The Rescue

by Tanya Eavenson

  She swallowed, meeting Mr. Richards’s stare.

  He took her hand and slid it through the crook of his arm. “Let’s get you back inside, shall we?”

  She let him lead her, but her heart recoiled, and she threw a desperate prayer toward heaven. Lord, You must heal my mother and rescue me. Save us.

  Chapter Two

  Graham, Texas

  June 1888

  The work never ends here ... but I wouldn’t have it any other way.

  Outside his two-story home, Trent pulled a bandana from his back pocket and wiped the sweat from his forehead. The midafternoon sun pressed down as if branding his scalp. He’d put away his parents’ wagon, now neatly stored in the barn. He’d chopped wood, with the logs stacked four and five high along the kitchen wall. After grabbing his canteen by the barn, he took several gulps.

  “Trent!” The back door opened, and his mother peeked out. “Isn’t that enough for the day?”

  “Plenty of daylight left,” he answered, pouring the rest of the cool water over his face and shirt. “And I promised Father I’d see to the fence.” They couldn’t afford to lose another longhorn.

  “A body ought to rest now and then. Though I suppose you’ll sleep well enough tonight.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said as she closed the door. And he hoped she was right. Last night he’d dreamed of Boston. The busy streets and crowded buildings. The parties and ... Rosalind.

  He swiped his Stetson from a tree stump and settled it on his head. With a sigh, he swung into the saddle, then rode back to the western edge of their property. This was the land he loved, the place where the Lord seemed to meet him. Wind breezed past his ears as he smiled at the cattle egret that crossed his path. Orange and pink streaked the distant sky. From whence cometh my help? My help cometh from the Lord, which made heaven and earth. God was his helper and provider at all times.

  God had been good to his family over the past two years. Ranching was hard work and a hard life. But Trent had learned the ways and the whys, the how-tos and the how-not-tos, while memories of Boston traveled farther and farther away. He never wanted to leave the land God had given him here, let alone return to his old hometown. He missed none of what was before—except Rosalind.

  A longing he couldn’t quite shake squeezed his heart once again. Yet the more he thought of her, the more questions he had. Always questions and never answers for why she had stopped responding to his letters. He hadn’t heard from her in well over a year. Had he misinterpreted her feelings and their discussions of the future? Maybe, in an effort to be kind, she had chosen not to respond rather than hurting a childhood friend.

  With a deep breath, Trent dismounted and approached the broken fence line. He and Matthew, his best ranch hand, had made significant progress patching the breach that morning. Only a dozen or so posts still needed to be set, and the two remaining rolls of barbed wire lying on the ground would surely do the trick.

  He measured for spacing between each post, marking the ground with the edge of his boot. His already tired muscles tightened in protest when he grabbed a shovel and started digging the holes deep, to the exact width he and Matthew had done this morning. Trent dropped in the first post and began refilling the hole.

  Mending fences. A far easier task than dealing with women and their fickle hearts.

  He worked alone as the sun dropped to eye level. Hooves pounded toward him—someone was in a hurry. Securing the wire, Trent reached for the bandana in his pocket, then wiped the back of his neck. He shielded his eyes as Matthew came to an abrupt halt.

  “Your father sent me. You’re needed at the house.”

  “Is everything all right?”

  “I’m not sure. All I know is your mother is crying. Go. I’ll finish.”

  Trent ran for his horse and leapt into the saddle. He goaded the animal to a full gallop and strained forward as if doing so would quicken his arrival. Mother seldom cried. Was she hurt? Had something happened to one of the cowhands? Dear God, give me strength to face whatever’s come our way.

  He jumped from the saddle before his horse came to a stop, rushed up onto the porch, and blasted through the front door. “Father?”

  “I’m here, son.” Solemn faced, his father exited the kitchen into the living room. Sounds of his mother’s hiccups reached Trent’s ears.

  “Why is Mother crying?”

  “She received a letter from Boston. You remember the Standfords?”

  He nodded. Of course he remembered them. One in particular.

  “There’s been a death.”

  Trent’s legs wobbled. He steadied himself against the back of a chair, his rough callouses pressing against the wood as fear clawed its way up his throat. “Rosalind?”

  His father’s brows furrowed. “No. Her mother ... Sarah. Apparently, she was buried almost a year ago. I’m not sure why the letter took so long getting here, maybe it got lost, but I received word in the mail today from Mr. Standford. Your mother knew Sarah was ill, but not like this. She died of consumption.”

  Mrs. Standford dead these last twelve months—she’d been a second mother to him during his childhood—and not one letter, not one word from Rosalind. Not for over a year now. He’d proposed marriage, and then, silence. Had she stopped writing because of her mother’s passing? Or had she found someone else? “How is everyone?” He cleared his throat. “How’s Rosalind?”

  “I’m not sure. Roger didn’t say, but your mother has expressed a desire to return to Boston and see how Rosalind is managing. You know Rosalind’s sister was married and had her own life even before we left. Your mother is set on visiting, so I’ll accompany her. Would you care to join us? We’d like for you to, but the choice is yours. I believe Matthew can handle the ranch while we’re gone.”

  Hadn’t Trent just told himself he never wanted to go back? The last time he’d seen Rosalind, she’d looked so lovely in the moonlight. He’d taken her hand before she’d turned to leave, and the warmth had left him tingling long after she’d gone. The smell of roses would always remind him of her.

  He clasped his hands on the back of the chair. His sandpaper callouses weren’t the only reasons he no longer belonged in Boston, but they were evidence enough of the unmistakable changes inside him. Never again would he fit in, mingling with high society and attending endless parties. He belonged with the bluebonnets and longhorns on his ranch, where working hard and getting his hands dirty brought a satisfaction he’d never dreamed of while growing up in the city.

  Trent wasn’t the only one in the family who’d changed. Back in Boston, his father had owned one of the largest banks in the city, a position which commanded respect but also left little time for family. Although the move to Graham had fulfilled his father’s dream of being a rancher, Trent had also found his place in this world. And he’d gained a father.

  He met his father’s gaze. “If I join you, I’ll need to be back in time to drive the herd to market.”

  “I’ll make sure of it.”

  “I’ll go. You need me. I’ll go.”

  A whimper came from the kitchen, and both men followed the sound. His mother stood, holding a tissue to her cheek, then dabbed her eyes. “She’s gone.”

  His father wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to his chest, kissing the top of her hairline. “Shhh. Rest, my love. Know the Good Shepherd has called His lamb home where there are no more tears or pain, only love and peace.”

  Trent left them alone, making his way back to the front of the house. Was Rosalind all right? Did she still mourn the loss of her mother?

  He cared about her grief, of course. But what he desired most was to cuddle her in his arms as his father had done with his mother. If Trent had stayed in Boston, would Rose have allowed him to hold her?

  Trent shook his head. He dreamed of her often, the way her gray eyes shone in candlelight. Even when meeting other girls here in Graham, he always compared them to Rosalind.

  He ran a hand across the scruff alon
g his jaw. She might not even recognize him. He’d left Boston as Trenton, a well-groomed boy unsure of his future. Now, he was Trent, a man, a rancher. Working his own land.

  As he closed the front door, it gave its typical squeal and bang. Matthew caught up with him on the porch. “Is everything all right?” he asked, lifting the brim of his cowboy hat from his eyes.

  “Mother’s not doing so good.” They headed for the horses. “Friends of ours in Boston had a death in the family. Mom and Dad are going there for a visit.”

  “Are you going with them?”

  “Probably. Yeah. Think you could handle things around here?”

  Matthew shot him a look.

  “Had to ask.” Trent smiled as he mounted his stallion. “Were you and Blake able to find where the longhorn strayed after the storm?”

  Matthew swung onto his horse. “I’m thinkin’ he tried to find shelter but found the fence torn down instead and escaped. We tracked him to the brook behind the west edge of the property, but beyond there the trail disappears. Blake thinks it might have something to do with the longhorns that went missing on the east side of town.”

  Trent looked west where rippling heat waves obscured the horizon. A bead of sweat ran down his collar, tickling his neck. Could rustlers be stealing his cattle, as Blake believed? “Time to buckle down if I plan to go to Boston.”

  Matthew nodded.

  As they rode, Trent’s stomach clenched—but why? Over fear of rustlers? Or the prospect of seeing Rosalind again?

  Daylight was breaking when Trent rose to the smell of coffee, but he knew enjoying the dark brew would have to wait until he’d completed the milking.

  With a pail in hand, he sat on the three-legged stool next to one of the cows. “Good morning, Rose.” He placed his cheek against her side and began their morning routine while the musty scent of cow flesh and sweet hay worked to ease the tension in his shoulders.

  After a few minutes, Blake entered, grabbed his own pail, and began milking.

  Blake cleared his throat. “Do you mind if Grace starts comin’ around? I mean, Ella will be here with Matthew.”

  Trent released the warm teat between his fingers. “I had no idea you and Grace were courting.”

  Silence.

  “Sure, she can come out too. I’ll tell Martin to make extra for dinner on Saturdays while we’re gone.” Trent resumed his work, glad to know someone had taken an interest in Blake. The ragged scar across his cheek kept most women away, almost gave him a fierce look. Trent caught a glimpse of Blake with his head against the cow’s side. Nothing could be further from the truth.

  Matthew strolled in, whistling. “So ... you ready to see Rosalind?” He hoisted a bag of feed to his shoulder.

  “I’m accompanying my parents to Boston,” Trent answered over the rhythmic pings of milk landing in his bucket.

  Matthew chuckled. “Sure, nothing to do with Rosalind whatsoever.”

  Annoying though it was, the man had a point. Trent wanted to be there for Rosalind if she needed him. And he needed to know why she’d stopped writing. Not that Trent would admit it to Matthew. “Watch yourself.” He squirted a jet of milk onto his friend’s boot.

  Grinning, Matthew backed up, hands held up in a gesture of surrender. “All right, all right. Well, the sows need my attention, but I’ll be back. Mornin’, Blake.”

  Blake stood with his pail and nodded. “Mornin’.” He eyed Trent for a brief moment, poured the milk into a can, then moved to the next cow, questions shining in his eyes. “Rosalind, huh?”

  “Matthew talks too much.”

  After the animals were fed and tended to, Trent climbed the stairs to the porch at the back of the house. He swung open the door, and the aroma of coffee met him. Inhaling, he took a cup from the counter and poured what his taste buds had yearned for the past two hours.

  Trent scooped up the plate from the stove where Martin had left it warming. The cook fed both Trent’s family and the ranch hands. Although Martin tended to wear a scowl, one bite of his eggs, perfectly seasoned, reminded Trent the man was worth his weight in gold.

  He pulled out a chair to sit, the wooden legs scraping against the floor. He hadn’t seen his parents this morning but knew they were awake, readying themselves for their long journey. Just thinking about the carriage ride to the railroad, the ride on the rails to Boston, the time he’d spend away from his land, stole his appetite. He pushed his uneaten food away.

  With one last sip, Trent left his dishes and headed outside to hitch the wagon, but Matthew had beaten him to it. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”

  “You know the real reason you’re goin’.” Matthew stroked the horse’s mane but looked at Trent. “She must mean somethin’, the way you’ve steered clear of all the beautiful women around here who throw themselves at you.” Matthew took off his Stetson and slapped it against his leg. “Yep, Rosalind means somethin’, all right. You’ve only talked about her a few times, but if you ask me, you owe it to yourself to find out exactly where you stand with her. If not for your sake, for mine, so Ella will stop askin’ me to set you up with her friends.”

  “Just help me tote down my mother’s trunk.”

  Matthew secured his hat on his head with two hands. “You’re not backing out, are ya?”

  “I’m going, but I’m itching to change my mind,” Trent said and led Matthew into the house.

  Chapter Three

  “Rosalind.” Her father knocked on her bedroom door. “Are you up? Glover’s here to see you.”

  “Yes. I’ll be down in a moment.” She swiped at the tears before they fell, protecting the worn pages of her mother’s Bible as she read aloud. “Bow down thine ear to me; deliver me speedily: be thou my strong rock, for a house of defence to save me. For thou art my rock and my fortress; therefore for thy name’s sake lead me, and guide me.” She fought back a sob. “Pull me out of the net that they have laid privily for me: for thou art my strength.”

  Oh, Lord, please help me. Free me from this marriage.

  She rose and stood in front of her vanity. Puffy eyes gazed back. She brushed a finger across her reddened skin and inhaled, trying to steady herself and erase evidence she’d been crying. “That’s the best I can do.” She took a deeper breath, exhaled, then left the sanctuary of her room. As she descended the stairs, arguing voices rose to meet her.

  “You have no choice, Roger. Now that she’s back from your mother’s home, you will not send Rosalind away again. Do you hear me?”

  The last step creaked, and her father appeared in the parlor doorway. “I thought I heard you.” He took her elbow and smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

  Glover approached and gave a half bow. His dark hair fell over one eye, but it didn’t prevent his gaze from roaming over every inch of her form before stopping at her chest. “How are you this evening, my dear?”

  “Fine,” she whispered the lie through dry lips.

  Glover’s gaze met hers. He pushed her father aside and came to stand directly in front of her. “How are you truly?”

  She straightened under his scrutiny. “I am well enough.”

  “You are not well.” He gently cupped her cheek, and her body trembled against his touch. “Was your trip not satisfactory?”

  “It was, indeed. I’m rather exhausted from the journey, as you might expect.”

  “Yes, well, you won’t be taking another trip.” His hand dropped to his side. “I’ve spoken with your father, and I have his word on the matter. From now on, you will be where I can find you.”

  She clamped together her shaking hands as fear and the reality she’d never be free of him crept through her.

  Glover yanked a wad of bills from his jacket pocket. “See to it she eats. And rehire that cook.”

  “Doris?”

  “If she’s the one. Rosalind is becoming too thin.” He counted off ten bills, handed them to her father, then pocketed the rest. “I shall see you both for supper.”

  Her father
quickly counted the bills. “What time shall we expect you? I’ll make sure the cook serves something to your liking.”

  Glover placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “Do I need to remind you how this money should be spent?”

  “No.” Her father flushed as he lowered his head. “I won’t forget.”

  Glover turned and sought her lips. Rosalind fought the bile climbing her throat as his hands roamed her back. “Until tonight, my dear.”

  She shivered at his promised words as her father followed Glover to the front porch. After hurrying upstairs, she closed her bedroom door and sought to keep her mind from the memory of Glover’s touch. Staring at the sparse furnishings, only her vanity, armoire, and bed remained. Even the jewelry box that had once rested on her dresser, her special place for a gift from her mother—a diamond necklace—had vanished. She glanced at her right hand, a thin line etched her skin where a ring once adorned her finger. She clenched her hands at her sides.

  Gone. Sold.

  Three taps sounded at her door. “Rosalind, may I come in?”

  She sat on her bed, resisting the urge to say no, as her fingernails dug into her palms. “Yes.”

  Her father entered, shoulders slumped, hands stuffed in his pockets. “Was Glover right? You’re not well?”

  “How could a man like Glover know my condition better than my own father?” It crushed her to say the words, but the truth was hard to deny. When had he stopped caring, loving her?

  He stared at her. “I have something I must discuss with you. It’s important.” He withdrew his hands from his pockets and sat on the edge of her bed. “We will have company soon.”

  “Company? We’ve had no company since mother was alive. Who’s coming?”

  “The Eastons.”

  Panic rose within her at the sound of their name. Trenton and his family, here? She blinked back moisture filling her eyes at the thought of their return and how long she waited, but it mattered little now. They mustn’t come. “Why visit after all this time? What purpose could they have?”