A Bride at Last

by Melissa Jagears

  “Just keep him in sight, if you would.” He gave Anthony’s shoulder a squeeze, then walked back to the poplar.

  “Let’s go to the swing.” She took Anthony’s cold hand and led him to the tilted oak. She gestured to the rough wood plank tied at the end of the knotted ropes, but Anthony didn’t sit.

  She smashed her skirts to sit between the ropes and took both of his hands in hers, hoping to warm his ice-cold fingers. The sun’s fiery glow warmed his hair. “I’m so glad your father found you. He’s been worried you were gone forever. You’re his only family, and he’s the only family you have now too.”

  He took a tentative step forward, his chest puffed as if he were filling his lungs for a good cry. “You don’t want me anymore?”

  “Oh, Anthony, I want you more than ever.” She pulled him in for a hug, but his bony little shoulders stayed stiff. “I’m a lot like you, you know. I’ve never been good at obeying authority or doing what I ought.” She pulled back and gave him a grin. “My parents were good people, but I often ignored my chores to run in the pastures with the puppies or anything else I thought sounded fun. But when I was a little older than you, they died and I went to live with my older sister and her husband. Do you remember the story of Cinderella?”

  He nodded.

  “They treated me more like a maid than a sister, but I wasn’t as good as Cinderella. I argued and hid and did as little as possible. My brother-in-law wasn’t nice to me or my sister because of how I behaved, and no Prince Charming came to rescue me.” Probably because she chose to steer her own pumpkin and never ended up in front of the right castle.

  “But Mr. Jonesey is not like my brother-in-law. He cares so much about you, though he’s only just met you—before he even knew he was your father. He spent hours knocking on doors trying to find you; he went to the orphanage he grew up in to look for you, even though it wasn’t—”

  “But Mother didn’t like him. How do you know he won’t be awful to me after we leave?”

  “I think your mother and Mr. Jonesey had a hard time getting along, but he seems to have learned from it. It’s good to learn from your mistakes.” Was that why she was always in a bind? Because she needed to start learning from her mistakes—pay attention to propriety, stop shirking authority, quit agreeing to hasty marriages?

  She smoothed Anthony’s hair. “He used to drink, but he doesn’t anymore. He knows that got him into trouble with your mother, and he doesn’t want to hurt you like he did her.”

  “You said he only wanted me for chores.”

  “Did I say that?” What kind of parent would she have been, telling him such things with no more proof than one person’s word against another’s? “I don’t think that way anymore. I think he’ll expect you to help around his farm, as you should, but not to the point he’ll be unfair. He’ll want you to learn how to homestead so when you leave—when you’re much, much older . . .” She poked him in the chest and tried to smile big enough he’d give her one back, but he refused. “You’ll be a wonderful, hardworking, knowledgeable man. You’ll grow to love Silas. I’m sure of it.”

  Who wouldn’t love Silas after being with him for a while? She swallowed. Had she grown to love him? She hadn’t lied to Anthony. She believed Silas to be all she’d described. If only she could find a happy ending like Anthony would.

  “I want you to go with him, not because I don’t wish to keep you, but because he’ll give you a better life than I could, a better one than I had myself.”

  Anthony nodded slightly, then sighed, his little chest caving in on itself as he slumped into submission. She pulled him into an embrace and talked against his hair. “I’ll miss you more than anything, so we need to enjoy the rest of the time we have together—”

  “We’re leaving tomorrow,” he mumbled against her shoulder.

  She stopped rubbing Anthony’s arm. Her lips twitched. “Tomorrow?” She shouldn’t have said that aloud. It sounded so . . . whiny.

  But tomorrow? She’d just gotten him back! “Oh, Anthony. If you hadn’t run, we could have had more time.” She swallowed against the lump in her throat.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Dawson. I thought . . . I didn’t want to go with Pa or Mr. Jonesey.”

  “Silas is your pa, Anthony, and he’s a good man. In time, he’ll show you.”

  Still leaning against the poplar, Silas watched them. A kind, wistful look on his face.

  She stood and turned Anthony by the shoulder and gently pushed him toward his father. She couldn’t look into either of their faces or she might cry. “We’ll write to each other every week. It’ll force you to practice your penmanship.”

  The boy groaned, and she ruffled his hair. She left her fingers curled into his thick locks at the base of his neck, unable to take her hand away from him. Would this be the last time she touched him?

  “Are we better?” Silas cleared his throat, love and concern nearly dripping from his eyes as he looked at his son.

  “Is there any way you might . . .” She frowned down at Anthony. She didn’t want him to argue with his father, so she shouldn’t model the behavior. “Anthony, why don’t you go inside and get yourself a cup of tea? Mrs. Logan always has some brewing. It’ll warm you up.”

  The boy nodded and scuffed his way inside.

  The second the door closed behind him, she turned to Silas, her right hand wringing her left. “There wouldn’t be any way you could stay longer?”

  “I shouldn’t, not with my farm being in the condition Will says it is. Plus, if Anthony wanted to run, he knows Breton, knows people here willing to help him, but he won’t in Kansas. He’ll have to rely on me there.”

  She held on to his gaze. “Just one more day?”

  He stared back. She’d never noticed the dark flecks in his hazel-green irises, the smell of sandalwood coming from somewhere around his square jawline, something dark and warm dilating his pupils.

  Her heart suddenly kicked up a notch, and she cut eye contact. Her body’s reaction was one of attraction. She definitely did not need that happening.

  “Would another day help?” His voice sounded rough against the falling twilight.

  “Yes.” She didn’t dare look at him. Another day would be torture, but she could handle it.

  “All right, Kate. We’ll stay for the weekend. Make it good.”

  Good? Only the day her parents had died would be worse than next Monday. Because then, this potential Prince Charming and the little boy she loved would leave when the depot’s bells announced the next Kansas train’s departure.

  But she’d try to give Anthony the best memories possible before then.

  Chapter 13

  Following Silas out of the general store, Kate tried not to squeeze Anthony’s hand too hard, but she wanted to memorize the fragile little grip she held. About a year ago, he’d told her he was too old to hold her hand, yet today he’d slipped his long, thin fingers against hers as they walked down Main Street.

  Two more days and she’d never hold his hand again. How would she get through teaching the rest of the year with his third-row seat empty?

  Silas slid the two boxes of clothing he’d bought for Anthony into his rented buggy, one of which contained a band-collared shirt for himself, one with a golden line running through its checked pattern that would highlight the hazel in Silas’s green eyes. Not that she’d told him she knew his eye color well enough to know the fabric would play up the flecks of morning sun in his irises—she’d simply handed it to him and told him he deserved a new shirt too.

  And she’d likely never see him wear it since he’d tucked it away with Anthony’s purchases. Helping them pick out new wardrobes and watching Silas buy things for his cupboards reminded her that she should start detaching her heart from them both.

  She needed to let them go, physically and emotionally. She had to. No choice.

  And how her heart balked.

  “Are you all right, Miss Dawson?”

  She looked down at Anthony tugging
on her hand. She’d stopped in the middle of the sidewalk evidently. “Would you like to call me Kate since I’m no longer your—” she swallowed and had to clear her throat to continue—“teacher?”

  “But you said you’d force me to practice my penmanship by writing too many letters. Shouldn’t I call you Miss Dawson in those?”

  “Kate would be fine, if you’d like. And there’s no way you could write me too many letters. You could write me every day and it would never be enough.”

  “Ugh.” The boy dropped his shoulders and lolled his head back exaggeratedly. “That’s too much. Maybe Mr. Jonesey can write you some of those days.”

  Silas cocked his head. “What am I writing about?”

  “Miss Dawson wants to know all about your farm and what your house looks like and what you do every day.” Anthony shrugged.

  “You do?” Silas lifted an eyebrow.

  Kate closed her eyes against his inquisitive expression. Anthony had made her sound like a busybody. “Well, he said he couldn’t possibly think of enough things to write me about, so I gave him a list of possibilities. I don’t actually need to know all that.”

  Though she did want to.

  What would Anthony’s life be like with Silas on a huge homestead with blooming pear trees and rust-red cows? She’d soaked up the descriptions he’d told Anthony before he’d run away, and they’d invaded her dreams last night, complete with dandelion fields, a quaint little house, and a whitewashed fence.

  Surely it wasn’t as welcoming as she’d pictured, considering Lucy ran from the place after a snake fell from the ceiling of his home.

  But that hadn’t stopped her imagination from taking over. Perhaps she should paint the visions her dreams had conjured, since she’d never see the place any other way. She had a teaching course scheduled for the upcoming summer to earn her a proper certificate, and by the time the next year rolled around, Anthony would likely not write her anymore.

  He tugged her toward a display window. “Can we get that for Myrtle?” Anthony pointed at a green, feather-covered hat.

  Silas looked at the millinery’s display. “That’s too fancy.”

  “She’d like it. Or that one!” He pointed at a more elaborate white hat with long plumes and netting.

  Silas cringed and looked at Kate. “We were discussing what to get Myrtle’s family last night. A doll for Frances, a sharpening stone for George, and the two other boys are Anthony’s age so he’ll pick toys for them, but we’re stumped with Myrtle. She’s not much older than Anthony, but I figured a doll was too childish, especially for how mature she acts, but neither of us have any ideas. What would you get a young lady who’s not quite grown up?”

  “All girls like pretty things.” Anthony pointed at a pair of silk gloves. “What about those?”

  “I don’t think so.” He looked at Kate again, and . . . was he flushing? He rubbed the back of his neck and didn’t look her in the eye. “I already kinda got in trouble by offering her fancy stuff. She thought when I gave her Lucy’s clothes that . . . that meant . . .”

  Kate laid a hand on Anthony’s shoulder and tried not to smile at Silas’s fidgeting, considering the uncomfortable scenario he was insinuating. “Silas is right. If she already has your mother’s things, she’s got enough pretty clothes.”

  Anthony scrunched up his lips, then his eyes flit toward something else. “A necklace.”

  “Ah . . .” Silas shook his head. “Maybe sewing stuff, so she can fix the dresses she already has?”

  “But that’s work.” Anthony shook his head. “She already does enough of that.”

  “For some reason, some girls think sewing’s fun.” Kate widened her eyes, and poked out her tongue as if the mere thought was horrendous.

  “So you don’t like sewing?” Silas sounded curious.

  She dropped the exaggerated expression. “Not really, but one does what one must.”

  “She’ll have to fix every one of Lucy’s dresses if she’s going to get any use from them.”

  “So you’re going to get her sewing stuff?” Anthony looked as if they’d decided to buy her liver.

  At Silas’s nod, Anthony slumped and looked over his shoulder. “Can I go decide on what to get Jeremiah and Noah, then?”

  “Sure.” Once he ran off, Silas stroked his beard. “Since I’m getting the others something fun, won’t she be disappointed?”

  “From what you tell me of their house, I doubt anything you give them would be a disappointment.”

  “Myrtle’s the reason I have Anthony.” Silas’s voice clogged. “If it hadn’t been for her, Richard would’ve gotten his ruling, Anthony might never have returned, and I would’ve left before I received that telegram from Ida.” He stopped to compose himself since his voice had cracked. “It was a terrible two weeks, but I wouldn’t trade the heartache for anything. Myrtle needs more than needles and thread for the gift she preserved for me.”

  “You’re right.” She laid a hand on his tense arm. “Anthony is quite the gift.” She prayed Anthony would quickly see how lucky he was to have such a grateful father. Considering Myrtle’s actions hadn’t exactly been legal, if Richard had found Anthony, he’d not be buying the family presents.

  “I’m sorry.” Silas squeezed her hand. “Here I am telling you what you already know while planning to take him away from you.”

  “Well . . .” What could she say? Though Silas was indeed Anthony’s father and he deserved his son, a bit of her felt cheated that he got to keep him after only knowing him for three weeks, when she’d cared for him and his mother for two years.

  And now all she had was two days.

  “Who’s that?” Silas dropped her hand, his voice suddenly steady and cold.

  “Who’s who?” She looked up and saw Anthony walking toward a man near the toy store. The stranger was leaning nonchalantly against the side of a carriage, stroking his mustache, looking like a Pinocchio illustration of one of the cigar-smoking boys luring the puppet to Pleasure Island. “I don’t know him.”

  “Anthony!” Silas barked, but the boy must not have heard, because he kept walking.

  “Maybe he knows him from the boardinghouse?”

  Silas strode toward the carriage. “Anthony?”

  This time the man heard Silas and narrowed his eyes. When Silas hollered again, Anthony turned to look, but the man grabbed the boy’s arm and yanked him toward the carriage’s open door.

  The boy caught the window frame behind the door, and the stranger struggled to pull him in.

  Kate’s heart stopped and a rush of cold moved though her limbs. She forced herself to take in a breath and hollered, “Stop him!”

  Silas broke off in a run. Picking up her skirts, Kate ran after him, stumbling around a man Silas dodged.

  With a hand clamped over Anthony’s mouth, the mustached stranger yanked the boy’s head backward at a terrible angle. Anthony’s foot hooked under the bottom edge of the buggy, thwarting the man’s attempt to slam the door closed.

  The carriage driver yanked on his reins, maneuvering his team around a wagon parked in front of him.

  A woman screeched as she tried to jump out of the horses’ way.

  Silas outdistanced Kate by a few feet, and with three more strides, he leapt toward the carriage and caught the swinging door.

  Gesticulating wildly, Kate screamed at the men in front of them. “Stop that carriage!”

  A few pedestrians blinked, but in the time it took for them to figure out where she was pointing, Silas had hooked Anthony around the torso, his other hand gripping the door, and the bottom half of his left leg scraped along the ground as the carriage picked up speed.

  She ran faster, reaching for the strap flapping loose at the back of the carriage, angry at her inability to speed up. She growled as the gap grew wider between her outstretched fingers and the strap she’d almost caught.

  She raced into the street, waving her arms above her head. “Someone please help! Somebody’s taking my
boy!”

  One solitary man in the street held out his arms, but the driver kept beating the team, and the brave pedestrian barely jumped out of the way in time.

  All of a sudden, Silas and Anthony fell. The door smacked Silas in the back of the head, yet he somehow managed to keep his body under the boy as they hit dirt. The wheel of the carriage missed Anthony’s flailing hand by a fraction as he and Silas rolled to a stop in the middle of the street.

  Kate couldn’t stop fast enough and tumbled over Silas’s outstretched leg. She sailed through the air for a split moment before her palms plowed into the road, scraping her to a stop.

  A man’s big hands grasped her upper arms and pulled her upright. “Are you all right, miss?”

  “Anthony!” She looked over at the huddle of people beside her and pushed the man away before worming her way through the crowd, her every nerve taut and shaking.

  With a relieved rush of air, she threw her arms around Anthony, who was sitting up. “Oh, Anthony!”

  “Pa?” The boy widened his eyes, and Kate’s hackles raised. She turned to scan the crowd.

  Anthony wrestled his way from her embrace and crawled to the group of men kneeling around a sprawled-out Silas, his head covered in blood.

  Her heart seized, and for a second, she couldn’t move.

  But Silas groaned and pushed himself up onto an elbow.

  “I don’t think you should move, mister.” Some man next to him grasped his shoulder.

  Silas caught sight of Anthony and then closed his eyes. “I’m all right.” He winced and pressed a hand to his temple. “That door got me good though.”

  Scrambling over on wobbly knees, she joined Anthony kneeling beside him. “I think the man’s right. We should get you onto the sidewalk and have a doctor to look at you.”

  “Are you all right?” Thankfully Silas’s eyes weren’t hazy.

  “Fine.”

  “You’re bloody too.”