Mary awoke, prayed, and watched a herd in the distance. She couldn’t get the horrid memory of the Taylor family from her mind. What could have happened to make Mr. Taylor so unforgiving and angry? He could at least have been polite before he walked away. Like I’m going to do? Can I walk away if my father comes to meet me with open arms as they did?
A sudden movement among the herd startled her. At first they had seemed like ordinary goats, but when they began to leap she knew they were antelopes. Jesse dropped something in the room outside her curtain. He’d made his bed near the door, as far from her as he could get, to be proper. “Consider me a bodyguard,” he’d said.
Seated on the edge of her bed, she angled her mirror on a narrow ridge in the window frame so she could pin up her hair. Jesse’s footsteps softly sounded on the rug. He’s a nice man, she thought, remembering all his kindnesses. Maybe they could be friends just for this trip.
With one last look in the mirror, she pinched her cheeks to pinken them, then pulled the curtain open.
Jesse smiled up at her from where he sat. “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” she answered, her heart hammering. He seemed to strike a vibrant chord, which she desperately tried to quell. She stepped out, trying to be dignified. But she couldn’t keep her rebellious hands from pulling her jacket down and smoothing out imaginary wrinkles. Blushing at this unnecessary fussing over her appearance, she lifted her head and went to the wash room.
In a moment the coachman came in to make the beds back into furniture, announcing, “Thirty minutes to breakfast!” She and Jesse went out to the platform to watch the country roll by. They laughed at the antics of small animals that looked like puppies peering out of holes in the ground, first defiantly barking at the train, then darting back underground in fright.
They stopped laughing at the same instant, and their gazes locked. Their smiles died away as Jesse brushed her arm. It tingled where he touched her. He caressed her with a look that made her feel a strange yearning, then he slowly kissed her. Just a brief touch of the lips, but it changed everything.
She reminded herself that he was on her father’s side. Flustered, she said, “Oh, look! There’s that half-mile bridge the guide book told about.”
“We’re crossing the North Platte River.”
On their way back from their hurried breakfast, Jesse stopped and pressed a coin into the hand of a thin Indian woman wrapped in brown canvas-type material. Mary was fascinated by the papoose strapped on her back. Beneath the arch of his basket, his wide, placid eyes shone in his soft, brown baby face. They shared a brief, but sweet, confiding look.
Back in their parlor car, she resisted the urge to check her appearance in the mirror. Jesse had been quiet in the restaurant, and she sensed he had a lot on his mind. She prayed for herself and for reconciliation of little Tommy Taylor and his family.
“Miss Sherwood.” Jesse watched her closely. “Mary. We really need to talk. We’ll be arriving in San Francisco in three days. There are some things you need to know.”
“Oh, please, Mr. Harcourt, not now.” She rounded her shoulders and gripped her upper arms, as if protecting her heart.
“It has to be now. There isn’t much time.”
“I am going to San Francisco, Mr. Harcourt, and that should be enough for you.”
“It’s not. If you have any faith in the God of that Bible you brought, you’ll know that unforgiveness is not an option. Your father is a good man. You may think he let you down, but you don’t know the whole story.”
“He left and wasn’t there when we needed him. That’s what I know.” She closed her eyes, hearing the cry she’d wailed when Eugenia took her and Lolly from the blackened, smoking shell of their burned home. He said he’d come back! I want my daddy!
“You are simply looking at it from your own selfish perspective.” He held his hands up in surrender. “I know it was hard for you. But can you imagine how hard it was for him?”
Mary opened her mouth to interrupt.
“No, I have more to say. I like you, Mary, and would make it all better for you, if I could, so your hurt would be gone and you’d come to your father with a loving heart. He loves you very much, and that’s what counts. If you’ll sit down, I’ll tell you about him.”
“All right. But you can’t erase the years I’ve spent trying to forget him and learning to live my life without him.” She sat stiffly in the armchair facing him.
“I know I can’t erase your pain. But have you asked God to help you forgive him? How can you have peace while you’re holding this anger inside? You’ve made an altar of your right to be angry.”
“What more do you want? I’m making the trip.”
“I want you to look at this from your father’s point of view, then ask God what your response should be.”
“And what is his point of view?”
Jesse looked down for a few seconds, then lifted his gaze to hers. He spoke softly at first. “Imagine this. A man loves his country, his family, and goes off to fight for his land. He’s captured by the enemy and injured on the way to prison camp. Your father stayed alive by sheer willpower to keep his promise to return to you and your mother. When I was thrown in the barracks with him, I was impressed with his courage and determination to get back home to his family.
“I’d joined the army as a cocky young man, but I was plenty scared when they marched me and my fellow soldiers to that camp. I was only fifteen. I’d had little medical training, as I was merely the assistant to the medic in our unit, but enough to know that your father needed to drink as much liquid as he could and that the bandage on his chest and leg needed frequent cleansing.”
He clasped his hands. “He was old enough to be my father. But we formed a close bond and soon were depending on each other for our very survival. Even when he was weak, he watched out for me. He gave me water when I thought I’d die of thirst and watched over me when I almost did die.”
Jesse’s eyes had the faraway look of someone in another place. Mary gasped as they focused on her, piercing her heart. “Are you understanding what I’m saying?”
“Yes,” she breathed, her imagination bringing his story to life.
He looked away, but Mary saw the flicker of pain in his eyes.
Jesse’s hands closed into fists. His voice tight with control, he continued. “We found nothing but a burned-out shell where your home had been. We… walked about the area and found a grave with your mother’s name on it. Neither he nor I moved or said anything for a long time. We stood there, trying to understand the enormity of what we were seeing. I walked away to give him some privacy to grieve. Then he sank to his knees and sobbed.”
A tear slid down Mary’s cheeks. The scene he described was as bad as her last memory of her home.
Jesse took a deep breath. “After that, we—”
“No!” Mary put her hand up to stop him. “I can’t. Give me a minute to think.” She tore herself away, choking back a sob. Her thoughts churning, she stood at the window, seeing Jesse’s description of her father lying sick somewhere. This picture didn’t mesh with the one of his confident farewell as he left for the battle.
Neither said a word for several minutes. Only the swaying and k-knick k-nock of the train punctuated their thoughts.
“Mary.” Jesse’s voice held so much emotion she couldn’t look at him. “He loves you so much, and your coming to see him… I can’t describe how much it means to him just to glimpse your dear face. I can’t because the depth of his love for you and sorrow at the years he’s missed are more than I can imagine.” He touched her arm. “I don’t mean to preach, but it is important for you to get your heart right toward your father—if only for your own sake.”
“I–I don’t know. It’s…” She put her hand over her mouth and looked out, seeing nothing. She thought she’d dealt with it, but the wound in her young heart had grown, not healed. “Please understand. You’ve given me a lot to think about. I need to take a walk.”
“I understand.” Jesse spoke gently. He walked to the door. “I’ll give you time alone.” He turned to her and added, “Or would you like some company?”
Although she needed to think, she didn’t want to be alone now. “We can walk together.”
As they stepped onto the platform, a buffalo was running alongside. She backed away from the huge beast. Jesse laughed and opened the door for her. In the next car she saw the passengers’ faces pressed against the window, watching the buffalo running alongside, but unable to keep up.
Suddenly, she heard a shot. A man leaned out the window pointing his pistol at the running buffalo and shot again.
“No!” Mary ran and pulled his arm back, and his next shot went into the air.
The man uttered an oath and glared at her.
Mary’s frightened heart beat in her throat. “You can’t do that!” she cried, thinking of the poor animal’s life-blood pouring out on the ground after the train had gone. She wanted to ask why he wanted to kill the harmless creature, but his hostile scowl told her the question would be futile.
“Get out of my way, Girlie. I’ll do what I want.” He slammed his hat down on his head and leaned out the window. There were no more buffalo. The shots had apparently frightened them away.
Jesse hurried Mary away from the angry man. Elizabeth, the pregnant woman they’d seen in the Chicago station sat in the next car, two seats away from a card game in full play. She welcomed Mary and Jesse and scooted over so Mary could sit beside her. Jesse hunkered down in the aisle. Elizabeth rubbed her back, saying she was fine, although a little tired and stiff.
They visited a few minutes, then headed back to their car.
Mary managed to avoid Jesse for most of the day, reading, writing in her trip journal, and thinking about her father, herself, and relationships in general.
Standing on the platform late that afternoon, she watched lonely houses and spacious ranches. It’s like make-believe. The farther I get from home, the more unreal everything seems. She felt disconnected from the stability of her home.
As the sun lowered, she tired of looking out over miles of wastes of sand, the desolation broken by slow-moving immigrants, their white-covered wagons and herds of cattle all half-hidden in clouds of dust. The wind began kicking up and blowing sand into her eyes, stinging her cheeks. She shook the sand from her dress and went back to her room.
Jesse, at the window, turned to her when she entered. “Hello, stranger.” He faced her with his air of friendly self-confidence.
“Hello,” she replied breezily. He regarded her with a serious look. Since he seemed determined to continue their discussion, she took the initiative. “I appreciate your kind portrayal of my father. I’ll remember that when we reach San Francisco.”
“I hope you do more than remember. I had hoped you’d see that he loves you, and it hurt him to know you were alone and in trouble, and he couldn’t do anything to help.”
“If he hadn’t gone in the first place—”
“Mary! Will you stop thinking of yourself and see it from his point of view?” His jaw tensed, and one eyebrow shot up.
She felt her temper rise. “How else does a six-year-old child see a situation?”
“You’re not six anymore,” he said patiently.
“No, but I’ve had to live with it.” She clutched the back of the chair. “Oh, I’ve told you all this before. What’s the use?”
Jesse held his hand out to her, pleading for understanding. “Please don’t meet him with an unforgiving attitude, like old Mr. Taylor did to his family.”
She winced at the memory of the pain in their eyes at his rejection. “I’d never do that!”
“Wouldn’t you?” He moved closer to her. “He’s not stupid, Mary. He’d know.”
“I can’t pretend.”
“That won’t do. Just think about forgiving. Remember that if you don’t forgive others, God cannot forgive you.”
“I’m not the one who was in the wrong,” she said peevishly.
Jesse shook his head. “Just think about it.” He shook his head. “Don’t hurt him.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake!” Mary stormed into the water closet and slammed the door.
She leaned over the wash basin, the images Jesse had told her filling her mind. Her father, in ragged clothes, lying on a cot somewhere in a steamy, humid Carolina prison. In pain, alone, eating moldy bread to survive. Was she with Eugenia on her way north, or was she already cozy in Mrs. Palmer’s home?
Fighting the impulse to cry, she yanked the door open. Jesse was gone. Taking a deep, unsteady breath, she began to pace. Nothing made sense. Some things she couldn’t talk about, but she knew a way to bring out her thoughts. She picked up her journal and turned on the gaslight. She stared at the starry sky outside her window. God, I need to be completely honest here. Help me understand.
Something happened. Memories and feelings tumbled over one another. She grabbed her pen and ink and began writing. Something deep inside her had come uncapped, and it flowed out through her pen. She filled page after page, her hand barely able to match the speed with which the words flowed as emotions overtook her.
Hours later, she sagged against the cushion with tears streaming down her cheeks. The sun touched the nearby mountaintops with a lavender blush. The words she had written came from a deep, honest place she hadn’t known existed. Exhausted, she closed the journal and put away the ink and pen. She realized that she’d been very angry at her father and ultimately at God. She had to admit that if it hadn’t been for Jesse’s persistence, she wouldn’t have known all this.
In his bed near the door, Jesse lay, lulled by the swaying train and the feel of the wheels turning beneath. He saw the light on behind Mary’s curtain late into the night. Did I push her too hard? He could see it hurt her to remember, but like a boil that must come to a head, it was necessary to bring it all out in the open and deal with it. And it had to be done before they met her father. With his hands laced behind his head, he stared up at the ceiling, hoping she was talking to God about it. She’d need that strength because there was more she needed to know.
Chapter 7
Wyoming
March 21, 1874
I feel wrung out. After writing all the hurt last night, I have no more emotion left. I’m empty. I couldn’t sleep after reading what I purged on these pages last night.
I have a headache. It’s almost noon, and I’m so tired. I just want this trip to be over. I wonder if I can ever go back to my old life. I feel I’m a different person. I didn’t know what lay hidden beneath my competent, well-ordered behavior. I’m ashamed of the fury I bottled up over the years.
I don’t blame my father anymore. Blame is a feeling, and I feel nothing. I’m like an empty slate waiting for God to write the answers.
J. kissed me! But I can’t even think about that. Actually, it’s the only thing on my mind, but I’m trying not to think of it. It was just a light kiss, but I felt my soul begin to melt. I’m not going to think about it though.
Jesse opened the door to find Mary reclining on the sofa, her eyes closed and a cloth over her forehead. He tiptoed closer and stood a moment, looking down at her. She was truly lovely, the delicate features of her face finally relaxed. She had no idea she was pretty; he’d never seen such expressive eyes, the color of a summer blue sky. Large and sad, they were the eyes of a girl who had been abandoned and worried about it happening again.
A wave of protection welled up in him, its intensity startling him. His gaze moved slowly over her face, taking in each detail with warmth. He wanted to wrap her in his arms, kiss her again, and tell her he’d never leave her; he’d always be there and love her. He stumbled back a step. Love? What was he thinking?
At that moment her eyes opened, and she looked up at him. The soft glow in her eyes and the sweet reddening of her cheeks snared him again. For one heart-stopping moment their gazes gently held, then the lost look was there again.
She pull
ed the cloth from her forehead and sat up. “What time is it?”
“Twelve-thirty. You must be hungry.”
She shaded her eyes with her hand and looked down.
“Are you feeling well?”
“I didn’t get much sleep last night.” She looked up at him with a half smile. “It’s nothing, really. But perhaps you’re right. A cup of tea would be welcome right now.”
Glad to be able to do something for her, Jesse hurried to find a cup of strong tea. By the time he returned to their parlor, Mary had washed and tamed her soft, auburn curls. “Here’s your tea. We’ll be stopping for midday meal in Cheyenne City in a few minutes.”
“Thank you, Jesse.”
The brakes hissed, and he braced himself as they began to take hold. Mary went to the window and leaned forward to watch Cheyenne City come into view.
He joined her. Pointing at a huge sandstone building, he said, “That’s a locomotive house. And the buildings beside it are the railway’s machine shops.”
“It’s as if the city rose up out of the bare desert. There’s not a tree in sight.” Mary glanced at him. “But the mountains! They’re magnificent!”
Jagged peaks rose into the sky, white with snow. “That’s the Great Divide, the Rocky Mountains.” Jesse cupped her elbow. “Come. You’ll get a better view outside. We don’t have to hurry through our meal. They give us two hours here.”
She’s different. Something has changed. She was more quiet, almost subdued. Maybe she still had a headache. He asked her, and she smiled that half smile and told him no. He decided to distract her and show her the beginning of the West he had come to love.
They stepped off the train and heard a shrill, furiously ringing bell, rung by a boy shouting “Meals for fifty cents!” They walked past a one-story wooden building full of brightly painted signs advertising Billiard Saloon, Sample Room, and Fresh Fruit. A young girl in a Gypsy costume stood by a small mule, selling tickets to the circus to be held that night.
Where the Heart Is Romance Collection Page 40