High Plains Promise (Love on the High Plains Book 2)

by Beaudelaire, Simone

  “Settle down, Allison,” Mrs. Fulton snapped, “you're acting like a baby. You have hours to go.”

  Allison began to cry. Being here with her mother-in-law was worse than being alone.

  “Oh, stop your blubbering!”

  But Allison couldn't stop, and when the next pain tightened her belly, the tension of her emotional discomfort prevented her from riding the wave. Her moan rose to a scream. At the apex she felt as though something had burst inside her. Warm liquid ran down her thighs. She glanced at her mother-in-law, who was regarding her with deep disgust.

  “I told you to settle down,” Mrs. Fulton groused, her lips tight. “Now you've gone and pissed yourself.”

  Alison didn't say a word, though she was quite sure it wasn't urine. Hadn't the midwife mentioned this? Too bad it wasn't an indicator of where her labor was at.

  Another contraction began to build and Allison turned her attention inward, struggling to maintain herself in the face of it.

  Wesley stalked into the saloon. The original had burned a few years ago, and this was the owner's attempt to resurrect his business. The place showed signs of shoddy workmanship; the floorboards were starting to warp. Water marks stained the dark red wallpaper and scarred the wainscoting. Many tables had matchbooks or other objects wedged beneath, to stabilize wobbly legs. As though in response to the shabby environment, few patrons graced the place with their presence. Of course, it was barely after noon. Meeting each set of eyes, Wesley dismissed one after another. Too young. Too old. This one was an Indian. That one was blond. None of them resembled him in any way. That only left the man sitting at the bar with his back to the room. He wore a substantial black hat, which concealed his features from questing eyes.

  At the sound of the door swinging shut, the man turned. Wesley found himself staring into a face rugged with exposure to the sun, the cheeks coated in grizzled stubble. But the features beneath the surface could have been seen in his mirror. He gulped, a maelstrom of contradictory emotions swirling inside him. Slowly he crossed the dimly lit space to sit on an empty barstool beside the stranger he should have known.

  “What can I get'cha?” the barkeep demanded in a harried voice.

  Oh please, Wesley thought. As if you're so busy. “It's too early for booze. I'll take a sarsaparilla.”

  The lukewarm, foamy mug slid in front of him a moment later. Through all this, he'd not turned once to look at the man behind him. No more delaying, Wes.

  He turned and met eyes the exact color of his. “Andrew Fulton?” He was pleased his voice sounded completely neutral.

  “Yes, that's me. Hello, son.”

  Slowly, one agonized step at a time, Allison climbed the stairs. Her labor pains were now so intense, she could think of nothing else. It was as though she'd been submerged in a red ocean of agony, barely able to float. An intense pressure had begun in her lower body. It felt like… something unmentionable. And she very much wanted her bed. She couldn't have explained why if she'd tried. She only knew she had to get there. And so she made her painful, precarious way up one tread after another. The intensity peaked and she gripped the railing with such force, she could feel the paint cracking below her hands. “Ohhhhhh” she howled.

  “Oh shut up your caterwauling,” a sour voice commented.

  “If you're not going to get the midwife, you shut up!” Allison snapped. She'd heard all she cared to hear from her husband's hateful mother. The contraction eased and Allison scrambled up the last few stairs to her bedroom. She stretched out on her side. The pressure was increasing. Why is it so hot in here? It's September. It should be cooling. Sweat beaded on Allison's forehead. The pressure in her pelvis was increasing. It hurt, burned in places she couldn't even imagine. Her molars ground together. I have to push NOW!

  “Well, Wesley,” his father said, after regarding him in silence for several seconds, “I imagine you have things you want to tell me, and ask me. We might as well get that out of the way first.”

  Wesley regarded his father without speaking. It seemed unreal that the face he had forgotten in childhood looked as familiar to him as the one he saw every day. Older, more haggard to be sure, but familiar nonetheless. Questions which had bubbled in his head since the previous night, stealing his sleep, ones which had occupied his mind on the train here, all left him. He had no idea what to say.

  “Or,” Andrew said with a chuckle, “I could go first, I suppose.” He took a swig of his drink. “So, how are you these days?”

  “Fine,” Wesley replied in a monotone.

  “Are you married?”

  “Yes.”

  A smile spread across his father's face. “How is Allison?”

  Wesley lowered his eyebrows. “How did you know?”

  The question produced a rough guffaw. “As if you'd have married anyone else. Thick as thieves, you two, since you were toddlers. How your mother hated that. She thought the Spencers were trash. But they're good folks. It's no surprise.”

  Oh. “Allison's expecting. She's due any minute.” Still that flat tone. Wesley didn't know how to feel, though he thought perhaps anger might appear at some point. It wasn't there yet, so he wallowed in his numbness.

  “Expecting! Congratulations. So I'm going to be a grandfather, eh?”

  “No,” Wesley replied. Andrew regarded him with a surprised look on his face. “You already are. Yes, I'm married to Allie now, but she's not my first wife. I was married for a few years before, but my wife passed away. I have a little girl by her.”

  The confused expression intensified. “You didn't marry Allison the second you were able? Who was your first wife?”

  Wesley lowered his eyes to the bar. “Samantha Davis,” he mumbled.

  “Suh… oh wow. But she's… and… Wesley, why?” his father stammered.

  He sighed. “She was pregnant.”

  Understanding dawned. “Is your daughter all right?” Andrew's eyes bored into his.

  Wesley nodded. “Smart as a whip. She gives Allison and me both a run for our money. And now that Allie's so heavy and tired…”

  Silent communication passed between the two men. When Wesley spoke next, it was to voice the question, which had haunted most of his life. “Why did you leave, Dad? I would never let anything separate me from Melissa. How could you just walk away from your only son?”

  Now Andrew looked confused again. “I didn't. Surely you remember? You were seven years old. I didn't leave you, I took you with me.”

  Allison groaned and wiped a strand of sweaty hair off her forehead. Lying on her side no longer felt right, so she shifted, rising onto her knees again. “I need a towel,” she snarled, feeling more liquid running down her legs.

  For once, Mrs. Fulton didn't argue. She hurried to the linen closet and returned with a pile of towels, which she stacked on the bed. “Lie down,” she ordered.

  Allison shook her head. “This feels better. Owwww!” The burning pressure began again and Allison pushed with all her strength. It felt like fire in her innermost places. The pain passed and she panted. I have to do this. It will all stop if I can just bring this baby down.

  Rising, gripping the bedpost with one hand, she remained kneeling and pushed hard again. This time a large object emerged, stretching her obscenely. It felt horrible. Allison whimpered, but the contraction had not ended. She bore down once more. Abruptly the pressure ceased and she leaned her forehead against her arm in relief. It's over. Thank God.

  “What the hell do you mean?” Wesley demanded. “Took me with you where? What are you talking about?”

  “I'm talking about when we left your mother. I couldn't stand her behavior anymore. She was always a bit moody, and clingy, but it wasn't too bad… until you were born. Then she became a completely different person. She was so possessive, she wouldn't let me touch you. She had all these ideas, some of them nonsense, others dangerous, about how you had to be raised. When you were about six, she had some kind of breakdown, screaming and cursing, hitting us both, throwi
ng things. I… I knocked her away from you.” Andrew's cheeks darkened. “I wasn't trying to hurt her, but she fell and her head hit the floor. While she was unconscious, we grabbed some clothes and lit out. You don't remember any of this?” He peered at his son.

  Nausea gripped Wesley's innards. A confused mélange of images and sounds rolled across him. Screaming. Hazy, unformed visions of adult-sized people circling him as he looked up in terror.

  “I've tried not to,” he said, swallowing hard. Wesley took a deep breath through his nose. The scents of the bar; tobacco, liquor and sweaty men washed over him. Adult smells, they steadied his reality.

  “You really don't remember what happened?”

  Wesley shook his head. He was so focused on suppressing the dizzying memories, he couldn't see his father, or take in his tone of voice at all.

  “We were on the run a year, you and I. We went from farm to ranch, town to city, doing odd jobs and trying to keep body and soul together. But all in all, it was a good time. I felt like, if we could keep away from her for seven years, the marriage would be over and I would be free. I didn't want you exposed to her instability any longer.”

  Images swirled faster in Wesley's mind. Holding onto his father, on the back of a galloping horse. Sneaking into a train car and hiding among sacks of wheat. Mucking horse stalls, far to the north. Gathering eggs out west. “What happened?” He forced his eyes to focus on Andrew.

  His father was slowly shaking his head. “I don't know. Somehow, she found us. I woke up in the middle of the night, in a hotel room in St. Louis, feeling something wasn't right. She was there, holding a knife to your throat.” Andrew's own throat convulsed. “She said… she said she wouldn't let me have you. She would… kill us all before that would happen. Starting with you. I…” Andrew broke off, shuddering. “What would you do for your daughter, Wesley, if her safety was threatened? What would you sacrifice to protect her? I knew, if your mother won, you would be safe. She didn't want to hurt you. I agreed to her terms. To leave and let her keep you, on one condition. I had to receive regular reports on your well-being. If I heard from my sources that you had been harmed, I would have ended her, and the consequences be damned. Maybe it was wrong, but I didn't know what else to do. Can you possibly understand my position?”

  Wesley nodded.

  “I'd have fought them all. But to keep you safe, I had to let you go. However, my spies, the Spencers, have kept me informed about you all these years. Your mother had to let Allison play with you, let you play at their house, so I could get regular reports. I even sent them money sometimes, when I heard your mother overspent her allowance.”

  Overspent? Allowance? He must have looked puzzled, because his father hurried to explain. “Your mother's parents once owned a large cattle ranch. When they passed on, her father arranged in his will for the property to be sold, but the money was placed in the care of a lawyer from Wichita. Your mother was to receive payments each month for her comfort and support, and she did. When we were… together, she was able to spend that money on herself. After the separation, it was still enough for the two of you to live on, if she was frugal, which she usually was. I think having her income restricted offended her.”

  Wesley nodded. “She hated it. Although she never discussed money with me, which I thought was bizarre, given my profession. She always called the Spencers trash. I figured it was because Mr. Spencer drove the train. She loved to talk about her daddy, the landowner, the cattle rancher.”

  “I'm sure that played a role,” his father concurred. “Charlotte always was a bit of snob.”

  “Why did you marry a snob?” Wesley asked.

  “Why did you marry a…” His father trailed off. “Never mind.”

  Wesley lowered his eyes. It seemed being swayed by the lusts of the flesh into marrying unsuitable women was a family tradition. Squashing down his emotions, he focused on the conversation.

  “At any rate, they would have been trash to her regardless, but knowing they were reporting back to me made them intolerable, except she had to tolerate them. She must have hated them, more than anyone, in time. No wonder she despised the idea of you marrying Allison.” He grinned. “So that's the long answer to the short question. I kept an eye on you through them, until you stopped living in her home. Until you were a man and could care for yourself. That's when I tried writing to you. I don't know why my letters never got through, but I've been writing you each month since you turned eighteen. Wesley, I hated that I had to leave you, but under the circumstances, I didn't know what else to do.”

  All the jagged pieces of Wesley's childhood fell into place with a nearly audible jangle. He couldn't quite remember the night his father was describing. Or maybe he just didn't want to. But it all made terrible sense.

  Trying to come to grips with years of suppressed memories, Wesley buried his face in his hands.

  An eerie silence descended on the Fulton house. Silence is wrong. Allison dragged herself out of the deep place she'd gone and tried to make sense of her surroundings. The bedroom she'd shared with her husband the last several months was the same as always. The spare, bare blond wooden floors reflected the sunlight… it looked like early afternoon. The red crazy quilt, still crumpled from not having been made up that morning, was wadded at the foot of the bed. A pile of multicolored towels, stained with an unholy mess, protected the white sheets. But… she'd given birth. She knew she had. Where was the baby? Last she recalled, she'd been kneeling by the bedposts. Now she was lying on the pillows, an uncomfortable bunch of fabric under her hips. What had happened in between?

  “Mother?” she called. “Mother? Mrs. Fulton?”

  “Yes, what?” came the cranky reply from the next room.

  “What's happening?” Allison looked up at the plaster of the ceiling, tracing one slender crack from the window to the door frame. Wesley needs to patch that.

  “What do you mean?” Mrs. Fulton's bespectacled face interposed itself between her and the crack, and she glared.

  “Where's my baby?” Allison placed her hand on her belly, feeling the slackness. “Are you cleaning him… or her? What did I have?”

  “You had a boy,” Mrs. Fulton replied, and her face contorted into an expression Allison couldn't read.

  Allison smiled despite her exhaustion. “A boy. Maybe Wesley will like that. I hope I can call him Peter. I like that name. Where is he?”

  “He…” Mrs. Fulton broke off, and an even stranger look crossed her face. “I'm sorry, Allison.”

  “Sorry?” Allison asked, instantly alert. “Sorry about what? Where's my son?”

  “He…” The woman gulped. “He was stillborn.”

  Wesley and his father sat in silence for the longest time. After a while, Wesley raised his burning eyes from his hands and slowly sipped his drink. He wished he'd ordered a beer, or better yet a whiskey shot… several shots. He needed them. But all he had was this mug of warm, sickly sweet soda, and no voice to order something different. So his mother really was crazy. He'd heard rumors. He'd fought people over them, many times. But this made sense. And the memories were emerging, minute by minute. His father wasn't lying to make his abandonment seem more palatable. Wesley could feel the sharp steel touching his throat now. Could hear the screaming.

  Suddenly, it was all too much. Abandoning his drink on the counter, he staggered out the door into the alley, between the saloon and the shoddy rooming house next door, and vomited.

  “Son?”

  Wesley raised his head. His father was extending a handkerchief in his direction. He took the square of fabric and wiped his forehead, and then his mouth. He felt like hell.

  “I guess you remember,” Andrew said softly. “I didn't realize you'd forgotten so much.”

  “Yeah,” Wesley replied. He straightened and stepped away from the mess, back into the main street, eager to feel the sun on his face.

  “Are you all right?” his father asked. “I'm sorry I upset you.”

  “No, I ne
eded to know the truth,” Wesley replied, after several slow deep breaths. “I needed to understand why I grew up the way I did. No wonder mother hates Allison.”

  Andrew nodded. “I'd be amazed if she didn't. I'm also amazed you left her. Did you say she was about to give birth?”

  Wesley nodded. “She was pretty mad. I haven't been the best husband to her. She may not get over this for a while.”

  “Why did you then?” Andrew asked.

  Wesley shrugged. “I wanted to see you, to know what it was all about, what I've been avoiding thinking about my whole life. I'm not sorry. Besides, I didn't leave her alone. I let Mother know to check in on her. I'm sure if anything… happened, Mother would have gotten the midwife for her.”

  Andrew's jaw dropped.

  “What?” Wesley demanded.

  “Think, son. What did you just say? You left your mother, who hates the Spencers, who thinks they're trash, who disapproves of your wife – she does, doesn't she?” Wesley nodded. “A woman with a history of violent and unstable behavior – in charge of looking after Allison in her most vulnerable moment?”

  Realization dawned on Wesley. Two seconds later, both men were running hell bent for leather towards the train station.

  Allison lay in her marriage bed, on her side, staring blankly at nothing. Slow tears ran from the corners of her eyes. Already the pillow was soaked with them, but it didn't matter. Dead. He was moving and squirming in my belly this morning. How could he have died between then and now… in such a short time? What happened? Why did my baby die? Even sobs were beyond Allison's reach. She could only stare, breathing slowly, and let aimless tears run across her face. She touched her slack, empty belly. Blood trickled from between her thighs. She felt like a battlefield. This must be what they feel like to the loser. What would Wesley say? Would he be relieved? Would she ever be able to forgive him if he was?