“No.” He felt as though an axe blade had been embedded at the base of his skull.
“Well, can I help you with—”
“No.”
He no longer cared about ordering paint. About being amiable. Sloan crammed the letter in his pocket and left the store without a backward glance. One look at the return address had confirmed his worst fears: The precise sloped lettering identified the sender as his mother. Regardless of what tone she affected in the contents, nothing good would come of this. Why now? She’d made it plain that she considered her youngest son a murderer, a traitor to his family and his “class.”
He mounted Dulcie and urged her into a hard canter the moment they were free of the cluster of mules, wagons, and buggies. By the time he turned onto the grassy lane that crossed the pasture in front of the house, Sloan had kneed the mare into a breakneck gallop.
He pulled the lathered horse to a halt in front of the barn, the first shock and much of his anger already fading. Sloan apologized to Dulcie, alternately praising her and berating himself while he removed the tack. He walked her until the lather dried, then spent a penitent hour giving the winded mare a thorough rubdown. He even cleaned her stall and fetched fresh water and a handful of grain, scratching beneath her forelock while she munched the oats.
The letter waited, its presence burning in his mind like a live coal.
Finally Sloan tromped heavily out of the barn and down the rock-stubbled meadow behind the house. Along the back edge of his property, a tangled hedge of Cherokee roses partially screened the remains of an old vegetable garden and an ancient apple tree whose gnarled branches sagged with ripening fruit. At some time in the past, one of the Pritchetts had placed a handmade wooden chair beneath the tree.
Sloan lowered himself onto the low, age-worn seat. Slowly he withdrew the crumpled envelope. For a long time he didn’t move, just sat with his eyes closed and his arms resting on the rough chair arms. The letter lay untouched in his lap.
He could trash it without even opening it. He could even send it back. What was the point, exposing himself to all that misery again when he’d finally found a sliver of peace? The past was past. He couldn’t undo the wrongs, couldn’t restore lost or ruined lives. Lord, why won’t You let the dead bury themselves along with the past? The whisper of a thought insinuated itself deep inside. He was still hiding. Still running.
No. He was trying to heal. Regain perspective. Protect himself until he could view things rationally again. Recover his relationship with God. Reconcile the sordid disintegration of his family. And finally—until he was sure in his own mind that he could separate his feelings about Jenna from his feelings toward Garnet—he needed . . . time. Room to think, to breathe. He was convinced that he understood Garnet, that his perceptions about her character were accurate, in spite of knowing her for only a few months. Yet those first years, he’d been equally certain that Jenna was sweet-natured, genteel—the mate God had designed for Sloan.
Lord . . . I was full of myself back then, wasn’t I? Certainly he knew there was a world of difference between the snap judgments and emotion-based certainty of a stripling boy from those of an experienced man. But it was painfully obvious that experience and so-called maturity had not been sufficient to prevent equally monumental errors in judgment. What would happen if he committed himself to the wrong woman a second time?
All right. Fine. Yes. He was still running from the past. Hiding. But so are You. Do you hear me, God? So are You. Even as he hurled the accusation, Sloan knew what the response would be. He might yearn for restoration, but he continued to reject it because he was afraid of what God might demand of him.
But Sloan wasn’t afraid—he was terrified. The blood of two men stained his hands, one a patient who had trusted Sloan with his life, the other . . . Sloan’s brother. One family left fatherless. His own family’s reputation destroyed because of Sloan.
He’d given his life as well as his heart to God, and for a score of years he had devoted himself to honoring the vow he’d made when he was ten years old. But like King David, Sloan had stumbled over a woman. He should have seen Jenna’s true character, but instead he’d been so consumed with medical studies and high-flown ideals that he’d committed the ugly sin of arrogance. Arrogance and pride.
He’d been a self-righteous prig back then. Now he was a bitter, defeated . . . coward. The darkness roiled through him, snuffing out the summer day. Anger, shame, grief suffocated his soul. He deserved to be punished, deserved not mercy but retribution. Trying to build a new life was a fool’s dream. Instead he was doomed to repeat the mistakes he’d tried to leave behind.
My blood has washed you clean . . . look at My hands. Not your own.
Sloan jerked upright in the chair. Blinking, he sat frozen, gripping the chair arms with such force that pain streaked up his wrists. He stared at them, uncomprehending, until he thought to relax his death grip.
Bright and airy, a butterfly drifted in front of his face. Then it dipped and alighted on one of his white-boned knuckles. It was a small butterfly, with burnt umber wings scarcely two inches across, yet it rested fearlessly on a hand which could crush it with no effort. Sloan quit breathing, his gaze fixed on the fragile insect. He could see the intricate pattern of veins, the threadlike legs and antennae—because the butterfly perched motionless with outspread wings right there on his hand. As though Sloan’s knuckle offered a safe harbor instead of cruel destruction. A place where it could absorb the sunlight, gathering energy to seek out another flower.
Trancelike, Sloan watched the tiny messenger from God, until the vise crushing his chest began to loosen, until he realized in a dim sort of astonishment that his eyes were wet. Carefully, calling upon the patient skill of a surgeon, he began to turn his hand. Unconcerned, the butterfly crept along to stay upright. When Sloan’s hand stilled on the chair arm, the butterfly remained, its gossamer legs fearlessly planted in the cup of his palm.
Time hung suspended in a shimmering gold void. Soundless, weightless, as vast as the universe.
When the butterfly fluttered once, twice, then floated into the air, Sloan watched its ascent with something close to reverence.
Then a groan wrenched from the depths of his being, and he buried his face in his hands. When the redemptive storm finally passed, he mopped his face with his shirttail and opened his mother’s letter with rock-steady hands.
Winchester
Garnet stood in the doorway to the back wing offices of the Excelsior Hotel, watching Meredith attack a monstrous black typing machine. Over the clickety-clack of the keys she could hear her sister grumbling to herself. That, at least, was typical Meredith. At another desk a young man with a neat bow tie and wire-rimmed spectacles studied some papers. On the far side of the room a gray-haired woman leafed through the contents of a dark walnut filing cabinet. Nobody had noticed Garnet.
Their concentrated efficiency was intimidating. To be truthful, the setting itself intimidated her. It had taken enormous courage for Garnet to cross the hotel lobby with its gleaming parquet floors and Grecian-style columns and slip down a secretive hallway into the equally imposing suite of offices.
Her elder sister looked as though she belonged here.
The whole family—the entire community, for that matter—had been convinced that Meredith Sinclair would have a ring on her finger and a passel of little ones by the time she reached her twentieth year. Instead she’d found herself with a career. Garnet swallowed a bubble of nervous laughter. With the impulsiveness that dominated her character, Meredith had joined a new breed of independent single young women. Young women who eschewed home and family in the pursuit of, to Garnet, nebulous goals with illusory rewards.
Her younger sister’s goals, on the other hand, were rooted as deep as the two-hundred-year-old elm that shaded the porch. Leah was determined to become the first Sinclair to earn a degree in higher education.
As always, she, the middle sister, was . . . in the middle. A career she
still thought of as a calling. A decided lack of interest in the pursuit of knowledge. Little hope for a home and family of her own.
Desperation had propelled Garnet onto a northbound train this morning. Now, standing unnoticed in the midst of this prosaic, professional setting, her ill-defined turmoil of the past weeks seemed insignificant, her unannounced intrusion into her sister’s place of employment a gross breach of manners. Meredith’s fellow workers would not welcome an interruption, especially a personal one. Even worse, what if Benjamin Walker appeared and found his employee gabbing with her sister?
She’d been a self-absorbed picklebrain. Garnet stepped back, hoping she could slip away. Instead, the heel of her shoe caught on the fringe of an oriental carpet laid over the parquet floor. She lurched sideways, the heel of her shoe landing on the wood with an audible thunk.
“Garnet! What in the world are you doing here?”
Meredith leaped up and dashed across the room, her face a study of alarmed delight. “What’s wrong? It’s Papa, isn’t it? No? You’ve finally run away, the caged bird finally broke her bars?” Talking nonstop, she held Garnet at arm’s length, the hazel eyes conducting a thorough inventory.
“I should have waited at your boardinghouse. I needed to see you, talk to you. But I should have written a letter first.” Flushing, Garnet eyed the door, aware of the cessation of activity as all attention focused on them.
“Nonsense.” Meredith hauled her across the room, toward a closed solid walnut-paneled door with a brass nameplate fixed in its center. “Mrs. Biggs, if the chef rings up from the kitchen, Mr. Walker’s suggestions for the Banker’s Association banquet are on my desk. Lowell, I’m leaving. Could you finish these letters for me when you’re through there?”
She focused on Garnet. “Now. Ignore these gawking busybodies. They’re actually quite nice, even when they’re being rude.” She jostled Garnet’s arm. “Something’s wrong. I can see it in your face. Don’t tell me—there’s been word on those men who . . . hurt you?”
“No, not yet. But that’s one of the—”
“Whew. That’s a relief!” Her gaze narrowed. “Are you sure Papa’s all right?”
“Not . . . exactly. What I mean is,” Garnet hastily amended when Meredith’s complexion lost color, “he’s all right, though I have caught him taking more of those bismuth tablets than usual. But he is one of the reasons I—” Garnet tried to grab the medallion back of the velvet sofa they were passing. “Meredith, wait. What are you doing?”
“Telling Mr. Walker I’m leaving. You’re going to stand beside me and look”—she paused, firmly wresting Garnet’s clutching hand free of its grip on the mahogany trim—“convincingly distraught. Which you do.”
“Meredith, this is your job.”
“And you’re my sister.” She rapped on the door, swinging it open when a deep baritone voice gave permission for them to come in. “Mr. Walker, this is my sister Garnet. Something’s come up—a family matter. I have to leave immediately.”
Torn between exasperation and embarrassment, Garnet had only a vague impression of Mr. Walker. He’d been sitting behind an oak desk the size of a fishpond but rose courteously when the two women intruded into his domain. Taller than their father, taller even than Sloan, his impeccably styled cutaway frock coat and blinding white shirt spoke of vast wealth and a flair for style equal to Meredith’s.
“This family matter is of the utmost importance? An—emergency, similar to your frantic visit home in June because of a serious accident one of your sisters had suffered?” Light eyes seemed to flicker over Garnet then refocus on Meredith.
“Yes. It’s an emergency.” Meredith’s head angled forward, a clear signal that though she knew her position might be weak, she was prepared to fight to the death anyway.
“Then you may as well leave.” The austere planes of his face relaxed in a brief smile. “But this time, I’ll have to dock your salary.”
“Fine. I’ll be gone the rest of the day.”
She linked arms with a bemused Garnet and swept both of them back through the door, but not before Garnet glimpsed the fleeting expression of admiration on Mr. Walker’s face. As Meredith closed the door behind them, he had already bent to his work once more, looking as though there had been no interruption at all.
Twenty-Three
Have you made it a habit, then—this testing the patience of your employer?” Garnet asked as they walked outside into the bright August sunshine. They waited until a stage loaded with passengers had gone by, then crossed the street and headed toward Meredith’s boardinghouse.
“Yes.” Meredith raised her parasol and held it over both of them. “One of these weeks, I’m hoping to jar him enough that he’ll lose his temper. I’d like to satisfy myself that he possesses one. But you didn’t come all the way up here to discuss Mr. Walker. And we have the rest of the afternoon now. Tell me what’s troubling you.”
At a loss all of a sudden, Garnet opened her mouth, then closed it. She could sense Meredith’s impatience and was both relieved and surprised because for once her sister refrained from badgering. They strolled along the walk side by side, companions as well as sisters, exchanging nods with passersby. A sweating laborer hefting blocks of ice onto a dray chipped off a couple of finger-sized shards, which he bestowed upon them with a gap-toothed smile; two blocks later, when a bright blue ball rolled to a stop at their feet, Meredith cheerfully waved to a sailor-suited toddler while Garnet tossed the ball back.
Yet nonetheless a sensation of aloneness bound her in sticky cobwebs that she couldn’t sweep away from her mind.
“I don’t know what to do.” The words finally burst forth when Meredith reached for the latch gate in front of her boardinghouse. “Meredith, I don’t know what to do. I’m afraid Papa’s health is deteriorating because of all this mess over . . . over . . .”
“The ‘Secret of Sinclair Run?’ ”
Garnet nodded miserably. “We’re all trying to convince each other that there is no threat, that Sheriff Pettiscomb is right. Those men left the county, probably even the state, that same day. There was never any danger, to any of us.” She flicked a hand upward to the neat straw bonnet she wore instead of a sunbonnet. “All those years, I thought I’d been protecting my family by shielding my identity.” One of her many self-delusions. “Do you know, it’s still an effort, not to reach for a sunbonnet every time I go out?” She stopped. This was far more difficult than she had imagined.
“I’d think you’d be dancing a Highland fling. I’d like to.” Meredith grinned. “Has Leah burned those bonnets or just cut them up for rags?” She opened the gate and tugged Garnet inside. “At any rate, I wouldn’t fret over it. You wore the old things for five years. Give yourself time, redbird.”
“That’s not all.” Garnet took a determined breath. “It’s the solutions to my—my problem that I’m struggling over. I . . . well, I think I have two—solutions, I mean, and I don’t know which to choose. So it might not be a matter of choice at all. Mine, I mean—oh, buttercups and bitterweed!” She felt like stomping her foot. “Felicity Ward has invited me to be her companion on her lecture circuit this fall. I’d be introduced as an artist as well. Mrs. Ward promises that this would be . . . ah . . . beneficial, to my ‘artistic endeavors,’ as she puts it.”
“That woman! For someone I’ve yet to meet, she’s beginning to annoy me. FrannieBeth wrote that she orders all her clothing from France, even her unmentionables, and until now I was willing to forgive a certain amount of condescension.”
Garnet was unable to respond in kind to the teasing tone, and Meredith heaved an exaggerated sigh. “On the other hand, her idea merits consideration. That gown of yours must be three years old. I’m relieved you at least removed the bustle but mercysake, Garnet, hopefully Mrs. Ward would also bully you to improve your sense of fashion.”
They reached the foot of the porch steps, and Meredith turned toward her. “Me and my jibber-jabber mouth. You know I wouldn’t care if yo
u wore Effie Tweedie’s castaways. I was only trying to—” She wrinkled her nose and gave Garnet a quick hug. “Sorry. No more flippancy, I promise. But fashion aside, I wasn’t teasing about the benefits of Mrs. Ward’s offer. I do think you ought to consider it. Um . . . what’s your second solution?”
Hopelessness plucked at Garnet with grasping fingers. Why was it so difficult to confess the words out loud? She closed her eyes, wishing she could pray, wishing with all her heart she could know that God would supply the answer. Fill her with even a portion of Meredith’s courage. Certainly her older sister wouldn’t be standing here like a dressmaker’s dummy, incapable of expressing a simple phrase.
Behind them a delivery wagon trundled past. Somewhere a church bell tolled the hour.
“If it’s that bad, why don’t we sit on the porch?” Meredith said. “It’s cooler than my room. Don’t worry, the porch is deserted this hour of the day. Mrs. Allgood—that’s my landlady—and Mr. O’Gill, are the only ones about, I daresay. Mr. O’Gill’s eighty, and deaf. The only time he steps outside anymore is for his morning constitutional to the corner and back. Mrs. Allgood sweeps the porch and keeps an eye on him. A couple of clerks have rooms on the second floor. They won’t return until after six.” She paused, then continued sharing tidbits about the other boarders, her words splashing together until they turned into a soothing stream.
Her tacit forbearance at last unlocked Garnet’s frozen jaw. “The first time Sloan took me for a drive—after the ‘secret’ was out?—he . . . he asked me to take the bonnet off. And”—his fingers, warm and tender, had brushed beneath her chin, against her cheek—“I did. But that’s when I realized that I’d been wearing it for more than anonymity.”
Her neck was stiff. Her wrists ached with tension. “You see, I finally realized that I was afraid of what might happen if a man thought I had given him any sort of encouragement.”
“I knew it! I was right!”
“Yes.” Garnet looked at her sister. “All these years I told Papa and Leah you were wrong. I told myself you were wrong because, until Sloan, I believed that you were.”
Shenandoah Home (Sinclair Legacy Book 1) Page 18