The mellow tones from Tucker’s accordion drifted upstairs, and she closed her eyes. Part of her wanted to be in the parlor, watching his face light up as he made his music . . . wrapping his arms around that fine old instrument the way she wished he’d hold her. He played softly, a sentimental song she recognized. It made her swallow hard and return to Mercy’s letter.
Joel keeps us all busy. Thank goodness Snowy and Spot love that boy because when he takes off down the road or across the fields, only they can coax him home. Billy thinks he goes out looking for Tucker’s wagon because he sometimes mentions Sol. He chatters about you in his sleep.
A tear dribbled down Christine’s cheek, landing with a splat on the page. Mercy might as well be driving that pen through her heart, the way those words made her ache. It didn’t help that downstairs Tucker was crooning, “ ‘Mid pleasures and palaces though we may-ay roam, be it ever so humble—’ ”
Christine blew loudly into her lace handkerchief. Mercy’s words shimmered before her watery eyes, but it was better than following Tucker’s tender song.
And Lily, too, asks about you every single day. You should see her now! Emma Clark’s barn cat had a litter, and Lily chose a ginger kitty she calls Kwis-teen. She carries it with her everywhere—
“ ‘—there’s no place like home,’ ” the Cajun continued, singing with heartfelt conviction as only he could. “ ‘A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there. . . .’”
Squeezing her eyes shut against a torrent of tears, Christine felt utterly, hopelessly alone. She couldn’t bear to read any more about the little girl who missed her, too. Nor could she escape the sweet, sentimental music that swept her into emotions she seldom explored . . . for fear she’d be swallowed alive, like Jonah by that whale, and never find herself again.
“ ‘Be it ever so humble,’ ” Tucker concluded with a poignant pause, “ ‘there’s no-oh place . . . like . . . hoooooome.’ ”
Christine crumpled, hugging her knees to hold body and soul together. How she longed to giggle with that little girl. And how she wished that kitty had any name but her own. She could hear Lily saying it so clearly, the Princess of Pink might as well be right here, climbing into her lap.
Matilda and Polly’s applause drifted upstairs, with Harley Carson’s compliments—for Tucker had sung the beloved song with the expression he always poured into whatever he loved.
But why did he have to pick that one? Why did he have to make her so aware, yet again, that she hadn’t known home for such a long time?
She had been thirteen when Mama left them—which seemed like a lifetime ago, considering all that had happened to her since—but the ache never ended. It lingered in the far corners of her heart, haunting her just when she thought she’d hardened herself and moved on.
For her, there truly was no place like home. And when she wasn’t afraid to face her fears—or couldn’t escape them while lying awake in the night—she wondered if home would ever be hers again.
Too miserable to read any more, Christine sprawled on the narrow bed to bury her face in the pillow. She cried for Lily and Joel and Solace, and for the way those border collies looked after them all—and Billy.
She cried for the comfortable routine at school, and for her friends and their gossip—and even for Miss Vanderbilt, who had warned her that chasing after Mama might not be a good idea. Would she never learn to listen?
And she cried because when they left North Platte and Mama’s Bible scam behind, they might find even more horrid evidence of Virgilia Bristol’s . . . heartlessness. A calculated cruelty Christine would never have believed had she not gotten caught up in its consequences.
But mostly Christine cried because she couldn’t turn back. As surely as her wayward mother had fled west with Richard Wyndham to avoid detection, the angel of Fate was crooking its finger, beckoning her to follow.
Chapter Eighteen
She looked so pale, seated beside him as they drove through the morning mist, that Tucker didn’t know what to say. Had her letter contained bad news?
Or was she still smarting because those ladies in North Platte had mistaken her for her cold-blooded mother? He’d cringed at every detail Sheriff Carson shared with him last night while Polly and Mrs. Padgett washed the dishes. That incident would’ve sent any other girl back to Kansas, yet Christine seemed to ponder these things in her heart . . . a heart filled with longing he wasn’t sure he could satisfy.
He cleared his throat. “If you wish to board the train and return home—”
“No!” she said sharply.
She gathered her deep green cloak around her as though she felt cold to the core. “Please understand, Tucker, that I won’t rest—I can’t stop searching—until I’ve found Mama. If she’s desperate enough to deceive widows with cheap Bibles, what else might Wyndham convince her to do?”
She paused, blinking bravely, so he slipped his arm around her.
“You’re right, chérie,” he murmured. “No matter what Mrs. Padgett said, I can’t believe that your mother is cruel enough to fool—”
“She’s not smart enough!” Christine blurted. “Mama has the charm and manners to manipulate people, but she could never have devised such a clever, conniving way to take those ladies’ money.”
What an awful thing to say about her own mother. But it was true, wasn’t it? Mama had always gotten what she wanted—especially from Daddy—by playing the helpless, innocent victim. The rub of it was that she herself had perfected this talent. Christine gazed at the treeless prairie around them, thinking how those low-slung gray clouds signaled snow.
Perfect. They would be trapped inside the wagon again.
Tucker hated to see Christine worry. What should he suggest? Her heart was set on finding her mother . . . Denver would mean another detour that would take him away from his work—but wasn’t finding Mrs. Bristol the reason her daughter was along? Should he mention Virgilia had been there? Conducting séances?
Or should he save Christine from further humiliation and pain? He wasn’t sure he trusted Harley Carson’s information, anyway—and by now, Wyndham and his woman had probably moved on.
“The family—everyone there is doing well, oui?” he asked, hoping to draw her out of her sorrow.
Everyone did a fine job of ripping my heart out, yes, she wanted to say. Good thing she’d never considered them family.
Christine inched closer to his body’s warmth. “It was a very nice letter,” she answered in a detached voice. “Mercy says Reuben and Sedalia Gates are living in her little log house now, and Temple is minding the . . . children.”
Tucker felt the drop in temperature that preceded a storm, painted in swirling, muddy grays ahead. But the tempest brewing beside him was potentially more devastating. Christine wouldn’t be avoiding his gaze with a quivering lip simply from reading about the hired help.
Should he press for details, or leave her to her private misery?
He smiled, with the best intentions. “They are a busy pair, Joel and Lily! When we get back, I’m betting that boy will want to ride Sol all by himself—even though his little legs won’t hold him on.”
When we get back . . . his little legs. . . . Christine pressed her lips together, determined not to cry again. Surely there were no tears left.
“And Lily, her hair shines like the sun,” he went on. “She’s too little to understand why you left her, ma belle.”
Will I ever understand why Mama left me? she thought before she could stop it. She’d never considered this from Lily’s angle—the questions and fears such a little angel didn’t even know the words for yet, about why her daddy had dumped her off. A tear slithered down Christine’s cheek, and she was a goner.
“She—she has a ginger kitty now,” she said in a wobbly voice. “Mercy says she . . . she named it Kwis-teeeeeeen.”
Christine slumped against him, and he pulled her close. Here it was—the real reason she looked so dejected. He’d thought a letter from people
who loved her would cheer her up.
Tucker sighed against her soft hair, whispering endearments and wishing he knew how to soothe her sobbing. So young to be so alone—smitten by his affection, yet still unsure where it might lead. As was he.
Was it fair to believe she could love him? To believe that at sixteen, this beautiful but sheltered girl understood the meaning of marriage? It was a commitment he longed to make—but only when Christine was ready.
More importantly, was it fair to discuss his love for her while she was so upset? After all, the one person in the world whose love she should never have doubted had abandoned her. That wound might never heal—unless he made Christine believe she was loved, and believe he would never leave her.
And a large part of that promise involved finding her mother, didn’t it? If he truly loved Christine, there could be no holding back, no holding out on what he knew.
As though on cue, Maman began her prayers inside the wagon. Was this a reminder that she’d fight his affection for Miss Bristol every step of the way—to keep the son she depended upon?
The first fat flakes of snow swirled around them with the promise of a full-blown storm to come. Tucker clucked to Sol and they traveled faster, fueled by the Percheron’s innate sense of a change in the weather.
Christine swiped at her eyes. Snowflakes stung her raw cheeks, and she knew Tucker would soon ask if she wanted to ride inside, where it was warm and dry.
She’d rather return to the jail cell in North Platte than endure the sing-song chanting within the wagon.
“Where are we going next?” she asked, trying to sound interested. “Taking photographs in this snow will be difficult if—”
“We’ll stop at the next station, chérie, and board the train,” he said, realizing now what he must do. “I have many photographs of the Nebraska plains already, so we can head on down the tracks.”
And then head to Denver, he vowed silently.
Christine shifted on the upholstered seat, settling herself as the train lurched away from yet another little station. While this day coach offered considerably less luxury than the hotel express car she’d imagined riding, it was better than being exposed to the snow—or confined with Veronique—while riding Tucker’s wagon.
She glanced behind her, to where his mother had stretched out in the bench built against the back wall—
As though anyone would sit beside an old Gypsy who might hex them! she mused.
Then she smiled up at Tucker. His broad shoulders took up so much of their seat, she brushed against him every time she moved—and the skirt of her green plaid traveling suit lapped over his legs even though she wasn’t wearing her hoops while they were on the road.
“You are too crowded, ma petite?” he asked, scooting toward the aisle.
“Don’t you dare move away from me,” she teased. The chatter of the other passengers—and the five benches separating them from Mrs. Trudeau—were providing a chance to flirt, and she refused to miss a minute of it. “Now—what’s in this mysterious box you’ve brought along?”
Tucker lifted the lid slowly, prolonging the suspense.
“Today, since it is snowy, we must make our own sunshine,” he offered. “While I have printed many fine photographs for the Union Pacific, you might enjoy the faces of your family more.”
The faces of your family. Images of Daddy and Wesley and Mama drifted through her mind. Would she ever see any of them—besides Billy—again?
But of course, Tucker wouldn’t understand how he unwittingly upset her whenever he called the Malloys her family. Damn. She’d just recovered from their letters and now this.
Christine fluttered her lashes so he wouldn’t realize she was crying; a little talent honed during lonely times at the academy . . . a lady’s way of rising above until she could deal with her feelings in private. The car was hazy with cigar smoke, so if Tucker asked, she’d say it was making her eyes water.
She glanced at the photograph he was lifting from the box. It didn’t help that the patched-together family posing between those porch pillars looked all of a piece: Michael smiled proudly over Joel’s mussed hair, while Mercy held a wide-eyed Solace on her knee and Lily stood grinning between them . . . holding hands with her and Billy.
“Oh, my,” she murmured, her fingertip following the length of that little dress she’d made.
Christine suddenly felt the grip of Lily’s fingers. She swallowed hard, for Tucker had captured everyone in such perfect, sharp detail—she even looked rather fetching, seated beside her growing-up brother. The lifelike clarity of his work made her insides clench with longing. How she missed these children!
“It’s a fine likeness, non?” Tucker agreed. “I’m glad that Michael wanted these photographs to remember his wedding day. The pride in his family is written all over his face.”
Christine felt a tear slip out and roll down her cheek. She realized Tucker was only trying to brighten her mood, but she was more homesick—or heartsick—than she wanted to admit.
“And how about this?” he coaxed as he slipped the print behind the others and brought out a new one. “Sometimes, the best pictures take me by surprise.”
Christine giggled in spite of herself. There sat Billy, grinning like the imp he used to be, with Joel and Lily beaming at her from each of his knees. They looked so excited, they might just say something. Snowy and Spot sat alert and bright-eyed on each side of him, ready to bark out their orders.
But it was Solace who stole the show. She was standing on Billy’s shoulders as he held her, with her arms out like a circus rider’s and a daredevil grin that made Christine laugh out loud.
“Look at her!” she exclaimed, not caring if other passengers turned around to stare. “Eight months old and fearless. Spreading her wings to fly.”
Tucker chuckled fondly. “And someday she will. Maman, she believes this little baby will amaze us someday. Felt the spirit of her father protecting her. He was killed before she was born, non?”
“Yes. Judd Monroe was a magnificent man,” Christine said.
This thought nipped at her. Plenty of times she’d railed against Judd’s plainspoken sense of right and wrong—mostly when he’d expected better of her. What surprised her more was that Veronique Trudeau had discussed this with her son. The seer not only believed the baby with the dark curls and bottomless brown eyes had a special destiny, but she apparently planned to watch Solace grow into it.
As she pondered this, Christine could feel those tiny black eyes peering at the backs of their heads—so pointedly she could almost hear the old witch telling her to move away from Tucker!
“She’s watching us,” Christine sighed.
Tucker frowned, glancing at the passengers around them. “Who do you say is—”
“Your mother. She hates me, Tucker. She hasn’t said one word to me in nearly three weeks.” Her words came out in a frustrated rush, despite the way people nearby could hear her. “It’s not like she can’t speak English—she just won’t.”
“Maman, she does not hate you, chérie,” he murmured. “She doesn’t yet know you, so she doesn’t understand you. What we don’t understand, we fear.”
“Oh, she understands. She knows how I feel about you.” Aware that her voice was rising, Christine sneaked a peek behind her.
Sure enough, Veronique Trudeau was sitting upright now, looking at them as though the rows of passengers between them didn’t exist.
Tucker shrugged, brushing her shoulder with his as he fought a grin. “All right, so she knows you are—how do you say?—crazy for me,” he teased. “Maman, she is afraid of losing me to you—even though I’ve promised I will never leave her.”
Why did this man’s feelings for his mother scrape her like sandpaper? Why didn’t he declare his independence?
“She’s afraid?” Christine blurted. “My God, she summons angels! She directs invisible forces—”
“But she cannot control her little boy.” He wiggled his dark eyebrows
, grinning mischievously—first at her, then over his shoulder. “I adore pretty women, and I have chosen you, ma joie. She will know, someday, that I chose well.”
Before she could protest again, Tucker leaned down to kiss her. His hands remained on the box of photographs, but his mouth left no doubt about how he felt about her. How he wanted her.
Such soft lips, moist and warm, framed by a silky beard her fingers found themselves stroking—until she gasped and pulled away. How had she forgotten that his mother was watching them? That dozens of other people could see them kissing, right here in public!
Incorrigible, Tucker remained close enough that his eyes glimmered, mere inches above hers. “Perhaps, ma petite, you should fight fire with fire,” he whispered suggestively. “It is Saint Michael, the head of all the archangels, who can remove our doubts and fears. If you pray to him for help with Maman, to help her see—”
“In my church, we don’t pray to angels.”
She immediately regretted saying that, since these intimate moments were so seldom. When a handsome, affectionate man was trying to help her, she really shouldn’t defy him.
“Then to God you should pray. You can go no higher, after all,”Tucker quipped. “The Lord, He hears the smallest of our prayers and answers every one of them. Sometimes not in the way we want—or in ways we can see—but He answers. He cares.”
Stifling a sigh, Christine shifted away from him. She’d been soaring on the currents of his kiss, but now he was waxing religious, like Michael Malloy or Judd Monroe. It was silly to wish he’d continue along that more romantic path while they were being watched by the very woman they discussed, so Christine focused on his next picture.
She stood between Mercy and Miss Vanderbilt. With their similar upswept hairstyles and figures, this might well have been a three-generation portrait—had they been family.
Journey to Love (Angels of Mercy) Page 16