by S. B. Moores
“There is no one else. I pledged I would stay true to Henrietta, and I have. Whether that’s due to my own fortitude or by mere chance, I cannot say, but I have never met anyone I loved as much as her. Unfortunately for me, every woman I’ve met since has suffered by the comparison.”
A smile crept to Abigail’s lips. She’d never heard anyone, including her father, speak of her mother in such dramatic and ardent terms. She almost wished Browning’s story were true, and that she could reunite her mother with her long-lost love. But people change, and Abigail had never heard any hint of such a morally questionable incident in her mother’s past.
“Aren’t you worried that, after so much time, my mother may no longer live up to your image of her? And what of my father? He would look askance at a competitor for his wife’s affections, even if the question has long been put to rest.” As she said this, Abigail remembered an old saying, that unrequited love is the strongest of all. But had Browning’s love been unrequited? How would her mother react if Browning came back into her life, even for a day?
Browning nodded his agreement with Abigail’s reservations. “Henrietta is no longer young, I know, and neither am I. For better or worse, our lives and our emotions have seasoned with passing time, but what I saw in your mother, those special qualities I fell in love with, they’re far more than physical beauty. And those good qualities are ones that time could not erode.”
“Not time,” Abigail whispered, “but apparently you haven’t met my father.”
Browning gave her a sideways look. “Mr. Whitfield has not treated her well?”
“Better than well,” Abigail said. “She wants for nothing, and Henry loves her, in his way, but I have never heard him express his feelings for my mother with quite the ardor I hear from you.”
Browning smiled. “No man could, I dare say.”
“Archibald. May I call you Archibald?”
“I don’t expect you to call me father, but my friends call me Archie.”
“Archie then. You must accept that your presence at my home would create a monstrous disruption. Even more than your claim to be my father would in me, if I let it.”
Browning lowered his head. “Yes. And as much as I still love Henrietta, I am prepared that she might refuse to see me. I cannot blame her, and I truly do not wish to disrupt her comfortable life. Or Henry’s or yours, for that matter. It was almost too fortunate for me to meet you here by this accident. To finally see my daughter fully grown and so beautiful.”
“Please, sir. Archie. I hardly know you.”
“Much to my sorrow.”
To her own surprise, Abigail placed her hand on Browning’s arm. “Archie. I can’t tell you whether I believe your story or not. I can’t even say whether I want to believe you. But I hear the suffering in your voice and, as Henry has said many times at Sunday services, there is truth in suffering. But I can’t believe my mother is ready to see you, and so unexpectedly.”
“I understand. I had only hoped, but I knew this might be the case.” He reached into his coat and withdrew a worn, wrinkled letter envelope. “I’ve written to Henrietta many times over the years, but never dared to post my feverish ramblings.” He placed the envelope in her lap. “This is a more thoughtful recitation of my feelings. I should not ask this of you, but would you do me the very great favor of delivering it to your mother personally?”
She clutched the worn paper and felt the thickness of the sheets within. “I have listened to your story, and I admit a certain sympathy for you. But on your claim that you are my father, I have no response. As for this . . .” She held up the envelope and stared at it.
“I can’t expect you to believe me at once,” he said. “I don’t expect you to greet me with open arms and toss out your family history. We all have our own lives, and they must go on as they were. As for the truth of what I’ve told you, only your mother can confirm it. But you need not deliver that letter today. Wait as long as you feel you must. Do so at a time of your choosing. Do it when it might best suit your mother.”
“After Henry is gone, perhaps?”
“If you so desire.” He shook his head. “Once again, I don’t expect your mother to leave Henry. I only want her to know I did not abandon her. That I still love her to this day. What she does with that knowledge is entirely up to her. I have not asked anything of her in this writing. I only express my loss and my sorrow at the unexpected turns our lives have taken. And I ask her to forgive me.”
Abigail felt tears well in her eyes again. She couldn’t help but compare Browning’s love with what she felt for Justin. Her greatest fear at that moment was that her own love might never be realized, either, with Justin at her side. “I feel sorry for you,” she said. “To have suffered all these years. I will take this, but I don’t know if I can deliver it, or when. I can’t make you any promises.”
“I understand.”
She tapped the envelope. “Does this provide a means by which my mother can reply to you, if she chooses?”
“Yes. And my work crew may overwinter in the county, but if I never hear from Henrietta, at least I’ll know she has finally learned how I feel. That’s all I can ask.”
Browning stood up as Abigail, too, rose from the bench. She turned to him and held out her hand, which he shook warmly. She glanced at the tea shop, then at a few scudding winter clouds overhead. She felt as if all of these things should have utterly changed by what she’d just heard.
“You tell a very interesting story, Archie. And your appearance has provided me with an unusually interesting morning.”
He bowed. “Whether you believe me or not, it was a pleasure to finally meet you, Abigail. A very great pleasure indeed.” He smiled at her as only a father could, and she warmed a little under his gaze. She stared at him for a moment, trying to decide if the man actually could be her real father.
And, if he was, what did that mean for her?
CHAPTER TWENTY
January 1836
The sun had not yet risen above the horizon, but neither that nor a persistent drizzle kept Justin from setting out. He kissed his mother on the cheek and shook his father’s hand, then he mounted the horse he’d packed and had ready since shortly after midnight.
He had learned about Abigail’s betrothal in a note from Tobias. His first instinct had been to ride to the Whitfield farm, to confront Abigail and find out if the news was true. He had no qualms about fighting his way past Henry’s farmhands or Henry himself, but Abigail’s silence and her absence since they’d returned from Kentucky said enough. Perhaps Henry had forbidden her to speak to him, but surely she could have found a way. And what if she had? What could she say that would make any difference? Henry’s plans included no accommodation for their love. There was no point in humiliating himself and casting a pall over the two families’ arrangements by creating a disturbance and insisting he hear the awful news directly from Abigail’s lips. He could not bear that anyway.
He wanted to get as far away from Ridgetop as he could before the light of day. He reined his horse onto a little-used path westward, through the woods. For some distance it would take him along the creek near the Whitfield and Johnson farms, and he wanted to leave those behind before anyone saw him. He didn’t want to speak to anyone or have to explain where he was going. He didn’t know himself where he was going. He was pretty sure his father hadn’t believed his explanation, that he’d find work in Saint Louis helping load and unload the new steamboats plying the great rivers of the west. Saint Louis wasn’t far enough away for Justin. He needed to find solace in a place where few people lived. He would ride all the way to China, if necessary.
It was to Walter’s credit that he hadn’t tried to stop him. His father knew how much Justin suffered, knew he could never live in the same county as Abigail Whitfield if she were married to anyone else, much less his friend, Toby. Did she have any romantic feelings for Toby at all? Justin doubted it. He doubted whether Abigail was willing to pay so dear a price fo
r her dream of raising horses. But everyone had assumed the horse farm was simply a first step toward marriage. Now, even though Abigail had denied it, it had come to pass. If Abby wasn’t in love with Toby, what did it matter? Emotions carried little weight with Henry Whitfield. All he saw was a man’s wealth, and how that could benefit him and his family. Well, damn Henry Whitfield and damn all rich people, wherever they were. Justin would have nothing more to do with them.
In spite of everything, Justin still had a vague notion that he could ride south, maybe strike it rich in a Mexican silver mine. In a year or two, Abby’s marriage to Toby surely would have fallen apart. Then perhaps . . . but no. By that time they’d have at least one child and, if nothing else, that would ensure the marriage continued, even if the participants no longer enjoyed each other’s company.
Day broke as gloomy as Justin’s heart. The light, freezing drizzle continued, creating a fog that further limited his ability to see very far ahead. It didn’t matter. He would be seeing a strange new country soon enough. Maybe he’d encounter hostile Indians. He imagined the stories people would tell, years from then, of Justin Sterling, Indian fighter from Ridgetop, Tennessee. Maybe Abigail’s children would idolize him. How would she feel about that? She might rue the day she married Toby, instead of him.
He reined his horse to a stop on the sandy shoulder of the creek to let his horse drink. As he sat there in his misery, a cow bearing the Whitfield brand appeared out of the fog on the other side of the creek. It walked down to the water to drink opposite his horse. Justin thought he had ridden beyond the Whitfield farm, but he hadn’t paid much attention. He wondered if this was where he and Abigail played hide-and-seek when they were children. Near the place where Toby had found the mysterious three-sided stone. Funny, he hadn’t thought of that old stone in years.
He started out of his reverie when a man’s low whistle pierced the fog, followed by a too-quiet “Yee-hah!”
Justin recognized Toby’s voice, but something about it was wrong. He must be herding some of Whitfield’s cattle, but why, and why so early in the morning? His friend had not developed a habit of rising early to work, especially on a cold winter morning. In any case, Justin had no desire to talk to Toby. He reined his horse away from the creek and rode a few yards into the woods. He stopped behind a full-grown oak surrounded by thick underbrush. From there he watched as Toby appeared out of the fog on horseback, swinging a length of rope as a whip to retrieve the thirsty cow.
“Get outta there, you miserable brute!”
True to form, Toby wasn’t happy working cattle so early in the morning. Justin was tempted to call out to his friend, maybe give him a hand or say goodbye, but something stopped him again. Toby kept his voice too quiet for herding cattle, especially for someone not happy at his work. His friend lashed at the cow with the rope until the beast raised its head and ran to join the others, which Justin saw plodding along in the still dim light. Toby yanked on his horse’s reins to turn it back to the pasture. He applied his spurs and galloped away, looking over his shoulder more than once, as if he had misplaced other cattle along the creek. Justin would worry about that, too, if he were responsible for Henry Whitfield’s herd. Toby disappeared back into the fog, but Justin could still hear his friend’s voice, urging the small herd forward.
“Get along, you damned swine. Move!”
Toby acted like a man in a great hurry, but he didn’t sound like one. Justin assumed he wanted to get his chores for Henry Whitfield over as quickly as possible, since the Whitfield servants were probably frying up hotcakes and boiling coffee for Toby’s breakfast. But the quietness of Toby’s voice struck Justin as odd. Sound carried farther through a fog but, even though this section of the creek ran almost a mile from the Whitfield’s house, Toby might not want to disturb anyone still sleeping, especially his future father-in-law. How considerate. Justin was almost thankful it was Toby and not him herding Henry’s cattle so early in the morning. The old man would surely be a hard taskmaster.
He shook his head. The sight of Tobias Johnson working Whitfield cattle was an appropriate image for Justin’s last memory of Ridgetop. If Toby’s connections to the Whitfield family were already that strong, all the better that Justin should be moving on.
“Good luck, my friend,” Justin said to the fog. He walked his horse back to the trail and continued his journey.
As it turned out, the sight of Tobias herding cattle would not be Justin’s last memory of Ridgetop. Somewhat later that morning, he passed Mr. Bailey and Mr. Smith on the road making haste toward Ridgetop in a buckboard wagon loaded with supplies of some kind. The two men did not appear to recognize Justin. They gave him no greeting, paid him no mind, and hurried on their way.
And Justin was fine with that.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
January 1836
From the bay window in her bedroom, Abigail watched her father and Toby ride toward the house from a cattle barn. They had been out to the pastures all morning, longer than usual and, according to Elly, Henry had been riding in the forest and fields beyond the Whitfield property. Something was amiss, which wouldn’t help her father’s mood. His anger never seemed to abate. It seethed below the surface of his outwardly calm demeanor, as if he expected, rightly, that Abigail wasn’t through arguing that she should choose her own husband. She hadn’t told her mother about Browning or his letter, which she had carefully hidden in a shoebox in the back of an armoire. News of Browning’s presence was bound to make her father’s attitude still worse.
Since her father would not see reason, Abigail had resigned herself to fleeing to the Sterling farm and to Justin. She had been calculating what to take with her, and how to deal with her parents once they found out, when she heard of her father’s strange activities in the field. Now that he was returning, she went down to the kitchen, where she knew the men would enter the house, to see what the matter was.
“Father?” He came through the kitchen door and strode past her without taking off his greatcoat or hat and headed toward his first-floor office. Toby came in behind him and gave her the briefest hug, which she did not return.
“What’s the matter?” she asked him.
“It looks like a few cattle are missing.” He hung his hat and scarf on the hooks by the door, as if he already lived in the Whitfield house.
“A few? Father wouldn’t be so distracted by a few missing cattle.”
“Twenty-six at last count.”
“Twenty-six? That’s more than could wander off.”
“The fences are all up and in good repair. It looks like the cattle were stolen.”
“Oh, my. That won’t sit well with Father.”
“No, dear. I’d better go help him.” He briefly put his hands on Abigail’s arms, then left.
It was not quite an intimate gesture, but it annoyed her, since it presumed his status as her husband-to-be. She found it difficult to think of Toby in a romantic way, but who was she kidding? The arrangement was entirely financial. Toby had been her friend since she was a little girl, but he was always more like an irksome brother than a potential mate. He had never expressed any serious romantic intentions toward her in all that time. Why should he now?
She shook her head in frustration and followed Toby to her father’s office, where she overheard the men’s conversation as she approached.
“It’s as though they disappeared into thin air,” her father said. He sat with his elbows on his desk and ran his fingers through his hair with both hands.
“Cattle don’t disappear,” Toby said.
Henry looked up. “You think they were stolen?”
“Well, you’ve spoken to the neighbors yourself. None of them has seen twenty-six cattle idling down the road unattended. And none of the fencing has been breached.”
“None of my neighbors would do such a thing. Of that I am sure. Besides, no one would be foolish enough to sell cattle with the Whitfield brand to anyone within one hundred miles of Ridgetop.”
Her father’s head snapped up. “Are you accusing Justin Sterling?”
“What?” Abigail wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly. “Is Justin gone? Where? When?”
To her surprise, her father’s gaze softened, slipping suddenly from anger and concern to caution.
“Aye, he’s gone. Yesterday morning.”
“Where? Where has he gone? Tell me!”
“We don’t know. And if you ask me—”
“Abigail,” Tobias broke in. “Isn’t it obvious? He no longer wants to live in Ridgetop. Near us.”
“How can that be?” She clutched her chest as an icicle of fear pierced her heart. “Why didn’t you tell me?” How could Justin leave? The answer was obvious. Justin knew of her betrothal, and, in her caution, she had taken too long to stand up to her parents. Now, for all Justin knew, she had abandoned him.
“We have no need of Justin Sterling,” her father said. He looked at Tobias. “Not anymore.”
“But Justin may have needed your cattle,” Tobias said.
“I don’t know why he’d steal them. Of all people.” Henry placed his hands flat on the desk.
Abigail couldn’t stand any more of this discussion. Justin was missing, and now he was being called a thief. “Tell me you’re not accusing Justin Sterling.”
Her father frowned. “It does seem hard to believe.”
Tobias raised his hands in supplication. “I don’t like it any more than you do, but we must remain objective and consider where the facts lead us.”
Henry scowled. “I admit I can’t think of anything else.”
“You can’t mean what you say,” she insisted. “Not Justin.”
Toby turned to Abigail with his arms crossed. “You know Justin wouldn’t be happy with our engagement.”
