by Jo Goodman
"Who was that man?" Beryl asked weakly from the bed.
Watching from the doorway, Maggie noticed Connor's stepmother looked quite beautiful with her chestnut hair splashed over the pillow and her pale eyes beseeching. Maggie felt like a voyeur; no one had noted her presence. Meredith, still slung on her back, was being blissfully quiet for once.
"Dancer Tubbs," Connor said. "And he was our guest."
Rushton cleared his throat as Beryl opened her mouth to take exception to Connor's answer as well as his tone. "I think what my son is saying is that Mr. Tubbs was invited to use this room and we were not."
Connor didn't respond, confirming his father's interpretation without saying a word.
Meredith chose that moment to make certain she wasn't ignored any longer.
Chapter 15
Maggie was aware of every eye turned in her direction. She offered her smile tentatively as she brought the sling around and unfastened it. Cradling Meredith, Maggie turned and held her daughter so Beryl and Rushton could see. "Say hello to your grandfather, Meredith," she said.
Rushton was on his feet immediately, stepping over bags and around trunks to get to his granddaughter. "May I?" he asked.
Maggie didn't hesitate. His dark eyes had lost their distant look as he looked down on the baby. So much like Connor, she thought, and they don't even realize it. "Here," she said, lifting the baby. "Take her."
Rushton accepted the flailing bundle with the ease of someone used to holding babies. "She looks like Connor," he said. "Same hair, same eyes." Meredith wailed suddenly. "Same lungs."
Over Rushton's shoulder, Maggie saw Connor's reluctant smile. "I think so, too," she said. "She's beautiful."
"Babies all look alike," Beryl said. "I can't tell one from the other."
Rushton carried Meredith over to the bed. "That's because you haven't tried." He sat on the edge and showed the baby to Beryl. When Beryl sat up and leaned forward Meredith grabbed a handful of chestnut hair and tried to get it into her mouth.
"Oooh, the little—"
"Beryl," Rushton said firmly. "She doesn't know any better."
Connor came over and helped extricate Beryl. "I think she's wet," he said. "Maggie? Do you want to—"
"I'll take her," Rushton said, getting up. He walked back to Maggie. "Show me where you change her."
Maggie led him into the hallway. "We moved her crib back into our room when Dancer returned," she said. "It's just as well with you being here now."
"I know you had no warning," he said. "And I apologize for that."
"Really," said Maggie. "There's no need."
He shook his head, flashing the iron gray threads of hair at his temples momentarily. "There's every need. We could have stayed in Denver a few weeks longer, at least until we could get word to you about wanting to visit. I think I knew that Connor wouldn't want us here no matter what the circumstance. Frankly, I depended on you."
"Then I'm happy you did," she said. Maggie was careful not to compromise her sincerity by mentioning Beryl's name. She laid out the changing blanket on the bed. "You can put her down now. She can't roll from her back to her front yet; she'll be fine."
Rushton laid the baby down. "What did I hear you say her name was?"
"Meredith. Mary and Edith. Names from both sides of the family."
"Meredith," he repeated softly. "I like it."
She saw that Rushton was obviously touched. "That's exactly what Connor said when I told him." She stripped off the baby's wet diaper and dropped it in a pail of water. "Would you get me that basket over there on the dresser? I like to put a little cornstarch on her bottom." Maggie fussed over the baby while Rushton watched. She could hear voices coming from the other bedroom but she tried not to pay any attention. Rushton helped by keeping up a steady stream of nonsense chatter. Maggie was certain that if shareholders in his steel company heard him they would be moved to sell their stocks immediately.
* * *
"You're angry, aren't you?" Beryl asked.
He didn't answer her directly. "Whose idea was this, Beryl? Tell me that. Yours or my father's?"
"You are angry." Looking up at him, she coyly nibbled on the tip of one nail. "I suppose we thought of it together," she told him. "I wanted to see my mother in Denver. It would have been foolish to have come so far and not taken a little more time and effort to see the Double H again."
"You never liked the Double H."
"I liked it better than Denver."
"You hated Denver."
"That's what I mean." Beryl sat up further and put her legs over the side of the bed. She saw Connor's sour look when her gown didn't immediately fall over her knees and calves. "You used to like looking at my legs," she said, righting her petticoats modestly. "There's still nothing wrong with them."
Connor looked at the sea of baggage around him. "It looks like you brought everything."
"Don't be silly. We left a lot of things with my mother."
"Then you do plan on leaving sometime." Under his breath, he added, "I wondered."
Beryl stood. Looking in the mirror across the room, she fiddled with her hair. "It looks as if you recovered from your aversion to your wife," she said. "I seem to recall something about separate bedrooms at the St. Mark." She gave him a sidelong glance. "Or maybe the baby isn't yours?"
Connor didn't offer a response. "Anything in here belong to Maggie?" he asked. "Luke said you brought some of her things from Michael's."
Beryl looked around. She saw the black leather case sitting behind one of the trunks, out of Connor's line of vision. "It's all mine."
He shook his head. "Amazing," he said softly, taking a step toward the door. He was brought up short as Beryl slipped her arm through his.
She stood on tiptoe, falling against him as he turned. "No kiss, Connor?" she asked breathily. "You must really hate me for marrying your father."
He didn't hate her. He just didn't give a damn. Even while the words were forming in his head he realized he'd held onto them too long. Beryl was pressing her mouth firmly against his. He reached for her waist to push her away. Out in the hallway he heard Maggie's soft tread and his daughter's gurgling. He managed to wrench Beryl free before Maggie turned the corner into the room.
Maggie saw nothing but the step Connor took away from Beryl and the look of guilty pleasure on Beryl's face. "I came to see if Beryl needs anything," she said, keeping her voice carefully neutral. She couldn't look at Connor, though she could tell he was trying to meet her eye. "Rushton's going to take the baby while I start dinner." Rushton appeared in that moment and scooped Meredith out of her mother's arms.
"He's going to be absolutely silly about that child, isn't he?" Beryl said as Rushton disappeared again.
"I'll see to dinner," Maggie said.
"I'll come with you," Connor said, following her.
When she was alone Beryl sat on one of the trunks. She smiled to herself. Rushton might have been oblivious, but she was certain Maggie had seen enough.
"I don't need any help," Maggie told Connor once they were in the kitchen. "Go talk to your father in the parlor."
"There's time enough for that," he said. "Right now I want to talk to you."
Maggie opened the trap door to the root cellar and climbed down. "I'm listening," she said, her tone conveying quite the opposite. She filled a basket with potatoes and carrots and carried it up. Connor wasn't around when she reached the top. "Good," she said succinctly, satisfied and miserable at the same time.
* * *
With Dancer Tubbs in the bunkhouse, the hired hands were happy to eat there. Maggie served dinner for the family at the round oak table in the small dining room. There was a roast, carrots and potatoes, fresh rolls, and thanks to Luke and Buck's timely return with sugar and spices, there were sand tarts baking in the oven for dessert.
Meredith was sleeping when they sat down and Maggie realized belatedly how much the presence of the baby would have buffered the tension. It was just as w
ell, she thought. It wasn't fair to Meredith.
"How is your mother, Beryl?" Connor asked rather stiffly as he passed the roast platter.
"She's doing well. She has a touch of bursitis in her shoulder that she likes to complain about."
"That can be very painful," Maggie said quietly. "Has she seen a doctor?"
"She doesn't like doctors," Beryl said, an edge to her tone. "She likes to complain."
Rushton spoke up. "Grace doesn't think anything she's gotten from the physician has been very helpful." He ignored the look Beryl shot at him. "Do you know something that might work? Luke and Buck were saying on the way here that you know quite a bit about healing."
"White willow tea may relieve some of the pain. Perhaps as little as a cup a day might be helpful. I could give you some of the bark to take to her. It's no trouble."
Beryl snorted. "I'm not giving my mother the bark from some tree. I don't hold to Indian remedies. When I get back to New York I'm going to send her some of that tonic they advertise in the Herald."
"It's likely to be alcohol with a few flavorings," Maggie said. "Most of those tonics aren't effective."
"She's my mother," Beryl said.
Maggie cut her carrots carefully, calling on her patience. "Of course," she said. "I'm sorry. You're right."
Rushton passed the rolls to his wife. "Here," he said. "Put one of these in your mouth." When she looked at him, startled by what she thought she heard, he merely smiled at her, his eyes giving away nothing. "They're delicious."
For the second time that day Maggie caught Connor smiling at something his father had said. She speared one of her carefully sliced carrots. "I haven't had time to read any of my letters. Tell me about my mother and father. Are they well?"
Rushton obliged Maggie's interest, filling her in on most every encounter he'd had with Jay Mac and Moira since the marriage. He watched the play of expression on Maggie's delicate features. Her eyes and mouth registered a myriad of emotion. She was amused, content, pleased, and wistful. And throughout his storytelling he was aware he was not the only one observing her. When his eyes darted in his son's direction he saw that the expression there was watchful, but carefully neutral, shielding his thoughts in a way Maggie could not.
"I had the opportunity to read some of your letters home," Rushton said with off-handed charm. "I hope you don't mind that Jay Mac shared them."
"Of course not." She busied her hands with buttering a slice of bread, desperate to remember what she had written that might prove embarrassing. Too late she realized that it was what she hadn't written that was going to cause her discomfort.
"You never mentioned a grandchild was on the way."
Maggie couldn't help looking uncomfortable. She was. She could feel Beryl's scrutiny.
Connor answered for her. "Maggie didn't want Moira to worry, and I didn't want Jay Mac descending on us before the baby was born. Both of those things were bound to happen and neither was particularly desirable. The letters heralding Meredith's coming have all been sent. There'll be one waiting for you in New York."
"I see," said Rushton. He chewed thoughtfully. On his right, he saw Beryl's fingertips tap on the table as she counted out the months from marriage to birth. He lightly placed his foot on hers, caught her eye, and cautioned her against speaking her thoughts aloud.
"Would anyone like more potatoes?" Maggie asked, thrusting the bowl in Connor's direction. Her cheeks flamed when she heard her own voice crack with nervousness. It didn't even help that no one looked in her direction or commented. She gave up the bowl and applied herself to her own meal, scarcely tasting what she ate.
Rushton steered the conversation to other topics and, to ease Maggie's discomfort, Connor contributed more than he would have under different circumstances.
Later that evening after Rushton and Beryl had gone to bed, Maggie joined Connor on the front porch. Wordlessly, he took her hand and led her away from the house and toward the stream. There was a perch of rocks on one embankment and they sat there, Maggie secured in the cradle of Connor's body, her knees drawn toward her chest, his arms folded around her. The night was unseasonably warm and the breeze that lifted strands of Maggie's hair also carried the fragrance of it to Connor's senses. He breathed deeply and rubbed his chin back and forth against the crown of her head.
"You were talking to him tonight," she said softly. Her hands covered his. Her thumbs passed across the back of his hands. "Really talking to him."
"What?"
"At dinner," she said.
Connor thought about it a moment. He had been trying to save the situation, make it less uncomfortable for Maggie, and somehow he and Rushton had actually exchanged ideas for the better part of thirty minutes without coming to verbal blows. "I suppose I was," he said, then added a little defensively, "What about it?"
"It was nice."
He grunted softly.
"It was nice," she whispered, smiling. "And I liked the way you came to my rescue. Rushton, too, for that matter."
"My father started it," he said. "If he hadn't brought up the letters, you wouldn't have been embarrassed."
"I think that was just simple curiosity on his part. He wasn't purposely trying to make me uncomfortable."
Connor didn't say anything for a moment. "Why do you defend him?" he asked finally.
"Is that what I was doing? I hadn't realized."
He wished he could see her face. There was something a bit too innocent in her tone. "You like him, don't you?"
"Yes," she said. "I do." She paused a beat. "What is it that stands between the two of you? Beryl?"
"God, no," Connor said feelingly.
There was something comforting in knowing that. Maggie snuggled closer. "Then what?"
Moonlight was reflected on the surface of the water. Ribbons of blue and white light rippled and curled as the water rushed over rocks and a single fish leaped for the light. At Maggie's back there was a stillness about Connor. His chin had stopped moving in her hair. His arms held her but no more tightly than they had a moment before. His breathing was quiet.
"He killed her," he said at last.
The words simply hung there. There was no edge of bitterness, no accusation in the tone, only the flat conviction of truth.
"Connor?" She turned her head and looked up at him. There was a certain tautness along his shadowed jaw. She touched him there. "What do you mean?"
"I mean he killed her," he said. "He left the Double H in the middle of the night, skulked out of here like some damn cattle rustler, and never looked back. My mother wasn't the same after that. She was buried fifteen years later, but she died that night. It's hard to forgive him for that."
Maggie felt as if her heart were being squeezed. "How old were you?"
He shrugged.
"How old?" she repeated.
"Seven," he said, then added in a voice that seemed almost that young with its raw pain, "I watched him leave."
"Oh, Connor," she said softly.
"I don't want your pity."
"I'm not offering it."
Connor wasn't so certain. He started to move away but Maggie held onto his arms and kept him close.
"No," she said. "Don't go. I want you to know what I'm offering isn't pity." She hesitated, searching for the right words.
"I'm listening," he said.
"I suppose I do feel sorry for the little boy who lost his mother and father on the same night, but I keep thinking that he was only seven and he can't have possibly known what took place between his parents."
"You're wrong," Connor said. "You're forgetting I had my grandfather. He told me what my mother never would: that Rushton left with silver in his saddle bag."
"Silver? But what—"
"Old Sam struck a vein on the land years ago. He never did anything about it. Just kept the silver in a few jars in the root cellar. When he saw that my father wasn't satisfied with life here, when Rushton kept pushing my mother to leave, Old Sam offered him the money
. My father took it and ran. It was enough for him to buy his way into the steel business. He parlayed it into a fortune while my mother worked herself into an early grave. That's what I know."
Maggie was silent for a moment, then she said, "I'll only say it this one time, Connor: you still don't know what was between your parents, and if you don't speak to your father about it now, you never will."
This time it was Maggie who moved. She released herself from Connor's arms and stood. She touched him lightly on the shoulder. "Good night." Maggie walked back to the ranch house and didn't look back until she reached the porch. Connor was still sitting on the throne of rocks, staring at the moon's reflection, surrounded by the space and silence.
* * *
The next morning after breakfast, Maggie found a few minutes for herself and her daughter. The hands were working on rebuilding some fences, Dancer was preparing the afternoon meal, and Connor had taken Rushton and Beryl on a tour of the property. Maggie and Meredith shared the braided oval rug in the parlor and played with a cloth ball and wooden rattle that Ben had fashioned for the baby. The wicker laundry basket beside them tumbled as Maggie rolled Meredith onto her stomach, then onto her back. The baby laughed and kicked her chubby legs when she was buried in a mound of clothes. Things scattered and a three-legged stool was overturned in their energetic play. Maggie blew kisses against her baby's smooth belly. Meredith giggled, puckered her lips, and made incoherent sputtering sounds. Maggie's thick hair was loosened from its pins and tickled Meredith with its curling ends.
"This is very touching," Beryl said from the parlor's entrance. Her voice suggested otherwise. She came into the parlor, kicking aside some of the clothes that lay strewn in her path, and sat in one of the chairs. "Please, go on. Don't let me stop you."
Maggie sat up and made an attempt to straighten her hair. She anchored the pins and smoothed the crown. "I thought you were with Connor and Rushton," she said. Ignoring Meredith's whimper, Maggie began tossing clothes back into the wicker hamper.
"They were going farther than I wanted," she said, shrugging. "I've ridden most everywhere on the property anyway. There wasn't anything I wanted to see."