A Tender Hope

by Amanda Cabot

  “Why not?” Nate was nothing if not persistent. “Rachel said she can’t stop talking about you. According to Rachel, that’s a sure sign a lady’s interested.”

  Jackson rolled that information around in his brain. The only male he’d heard Thea talk about was Stuart. Did that mean she wasn’t interested in Nate? Nate was a good man. He deserved a wife like Thea. But if Thea wasn’t interested . . . Jackson wouldn’t deny the relief that flowed through him at the idea.

  “Who’d want to be saddled with my family?” Warner was still talking.

  Though Nate’s expression sobered, he shrugged as if Warner’s family history was of no import. “They’re all gone.”

  “Precisely. Three violent deaths. That’s got to make anyone believe there’s something wrong with the Gray family.”

  Nate had no response, but Jackson did. “For a smart man, you’re not making much sense, Warner. If a woman loves you, she won’t care what your family did. She’s marrying you, not your family.” Jackson didn’t care what Daniel Michener had done. All that mattered was Thea.

  “Listen to the man,” Nate urged his friend. “He’s right. You need to talk to Patience.”

  Warner gave him a short nod. “And you need to talk to your princess. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.” The two men shook hands and grinned at each other before turning to Jackson.

  “What about you?” Warner demanded.

  “What do I need? I need to leave town.” Not only did he owe it to Thea to get some answers, but he didn’t want to be here when Nate began his courtship. There was only so much a man could take.

  16

  He was getting soft, Jackson realized as he scraped the last of the bristles from his chin. A couple weeks of sleeping in a real bed had spoiled him. As beautiful as the stars were, especially with only a sliver of a moon as competition, he had not enjoyed making his bed on the ground. Rocks had dug into his back, and the rustle of nocturnal animals had seemed sinister rather than soothing. It could have been because Leander wasn’t here to commiserate, but Jackson knew that wasn’t the real reason he was out of sorts this morning. He could deny it no longer. The Rangers’ life had lost its appeal.

  Looking back, he realized that his discontent had begun last winter even before Micah had been killed. That had crystallized his feelings as anguish and anger warred for dominion, and he’d known that he could not continue to travel the same road. Like Thea after her husband and son’s deaths, he needed a change, but in Jackson’s case, it would be more than a change of location.

  He hadn’t told his parents or Leander, but ever since the night Micah died, he’d been searching for the answer to “what next?” and in the last few days, he believed he’d found it. Oddly enough, the answer was the one thing Jackson had sworn he would not do.

  It couldn’t be coincidence that he’d begun to feel as if Cimarron Creek was his home. It couldn’t be coincidence that Travis had mentioned that Austin Goddard, the rancher who’d turned out to be a doctor, was planning to sell his ranch and live in town. It wasn’t coincidence at all. It was an answer, or at least a possibility.

  Jackson rinsed the razor in the stream, then stowed it in his saddlebag as he prepared to break camp. He knew from his childhood that there was satisfaction to be found in ranching. If it hadn’t been for his desire to be different from his brothers, he might never have become a Ranger, and Micah might still be alive.

  “You don’t know that for a fact.” Thea’s words echoed through his brain. She was right. He didn’t know that. What he knew was that buying a ranch near Cimarron Creek had a definite appeal. But first he had a job to finish. Jackson mounted Blaze and headed southeast.

  An hour later as he approached Boerne, the sound of church bells pealing reminded him that it was Sunday. With a rueful look at his clothes, he shrugged. They weren’t his Sunday best, but God wouldn’t mind and, if he sat in the back of the church and left quickly, he might not offend the parishioners.

  When a small stone church that reminded him of the one in Cimarron Creek caught his eye, he looped Blaze’s reins over a hitching post and headed inside. It was time to give thanks to God for bringing him this far.

  As he rose for the final hymn, Jackson’s heart felt lighter than it had in weeks, and he knew why he’d been led to this particular church. Pastor Goehle, as he’d learned the minister was named, had expounded on Matthew 7:7. “Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you.”

  It was not the first time Jackson had heard that verse, but it was the first time he’d heard it used as the focus of an entire sermon. Pastor Goehle had claimed that far too few asked God for anything. They simply expected him to give them whatever they needed, but the parson pointed out that in this verse Jesus emphasized the need for action, urging his followers to ask, seek, and knock. Jackson planned to do exactly that.

  “That was a powerful sermon,” he told the minister as he shook his hand and prepared to leave the church. Tall and thin, Pastor Goehle had brown hair lightly peppered with gray, and faint lines etched the corners of his eyes, though he was probably only five or six years older than Jackson. Despite the other signs of age, his gray eyes twinkled with youthful enthusiasm.

  “Believe it or not, I had a different one planned, but as I was entering the sanctuary this morning, I knew that today was the day for Matthew 7:7. I had no idea you’d be here, but you looked as if it touched you.”

  The minister’s words surprised Jackson. He’d never heard of a preacher making a last-minute substitution like that. “It did.”

  Though other parishioners were waiting to speak to him, Pastor Goehle did not release Jackson. “I haven’t seen you before. Are you new to town or just passing through?”

  “I’m a Ranger, and I’m seeking some information.” Jackson emphasized the verb, causing the minister to smile.

  “Let’s see if I can help you find it,” he said, stressing the word “find.” “What is it you’re seeking?”

  “I understand there’s an orphanage somewhere nearby. I was hoping someone could give me information about a boy who lived there fifteen or twenty years ago.”

  Pastor Goehle’s smile faded. “I wish I could help you, but the orphanage has been closed for more than ten years. That occurred before I came here. From what I’ve been told, the boys were causing so much trouble that the town insisted they leave.”

  Though that was not what Jackson wanted to hear, it was consistent with the picture he’d formed of Daniel Michener. “Was it relocated?”

  “I believe so.” The minister stared into the distance for a second. “I tell you what. Why don’t you join my wife and me for dinner? Sally may have more information.”

  It was probably silly to spend so much time on her toilette. Aimee knew that, but it didn’t stop her from heating the curling iron to try to frame her face with sausage curls. Though they weren’t the latest fashion, Maman had assured her that they flattered her, giving some needed width to her thin face.

  Would Nate notice? That was the question, and there was only one way to learn the answer. She would have to muster every bit of courage she possessed.

  “You look especially pretty today,” Thea said when Aimee entered the kitchen. “I like that hairstyle. It’s fancy, but not too fancy for church.”

  Aimee had hoped that would be the case. While she wanted Nate to notice her and perhaps say more than “good morning,” she did not want to offend the town’s matrons. They had definite ideas of what was appropriate clothing and behavior for the Sabbath.

  Though Thea’s expression suggested that she knew exactly why Aimee had curled her hair and worn the green dress that highlighted her eyes, she said nothing, instead discussing her schedule for the week and what they should wear to next Saturday’s square dance.

  Half an hour later, as she and Thea approached the church, Aimee forced her thoughts of Nate aside. She was here to worship, not to think about the goat farmer who�
�d caught her imagination. She succeeded until Pastor Dunn gave his weekly call for prayer requests.

  The rustling of skirts told Aimee a woman several rows behind her had risen to her feet. “Please pray for my brother,” Rachel Henderson said. “Three of Nate’s goats have taken ill, and he’s worried about them. That’s why he’s not here today.”

  Aimee said a silent prayer for Nate and his goats and another for forgiveness for her frivolous thoughts. Never again would she try to use the Lord’s Day for her benefit.

  “That was a mighty fine meal, Mrs. Goehle.” Jackson couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten such succulent pot roast. The vegetables were tender, the gravy savory, and the biscuits . . . ah, the biscuits. Not even his mother, whose biscuits had won ribbons at the county fair, could surpass these. The apple cobbler that the minister’s wife had served for dessert was equally good. Now the three of them sat in the parlor with a pot of coffee on the table between them.

  “Thank you.” Though Sally Goehle’s smile was as welcoming as her husband’s, that was the only similarity between them. The minister’s wife was a short, plump blonde with deep blue eyes. Right now, those eyes were focused on Jackson. “Edward said you had questions about the old orphanage. The building’s still standing, even though it’s been vacant for years.”

  She stirred a teaspoon of sugar into her coffee as she added, “I know a bit more about it than Edward does, because my quilting circle talked about it one day. When I mentioned that it was a shame no one bought it after it was abandoned, they explained that the interior was in shambles. It seems the matron wasn’t able to control the children.”

  “I’m surprised.” Jackson was more than surprised. He was shocked. “I thought matrons were chosen based on their ability to maintain discipline.”

  Mrs. Goehle nodded her agreement. “I haven’t had any firsthand experience with orphanages, but I thought that too. From all that I’ve heard, the previous matron was a good disciplinarian, but she retired a year or two before the orphanage was closed. You’d probably like her. Miss Millie’s quite a character.”

  The fact that the former matron was still alive was the first encouraging news Jackson had had about the place where Daniel Michener had spent his childhood. “You know her?”

  “She’s one of our parishioners,” Pastor Goehle explained, “although she rarely comes to services. She says I have too many newfangled ideas.”

  Jackson couldn’t help grinning at the picture that was beginning to emerge of a stern disciplinarian with rigid opinions about the proper way to deliver a sermon and no compunction about expressing those opinions. Mrs. Goehle’s description of her as a character sounded accurate. “I’d like to talk to her. She may be able to help me.”

  The minister nodded. “If Miss Millie knows something about the boy, you can be sure she’ll tell you. I’ve never known her to mince words. There’s only one problem. You’ll have to wait until tomorrow, because Miss Millie spends her Sundays in prayer. She wouldn’t answer the door if you knocked on it.”

  “That’s right.” Mrs. Goehle seconded her husband’s comments. “But Edward shouldn’t call it a problem. I see it as an opportunity to get to know you better. You’re the first Ranger I’ve met, and I’d like to hear more about your life. Since you’ll be here until at least tomorrow, I hope you’ll stay with us.”

  Even if the bed was lumpy, which Jackson doubted based on the fine cooking he’d enjoyed, it would be better than sleeping on the ground, and while he was not anxious to discuss his life as a Ranger, he would not insult the Goehles by refusing their hospitality. “Are you certain I wouldn’t be an inconvenience?”

  “Not at all.” Pastor Goehle drained his cup. “If you’d like to take a Sunday drive, we can show you the old orphanage.”

  “I’d appreciate that.” Even abandoned and derelict, it might still hold clues to why Daniel Michener had turned to a life of crime.

  Once the dishes were washed, the minister harnessed the horse and helped his wife into the buggy, his pleasure at driving apparent as they left the town.

  “I’m out and about visiting parishioners alone almost every day,” he explained, “but it’s a treat for me to take Sally with me.”

  Jackson settled back and tried to relax, though his brain continued to whirl with questions about what he might find.

  “Here it is,” Pastor Goehle said a few minutes later as he pulled the buggy onto a rutted road that led to the former orphanage.

  Built of native stone, the exterior of the large two-story building itself showed few ravages of time, but many of the windows were broken, the front porch had gaping holes from rotted boards, and the door hung open.

  “Do you want me to go with you?”

  Jackson shook his head, declining the minister’s offer. “It doesn’t look too safe. I’d rather go alone. Besides, this will give you more time with your wife.”

  Jackson hopped down from the buggy and picked his way across the porch to enter the place where Daniel Michener had spent much of his childhood. It was difficult to tell what it had looked like then. Now the only adjective Jackson could find was “sad.”

  The rooms were empty except for a few rodents’ nests in the corners and some piles of dried leaves that the wind had blown inside. Cobwebs and peeling paint were the walls’ only décor, while the ceiling bore the unmistakable signs of a leaking roof. Though Jackson wouldn’t use the word “shambles” to describe the interior, he knew it would take substantial effort to make it once again habitable.

  The grounds had fared better, or perhaps it was only that the grass had grown enough to hide whatever damage active children had inflicted. A few strands of rope still hung from a live oak’s massive branch, telling Jackson the orphanage had had at least one swing, while the presence of two wells suggested that one had not been dug deep enough to provide water year-round.

  “Did you find what you were seeking?” Pastor Goehle asked as Jackson climbed back into the carriage.

  “No, but it was a long shot.”

  “There’s always tomorrow.” When Mrs. Goehle infused her words with encouragement, Jackson nodded.

  After evening services with the Goehles, a good night’s rest, and a hearty breakfast, Jackson said his farewells and prepared to meet Miss Millie. She was his last hope for learning about Daniel Michener’s time at the orphanage. When he knocked on the door of the small but well-maintained house, the slow footsteps he heard approaching confirmed that this was the home of an older person.

  The footsteps stopped and there was silence, as if the resident was debating whether to open the door. Seconds later, Jackson heard the snick of a lock and the door swung open, revealing a tall, stern-faced woman with gunmetal gray hair and piercing blue eyes.

  “Miss Fielding?”

  The former matron nodded. “No one’s called me that in years, but yes, I’m Millie Fielding. What can I do for you, young man?”

  It had been a while since someone had called him a young man, but Jackson suspected that he appeared young compared to this woman’s seventy or eighty years.

  From what he’d learned about Miss Millie, Jackson knew there was no need for social niceties, and so he said bluntly, “I wondered if you might remember one of the boys who lived at the orphanage while you were the matron.”

  She bristled. “My bones may not be as strong as they once were, but my mind is still sharp.” She glanced around. “I don’t discuss business outside where just anyone can overhear.”

  Though there were no pedestrians in sight, Jackson could not disagree with her desire for privacy.

  “Come in, young man.” She gestured to him to enter, then closed and locked the door.

  Jackson couldn’t help wondering about the lock. In his experience, few people felt the need to secure their houses. Perhaps Miss Millie feared some of her former pupils might wreak havoc here.

  When they were both seated in the parlor whose intricately crocheted antimacassars fit the image Ja
ckson had conjured of a spinster’s home, Miss Millie leaned forward ever so slightly. “Now, who is it you’re seeking?”

  “Daniel Michener.”

  Though she pursed her lips, obviously trying to place the name, when she spoke, her voice was firm. “I’m sorry that you came all this way, but we never had a Daniel Michener at the orphanage.”

  17

  Thea smiled as she guided Maggie out of town and headed toward her new patient’s ranch. She was thankful for the summons, grateful for the opportunity to think of something other than Jackson and his absence.

  It had been two seemingly endless days since he had left. The note she’d found slipped under her door Saturday morning said he had business to attend to and didn’t know when he’d return. Though it wasn’t much of an explanation, at least she knew he planned to return. That was better than the first time he’d left town; still, his absence left an unexpected void in her life.

  Thea hadn’t realized how much she looked forward to seeing Jackson every morning. Even though they spoke for only a few minutes when he picked up Stuart and again when he brought him back, those times had become the highlight of her days. It didn’t matter what they spoke of—Stuart’s antics, Thea’s patients, the weather—Jackson always managed to find a way to make her laugh, and the memory of his crooked smile lingered in her mind long after he’d gone.

  She missed that, and so, it seemed, did Stuart. The child continued to look around, as if searching for Jackson, and he’d been crankier than normal since Jackson left.

  It wasn’t only Jackson’s smile that Thea missed. It was also the help he gave her caring for Stuart. Fortunately, she hadn’t had any patients on Saturday, and Jackson never cared for him on Sunday, but today she could have used his help. The Harris ranch was more than an hour southwest of Cimarron Creek, farther than she wanted to take Stuart, especially since this was her first visit with Mrs. Harris. A baby could be an unwelcome distraction.