The stagecoach gave a huge shuddering jolt. Wood creaked and chains clanked. Movement ceased for a second or two. Tavia gasped and grabbed Angela close to her chest. In the next moment, everything went topsy-turvy. Biting back a scream, Tavia rolled onto the floor into the space between her seat and the middle bench. Then, she jammed her feet against the far side. She shot one hand overhead to brace on the opposite coach wall.
Screams from animals and people filled the air as the coach tumbled. The door next to her feet sprung open, letting in dust and dirt. Hard wooden edges of the coach’s sides jerked against her shoulders and hips.
Crying and arching her back, Angela struggled against her confinement.
Tavia enclosed the baby with both arms, losing her braced position and slamming her head against the wall. Scrunching shut her eyes, she let out a groan but held tight as she mumbled close to Angela’s ear—quiet, nonsense words meant to comfort the baby, but they soothed her, as well.
Finally, the coach gentled, rocking with subsiding movements to a stop.
When Tavia opened her eyes, she saw only a bluish sky tinged with pink and sent up a prayer of thanks. The sun must be close to setting. After a quick glance around, she stilled—she and Angela were alone in the coach. Her heart raced. Where were the Wellers?
A high-pitched shriek from an injured horse filled the air, followed by nickers and the stomping of a hoof or two.
“We’re all right, little one.” Tavia jostled the squalling baby as her thoughts turned frantic. What in the world had happened? Where had the coach ended up?
A moment or two passed before Angela’s cries quieted, and she hiccupped as she patted Tavia’s cheek.
“Good girl, Angela. Now, you need to sit here while I see about getting us help.” After checking for cracks or splinters, she set the baby on what had been the wall next to her shoulder and plopped her reticule in the child’s lap. Then, she balanced on the edge of the middle bench seat, grasped the frame of the open door, and pulled herself upright enough to lift her head and shoulders outside the coach. “Mister Weller? Missus Weller? Driver?” Why had her need for privacy kept her from introducing herself to the older male passenger?
With careful movements, she rotated in a circle, noting luggage tossed awry and lumps on the ground at various distances that could only be bodies. Her throat clogged, and she couldn’t swallow. Her pulse pounded in her ears. Oh, please don’t let me be the only uninjured one. I have no sense of where I am or what direction to go. “Hey, can anyone hear me?”
About two rods away, one of the lumps crawled onto hands and knees before pushing to a wavering stand.
Relief flooded her, and she waved a hand in a wide arc. A glance over her shoulder assured her Angela was fine, for now. Tavia levered herself out onto the side of the coach, glad the door was gone, and scrambled to the ground. On shaky legs, she stumbled to the closest body and recognized Angela’s mother lying with her head at an odd angle. From the sightless look in the woman’s eyes, Tavia knew she was dead. Tears streamed down her cheeks, but she bit back a sob. I can’t fall apart. She placed a hand on the woman’s forehead, murmuring words of sorrow before she slid down the eyelids. “Rest now, Missus Weller. Angela’s safe with me.”
“Ma’am?”
Looking up, Tavia recognized the driver. She remembered a quick smile on the tall man’s face when he helped load her luggage. Now, that face was lined and covered in reddish dirt.
“She’s dead, ma’am.” He braced a hand on her elbow and urged her upward. “Why don’t you go back to the coach? Tending these folks is my job.”
“Are we the only”—her throat grabbed, and her stomach pitched—“the only ones left?” Tavia slumped her shoulders, her body suddenly very tired.
“My guard Hank’s got a busted wing.” He gestured behind him to the man sitting with his back against a rock, cradling an arm. “But the others…” He pinched his lips together and shook his head.
“Oh.” Angela’s an orphan, just like me. “The baby’s alive. I left her in the coach.”
“That’s real good, ma’am. I need to…” Huffing out a breath, he ran a hand down his face and shuddered. “Dang it. Oh, sorry about my language.”
“I understand, sir.” After a steadying inhale, she turned toward the man covered in dirt and squared her shoulders. “My name’s Tavia. I’ll help however I can.”
“I’m Pete. First, I’ll see to the horses then I need to bury the dead.” Frowning, he glanced at the setting sun. “Night’s comin’ fast.”
“Couldn’t we just leave the bod—um, them, and notify someone in the next town?”
The driver shook his head. “Coyotes will get ʼem.”
Scavengers? This area was the wilderness. Pete’s words chilled her to the bone. Tavia shuddered and wrapped her arms over her stomach. “How far to the next stop?”
Pete scanned the terrain then looked back, his expression tight. “Five miles or so.”
Maybe two hours away. No one would think to search until the stage was several hours late. A knot lodged in her throat, and she couldn’t swallow it away. Exposed on the prairie, the survivors were vulnerable, too. “Tell me what I can do to help.”
“Best help you can give is to keep that babe happy. You might want to put her to her mama’s teat.”
Has the man gone mad? “What?” Tavia gasped and slapped a hand to her chest.
“Seen it work with cows and the principle’s the same. Sucking will bring a bit of milk.” The driver waved a hand toward the overturned coach. “Just enough to fill her belly so she’s not caterwaulin’ on the ride.”
A knotted mess, like when her knitting yarn tangled, settled into her stomach. Crossing her arms over her middle, Tavia shook her head. What the man suggested seemed downright macabre. “Oh, I don’t know.”
Pete drew a hand over his stubbled jaw and shook his head. “I’m a-feared her crying will sound like a wounded animal. Might draw coyotes sooner than later.”
Trepidation quivered her knees, and she took slow steps toward the twin mounds she knew to be the child’s parents. Her first look at Missus Weller had been only of the woman’s face. Glancing sideways, she searched to see if the fatal injury had caused a horrible mess. She didn’t do well with blood.
Missus Weller laid on her side with her head horribly twisted, but her clothes weren’t marred with red.
Breathing a sigh of relief, Tavia crouched beside the poor woman and murmured a prayer for her soul. As distasteful as this task was, she pressed on. She reached under the woman’s short jacket and undid the buttons of her blouse until she’d exposed her chemise. Luckily, Missus Weller still wore a corset of the looser maternity style.
From a distance came Angela’s plaintive wail, and Tavia scurried to the coach. “I’m here, baby. I’ll get you out in just a minute.” From the ground, the doorway of the stagecoach looked impossibly high. Climbing out had been tough enough, and Tavia didn’t think she could manage the drop while holding a babe in her arms. She turned in time to see the men walking toward her, from different directions.
Pete and Hank reached the coach at about the same time.
“I’ll get inside and hand out the babe.” The driver grabbed onto the doorframe and clambered his way up.
Giving a sigh, Hank dumped two bags onto the ground, kicking up dirt. “These satchels seem to be the family’s ones. Maybe there’s stuff inside you’ll need for the kid.” Frowning, he adjusted the sling on his arm and then looked straight at Tavia.
“Going through their belongings seems wrong somehow.” But she knew the stagecoach guard was right. She needed everything the Wellers had packed for Angela, but nothing that belonged to the parents.
“Here’s the little one, and she’s not happy.”
Pete’s voice pitched high over Angela’s sobs made Tavia turn.
The baby appeared in the opening. Flailing her arms and shaking her head, Angela demonstrated her dislike of either the stranger who held h
er aloft or of not seeing her parents.
Trilling to distract the baby, Tavia stretched to accept Angela then clasped her close. She rocked her body as if she was in a chair, and the baby quieted. After settling Angela on her hip, Tavia grabbed the handles of the carpetbags and walked toward Missus Weller.
When they drew close, Angela kicked and patted at Tavia’s shoulder, her gaze riveted on her mama’s face.
Working quickly, Tavia stooped then unclasped the burgundy tapestry bag and peered inside. She pulled out a brown serge skirt and laid it on the ground. Telling herself this task was absolutely necessary, she set down Angela, letting the baby crawl close and pat at her mama’s chest. Tavia yanked the woman’s blouse from the skirt’s waistband and then leaned close to undo the corset laces, working mostly from touch as she gazed over the darkening prairie. When she looked back, she saw Angela had curled close to her mama and did what was natural.
While the baby was occupied, Tavia upended the bags onto Mrs. Weller’s spread skirt and sorted the items. Trousers and men’s shirts were set to one side. She gathered the baby items—clothes, diapers, knit soakers, socks, nightgowns, a pair of leather shoes, hair brush, and a thick knitted blanket. No jewelry or money were stored in the bags.
Tavia grimaced but knew she had to find more information about their identity. She heard Angela babbling and glanced over to see her sitting upright and tapping her mama’s face, as if trying to awaken her. Tavia hurried over, rolled Missus Weller to the other side, rearranged the skirt, and then set Angela to the other breast. Tavia’s throat tightened, but she was glad Angela received some sustenance and an obvious amount of comfort.
Pete walked close and started digging in the rocky soil. The scrape of the shovel proved an odd compliment to the baby’s noisy suckling.
Five minutes later, Tavia had the ticket stub from the stagecoach fare, an engraved pocket watch, and a letter with a return address in Fredericksburg. At first, she didn’t have the heart to remove the couple’s wedding rings. Then, she decided they were Angela’s rightful legacy, and so she forced herself to collect them, grimacing at touching the couple’s cooling fingers.
Hank trudged close and dropped another bag. “This one smells god-awful. I’m thinking it’s got messy diapers. And, miss, your case busted when it hit the ground. You’ll want to gather what is most important.”
Heaving a sigh, she closed her eyes and ducked her chin. She hadn’t owned much, so everything was important. But she understood with only three horses to transport them, the amount of luggage they carried had to be minimal. “Which way?”
“About a rod and a bit in that direction. Toward that madrone bush.”
She stood and sighted down his extended arm in the dwindling unlight. “I know you can’t pick her up, Hank, but please keep the baby on the skirt or next to her mama.”
“Sure enough, miss.”
A breeze kicked up as Tavia set off to reclaim what she could. As she stumbled over the rocky ground, she mentally prioritized her possessions, aiming for logic in this illogical situation. She saw the trunk had split at one end but only a couple garments escaped through the crack. She thought small—what essentials to take for a one-night trip? That scenario helped her not to waste time evaluating between the yellow or the print blouse. Serviceable because she may be in a conveyance the next day to retrieve the remainder.
Why hadn’t she brought along one of the carpetbags? She rolled her jewelry and money inside a nightgown, wrapped another set of clothes around that, donned her winter coat, and tied up the clothes into a bundle made of her gray cardigan sweater. At the last minute, she dug for her volume of poems by Elizabeth Barrett Browning and tucked it into the bundle.
By the time she trekked back to the group, she saw the last arc of flaring sun drop below the horizon. She untied the bundle, stuffed her belongings into the satchel with Angela’s things, and lined the other carpet bag with her folded sweater. The perfect size for transporting the baby.
Moments later, dirt covered the triple-wide burial mound, and the three survivors stood at the foot of the graves, heads bowed. Balancing Angela on a hip, Tavia said a silent prayer and ended with a murmured promise to do her best to reunite the baby with her blood family.
Pete and Hank consulted on how to adapt the harness for individual riders with the least number of cuts to the rigging and straps. With a spare belt looped between the handles, Pete arranged Tavia’s two packed satchels across a horse’s wide hips. “Mind you hold tight to the harness collar once you’re on top. These horses aren’t used to riders or having weight bumping against their flanks.”
Then, she followed Pete’s bidding on how to best climb onto the bareback horse from a nearby rock.
The men each used one of Mister Weller’s shirts to tie their satchels to the harness straps. Before he mounted, Pete lifted the carpetbag holding Angela onto the horse’s withers in front of Tavia.
She hoped the horse’s swaying gait would soothe the baby to sleep, and Tavia could just hold tight to the bag. But as soon as the horses headed away from the crash site, Angela stretched her pudgy arms over Tavia’s left shoulder and sobbed. Tightness burned Tavia’s throat as she patted Angela’s back, wishing she could do more to soothe the baby’s troubles. She fought back tears that even one so young could sense the tragedy of what had happened. With this irrational and momentous event, the child’s life was forever changed.
What children’s songs do I know? Tavia crooned a lullaby she remembered being sung by one of her foster mothers about rock-a-by baby in a tree top. She altered the words as needed but kept coming back to the first line.
After several repeats, Angela stopped crying and laid her head on Tavia’s shoulder. The horse’s rhythmic gait did the rest. Within a few minutes, her little body went limp, sagging in Tavia’s arms.
Careful not to wake her, Tavia fit the baby inside the carpet bag lying on her side. Then, she wrapped her arms around the bulky satchel, anchoring one hand inside the handle. Unaccustomed to riding, especially bareback and straddling a strap that ran down the horse’s back, she fought to stay upright, feeling the pull in her lower back muscles. Westward the horses trudged, with Pete keeping the group walking at a steady pace down the middle of the rutted track.
Immediate tasks completed, Tavia let her mind wander to the man who would be waiting. What would Fitz think when the stagecoach failed to arrive? Would he be concerned enough to set out on his horse to meet the tardy coach? How did the man she’d married, but wasn’t yet acquainted with regarding the variables of his personality, act in unusual situations?
Chapter Four
For the first hour after the stage was due, Fitz paced the depot, his boot heels beating out a staccato rhythm on the wooden floor. His path took him along the windows facing the platform then he crossed in front of the ticket window and moved to the solid wall with blackboards. He barely glanced at the display of expected arrival and departure times and destination cities before moving toward the wall with several hooks for coats.
From experience, he knew this stage company to be on time for a high percentage of the runs. A late coach usually arrived within an hour of the expected time. The ticket clerk had no information other than the stage left the last stop at Boerne on time. This county hadn’t seen Indian trouble in many years, but no travel on the frontier was one hundred percent safe. The longer the delay, the wilder Fitz’s ideas about the reason delaying the stagecoach’s arrival became.
His pacing brought him to the window, and he leaned close to look outside. Only the silhouettes of the rooftops opposite were outlined against a purplish sky. He should have gone to San Antonio and accompanied Tavia on the journey. If a problem existed on the stagecoach route right now, he had an obligation to be at his wife’s side.
Hating the encroaching helplessness, he clenched his hands into fists. After pulling out his gold pocket watch, he noted the time as three minutes past seven. Thirty more minutes were all he’d wait before c
ontacting…who? Gritting his teeth, he continued pacing.
By now, Sheriff Hawksen had gone home to the Shady Oaks Ranch, which lay in the opposite direction of the stage’s route. Fitz wasn’t usually in town during the evening hours and so didn’t know if a deputy was left in charge of the jail. No matter. If the stage didn’t arrive, he’d pound on every door if he must to raise a group to head out searching for his wife. That last thought stopped him in the middle of the floor. Although he couldn’t deny catching himself thinking of Tavia at odd times throughout the previous week, he wondered at this unknown possessive streak. When had this sudden passion been born?
Finally, the thirty minutes elapsed, and after checking with the clerk for an update, he left the depot. Just as Fitz was set to knock on the door to the Treadwell Boardinghouse, he heard a high-pitched wail that sounded like a cat in heat. He angled his head and recognized the sound as a baby’s cry. The squalling wasn’t coming from the building where he stood or from a nearby house, but from farther away—like out on the prairie. He stepped off the porch and turned up the collar on his lined coat against the night’s chill. The plodding of horses’ hooves approaching town was clearly discernible, and he jogged toward Main Street.
A few feet ahead, a man riding a horse bareback with a satchel tied to the harness came into view. The horse that followed carried a bedraggled woman with a satchel before her on the horse’s neck. A baby’s head rose above the handles, and the tyke was bawling its eyes out. The third horse held a man who rode hunched over, cradling an arm in a sling. All were covered in a layer of reddish dirt.
Fitz moved his gaze back to the woman who was now several paces past the street intersection. He recognized the proud line of her straight back and ran to catch up, reaching the depot only a few steps behind the horses. “Tavia? What happened to the stagecoach?”
The baby’s pitiful cries drowned out his words.
Fitz stepped close to the horse and rested a hand on her knee. “Are you all right, Tavia?”
Mail-Order Haven Page 4
