Mr. Bloom came toward her with his mouth open, about to speak.
Done with talking, Bertha rushed for the door and opened it. “Forgive me, Mr. Bloom. We have to be quick or we won’t make it.” Outside she made a mad dash for the rig.
“Better stop her, Francis.” Mr. Bloom’s voice behind her sounded strained.
“Bertha, wait right there,” Papa ordered.
She stopped and turned.
Papa, Cyrus, and Mr. Bloom gaped at her from the porch.
“Wait? For what? We’re going to miss him if we don’t hurry.”
Compassion softened Mr. Bloom’s eyes. “You won’t find my boy at the station, Bertha.”
Papa asked the question for her. “Why’s that, Abel?”
“Thad left last night. Seemed in a powerful hurry to go, so I let him take one of our horses. He planned to ride to Longview, sell the horse for spending money, and take the first train out to Bryan.”
Bertha knew she stared openmouthedly but didn’t care. “What did you say?” she asked, her voice a feeble croak.
“I said he’s gone, Bertha. Thad’s already gone.”
H
Something had Henry’s long johns in a knot. Sarah knew it for a fact after he shoveled food around his dish at supper then left the breakfast table without cleaning his plate. Anything that interfered with her man’s vittles would be no light matter, but Henry wasn’t talking–and it scared her.
Worse still, he’d left early that morning without her. Said he had business in town. Said he wouldn’t be back in time to fetch her for Sunday service, but he’d stop along the way and ask a neighbor to bring her. On his way out the door, Henry promised to finish his dealings in plenty of time to join her at the meetinghouse.
The reason these things troubled Sarah?
Henry never did business on the Sabbath. When Sarah asked him outright what he planned to do, he mumbled and shuffled then dashed out the door.
By the time Thomas Jolly pulled into the yard, the bed of his wagon overflowing with laughing children, worry had curdled Sarah’s stomach. After giving him a wave out the door, she went to her room for a wrap. Sarah wore a dress made of heavy fabric but didn’t own a proper coat, so she grabbed the warmer of her two good shawls and dashed outside, braced for a cold morning ride.
Thomas raised his hat. “Miss Sarah.”
Sarah nodded. “Thomas.” She stepped to the back of the wagon and grinned at the turned-up faces. “Children! How spry you look, all washed and polished.”
“Morning, Miss Sarah,” rang out from eight different voices.
Sarah tried hard never to question God, but as her hungry eyes roamed the tiny faces, she wondered about His ways. Why bless some folks with more babies than they could feed yet withhold one tiny suckling mouth from her barren breasts?
Thomas leaned to wipe off the seat while one of the older boys handed Sarah up beside him. She thanked him and settled the skirt of her Sunday dress around her. “Where’s Arabella this morning?”
“Sent her on ahead with Thomas Jr.”–he jerked his thumb behind him–“so you wouldn’t have to ride in back with those ruffians.”
She laughed. “I wouldn’t have minded that a bit. I hope I’m not putting you out.”
He winked and grinned. “Not a whit. We more’n happy to help.”
“Well, the Lord gon’ bless you. I know I sure do appreciate it. I bet you’re glad Doc Turner lets you off on Sunday mornings to go to worship.”
Thomas snorted. “He know I’ll quit before I work on the Lawd’s day.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “Say, what’s old Henry up to this morning? He come by my house in a right big hurry. Didn’t say where he had to get to so quick.”
Sarah’s clabbered stomach lurched. She wasn’t about to admit she didn’t know what business her own husband was about. She squirmed and glanced away. “You know Henry King. Probably found him a good trade or some such. I don’t pay no mind to that man’s mischief.”
Just as she hoped, Thomas laughed and asked no more questions. They didn’t talk much after that because the teasing, giggling children made it impossible. Sarah settled back and tried to forget Henry’s strange doings. She set her mind instead on thoughts more suited to the day.
Thomas began to hum a gospel hymn in a deep baritone. The clamor behind them ceased, and several small voices rose with the lyrics of the song. The tension in Sarah’s body melted. She turned on the seat and joined her high soprano to the swaying angel choir clustered in back.
Just as her heart rose up and soared to the throne of grace, the thundering hooves of an approaching rider reached her ears. A boy on horseback galloped toward them, shouting and waving his arms.
She looked at Thomas. “What’s that about, you reckon?”
Thomas stared at the rider and shrugged, but worry drew lines over his brow.
When the frenzied rider reined up so fast he almost landed in her lap, Sarah’s back stiffened, and her stomach forced bile to her throat. One glance at the boy’s frightened eyes–his gaze locked straight on her face–and she knew. Something bad had happened to Henry.
“Best come quick over to the Commercial Hotel, Miss Sarah. There’s trouble out back.” Without another word, the boy, who turned out to be Cook’s son, dug his heels in the horse’s flank and sped away.
“Is it Henry?” she called after him, but he raced away as if the weight of the disaster rested on his young shoulders.
She stood up in the wagon. “Wait! You come back here!”
The wind picked up her useless cry and blew it behind her as the rider disappeared in a cloud of dust.
“That foolish boy. I could’ve taken his horse or rode with him at least. Oh, Thomas!”
Thomas gripped her hand and pulled. “Sit down, Miss Sarah. We’ll get you there.” He slapped the reins hard and roared, and the horse took off as though he’d been stung.
Holding on to the seat, Sarah twisted to look behind at their precious cargo. Fear had the children as wide-eyed as a basket of owls, especially the little ones. She gave them a steady smile while she lifted up a prayer.
I know I deserve it, but don’t take Henry from me. And please don’t let harm come to these babies on my account.
Thad rode into Longview in the wee hours, cold, hungry, and heartsick. The only accommodations available at that time of night happened to be a shabby little room above the saloon–a fact he’d forget to mention to his mama. He paid the bartender in advance then slipped past a drowsy dance-hall girl and a cluster of men engaged in an all-night poker game.
The so-called room consisted of little more than a cot hidden behind a curtain in an alcove off the hall. The plain cotton mattress smelled of a hundred unwashed bodies, and the fetid pillow turned out to be a drool-stained sack stuffed with hay. Thad feared bedbugs and lice, but rather than sit up all night or risk a crick in his neck, he pulled a clean shirt from his travel bag to cover the pillow and slept on top of the quilt. He was cold, but better cold than share a warm bed with crawling critters.
The woolen curtain across the cubbyhole smelled so musty he couldn’t breathe. He pushed it aside, which allowed the gaslight on the wall to burn a path past his eyelids straight through to the back of his head. He turned his face to the wall and buried his nose in the shirt-wrapped pillow that now smelled mostly of the lilac water mama sprinkled on her wash. The familiar scent made him want to cry like a boy in knee pants.
He finally fell into a troubled sleep that didn’t last. He drifted in and out between brawls among the gamblers and fits of shrill, tinny laughter from the saloon girl, who must’ve found her second wind. He spent the wide-awake parts of the long night wondering why Bertha had let him down.
As soon as Mr. Biddie had discovered her missing, he headed off one way to search while Thad went another. Bertha’s mama stayed behind in case she came back. Thad deliberately chose the road toward town. Despite her papa’s insistence that Bertha would never go there alone at night, something
told Thad that Annie Moore had everything to do with her disappearance.
He rode straight for Vale Street and Brooks House but found Bertha standing on a street corner with Annie before he ever got that far. He held back and waited to talk to her until watching from the shadows made him feel like an intruder. Feeling miffed and more than a little hurt, he had eased his mare around and headed for home.
Not many deeds in Thad’s life had caused him shame, but the disgrace of running away from Jefferson without seeing Bertha safely home or easing her parents’ minds made him cringe. He’d focused on his own hurt feelings, disappointment, and jealousy until his bruised heart had swept him away. All the way out of town, in fact. Now regret over not asking Bertha to marry him or even telling her good-bye gnawed holes in his soul.
The remorse tumbling in his gut mixed with the racket from below made his jerky attempts at sleep more of a chore than actual rest. He gave up trying and spent the last hours before dawn praying for forgiveness and direction. When the sun rose high enough to light the dim hallway, Thad rose, too, and set about finding a buyer for the Appaloosa.
He stepped out of the livery a few minutes later, one horse lighter and a few dollars richer. He gave the silver coins another quick tally then tied them up in a red bandanna and tucked it deep inside his pocket. Now to find breakfast and locate the depot.
“Good morning, my good man. A bright and beautiful day, is it not?”
The loud, cheerful voice and curious remark set Thad on his heels. He frowned up at the overcast sky then turned to see who would say such a thing. A tall, smartly dressed man in a bowler hat stood not three feet away.
The gentleman winked and tipped his hat. “All a matter of perspective, my boy.” He pointed toward the sky. “Up there it’s dim and gloomy. But in here”–he tapped his temple with a long, slender finger–“it’s sunny all day long.”
Thad returned the tipped hat gesture, nodded, and turned his back on the unfamiliar person. Couldn’t be too careful.
Undeterred, the man sidled closer. “Hope you won’t mind my saying, but I couldn’t help noticing you’ve come into a bit of good fortune there.” He jabbed a finger toward Thad’s pocket. “Monetarily speaking, that is.”
Thad’s body tensed. Dolt! Who but a dolt would flash his money on the streets? He decided it best to ignore the inappropriate comment. “I hope you’ll forgive my rudeness, sir, but I have a train to catch.” He hitched his bag higher on his shoulder and stepped down off the boardwalk.
“You’ll not catch one in that direction.”
Thad turned, feeling foolish.
The fancy man grinned and pointed his index finger. “That way.”
Thad nodded his thanks and set off again.
“I’m afraid you won’t find a train to board for hours yet,” the man called out behind him. “Looks like you’re stuck here for a spell.”
“That’s all right. I’ll wait at the depot.”
The inquisitive stranger hurried along the boardwalk to draw even with Thad. “So where you headed?”
Thad frowned to show he resented the question. “South, to Bryan.”
“Bryan, eh? Signed up at the new school there, unless I miss my guess.” The dandy held on to a post and vaulted off the boardwalk directly into Thad’s path. “What’s your handle, son?”
“My what?”
“Your handle. Your name.”
“Name’s Thad,” he answered, not sure why he had. “Thaddeus Bloom.”
The stranger stuck out his hand. “Darius Q. Thedford at your service, Thad. Now I ask you, good son, why would a young man full of spit and vinegar choose to spend his morning in a dusty old train station? Especially when I can point the way to more”–he raised his brows and winked–“stimulating activities.”
On a different day–a day his heart didn’t throb in his chest, a day he hadn’t just left behind everything he cared about, a day he wasn’t mad as spit at his papa, even a day he hadn’t been up all night–Thad would’ve been smart enough to turn and walk away. Instead, he peered at the smiling face across from him, and though he recognized the look of a man who’d just hooked a fish, he took a step closer.
“Did you say stimulating?”
The fisherman’s dark eyes twinkled. “Downright exhilarating.” He looped his arm around Thad’s neck and led him up the boardwalk steps in quick little hops. “Ever try your hand at cards, lad?”
The words set his heart racing and tickled a memory to the surface. Thad knew where he’d seen the man before. The same mustachioed face had smiled up at him from the circle of poker-playing men in the saloon.
The taste of bait in his mouth, Thad dug in his heels and held up his hand. “Stop right there. I want nothing to do with gambling.”
Darius removed his arm from around Thad’s neck and backed away, looking him over. “So that’s the way it is, eh? Very well, boy. I understand where you’re coming from. Don’t give it another thought.” He pulled a pouch from his breast pocket and commenced to pouring tobacco in a line along the edge of a thin sheet of paper. With a practiced hand, he rolled it into a cigarette and licked it to seal the end. “Sorry I asked.”
Confused, Thad stared at the man. He hadn’t expected him to give in so easily.
Darius leaned against a pole and tucked away his tobacco. “When you’re ready, I’ll direct you to the train. Wouldn’t want to worry your mama none.”
The stress Darius placed on the word “mama” raised Thad’s hackles, especially since he’d hit the nail right on its head of silver curls. At the mention of cards, Mama’s face had drifted into Thad’s mind, her voice warning him of the perils of flirting with Lady Luck and dabbling in games of chance.
He pushed her image away and swaggered closer to Darius. “What do you mean to imply, sir?”
Darius shrugged. “Only that a fine, strapping boy with a pocketful of money and a lot of extra time should be ripe for a little action. Of the competitive sort, I should say.” He lit his hand-rolled smoke and shook out the match then gave Thad a sideways glance. “I figured the only thing holding you back from our little game must be a pressing need to mind your mama.”
Thad saw himself standing on the bayou playing out the line on his Kentucky reel, teasing a fat catfish to shore. He had enough sense to know that Mr. Darius Thedford, still fishing, had just used the same maneuver. Enough sense to know it, but not enough to care.
The hook had set. Nobody called Thaddeus Bloom a mama’s boy.
H
Thomas’s bucking, skidding rig clattered across the Polk Street Bridge so fast Sarah feared soaring off into the bayou. They cut across on Dallas Street to Vale then took the turn over to Austin on two rumbling wheels. Sarah abandoned her place beside Thomas and crawled in back to help shield and comfort the babies. When they bounded up to the rear entrance of the Commercial Hotel, she did a quick head count for fear one of the children had bounced right over the side.
Satisfied they were shaken but all right, she gathered her skirts and clambered out of the wagon. It didn’t take long to locate the trouble. A crowd of men stood out back of the building, their waving arms and raised voices pointing the way Sarah needed to run. She slowed to keep from mowing down onlookers at the rim of the circle then started elbowing her way through.
“Make way, now,” she cried, realizing how deep her anguish flowed by the sound of her own voice. “Oh, please. Move out my way.”
On the other side, a worse sight than Sarah could imagine met her eyes. She took it all in then slapped a hand over her mouth to keep from crying out. Henry slumped in the saddle, hands tied behind his back and a noose around his neck. Bruises covered his face, and blood flowed from a busted nose. The only thing standing between Henry’s legs and empty space, between life and certain death, was the most cantankerous mule in the good Lord’s creation.
Dandy, don’t you move.
The three dreadful men from the day before, laughing like drunken hyenas, hovered around he
r man. Skinny Boy held a handgun on the crowd. The one called Edward waved a scattergun with shaking hands. The man claiming to be Frank Griswald stood on the bed of a wagon tightening the noose around Henry’s neck.
“This ain’t right,” a voice called out behind her. Sarah looked back to see who spoke, but it could’ve been any one of ten frowning white men standing among the other locals and shopkeepers who had gathered, most of them red-faced with anger.
“We don’t do things this way in Jefferson,” a distant voice cried.
“No problem, then,” the thin one growled in a stone-cold voice. “We ain’t from around here.”
“What crime did this man commit?”
Sarah glanced to her left. This time she recognized the scowling owner of Sedberry’s Drugstore. Frank Griswald leaned away from Henry and pinched the butt of a drooping cigar from his mouth. He answered without looking at Mr. Sedberry, squinting through his smoke at Henry instead. “This boy’s a thief.” He pointed at the rope. “Where I come from, this here is a thief deterrent.”
“You fellows won’t get away with this,” Mr. Sedberry shouted. “That man deserves a fair trial.”
Thomas and his two older boys pushed in behind Sarah. Thomas gasped and laid a hand on her arm. “Did anyone go for the sheriff?”
Sarah clutched his hand. “It don’t matter. By the time he gets here, Henry will be dead.”
She weighed her options. Despite the guns, despite the cold look in the men’s eyes, she longed to rush headlong in Henry’s direction. But if she did and lived through it, what would it accomplish? Dandy would bolt for sure, leaving Henry to dangle.
Desperate, she turned around to search the crowd for help. A cluster of her people stood off to the side, the men puffed up and spewing, the women wringing their hands. A closer look at their faces told Sarah fear had them by the throat. She’d find no help among them.
Too scared to cry, Sarah clung to Thomas and hid her face in his stiff woolen shirt. “We have to do something quick, Thomas. Henry’s gon’ die if we don’t.”
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