An Endless Love to Remember: A Historical Western Romance Book

by Lorelei Brogan

  Her mouth went dry as the inside of a dusty old boot. “I don’t—I don’t understand.”

  Sighing, he reached over and tucked her trembling hand into both of his. “Vickie, sweetheart, don’t you know how much—can’t you see what I—” He stopped to clear his throat before he could continue. “Well, I reckon it’s the story of star-crossed lovers all over again.”

  “But—we—we haven’t been—”

  “Lovers? Nope. But, believe me, it hasn’t been for lack of wantin’ to on my part.” Dredging up a chuckle at the expression on her face, he tickled her under the chin with one finger in hope of lightening a dismal mood. “Tough situation for me, doncha think? Me in love with you, and you in love with that hulkin’ farm boy that ain’t got eyes in his head to see what’s goin’ on.”

  Speaking of eyes. Hers were luminous, a misty sea-blue that betokened oncoming tears, and her lips were trembling. “Oh, Val, I’ve been so blind. I never thought—I never dreamed…”

  “Yup. A babe in the woods, that’s Victoria Clark, all right.”

  “All this time, you—you’ve been my rock. My support. My dearest, truest friend.” Now the tears had overflowed, tracing a faint silvery track down her cheeks. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I know, chickadee. Me, too.” Another sigh and he had pulled himself upright, a tall, stork-like figure with slumping shoulders.

  “You can’t just—leave—like this, Val.” She must have been the most desperate, lost little figure anyone had ever seen. “Not when I—I need you so much. I need you here, to be with me, to listen to me, share my good times and my bad times.”

  Suddenly angry, he slammed one hand down on the table beside him. “That’s a husband’s job. And clearly I will never be that to you. Nope. Can’t deal with bein’ flayed and bloodied any longer.”

  “Oh, please, Val, please—reconsider… I don’t want things to end between us—like this.”

  Not anger so much as frustration. “Too late for that. Anyway, there it is. A hopeless cause. ’Cause I suspect you ain’t ever gonna change, even when Master Marsden gets hitched up to your sister. And I know I sure’n hell won’t. That’s why I gotta leave, Vic. You’ve took my heart and tore it into a thousand smithereens. Dunno if I can ever recover, but I need to give it a try.”

  “But, Val—you never told me! You never asked for my—”

  “Hand in marriage? You’re right, kiddo. I didn’t.” He gave a bark of laughter, full of pain and regret. “No point, was there, with you bein’ fixed on the soldier returned from war—the one who can’t even figure out where you exist in his past. Well.”

  “W-W-Where will you go? What will—what will you—do—?”

  He had wandered a few steps away to fiddle with miscellaneous items on his desk: a pen, its corresponding bottle of ink, a round glass paperweight, his dog-eared dictionary. “Not sure yet, Vic. I’m still workin’ on that. Maybe north, to those gold mines I been hearin’ about, up in the Rockies. Or east—St. Louis, or Chicago. Lotsa night life for a rip-roarin’ young feller like me.”

  Longing to tease him about that last comment, yet she had no spirit left to do so.

  Old bones that felt and probably sounded as creaky as those of a pensioner helped muffle her sob as she achingly stumbled to her feet. “Then I—I wish you—all the best, Val. I will miss you—so terribly—” Another sob sounded now loud enough to rip from her throat, and she turned away.

  “Oh, Vickie,” he whispered in anguish.

  He’d known this would be hard. So hard he would be shredded asunder, and his skeleton turned inside out from his body. Hard for both, unbelievably hard. Because hope of ever winning Vickie’s love had finally deserted him, and he had nothing more but ashes. But all the blame for this painful decision lay on his shoulders. He had to accept the responsibility.

  Nevertheless, he had to get away. And leaving this very special girl behind—the one he could never claim as his own—would be the most difficult, wrenching thing he had ever done.

  Staying would be far worse.

  Surrendering to temptation, he pulled her into his arms for a few exquisite minutes of cuddling, smoothed the unladylike fall of her hair, patted the middle of her back while she wept.

  Finally he released her and stepped away from the enticements of her young, warm, vital self.

  “Enough grievin’ for what can’t be undone,” he said gruffly. “C’mon, let’s go get us somethin’ to eat. My treat for the day. Then you’d oughta head on back to the Yellowstar. Your Pa will be wonderin’ what happened to you.”

  Chapter 17

  Vickie, left disconsolate and desolate by the blows an evil fate had used to pound her into the ground, lay sprawled flat upon her bed. She had wept until it seemed there surely must be no moisture left in her body, and she would soon dry up and blow away like the rustling tumbleweeds scattered across a desert floor.

  Tears of guilt and remorse and regret, all the way home; tears all the way into the house and up the stairs to her room (after handing poor Petunia, deprived of her usual apple and showing surprise, over to the care of good, dependable Tom Prentiss); tears all the way from then until now, some unknown time later.

  And still tears.

  She felt physically and emotionally sick, physically and emotionally drained.

  While she had never loved Val as a potential mate, she had loved him like a dear brother, a comrade in arms. What would she do without him in her life? How would she go on? First Sam had been torn away from her by an unconscionable war. Now it was Val, by his own volition. She felt abandoned, a bit of unwanted, derelict flotsam thrown up on the beach.

  What terrible thing had she done to merit such punishment?

  Exhausted, she finally dozed off into a sleep so deep, so profound, so dreamless, that no noise from below or beyond could reach her.

  She woke headachy, some time later, with swollen eyes and skin that felt too tight, as if it ought to be loosened somehow. Like turning a wrench around a bolt.

  A few vague sounds came to her. Subdued voices. Boot heels across a wooden floor. The whinny of a horse at the hitching post. The light slanting in through her bedroom window had a pearly cast to it, as afternoon gave leisurely way to dusk.

  Slowly pushing herself off the bed, she walked a wobbly few steps across the room to splash her feverish face with tepid water. A draggle-tailed image reflected from the mirror demanded that she brush her disordered hair, as well, and straighten her clothing.

  There. Not completely restored. Nor even partway. But decent, at least.

  Vickie realized, as she put one hand on the newel post, for support, that her middle seemed to be quite hollow, the result of which she felt light-headed and a bit faint. Missing dinner, and even some sort of sustenance since, probably had a lot to do with it. Over and above the emotional upheaval.

  “Ah, there she is,” her father announced from his favorite chair in the parlor. “Been takin’ a nap, looks like. C’mon, Vic; our vagabonds have come home.”

  Oh, horrors. She had returned to life at precisely the worst wrong moment. Now she would have to confront both Sam and Jessica, as a couple, when she had managed to avoid even being anywhere within calling distance for some time.

  Bravely pasting a small smile on her lips, lifting her chin, and straightening her shoulders, Vickie walked into the lion’s den.

  “Vic, my dear,” said her aunt gladly, rising. “I’m so happy to see you. These few days have seemed, in some ways, like a month. And I missed you.” She approached for an embrace, then paused, her keen eyes taking in an appearance where all was not right. “Vic—?”

  “Welcome home, Auntie. I’ve missed you, too.” In a whisper, she added, “Don’t worry. I’ll talk to you later.” As if she would confide her latest woes—much as she craved it—in a woman whose state of health might be precarious! “And how was your trip?”

  “We’ve just been talkin’ about it,” Riley intervened. “Lydia’s bringin’ in some coffe
e and such, to tide us over till supper.”

  There, a reasonable excuse to avoid even having to greet the couple seated in the room’s corner. “Oh, then I’ll just go to the kitchen and—”

  “Sit down, girl, sit down. Lyddie can handle things on her own.”

  “First, though—” Sophie retrieved a bulky parcel from the table beside her chair. “Here. A little something for having to stay behind.”

  Her reddened eyes widened. “For me? You bought something for me?”

  “Of course she did. And something for me, too,” piped up Jessica. “You’ll have to see it later. And a new pipe and tobacco for Papa.”

  Jessica’s remark sounded actually almost friendly in tone, as one willing to share.

  But Vickie wasn’t taking the bait. Once bitten, twice shy.

  The moccasins were a definite success. Vickie stroked the soft suede, admired the beadwork, measured them against her own foot, all the while making complimentary, grateful sounds. She didn’t notice that Sam, in the background, swallowed hard enough that his Adam’s apple almost jumped in his throat. Jess noticed, though. Her hands, folded together in her lap, tightened to whiteness.

  Both women contributed to the story of their travels and adventures, with an occasional comment by Sam just to add masculine flavor. But the main gist—that being Sophie’s visit to her recommended specialist—was her tale alone.

  As might be expected, upon hearing the report Riley was unpleasantly reminded of the fragility of life. Vickie looked merely shocked. Vague guesses cannot compare to the reality of any situation. Since she had taken a chair next to her aunt, she was able to clutch Sophie’s hand for moral support and encouragement.

  For a while, fortified by the refreshments Lydia had brought into the parlor, they discussed and murmured and considered. As families do. Finally Sophie declared herself tired of the whole thing. It was time to shelve that subject for the day and continue on to better things.

  “You mean, what we’re gonna have for supper?” asked Riley hopefully.

  “Oh, you.” Sophie gave him an affectionate glance. “Don’t even try to convince me that you’ve missed my cooking, because I know better.”

  “Oh, Lyddie and Vic took right good care of me; on that score, I got no complaints. But you’ve got a special touch, Soph.”

  “Well, she isn’t about to prepare a meal for you tonight, Papa.” Surprisingly, Jessica was the one to object. “We’re all exhausted from the trip. Let’s just eat whatever leftovers we can find and then go to bed, shall we?”

  Riley couldn’t help showing his disbelief. “Well, now, Missy. Figured you and Sam would wanna be spendin’ some time out there on the front veranda, spoonin’.”

  “We spent plenty of time together during our journey, didn’t we, Sam? We nearly got sick of each other.”

  Astonished by being included in this part of the conversation, Sam almost dropped his empty cup. “Uh, yes, ma’am. Reckon we did. Got your team and rig put up, Mr. Clark. I’ll g’wan now, pull Blackjack outa the corral, and head on home.”

  Deprived of ease in rising and standing, Riley reached out a weathered hand to shake, instead. “I thank you kindly for all your care of my family, Sam. Good to have you aboard.”

  “Not a problem, sir. Good night. Reckon I’ll see you soon, Jess. You take care now, Miss Clark. Uh—Vickie—”

  She froze, like a beautiful fawn caught in the forest’s moonlit clearing by some predator.

  Sam cleared his throat. “Uh. Well. Good night to you, too.”

  Those were his only words to her during that brief interlude. And his last.

  * * * * *

  “Is that you, Vickie, dear? Pray, do come in and let’s have a little bedtime chat, shall we?”

  She couldn’t avoid the gentle summons. Not that she wanted to; always, after these occasional tête-à-têtes between the two, her mood had lightened and lifted due simply to her aunt’s loving concern about whatever was going on in her life or causing her difficulty. No, she had hoped to avoid this tonight so as not to inflict further worry and stress.

  Try though she might to remain quiet, Sophie had heard the soft fall of her slippers upon the stairs and invited her into the bedroom.

  Her chamber was, like Sophie herself, well-ordered without being old-lady fussy. Pastels of cream and old rose and sky blue predominated, from canopy to furnishings to paper on the walls. Books lay conveniently to hand; framed photographs and cherished bibelots sat or stood about; and, in one corner, she had put aside a half-finished painting until it could join the others in her studio.

  “I love your room, Auntie,” said Vickie on a sudden rush of affection. “It’s so cool and comforting. And it smells so nice in here; I always associate the scent of lavender with you. I can’t begin to imagine your not being here.”

  There again: another loss. Another person so dear and vital, soon to be gone. She had tried, as long as possible, to delay even considering the possibility. Now, here it was, staring her in the face.

  At that, the helpless tears began once more, and she let out a sob.

  Sophie, already wearing her nightdress and wrapper, went quickly to close the door. Then she returned to gather the girl in her arms. “Ah, sweetheart, you mustn’t cry. Life is full of change, and we must be like the willow that sways into every shift of wind, instead of uprooting itself, and survives.”

  “Oh, I’m tired of trying to be brave and strong. Why can’t life be—b-b-be easy…?”

  There was, of course, no answer to that. Sophie could only soothe with motherly pats and words, as she had done so well for so many years. Finally, as the muffled weeping began to subside, she said gently, “Come, dear, sit down. Here, on the settee.”

  Apologizing profusely, even as she mopped at her face with a plain cotton handkerchief, Vickie sank down in a crush of rustling skirts. “I’m a mess, I know. And you are always so calm and understanding about anything that comes along.”

  Sophie smiled. “Oh, hardly that. You must have forgotten the many times you’ve seen me angry, or upset, or ready to cry with frustration. Now, what exactly is going on with you? Has something in particular caused this bout of weeping?”

  “Oh…I don’t know. So much just hit me at once. Sam’s impending wedding, your health, and your moving away… I couldn’t think how to cope.”

  “Ah.” Sophie, her gaze fixed far away, beyond the window open to the sight of fireflies flashing their tiny bodies and the last dying rays of the sun. She nodded slowly. “Do you feel that the situation with your sister has changed at all? For the better, perhaps?”

  “No. Not a bit,” she admitted miserably. “Worse, I think. It’s as if my—my heart has dried all up to the size of a prune, with no emotion able to affect it. I’m sorry, Auntie, but I don’t—I just don’t know if I will ever love or trust Jessie again. She’s caused me too much hurt.”

  “I’m sorry, too. Such ill feeling must weigh very heavily on your shoulders, my dear. It’s a burden that is hard to carry. Not that I assign any blame, mind you. I just want you to be aware that I sympathize.”

  Still sniffling, but growing more quiet by the moment, Vickie lay one hand over her aunt’s. “You always do, Auntie. Another trait that I shall—I shall miss—so enormously.”

  Silence for a few minutes, while night sounds intruded. The lowing of cattle, out in the hills. The awesome shivery howl of a wolf. The call of an owl, hoot-hooting from a nearby tree. The sudden, inadvertent slam of a bunkhouse door, where cowboys, chores done, were settling down.