Swiping at her eyes, Christine left the postmaster’s office and crossed the lobby, a tight smile concealing the wild throbbing of her heart. Once outside, she walked slowly, gazing at the ornate building facades. No sense in considering the hotel where she and the Trudeaus had stayed, for she hardly had money enough for a meal. Although the intersecting street looked familiar, she wouldn’t walk that way. Mama planned to return to that splendid house for the finery she’d left behind.
But that wasn’t her concern right now.
An invisible hand seemed to lead her. Christine passed more shops until she spotted the brick building with its arched windows of stained glass. She looked up at the rose window above the massive double doors and stepped inside. Divine magic.
The sanctuary was deserted, as she’d hoped. The Virgin Mary stood in the front corner, her porcelain face aglow from the flickering candles at her feet. The dark, carved statuary waited in the dim silence with the patience of saints.
Christine grinned. If her little speech had worked, she’d have company soon. And if not, well—she was exactly where she needed to be, wasn’t she?
Chapter Thirty-one
“Christine! What in God’s name are you—this is a Catholic church!”
She remained silent, gazing at the radiant faces of Christ and his mother—the painting at the back of the sanctuary, where the rose window blessed her with its breathtaking pastel tenderness. As before, Jesus and Mary returned her affection, their hearts aflame with heavenly purpose. They had welcomed her back, warming her with their holy presence and unconditional love, so she was in no hurry to break the peaceful spell they’d cast.
It was Divine magic, just like last time. And despite the trials of these past several days, Christine believed this grace and love was still hers for the asking.
“Answer me!” Mama’s insistent whisper came again. “I had to promise those men—”
“I’m talking to Jesus, Mama. It’s rude of you to interrupt.”
She kept gazing at that beautiful bearded face. Please, Jesus, help me do the right thing. Even if it means walking away for real this time.
“All right, then, Miss Holier-Than-Thou. Now I suppose you’ll tell me He’s answering you back.”
Breathing deeply, drawing upon the ageless serenity reflected in the faces above her, Christine faced her mother.
“Matter of fact, He is,” she replied quietly. “Don’t tell me a medium can’t believe we hear messages from the Spirit if we ask our questions and then listen.”
Mama blinked. Then she arched her eyebrow. “You may be sixteen, but you are still my—”
“Seventeen, Mama. The day we ate with Mr. Acree. Remember?”
Somehow she found the nerve to keep looking at her mother, resigned to the conversational shenanigans that would follow. And somehow she remained dry-eyed as Mama’s face registered disbelief, and then realization, and then . . . remorse?
“It doesn’t seem possible I have a daughter that old. Why, when I was your age, I had you, dear,” she mumbled. Then she gazed at the walls around them, searching for an easier topic. “This is all very strange to me, Christine. I—I don’t know what to do in a church where Jesus and Mary have flaming hearts and—”
Christine heard her mother’s rising agitation and refused to knuckle under. “What you do now isn’t my concern, Mama,” she stated. “For you, I turned my back on a wonderful man and the life we were planning together. I hope it’s not too late to correct that mistake.”
How odd it seemed—how disheartening—to explain proper church behavior to the very woman who’d taught her such things! Christine walked slowly up the aisle, with Mama following like a petulant child.
“If you don’t want to pray, you can sit in a pew until I’ve finished,” she suggested, gesturing toward the front row. “I have a lot of things to discuss.”
Mama gasped. “Then why are you walking up to Mary? We Protestants don’t believe in praying to—”
Christine pivoted, to silence her mother with the same pointed glare she’d received as a child.
Mama slipped into the front pew, looking nervous.
What was going on here? It didn’t seem right, bullying her mother in a church, so Christine took a deep breath. She lit a candle at Mary’s feet, and then another—not knowing why, except that it felt like the right thing to do. A way to shed light on an unfamiliar path.
“Mary knows a lot about a mother’s love,” she began, looking up to the Blessed Virgin for assistance.
And Mary’s love shone down on her, while the candles flickered their encouragement as well.
With a grateful smile, she went on.
“Mary knew that no matter how much she loved her son, He had to suffer and die—for fools like you and me, Mama,” Christine explained with sudden enlightenment. “We try to arrange things our way. We believe we can handle everything by ourselves. And then we whine and cry when it doesn’t turn out right.”
Glancing back, she took Mama’s wary expression as a sign she’d better make her point. “Jesus must be very disappointed about how long it takes us to live His way. I need all the help I can get, Mama, if I’m to win Tucker back. So if you’ll excuse me—”
Christine walked slowly back to the painting, focusing on it despite her jumbled thoughts. What sort of theological corner had she painted herself into? Why was she preaching to a mother who’d gone to church to see what the other women wore, when she herself had paid so little attention to Scripture and its lessons?
And yet, as she stood again before that sacred painting, Christine felt peaceful for the first time in weeks.
What can I say to make this work out? she mused as she gazed into Jesus’s loving face. I’m in over my head, you know. If Judd were here—or Michael—they’d be turning to precisely the right Bible passage to—
What does the Lord require of you, Christine?
Her jaw dropped. In her mind she was thirteen again, reading Mercy’s stitched samplers in that log-walled parlor with Judd Monroe. The voice of that handsome, righteous man rang in her ears now, just as it had in her dream:
To do justice, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with your God.
It was that simple—and that difficult—wasn’t it?
Humility—and its close cousin, humiliation—were easier to come by these days, so maybe the Lord was pleased that she was trying to walk with Him, and trying to bring Mama along. Mercy was a little harder to manage, considering the stunts her mother had pulled. But justice—now there was something that seemed a feasible, tangible goal.
Christine turned to find Mama standing at the end of a pew, watching her closely. She smiled. This was her mother, after all. She was alive and well, even if she was proving herself a real handful.
“So what did you promise the postmaster and Mr. Carson, Mama?”
Mama blinked. Had she already forgotten that conversation? Or was she revising it?
“I told Carlton—for he will always be Carlton Harte to me,” she added, “that, if it would make him happy, we’d stop in North Platte to make amends.”
Christine nodded. Why did she suspect Mama had blurted out whatever pretty promises the two men required to get out of going to court—and then get out of that office to follow her?
“That’s a start,” she said, watching Mama’s eyes for signs of insincerity. “And how did you convince the postmaster? Mr. Klinestettler impresses me as a man who likes to make ladies stew in their own juices.”
Mama let out a disgusted snort. “I wasn’t happy about it, but I signed a statement saying the money in those envelopes will be returned to the fools who sent it. Nasty man—wouldn’t let me open even a few for traveling cash! And he assured me the other mailboxes were empty, too. Life was a lot easier before the telegraph, dear.”
Christine wanted so badly to laugh, but she kept her mirth to herself. “They’ve let you off, then. What else did they say?”
Virgilia Bristol smoothed her hair with t
he air of a very satisfied woman. “I pointed out what a fine, upstanding young lady you’ve become, and assured them that if they released me into your custody, I would return home a changed woman. No more land schemes. No more lotteries. Just a mother happy to be back in the bosom of her family.”
Christine caught the sparkle in Mama’s eyes. “And?”
Her mother feigned innocence, but then chuckled. “Detective Harte intends to check on me from time to time. I insisted he darken his hair and grow a mustache, however. He looks as bland as a baby’s backside without one, don’t you think?”
“Mama, you’re incorrigible!”
Her mother shrugged, unhooking the gloves from her reticule. “There are women in this world who thrive without a man, my dear, but I’ve never been one of them.”
She paused, as though that statement had cost her something. “Take your time here, Christine. I’ll be waiting for you at the house. We’ll head back to Cheyenne, and catch that Pullman car to Kansas, whenever you’re ready.”
She sensed Mama had emerged the winner of this conversation—of this entire situation in Denver. But they were still speaking to each other, and the proceeds from the schemes she and Richard had concocted would be returned. If a Pinkerton operative said he’d remain involved, well—things would stay legal, anyway.
Christine looked at the painting of Mary and Jesus again, smiling. “Thank you,” she murmured. “I should’ve known You were in charge all along.”
When they were once again rolling along the tracks full-speed, Christine had to admit this Pullman hotel car had its advantages. While the reclining seats in the first-class cars were quite comfortable, it was much nicer to sleep in a real bed, and to watch the passing scenery from a wing chair beside their plate-glass window.
As she glanced at the listing of towns along their way, she estimated they’d arrive at North Platte in about an hour. Mama must’ve composed her apology during the night, for she poured her morning tea and buttered a slice of warm, nut-studded Christmas bread as though she were ready to meet Harriet Butterfield again. Making amends, so her budding romance with Harley Carson wouldn’t have that black cloud of deceit hanging over it.
And yet, as Christine watched the signs and depots whizzing past, she realized they weren’t stopping in all the smaller towns. Usually it was farmers taking things to market in larger cities who got on in these places, or travelers visiting family members. Now that stagecoaches had all but disappeared along the Union Pacific route, it was more convenient to ride the train.
Had that last sign said North Platte? Wasn’t that the depot they’d just rolled past?
Christine scowled through the window at the tracks behind them. “Mama, we missed our stop! I’d better go tell the conductor—”
Mama’s smiled, wide-eyed but hardly innocent.
“Sit down and finish your breakfast, dear,” she said smoothly, spooning up some strawberry preserves. “This is the express train, which only stops where ticketed passengers get on and off. And our tickets are for Abilene, aren’t they?”
Chapter Thirty-two
A blast of snowy wind whipped at her mantle as Christine stepped from the Pullman car’s warmth onto the platform.
The porter gripping her hand flashed a wide grin that looked especially white against his dark skin. “Merry Christmas to you, Miss Bristol! You and your mama have a wonderful holiday!”
Christmas? While it had to be at least the twenty-second of December, her mind had been so occupied with Mama—with the journey of her lifetime—that she’d shoved holiday thoughts aside.
You’ve done it! she realized. You’ve brought Mama back, just like you vowed to three years ago.
Now what?
Her mother stepped down beside her, gazing around as she smoothed the red fox trim on her bonnet. “Well, now! Abilene’s a much bigger town than when I last saw it. No doubt we’ll find plenty of opportunities to—”
“Mama, we have no gifts for the Malloys. No—”
“Christine! Christine, over here!”
She turned to see a wiry redhead dashing toward her, and her heart pounded into a gallop. “Billy! How did you know—”
“You did it, Sis! Just like you always said! And now here’s—here’s Mama!”
The gangly young man, now a few inches taller than she was and speaking in a voice that cracked with adolescence and emotion, stood gazing at their mother as though he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
“My stars, Billy,” Mama murmured, her gloved fingers fidgeting as she gazed at him. “Last time I saw you—why, you’ve become a man!”
He lunged at her with a cry that rang around the platform. As his arms encircled her, Mama’s laughter and tears mingled with his—ascending into a delirious whoop of joy when he whirled her around. His hat blew off, but he didn’t notice. Passengers around them chuckled and stepped out of their way.
Now why didn’t I think of that?
Christine watched them with an envious sigh. Hadn’t Billy always cut through the emotional underbrush to the love that really mattered instead of questioning every detail? Three years of Mama’s connivery hadn’t changed the fact that he would always be her baby—her best boy—while Christine remained the responsible daughter.
“Billy! Oh, Billy!” she cried as she embraced him. When he set her down again, Mama stepped back to smooth his windblown hair and study the changes in his face.
“Your sister has taken it upon herself to become my conscience,” she said with a wry chuckle, “so thank God you can just be my son!”
With a wave of some invisible wand, their mother had erased—or at least pardoned herself for—the torment she’d caused Billy when she took off in Richard Wyndham’s surrey. Christine watched them sadly, managing a smile for Michael Malloy as he slipped his arm around her.
“Welcome home, honey. It’s so good to see you!”
His mustache tickled when he kissed her cheek, and then she threw her arms around him. She blotted her hot tears against the rough wool of his coat, determined not to get sappy—or to appear bitter about how Mama was still making over her younger brother.
“Guess things got scary out in San Francisco,” Michael murmured, rocking her as he held her close. “And maybe . . . maybe finding your mama hasn’t been the rose-colored reunion you dreamed it would be.”
Christine clung to him, soaking up the warmth of words intended just for her. More than once she could’ve strangled this man for bossing her around, but right now he knew exactly how to soothe her battered soul.
“Maybe she doesn’t love you the way you want to be loved,” he went on softly, “but I’ve met a lot of mothers in my day, and most of them love us as best they can. My sisters were all jealous of the way Ma coddled me, too—as her baby and the apple of her eye. But it wasn’t because she loved me more, honey. She just overlooked more.”
Christine sniffled, listening closely. Michael made her feel like she was entering a warm, sunny parlor after getting caught in a blizzard.
“We’re so proud of you, Christine,” he went on. “Going all the way across the country—not letting the unfortunate facts change your mind or your mission. I understand you saved her life . . . in ways she might not thank you for. I hope what you’ve just given Billy for Christmas will turn into a gift for you, too, honey.”
Blinking, she raised her head to give him a tremulous smile. “He and I have a lot to talk about—but I won’t bother him with the details just yet,” she added. “One of us might as well be happy.”
She looked directly into Michael’s soulful eyes. Was it her imagination, or did they match the ones she’d seen when she talked to Jesus?
“How do you know so much about my trip?” she quizzed. “And how’d you and Billy know which train we’d be on?”
Michael’s mustache twitched. “What did we do before we had the transcontinental railroad—and the telegraph?” he teased. “All right, I’ll confess: I asked Tucker to keep us informed of
your progress, and any important information, as you made your way west—although his telegrams left more out than they revealed. And we got your mother’s message, saying you were ready to leave Cheyenne.”
He steered her aside then, as the porters stacked their trunks and valises on the platform.
“Let’s go home, Christine,” he added before she could protest his methods. “I know some folks who just can’t wait to see you.”
She quivered with excitement as Michael’s carriage pulled into the familiar driveway. A white wrought-iron archway proudly proclaimed the Triple M Ranch, displaying its cattle brand between ornamental horse heads. The picket fence was capped in snow, and wreathes with huge red bows decorated the twin pillars of the front porch. This was not her home, yet—
Why not? Home is where the heart is, right?
Christine let Billy point things out to Mama as they rolled past the white two-story house, where wisps of smoke rose cozily from the chimneys. She was determined not to neglect a single detail of this place she didn’t realize she’d missed so much.
“There’s Snowy and Spot,” he said, waving at the two Border collies that ran from the porch to greet them. “They were born in the barn at Mercy’s place, and my friends Emma and Gabe raised the other two.”
But it wasn’t the dogs Christine was gazing at. There in the corral—could that be Sol? Or did the Malloys now breed Percherons in addition to the Morgans they’d always raised?
She pondered this mystery as Billy opened the carriage door for them.
“Ever’body comes in through the kitchen, Mama,” he said as he helped her down. “Just like back home—’cept we don’t have no Beulah Mae chasin’ us out with her broom!”
Mama sniffed indignantly, stepping onto the shoveled path so her pumps wouldn’t be ruined. “Any darkie who comes after me better hope there’s another stove to cook on in the Hereafter!”
Journey to Love (Angels of Mercy) Page 27