Jason Barnett had settled on the land some twelve years earlier, intent on building a large Texas cattle spread. He had managed a good start with two sons and a wife. Juanita said they were generous, loving people, and Hannah felt sad that they should have fought so hard to carve out their dream only to lose it. She’d said as much to her father, but he’d told her they were traitors. The men had gone to fight for the Yankees and deserved nothing but their disdain.
“What will we do, Miss Hannah?” Juanita asked, replacing the lid atop the cook pot.
Hannah shrugged. “I suppose this is one of those times we do nothing but wait.”
“We can pray.” Juanita smiled. “God always listen to us pray.”
Hannah found the woman’s thick accent endearing. Juanita was strong in her faith, too. That was something Hannah hadn’t experienced much since leaving her grandmother’s home in Vicksburg. Oh, there were plenty of churchgoing folks living in Cedar Springs, but Hannah’s father had never wanted her to spend time socializing, which was all he considered church good for.
The sound of Andy and Marty drew Hannah’s attention. “Say nothing to the children,” she commanded. “I don’t want them to know until we are certain what has happened to Father.”
“Of course,” Juanita said, looking to Pepita. “We say nada.”
2
There’s your proof,” a grizzled, menacing man told Herbert Lockhart. He pointed to several items on the desk. “I took ’em off him just like you said. Now pay me.”
Lockhart considered the pieces for a moment. A gold pocket watch and chain, a leather wallet, and a small daguerreotype framed behind glass. He picked up the watch and noted the inscribed initials. Just as quickly he cast it aside. Next he examined the photo of John Dandridge’s pretty wife. She was dead, and it was a real pity. The woman was quite attractive. Not as beautiful as Hannah Dandridge, but very pleasing to the eye. Looking through the wallet, he found nothing of interest and very little money. “Where’s his cash?”
The man threw him a smile. “Well, I had to pay to get him buried. Couldn’t very well just leave his body out there to rot on the road.”
“No, I suppose not.” Herbert returned the wallet. He opened a desk drawer and pulled out a small bag. He tossed it to the man, noting the chinking sound of coin. “There you are, just as we agreed.”
Sneering a smile, the man pocketed the money without bothering to count it. “I’ll get right to that other job you wanted me to do. Should have some results by tomorrow.”
“See that we do,” Lockhart said, closing his desk drawer. “And remember . . . not a word about any of this to anyone.”
The man tipped his filthy hat. “I ain’t the talkative type.” He left the office without another word.
Lockhart frowned at the reminders on his desk. With a swoop of his arm, he dumped them into another drawer and slammed it shut—as if he could shut out the truth, as well. He’d just paid a man for ending the life of John Dandridge. Leaning back in his leather chair, Lockhart wrestled only a moment—a very brief moment—with his guilt. It had to be done. Dandridge was in the way.
“In the way of progress,” Lockhart murmured. He smiled to himself and got up from the desk. He wasn’t exactly sure when he would tell Hannah Dandridge about her father’s death. He would have to plan it carefully to work to his best advantage. No doubt there would come a time when all hope seemed lost and that things couldn’t possibly get any worse, and then . . . they would. He would tell Hannah how her father had been killed by Union soldiers, and how he had personally arranged for a proper burial.
Frowning, he realized he hadn’t asked Jesse Carter where he’d buried the old man. Well, he’d get the information next time. There wouldn’t be any need to rush the declaration to Hannah. Lockhart crossed the room to a locked cabinet and pulled keys from his pocket. He quickly retrieved a stack of papers and took them back to his desk.
Herbert smiled as he glanced over each of the deeds. This was his future. The real estate business was slow due to the war, but there were benefits even in this. The area around them continued to be depleted of people. Folks were moving out—at least temporarily—for safer, more populated areas of the state. Some had even left the state all together, wanting no part of the war, and that was just fine by Lockhart. Added to this, the Comanche had scared off or killed a good number of folks on the open frontier. He had used this to his advantage, paying pennies on the dollar for land that was worth a great deal more. Of course, it wasn’t worth much in wartime, and that was what he counted on folks understanding. He also counted on their fears—their ridiculous, unfounded fears. Texas was definitely no place for those fools.
“C-A-T,” Marty said, holding up her slate. “That’s cat.”
“Very good,” Hannah praised, looking to her brother. “And what about you?”
“I can spell ranch and longhorn. Wanna hear?”
She smiled. “I do. Can you write them out, as well?”
He nodded with great enthusiasm and went to work. “R-A-N . . .” He paused and looked up. “That spells ran.” Looking back, down he continued. “C-H. Ranch.”
“Very good. And longhorn?”
Hannah watched as he quickly managed the letters. “L-O-N-G, that spells long, and H-O-R-N spells horn. Longhorn.”
“And what kind of a word is longhorn, Andy? Do you remember what I told you?”
He frowned and thought for a moment. “A confounded word.”
She shook her head with a smile. “Not confounded, although longhorns are often exactly that. No it’s a compound word. You made one larger word by compounding two smaller words together.”
“I did it with ranch, too. You got ran and ch.”
“Yes, but ch isn’t a word. It’s a sound made by two letters. See the difference?”
Andy’s brow knit together as his frown deepened. “But ran is a word.”
“It is indeed. However, let me show you another compounding of two words to make a larger one.” Hannah took his slate and wrote out bunkhouse. “There, do you know what that spells?”
Andy looked at the word and attempted to sound it out. Finally he shrugged and gave up. Hannah pointed to the first four letters. “This word is bunk.” She drew a line between the two words. “And this one is house.”
“Bunkhouse,” he declared proudly.
“That’s right. Each word can stand by itself. The letters c and h cannot stand by themselves. It has no meaning.”
Marty grew bored with this nonsense. “I want to draw pictures now.”
Paper was a precious commodity, but Hannah had saved a few pieces of brown paper from her purchases at the mercantile. “I think that would be a good idea. Why don’t you draw pictures of the words you know how to spell? You could draw a dog, a cat, a bird, and a cow.”
“And a bunny,” Marty added. “That’s my biggest word.”
Hannah laughed. “Indeed it is.” She got up and went to retrieve the paper.
This was Marty’s first year to participate in regular studies. The year before, Hannah had worked with her sister on letters of the alphabet and numbers, but it was usually related to her cross-stitch work. Marty’s short attention span made it difficult for her to sit for very long at a time, so Hannah always tried to limit the child’s activities. It seemed if she kept Marty occupied with a variety of things, the child did better.
Andy, on the other hand, would sit and pour over books for as long as Hannah would allow. He constantly looked for words he recognized and passages he could read. Perhaps one day, he would attend a university and do something important with his life. Not that ranching wasn’t important, but Hannah saw how very hard the men worked to keep the animals and land. It wasn’t a job she wished for her brother. Her family had always been educated, and she wanted to carry that tradition forward with her brother.
Seeing that Marty was engrossed with her next activity, Hannah went back to Andy and pointed to his reader. “Why don’t you spend tim
e reading the next story while I check your arithmetic sums.”
The boy nodded with a big smile. His hair, so blond it was nearly white, bobbed down over one eye. Hannah noted the length and realized they would soon have to rectify that. She could trim his hair as well as anyone, but the last time it had been cut, Andy had asked to go to the barbershop in Cedar Springs. He wanted a man to cut his hair just like his father did. Maybe she could plan a trip to town for the days to come. She could see if there was any more word on Father.
Hannah frowned and turned away from the children. How could she ever hope to explain to Andy and Marty what had happened to their father? Andy went out of his way to try and please this man who hardly seemed to notice him. Despite that, he was Father’s biggest fan. To lose him at this age would be horribly difficult. And then there was little Marty.
Hannah turned back to observe the five-year-old. Marty, too, sported blond hair, although hers wasn’t quite as light as Andrew’s was. She wore it in braids that framed her round cherub face. Marty was a handful, with a penchant for telling tall tales and misbehaving. Because their father was so often busy, the discipline had fallen on Hannah’s shoulders. Of course, so, too, had the nurturing and loving. She couldn’t have loved either child more than if they’d been her own.
Marty seemed to sense Hannah watching her and looked up. “I drawed a boy in there, too, ’cause I can spell boy. B-O-Y.”
“Not drawed, Marty. The word is drew. You drew a boy.” Hannah stepped closer to look at the artwork. “You are doing very nicely with your animals, Miss Marty.”
“This one is a cow. She was gonna be a cat first, but I made her too big.” She looked at the picture as though assessing a famous work of art. “I think she’s a good cow. See . . . here’s her others.”
“Udders,” Hannah corrected casually. She smiled at the strange animal. “Yes, she’s a fine cow.”
She went back to checking Andy’s sums and heaved a sigh when her mind refused to stay focused.
Where are you, Papa? Why aren’t you here with us?
What would she do if he never returned? How would she care for her siblings? The last few years of her life had been centered around Andy and Marty. She had been responsible for all of their needs. She’d been the one to find a wet nurse for Marty before leaving Vicksburg, although the young woman had only stayed a few months before becoming so homesick that Hannah insisted on sending her back. One of the Texas women had helped Hannah by nursing Marty for a while, but it was donkey milk that had actually saved the day. When the nursing mother went dry and cow’s milk proved too rich for Marty, Hannah tried to feed the baby with canned milk. Marty didn’t fare well and grew ill. An old Mexican woman in Dallas heard of the situation and came to Hannah with the solution. At first Hannah thought the woman was joking, but she was desperate to try anything . . . and did.
The woman assured her that donkey milk was most like a mother’s breast milk, and within days, Marty began to thrive. Luckily, as Marty grew older she also managed a tolerance for cow’s milk. Hannah experimented by diluting the rich milk with water and finally found a solution that worked. It was a good thing, too, because the old woman and her donkeys moved away not long afterward. Hannah had always seen the old woman as a godsend—maybe even an angel in disguise. Either way, she had saved Marty’s life and Hannah would never forget it.
“I’m hungry,” Andy said, looking up from the book. “Is it time to eat yet?”
Hannah checked the clock. “In about ten minutes we can stop and then you can wash up for lunch.”
“Me too?” Marty asked.
Laughing, Hannah nodded. “Of course, silly girl. Then this afternoon you are going to work on your sewing stitches.”
Marty clapped her hands together. “I like to sew. I’m gonna make you a dress.”
“Maybe one day, but for now you’re going to work on your handkerchiefs.” Hannah saw Andy fidget and strain to see the clock. “Oh, all right. We’ll stop now and see what Juanita has fixed for our lunch.”
“I hope she made burritos.” Andy quickly closed the reader and jumped up to see for himself if this might be the case. “I can eat two whole ones by myself.” He patted his stomach and headed for the door.
“I can eat three,” Marty declared.
Hannah waggled her finger at the child. “You know that’s not true, Marty. You are exaggerating. You cannot eat three burritos, now, can you?”
Marty hung her head for only a moment. “No, but I want to.”
“Well, that isn’t the same. There are a great many things that I want to do, but I cannot do them.”
Perking up, Marty lifted her head. “Like what?”
Hannah felt stumped. “Well . . . there are a lot of things. Like . . . riding. I wish I had time for a nice horseback ride. Or sailing in a boat. I remember when I was a little girl we sometimes went for rides on the river. It was great fun.”
“I want to go on the river, too.”
Putting her arm around the child, Hannah guided her to the door. “Perhaps one day we shall all sail the river again.”
That evening, Hannah yawned and turned the lamp up in order to see her stitching a little better. She was trying to get some special things made for Christmas presents. There would be new doll clothes for Marty’s baby doll as well as a matching dress for Marty, and shirts for Andy. Andy wanted his own horse, though. If only Father . . . A heaviness clung tight to her heart. If Papa was still missing by Christmas, or worse yet, dead . . . “If he’s dead, I don’t know what we’ll do.”
She bit her lower lip and cast a glance at the loft stairs. The children were probably asleep, but she didn’t want to take a chance they might overhear her. Hannah tried hard not to fret about the matter, but there were horrible stories about the prison camps for soldiers. If they put Father in such a place, he might not be able to survive the brutal treatment.
Stop borrowing trouble, she told herself. Even Mr. Lockhart doesn’t know for sure what happened. But something deep inside her told Hannah things were not good. She didn’t know if it was some sort of special intuition or perhaps even God trying to ready her for the worst of news, but she had felt this way only a few times before . . . and each time someone had died.
Her mind whirled as the weight of responsibility draped over her like a heavy mantle. There was some money to run their affairs, that much she knew. Father had hidden a small amount of gold under the floorboard in his bedroom. It wasn’t all that much, he’d told her, but in case a need arose that couldn’t be managed with the household account she’d be set. She’d given it little thought because the household funds had appeared quite sufficient. Although, Hannah had to admit, she’d never figured to head into November dependent on those monies to sustain them. She knew there was a reserve in the bank, as well. Her father had told her how to draw on the account if for any reason he was delayed. Well, now he’d been.
“But surely that’s all,” she murmured. Surely he was simply delayed.
She tried to imagine him sitting before a Union commander, explaining that his mother lay dying in Vicksburg. Who could not understand the purity of that motive? He had not gone east to fight or raise havoc against the Northern aggressors. He was merely trying to come to the aid of his mother. What decent man would do otherwise?
She suppressed another yawn and closed her eyes for a moment. The evening had cooled off nicely and Hannah relished the slight chill in the air. She hadn’t even bothered to light a fire in the hearth, nor would she. There were plenty of blankets should they get cold in the night.
In the silence she tried to pray, but the words stuck in her throat. God had been her lifeline when Hannah had been certain she’d drown in sorrow. And now, alone in the stillness of the evening, Hannah thought of the father she’d adored as a girl . . . and the shell of a man he became in the wake of loss.
Father God, I don’t mean to be such a ninny. I honor you and I honor my father. I want to be a godly woman, but I don’t und
erstand any of this. Why did my father bother to bring us here instead of leaving us with our grandparents? It seems to me we only caused him more sorrow—more reminders of what was lost. I know that it’s to our benefit that we are here instead of in Vicksburg—especially now. But I don’t understand the road my life has taken.
She sighed and shook her head. I want to do whatever it is you have for me to do, but I also want something more—something infinitely more personal. Is that selfish of me, God? Is it wrong to want a love of my own—a home of my own? Guilt washed over her. She’d gone right into praying for herself and hadn’t even thought of her father’s situation.
“O God, I don’t know what has happened.” She glanced at the stairs again and fell silent.
Please deliver Father to us, Lord, she prayed. Keep him safe, and God, please let Father come back a happier man. Maybe this experience could help him realize what he has and that life is good. Maybe he could find joy in it again. Then we could be happy, too.
Was that too selfish of a request to pray? Did God listen to self-serving prayers?
3
Pablo came running through the house, panting. The normally sedate, even shy fifteen-year-old was afire with excitement, yelling for his mother and Hannah.
Juanita looked up from where she was helping Hannah learn to weave a basket and addressed him sharply in Spanish. He rattled off an answer that Hannah couldn’t begin to keep up with.
Juanita turned to her. “There’s trouble.”
“Comanche,” Pablo said. “JD and Thomas saw them. Papa told me to come tell you. Everybody is supposed to stay in the house and close up the windows.”
Hannah felt a shiver go up her spine. “I’ll get the children.” She pushed aside the basket and jumped to her feet. Nearly tripping over her long brown skirt, Hannah barely righted herself before hurrying off to find Marty and Andy.
Chasing the Sun Page 2