She shivered. It would be hard to concentrate on Mama’s plight. Christine’s pulse was already racing to the catchy beat of Tucker’s accented speech. She told herself to go slowly, to consider his message in light of the three years that had passed since she’d seen him . . . since the most exciting moments of her life.
Christine, ma petite princesse, he began, and she let out a gasp. His little princess, was she? Billy couldn’t deny her that!
You have studied French in school, non? A bright young lady like yourself must know that Maman and I, we speak the language differently from the way you learned it. We are Cajuns, cherie, from the Bayou Atchafalaya in Louisiana. Our words, they come in a different order from yours.
It is Maman who descends from this line, and from her mother and her grandmère she got her gift of the second sight, and her talents as a traiteur—a healer. By our family and friends, she is revered as a woman touched by God. She heals to share her gift with all who ask her help.
I know you find her strange, my Maman. Frightening, perhaps, because she sees so much others cannot.
“Strange?” Christine breathed. Those beady little eyes had been nothing short of witchy! In her flowing clothes of mixed prints, with her hoop earrings and necklaces, Tucker’s mother had reminded her of a Gypsy fortune-teller.
People here in the North do not accept her visions as normal or good. Most who are not of the Catholic faith, or who fear her mystical ways, do not consider that Maman did not ASK for this gift of healing—or for her ability to see spirits and into the future. Her gifts, they have gotten her into—how you say?—trouble sometimes. But she suffers her persecution like the saints of old, for the cause of God.
Christine’s eyebrows arched. Saintly was not a word she’d have chosen for Veronique Trudeau—who’d glared at her while speaking rapid-fire French to Tucker, as though she weren’t even there!
I hope you understand, ma princesse, that she wishes you no ill. When you came to us, Maman had met your mother and knew, toute suite, that things were being hidden by Mr. Witmer—you called him Richard Wyndham. Like you, Christine, we knew no good would come of him! We knew he was luring your mama down his own crooked path. He called her Veronique—Maman’s own name!—but did all the talking himself.
For this reason, I have kept watch. The newspapers I have studied for mention of his name. The bank account he paid me from does not exist. After he and your mama came to fetch their photograph, I secretly followed them around town. But I think he knew. He stopped everywhere but at a home or hotel. He went into shops and bought your mama fine things to keep her happy and quiet.
She has your smile, Christine. Pretty and fresh as a springtime sky.
“Oh, Tucker,” she murmured. Then she glanced out the window to be sure Billy wasn’t coming. Her brother would never understand such poetry, or why it moved her to tears even after all this time.
For you see, ma petite, even though you were dusty from traveling so far in search of her, I felt your strength of purpose. Your honorable intent. While Maman said you, too, were hiding the truth, I could understand why. I admire your love for your mother, for I cannot imagine my life without my dear Maman.
Did he know she’d lied about her age? Recalling the desperate things she’d done after running away from the Monroes, Christine grinned proudly. Not many girls of thirteen had the grit to chase down a runaway mother. Even Reverend Larsen, whose horse she’d stolen, had called her resourceful. Among other things.
I will continue to watch for your mother, cherie. I will send you whatever I find, for as long as you want to know. Sad to say, when I met your mama—when I see her happy smile in the photograph—I don’t think she will be back to see you. But I gave her your address with Judd Monroe, west of Abilene.
Like Maman, I cannot hold back what I know. I feel it is my purpose, my duty, to help you with your search—just as I believe it was—how you say it?—God’s providence, that you found my shop.
She held her breath as her eyes gobbled the rest of his letter. Unless he no longer lived in Atchison, Tucker Trudeau would be here as soon as he read her telegram! She could feel it in his words—in the way his handwriting took on a tighter, more intense angle.
We must have faith that our lives will happen as the Father wills them. If He wishes for us to meet again, it will happen.
I live in the hope of seeing you again someday, ma chère Christine. You are like the primrose that thrives on the prairie: delicate and fresh and beautiful, yet strong enough to survive the winds and droughts of life.
I will read again and again your letter of thanks. It was my pleasure to help you—to give you the picture of your mother. You will be in my prayers as you search for your mama, and until we meet again.
Very truly yours, Tucker
Christine sprang from her chair, too excited to sit still. How she wanted to pore over this letter again—and again!—and then devour the rest of Tucker’s writings as well. But she didn’t dare. There would be no explaining the flush in her cheeks or her breathlessness if Billy walked in on her.
Her brother could not see these letters!
But Billy would demand answers when he returned. He would pry and prod all during dinner if he had any inkling of the wild emotions and high hopes Tucker had stirred within her.
After watching the people thronging the street and not seeing her brother among them, Christine slipped her fingernail under each envelope’s wax seal. She shook out the loose enclosures and then slipped the letters into her carpetbag. She felt like a fairy-tale princess, afloat on her true love’s words of devotion but forced to keep their romance a secret.
There was no romance in these newspaper clippings, however. Neatly sliced from issues of the Atchison Freedom’s Champion, the Daily Capitol, and the Kansas City Times, the columns of newsprint quivered in her fingers.
NEWCOMERS SUSPECTED IN LAND FRAUD SCHEME, the first headline blared. No wonder Mama’s new husband had changed his alias to Dick Witmer! As Christine scanned the lines about a grandiose plan to fleece hundreds of would-be homesteaders, she sickened.
And here were half-page enticements from Atlanta, Memphis, and St. Louis newspapers as well. What respectable man would place such advertisements, promising abandoned homesteads to those who sent their money to the post office box mentioned at the bottom of the ad?
She stiffened with renewed rage. Was their ranch in Missouri one of the places Wyndham was raffling off? Had he been in cahoots with Leland Massena, the banker who’d foreclosed on them, all along?
Surely Mama would’ve seen through this outrageous scheme. Surely she would’ve known such a rogue would only bring her heartache.
And yet, as Christine compared the datelines Tucker had written on the clippings, she realized fleecing gullible sheep from afar was Wyndham’s favorite game. And since Mama—or someone referred to as V. Bristler—was named as this man’s partner, she had to know he was hiding behind a growing list of aliases.
By the time Christine read the final clippings, dated nearly two years earlier, she could follow the man with the handlebar mustache through four different names and two additional scams involving illegal lotteries. Not to mention notices from numerous Kansas banks about false accounts and bank drafts.
With her heart in her throat, Christine again picked up the WANTED poster. Hard to believe the happy couple pictured there could be associated with charges of thievery, fraud, and forgery, but she’d read more than enough to know it was true.
Mama was living a life of crime. Too busy leading the law on a merry chase to give her abandoned children a moment’s thought.
She’s having the time of her life, now that she doesn’t have us to worry about.
Christine brushed away tears. Ten-year-old Billy’s hunches had been pretty accurate: From the day Wyndham lured her away, Virgilia Bristol had ceased to be the mother they knew and loved.
This realization cut her so deeply, Christine doubled over and hugged herself, st
ruggling to hold her heart and soul together.
In her misery, she reached for another of Tucker’s letters—anything to settle herself before Billy found her so agitated. He’d haul her back to Mercy’s if he saw the agony Mama’s misadventures were causing. The truth hurt, but after all the time and effort she’d invested, she couldn’t just dismiss her mission to find their mother. Could she?
Ma chère Christine, she read through her tears, so happy I am, to know you attend a fine school in St. Louis! Your letters make me smile and bring me hope that we will someday meet again.
There now—that was better! Sniffling into her lace handkerchief, she lost herself in Tucker’s distinctive handwriting and turn of phrase. The letters she’d written him from the academy—and sneaked to the post office on her way to working at the orphanage—might prove to be the lifeline that would bring this playful Cajun back into her life.
“Oh, Tucker, if I’d only known Miss Vanderbilt was keeping your letters from me—”
An uproar on the street took her to the open window again. Christine saw a crowd gathering around an overloaded wagon, which was hitched to a mule and had two Negro women huddled together on its seat. The colored man hopping down from it had apparently sparked the interest of some drunken cowboys, and more of these mouthy men were spilling out of a nearby saloon to join the fray.
“Go on back to that plantation, slave!” someone hollered.
“Yeah, you might be free, but it’ll cost ya to drive down the street!”
“Take your whores and go on home now!”
Frowning, she stuck her head outside, while other hotel guests did the same. Where was that illustrious sheriff, Wild Bill Hickok? Abilene had hired the former gunslinger to bring law and order to streets teeming with rowdy cowhands during the cattle drives, but even she could see this crowd would soon be out of control.
“Let’s see how fast that sorry-ass mule can run!”
A glass bottle flew from the saloon and shattered against the animal’s head. The mule brayed and shot forward, scattering the people in its path. The Negro it belonged to hollered for it to stop, but when he ran after it, cowboys grabbed him from each side. Above the pandemonium rang the frightened cries of the two women on the wagon.
Christine’s hand went to her mouth in horror. The vehicle teetered from side to side with its load of household goods, behind a mule gone wild with pain and fright. Any moment now, that wagon would overturn and those women would land—
A flash of auburn hair caught the sunlight. A lithe young man sprang from the crowd to run alongside the careening wagon. He lunged high into the air, toward the crazed mule’s back.
“Billy!” Christine squealed. “Billy, you’ll get yourself killed!”
Chapter Five
“Whoa, now! Easy does it—whoa, now!”
Billy landed with a whump. He grabbed for the reins, which were flapping wildly around the wounded animal’s neck, spooking it even more. The storefronts—and bystanders’ startled faces—were going by at a dizzying pace, so he focused on clinging to the mule’s thick gray neck.
“Easy, fella—whoa, now,” he murmured.
The panicked animal’s muscles bunched, his hide hot and lathered from sprinting down the street. The wails of those two scared ladies were enough to make any beast bolt—but at least the mule was slowing down.
Clenching his legs to hang on, Billy tugged steadily on the bridle, murmuring reassurances. He hadn’t seen the beginning of the ruckus, but whoever had thrown that whiskey bottle deserved to be locked away! Blood was running down the side of the mule’s face so fast he might bleed to death if he weren’t tended soon.
“Whoooa, fella. Atta boy—we’re outta trouble now,” he crooned.
They were nearly to the end of the street, and close to the livery stable, thank goodness. Billy had never been so glad to see a familiar face among all the gawkers who lined the streets.
“Hank, this poor mule’s bleedin’!” he called out as the animal finally came to a standstill. “Some idiot threw a bottle at him.”
Hank Vance, the stable manager Billy had met when putting up their horse, hurried around to grab the bridle so Billy could climb down. As the dust settled, he saw curiosity-seekers hurrying up the street, and every window had somebody hanging out, hollering questions. Folks flocked from the stores and saloons, eager for the story behind all this excitement, which wouldn’t die away any time soon.
But it was the mindless fright on those two ladies’ faces that riveted Billy. They didn’t look all that much older than he was, but their faded calico dresses and threadbare bonnets told a story of hardship like he’d never had to endure. The younger one hugged her belly—Lord, she looked ready to birth a baby!—and retched over the side of the wagon.
Onlookers jumped back, muttering their disgust. The other woman clutched at her, as though to keep her from falling off, and they both began to cry. It was a sorry sight, and when Billy noticed the trail of broken crates and furniture in the street behind them, he knew this family’s troubles weren’t over yet.
“Ladies,” he said under the sound of their sobbing. He looked earnestly up at them from the side of the rickety wagon. “Ladies—please—I’m sure sorry ’bout this. If there’s anything I can do to—”
“You can just back yourself away right now!” came an angry male voice. “We won’t be needin’ any more help like this godforsaken town’s already showed us!”
The biggest Negro he’d ever seen was loping toward him, and Billy stepped back. But it was fear in those wide, dark eyes he saw—the same terror that had sent this man’s mule racing down the street with his family and possessions. He looked to be a field worker, with wide, muscled shoulders that strained the seams of his homespun shirt. His skin shone like hot coffee and he was wheezing like a locomotive from the effort of racing up the street. His overalls were patched but clean, and he wore the biggest, scruffiest boots Billy had ever seen.
“Hank here’s gonna see to your mule—”
“Don’t need y’all’s help, I said!” the big man bellowed. “Now go on about your—”
“Reuben! Reuben Henry, you got the—”
“—business, mistah, while I sees to my women!”
“—wrong man!” the older gal scolded. “This here young fella saved our lives, praise God!”
Reuben had stepped between him and the two ladies, his nostrils flaring and his ebony gaze a definite threat—until the woman snatched off her bonnet and whacked him on the head with it.
“Are you listenin’ to me?” she demanded. “You’re still in a lather ’bout that man in the land office! This young fella stopped the mule. Kept the whole dern wagon from tippin’ over—and us with it! So just settle yourself now, ya hear me?”
As the livery man approached, Billy realized he’d never been happier to see another white man. He grabbed one of Hank’s rags and pressed it firmly against the mule’s wound, while the livery man steadied the animal’s head. Better to blot up blood than to get mixed up in the squabble brewing between Reuben Henry and his . . . wife?
Was the pregnant one his wife, too?
The colored man still looked dangerous, with his dark eyes bulging like an enraged bull’s. He inhaled deeply as he watched the two of them tend the mule, as though trying to match the rapid-fire events of the past few minutes with what his woman was saying. Reuben didn’t look the type to pay a female much heed, so Billy dipped his rag in Hank’s bucket of water again. Best to give this big man all the time he needed.
“That right, what she’s sayin’?” he finally asked.
Billy pressed the rag hard against the mule’s skull, smiling as widely as he dared. “Yessir, I was comin’ from the mercantile and dang near got hit by that flyin’ bottle myself,” he said in a voice low enough to keep the animal calm. “Them Texas cowpokes get all liquored up after a long drive, so Abilene ain’t always a safe place even in the daylight. Sorry your mule got hit in such a bad spot. Think he’
s gonna be all right, though.”
“What’s your name?”
“Billy Bristol. What’s yours?” he replied, trying to keep his voice even. The Negro was still poised to pounce. Hadn’t moved a thing except his lips.
“Reuben Gates. How’d you come to be so good with animals? Matthias don’t hardly let nobody touch him.”
Letting out the breath he’d held, Billy grinned. “Born that way, I guess. If ya treat ’em right, most of ’em will do whatever you ask. Kinda like people.”
“Well, I can’t say that ’bout the people we’ve seen here. The cowpokes nor the land office clerk, neither,” the woman behind him said.
She’d kept her arm protectively around the younger gal, who sat wide-eyed, clutching her belly. “We’re just tryin’ to claim a parcel of land we paid for, fair and square. That fella was makin’ Reuben out to be a thief or a liar—or just a plain old fool! Never seen nothin’ like it.”
Billy glanced at Hank, but the livery man only shrugged. He’d wiped away most of the blood and was smearing a fingerful of thick salve on the wound.
“What parcel of land might that be? Not that it’s any of my business,” Billy added quickly. “ ’Cept I don’t know of anythin’ that’s for sale hereabouts.”
“We got the papers right—”
“Sedalia, don’t you go botherin’ Mr. Bristol with this,” Reuben said sternly when she pulled papers from a carpetbag beneath the seat. “He needs to get back to whatever he was doin’ before the mule got spooked.”
“And who else in this lawless town is likely to help us?” she challenged. “This is our life we’re talkin’ about. If we don’t get this land, where we gonna go, Reuben?”
Sedalia brazenly dodged the big man’s hand and tossed some folded pages at Billy. One was an advertisement from a newspaper, illustrated with a sketch of a strapping, strong man behind an ox-drawn plow. He was singing the praises of land along the Kansas Pacific railroad—homesteads abandoned before the original tenants proved up. The other was a certificate printed on parchment, naming Reuben Henry Gates as the new owner of a section of land, and then listing the details of its location.
Journey to Love (Angels of Mercy) Page 4