So Tucker shrugged in that offhand Cajun way. No need for this man to know every little thing until he could find out what had happened to Christine.
“My banker in Atchison, he complained about how this man—Richard Wyndham is one of the names he goes by—wrote a check on a fake account,” Tucker explained carefully. “This couple, I had just taken their wedding portrait—displayed it in my front window—where Miss Bristol first found it.”
Carson nodded, remaining silent.
“After that poor little girl, she came so far to find her mama—and after my banker, he lost his money—” Tucker dodged artfully, “I wanted to help the law find these people. You have seen them, perhaps?”
The slightest smile played on the sheriff’s face.
“The two of them passed through here. Couple of years ago,” he clarified. “And yes, Mr. Trudeau, I’ve met Miss Bristol today, as well. She’s in my jail because Mrs. Padgett and her friends mistook her for Virgilia Bristol. The resemblance is amazing, don’t you think?”
“My Christine? She is in jail? But why—she has surely done nothing so wrong—”
“I’m holding her for her own protection,” the lawman answered, straightening to his full height. “She says you’re taking her west as a favor, but if there’s some sort of funny business going on—”
“Mais non!” Tucker insisted, scowling with his own suspicions. “My maman, she is with us! Michael Malloy, he has sent telegrams along the Union Pacific line, asking for word about Wyndham and Christine’s mama—saying Christine is with me, non?”
Carson’s face remained carefully composed. “It’s a mighty unusual arrangement—”
“It’s an unusual situation.”
Tucker stuffed his hands in his pockets, fighting the urge to shake some straight answers from this presumptuous little sheriff. “And Christine, she is an unusual girl, wanting to find her mother—to bring her home. It is three years since Mrs. Bristol abandoned her, but I have to help her, non? I simply cannot—”
“You’re in love with her.”
Tucker gasped. “Oui,” he admitted quietly. “From the moment I met her, I have lived to see Christine again—to make her dreams come true. I cannot fail her now.”
Silence shimmered between them, and then—as though some unseen hand had wiped the slate clean—Sheriff Carson smiled.
“All right, Mr. Trudeau. Since you and I want the same thing for Miss Bristol, I’ll tell you that last I heard, her mother was doing business as a medium in Denver,” he said quietly. “Conducting séances, and quite successful at it. You can do what you like with that information, but I’ll warn you: Christine learned some . . . unflattering things about her mother today.”
Tucker’s gut tightened. “What things?”
The sheriff sighed reluctantly. “Mrs. Padgett was none too happy to be reminded about how Virgilia and Richard Wyndham hoodwinked her and her friends with a Bible-selling scheme,” he said. “So I advise you to move along tomorrow on your railroad business. Christine might be better off not finding that mother of hers, if you know what I’m saying.”
Tucker figured he’d heard all this lawman was willing to share. But what if he’d made that remark about Denver to get rid of them? To mislead them—or give them false hopes, after so much time had gone by?
“Merci. Is a tricky situation, non?” he replied cautiously. “My negatives, I will send them. Then I’ll come by the jail for Christine—”
“I’ll take her back to Mrs. Padgett’s. She—well, you know how girls are,” Carson said with a grin. “Give her time to fix herself up while I smooth Matilda’s ruffled feathers. We’ll all be better off for that.”
Tucker watched the sheriff start toward the boardinghouse, past the shops and churches that marked North Platte as a settled, respectable town now. Then he went to the wagon and poked his head inside.
Maman was sitting on her bed. Her arms were folded and her eyes were bright. She’d clearly heard every word between him and the sheriff.
“You knew about Mrs. Bristol being in Denver, non?”
She pointed her nose toward the ceiling, as though answering him was beneath her. Still peeved at him for taking that detour to Abilene, which had led him back to Miss Bristol, no doubt.
“She is still there?” he demanded. “You could find her, with your spirit guides? Or by holding something that belonged to her?”
“C’est un mensonge,” she muttered. “Je n’aime pas le shérif ou son village. Allons, maintenant. Sans Christine.”
Tucker shut the door with an exasperated sigh. He would not leave Christine here just because his mother didn’t like the sheriff or this town. Why did women have to be so damned difficult?
He stuck his head inside again. “He knows about the poster, Maman. I think we should tell Christine that—”
“Fermez la bouche!”
Her tongue-lashing stung. But he saw no point in having both women mad at him if he revealed their little secret. Just as there was no point in pressing Maman to eat and sleep at the boardinghouse. Her mood would only get worse.
“You knew Christine was in jail, didn’t you? Because she’d been mistaken for her mama?”
His mother let out an exasperated gasp, pointing her nose in the opposite direction.
“Answer me! She has been upset enough by her own mother’s trickery,” he declared. “I won’t have her hurt by yours as well.”
Maman’s obsidian gaze shot through the dimness like a bullet. Tucker felt her hostility, her alienation—her fear—so keenly, he stepped backward out of the wagon, quickly shutting the door. There was no reasoning with Veronique Trudeau once she summoned her spirits and the mental powers that set her apart from everyone else in his world.
So he entrusted his crate of negatives to the chatty station agent, claimed a letter awaiting Christine—and then remembered his agreement with Mike Malloy.
North Platte, Nebraska. All goes well, his message said.
“I’ll send this telegram right away, sir,” the station agent said when Tucker laid extra money on the counter. “And when ya have a spare minute, why—me ’n the wife, we’d like to sit for a pitcher. Got us a purty little place out in the country, where there’s sunflowers tall as giraffes in the summer and—”
Tucker pasted on a patient grin. “I must rescue—how you say?—a damsel in despair now. You have a livery stable nearby, oui?”
The man blinked and adjusted his spectacles. “Yessir, we have a place right over yonder, where that big ole horse of yours can wee all it wants. Better’n him makin’ a lake outta Mrs. Padgett’s front yard, don’tcha know?”
Chapter Seventeen
“. . . and deliver us from the evil in this world, oh Lord, as you deliver us from those who would deceive us,” Polly prayed fervently. “Bless this food to the use of those who love You, and who make it their business to do Your will.”
“Amen,” her sister Matilda chimed in.
As Tucker crossed himself beside her, Christine couldn’t help thinking how different this prayer sounded, compared to the way Michael Malloy offered thanks. But then, these two widows hadn’t ever planned to see her again. When she’d arrived with Harley Carson, Polly had to fetch the rest of her clothes from a heap outside the back door.
Mrs. Padgett sprang up to remove the lids from the vegetable bowls. “You’ll have to excuse me for having less of a dinner cooked up, Harley. I hadn’t planned on you or Miss Bristol joining us,” she said tartly.
“We’ll make do, Matilda.” He reached for the platter in front of him, smiling smugly. “Things aren’t always what they seem.”
“Humph!” Polly grunted, passing the bowl of boiled potatoes to Tucker. “We women have to watch out for ourselves, now that the train brings every part and parcel of humanity to our door!”
Had she not been so tired from today’s misadventures, Christine would’ve enjoyed watching these ladies chafe at her presence while refusing to apologize for their error.
She could imagine Miss Vanderbilt sitting tall, quietly triumphant. So that’s what she did, too.
“It was an easy mistake since Miss Bristol looks so much like her mother,” the sheriff continued. He stabbed a second pork chop, disregarding Polly’s scowl. “But we can’t help admiring Christine for hunting her down. We never outgrow the need for our mother’s love, now do we?”
Was the lawman going to use this meal as a chance to pour salt on everyone’s wounds? Christine kept her eyes on the plateful of potatoes and pork she didn’t have the stomach for, avoiding another of her hostess’s poisoned looks. Matilda Padgett despised being wrong. And, seeing how Harriet Butterfield had treated her son, no one could miss Mr. Carson’s knife-edged sentiment about a mother’s love.
“Oui, this is why I brought Christine west,” Tucker cut in cordially. “I could not imagine worrying about my own mother—what a man like Richard Wyndham might force her to do.”
“Oh, there’s no doubt Mrs. Bristol enjoyed her work,” their hostess snipped. “Why, she cried like a baby over my grievous loss—and then purred like a happy cat when I paid for—”
“And where is your mother, Mr. Trudeau?”
Harley Carson gazed across the table at the Cajun, as though he knew the answer but was fishing for more. “Surely she’d like to join us for this fine meal, since you’ve paid for it. And no doubt she’d enjoy a fresh bed, too.”
Tucker made a point of swallowing and wiping his mouth—a move that had Christine watching the sharp sparkle of a challenge in his aquamarine eyes. She was greatly relieved that Mrs. Trudeau had stayed in the wagon, but she knew better than to let on.
“Maman, she is very shy. Very private,” he replied in his most charming accent. “And, coming from the bayou of Louisiana, her English, it is not so good. I will take her a plate after we’ve finished—if I may?”
Matilda Padgett fluttered her lashes like a debutante as Tucker fixed her in his flirtatious gaze. “Why, certainly,” she replied. “But I can’t imagine any woman wanting to sleep in a wagon, in a smelly old stable, when she could—”
“She feels closer to Jesus there.” Tucker lowered his voice in reverence, widening his eyes at her. “Jesus, He was born in a stable, non?”
“No! Er, yes—yes, of course He was,” Matilda twittered.
The five of them ate in silence then, with the clicking of tines against china and the ticking of the mantel clock marking the moments of their discomfort. Polly seemed to be counting the spoonfuls of potatoes the sheriff took, while Matilda couldn’t feed herself fast enough.
When she’d devoured her final bite, she hopped up from her chair. “I’ll fetch our dessert now. I’ve made a raisin pie I think you’ll all enjoy.”
Eager for something to do, Christine began scraping their plates. Today’s unexpected events had exhausted her, and the conversation was becoming strained. Had Miss Vanderbilt been here, she would’ve initiated some fascinating—safe—topic to elevate the room’s mood.
But again, this wasn’t the academy. It was the choice she’d made, and it was beginning to chafe like a cheap corset.
Polly snatched the stack of plates from her hands, then stalked toward the kitchen.
“I—I believe I’ll go to my room now,” Christine said. “I couldn’t eat another bite, and a real bed sounds heavenly after the day I’ve had.”
Tucker stood up, concern etching his face.
“You are all right, oui?” he asked, gently testing her forehead for fever. “When I take Maman’s plate, I will bring back my accordion. So perhaps you will stay here and sing with me?”
It touched her that Tucker wanted her to be with him, but Christine shook her head. How could she tell him the awful details about her bath without dredging up Mrs. Padgett’s animosity—and her own—again?
“I’ll listen from upstairs. You can play me a lullaby, all right?”
Tucker leaned closer, smiling as he did only for her. And despite the tattoo of Mrs. Padgett’s returning footsteps and Polly’s gasp, and Sheriff Carson watching them from across the table, he kissed her softly on the lips.
Christine sucked in her breath, desperate for more. They’d just crossed the line of polite public courtship—which meant Matilda and her sister would stay awake into the night, listening for Tucker to slip into her room.
And how she wished he would!
“A lullaby, of course I will play,” he whispered. Then he pulled something from his shirt pocket. “This letter, it was waiting for you at the train station, chérie. You’d rather read it alone, non?”
A letter! Her pulse pounded like wild drums when she saw it was from Abilene. The Malloys and the children they’d taken in weren’t her family, but these weeks away from school—apart from her friends and familiar routine—had taught her a new appreciation for the life Billy now lived on the Triple M Ranch.
“Thank you,” she whispered, and after bidding the sisters and the sheriff good night, she hurried up to her room.
Christine closed the door with her backside while opening the letter. She saw Mercy’s perfect script first, and then a folded page of Billy’s irregular scrawl, and even a few paragraphs from Michael. This was a treat, indeed! She forced herself to sit in the sewing rocker beside the bed, turn up the lamp, and draw a deep breath before devouring their news. She had to make this unexpected pleasure last awhile.
Dear Sis, she deciphered, sighing over the way Billy’s penmanship disgraced the page. We’re all doing fine here, but we miss you something fierce.
She paused, a knot in her throat. This was her little brother, after all—the one who would rather romp with his dogs and rhapsodize over Asa’s pie than write about his feelings.
I sure hope you aren’t causing Tucker too much trouble with your queenly ways—
That was more like it!
—and I thank you for being hardheaded enough to hunt for Mama again. After seeing what that land office scheme cost the Gates family, I hope you don’t run on to any more of her and Wyndham’s tricks.
“Oh, Billy, it’s best you don’t know,” she sighed. Blinking, she tucked his page behind the others, to finish reading when she wasn’t so tired. So heartsick.
Michael’s squarish printing beckoned her next. Christine, honey, we keep you in our prayers every day, and ask God to guide your journey. While I realize you’re angry at your mama, I also understand that deep down, you want her restored to her rightful place in your life, and in your heart.
A shuddery sigh escaped her, for the words came to her in Michael Malloy’s calm, reassuring voice. As always, he had seen her secret needs—and right now, his sincerity was more than she could stand. This page went behind Billy’s, and Christine gazed out the window toward the street.
In the darkness, she saw her candlelit reflection: pensive and sad, she looked. Older. Not the least bit inclined to practice her smile so she could attract Tucker’s affections.
“What a difference a day makes,” she mused aloud.
From the parlor she heard tentative accordion chords. Tucker had returned. And while she longed to watch Tucker’s eyes dance as he played, she needed this time away from the wary looks and pinched dignity that Polly and Matilda didn’t wear very well.
She sat straighter, mustering the strength Agatha Vanderbilt would expect of her. The headmistress taught that even while walking through the Valley of the Shadow, a lady behaved with courage and fortitude. Christine wished she’d paid closer attention to such lessons. Who could’ve guessed she would ever need such reassurance?
She smoothed the final page, determined to read it. Mercy’s writing flowed the way this capable, compassionate woman spoke: chatty, yet filled with news she needed to hear. Many times this woman’s saintly ways had provoked her envy and anger—but truth be told, it was Mercy she looked up to. Mercy to whom she owed such an incredible debt of gratitude.
Dearest Christine, the pretty script began.
In her mind, Mercy’s chestnut hair and ki
nd brown eyes took on the glow of the lamplight she’d be writing by, probably at the new desk in the parlor.
I hope your journey with Tucker is going well, and that you’ve found a way to stay sane as you share that wagon with him and his mother! I sounded less than enthusiastic about this trip, I know, but I’m so proud of you for taking it. It can’t be easy, finding a woman who disappeared years ago—especially considering what we’ve learned about her since then.
My heart goes out to you, dear. Again, I’m truly sorry if tucking away those letters hindered your mission. Aunt Agatha, too, realizes you always intended to find your mother, so “protecting” you from her and Tucker was our silly mistake. I hope you’ve forgiven us.
Christine gripped the page. The anger and resentment she’d hurled at Mercy—on her wedding day, no less—had subsided after these weeks of bumping along the rutted prairie. She suddenly longed for the soothing sound of this woman’s voice, in person rather than in this letter. What she wouldn’t give to be sitting in that parlor now, working a sampler while Mercy quilted.
She blinked and read on.
You’ll be pleased to know that Temple Gates has made a full recovery. She helps with the cleaning and keeps track of Lily, Solace, and Joel while I make this beautiful new house a home. You’ll love the lace curtains I’ve sewn for your room!
Reuben and Sedalia have settled into the log house on my homestead, and we’ll hire two more hands to manage the stock and the planting come spring. Asa does most of our cooking, although his old bones are hurting him more as the cold weather comes on.
And your brother—he’s remarkable when it comes to training the horses. Since that pamphlet appeared, we’ve had several cattlemen stop by (including Obadiah Jones, Mrs. Barstow’s new husband). They’re choosing our best three-year-olds for Billy to train over the winter, so they can claim these fine Morgans when they drive their herds here next year. He won’t say so, but he’s pretty “dang”proud of himself.
Christine’s throat tightened. Maybe she should’ve held Billy to his offer to search for Mama . . . but no. He’d found a home with people he loved, and training horses had always been his special talent. She didn’t expect him to give all that up for a mother who’d abandoned them.
Journey to Love (Angels of Mercy) Page 15