wasn’t about to wave her nightgown in the air with Brant standing so close by.
“What would you rather we call him?”
“Mr. Lopez suits me just fine.”
“Then that’s what we’ll call him.” Brant took the wrung-out napkins over to the line and hung them. “If Ellen was so eager to keep you hidden, why didn’t she ever change your names?”
“Because she didn’t want to confuse little Mariposa.”
They both turned at the sound of Ellen’s voice. She stood in the kitchen doorway, a mug in her hand. “Come inside for some coffee, both of you. Mariposa, you’re up early. Brant, is this an appropriate time for calls?”
“No, ma’am, but I had to make sure you were all right after last night.”
“Both of us, hmmm?” Ellen looked back and forth between them. “Come inside. Coffee. It’s too early for deep philosophical thinking.”
Mariposa hung up the last items she’d just washed and followed her aunt inside, Brant bringing up the end. “Do you want me to start breakfast?”
“No, I think bread and jam will suffice for now, especially when there are more questions brewing than there is coffee.” She invited Brant to sit, then fixed him with a look. “You said Lopez only wants to reconnect with Mariposa. How do you know that for a fact? What if he has goals and intentions he’s never brought up with you?”
“I suppose that’s something I just feel in my gut,” Brant replied. “Is he completely honorable? No—he’s a professional gambler, someone who lies for a living. But I do believe he’s as decent a man as he can be, and I can’t see him wanting to cause Mariposa any harm.”
“And what about her money? You can’t tell me he doesn’t have designs on that.”
Mariposa laughed. “I don’t have any money. What are you talking about, Ellen?”
Ellen raised an eyebrow. “I told you my father liquated all his assets and sent them along with me. You don’t think I really make enough to support us by crocheting lace, do you? That’s been my story, but in truth, your nest egg has kept us going this whole time, and it will for some years to come.”
“Years? Are you saying I’m wealthy?”
“I’m saying you have more than most young ladies your age have.”
Another surprise in a very long list. Mariposa took a long sip of coffee, wondering what other revelations she was about to receive.
“Miss Granger, Mariposa and I were just discussing Che Lopez and your future contact with him. What are your wishes in this matter?”
Ellen looked at Brant as though he’d suddenly turned into an elephant. “Mr. Fielding, if I wanted my niece to have anything to do with Che Lopez, I wouldn’t have spent her entire life moving her around the country. Aren’t my wishes exceedingly clear?”
“Yes, but now that he’s found us, maybe we should discuss it,” Mariposa inserted. “I mean, now that you know he’s not a murderer.”
“He may not be a cold-blooded murderer, but he did shoot someone who ended up dying, and his profession is hardly one to be proud of. No, Mariposa, I will not change my mind. If you want to see that man or write to him, it’s your choice because you’re an adult now, but I’ll have nothing to do with the decision.”
Well, at least Ellen wasn’t wishy-washy about her feelings. Mariposa still felt lost, though. How did she feel? Could she even be expected to have feelings this early on?
After eating some jam and bread, she went back outside to finish the laundry, Brant on her heels like a homeless puppy.
“Are you going to help me with the rest of the laundry as well? Because I’ll be starting on unmentionables soon, and I’m not sure either of us want that sort of discomfort.”
“No, you’re exactly right. I can skip that part. I just hoped . . . I hoped you’d have some kind of answer for me to send Che.”
“Right now?” Mariposa was completely exasperated. “No, I don’t. And I might not tomorrow, either. In fact, it might take me a very long time indeed. I don’t think you understand just what you’re asking of me, Brant. You can’t waltz in here, present me with the most shocking information I’ve ever received, casually mention that the young lady you courted all summer actually meant nothing to you, and then expect me to have an answer all within thirty seconds. You’re staying at the hotel? Excellent. Go tuck yourself away, and I’ll send word when I’m ready. And no, I don’t
know how long it will be.”
She turned to her basket, picked up her nightdress, flipped it in the air for all to see, and plunged it into the washbasin, no longer caring who saw it or was scandalized.
“I understand,” Brant said, giving a nod.
“And that’s another thing!” She flung her hand in his direction, sending a spray of watery soap through the air. “Do you have any idea how many times you’ve said that?”
He looked confused. “Said what?”
“That you understand! Every time I’ve told you my feelings, you’ve said that you understand. Well, that’s not possible. You could feel sorry for me, or you could sympathize, or you could pretend that you understood, but you can’t actually do it because we’re not in the same situation. Therefore, every time you say it, you’re making a mockery of me, and I want you to cease and desist this instant!”
She flipped her hand again, and he stepped back to avoid the spray. “I’ll go,” he said, holding up both hands. “And I’ll wait for you to contact me. Have a good day, Mariposa. I truly didn’t mean to offend you.”
“I’m not offended—I’m angry. They’re two entirely different things!”
She watched him scuttle off the property, the homeless puppy now with his tail between his legs, and then she scrubbed that nightdress with a vengeance. She poured every bit of frustration and pique and betrayal into that washtub and didn’t let up until everything was clean and hanging on the line, and the tubs dumped out and set on their sides to dry.
When she came in the house, she found Ellen sitting in the front room, working on the next row of lace.
“All these years, I thought you made lace to pay our bills,” Mariposa said, sinking into the chair by the window.
“I make it because I enjoy it, and because we needed some explanation for how we provided for ourselves.” Ellen set her work to the side and contemplated her niece. “I saw you out there scrubbing. Is there any actual fabric left, or did you scrub it all down to threads?”
Butterfly Kisses Page 3