A Stolen Heart

by Amanda Cabot

  It was silly. He hadn’t promised her anything. He hadn’t said he loved her, and as far as Lydia knew, he was still determined not to marry. But he had kissed her—kissed her as if she were a desirable woman, not simply a friend—and that had her acting like one of her pupils.

  Lydia wasn’t a young girl. She was a grown woman who ought to be able to control her emotions. She and Travis needed to talk, and when they did she would learn what, if anything, he meant by the kiss, but in the meantime, Aunt Bertha deserved all Lydia’s attention.

  “I am excited,” she told the older woman. “It’s another beautiful day for traveling, and I’m enjoying visiting a new part of the Hill Country.” Lydia turned and gestured toward the verdant landscape. “It’s not quite as hilly here as around Cimarron Creek, is it?”

  Aunt Bertha nodded. “That’s not the only difference you’ll find when we get to Ladreville. Sterling and Ruth tell me it’s a special town.” Without waiting for Lydia’s response, she continued. “I’m sure you know that this part of Texas has many German settlers. You can tell that from some of the towns’ names. No one would ever think that Fredericksburg or New Braunfels were Spanish settlements, would they? What makes Ladreville unique is that its founders came from Alsace-Lorraine. There are both French and Germans there.”

  Relieved that Aunt Bertha did not appear to have noticed her attraction to Travis, Lydia raised an eyebrow. “And they’re not fighting? As I remember from my history books, the French and the Germans were at war more often than not.”

  “Sterling said there were some difficulties at first, and they still worship in different churches. Believe it or not, when Sterling arrived, his parishioners were unhappy that he was an American rather than a German. I never did hear how he overcame that, but he claims that’s long since resolved, and even though a few of the old-timers still speak French or German at home, English has become their common language. Ruth says even though the War Between the States divided them as it did so many towns, they’re all Americans. She claims it’s a pretty and peaceful town.” Aunt Bertha pursed her lips. “I wouldn’t have sent Joan there if I hadn’t been certain she would be safe. But she wasn’t, was she?”

  This was the first time Aunt Bertha had said anything like this, and the way her hands trembled told Lydia just how worried she was. “You said she left of her own volition,” she reminded the older woman.

  “What if she didn’t? What if someone abducted her the way they did Edgar?”

  It was a frightening thought and one that would chill anyone’s blood, especially a loving mother’s. Lydia wondered if this fear had plagued Aunt Bertha for twenty years or if it was the result of what had happened in Cimarron Creek recently. “Let’s not borrow trouble,” she said. “In just a few hours, we’ll be in Ladreville. You’ll find the truth there.” And if God answered Lydia’s prayers, the truth would bring Aunt Bertha peace.

  It was late morning when they entered the town where Joan Henderson had once lived. Though she hadn’t known what to expect, Lydia found herself enchanted by the obvious European influence. The two-story half-timbered buildings with their steeply pitched roofs looked like something out of a picture book, and while the residents were dressed similarly to those who shopped at Cimarron Sweets, the stores in Ladreville bore little resemblance to the ones in Cimarron Creek. Window boxes filled with flowers and cascading vines combined with the unusual architecture to make the shops more appealing than any Lydia had seen. She made a mental note to talk to the other shopkeepers in Cimarron Creek about adding window boxes next spring.

  Ladreville might be charming, but the way Aunt Bertha wrung her hands told Lydia her anxiety was increasing the closer they came to Joan’s last known residence.

  “This must be it,” Aunt Bertha said as they approached a block with two churches. “Sterling said the parsonage was next to his church on the corner of Rhinestrasse.”

  The settlers, apparently paying tribute to both their past and their present, had named the east-west streets after rivers: Rhinestrasse, rue de la Seine, and Potomac Street. When Lydia commented on the names, hoping to distract Aunt Bertha, the older woman told her the north-south streets were called Hochstrasse, rue du Marché, and Washington.

  The town was picturesque, and as far as Lydia could tell, it was as peaceful as Ruth Russell had claimed. Lydia could only pray that it held the answers Aunt Bertha sought as well as storybook charm.

  When they reached the middle of the block, Travis pulled on the reins, stopping the surrey in front of the simpler of the two churches. They had arrived. It was only after he’d helped both Lydia and Aunt Bertha out and offered his arm to Aunt Bertha that he turned to Lydia. “That looks like the sheriff’s office across the street. Once I get you two settled, I’ll pay him a call.”

  It was a good idea and told Lydia that while Travis had not joined the conversation, he’d heard what Aunt Bertha had said. If the current sheriff had been in Ladreville twenty years ago, he would know if there had been any suggestion of foul play when Joan Henderson left town. Even if he was new to the job, there might be records.

  Before Lydia could comment on Travis’s suggestion, a man and woman emerged from the parsonage. Aunt Bertha’s little gasp left no doubt that she recognized her cousin. As they closed the distance, Lydia searched for a resemblance between them. While Aunt Bertha was short and plump, the man was tall and very thin. While Bertha’s hair was silver, his was gunmetal gray. But as he came closer, Lydia saw that Sterling Russell’s hazel eyes were the same shape as Aunt Bertha’s. Though the man was fifteen years her junior, it was clear they shared a common heritage.

  Pastor Russell pulled his cousin into a hug. “Bertha, I’m so glad you came. It’s been far too long since I’ve seen you. Letters are a poor substitute for being together.” He gave the blonde-haired woman who appeared to be in her early forties a fond glance. Though no one would call her beautiful, Ruth Russell’s warm smile left no doubt that she seconded her husband’s welcome. “I’d like you to meet my wife. Ruth is excited to finally meet the cousin who’s written us so many letters.”

  Aunt Bertha returned the hug, then gestured toward Lydia and Travis. “It’s thanks to these two wonderful young people that I was able to come.”

  When the introductions were complete, Ruth led everyone inside the parsonage. “I was hoping you’d arrive in time for the noon meal,” she said as she gestured toward a dining room where five places were set at a table that could accommodate a dozen. “I have a pot roast just about ready. And no, I don’t need any help,” she said, forestalling the inevitable offer. “Even before I became Sterling’s wife, I was used to feeding my family.”

  She gestured toward a small room that Lydia discovered had been outfitted with a basin, a ewer of warm water, and a newly laundered towel. “You can freshen up in there.”

  Minutes later they were all gathered around the table, bowing their heads as the minister offered thanks for their safe arrival and the food.

  Throughout the meal, Lydia watched Aunt Bertha. Though the food was delicious and the conversation pleasant, she was more subdued than usual, and Lydia knew she was anxious to learn what she could about her daughter. But, seemingly mindful of being a guest rather than the hostess, Aunt Bertha said nothing until dessert was finished.

  “I wondered . . .”

  Before she could complete her sentence, Ruth looked from Aunt Bertha to Lydia and smiled. “I wasn’t sure how many nights you’d be able to stay with us. We have two spare rooms. Sterling and I want you to be comfortable, so you’ll each have your own.” She turned to Travis. “Lawrence and Harriet Wood—he’s the mayor and sheriff, she’s my older sister—live right across the street. They’ve offered to have you stay with them to give the ladies privacy. Besides, Sterling and I thought you might want to talk to another sheriff.”

  Travis nodded. “I do indeed.”

  Travis liked Lawrence Wood on sight. The former Ranger who’d been Ladreville’s mayor and sher
iff for almost a quarter century was an easy man to like as long as you were on the right side of the law. Though his blond hair was now liberally laced with silver, the expression in Lawrence’s deep blue eyes left no doubt that he had lost none of his determination with age.

  “I wish I could help you,” he said when Travis asked about Joan Henderson. “I remember the girl, because she used to go to church each Sunday and sit in the first pew with Ruth, despite the whispers that always seemed to accompany her. Folks in Ladreville weren’t used to unwed mothers.”

  “Folks in Cimarron Creek still aren’t.” Travis suspected that was part of the reason Aunt Bertha had never admitted what had happened to Joan. “My aunt’s worried that Joan may have met with foul play. Do you think that’s possible?”

  Lawrence was silent for a moment. “I suppose anything’s possible, but I’d say it was highly unlikely. There were no strangers in town then. The couple who adopted the baby didn’t arrive for another week.”

  “But it might not have been a stranger.” Travis looked around Lawrence’s office, not surprised at how similar it was to his. Though the exteriors of many of Ladreville’s buildings were unusual, the interiors resembled those of Cimarron Creek.

  “You got a reason for saying that?”

  “Yes. We’ve had some problems in Cimarron Creek, and they all point to the perpetrator being someone local. The problem is, I can’t figure out who’s behind them.”

  “Sometimes an outsider’s perspective helps. Want to talk?”

  Travis did, but an hour later, though he and Lawrence had discussed a variety of possibilities, nothing felt right.

  “Thanks, anyway.” Even though he felt no closer to a solution, Travis appreciated the older man’s ideas.

  “Anything else you want to talk about? If not, I need to make my rounds.”

  When Lawrence left after showing Travis the room that would be his for as long as he was in Ladreville, Travis stretched out on the bed and closed his eyes. Though it felt strange to be trying to sleep while it was light outside, he couldn’t deny the fatigue that had caught up with him. Even though Edgar had taken over some of his responsibilities, Travis rarely got a full night’s sleep.

  He had expected to sleep well last night, knowing Cimarron Creek was miles away and there was nothing he could do for its residents. Instead, Travis had lain awake for hours, his thoughts focused on one particular resident.

  A grin lit his face as he remembered those wonderful moments when he’d held Lydia in his arms. Nothing in his life could compare to the sheer joy he’d felt when he’d wrapped his arms around her and pressed his lips to hers. If he lived to be a hundred, he knew he’d still recall the softness of her cheeks and the faint scent of lavender that clung to her hair. And then there were her lips. Even her finest chocolate could not compare to their sweetness.

  Travis had thought about kissing Lydia. He’d even dreamt about it, but his thoughts and dreams paled against the reality of holding her so close that he could hear her heart beat and feel the warmth of her skin. It had been wonderful, unforgettable, life-changing, for the kisses they’d shared had confirmed his belief that Aunt Bertha was right: Lydia was the one and only woman for him.

  It was too soon to talk of marriage. Even if Travis were certain Lydia was ready—and he was far from certain about that—she deserved a courtship. A real courtship, not the bungled attempts Warner and Nate had made. But before he could begin that, they needed to finish their business here.

  “Normally I would give you our largest guest room,” Ruth told Aunt Bertha as she led the way up the stairs, “but I thought you might prefer the room where Joan stayed.”

  When Ruth opened the door to the room she had prepared for Aunt Bertha, Lydia saw the pleasure in the older woman’s eyes. It was a simple room, furnished with an iron bedstead, a bureau with more than its share of dings, and a small bedside table. Compared to Aunt Bertha’s bedchamber at home, this appeared to have been designed for a servant, and yet Aunt Bertha seemed to glow. She touched the bedspread almost reverently, then drew the curtain aside and looked out the window. “I know some things have changed, but I can’t tell you what it means to know that this is what Joan saw each day.”

  Ruth patted her shoulder. “Take your time getting settled. When you’re ready, come downstairs. I’ll put some tea on to steep, and we’ll talk.”

  Travis and Sterling had already excused themselves, leaving the women alone. Though part of her wished Travis were here, if only so she could convince herself that she had not imagined last night, Lydia suspected Ruth had been wise to plan a smaller gathering. Lydia had asked Aunt Bertha whether she preferred to meet with only Ruth, but Aunt Bertha had insisted Lydia accompany her. And so here they were, three women seated in the parsonage parlor.

  As she’d promised, Ruth provided a tea tray and an afternoon of reminiscences. Though it had been twenty years, the parson’s wife made Joan’s stay here come to life as she recounted tiny details that Aunt Bertha absorbed like a thirsty flower after a drought.

  “We never talked about it,” Ruth said when she’d told Aunt Bertha how Joan had insisted on helping prepare meals and clean the parsonage, “but I sensed that she wanted to keep the baby. Not at first, mind you, but as the months passed, she started calling it ‘my baby.’”

  Though Aunt Bertha’s lips trembled with emotion, she said nothing, letting Ruth continue. “Joan held the baby for a few minutes after she was born. I’ve seen plenty of new mothers, but I’ve never seen so much sorrow mixed with joy. That’s when I knew Joan didn’t want to give her daughter to strangers.”

  Ruth paused for a second, her eyes searching Aunt Bertha’s face for her reaction. Other than closing her eyes in what Lydia suspected was an attempt to compose herself, Aunt Bertha said nothing. For once in her life, the woman who often talked practically nonstop was speechless.

  When Aunt Bertha opened her eyes again and nodded, Ruth continued her story. “I told Joan she didn’t have to let them adopt the baby. I knew it might be impossible for her to return to Cimarron Creek, but I assured Joan that Sterling and I would help her. She just shook her head and said it was too late. The next morning she was gone.”

  “And you have no idea where she went.” Lydia made it a statement rather than a question.

  “None. She didn’t come down for breakfast, and when I went upstairs, everything was gone. It was as if she’d never been here.”

  Tears trickled from the corners of Aunt Bertha’s eyes as she spoke for the first time since Ruth had begun to recount Joan’s final days in Ladreville. “Are you sure she left on her own?”

  “Yes.” Ruth’s voice rang with conviction. “I probably should have realized what she intended, because she hadn’t planned anything after the baby’s birth. Before that, Joan would talk about what we were going to do for the next few weeks, but as the time for the baby drew near, she stopped planning.”

  When Aunt Bertha said nothing, Lydia asked one of the questions she would have wanted answered had it been her daughter who’d disappeared. “How did she leave? On a stagecoach?”

  Ruth shook her head. “The coaches didn’t come through here then. No horses were missing, so she must have walked.” Her blue eyes radiated sorrow as she said, “Lawrence searched everywhere, but there were no traces. Joan simply vanished.”

  Though it wasn’t what Aunt Bertha had hoped to learn, it was an answer.

  24

  Supper that night was quieter than lunch had been, with Aunt Bertha so lost in her thoughts that she barely responded to the conversation. Lydia saw signs of fatigue and was glad when at Ruth and Sterling’s urging, Aunt Bertha agreed to stay another day. She might not admit it, but she needed time to rest as well as more time in Ladreville. Lydia knew without asking that Aunt Bertha would never return, that whatever memories she made while she was here would have to last for the rest of her life.

  The next day Priscilla Webster, the tall, slender midwife whose strawberry blon
de hair had only begun to be threaded with silver, recounted what she remembered of Joan’s delivery.

  “It was one of the easiest first births I’ve ever attended,” she told Aunt Bertha. “Joan was such a sweet woman that it broke my heart to know she wasn’t going to raise that child. She would have been a wonderful mother.”

  Today no tears rolled down Aunt Bertha’s cheeks, leading Lydia to wonder if she’d spent the night crying and had run out of tears. Instead of moisture, her eyes were filled with sorrow. “It was my fault,” she said, her voice harsh with regret. “I’ll bear that guilt forever.”

  Though Lydia tried to comfort her, nothing she said had any effect. Aunt Bertha had found some answers, but they weren’t the ones she’d prayed for.

  “I should have expected it,” she said the next day as they left Ladreville. Once again she and Lydia shared the backseat of the surrey. “I was twenty years too late.”

  When they stopped at the inn where they’d have supper and stay overnight, Aunt Bertha pleaded fatigue and asked for her food to be brought to her room. “I’m afraid I’m not good company today,” she said when Lydia said she’d join her there. “I need to be alone.”

  “The pain will ease with time,” Travis predicted as he and Lydia shared a meal of rabbit stewed with prunes.

  Though Lydia knew there was truth to his words, she also knew the trip had reopened wounds that had barely healed, despite the passage of two decades. Children held a special place in a woman’s heart, Lydia’s mother had told her the day Lydia had asked why she hadn’t tried to find her husband.

  “I knew he’d made his decision about me, and I was afraid that if he saw me again, he’d insist on taking you,” she said. “That would have been unbearable. I could live without him, but losing you would have broken my heart. Lydia, when you’ve carried a child beneath your heart for nine months, you’ll know what I mean. That child is the best part of you.” She had gripped Lydia’s hand as she added, “I would have done anything to keep you safe and happy. Anything. And that feeling won’t stop as long as I draw breath.”