The aroma of fried bacon and Mercy’s corn cakes filled the house, as did the chatter of all the people. When Reuben stepped inside from doing the horse chores, Michael spoke above the noise.
“Shall we come to the table?” he said. “I don’t know about you, but I’m plenty hungry after our busy day.”
Joel came bounding out of the parlor, followed closely by his blond shadow, who looked around the gathering with bright blue eyes. “Kwis-teen?” she called in her little-girl voice. “I want Kwis-teen, sit by me!”
“Haven’t seen our girl lately,” Asa said as he carried platters of bacon to the table. “Mr. Joel, you got the youngest legs, honey. Go upstairs and see about her. Please and thank you!”
Fast as a rabbit, the boy snatched a slice of bacon from a plate and then bounded up the stairway on his mission. A few moments later, with a proud clatter of his feet on the oak stairs, he bounded to the table.
“She’s fa-a-a-ast asleep,” he announced breathlessly.
“We’ll save her a plate then,” Mercy said with a little frown. “Everyone’s hungry, and she’ll be cranky if we wake her to eat.”
“Kwanky Kwis-teen,” Lily said emphatically. Then she bowed her head and pressed her hands together to say the grace. “God bwess this food. And God bwess kwanky Kwis-teen!”
Slowly, stealthily, Christine slid down the post of the widow’s walk outside Mercy and Michael’s bedroom, using the latticework trellis for toeholds. Having to fend for herself so often, she’d learned many skills. She hit the ground, grabbed the carpetbag she’d tossed down ahead of her, and trotted through the frosty twilight toward the corrals.
It was going just as she’d planned. With all the chatter and passing of food in the dining room and Joel falling for the “body” he’d seen in her bed, she was on her way. Tucker Trudeau and that mama of his were about to find out who they were dealing with—and the consequences of refusing her simple request to go west with them.
“Hey there, Sol!” she whispered, reaching up to stroke the velvety nose of the Percheron who’d watched her approach with interest. “Wait here, big fella! We’re going places!”
Her pulse pounded in her throat as she snatched a bridle from the barn. It took three tries to get it on him, her hands were shaking so badly, but she prevailed.
Stifling a victorious cry, she led the huge horse behind the barn, back to where the trees grew along the banks of the Smoky Hill River. Stepping on a stump and hiking up her skirt—just like she had when she ran away three years ago—she swung herself high. She landed with a gasp on Sol’s broad back. The horse took off before she was ready, but by clinging to his thick neck she righted herself.
She was on her way! In her dark skirt and shawl, on a mount the color of midnight, she was showing Tucker Trudeau just what she was made of. Just let him try to leave without her now.
Tucker felt a hand on his thigh. He looked up from the forkful of corn cake he was dragging through the sorghum on his plate. Maman nodded toward the window, scowling.
He almost missed it—a movement through the moonlit trees that quickly got beyond his range of vision.
“Elle va! Avec Sol!” his mother muttered.
“Mon Dieu, c’est—” Tucker tossed his napkin onto his plate and rose so fast his chair fell backward to the floor. “Je m’excuse—please—I must fetch my horse!”
He rushed outside, wanting to swear at her and yet laugh aloud for the sheer outrageousness of it. That feisty little—how far did she think she’d get, stealing a horse unlike any other? What was she trying to prove by—?
But he knew that answer. Christine Bristol might be older and more refined than when he’d first met her, but her mission hadn’t changed, had it? And she knew exactly how to force his reaction, just as her desperate bravado three years ago had coaxed him into helping her.
He stopped at the corrals, barely hearing the diminishing hoofbeats.
Maybe he should let her go. Such a willful young woman was more trouble than his horse was worth—and there would be no end of the sniping and pecking between her and Maman if he took her along. He had a schedule to keep. A reputation to maintain. Let her get into the trouble she deserved—and she could get herself out of it. Miss Bristol was due for a lesson she couldn’t learn at her academy, and Sol would see that she got it.
Tucker laughed softly. At himself.
Loping toward the river, aware of the moon’s beauty in the water and the trees stretching their black hands upward into the azure night, Tucker considered the best way to handle this situation. He paced himself. Fortunately, the moon was bright and the trees sparce, so he could easily keep the distant horse and rider in view. The river crooked around to the north up ahead, and if Christine were smart she’d take out across the pastureland toward the road.
And there she went, slowing Sol because she thought she’d made her escape—and probably because her thighs ached from bouncing against his broad back. How she’d remained astride the giant Percheron bareback was beyond him, but he grinned at her tenacity.
They made a wondrous sight by the light of the harvest moon, a gilded shadow gliding gracefully across the pasture. He feasted his eyes on them for a few moments more and then raised forked fingers to his lips.
He gave a shrill, warbling whistle, then three staccato blasts a few notes lower.
Sol stopped, turning his head to catch the command.
Tucker repeated the signal, almost sorry the Percheron was so well-trained. He chuckled at the frustrated curses Christine muttered when she reined the horse’s head toward town again, to no avail. And then he stood at the river’s edge, waiting.
The damn horse was backtracking toward that odd, shrill bird cry. Ears pricked forward and nickering, his huge body tensed with anticipation as he bounced her with every step of his heavy yet nimble hooves.
“Sol—whoa, boy! This way!” she muttered, hauling against his neck with the reins.
Then she saw the silhouette, backlit by the moon shining through the trees.
How did he know? Tucker could not have seen her leaving the house!
“Slow down, dammit!” Christine jerked on the bridle again, determined not to get every bone in her body jostled out of its socket—or worse yet, fall off this obnoxious horse.
It took all of Tucker’s effort not to laugh out loud as Sol came close enough that he could see Christine’s vexed expression. Her hair resembled a bird’s nest caught in the wind, and her exasperation came out as white wisps of venom as she caught her breath.
“Of all the low-down, conniving—why didn’t you tell me Sol was—”
“Why didn’t you tell me you were stealing my horse, chérie?” He’d taken hundreds of pictures in his day, but this image was the funniest he’d ever seen: Miss Bristol had the pluck to be incensed when he asked such a simple question.
“Because you weren’t going to take me along! Even after I bared my soul to you—turned down better offers!—asked you very nicely to—” she sputtered, halting when she saw his black beard quiver with his grin. “Don’t think you can fool me, Tucker. I saw Michael give you that money. A bribe, so you wouldn’t be tempted to let me—”
“Ah, oui, the money. But you didn’t see me give it back?” he asked quietly. “Michael, he wanted to cover your expenses, ma belle, but I declined his offer. Because I planned to take you with me the moment I saw you yesterday.”
He paused to let this sink in, and to remind himself how he, too, had once behaved as only a reckless, self-serving sixteen-year-old could. But he had never used his looks to get what he wanted. And even now, at twenty-four, he’d get into deep trouble if he let his heart do all the talking.
“You won’t get far on your own, ma belle, jumping to untrue conclusions,” Tucker reasoned. He settled Sol with the stroke of his hand, gazing into Christine’s moonlit face. “What has upset you so?”
Of all the nerve, to stand there gazing up at her as though she were a witless little girl. “Why d
id you give me that song and dance about how crowded the wagon will be—”
“Because it will. Because I wanted you to understand, ma princesse, that I won’t leave Maman and her mysterious ways behind, simply because you wish I would.”
She glared, despising Tucker’s too-smooth voice. This despicable man was laughing at her! He’d intended all along to take her west, and it tickled him no end to catch her in a stupid mistake—
Yes, it was stupid, thinking you could charge into the darkness again, like that girl of thirteen, and have this man fall for you—just because you wish he would.
“I am not your princess!” she hissed, leaning toward him to drive her point home. “You have no idea what it’s like to—”
With a startled cry, she fell forward.
As Tucker caught her, he felt her body vibrating with exasperation . . . a lithe, light body rounded in all the right places, so womanly yet as full of fight as young Joel. He held her at arm’s length, with her legs and skirt splayed against Sol’s side. This moment would decide far too many things—set the tone for the entire trip—if he behaved rashly. He needed to be the mature one, the man both their futures depended upon.
Christine was wide-eyed, and looked mortified at getting caught. When her lips parted to rail at him again, she flailed and wiggled and kicked his horse.
Sol was the smart one; he stepped away.
She fell against Tucker, and he caught her in a kiss that stunned them both. Too many dreams and long, empty nights came rushing back at him with this first taste of her—the luck of this moonlit moment—and he couldn’t let them go unanswered. He crushed her close, not letting her touch the ground as his lips delivered the message she seemed so determined not to hear.
Christine couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think—and didn’t care. Wrapped in arms so strong, she only had to float and let this man lead her into the sweetness that surpassed all she’d imagined about this moment. A thousand times she’d wanted this kiss. His lips were soft and sweet like the sorghum on his corn cakes, moving restlessly against hers.
She’d always assumed lips stayed still when people kissed, yet she found her own mouth moving, too. Tucker’s beard teased her cheeks, and as she wrapped her arms around his neck, she felt him groan.
But he didn’t let go. He just kept tasting her, and holding the back of her head so she wouldn’t pull away.
As though she could.
When he finally set her on the ground, she got a good gulp of air and then shot up at him again.
Tucker laughed, hugging her; indulging the need he now knew would never go away. She would steal kisses every chance she got, unaware of the deeper need she inspired in him with every brush of her innocent lips. Closing his eyes, he rocked her and pressed his lips to hers. When he coaxed her mouth open and slid the tip of his tongue along her inner lips, Christine gasped and stepped back.
But it wasn’t fear in her eyes. It was delight.
The stomp of Sol’s hoof brought him back to the reality of this October night, where those at the house awaited their return. Taking in a ragged breath, he forced himself back to their conversation. “I—I have no idea about what it’s like to . . . What, chérie?”
Christine blinked, still riding the high tide of her pulse. They would have to go back to the house now, and everyone there would be watching them for signs of—and her hair was blowing loosely around her face, and her lips throbbed with the pressure he’d put on them. She could see the knowing expressions on their faces, and she hated being at their mercy. Miss Vanderbilt, Michael, and Mercy would no doubt lecture her about—
And then it was Mama’s frown she saw, the day she’d been caught kissing Jared Mayhew at the ice cream social. It was all Jared’s fault, of course, for being so careless, but she had caught the punishment! Yet Mama had been so brazen as to throw herself at that Englishman—
“You have no idea,” she told Tucker, “what it’s like to be betrayed by everyone you ever loved or trusted. First Mama running off, then Mercy and Miss Vanderbilt hiding your letters, and then—”
Tucker held her quaking body against his, seared by her pain once again. How could he help her see things from a different point of view? And then move past another false assumption?
“The Malloys—and your headmistress—” he murmured, fighting the urge to nuzzle her neck, “they love you, Christine. They have always hoped you’d find your mother without getting hurt any more.
“But you have seen them through the pieces of a little girl’s broken heart—just as you thought I was going to ride away without you because you saw money change hands,” he added softly. “Your disbelief has blinded you, ma petite.”
He looked into her pale face, so lovely in the moonlight. But wounded, like a little bird with a broken wing.
“Do you recall Saint Thomas, the apostle—Doubting Thomas?” he asked softly. “He had to see for himself—put his hands on the Lord’s wounds from those nails—before he could believe that Jesus had risen from the dead.”
Her fallen expression tugged at him. Christine wanted romance, and he’d given her a Sunday school lesson.
“I hope someday you will believe in this family—in their best wishes for you, Christine,” he finished earnestly. “Sometimes you must believe first, and then you will see the love in their faces, and in their hearts, for you.”
Christine buried her face against his warm, solid chest. He meant well—she heard that in his low, melodious voice. But sermons were the last thing she wanted from this man.
“Can we leave now?” she asked plaintively. “I heard your mother say—”
“Maman, she hates long good-byes. And people, they gush on and on about her healing,” he explained with a chuckle.
“She was trying to leave without me.”
No use in denying that. Tucker stepped back enough to look her in the eyes again, still hoping to win the moment. “Like you, ma princesse, Maman cannot always have what she wants. So we will go back for a night’s rest—and for your clothes,” he added with a pointed glance at the carpetbag on the ground. “We have a journey of several months ahead of us, and winter is closing in.”
“But you said there wasn’t enough room—”
“Christine,” he whispered. “Ma femme.”
She stopped midsentence, gazing at his parted lips and shining eyes, still wondering whether this moonlit moment was real. His woman.
“Do you believe there’s room in my heart for you?”
It was a query he didn’t sweeten with endearments, a question she could not ignore. She nodded solemnly.
“Eh, bien. There is room for you also in my wagon.”
Chapter Fourteen
Three weeks later, in late October.
I will NOT scream. I will NOT throw this pen at that despicable old Gypsy.
Gritting her teeth, Christine gripped the fountain pen poised above her letter to Billy. Bad enough to be caught in this downpour, which drowned out all rational thought and forced them to stay inside the wagon. Veronique Trudeau was performing her daily ritual, summoning her spirit guides and angels, with her back turned for more privacy while she prayed. If that chanting and muttering could be called prayer.
I will not scream! she reminded herself.
With a loud sigh she shifted on her pallet, which covered the top of Sol’s grain bin. The space she could call her own was about four feet long and three feet wide—and not nearly far enough away from that angel altar, where Tucker’s mother conjured up unseen beings that made her neck hairs prickle.
While spirit summonings and séances had always fascinated Christine, she put little stock in the infamous Fox sisters and their mysterious rappings. From what she’d heard, she wondered whether the world-renowned medium Daniel Dunglas Home was merely an accomplished magician and sought-after house guest of the wealthy. Their dealings with spirits from the Other Side had little connection to religion, the way she saw it. But Veronique’s rituals were di
fferent.
Séances were only as genuine as the mediums who conducted them, yet Christine couldn’t deny what she’d seen in Mercy’s bedroom. Temple Gates had been purged by those mighty angels, and she was starting a new life. What did this say about the power Tucker’s mother possessed?
The little woman was picking up the items on her altar—a rosary, small portraits and ambrotypes, a figurine of the Virgin Mary—and talking to them! As though she expected them to answer! The Latin cadence of the scriptures ran together with her Cajun French in a rush that sounded like nonsensical babbling. Did this woman speak in tongues, too?
Christine wanted to shriek. Wasn’t it enough that she’d been awakened last night—again!—by Veronique’s snoring?
Christine shifted impatiently, turning her back to that accented yammering. But it didn’t make Mrs. Trudeau talk any more quietly. And it blocked the light from her little lamp, so she couldn’t see to write.
Had she anticipated this togetherness back at the Malloys’ ranch, she might not have come along. She’d detested the dark, claustrophobic log house Mercy had first lived in, but never again would she call it confining. This was confinement—this wagon with bins on the walls and storage crates covering all but the center of the floor. How had Tucker imagined he could live this way for the months he planned to travel?
Pssst! Pssst!
She glanced over her shoulder but refused to laugh. Tucker, slung in his hammock a few feet away, was waggling those black eyebrows and sticking out his tongue at her. He was making the best of a trying situation—but of course, to him, there was nothing odd about his mother’s rituals. He’d designed this wagon knowing they could survive in it while he completed his commission.
And, man of his word, Tucker had made room for her in his little world. She was the one who couldn’t adjust.
But of course, she couldn’t report a word of this in her letter to Billy. Damn know-it-all. Why hadn’t she listened to him when he’d announced she wouldn’t last five minutes in here?
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