The Comanche Girl's Prayer, Texas Women of Spirit Book 2

by Angela Castillo

  Lone Warrior was so focused on the path she didn’t barrage him with questions, but he suddenly turned as though she had spoken. “Soo-nie, don’t worry. After a time we will stop and talk.”

  She tipped her head to the side. How does he always know what I’m thinking?

  The path veered north, in the direction of the wild Oklahoma territory. The sun had dipped low behind the clouds by the time they stopped in a wooded area.

  Lone Warrior slid off Cactus Pear. He tied the mare to a tree and held out a hand to help Soonie down.

  Warmth crept over her face. “Oh my goodness,” she murmured.

  He frowned. ‘What’s wrong?”

  “Besides worrying about what happened to Darla and the rest of my friends? Or knowing that we have to camp out here tonight, alone? What would my grandparents think? If I even see them again.” She slid down from the saddle and buried her face in her hands.

  Lone Warrior put his arm around her shoulder. “I know. I’m sorry.”

  She tilted back and stared into his deep brown eyes. “But you’re here, and I thought I’d lost you. But I didn’t.”

  A wide smile covered his impossibly handsome face. “No, you didn’t.” He touched her chin. “Soo-nie, the trail ahead is one for warriors. We will face danger, and hard times. But I promise to be worthy . . . of your choice.”

  “You already are,” Soonie whispered.

  Sparks of happiness danced in his eyes.

  Soonie pulled his hand to her cheek and closed her eyes. She would follow this man as the day followed the sun. One day, they would settle somewhere over the hills, in a land where they could be free.

  Epilogue

  “Hush little baby,

  Don’t say a word,

  Mama’s gonna buy you

  A mocking bird.”

  Zillia patted the tiny back, which rose and fell in a peace only slumber could bring. “There we are, little Marjorie Susannah,” she whispered.

  “Zilly! Zilly!”

  The voice was loud and shrill, coming across the farmyard. Zillia stood and tucked the blanket over the sweet, sleeping face. She placed the baby in the cradle and stepped through the door, out to the porch.

  “Zilly!” The boy ran through the gate and up the steps. His blond curls stood on end. “Zilly, the postman gave me a letter for you. Guess who it’s from?”

  Zillia’s hand crept over her mouth. “Oh, Orrie, could it be?”

  Orrie nodded, his cheeks ruddy from the run. “Yep, it’s from Soonie. Open it, Zillie.”

  Her hands shook as she tore open the flap and opened the precious piece of paper.

  March 30th, 1891

  Dear Zillia,

  I hope you have heard from Brother Jenkins or Darla by now and have learned about the choice I had to make, and why I had to make it. It was a hard thing to do, but Zillia, I promise it was the only way.

  By the time you read this, I will be a married woman. Lone Warrior asked me for my hand, and I gave it gladly. We found a tiny mission in the Oklahoma Territory and were married there.

  I hope someday, we will have the freedom to come back to Texas and travel in safety. I long to see you all again and wade in my cool Colorado River. Give my love to all, and kiss that sweet baby . . . girl? Or boy? Until then, know I am happy, and being cared for by the love of my life.

  Love,

  Soonie

  A few tears dripped on the words, causing the ink to smear. Zillia wiped them away and pressed the letter to her heart.

  God, please care for my friend. And if it’s possible, please let me somehow see her again.

  About the Author

  Angela Castillo has lived in Bastrop, Texas, home of the

  River Girl, almost her entire life. She studied Practical Theology

  at Christ for the Nations in Dallas. She lives in Bastrop with her husband and three children. Angela has written several short

  stories and books, including the Toby the Trilby series for kids.

  to find out more about her writing, go to http://angelacastillowrites.weebly.com

  Be sure to watch for The Saloon Girl’s Mission,

  book 3 in the Texas Women of

  Spirit series, coming in April 2016.

  Excerpt From

  The Saloon Girl’s Journey

  Texas Women of Spirit

  Book 3, Available on Amazon in paperback and Kindle.

  http://www.amazon.com/Saloon-Girls-Journey-Texas-Spirit-ebook/dp/B01CWDM90Q/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1458787143&sr=8-1&keywords=the+saloon+girl%27s+journey

  1

  A Place for Darla

  DOWNS HOUSE

  A PLACE OF SANCTUARY

  FOR UNFORTUNATE WOMEN

  Darla glanced over the sign and turned to Brother Jenkins. “Is that what you think I am? An unfortunate woman?”

  Brother Jenkins eyed her for a moment, lips twitching under his sharp nose. “Er...”

  He’s staring at my eye. Darla reached up to touch the puffy area underneath. Though it had been healing for over a week, there’d still been a light greenish-purple bruise when she’d looked in the boarding house mirror that morning. Bruises still dotted her neck and arm, though the modest gown she’d been given by the church folks did a good job of covering them.

  Her shoulders sagged as she glanced back down the road. “I suppose I’ve had a bit of bad luck. But things could have been worse, right? Hal never caught up with us out on the trail. We made it here safe and sound. All those are lucky things. I’d venture to say downright fortunate, wouldn’t you?”

  Brother Jenkins retrieved her carpet bag from the small cart and rubbed his chin. “Well, the hand of the Almighty intervened in a timely fashion. I cannot deny that.”

  “You bet He did.” Darla squinted at the sign again. “Since I have nowhere else to go, I’ll give the place a shot. But I ain’t looking for any handouts.”

  “You will not be getting any handouts here.” The pastor tied the horse’s reins to a fence post. “Mrs. Downs doesn’t put up with an ounce of laziness. You’ll be expected to earn your keep, just like the rest of the women.”

  She tossed her head. “Well, that suits me just fine. I can work a mule into the ground and still have the strength to dance a jig on a table.”

  Two red spots bloomed on Brother Jenkins’s cheeks. “Please don’t do that.”

  Darla giggled and patted a few unruly blond curls back into place under her battered straw bonnet. “Sugar, it’s just an expression.”

  He sighed. “I’ve been meaning to address your manner of speech. I realize these abrupt changes are hard for you, but you must temper these brazen habits of yours. Don’t say ‘ain’t.’ Don’t treat people with such familiarity. Show some respect. Proper ladies don’t talk like that.”

  Darla suppressed an eye-roll. The man was forever pointing out what proper ladies did and didn’t do. “I don’t much care about being dignified, but I’d like to become a better Christian.”

  The pastor’s lips flattened out into a frown. “Yes, I know you made the decision to give your life to the Lord back there on the trail. It’s more than a prayer, Darla. Do you understand the changes you must make in your life?”

  Soonie was the most Christian person I’ve ever met, and she wasn’t always proper. Despite the thought, Darla nodded. “Yes, I’m more certain than I’ve ever been about anything.”

  A rare smile spread across the pastor’s pinched face. “I am glad, Darla. And I believe this will be the perfect place. But only if you follow the words of Christ and ‘go and sin no more.’”

  “If you mean flirtin’ and dancin’ and drinkin’ then you’ve got nothing to worry about, Brother Jenkins. Saloons are rat traps and I have no intention of going back among the varmits. I’ll do my very best.”

  “Seek God, and He will guide you. Now we’d better get inside, it’s almost dark.” Brother Jenkins swung open the imposing iron gate and waved Darla inside.

  Skeletons of oaks and elms, bereft o
f finery for the cold season, held up trembling limbs to the gray sky. Darla and Brother Jenkins followed a path paved with flat stones, which led to the wide steps of a large home.

  Columns of brickwork told of past grandeur, but paint peeled from the trim and in several places, boards had cracked and split. Even with these blemishes, the house had an air of dignity about it.

  Brother Jenkins removed his black, wide-brimmed minister’s hat and with spindly fingers, lifted the brass door knocker.

  Darla bit her lip and stared at the door. Despite her brave words to Brother Jenkins, part of her wanted to pick up her skirts and run back down the road the way they had come. What if these folks find out about my past? Brother Jenkins couldn’t have told them the whole story. They wouldn’t have agreed to keep me. Even this sort of place has limits on who they’ll let in. The question of how much Brother Jenkins had revealed burned in her mind but she couldn’t bring herself to ask. Nothing to do but wait for a polite rejection and see what other place Brother Jenkins could rustle up. Probably the poorhouse. Never in all her days, even scantily clad before a room full of men, had she felt so anxious and exposed.

  The door swung open, and a tall woman looked down at them. Darla’s heart sank further. The lady was swathed in black, from the end of the ragged ostrich plume that graced her bonnet to the toes of the sensible shoes peeping from under her inky dress.

  Brother Jenkins, who was rather tall himself, tipped back his head to meet her gaze. “Good evening. Mrs. Downs, I presume?”

  “You presume much, for there are presently eight ladies living at this establishment, if you count the cook’s daughter, and I do,” said the woman. A stiff ribbon peeped from under her chin like a giant moth. “But yes, I am Mrs. Downs. The ladies call me Ma Downs. Hardly proper, but certain concessions must be made, mustn’t they? I assume you’ve had your supper?”

  The pastor blinked and nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Then we shall have a cup of tea.” She led them into the narrow hallway, making a point to wipe her feet though she hadn’t stepped an inch out the door, and glared at them beneath thick eyebrows until they followed suit.

  Darla tried to wipe her shoes, but the white leather had been utterly devastated in the last week’s adventures. I can’t very well remove my shoes. She tugged on her skirts to try to cover her feet and hoped Ma Downs wouldn’t notice the dreadful state of her footwear.

  “You may place your things there.” Ma Downs waved at an ornate bench set against the wall. The golden wood looked out of place against the drab purple wallpaper.

  “That is a goodly piece of furniture,” Brother Jenkins remarked.

  “Yes. My son, Ethan, made it. He is a great help to me.” Ma Downs made a sharp turn through a door to the right.

  Any bit of dusky light that might have found its way into the room was trapped in thick muslin drapes hanging over the windows. The furniture was old and overstuffed, all covered with the same gold and black patterned material. An organ sat in the corner. Ma Downs indicated a chair and Darla perched on the edge of it, trying not to jiggle her knees.

  “I’ll return in a moment.” Ma Downs swept out of the room like an enormous crow, skirts swirling around her like ruffled feathers.

  Brother Jenkins tapped his chin with the brim of his hat.

  “Do you think she’ll let me stay?” Darla whispered.

  His eyebrows shot up, and he put a finger to his lips.

  Ma Downs came back into the room, a tray with a porcelain teapot and cups cradled in her hands. “Here we are.” She set the tray on a small table, poured the tea and handed steaming cups to Brother Jenkins and Darla.

  “Now.” She settled into a chair opposite from Darla. “The pastor’s telegram said your name is Darla North. You grew up in an orphanage, and later worked in various professions. Is that correct?”

  “Yes ma’am. Anything you could think of. Some I ain’t . . . I’m mean, I’m not so proud of.” Darla darted a glance at Brother Jenkins, but he stared into his cup, drinking in slow, careful sips.

  “Of course.” The woman peered at her through tiny spectacles, ludicrous on her wide, flat face. Her eyes lingered on Darla’s bruised eye. “You will find that our girls come from all kinds of places and have done all sorts of jobs. We care nothing for the past.”

  Even saloon girls? I doubt you’d have let me cross that bright and shiny welcome mat if you knew I’d worked in dens of iniquity, or whatever Brother Jenkins called them.

  “As long as a person does the work expected of them here, abides by the rules, and lives a scrupulous life of morality, she can stay under our roof.” Ma Downs continued. “Stray off the path, and she will be asked to leave.”

  “I’ll do my best, ma’am.” Darla sat up a little straighter and smoothed her skirt. The old windows rattled with a brisk December wind. A tiny sigh escaped her lips. Perhaps I won’t be turned out . . . tonight, anyway.

  “I can attest Miss North is a hard worker,” said Brother Jenkins. “I believe she will do her best to fit in and do what is asked of her.”

  “I’m glad to have your assurance, but we do have a trial period for every woman who stays here.”

  A trial period? Darla tightened her grip around the frail china cup, paying no mind to the porcelain burning her skin. I wonder how long? Or is it different for everyone? She was too afraid to ask.

  “I’m sure she’ll do fine,” Brother Jenkins replied, but he gave Darla a slanted look.

  “Then it’s settled.” Mrs. Downs stood and gathered the tea cups, including Darla’s half full one, back on the tray. She leaned into the hall. “Lisbeth,” she called. “Please come here.”

  Feet padded down the stairs, and a girl appeared in the doorway. Tall and willowy, she seemed near Darla’s age, in her early twenties.

  Mrs. Downs beckoned her into the room. “Lisbeth, this is Darla. Will you please show her where she’ll be staying?”

  The girl swept a thick curtain of pale red hair back from her face and nodded.

  Darla stood and held her hand out to Brother Jenkins. “Thank you so much . . . for everything.”

  “I’ll pray for you, Darla.” His steely eyes sent her another message. A plea to behave herself. To not make him regret his recommendation. Then his eyes softened, and he shook her hand. “Yes, I’ll be praying.”

  Darla gave him what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “I’ll make you glad you brought me, sug--sir. I promise.” She moved into the hallway and picked up her carpet back. After fumbling around for a moment, she pulled out her small pistol and the tiny dagger she usually had kept on her person at all times in the saloon. “Here. Please take these. You’ll need them more than I will, in your travels.”

  “The Lord is my strength and shield. But I’ll take them anyway.” He put the items in his pocket.

  Ma Downs, who had witnessed the exchange, nodded. “There is no need for such things in this house.” She opened the door for Brother Jenkins, and followed him outside.

  Darla stood in the hall, wondering if she should run after him for last minute instructions, but Lisbeth plucked at her arm. “Come on. You can bring your things.”

  The stairs creaked under Darla’s filthy shoes as she followed Lisbeth. Steep, narrow, and ending in shadows, they reminded her of the staircase at the saloon. But the upper story had always been a welcome refuge at the end of the day. No man was allowed to put a boot past the first step. It was a relief every night to move up the stairs and away from the dirty, brawling men, who took liberties and stole kisses and relentlessly demanded drinks and dances.

  But I won’t be coming back down to that world, she reminded herself. Now I serve a different master, a God who loves me, even though He knows everything I’ve done.

  Lisbeth reached the top and started down a long hallway with rows of doors lined up on either side like sentries. She turned the knob of the third door on the left. “You will share a room with me. I hope that’s all right.” Her voice was lilti
ng and soft.

  Why, she’s Irish! Darla had only met one other person from Ireland; a farmhand who’d briefly worked for her dad when she was a child.

  “Of course I don’t mind. I’ve slept on the ground a few times in the last week, so I’m just thankful for a real bed.” Darla followed Lisbeth into the room.

  During the interview, night had fallen. Moonlight filtered into the room through lace curtains, as dainty and pretty as the drapes downstairs had been dull and dreary. Twisted bits of wood and rocks of various shapes and colors had been placed on the window sill. Two beds on either side of the window were covered in cheery quilts.

  Darla touched the bright fabric. “Why is everything so lovely up here, while the rooms downstairs are drab and dowdy? Besides that beautiful bench in the entry way, I mean.”

  Lisbeth shrugged. “Unfortunates should spend their time pondering the ways of God,” she chanted, as though reading from a book. “They should turn away from worldly vanities and think on heavenly things.”

  “Is that what Ma Downs says?” asked Darla.

  “No, but the benefactors believe it. Since they supply most of the funds for the house and other works we do, Ma Downs tries to keep them happy. So downstairs is dull and shabby. But we are allowed to keep our rooms the way we like, within reason. The benefactors never come up here.”

  “If Heaven looks like the parlor downstairs, I’m not sure if I want to go.” Darla glanced up to see if Lisbeth was shocked.

  A ghost of a smile crept across the girl’s pale lips. “I don’t know if I would either. I figure, if God made sunsets and butterflies, he must like colors just fine.” She gestured to a bureau. “You can put your belongings in the two lower drawers. The wash basin is over by the window if you’d like to freshen up before lights out.”