A Tender Hope

by Amanda Cabot

  “I want a new daddy.” Polly was nothing if not persistent.

  Evelyn made a show of looking in every direction. “I don’t see any daddies here. Maybe if we sing, someone will hear us.”

  As Polly’s eyes brightened, Evelyn smiled. Singing would be good for both of them. And so they sang song after song. Neither of them could carry a tune, but that didn’t bother them or Reginald. Evelyn imagined the gelding twitching his ears in time to their singing, and her spirits rose with each mile they traveled. Polly was once again cheerful, there was no rain in sight, and it would be another month before she had to return to Gilmorton—three reasons to give thanks.

  Her smile was as bright as Polly’s until she saw it. It was only the slightest of limps, and yet Evelyn knew something was wrong. Unwilling to take any chances, she stopped the wagon and climbed out. A quick look at Reginald’s right foreleg confirmed her fears.

  “What’s wrong?” Polly asked for the second time since they’d left Gilmorton.

  “Reginald’s lost a shoe.”

  Peering over the side of the wagon, Polly grinned. “I’ll find it.”

  Evelyn shook her head. “You need to stay in the wagon.” Though the sun was past its zenith, the day was still warm enough that snakes could be out, and ever-curious Polly might reach for one. Evelyn glanced at Reginald’s hoof one last time. There was no choice. She wouldn’t risk permanent injury by having him pull the wagon all the way to Logansville. “We’re going back to Gilmorton.” As much as she wished otherwise, it was closer.

  “Okay.” Polly watched wide-eyed as Evelyn unhooked the wagon. “What are you doing?”

  “We need to leave the wagon here.” Even though it meant that anyone coming by could steal the contents, she had to take the chance. “Reginald can’t pull it until he gets a new shoe.”

  Evelyn lifted Polly out of the wagon and placed her on the horse’s back. “Hold on to the harness.”

  Normally agreeable Polly turned petulant. “I wanna walk with you.”

  Evelyn wouldn’t argue. “All right, but when you get tired, Reginald will be glad to carry you.” The horse was exceptionally good with children, which was fortunate, given the number who called the orphanage home.

  “This is fun!” Polly exclaimed as she began to skip down the road. It was no longer fun by the time they reached Gilmorton. Polly was tired and fussy. To make matters worse, the blacksmith was in the middle of shoeing another horse and told Evelyn it would be at least half an hour before he could see to Reginald.

  “Whoever shoed this horse the last time deserves to be shot,” the blacksmith said when he was finally able to inspect the gelding’s hoof. “He didn’t know what he was doin’.”

  Evelyn tried not to sigh. Mrs. Fielding had wanted to give Buster a chance, claiming he had an aptitude for caring for horses, but it appeared that the matron had been mistaken. “Did he do any permanent damage?”

  “Nah.” The blacksmith scraped a rough edge off the hoof. “Just be sure to bring Reginald here next time he needs a shoe. He may be gettin’ on in years, but he’s a fine piece of horseflesh.”

  Evelyn and Polly rode the fine piece of horseflesh back to the wagon. Fortunately, the contents were all still there. Unfortunately, the delay meant that they’d be very late arriving home. In all likelihood everyone would be asleep, even Mrs. Fielding. The matron wouldn’t be pleased, but at least Evelyn hadn’t lost the supplies she’d purchased today.

  Darkness had fallen long before they reached Logansville, and Polly—worn out by the walking she’d done as well as the excitement of the day—slept on the bench next to Evelyn. Though she stirred occasionally, each time she drifted back to sleep. This time, however, she sat up, rubbed her eyes, and pinched her nose.

  “What’s that smell?”

  Evelyn sniffed. “It’s smoke.” She squinted, looking for the source of the odor, but saw nothing.

  “Phew! I don’t like that.”

  “I don’t either, but we’re almost home.” Though it was late, someone must be burning trash. “It won’t smell as bad once we’re indoors.”

  Evelyn had already decided to let Polly sleep with her tonight rather than risk waking the other girls. That prospect along with the promise that she could help stir the oatmeal tomorrow morning had buoyed Polly’s spirits when the only supper Evelyn could offer her had been the cheese and bread she’d purchased while waiting for the blacksmith. Though Gilmorton had a restaurant, that was one place Evelyn would not enter no matter how hungry she might be. When they reached the orphanage, she’d warm some milk for both of them.

  They were almost there. Within half an hour, she’d have Reginald in his stall and Polly in her bed. The horse tossed his head, perhaps disturbed by the smoke that had intensified.

  As they rounded the final bend in the road, the cause of the smoke was all too clear. The building that had been Evelyn’s home for the past ten years was now nothing more than ashes and rubble. She stared at the blackened foundation, trying to make sense of something that made no sense. Well aware of the danger fire posed to a frame structure, Mrs. Fielding was vigilant about safety. Yet, despite her caution, something had happened.

  What? How? And where was everyone? There should be close to two dozen children swarming around. Where had they gone? The questions tumbled through Evelyn’s mind, the only answers too horrible to consider. She bit the inside of her cheek, determined not to let Polly see her fears. But she failed, for the child began to tremble.

  “What happened to the ’nage?” Though Polly’s diction was far better than one would have expected from the worn clothing she’d worn when she was abandoned, whoever had taught her hadn’t included “orphanage” in her vocabulary.

  Evelyn wrapped her arms around Polly and willed her voice to remain steady as she said, “It’s gone.” And, if what she feared was true, so were Mrs. Fielding and the children who had been her family.

  As she descended the small hill and approached the front drive, Evelyn saw half a dozen men wandering around the yard, their casual attitude belying the gravity of the situation.

  “Ain’t no one left,” one called to the others, his voice carrying clearly through the still night air. “Smoke musta got ’em.”

  Evelyn shuddered as the man confirmed her fears, and she said a silent prayer that Polly wouldn’t realize the extent of the tragedy. Mrs. Fielding, Hilda, Buster, every one of the people that she and Evelyn had seen every day were gone, lost in a terrible accident.

  “Can’t figger it out,” another chimed in. “Who woulda wanted to do ’em in? No mistakin’ them cans, though. Somebody set the fire.”

  Evelyn gasped as the words registered, and for a second everything turned black. It wasn’t an accident. Though her heart refused to believe it, her mind knew that the men were not mistaken. Someone had deliberately destroyed the orphanage, planning to kill everyone inside. Including her.

  “Where is she?” The memory of the voice that still haunted her dreams echoed through her brain, shattering the fragile peace the sheriff’s assurances had created. Tonight proved that she wasn’t safe. Someone wanted to kill the last of the Radcliffes.

  Evelyn closed her eyes for a second. Oh, God, what do I do now? The response was immediate. Leave.

  It was all she and Polly could do. The only question was where they should go. She stared at the stars for a second, then nodded. Gilmorton, the one place Evelyn would not consider, was east. Resolutely, she headed west.

  “What happened?” Polly asked again, her voice far calmer than Evelyn would have expected. Either the child was too young to understand the magnitude of what had happened, or she’d experienced so much tragedy in her life that she was numb.

  “We need a new home.” For the first time, Evelyn gave thanks that Polly had formed no attachments to anyone other than her. That would make the transition to a new life easier.

  “Okay.” Though Polly tightened her grip on Evelyn’s arm, her trembling had stopped. “Where
are we going?”

  “It’ll be a surprise.” That was no lie. At this point, Evelyn had no idea where she and Polly would find their next home. All she knew was that it had to be far from here, far from whoever had set the fire, far from the Watcher.

  Polly was silent for a moment before she said, “It’s okay, Evelyn. You’ll be my mama, and you’ll find me a new daddy.”

  In three days and two hours, it would be Christmas. In three days and one hour, Mesquite Springs’s stone church would be crowded with people eager to celebrate the birth that had taken place in a stable probably only a fraction of the size of this one. Wyatt Clark knew he should be filled with anticipation by the approach of what Ma had once called the season of miracles. Instead, he frowned as the rank odor assailing his nostrils left no doubt that Emerald had contracted thrush.

  It shouldn’t have happened. The stable was clean and dry; she’d never been left out in muddy conditions; none of the other horses had developed the ailment. Yet Emerald, the mare who was carrying what he hoped would be the Circle C’s finest foal, had a bad case of thrush on her left hind hoof.

  The only cause Wyatt could imagine was the shape of her hooves. He’d heard that horses with long, narrow hooves were more susceptible to the disease than others. That was why he’d bred Emerald with a stallion whose hooves were a little broader than normal. Though not everyone agreed, Wyatt believed that characteristics from the sire and the dam blended in foals.

  “Sorry, girl,” he said as he scraped away the spongy part of the hoof, then reached for a bottle of iodine. “I know you don’t like the smell of this, but you need it.”

  “There you are.”

  Wyatt looked up in surprise. It wasn’t like his mother to come to the stable this late.

  The woman whose dark brown hair and eyes were so like his frowned. “I might have known,” she said, her voice sharper than usual. “You ought to be asleep, but no—you’re out here with the horses.” The horses that had been her husband’s dream, not hers, and most definitely not Wyatt’s.

  Honor thy father and thy mother. It was good advice, but sometimes it took more than the reminder of that commandment to keep Wyatt’s angry retorts from escaping. He’d spent more than a decade turning the Circle C’s stable from a fledgling enterprise into one whose fame stretched far beyond the Hill Country, and yet his mother still begrudged the time he spent with the horses.

  Wyatt bit the tip of his tongue before he said as mildly as he could, “We have a lot riding on Emerald. Right now she can hardly walk because of the thrush.” He placed the horse’s hoof back on the ground and patted her side.

  “Oh.” Ma’s tone gentled. “I didn’t realize what was happening. I’m sorry, son. I know you do your best.” Though she kept her distance, lest the mare consider her an intruder and lash out, Ma managed a smile for her son. “It’s just that I worry about you. It’s time you settle down.”

  Her smile broadened. “You need a wife and children of your own. There’s more to life than horses.”

  Wyatt bit his tongue again as he considered his response to what had become a regular refrain. Ma didn’t want a new bonnet for Christmas. She wanted the assurance that there’d be a new generation of Clarks.

  He watched Emerald take a tentative step on her cleaned and disinfected hoof before he turned back to his mother. “What you said may be true, but right now horses are what pay the bills around here.”

  Wyatt didn’t want to think about the first year after Pa had been killed. It was no exaggeration to say that if he hadn’t taken the two most promising yearlings to Fort Worth for the big sale and encountered men who spent more on horses than slaves, the Circle C would belong to someone else. Fortunately, the yearlings had brought enough money to get them through that horrible year when Ma had . . . Wyatt shook himself mentally. He wouldn’t think about that. Not tonight. Not ever again.

  Ma straightened her shoulders and gave him the look he remembered from his childhood, the one that both he and his sister soon learned meant that they were supposed to obey. “I’d rather have a grandbaby than a new dress.”

  It wasn’t the first time he’d heard that, and Wyatt knew it wouldn’t be the last. Still, he wouldn’t tell Ma that the mere thought of a wife and children scared him more than anything else on Earth. What if he married and had children and then a bandit or a snake or a lightning bolt killed him? He couldn’t—he wouldn’t—put those he loved in the position his family had been in when the Comanche killed Pa. No, sirree. Marriage was not for him.

  “She’s dead.”

  Rufus Bauman looked up from the board he’d been sanding. Though her words were solemn, his wife did not appear distressed. “What are you talking about? Who’s dead?”

  Winnie fisted her hands on her hips, her expression saying he ought to know. “That girl. The one you thought could replace Rose.”

  Rufus tried not to sigh. Though he loved his wife dearly, there were times when her obsession with the girl tested his patience. This was one of them.

  He laid the sandpaper aside and looked directly at Winnie. “I wasn’t trying to replace Rose.” No one could do that. He hadn’t even been trying to right a horrible wrong. No one could do that, either. When he’d suggested adoption, he’d wanted to give the girl a home and maybe—just maybe—bring some joy back to his own home.

  It wasn’t natural for parents to lose all their children, but he and Winnie had. While he’d mourned both Rose and Isaac and the tragic circumstances of their deaths, his pain had begun to lessen. Winnie’s had not. She’d clutched it to her like a shawl, declaring only another woman could understand. That was one of the reasons Rufus had broached the subject of adoption. He’d thought his wife would enjoy having another female in the house, but she’d been adamant in her refusal. And now it was no longer a possibility. The girl was dead.

  “How do you know she’s dead?”

  “Jeb Perkins told me. Somebody set fire to the orphanage in Logansville last night. Everybody died.”

  The anguish that had lodged deep inside Rufus threatened his breathing. Not an accident but a deliberate killing, just like the last time. And just like the last time, he hadn’t been able to stop it.

  Basil Marlow watched the man enter the room that was now his office. He’d thought Bart foolish when he refused to conduct business in what had once been their father’s office, instead constructing a separate building far enough from the main house that none of the daily noise would bother him. Tonight Basil applauded his brother’s foresight. The isolation and the cloak of darkness ensured that this meeting would remain secret.

  He narrowed his eyes slightly as the man closed the door behind him. Though the spring in the messenger’s step told Basil everything he needed to know, he still posed the question. “Is everything taken care of?”

  “Yes, sir. Just the way you ordered.” The man straightened his shoulders with pride over his accomplishment, perhaps hoping for an extra reward. He would get it. “It weren’t hard to track down the gal once that old slave let slip that she weren’t dead.”

  Rising from behind the massive desk, Basil struggled not to frown at the thought of the woman who’d betrayed him. He’d believed every slave knew the penalty for anything less than total loyalty, but at least one hadn’t. The one that Miriam had insisted on bringing as part of her dowry had told Basil the girl died while he was gone. She’d even shown him the grave, but she’d been lying.

  Somehow she’d snuck off the plantation and left the girl at an orphanage. The stupid woman thought he’d never learn what she’d done, but he had. One of the other slaves who’d sought to curry favor had told him.

  “Did you take care of her?”

  “Yes, sir. She won’t be talkin’ no more.” The messenger mimicked a knife slicing across his throat.

  “Good work. What about the girl herself?”

  “She won’t be talkin’ no more, neither. The fire took care of that. I done just what you tole me. Ain’t nobody could
a lived through that fire.” The messenger practically strutted as he took another step toward Basil. “I hung around long enough to make sure nobody was alive.”

  “Excellent.” Though it had taken longer than he would have liked, most of the loose ends were tied up. The man who’d stolen the woman Basil loved was dead, and so was his spawn. He might not have Miriam, but he had everything else. Vengeance was even sweeter than he’d dreamt.

  “This deserves a celebration.” As the messenger grinned in anticipation, Basil turned to the cabinet behind him and withdrew a bottle of whiskey and two glasses.

  The man’s eyes widened in surprise when he saw the label. Enjoy it, Basil urged him silently as he filled the glasses. This was the first and last time he would taste such fine whiskey.

  As the man raised his glass, Basil reached into his desk drawer, pulled out a pistol, and fired. The last of the loose ends was gone.

  Acknowledgments

  You may think that writing is a solitary pursuit, and it is, but publishing is a very different story. It takes a team of talented professionals working together to turn a raw manuscript into the book you’re holding in your hands.

  I am extremely fortunate to have an outstanding team working on my books. Without exception, the staff at Revell are both talented and dedicated to making each book the best it can be. Each one of them cares about their authors, but—more important—they care about you, the reader, and strive to make your reading experience a rewarding one.

  There are countless people who work behind the scenes, and if I listed them all, this book would rival War and Peace for length. I would, however, be remiss if I didn’t single out five women who form the nucleus of what I consider to be the dream team.

  It’s been more than ten years since Executive Editor Vicki Crumpton bought my first manuscript. I was thrilled then, and the thrill has not waned. Vicki’s belief in my stories gets me through the dreaded middle-of-the-book doldrums, while her gentle editing that combines constructive criticism with very welcome humor strengthens each of my manuscripts. I give thanks each day that I have the perfect editor—Vicki.