“She’s lucky you and Billy and Michael are here. Men of experience will have to do, since we’ve got no midwives close by.” Mercy glanced outside and saw the young Gates girl writhing on a stretcher the men had made of sheets. The sight of so much blood made her swallow hard to keep her breakfast down.
She turned from the window to see Christine valiantly trying to keep Joel in his high chair while she balanced a whimpering Lily on one hip.
“Take the little ones outside and keep them busy—please!” she added.
Mercy’s expression was a reminder of what an ordeal childbirthing could be, so Christine quickly freed Joel from his breakfast tray. She coaxed the little boy out the back door ahead of her.
“Let’s chase the chickens!” Joel cried as he shot across the yard.
“Chickens! Chickens!” Lily mimicked, squirming to get down.
While the birds in the barnyard weren’t what she’d had in mind for a diversion, Christine welcomed the appearance of the two barking dogs—anything to disguise the loud, keening cries coming from the house. It made her laugh, watching Snowy and Spot herd their two-legged charges away from the corrals and cattle pens. While the chickens squawked and flapped their wings, Joel was in his glory, agitating them. Lily toddled fearlessly behind him, her blond curls bouncing around a face still smeared with mush and syrup.
“It’s good to be useful somewhere other than the birthing room, isn’t it?”
Christine turned to see Miss Vanderbilt carrying Solace in a large, handled basket. The headmistress had been upstairs packing when the Gates family arrived, so she’d avoided the little woman’s waspish looks and lectures at breakfast.
There was no escaping her now, however. And since she wasn’t harping about last night’s encounter, Christine was glad for the conversation. “Makes me wonder why women want to have babies at all,” she murmured as another gut-wrenching cry reached their ears.
The little woman smiled wryly. “Seems childbirth is the furthest thing from anyone’s mind when men and women know each other in the biblical sense. Young as that Gates girl is, she might not’ve realized what was happening . . . perhaps had no say about it. Some men are like that, you know,” she added in a more sober tone.
Images of Mercy and Michael in the moonlight flickered through her mind, and Christine looked away, blushing. Why couldn’t she stop thinking about Tucker Trudeau in that sense—or any sense at all? It was a waste of time to entertain such fantasies now! And it made her regret how many suitable young men she’d ignored—or rejected—at functions she’d attended in St. Louis.
“I—I said some things I didn’t mean last night, Miss Vanderbilt. I hope you’ll accept my apology for behaving so rudely.”
Where had that come from? Was she so afraid of going through life alone—like this mainstay of the Academy for Young Ladies—that she was begging for a chance to return to school? Surely she could find work as a seamstress in Abilene! Surely—if she looked hard enough—there was a man in these parts who’d suit her better than Oliver Tandy or some rowdy cowpoke!
“Oh—no. No, Lily!”
Christine dashed after the little girl, who was crawling over the lowest rail of the corral. The princess in pink gingham fussed at being pried away from her pursuit of the horses, but Spot’s playful licking turned her tantrum to laughter.
“Spotty!” she giggled as the dog washed the breakfast from her face. “Kiss Kwis-teen! Kiss Kwis-teen!”
Christine sent the little girl to her shoulder in a swooping motion that had them both laughing ecstatically, and without even thinking about it, she kissed Lily’s damp, velvety cheek. When she turned away from the corral, she was face-to-face with Miss Vanderbilt, whose expression spoke more eloquently than any lesson she’d ever presented.
Envy. Longing. Loneliness. These emotions shone in the brown eyes that usually sparkled with life and purpose.
“What a gift it is, to have such a way with children,” her headmistress murmured. “I meant what I said last night, when I wished you a man who would bring you joy, Christine. Your talent for design is a gift from God, but it would surely be a waste of a higher calling if you had no children. And yes, I accept your apology, dear.”
Christine blinked. Had Miss Vanderbilt waxed sentimental? Or were her own jumbled thoughts about love and life—the slamming of her heart’s door on seeing Mama and Tucker Trudeau again—confusing her?
“I hope you’ll at least return to the academy to fetch your clothes, and to say good-bye to your friends,” the headmistress continued. “You might feel your other teachers and I singled you out for discipline, or goaded you into better grades, but we’ll miss you terribly, Christine. It’s been a long time since I’ve so enjoyed watching a girl grow up.”
Fetch your clothes . . . say good-bye to your friends . . . we’ll miss you terribly.
Christine nuzzled Lily’s wiggly, giggly softness, seeking comfort—and to blot her eyes. It hadn’t occurred to her, when she’d declared she wasn’t returning to school, just exactly what she was leaving behind.
And for what? To take in sewing for local women, waiting for her real life to begin? Waiting for the right man to replace Tucker Trudeau in her dreams?
“I—if it’s all right with you, I will return to school,” she blurted. “I’d be foolish not to graduate in two months—and—and it’ll give me time to consider my next step, whether with Mrs. Devereaux or doing something else. I hope you understand that finding Mama’s been my mission for so long, I’m at sixes and sevens now that my plans have been changed.”
“I hoped you’d see it that way!” Miss Vanderbilt’s face lit up like a summer sunrise as she squeezed Christine’s arm. “That’s a wise decision, dear. And—as Michael suggested—we can send inquiries along the railways about your mother. I’m truly sorry about the hole she’s torn in your heart, Christine. Together we can—”
“Hey, mister! Whatcha got in that wagon?”
Joel’s outburst made them look toward the front yard, where a large, boxlike vehicle had stopped beside the house. And who wouldn’t be excited? With its bright red paint and yellow embellishments, it looked like a circus wagon. The black draft horse pulling it stood several hands higher than the Morgans that Michael raised, and his red tack glimmered with brass buckles and trim when he shook his majestic head.
Christine rushed forward, her heart in her throat. Joel was going for that animal like a shot. “Joel, no! He might bite you, or—”
“Non, non, non!” came a lilting reply from the side of the wagon. “Sol, he is big, but he is no bully! You would like to touch his soft nose, oui, mon petit?”
Christine froze. The man swinging Joel up to sit on his shoulders had lustrous black hair and a close-cropped beard. He wore a red plaid flannel shirt that hugged his flexing muscles—and his delight matched the little boy’s when the huge beast nuzzled Joel’s cheek.
“Pwitty hohsie!” Lily cried, flailing her arms toward it. “Me, too, Kwisteen! Me, too!”
Her heart stopped when the man holding Joel turned to smile at her. He was more solid than she recalled, and he looked a little older in the face. But those eyes shining with aquamarine mischief could only belong to one man.
“Miss Bristol?” he breathed—although he was trying not to laugh at something deliciously funny. “Why, I can no longer call you ma princesse, for indeed, you have grown into a queen! A fine, fiery-haired—”
Christine strode forward, clutching Lily to her hip, using her extended arm to balance herself—until she reached that exasperating man and slapped him with it!
“Tucker Trudeau!” she yelped. “Of all the low-down, despicable—! Why are you here, when—”
Words failed her. Her pulse was pounding so hard she couldn’t breathe. So she aimed her palm at that bearded grin again—except this time he caught her mid-swing. With a glance over his shoulder at the wagon, he brought her knuckles to his lips and kissed them fervently.
“Désolé, ma bell
e—so sorry,” he breathed, his gaze roving from her hair and eyes to linger on her lips. “I have some explaining to do, oui?”
“Wee! Wee!” Lily crowed. “Gotta go wee, Kwis-teen!”
Chapter Nine
An unearthly wail came through the open window. As Christine cringed, she wondered if things would ever not be in chaos at the Malloy home.
Still gripping her hand, Tucker scowled. “Someone is dying?”
“A young Negro girl is birthing a baby, and—”
“I’ll take you to the potty, Lily,” Miss Vanderbilt offered in a low voice.
“No! Kwis-teen!”
“—she’s in such a bad way that—”
Tucker dropped her hand and sprang toward the wagon. Behind the driver’s seat was a doorway, which he slid to one side.
“Maman!” he cried—and then came a syncopated volley of conversation that sped past Christine’s textbook knowledge of French.
From the dark interior of the wagon emerged a birdlike woman dressed in loosely fitted prints. When those hard little eyes focused in the bright sunlight, her expression soured. Christine’s hopes plummeted.
She remembered Mrs. Trudeau, all right. Was that the stench of overcooked cabbage in the swish of her Gypsy skirts as Tucker helped her to the ground?
“Maman, she is a traiteur—a healer,” he explained. “And a midwife. Her angels, they have been telling her someone here needed her help! So—if we may—?”
“Of course,” Miss Vanderbilt replied. She set Solace’s basket down to escort the other woman inside. “We’ll be thankful for any help you can provide, Mrs. Trudeau. And you—”
The headmistress pivoted to raise an eyebrow at Tucker. “You and I will have a chat when I return, young man.”
“Yes, we will,” Christine chimed in, “as soon as I’ve helped Lily. Joel—this is Tucker Trudeau. You are to see that he behaves himself.”
“Me, too!” Lily said, wriggling in her embrace. “Me and Joel!”
Christine nipped back a retort. “But you said you had to go—”
“Me!” the little blonde sang out. “Not wee! Me, me, meeeee! Pat the pwitty hohsie!”
“Can I ride him, Mr. Tucker?” Joel pleaded. “Can I? Can I, pleeeeeze?”
“About the telegram? I am si désolé—so very sorry, Christine,” he said beneath the children’s outcries. “Maman, she got your message, and—”
“She still hates me.”
Tucker’s shrug and winsome grin made something flip-flop in her stomach. “She knows I wanted to help you—knows things about your mama. She sent that telegram before I found your note.”
“But—but you’re here.”
Her heart was beating so fast and so hard she couldn’t hear the toddlers’ squabbling. She had eyes only for those soft, full lips . . . as they formed the words she so desperately needed to hear.
“Two reasons,” he began—and then lifted Joel from his shoulders to set him firmly on the ground. “Sol, he does not give rides to children who scream and kick! You will take Lily’s hand and you will sit! On the step of my wagon. Until I tell you to move.”
Joel sucked air and Lily stuck her fingers in her mouth. While Tucker had spoken in a low voice, his size and foreign accent had made a definite impression. The three-year-old nodded, and then held out his hand to lead Lily. Still gazing at the Cajun, intimidated yet too intrigued to cry, the little girl sat demurely on the step—as though she and Joel would never dream of poking each other, or chattering nonsense in that escalating way they had.
Tucker smiled at them, nodding his approval.
And when he turned to beam at Christine, she understood perfectly why Joel and Lily had obeyed him: They were mesmerized. Tucker’s smile had enchanted away any urge to challenge him.
“Now then, ma chérie,” he began, stepping within arm’s length of her.
“Two reasons,” she breathed, wondering if a proper young lady should back away from such temptation while her two young charges were watching.
“Oui, as I was saying—”
He reached for her hands, caressing them in his larger ones. “First, General Dodge, he has commissioned me to be—how do you say?—the official photographer for the Union Pacific Railroad! I am to take many photographs along the route. Then I travel to the next town, and the next, taking my pictures, so people, they will want to ride the train all over the West.”
“That’s quite an assignment! Quite an honor,” Christine replied softly. “Congratulations, and—”
“And I am just starting out. I was ready to leave Atchison when I found your message,” he continued. “So I said to myself, ‘I wonder, is that pretty Christine living in Abilene now? To see her again—to talk about her mama—it would take only a little detour. So we stopped in town,” he said as he fished a piece of paper from his shirt pocket, “and I found this article, about a Billy who must be the little brother you talked about, oui?”
Christine blinked at the article describing Billy’s heroism. “Oui—I mean, yes. Except he’s not so little anymore,” she breathed. He was still holding her hands in one of his, and his grip felt warm and full of promise.
Tucker let out a long breath as he looked her up and down. “Nor are you, ma belle,” he murmured cautiously. “But it seems you are, what—nineteen now? And these are your little children?”
“No! I—” Flustered by his rapt attention—caught in a fib she told him three years ago—Christine stammered, “I’m not even married—”
“And she ain’t but sixteen, neither.”
Billy, wiping his forehead on the sleeve of his blood-spattered shirt, scowled at the man who stood about a foot taller than he. “And what’s it to ya if she’s got kids, Mr. Trudeau? That telegram you sent her—”
“Was a mistake he’s already explained,” Christine blurted out. Of course her brother would show up now, and shoot off his mouth about her real age. “His mother received the message, and—and—”
“Tucker Trudeau,” he said, extending his hand to Billy. “So pleased I am, to meet the young man all Abilene is talking about! For such a brave, kind thing he did.”
Billy shook his hand, still looking doubtful. But Tucker had a way of disarming skeptics.
“How enraged you must be with me—after you read Maman’s reply,” the ebony-haired man said apologetically. “And your sister, she was upset, non?”
“Upset?” Billy retorted. “Why, there weren’t no talking to her for—and I couldn’t blame her for bein’ madder’n a wet cat about—”
Tucker’s secretive grin told Christine he was better at communicating than his Frenchified accent led people to believe . . . and that he was pleased she’d been upset, when she believed she’d never see him again. Of all the sneaky—
“And it is a wise brother who protects his sister from men who are lured by her bright smile,” he continued in a man-to-man tone. “Just as mothers, they protect their sons from pretty green-eyed girls who would steal their hearts with . . . stories.”
Billy smirked at her. “So you lied about how old you was? To make this fella think—”
“Christine, she was trying to find her mother,” the Cajun insisted quietly, “so the three of you could be together again. Because she knew how you would suffer. How could I not lo—admire—a young girl trying so hard to get the help she needed? For her family?”
Her brother’s mouth clapped shut. Christine herself was at a loss for words. Her heart had swelled up into her throat. Tucker Trudeau had not only defended her honor, he had justified her little lies . . . had known all along that the dusty ragamuffin in his shop couldn’t have been sixteen.
But hadn’t he almost said he loved her?
“You have read the letters now, oui? The clippings about your mother and that man she is with?”
“Yeah,” Billy replied, nodding toward the bedroom window, “and we’re seein’ firsthand how that land fraud scheme played out, ’cause that poor girl’s family got bambooz
led by one of their fake deeds.”
The corners of Tucker’s mouth dipped as he glanced toward the window from which the moans were escalating again. “How this must have stung—seeing your mama connected to such crimes! I almost didn’t put those clippings in my letters to you, Christine, knowing how upset you would surely be.
“Maman, she is gifted with the second sight, so she knew things were not . . . as they seemed, when your mama and Mr. Wyndham came in for their portrait,” he explained. “She suspects they have gone farther west—to Denver or beyond. Her spirit guides, they warned her that something was terribly wrong here, too. She believes it is her duty to help and to heal—because her powers come from God.”
While she saw the cogs turning in Billy’s head as he listened, Christine was hanging on Tucker’s information. If Mama and Richard Wyndham had been scheming their way west, and were perhaps in Denver . . . and Tucker was working for the Union Pacific, which would take him in that direction. . . .
“Glad she come in to help.” Billy glanced down, realizing how gory his blood-spattered shirt looked. “Asa and Michael and me delivered Mercy’s baby durin’ a blizzard—and that was bad enough. But this little gal don’t seem quite . . . right. Even with your mama tryin’ her best, tellin’ Asa what herbs to brew up, it . . . it just don’t look good.”
He brushed his rust-colored hair back with fingers that quivered, glancing at Tucker’s colorful wagon and the huge black horse that stood in front of it. “Fine-lookin’ Percheron you got there,” he said. “What’s his name?”
Tucker grinned proudly. “This is Sol, and he—”
“Saul? Like the Bible guy who went around beatin’up Christians?”
“Like Solomon the king,” the Cajun corrected with a laugh. “And the name, it is good, non? Most times, he is far wiser than I. And certainly more glorious.”
Billy’s grin said Tucker Trudeau had passed muster—at least for this first round. “Tellya what—it might be awhile. We got plenty of hay and water in the barn, if you wanna let Sol—”
Journey to Love (Angels of Mercy) Page 8