Magic in Her Eyes

by Donna Dalton

  “But I don’t want to stay with anyone else. I want to live with you.”

  Seated beside her, Preston held his mouth in a firm line. She would take a page from his book and be strong but positive. “I would love nothing better than to have all of you stay with me. But it’s just not possible. Not right now. You’re a brave young lady, Becky. I know you can do this.”

  Preston gave an approving node. It wasn’t easy, but she was trying. He climbed down and reached up to help her out. Any other time, she would revel at his touch. Now all she felt was numbness.

  She rounded the back of the wagon and held out her hands for Becky. The child melted into her arms and snuggled against her. Meredith held tight. She would not let this train leave the station without Becky knowing she was loved and wanted.

  Preston helped Robbie to the ground. He stood beside the boy, his hand resting lightly on Robbie’s shoulder. Her heart went out to him for that small gesture of comfort. Such things didn’t come easy to a man accustomed to holding his emotions in check.

  The door swung open, and Doctor Troutman and his wife walked out onto the boardwalk. Becky sucked in a sharp breath and stiffened.

  “Everything’s going to be just fine, sweetling,” she whispered into the girl’s hair. “You’ll adjust to this just as you always have.”

  “What if they won’t let me leave a candle burning at night?”

  Becky’s quivering voice sliced into her. Meredith called on her last reserve of strength, which at this point wasn’t much. “I’m sure if you ask nicely, the Troutmans will allow you to have a nighttime candle. Besides, Robbie will be there with you. He’ll keep you safe.”

  “I will…miss you,” Becky said around a sniffle.

  “And I will miss you. So very, very much. I’ll come to visit as often as I can. You be strong now, all right?” At Becky’s nod, she unwound the girl’s arms from her neck and set her down.

  Robbie moved beside his sister and slipped his hand into Becky’s. The pair stood shoulder to shoulder, eyeing their new caretakers. Her heart nearly split in two at the sight.

  She assumed a smile, though there was little to be cheerful about. “Good morning, Doctor. Mrs. Troutman. These are the children who will be staying with you.”

  Suzanna Troutman’s round face beamed like an All Hallows Eve jack-o-lantern. “We’re so happy to have you.”

  Robbie shucked off his hat. “I’m Robert Edmunds, but you can call me Robbie. And this is my sister Becky. Thank you for letting us stay with you, ma’am. We appreciate your kindness.”

  Polite and mannerly—just as she’d coached him. She couldn’t have been prouder. He was growing into a fine young man.

  “It’s our pleasure, Master Robbie.” Dr. Troutman motioned to the open doorway. “Miss Talbot, Lieutenant Booth, won’t you come inside? Have some tea before you go?”

  It would be better for the twins if she made a clean, quick break, like yanking a bandage off a crusted wound—painful, but only for a short while. “Thank you for the invitation, but we must be off to our last stop at the church.”

  “Very well. Come back after you’re settled, Miss Talbot. You are welcome here any time.”

  “Thank you. I will do that.” She squatted so she was eye level with the two youngsters. “Take care of each other. Remember, this is only temporary. We’ll all be back together soon. I promise.”

  Though Becky’s lip quivered, she managed a nod. Robbie secured a thin smile and tugged his sister toward the door.

  Meredith wobbled upright. If not for Preston’s hand on her arm, she would have collapsed right there on the boardwalk. He helped her back to the wagon and onto the seat. She stared straight ahead, unable to look back. If she did, she might splinter into a thousand shards.

  Preston joined her on the seat. His hand closed over hers, warm and comforting. Tears she’d held in check slid free. One day, she’d have all of the children back under one roof, and she’d never let them be taken from her again. Never.

  ****

  Meredith propped the broom against the pew and sank onto the bench seat with a sigh. She had offered to clean the church in preparation for Sunday service. The smell of freshly polished wood usually calmed her, and the physical toil would sweep aside her worries. But neither activity served her today. Her heart still dragged like a battle-scarred soldier.

  The past few days felt like months. She had visited Robbie and Becky the day before. The twins appeared to be well cared for…with clean clothes and clean hands and faces. But their eyes and tone of voice told another story. Both were dull. Sluggish. As if they were slowly dying inside—just like her.

  She missed the children. Missed Aunt Mildred and the security of Seaton House. Most of all, she missed Preston. She found strength in his unshakable optimism. If she was honest with herself, she missed the comfort of his embrace. He had come by earlier to tell her he was going out on patrol and wouldn’t be back for a few days. He must have seen the anguish in her eyes. Once they were alone, he pulled her into his arms and just held her. She loved him. Didn’t know when or where it happened, but it had. The crack in her wall had widened until he flooded inside, swamping her with a need for his love.

  Little good it would do.

  He wouldn’t return those feelings. The army held his heart. Always would. There was no use wishing for something she would never have.

  She grunted to her feet and snatched up the broom. A little hard work would douse all those gloomy thoughts. She moved to the altar and attacked the dirt with renewed vigor. Footprints stamped the dust on the short stairs, made earlier when Reverend Scott came by to rehearse his sermon. He’d recited the story of the mustard seed and how even a small amount of faith can move mountains. He’d talked about forgiveness and of turning the other cheek. She would do her best to follow that advice, to have faith—to be a better Christian.

  A soft murmuring broke into her thoughts. She whirled around. No one was there. Odd. She would have sworn someone called her name.

  She resumed her assault on the floorboards. Dust motes rose up and drifted around her. A fly circled her head, buzzing noisily near her ear. She brushed it away with a flick of her hand. Pesky insect.

  The murmuring came again, louder and more distinct this time. We’re coming, Miss Talbot. It was a mental message, just like the one she’d heard in the jailhouse.

  She halted her sweeping and focused on sending a reply. Who is this? Where are you?

  The only sound came from the bothersome fly. She hurried to the window. Nothing moved in the street or in the short expanse of yard. She heaved a sigh. Clearly, the strain of separation had her all out of sorts.

  She moved away from the window and traded the broom for a polishing cloth. She picked up one of the candlesticks flanking the altar. Tarnish stained the silver. Just like her and the children, the shine was hidden. But with a little hard work, it would soon be restored.

  A scuffling noise sounded. She turned to find Gabriel and Sally standing in the rear doorway. Her dreariness lifted. She plunked down the candlestick and rushed down the aisle. A beam of sunlight pouring through the open doorway painted Gabe’s face. A dark circle with faint, fingerlike extensions branded his cheek. Anger iced her veins. He’d been struck. Hard.

  She halted in front of him and gently cupped his chin. “Who did this to you, Gabe?”

  He twisted out of her grip. “No one. I fell.”

  “No fall could cause a bruise that looks like a handprint. Did Mr. Wood hit you?”

  “Not him.”

  Mrs. Wood, then. The evil woman. “Let’s go outside so I get a better look at your face.” She nudged him through the doorway and into the full sunlight. The whites of his eyes were clear, his nose and mouth unblemished. The damage appeared to be limited to his cheek. A relief. But it didn’t lessen the fact that he’d been mistreated.

  “This is totally unacceptable.”

  Gabe shoved back his shoulders and hefted his chin. “I didn’t use m
y gift or cause any trouble, if that’s what you mean.”

  “I didn’t mean you. I meant Mrs. Wood hitting you. When did this happen, and why would she do such a thing?”

  “It was just after the noon meal. Mrs. Wood started hollering at Sally for not answering her. I told her Sally couldn’t talk, but she wouldn’t listen. She just kept shaking Sally’s arm, trying to make her speak. So, I stepped in to stop her. That’s when she hit me. Called us witch’s spawns.”

  The only spawn was Alvena Wood—a daughter of Satan himself. “You did the right thing by protecting your sister. Did she hit you anywhere else?”

  “Just my cheek. I turned the other one, just like Mr. Hoggard says we should.”

  Good for him. But the woman shouldn’t have hit him to begin with. She turned to Sally who had followed them out the door. The girl clutched Charles’ carved pony against her chest.

  “What about you, Sally? Did the woman hurt you?”

  Sally wagged her head. Her eyes held a haunted, wary look, and her face had no coloring. The child may not have been physically hurt, but she had been mentally traumatized. Meredith stuffed down her outrage. She would save her anger for the person who deserved it. God would have to wait a little longer for her to be a good Christian.

  “Was it you who talked in my head, Sally? Here and before at the jailhouse?”

  The girl averted her gaze and fiddled with the pony. Her bottom lip quivered ever so slightly.

  Meredith smoothed down a rebellious curl. “It’s all right. I’m not upset. I just want to know for certain who sent me those messages. Nod if it was you.”

  Moss-colored eyes lifted and poured over her. After a few seconds, the girl dipped her head.

  “I thought it might be.”

  Sally held the trinket out to her. Meredith pushed her hand away. “You don’t have to give the pony back. It was a gift from me to you.”

  Sally wagged her head. She pointed from the toy to her head and then to Meredith.

  Realization dawned. “You used my pony to talk with me.”

  Another nod. Meredith sighed. The odds were highly in favor of Sally having a gift. She just didn’t expect it to be mental conversing—though it made sense. Her brother could move objects with his mind. Why shouldn’t his sister be able to use personal items to send mental messages to others?

  “Ain’t that something? I knew you was special, Sally. Just didn’t know how much.” Gabe puffed up his chest. “Course since you’re my sister, you have to be gifted with something impressive.”

  Sally smiled up at him, the wariness fading from her eyes. She poked his ribs with a finger. He yelped and leapt away, holding onto his side in a dramatic show. Meredith smiled for the first time in days. It was good to see them being playful after what they had suffered.

  “I’m glad you finally feel comfortable using your gift, Sally. We’ll talk about it later, all right?” At the girl’s nod, she motioned to the footpath. “For now, let’s go to the rectory where we can decide what to do with the two of you.”

  Gabe’s sunny expression retreated. “You’re not going to send us back to those people, are you? Mrs. Wood ain’t right in the head. I saw her smearing horse dung on her face one night when Mr. Wood was away. It smelled awful. She preened in front of her mirror, like she was a queen or something.”

  Something hideous, that was for certain. “You will absolutely not be sent back to that woman.”

  “So we can stay with you then.”

  The rectory alcove wasn’t large enough to hold any more occupants. Something else had to be done. Something Mrs. Allen and the rest of the townsfolk weren’t going to like.

  They would just have to turn the other cheek.

  Chapter Eleven

  The acrid scent of burnt wood rode the air. A few yards away, two of his troopers strained to lift a thick beam from the blackened mound. There wasn’t much left of the Bowen homestead. The house and barn resembled the remnants of Seaton House—nothing but charred wood and smoldering ashes. Thankfully, this time, no one had been harmed during the attack. Zeke had the good fortune to be visiting his wife and children who were staying at the fort and consequently avoided the raid on his farm.

  Preston tossed the last of the chimney stones onto a pile and brushed soot from his gloves. Although stained, the stones could be reused. Zeke vowed he would rebuild. Said he wasn’t going to let a few bad Indians scare him off. As word spread about the capture of the renegades, more people would be adopting that attitude and returning to their farms. Hopefully none would regret that decision.

  He crossed to his horse and untied the reins. He’d purposely taken his patrol by the Bowen homestead. Not to assist with the clean-up…well, he would have done that any way…but he wanted the chance to look for clues. Things just weren’t adding up. The captured Indians were adamant about their innocence. Claimed they had only been riding toward the fire to uncover the real criminals. His gut told him Red Wing’s son was telling the truth. If Black Hawk and his band had set the fire, it only made sense that they would have fled or fought with the arriving patrol. They would not have surrendered without incident as they had done. Their arrest deserved more than just a sweep under the rug.

  He mounted and reined his horse to the west where Bowen had cleared land for planting and pasture. Dust and ash billowed around his horse’s hooves. With little rain and plenty of comings and goings, any clues left by the raiders had been obliterated. He’d have to look in a less sullied spot for evidence.

  In addition to torching the buildings, the attackers had run off the livestock. A few of the beef cows had returned and now gathered in the far corner of the pasture. One big heifer with a calf nosed under her belly lifted her head, took his measure, and then resumed grazing. Although the cows seemed to be unaffected by the raid, the crops weren’t as lucky. Broken stalks of summer wheat littered the adjacent field. Many shoots were already turning brown and shriveling. It looked like a battlefield after a bombardment of cannon fire. Finding anything useful in this mess was going to be harder than tracking a blood trail in the rain.

  He reined his horse back toward the east. Woods formed a semi-circle around the site where the house once stood. Just to the northeast, a stand of trees clustered together in a thick grove. It would be an ideal spot for remaining concealed, if nefarious business was on the agenda.

  He dismounted at the edge of the tree line and secured his horse to a stout sapling. The grove wasn’t very large, an acre at the most. It consisted mostly of pines, a few scrub oaks, and a lot of undergrowth. He stepped over a vine-snarled bush that looked more like a green hairball than a plant.

  On the other side of the bushy hedge, a dense cluster of trees offered the perfect barricade for watching and waiting. He angled for the spot, his footfalls quieted by a thick layer of pine needles. The forest floor seemed more packed than normal as if recently tread upon, yet there were no discernable footprints.

  He slowed and shoveled the toe of his boot under the needles. Only dead branches and pinecones rolled up to the surface. Nothing of note there.

  He expanded his search, shuffling through the trees in an ever widening arc. Sunlight dribbled through the overhead canopy and sparkled on something shiny and red. He squatted and exhumed the object. It was a small tin—Dr. Rumney’s mentholyptus snuff, the same brand Agent Finley preferred. Quite an interesting find.

  There was no rust on the container, no dents. He opened the lid. It was half full and the tobacco still damp. The tin had been recently dropped. He replaced the lid and shoved the evidence into his pocket. It might prove to be nothing at all, but its presence near the torched homestead definitely warranted looking into.

  Moving outward, he continued his hunt. At one shaggy pine, he stooped to duck under a low-hanging branch. Manure droppings littered the ground on the other side. Most intriguing was the shod hoof print stamped in the middle. He toed the mound. The droppings were dry, but not hard, maybe a day old at most. And colored yel
low.

  That day in the stables, Sergeant Reese had told little Robbie he’d give Finley’s sick mare a tonic—one that would turn the horse’s manure yellow. Instinct screamed that the snuff tin and the yellow droppings were not coincidental, and that Finley was somehow involved in this attack. However much joy it would give him to pin the raid on the obnoxious Indian Agent, it would be best to question Zeke Bowen before jumping to conclusions. The last time he thought he had evidence pointing to the identity of the raiders, it turned out to be a bust.

  He left the thicket and led his horse to the clearing. He stopped beside Zeke, who was busy hitching a pair of mules to a farm wagon. Most folks didn’t waste time or money putting shoes on draft animals. Zeke was no exception.

  “Fine looking mules, Mr. Bowen. You own any more we need to search for? What about horses?”

  Zeke shook his head. “Wish I did. Had to sell off my mare last winter to pay for dry goods and feed. These two plow mules are all the animals I got left. Lucky for me I had them with me in town when the Injuns came ’round.”

  Times were harsh out in the territories, especially for farmers trying to eke a living out of the inhospitable land. “You have any visitors lately?”

  Bowen set the pull chains. “None that I can recollect. Been busy with the stock. Some of the cows came down with swollen udders. Another one got the bloat.”

  “I can send Sergeant Reese out to have a look at them if you want. He’s quite learned when it comes to doctoring animals.”

  “Thanks for the offer, but I got things under control for now. My main focus will be on rebuilding, which will be a sight easier now that you’ve captured those damn heathens.”

  Maybe. “Before the raid, do you recall seeing anything out of the ordinary?”

  “Such as?”

  “Cattle acting spooked. Things missing or misplaced. Anything unusual.”

  Bowen shook his head. “No. Why do you ask?”

  “Just checking. I found day-old manure and a shod hoof print over in that grove to the northeast. And this…” He fished the snuff tin out of his pocket. “Is it yours?”