Seasons of Glory

by Cheryl Anne Porter

  Biddy never knew she could be so cruel. Yes, it’d felt good to unburden her troubled and fearful heart, but not at the expense of her precious Glory. She reached a hand out to her baby. “Glory, child, I didn’t mean—”

  “Yes, you did.” Glory’s quivering chin went up a notch. “I never knew until this past week just how everyone saw me. First Jacey told me to grow up. Then Riley found fault with everything I’ve tried to do for the ranch. And now you tell me I’m a willful, stubborn child who thinks only of herself—at the expense of my family and this ranch.”

  Tears spilled down her pinkening cheeks. “I’m sorry, Biddy. I never meant to cause you shame. Or bring shame to Mama’s and Papa’s memories.”

  She stopped, blinked, and pressed her lips together. Biddy wanted to die. She’d hurt Glory to the quick. Before she could move or say anything, though, Glory looked down and then raised her head. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’d like to go to my room.”

  Her own eyes filling with hot tears, her chest hurting, Biddy shook her head. “Oh, child, what have I done?”

  Glory walked slowly, sedately past her. “You’ve told the truth. Nothing more.” At the doorway, a hand resting on the wood casing, Glory turned and studied the parlor. “Mama loved this room. I remember that night in here, after the funerals, when Hannah told us she was leaving and how scared I was. I can still feel Jacey’s knife prick my finger as we made our oath to avenge the murders.” She pointed to the carpet at Biddy’s feet. “Look. That little spot there is Hannah’s blood from her knife-prick. We said, ‘We swear it. And so be it.’”

  Looking wounded and elegant, and suddenly older than her years, Glory exhaled and raised her head. “I swore it. Then … so be it.”

  With that, she turned around and walked away.

  Biddy stayed in place. She couldn’t move, could only helplessly listen to Glory’s retreating steps down the hall. Suddenly physically ill, Biddy clutched at her chest, reached for a chair to steady herself, and mouthed again, “Margaret Jensen, what have ye done?”

  * * *

  Riley swung his leg over Pride’s back and dismounted as if this were his last act on Earth. Remembering how mad Glory was at him because of their kiss—What had given her the idea that he hadn’t liked it?—Riley figured walking inside just might be his last act.

  Looping the gelding’s reins around the hitching post, he absently rubbed his gloved hand down the horse’s muscled neck as he stared at the Lawless main house. The notion that he could just open the door and walk inside was still taking some getting used to.

  Not that he was wanted here. Not that he really wanted to be here. Just then Glory’s face, so sweet, so angry, so stubborn and prideful, sprang to his mind’s eye. Again, he could taste her hungry but innocent kiss. Okay, she’s what’s keeping me here—that and my own wanting to be, he admitted to himself.

  He steeled his resolve with a deep breath and hitched at his gunbelt. Then he tugged his Stetson forward on his brow. I’m acting like a danged bull pawing the ground right before it charges, he thought. He turned to his gray gelding. “Well, here goes nothing. If Glory strips my hide from the bone, you know your way home, don’t you?”

  Pride made a chuffing noise and nodded his head. Riley chuckled … at his horse, at himself for talking to his horse. And for being afraid of a woman half his size. Yeah, but one who’s most likely gripping a fire iron with my name on it. Accepting his fate, Riley trudged up the steps, crossed to the indifferent door, grasped its heavy brass knob, and turned it.

  He opened the door with the studied slowness of a thief and poked his head in. Listening, he heard only the sound of his own breathing. “Glory?” he called out as he pushed the door open enough to step inside. “You in here?” He closed the door behind himself and took off his Stetson. “Wherever you are, I’m sorry.”

  He cut his gaze all around the homey, inviting great room. He then sighted on the stairs. No one there. Then to the left toward the kitchen. No sounds greeted his ears from that direction, either.

  “Biddy?” he ventured. No answer. Frowning, knowing that with the sun starting to set, she’d normally be in there filling the house with the evening meal’s aromas, Riley headed in that direction. “Where is everyone?” he muttered, increasingly edgy about the quiet.

  As he strode by the long, broad hallway which opened onto the office and the parlor, something on the floor caught his attention. His gut clenching, he stopped and concentrated on what he was seeing. “What the hell?”

  A limp hand poked out of the parlor and into the hallway. Palm-up, fingers spread, a bit of ruffled sleeve encased the wrist. Struck numb, Riley stared for a long second, not accepting what he was seeing. Then he recognized the pattern in the ruffle. He’d seen it this morning. “Biddy. My God.”

  Mindful of the recent murders, Riley drew his gun before approaching the parlor. At the double-wide arch, he jerked into the opening, crouching and waving his pistol. No one but him and Biddy. Still wary, Riley knelt beside the older woman’s prostrate form and looked her up and down. No blood. No wounds that he could see. He cut his gaze around the room. No furniture overturned, nothing disturbed. No sign of a struggle.

  He reholstered his Colt, ripped off his gloves and Stetson, tossing them aside. Then he felt her cheek. Cold, clammy. Her complexion appeared ashen, almost Pride’s gray color. Fearing it was her heart and that she might be … gone, Riley leaned over and placed his ear to her chest. Holding his own breath, he listened. And then exhaled. There it was. A strong, steady heartbeat. He raised up on a knee and shook her shoulder. “Biddy, can you hear me? What happened?”

  No answer. Riley scooted his arms under her shoulders and knees and lifted her off the floor. His teeth gritting with his effort, he staggered under her bulk and made for the stuffed horsehair sofa. Depositing her there, he stood up and stared down at her. She remained unconscious.

  More than a little concerned now, Riley leaned over and smoothed her hair back. He had to get help. Straightening up, stepping over his Stetson and gloves, he loped down the hallway, turned into the great room, threaded a path around the scattered pieces of leather furniture, and took the steps two at a time. “Glory?” he called out as he ran.

  Chapter 5

  Glory pushed her teary-eyed self up to a sitting position on her bed. Bracing herself with her hands flattened atop the quilted bedspread, she cocked her head and listened. Was someone calling her name? Shifting her weight until she was balanced, she rubbed her fingers over her hot, damp cheeks and listened. The sounds of someone bounding up the stairs greeted her ears.

  “Glory? Are you up here?”

  Riley. He was the last person in the whole world she wanted to see. Still, swinging her legs over the side of her bed, she stood and put her hands to her all-but-undone bun. Grimacing, she hastily pulled out the hairpins and raked her fingers through her long curls. She stepped to the closed door but then stopped to rearrange her skirt’s folds.

  The door flew open, startling a squawk out of her as she jumped back out of the way. Clasping her hands over her heart, she glared at Riley as, a hand still on the knob, his other clutching the door’s frame, he leaned into the room. Glory frowned at his entrance. “Didn’t your mother teach you to knock—?”

  “Something’s wrong with Biddy.”

  Glory stared at him. “What did you say?”

  Riley let go of the jamb to grab her arm. Shock and uncertainty had her resisting his pull on her. His grip tightened. He put his face right in front of hers. “Listen to me, Glory. Something’s wrong with Biddy.”

  With Riley’s brown eyes no more than a few inches from her nose, Glory blinked and swallowed. “Biddy?” she repeated, hearing her own voice, which sounded strangely like a kitten’s mewling.

  “Yes.” Riley tugged her out into the hall with him. “I came in just now and found her—”

  “Something’s wrong with Biddy,” Glory repeated, suddenly understanding. She wrenched out of Riley’s
grip and made for the stairs. Thankful for her split riding skirt that didn’t tangle around her legs, Glory loped downstairs in a worried frenzy. Right behind her, Riley’s heavier steps dogged hers. On the first floor, she stopped, looking both ways.

  Riley passed her by, heading for the hallway. “This way,” he called over his shoulder. “In the parlor.”

  Glory followed his back. Her heart pounding, her palms sweaty, she became aware of a prayer repeating itself in her head. Please, no. Not Biddy. I need her. I’m sorry. I’ll do anything. Just let her be all right. Please, God.

  But still, when she burst into the parlor, Glory wrenched to a stop, stared at Biddy’s lifeless form on the maroon sofa, and then rushed to her side. Going down on her knees, hugging Biddy’s limp form to herself, Glory whimpered, “No.”

  She then turned her wide-eyed gaze to Riley, who stood across the room, an unreadable expression on his face. “What’s wrong with her? What did you do?” The words were out of her mouth before she knew she was thinking them.

  Riley’s face closed, his features firmed. “I don’t know what’s wrong with her, but I sure as hell didn’t do anything to her—and you know it. I found her on the floor in here and carried her to the sofa.”

  Glory stiffened and glared at him. “Did you hurt her when she told you I want you off my land?”

  Apparent confusion knit his brow. He shook his head. “She never told me anything. I came in looking for you and found her like that—only on the floor. We can stand here arguing, or we can see to Biddy. Which is it going to be?”

  Glory glared at him and then peered down at her nanny, more a grandmother to her than anything else. She took a deep, calming breath—I can do this … I can do this—and smoothed a hand over Biddy’s soft but clammy cheek. She turned to Riley. “Go out to the cook shack and get Sourdough. He’ll know what to do.”

  Tight-lipped and glaring, Riley nevertheless nodded and quickly exited the room. Glory spared his hurrying figure a glance and then began loosening Biddy’s collar. “Oh, please, Biddy, be all right. I’m so sorry we fussed. I didn’t mean anything I said, I swear it. If you’re not okay, I’ll just die. Don’t leave me, Biddy. Please don’t leave me. I won’t know what to do.”

  When her whimpering threatened to become sobs, Glory jerked to her feet. All but panicked, she searched the room, the framed pictures on the walls, the delicate tables, the upholstered chairs, as if she would find a plotted-out course of action attached to them. But nothing presented itself. Glory lowered her gaze to study her cherubic, gray-haired nanny’s breathing. Thankfully, her chest rose and fell in even breaths. Do something, she thought frantically.

  Suddenly galvanized, Glory raced out of the parlor and threaded her way through the maze of rooms to the kitchen. Once there, and swiping at her eyes with the backs of her wrists, she sighted on a clean cloth covering a pan of cornbread. Snatching it up, she turned to the deep sink, worked the lever, and moistened the white, loosely woven cloth. Wringing out the rag, she ran back to the parlor.

  And stopped, staring. Biddy was rousing. Making little moaning sounds, her movements weak and uncoordinated, the older woman tried to push herself upright on the sofa. Glory’s thankful heart soared. “Oh, dear God, thank you,” she breathed as she rushed to Biddy’s side. “No, Biddy, you just stay lying down for now. Do you hurt anywhere?”

  Her faded-blue eyes rounded, Biddy stared at her as if she’d never seen her before. “Hurt?” She appeared to think about that before she shook her head. “No.” Then her expression cleared and she put a hand to her wrinkling brow. “What happened, child? I don’t know how I…”

  Gripping Biddy’s plump shoulders, Glory gently urged her to lie back down. “You must’ve fainted. Riley found you on the floor.” While she talked, Glory folded the wet cloth and pressed it to Biddy’s broad forehead.

  Biddy suddenly gripped Glory’s hand. “On the floor? What on earth would I be doin’ on the floor?”

  Thinking of the accusations she’d just flung at Riley, Glory remarked, “I was hoping you could tell me that.” She glanced at the doorway. Feeling the imminence of his return, Glory rushed her words. “Did you tell Riley he had to leave?”

  Biddy frowned at her and shook her head. Glory slumped but then jerked upright when something caused her nanny to stiffen and widen her eyes and then narrow them. Glory all but cried out her fear. “What’s wrong? Do you hurt somewhere?”

  Biddy further mussed her straggling hair by vigorously shaking her head. “No, child, ’tis not a—ooooh. Ow. ’Tis a pain.” She clutched at her heart … no, her stomach. No, her head. Her hip. She then grabbed Glory’s arm with surprising strength. “Ye must have Riley stay. Ye must. I’m ailin’, child, and I cannot help ye. Promise me.”

  Desperately scared, Glory covered Biddy’s hand with her own and swore, “I promise, Biddy, I swear it. Riley can stay. Just please be okay.”

  Biddy exhaled deeply on a sigh and settled herself on the pink brocade sofa. “Oh, ’tis much better I’m feelin’ right away.” She pulled her hand out from under Glory’s and patted her cheek. Then, frowning in thought, her gaze cast to the ceiling, she said, “The last I recall … you left the room … in tears. Because I—”

  Her mouth agape, Biddy sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the sofa, and sending the damp cloth to her lap. Glory fell on her bottom trying to get out of the way, but Biddy bent over her, clutching at her shoulders. “Oh, child, I said such horrible things to you.”

  Glory shook her head and clasped one of Biddy’s hands. “It doesn’t matter, Biddy. All that matters is you getting better.” Her chin a-tremble, Glory lay her head on Biddy’s ample lap. “I thought you … I thought … Oh, Biddy, you scared me.”

  “There, there, child, ’tis just … fine I … am.”

  Catching the note of hesitance in Biddy’s voice, Glory looked up in time to see Biddy make a swooning dive for the sofa’s pillows under her. Screeching, Glory reached for her nanny and realized two sets of male hands helped her settle Biddy again. Frantic, panicky, she didn’t question their sudden appearance. Instead, she searched Riley’s and Sourdough’s faces. “Do something!”

  “Ah aim ta do just that, Miz Glory. Now, you be a good girl and git on outta muh way, ya hear?” Sourdough, the old camp cook and a short, grizzled man so bowlegged he couldn’t catch a hog in a ditch, as Papa’d always said, put a gnarled but strong hand under her arm to help her stand.

  Riley stepped in, easily lifting Glory to her feet. Frightened out of her wits, she wrenched into his arms and allowed him to walk her out of the room.

  * * *

  Biddy opened her eyes and cut her gaze around the room. “Are they gone?” she whispered to the white-aproned Sourdough, who’d pulled a chair up to the sofa.

  “As gone as it gits.” Leaning forward on the dainty piece, looking as out of place in the ladyish parlor as a badger would in a baby’s pram, Sourdough pulled a pocket knife out of his grubby denims and began patiently cleaning under his fingernails. Keeping his eyes on his handiwork, he drawled, “That Thorne boy sez yer ailin’. Ah’m supposed to be doctorin’ you, like Ah do the men out on the trail. But it don’t appear there’s no such need.” He paused, looked up to give her an assessing, eyebrow-raised look, and added, “You aim ta tell me what’s goin’ on, Miz Biddy?”

  Biddy sat up in a rush, primly straightening her clothes and her hair. “Shh. Keep yer voice down.”

  Sourdough grunted as he turned back to his personal task. “Ah ain’t the one yellin’. Now, Ah got more’n thirty hungry men a-grousin’ fer their supper out to the bunkhouse. Ah’d appreciate it if we could hurry things along, seein’ as how there ain’t nothin’ wrong with you.”

  Biddy clucked her tongue at the man. “’Twas in a faint, I was, I’ll have ye know.”

  Sourdough shot her a sly glance and raised a bushy eyebrow. “Maybe so, but you ain’t now.”

  Biddy settled herself more on the sofa and folded her hands in her
lap. “I became weak of a sudden … after fussin’ with Glory, ’tis all. But yer right—I’m fine now. And I’m not wantin’ Glory to know that.”

  The old camp cook nodded as he folded his knife and re-pocketed it. Only then did he ask, “How come?”

  Biddy considered him a moment. The man was as testy as a bantam rooster. But she’d need his silence for her just-hatched plan to work. “Because she’ll send Riley Thorne away.”

  Sourdough stared at her as he ran a bony-fingered hand over his stubbly chin. “Seems ta me you’re the only one hereabouts as wants him around.”

  Biddy fluffed up on the sofa. “That may be—an’ think what ye will about me—but I’m doing what I feel’s best for Glory.”

  Sourdough chuckled with a gap-toothed grin. “Cain’t no one fault you there, ma’am. You always have put the girls first. So if you say the Thorne boy needs to be on the place, Ah’ll abide by that … for now. What goes on in the main house ain’t none of my business, nohow.”

  Biddy exhaled in relief. “I do thank ye, Mr. Sourdough. Now, here’s what I’m wantin’ ye to do. I want ye to tell Glory I can’t be out of bed, that I need rest. Just say I’m old and tired, and can’t take all the strain. But also tell her I’ll be well in time. No sense scaring the life out of the child … again.”

  “Ah can do that. But it’s goin’ ta cost you.” With his expression the carefully blank one of a seasoned poker player, Sourdough sat back in his chair, clamped his hands onto his knees, and waited.

  Why, the old rascal. Knowing from past experience exactly what it was he’d want from her, Biddy narrowed her eyes. “How many and when?”

  The cook’s whiskery mouth worked. He looked up at the ceiling as he thought. Then, like a soaring eagle sighting on a mouse a hundred feet below, he swooped his gaze down to Biddy. “Ten. In three days’ time.”