Lacy: (Sweet Historical Western Romance) (Pendleton Petticoats Book 5)

by Shanna Hatfield

  “When Grant said his mother could be difficult, I had no idea… I never imagined she would…” Lacy sighed. All her dreams of a future with Grant died on the sidewalk outside when his mother looked at her with hatred and loathing, calling her a godless creature.

  Her ancestors might not have sat in a church pew on Sunday, but she’d be willing to wager every last penny she had that they possessed more of a Christian spirit than that detestable woman.

  In need of solace and comfort, Lacy wanted to race Star out of town and straight to her grandmother’s house. The wise old woman would make everything seem fine, even if it would never be right again.

  Ready to put her thoughts into action, she got to her feet then hugged Ilsa. “I need to go for a ride. If Grant comes back, will you tell him I’ll talk to him later, perhaps after his mother leaves town.”

  Ilsa grinned. “If Grant thinks you’re upset with him, we might just see Imogene hog-tied to the back of a wagon.”

  Lacy couldn’t help but smile at the image Ilsa’s words created.

  Ilsa started toward the front of her store then stopped. “Don’t let Imogene’s words bother you, Lacy. None of us feel that way, especially Grant.”

  Lacy nodded then hurried up the stairs to her apartment. Quickly changing back into the clothes she’d worn earlier, she braided her hair and tugged on her moccasins. Noticing the jewels at her ears, she removed the earrings and reverently returned them to their box.

  What was Grant thinking, giving her a family heirloom? Too confused to make sense of anything that had happened since Grant stepped into Tony’s barn that morning, Lacy hurried downstairs. She gave Ilsa a hug and rushed out the front door where she spied Grant’s horse, patiently waiting for his master to return.

  “Poor boy. Did Grant forget about you when that awful woman arrived? How about we go for a ride? Would you like that, Drew?”

  The horse nodded his head so Lacy opened Ilsa’s shop door. “I’m going to take Drew for a ride. If Grant comes looking for him, tell him I’ll bring him back later.”

  “I’m sure once Grant calms down, he’ll recall where he left the horse. You can leave him at our barn tonight if you don’t want to take him back to Grant’s and run the risk of seeing Imogene.”

  Lacy shrugged. “I can leave him at Grant’s barn without her being any the wiser. Thank you, Ilsa.”

  Ilsa waved a hand at her. “Enjoy your ride. If you see Rebecca, tell her I said hello.”

  “I will.”

  Lacy mounted Drew and let him walk sedately through town. At the outskirts, she urged him into a gallop as they rode out to the reservation.

  A short while later, she reined the horse to a stop outside her grandmother’s small home. The primitive dwelling was essentially one large, long room with a sink and cook stove on one end and a bed on the other. Rebecca said it kept her warm and dry in the winter and sheltered from the sun and critters in the summer.

  At least her grandmother had finally given away her threadbare furniture and bought a new set the previous fall. Two side chairs, a small settee, two end tables, a lamp, and a kitchen table with four chairs completed the furnishings.

  After a quick tap on the door, Lacy opened it. Rebecca sat in a rocking chair by the stove, working on a beading project for Ilsa.

  “Lacy, it is good to see you.” Rebecca smiled as Lacy stood in the doorway, staring at her. She narrowed her gaze and studied her granddaughter, aware something troubled the girl. “What is it, child? What is wrong?”

  Lacy had held her tears in check for so long, but now they spilled over and a sob escaped. She ran across the room and dropped to the floor at her grandmother’s feet. Placing her cheek on Rebecca’s soft lap, she cried out her anger, fear, humiliation, doubts, and fears.

  Rebecca uttered soothingly to her, running a gentle hand over her head. The only other sounds were the creak of the rocking chair and the occasional pop of wood in the stove.

  When her tears subsided, Lacy sat up, brushed her cheeks with the palms of her hands, and took a deep breath. She dug a handkerchief from her pocket and swiped at her nose then turned a watery gaze to Rebecca.

  “Now, child, tell me what brought all this on.” Rebecca cupped her chin with a tender hand.

  “It’s Grant.”

  Rebecca waited for her to continue, wondering what the young man had done to create such a storm of tears in her granddaughter. Lacy wasn’t one given to emotional displays, and rarely cried. Aware of the girl’s infatuation with the banker, Rebecca thought Grant returned Lacy’s feelings. Perhaps she’d been wrong about him. “What did he do?”

  Lacy released a long sigh then sat back, wrapping her arms around her upraised knees. “He asked me to the ball Ilsa and Marnie are planning at Dogwood Corners and he gave me the most beautiful earrings, Grandmother. They had real jewels in them — sapphires.”

  “That all sounds wonderful, child. Wherein does the problem lie?”

  “His mother.” Lacy frowned as she recalled all the nasty, spiteful things Imogene said to her. She wouldn’t repeat them to her grandmother. Infuriating the older woman would serve no purpose and accomplish nothing.

  “His mother? Doesn’t she live far away and come to visit in the summer?”

  “Yes, but she showed up unannounced today. She seemed quite displeased Grant and I have been spending time together.” Lacy rested her cheek on her knees, sniffling.

  Rebecca saw far more than Lacy intended as she placed a gnarled hand to the girl’s dark head. “And she said things, hurtful things. Is that what brought on your tears?”

  “No. Yes. Well, she…” Lacy tried to gather her thoughts and stem the tears burning the backs of her eyes. “She made it clear she doesn’t want me to see Grant again.”

  “What did Grant say?”

  Lacy lifted her head slightly. “He apologized for his mother and promised to find me later.”

  “So you ran away, out here?”

  “I didn’t run away. Ilsa knows where I am, and that I took Grant’s horse. I just needed to see you, Grandmother. I needed to feel your love and acceptance, like always.” Lacy brushed at the tears that spilled down her cheeks.

  Rebecca lumbered to her feet and took a seat on the settee, patting the place beside her. Lacy settled next to her grandmother and let the old woman hold her while she cried again. “What am I going to do, Grandmother?”

  “What do you want to do?” Rebecca asked as she stroked Lacy’s hair and rubbed her back. “What does your heart tell you to do?”

  “Love Grant.” Lacy waited for her grandmother to tell her it was ridiculous for her to fall in love with Grant. She expected to hear a lecture about how their worlds were too different, too far apart, for them to build a future together.

  Instead, Rebecca pushed up Lacy’s chin and smiled at her with her eyes full of love. “Then that is what you should do, child.”

  “But, Grandmother, I think his mother hates me.” Lacy scooted down until her head rested on Rebecca’s lap. “And what about Father? He still insists I wed Phillip. If he knew about Grant, he’d force me to marry Phillip tomorrow.”

  Rebecca chuckled. “Your father may talk big, but even he knows he could not force you to marry someone not of your choosing. Unlike your sister, you have always been strong and independent, even as a tiny girl.” Rebecca stroked her hand over Lacy’s head for a while as they both remained quiet. Finally, she cleared her throat. “I shall tell you a story, my beloved child, and you shall listen.”

  Lacy sat up and wiped the remainder of her tears away. Her grandmother told the best stories and more often than not, they contained helpful nuggets of wisdom. “I’m listening, Grandmother.”

  “Good, but first I will sit in the chair your father brought me. It is more comfortable for my old bones.” Lacy helped her grandmother to her feet then Rebecca settled into the big rocking chair and set it into motion. She picked up the beading she’d been working on when Lacy arrived and began working on a flow
er design that would eventually be incorporated into the hem of a gown Ilsa planned to create.

  Lacy moved to a side chair next to her grandmother and threaded a needle then selected beads and began stitching a simple pattern into a soft leather bag.

  “Once there was a young woman who walked through the days with the strength of warriors, but at night the stars slid down from the heavens and settled into her eyes. Faraway places and foreign people filled the solitude of her dreams. Before morning streaked the horizon, the stars would climb back up to the sky and the girl would once again turn to her work for the day with respect, honoring her family and their traditions. This went on day after day, week after week, year after year. One day, her father came to her and said he wanted her to wed a young chief. He would provide for her and take care of her all the days of her life. Her heart cried out in anguish for she did not love the young chief, even though he was handsome and strong, a good man.”

  Lacy raised an eyebrow and looked at her grandmother. The tale sounded far too similar to her story.

  Rebecca smiled and continued. “That night, the maiden told the stars her father had promised her to the young chief but she wanted to marry a man she loved, one who made her heart sing.”

  “Then what happened, Grandmother?” Lacy asked, hoping the story had a happier ending than the one she’d likely endure.

  “The stars wept for the girl. They didn’t want her to lose her dreams, so they fashioned a flute. Oh, it was a fine flute. The stars told her that the man she was meant to marry would play the flute and the song would echo in her ears and sing to her heart. The next morning, the maiden took the flute to her father and told him of the vision the stars gave her. He sent for the young chief and asked him to play for his daughter. When he did, no sound came from the flute. The young chief played and played, trying to bring forth a single note, but could not. Angry, he tossed down the flute and left. Many warriors played the flute, but not one of them could make it sing. The maiden’s father told her she must choose a husband, for she had remained unwed for years past the age she should have married. She begged him to wait two moons. If, at that time, no one had made the flute sing, she would marry whomever he chose.”

  “Let me guess, the young chief tried again and the flute sang and they lived happily ever after.” Lacy smiled impishly at her grandmother when the old woman glanced up from her beading.

  “No, that is not what happened.” Rebecca frowned and returned to her work. “The maiden told the stars of her father’s plan. The stars said a man unlike any she’d known would appear before the first moon had passed. They cautioned her not to fear him, but to ask him to play the flute. Three days later, as the young woman gathered berries with some of the other women, a man unlike any they’d seen stumbled out of the bushes, bleeding from a gash to his head. His hair was a different color than theirs. His eyes were pale instead of dark, his skin more white than tan. The maiden thought of the words of the stars. She helped the man back to her home where she tended his wound and offered him food. That evening, as her father and some of the elders debated what they should do with the strange man, the maiden handed him her flute and asked him to play. He placed the flute to his mouth and played the most haunting tune, a tune that floated out over the village and made the maiden’s heart sing in return. When the father saw this was the man who spoke to his daughter’s heart, he gave her hand to him in marriage and they spent a long, happy life together.”

  Lacy studied her grandmother for a while before speaking. “It is a good story, grandmother, but you forgot the part about the man’s crazy mother who wants to tie the maiden to a stake and set fire to it.”

  Rebecca chuckled and set aside her beading. The old, gnarled hands wrapped around Lacy’s smooth, young fingers and rubbed the backs of them comfortingly. “Even a rattlesnake can be rendered helpless if you remove his fangs.”

  “If it doesn’t inject you full of venom and kill you first.” Lacy released a careworn breath. “Grandmother, do you really think Father will accept Grant someday? That his mother will accept me? Is it wrong to dream of something different than what we’ve always known?”

  “No child. There is nothing wrong with your dreams — or Walker’s for that matter. You two weren’t meant to tread the path of tradition. Even your mother knew you would forge your own way, a different way. That’s why she pushed your father to let you both attend school and learn the white ways so well.” Rebecca’s face held a wistful look as she thought of her well-loved daughter-in-law. “As for your father accepting Grant or his mother accepting you, only time will tell, but we can pray.”

  “Thank you, Grandmother.” Lacy kissed the weathered, wrinkled cheek then rose to her feet. “I can smell the roast in your oven, so why don’t I finish preparing dinner while you tell me another story. Maybe one more believable.”

  “How about a Coyote story? As a child, you always enjoyed hearing about his trickster ways.”

  Lacy grinned over her shoulder at her grandmother. “Tell me the one about him racing a cloud.”

  Rebecca nodded in agreement. “Long ago…”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Grant had never been so angry in his life. Not even close to the rage currently surging through him in overpowering waves.

  It was bad enough his mother descended upon him like an unwelcome plague. The vicious, unforgivable things she said to Lacy besieged him with concern for the sweet girl’s wellbeing.

  Although Lacy hid her emotions, he read the pain that filled her eyes as his mother referred to her as a godless creature. If anyone behaved like a heathen, it was Imogene Hill.

  What right did she have to speak that way to anyone, much less the woman Grant loved?

  The mere sight of Lacy tied his mother’s bloomers in a knot. Her fury would reach its summit when she discovered Grant not only consorted with “that Indian girl,” as Imogene referred to Lacy, but also wanted to spend his future with her.

  By some miracle, his mother remained silent on the carriage ride to his house. However, the moment they stepped inside his home, she turned on him with both barrels loaded.

  “Don’t you ever talk to me or treat me like that again, young man. I am your mother and demand your respect.” Imogene removed her hat and gloves, leaving them on the hall tree in the front entry. She started to march past Grant, but he grabbed her arm and pulled her to a halt.

  “Respect is something you earn, Mother, not automatically receive. What little I had for you I lost the moment you spoke to Miss Williams so crudely. It was uncalled for, untrue, and vindictive. Miss Williams is a wonderful woman with a good heart and better manners than many of your so-called friends and their spoiled offspring.”

  Imogene looked as though she might faint. None of her children ever spoke back to her, least of all Grant. He’d always been so kind and considerate of her. That Indian witch must have cast some sort of spell over him for her beloved son to speak to her so harshly.

  Blindly reaching behind her, she slumped down on a bench near the parlor door and stared at Grant.

  “Don’t think your theatrics will help your cause. What you did was reprehensible. Why, if someone even thought the things about you that you spoke to that poor girl, you’d demand they be arrested.” Grant paced back and forth in the hall, ignoring the way his mother pretended to be shocked and offended by his words. “How could you be so malicious, Mother?”

  Through the years, he’d seen enough of her dramatics to know she could have starred on the stage had she chosen a career in acting.

  He almost snorted as he thought of his mother pursuing an occupation she deemed “base and sordid.” According to her oft-stated opinion, actresses were just a step beyond the unfortunate girls who worked in bawdy houses.

  In an attempt to coerce him into her way of thinking, Imogene shifted tactics and held out a trembling hand to her son. “Grant, dear, please sit down before you wear a hole in the carpet. I’m… sorry.” Imogene pulled a handkerchief f
rom her sleeve and dabbed her eyes, sniffling loudly for added effect.

  Grant stopped in front of her and crossed his arms over his chest. “Nice try, Mother, but that isn’t going to work on me. In fact, while we’re being honest, I’ll just tell you that none of us enjoy having you stay with us. It’s three months of misery we endure every year. William and Agnes always take a trip with the children while you’re there because it’s the only way they can maintain their sanity until you leave. Eleanor has so many illnesses when you visit just to get away from you because she gets tired of your incessant nagging, and don’t get me started on Maude. The only reason you’re able to set foot inside their door is because she has promised her poor husband if he puts up with you for three months, he can do whatever he pleases the other nine.”

  “Why, I never!” Imogene slumped against the back of the bench, genuinely distressed. Did her children really think so little of her? It couldn’t be so. Grant was just upset over the encounter with that… girl. That had to be the reason he spoke so spitefully.

  “Well, maybe you should. Did you ever stop to think, Mother, that you and Father raised us well? The girls and I are capable of managing and making decisions without your commentary on every single thing we do. I know you mean well, but it has to stop. Now.” Grant paused a moment to let his words sink into Imogene’s stubborn head. “If you want to stay here longer than one night, you will never, ever again speak to Miss Williams in such a deplorable manner. Is that clear?”

  “But, Grant, I was just…”

  “Is it clear!” Grant’s voice boomed like thunder throughout the entry, making Imogene jerk and her eyes widen with fright. Generally easy-going and patient, she’d never heard her son raise his voice so loudly or forcefully. The obvious outrage he experienced made part of her wish she hadn’t acted so rashly. In fact, it would appear her bold maneuver had only driven a wedge between her and her son instead of chasing away that reservation rabble.