On her second round through the wickets, Lorabeth accidentally hit one of the other team member’s balls. She grimaced. She really didn’t want to send one of the Chaney men’s game pieces in the wrong direction.
Groans escaped the men. Ellie cheered her on from the porch. “Whose was it?”
“Ben’s,” the elder Mr. Chaney replied.
“Whack it a good one, Lorabeth!” Ellie called.
“Yeah!” the little girls chorused.
“Oh, I don’t think I can.” Lorabeth gripped her mallet in hesitation.
“Sure you can,” Patricia said, good-naturedly. “He won’t hesitate to send yours flying, trust me.”
Lorabeth exchanged a look with Benjamin. There was an element of daring in his eyes.
Patricia demonstrated the technique Lorabeth had seen the others use. She placed Lorabeth’s ball against Benjamin’s and touched Lorabeth’s with the toe of her dainty leather shoe to hold it in place, then drew back the mallet as though she would swing to hit it. “Hold it lightly, just like that so you don’t hit your foot or trap his ball.”
Lorabeth glanced at Benjamin, assuring herself his expression was one of amusement.
Lorabeth did as Patricia had instructed, feeling self-conscious and inept as she placed her left foot on her ball and visualized striking it with enough controlled force to send Benjamin’s across the yard.
She didn’t do so well for her first attempt, only managing to send the ball about four feet, but the girls on her team cheered for her, anyway.
Their team won, though Lorabeth couldn’t for the life of her figure out how. The only players with any accuracy had been Patricia and fourteen-year-old Lucy. She suspected either Benjamin or Dr. Chaney had nudged a good many more blue and black balls with the toes of their boots than she’d actually observed.
“Nana and Ellie have set out cookies and lemonade.” Patricia rested her mallet in the wooden rack and gestured for the others to join her. She shooed Buddy Lee from the banister, and the cat sprang over the side into the yard.
The Chaney family laughed and teased each other as they picked up sweating glasses of lemonade, helped themselves to cookies and spread out in chairs and on the wide stairs of the enormous porch.
Comparisons slipped into her thinking, memories of Sunday afternoons spent reading their Bibles under her father’s watchful eye while the rest of the world shared meals and played games. On the very rare occasion that her father accepted an invitation for dinner, she and her siblings were instructed to sit silently throughout the meal and to decline offers of amusements with other children. Even her mother was expected to sit silently and show no interest in their hostesses’ furnishings or nonsensical chatter. But Lorabeth had seen it in her eyes. The yearning. The disappointment. And eventually, the hopelessness.
The Chaneys’ interaction and gaiety was all so natural, so informal and unlike anything Lorabeth had ever participated in that she was numb from taking it all in.
“We’re gettin’ a piano,” Lillith told her aunt. “Then you can play for us when you’re here, just like at Nana’s. Miss Lorrie’s going to learn to play songs we like, too.”
“Won’t that be grand?” Patricia said as though impressed. She gestured for Lorabeth to join her on a wicker settee. “Where did you learn to play?”
Lorabeth settled on the other end and rested her napkin and cookies in her lap. “My mother taught me.”
“Do I know your mother, dear?” the elder Mrs. Chaney asked.
“She died when I was twelve. You may have known her, but I doubt it,” she answered. Lorabeth’s mother had been hardworking and devoted to her family and the church. Socializing had never been a part of their life. If it didn’t relate to the church, they didn’t participate.
“I’m sorry, dear,” Mrs. Chaney said. “It must have been difficult for you to grow up without a mother.”
Lorabeth nodded. At her father’s decree, she’d taken over all the household chores and the church duties that her mother had performed. “I’ve played the organ every Sunday morning for the past seven years…except once when the roof was damaged during a storm and we were forced to hold service at city hall. There was no piano.”
“I remember that,” Caleb said thoughtfully.
“Do you have brothers and sisters?” Patricia asked, and Lorabeth told her about her siblings.
“Lucy is our only child,” she said with a smile for her daughter. “She’s fourteen already.”
Lorabeth had had trouble taking her eyes from the lovely young woman with the dark hair and flawless fair skin. Dressed in a pale yellow dress with ruffled hem and bodice, she carried herself with incredible poise for one of such a tender age. The girl couldn’t know how fortunate she was to have this family in which she could flourish and be herself.
Not once today had any of the young people been asked to keep their voices down or hang back from the others so as not to appear forward or coarse. Outbursts of laughter appeared as natural as breathing air. And there was plenty to laugh about. Lorabeth felt as though she’d been transported to a bright new land where people interacted with one another and enjoyed life.
For a split second she thought of Simon left at home to sit through solemn meals and hours of evening prayer. But she’d made her own way, as had Ruthann and Jubal, and her younger brother would be fine. One more year and he’d be working in town. She turned her thoughts back to where she was.
Benjamin observed the pretty young woman who seemed to have become a part of the family today. She’d lost her mother, and her father had done his best to guide and protect her. Lorabeth Holdridge was unlike any of the girls he’d known while attending school. She was less worldly and more disciplined than the girls he’d seen at the university. She’d been sheltered her entire life.
A young woman’s main goal was usually to land a husband to care for her and give her children. Lorabeth probably wanted those same things, but she didn’t seem the kind to care about social standing or monetary things.
He glanced at his sister to find her observing him with a question sparkling in her eyes. “How do the cookies suit you today, Benjamin?” she asked.
Coconut macaroons were his favorite as she well knew. “Nobody makes better,” he replied with a grin.
She returned a smile as fond as those she gave her own children.
“Are we going to change teams for the next game?” Flynn asked. “I want Miss Lorrie on my team this time.”
“Ask Miss Lorrie if she wants to play again,” Ellie suggested. “She may have had enough of your tomfoolery.”
The children turned hopeful gazes toward her.
“I’d be happy to play again.” She lent enough enthusiasm to her reply to assure them she meant what she said.
“You’ll have to do without Papa this time,” Ellie said, referring to her husband. “I’d like him to join me for a while.”
Caleb gave his wife a look with a measure of concern attached. When they divided into teams, Mrs. Chaney joined them, giving her son and his wife privacy on the porch.
They weren’t far into the match in which Lorabeth seemed completely absorbed, when Ben noticed that his sister and Caleb had gone inside. She’d looked tired all day, and he’d read the concern on his brother-in-law’s face. Benjamin lost interest in the game.
A twinge of something like fear stabbed his chest. Ellie held his world together. If anything ever happened to her, he wouldn’t know what to do. He glanced at his younger brother, laughingly engaged in a battle of boasts with their pretty cousin, Lucy.
Caleb’s father stood in the shade beside Ben. A tall handsome man with gray shot through his thick hair, he ran a ranch and his family with a stern but fair hand.
“Something botherin’ you, son?”
Matthew often called Benjamin “son,” and Ben didn’t take any offense to it. He held the man in high regard.
“Ellie’s looking a mite tired, don’t you think?”
“Proba
bly no more than any woman ready to birth a new life,” Matthew replied. “Can you imagine the world if that chore had been left up to us men?”
Ben gauged his expression. “No, sir, I can’t.”
Matthew chuckled. He scratched his chin with a thumb. “I wanted my son to ranch with me, did you know that?”
“Probably seemed like the natural course,” Ben answered.
“He had a mind to be a doctor. Wanted it so bad he sold off a share of inherited land to pay for his first year of education. After I saw how much his dream meant to him, how bad he wanted it, I kicked in the next year.”
Ben nodded to show he was paying attention.
“He’s a damned good doctor. There’s nothing more important to him than your sister and this family. He’ll take care of her, you don’t worry yourself.”
Matthew was right. Ben had learned to trust his brother-in-law to do the best by all of them, and Caleb had never let them down.
Ben gave Matthew a nod and they strolled back to referee a disagreement between Nate and Lucy regarding a ball that had glanced off a wicket.
The sun was an orange sphere heading for the lavender-streaked horizon when Matthew and Denzil gathered their families. Ben had unhitched Matthew’s horses and tethered them in the shade, so he gave them water and hooked them up to the traces. Caleb’s father headed the black buggy toward Florence.
“Where’s Mama?” Lillith called as they entered the house.
Caleb loped down the staircase. “Did they head home?”
Ben nodded. “Just a few minutes ago.”
“Where’s Mama?” Lillith asked again.
“Mama’s tired and her ankles are swollen,” Caleb replied, including the entire gathering. “I’ve told her to stay off her feet. You’ll all have to mind me and help with chores.”
“Tomorrow is a school day,” Lorabeth said to the boys immediately. “Go lay out your clothing and books for morning. I’ll do the evening preparation for lunches.”
“Ellie told me earlier that there’s a ham to be sliced,” Flynn told her. “I’ll get it from the cellar.”
“That’s thoughtful,” she told Flynn, and he hurried off to his task.
“You’ll read us a story before bed like Mama always does, Miss Lorrie?” Lillith asked.
“Of course, dear.” She ushered the children up the stairs.
Ben gave his brother-in-law a direct look. “She’s all right?”
“She’s perfectly all right. She just needs some rest.”
Ben trusted him to know what was best. “Tell her I’ll stop by tomorrow.”
“You can go tell her.”
He shook his head. “No. Tomorrow will be good. I’ll clean up the yard and carry in the dishes before I go.”
Ben counted wickets and balls and carried the croquet set to the shed behind the house. His attention was drawn to the mallet with the green rings and he remembered Lorabeth holding it as though it might break or vanish in her grasp. She’d seemed happier than a pup with a new bone to join them today.
He thought back to the first times he’d participated in family dinners and activities with the Chaneys and how out of place he’d felt. Lorabeth’s hesitation hadn’t seemed to be because she didn’t feel like she belonged, but more as though she was tiptoeing to make sure she didn’t wake herself up.
That was an odd thought, but it fit his observations. Her presence here was going to make the difference for Ellie getting the rest she needed. The fact that Lorabeth triggered his interest and piqued his curiosity was a distraction he could ignore. And intended to.
Chapter Four
Later that week, Benjamin stood on his back porch in the yawning silence of the evening and studied the last fading streaks of orange in the darkening sky. A battalion of fireflies had flickered to life to dot the alfalfa field behind the barn. It was the last day of September and, while the crisp air felt good on his face, it reminded him that a long winter was in store.
The wide wooden stairs creaked beneath his weight, and he headed for the rows of stacked boxlike cages with chicken-wire doors that lined the side of the barn. A three-legged cat meowed, and he opened the door to scratch her ear. “Don’t be gettin’ used to chicken livers and cream,” he told the accident-prone feline called Lazarus by his owners. “Few more days and you’ll be back to catchin’ mice at the Fredericks’s place.”
The cat meowed a reply, and he hooked the door shut.
He stopped at the end of the row of cages where he’d been keeping an owl isolated and peeled a gunnysack curtain away.
“Well, Hoot, it’s your big night. Time for you to go back to your kin and your favorite knothole.”
The enormous bird blinked at him and waddled sideways away from his touch.
Ben urged the heavy bird onto his forearm and lifted him out. Three weeks ago, the Stoker kids had told him about the injured owl, and Ben found the creature on the bank of a creek, its wing broken. It appeared to have been there for some time, exposed to the elements and hungry, and Ben hadn’t been sure if the animal would live.
Carrying the owl to the front of the barn, he raised his arm. “Go on. Go home.”
The bird didn’t need any encouragement. It flapped its wings, slapping Ben in the face as it pushed away from his arm. The owl perched on the corner of the barn roof for a full minute, head swiveling as though getting its bearings. A moment later it flew into the darkened sky and soared overhead before disappearing into the night.
Closing his eyes, Ben listened and imagined he could hear the sound of wings in the distance. The heartfelt sense of satisfaction and fulfillment that always accompanied an animal’s healing and recovery cleansed Benjamin’s soul and set his world to right. He got too close, too attached, took it too personally when, in that occasional instance, an animal died in his care. He valued the life of all creatures. He lived to heal and care for them.
He’d killed a man.
Whenever the night was heavy with stars and loneliness rolled over him like a dark wave, Ben pondered loopholes in that “thou shalt not kill” commandment. The incident had been years ago. He’d been young, and the law had deemed it a defensive act.
That commandment was pretty cut-and-dried, but if God was Who the Missionary Baptists and the First Episcopals and the United Congregationalists said He was, then He’d known what kind of man Winston Parker was anyhow.
If he closed his eyes he could see that night all over again, just as vividly as if it had been yesterday. He’d been seventeen and had only recently come to live with Caleb and Ellie. Caleb had been called away that night and Ben had been attacked when he’d gone down to the darkened kitchen.
He’d recognized the man. Knew he was the same man who’d haunted his nightmares since childhood.
Ellie had struck a match, lighting a lantern and defining three people in its glow. Her face had blanched with shock. Ben sat tied to a chair with a rope. Winston Parker stood beside him, a gun pointed at Ben’s head. Ellie took a step forward. “Let him go.”
“I’ll let him go. Just as soon as you step outside with me.”
Ben struggled against the bindings, fear clawing at his heart. “If you hurt my sister, I’ll kill you, you son of a bitch!”
“I’m real scared,” Winston said with a smirk. “Now come on, Ellie. Out the door. I’m tired of waiting.”
“Where to?” she asked.
“My carriage,” he replied. “You remember my lovely carriage.”
She grabbed her stomach in revulsion.
Winston slowly pulled back the hammer of the gun until it clicked. He pressed the barrel directly against Ben’s perspiring temple. Strangely enough Ben was more afraid for Ellie than for himself. Death was certainly less painful than the life he’d endured until now.
“All right,” she said. “Put away the gun.”
“Don’t go,” Ben pleaded. “Let him shoot me! The noise will bring someone to help.”
She looked at him with tender appreciat
ion. “Move the gun away,” she said calmly.
“No!” Benjamin howled in anguish.
Winston pulled the gun away from Benjamin’s head and backhanded him across the face. Ben’s lip caught fire and his head throbbed.
Ellie moved toward him, but Winston moved the barrel to point at Benjamin’s heart.
She halted, then walked stiffly to the door.
“Ellie, no!” Ben screamed. It was all happening just like before. Just like the last time when he’d been eight and unable to help her. He wouldn’t let this happen again. With every ounce of his strength, he strained against the bonds, rocked the chair sideways and turned it over, banging his head against the stove in the process.
He shook his head to clear the flash of dizzying white, ignored the pain shooting through his arm and shoulder where he’d hit the floor, and swung his legs so that the chair crashed against the stove. He did it again. And again. That man was taking his sister farther and farther away with each passing moment.
Finally the wood splintered and his ankles came free. He kicked out of the rope and stood, banging the back of the chair against the doorway until the pieces fell and he was loose. Without pause, he shot into the cool foggy night.
With dread clawing at his chest, he ran through the bushes and gardens in neighboring yards to the adjacent street. There, looming out of the enveloping darkness was the black carriage.
Winston was trying to shove Ellie inside, but she was putting up a good fight. Ben caught the man off guard, lighting into him with years of pent-up helplessness adding strength to his seventeen years.
He spun Winston toward him and pummeled his face with a fist. Winston returned the punch and lights flashed behind Ben’s eyes. He tasted blood.
Winston turned, raised the gun to Ellie’s head and shoved her back against the side of the carriage. “Get inside,” he hissed.
She clamped her teeth and said through them, “Shoot me.”
He glared.
She reached up, locked her fingers into Winston’s hair and yanked for all she was worth. He yelped and his head jerked back, dislodging the gun from her temple.
The Preacher’s Daughter Page 4
