Mike’s scowl confirmed Billy’s hunch. Mercy was reading over her husband’s shoulder, and her brows came together in a frown. “The land this describes can’t be far from here, but I can’t think of any place—”
“It’s the deed for this homestead, Mercy. Somebody’s pulled a fast one.” He looked at Reuben over the top of the certificate. “How’d you get this, again?”
“We seen this advertisement in the newspaper,” the big man replied, handing over a yellowed page that had grown limp from so much refolding. “So we sent our money to them land agents, and they sent us this here deed certificate. The land they’re sellin’ b’longed to homesteaders who didn’t prove up, all along the railroad—”
“Look at the bottom. At the names.” Billy closed his eyes, humiliation heating his cheeks.
“ ‘Richard Bristol and Virgil Wyndham, agents and commissioners for Dickinson County, Kansas,’ ” Mike read aloud. “You don’t suppose—?”
Mercy hurried around the table to wrap her arms around his shaking shoulders. “Oh, Billy, I’m so sorry you found this out,” she said. “It’s them, isn’t it? That man and your mama changed their names around.”
“Too close to be coincidence,” Michael agreed, shaking his head with disgust. “Son, I wish it could be different. What’d your sister say about this?”
“Didn’t show her,” Billy mumbled. “Sis saw me stop these folks’s runaway mule this afternoon, and for all she knows they’re just down on their luck, lookin’ for work. I didn’t mention this deed, thinkin’ she’d either be chasin’ after that Tucker Trudeau fella or strikin’ out after Mama again.”
Sedalia had stopped eating to watch the conversation volley across the table. “Somebody mind tellin’ me what’s goin’on here?” she asked. “I’m mighty tired, and I musta missed somethin’.”
The front room went silent, except for the ticking of the mantel clock. Images from his past, of his mother and a man in a handlebar mustache, collided in Billy’s mind. He’d carefully tucked those memories away, for at ten, he couldn’t believe Mama had abandoned them without a backward glance.
But he was fourteen now. Managing livestock for a family who treated him like a beloved son. He considered himself a man in many ways, but right now he felt like a little kid again, scared out of his mind—and swallowing back too much heartache to talk about it.
“My sister Christine and me lived on a horse ranch in Missouri till after the war. The Border Ruffians killed my daddy and kidnapped my twin brother,” he explained in a thin thread of a voice. “The bank foreclosed on us, so Mama packed us up, sayin’ we was headin’ west to start a new life. But when Christine and me was usin’ the privy, our mama rode off with an English fella we’d seen at the ranch a couple of times. Left us there with all the luggage and tickets clean to Denver—but left us all the same.”
“Lord a-mercy, that’s the saddest thing I ever—”
“Mama’s name is Virgilia Bristol, and the Englishman called himself Richard Wyndham,” Billy finished with a sigh. “That land agent in Abilene didn’t lie to ya, Reuben. He never saw your money, and he didn’t know nothin’ ’bout this land bein’ up for sale ’cause it wasn’t. Richard Bristol and Virgil Wyndham are long gone by now—and your money went with ’em.”
Christine patted her hair one last time and went downstairs to sit in the hotel’s front parlor. Surely someone from the telegraph office would come this morning. She planned to snatch the envelope from his hand, then read Tucker’s message in the privacy of her room.
She chose a small rocking chair by the front window, where the sun would make the highlights sparkle in her auburn hair, and the watermark in her turquoise suit would set her apart from any housekeepers who might be about at this hour. The cowpokes and cattle barons might as well know she wasn’t one of those “girls” who kept a room here at the Abilene House.
“Good morning, Miss Bristol. Did you sleep well?” the desk clerk inquired. The young man’s hair was so heavily oiled, comb grooves radiated from his center part. But at least he was clean—unlike a lot of the men she’d seen here.
Christine smiled politely. “Yes, I did. Thank you for asking.”
It was none of his business that she’d stayed up half the night poring over Tucker’s letters. She’d also dug the red velvet diary from her carpetbag, where she always kept it. Rereading her mother’s flowery accounts of meeting Richard Wyndham, and his secret visits while she and Billy were being tutored, had rekindled the resentment that inspired her original mission to find Mama: to get answers about why she and Billy were dumped at the depot.
Seeing new evidence in Tucker’s letters—even though they were three years old—made her restless again. Christine arranged her skirts around her kid slippers as she perched prettily in the chair. This waiting was unbearable. Surely the fascinating man who’d penned those encouraging words would reply to her telegraph right away. Surely he would agree that they should try to find Mama together. Or just do anything together.
The attraction was so obvious! Tucker Trudeau had so clearly stated his affection for her, she’d heard his Cajun accent in every line.
And now that the Union Pacific Railroad stretched clear to California—why, it would be easy to trace Mama and her fancy man. According to those enclosed articles, they’d worked under many assumed names, but they seemed to settle in the more populated areas—until their chicanery caught up to them and they moved again, farther west.
“Would you care for tea, Miss Bristol? I’d be delighted to fetch it.”
The desk clerk still stood before her, grinning like a lovesick puppy.
Christine blinked to clear thoughts of hale, handsome Tucker Trudeau from her mind. “How thoughtful of you. Yes, tea would be lovely.”
His face flushed as he handed her a pamphlet he’d held behind his back. “I—I recall your brother being here with you yesterday, ma’am. Matter of fact, here’s the piece that man from The Kansas City Times printed up about him! You must be very proud!”
Christine unfolded the page, which sported a two-inch-high headline across the top: BRISTOL SAVES FAMILY FROM DISASTER. Beneath that, a smaller line proclaimed: Another Blatant Example of How Abilene Needs Real Law Enforcement. To one side, a pen-and-ink sketch captured her younger brother’s lopsided grin to perfection.
“Oh my, I—thank you for showing me this,” she said. “I saw the incident from the window, but I had no idea . . . this is quite an essay.”
As she skimmed the main story, she was amazed—and amused: reporter Sam Parsons had used Billy’s heroism to illustrate his views that this cow town needed to clean up its streets.
So there is intelligent life in Abilene. Or one man, anyway, who sees this wicked little city for what it is.
The clerk returned with a tray of dainty cakes, a silver teapot, and a bone china cup and saucer as she finished reading.
“May I keep this?” she asked, flashing her most brilliant smile. “I’m sure Billy will want to see it.”
“Oh, I—I intended for you to have it, Miss Bristol.”
The clerk’s grooved hair was almost making her snicker, as was his lovestruck grin. But at least he was trying to please her. “Thank you so much, sir, for—”
“Oh, please, call me Oliver! Oliver Tandy, at your service, Miss Bristol.”
Make that two men who see things for what they are. Even if I don’t want to encourage this one.
Christine smiled. “Thank you, Oliver. I’ll enjoy my tea and cakes while I’m waiting for—”
The front door opened, and in walked Billy. His cowlick bobbed like a rooster’s tail, and in his denim pants and homespun shirt he looked very much a part of the prairie. He grinned at her, his blue eyes sparkling with little-brother mischief.
“Mornin’, Sis. Mornin’ to ya,” he said with a nod toward the clerk.
Oliver Tandy straightened to his full, lanky height, extending his hand. “What an honor to meet you, Mr. Bristol! Your sister an
d I have been discussing this article on yesterday’s events. It seems you’re a hero!”
Christine chuckled at her brother’s dumbstruck expression. “Not only a hero for halting the runaway mule, but a shining example of how more men should behave—and how more lawmen should be hired. Along with an artist’s rendition, suitable for framing,” she added with a smirk.
He groaned. “Now what possessed Parsons to—”
“Oh, just read it and accept the notoriety you deserve.”
She sipped her tea, scowling at how her script was being rewritten. She’d hoped the courier would come early—for surely Tucker had answered as soon as he received her telegram!—so she could slip upstairs to savor it. With the clerk hanging around, and now Billy, she’d look like a fool for waiting here in the parlor. Or she’d have her little brother pestering her when the telegram arrived.
How could she evade these two? A trip to her room, presumably to freshen up, would give Billy first chance to open any messages that came. Unacceptable!
“Billy, would you like the rest of my tea cakes?” she offered sweetly. “I’m sure Mr. Tandy would bring you coffee or—”
“Yes, of course. Whatever you’d like, Mr. Bristol.”
Billy looked up from his reading. “Thanks, I’m fine. Sure hope this piece don’t bring a parade of cowpokes to the ranch, lookin’ for work—like Reuben told Mr. Parsons about.”
“As many of these pamphlets as I’ve seen around town, you might have cowboys applying as soon as they recognize you,” Oliver remarked. “The cattle drives are about over for the season. Some drovers might settle in for the winter, rather than making the long trek back to Texas.”
“Not lookin’ for men who’ll head for the saloons every Saturday night,” Billy remarked. “Don’t need nobody throwin’ whiskey bottles at—”
They all looked up when the little bell above the door tinkled.
“Good morning, Cal. Telegram for somebody?” Oliver asked.
As the unkempt kid squinted at the name on the envelope, Christine’s teacup ticked against its saucer. This would not do! If she acted too eager to receive the message, Billy would grab it before she could.
“Christi—”
“Thank you, that’s for me!” she chirped, springing up from her chair.
The sickening clatter of china announced that she’d forgotten to set down her cup and saucer—and then a swish of her skirt sent the silver tray and teapot crashing to the floor as well. As tea cakes landed in the puddle, like pretty little boats between islands of china, her face flamed.
“I am so sorry, Oliver, I—”
“No bother at all, Miss Bristol. I’ll fetch the broom—don’t you touch a thing for fear you’ll cut yourself.”
While the clerk hurried into the little room behind the front desk, Cal, the delivery boy, approached with her telegram. His purposeful gaze—his grip on the envelope when she tried to pluck it from his fingers—brought her out of her mortified state.
“Oh, yes, of course!” she gasped, reaching into her skirt pocket for his tip.
“Thanks a whole lot,” the kid muttered at the single coin—and then he swooped down to pluck the little cakes from the puddle beside her shoe.
He wasn’t out the door yet before Billy was snorting with laughter. “Wait’ll I tell Miss Vanderbilt that her prize pupil—”
“You’ll do no such thing!” Christine snapped, stamping her foot. “And did you see the way that ungrateful—unspeakably crude young man reached down and—this is beyond me! I’m going upstairs!”
Clutching the envelope, which her fingers itched to open, Christine sailed past a befuddled Oliver Tandy to take the stairs as fast as her skirts would allow. By the time she’d reached the top, she was smiling slyly.
All things work out, for those who play their parts, she thought as she entered her room.
Alone at last. Christine fell against the door to shut it, her fingers trembling so badly she could barely loosen the flap of the envelope. She held the small, folded note against her heart, closing her eyes to collect herself.
Here it was—her first message from Tucker Trudeau in nearly three years. In more ways than she dared admit to herself, Christine had awaited this sign that he still wanted to see her after his letters had so mysteriously stopped coming to the academy. Was this her ticket to the happily-ever-after she so desperately craved? The justification she longed for, after rebuffing the well-heeled suitors she’d met in the ballrooms of St. Louis society?
She unfolded the note, her heart thumping in her chest.
GO HOME, it said. TOO LATE.
Chapter Seven
“You gonna tell me what he said, Sis? I’m guessin’—”
“No! You wouldn’t understand.”
Christine held herself hard around the middle, trying not to cry any more . . . focusing on the withering prairie grass and the rutted, dusty road—anything, so she wouldn’t have to look at Billy. His blue eyes bored into her with a curiosity—a pity—she just couldn’t handle right now.
“—he told ya he couldn’t help ya find Mama, or—” Billy scowled at a thought he didn’t want to spend much time with. “You—you’d tell me if something had happened to Mama, wouldn’t ya?”
“It wasn’t that. Just leave me alone, dammit!”
He sighed, keeping his eyes on Pepper’s dappled gray backside, because the sight of his sister’s tear-streaked face was more than he could stand. “If that Trudeau fella said somethin’ hateful and you want me to go to Atchison and set him straight—”
“I want you to shut up, all right?” she yelled. “Can’t you get it through your head that there’s nothing to tell? Nothing to fish for?”
Billy smiled. While he truly hated to see Christine so upset, she wasn’t going back to Mike and Mercy’s with her tail between her legs by choice. Nope, his sister had disrupted that wedding with the idea that she wasn’t going to face the Malloys—or Miss Vanderbilt—again any time soon. Even a blind man could see she’d been rejected. It was just a matter of whether Trudeau refused to see her, or whether Mama was too long gone to trace.
“I’m on your side, Sis,” he insisted quietly. “This is my mama we’re talkin’ about, too. I can’t help you fend off all the questions everybody’ll ask unless you fill me in. What with the Gates family helpin’ Mike and Mercy move into their new place today, so they can live in the log house—and Libby havin’ her baby any minute now—everybody’s got plenty to tend to without—”
“Did I ever ask for their help?” Christine demanded. “Can I change the way they took to you—made you the manager of their whoop-de-do livestock—”
Billy listened to that green-eyed monster, envy, in her voice as she railed about his new job and what it probably paid. But it was more than money he was hearing about between Christine’s agonized words; it was disappointment. It was a betrayal as devastating as when Mama had left them at the depot ringing in his sister’s tear-choked denials.
His heart ached for her as she buried her face in her handkerchief. Pulling Pepper to a halt, he awkwardly squeezed her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Sis. Maybe you oughtta just cry it all out here, before we’re in sight of the new house, so—”
“All right. Here—read it for yourself, dammit!”
This wasn’t the time to say he’d soap her mouth unless she quit swearing like a saloon girl. Billy unwadded the crumpled note. Then his eyes went wet.
GO HOME. TOO LATE.
“Of all the low-down—”
“Are you happy now?” Christine demanded, snatching the note back. “Do you have any inkling what it did to me, having him tell me to go home—when I don’t have a home, Billy?”
Christine grabbed his arm, forcing him to look into her red-rimmed eyes. “Do you have any idea how many times my heart’s been ripped out these past three years by people making polite conversation, asking me where home is?”
Billy shifted on the bench seat. He’d always figured Christine had imm
ersed herself in her dressmaking and studies at the academy—she’d attended balls and parties in homes that would never have been open to them, even while Daddy was alive. He hadn’t thought about her feeling like she’d been yanked up by the roots and never replanted. Surrounded by the love Judd, Mercy, and Mike Malloy had shown him, he simply hadn’t realized that Christine still felt like an outcast even though Miss Vanderbilt had taken a special shine to her.
But it was more than that, wasn’t it? Trudeau had left her to wonder why it was too late. Did he have a family now? Or had too much time gone by since their last letters, and too many other things taken over his life?
“I—I’m real sorry, Sis,” he mumbled.
“You don’t know the meaning of sorry!” she wailed. “I feel like such a fool, believing I could still—”
Billy closed his eyes. She’d arrived at the real matter now. She’d had most of yesterday to moon over those letters, convincing herself this Tucker fella felt the same about her now as he did when he wrote them. She’d let herself fall head-over-heels—in the same way Emma Clark believed Billy was the Prince Charming in all her fairy tales.
Why did girls believe everything they saw in writing? And make up a pretty story to fill in the blanks—or read between the lines through the rose-colored glasses of their romantic notions? They were askin’ for trouble, trying to outguess a man’s intentions.
But a hard truth like that wasn’t what Christine wanted to hear. And it wouldn’t make things any easier when they showed up at the Malloys’ new place, either. Agatha Vanderbilt would soon be returning to St. Louis, expecting his sister to go with her. And if she didn’t, she’d have to deal with Mercy every day—the same Mercy who’d kept those letters in her drawer so long. Forgiveness didn’t come easy—if ever—for Christine Bristol.
“What do you wanna do?” he asked. “Maybe we shoulda stayed in town a little—”
“If I knew that, I wouldn’t be so upset! Would I?”
Journey to Love (Angels of Mercy) Page 6