Chapter 7
Charlotte stood at the window, watching the first pink rays of dawn beginning to splash across the tops of the trees. She brushed back the strands of matted hair that had fallen from their pins. Tears brimmed her already swollen eyes.
If Sam's story was true, then what would she do? What a fool she had been to believe the lies that Justice had written. A lawyer not able to find a wife? Hardly likely, old Mrs. Peters, president of the ladies sewing circle, had told her. She should have believed those little doubts; believed it was too good to be true, the promises he made.
To think only a few weeks ago she had laughed as she told her acquaintances to expect a wedding photograph of the two of them in the paper. A happy couple. She pulled the handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped the tears that spilled down her cheeks. Pride. It was pride that had driven her to an almost tragic end. An end that Sam Anderson had prevented by snatching her from that stagecoach.
Please forgive me, Lord. Help me make this right with Sam. I know now he was just trying to save me. Please give him the grace to forgive me.
Movement below caught her eye. Two men moved toward the barn. Sam and Luther.
If he was leaving, she had to catch him first. Not enough time to lace up her own shoes, she pulled on the boots that Sam had given her two days ago. They made a sharp, hard sound on the wooden stairs as she raced to the bottom. She was out the door in a second, holding her skirts high as she pounded down the steps.
***
The air in the old barn was warm and dry. Horses nickered and an orange-striped cat skittered across the floor in front of her feet. Another followed, swatting at the retreating animal’s tail. Two lighted lanterns hung from posts, casting shadows of men and horses across the hay littered floor.
Her eyes found him at once, busy saddling Smoke. The jagged cut on his forehead was still bright in the dim light.
“Sam?”
He looked up from the saddle, his eyebrows raised in surprise. “Charlotte? What are you doing out here?”
She slowly made her way to him, avoiding eye contact, lest she lose sight of what was on her mind.
“I’ve come to tell you that I believe you," she answered. "And I want to ask you not to go. Not if the part about Justice being...dangerous...is true.”
He stared for a moment, then his expression softened. His voice was hesitant. “You believe me?”
She nodded. “Because of what you said late yesterday. I do have some money. Not much, mind you, but it was one of the first things that Justice asked me about.” She stopped and swallowed, her eyes studying the braiding on the bridle that Sam held. “I should have been suspicious. . .it’s just-”
“No.” He dropped the strap and his warm, calloused fingers touched her hand. “You couldn’t have known. He’s a swindler. Taking advantage of people is his way of life. Always ready to take in whoever he can.”
“Sam, please don’t go,” she begged, her gaze lost in the blue haze of his eyes. “If he’s what you say, he will be willing to kill more than women.”
Sam pushed his hat back on his head and reached down to her cheek. He slid his fingers under her chin and tilted her face upward.
Charlotte fought to breathe as his touch left a gentle trail across her face. She shook her head and tried to step back, but his hands held her tight.
His voice was soft and firm. “I have to go, Charlotte. You won’t be the last woman he attempts to take advantage of. And I’ve promised my mother that I’d take care of it.”
A sob rushed up her throat and she clung hard to his hand, her eyes searching his. “I don’t understand. What does your mother have to do with this? Why isn't she more worried about the dangers–or how irresponsible it is to chase him on your own?”
Sam glanced across the barn to Luther, busy tossing hay to the horses. He raised his voice. “Luther, could you finish this up for me?”
The older man nodded and set his pitch fork against the barn wall.
***
“Be careful of the rocks,” Sam warned as they started up the small hill behind the barn.
The cool morning breeze dried the tears that threatened to escape from her eyes as Sam’s hand gently pulled her along behind him. The toe of her boot scraped across a stone and he pulled her closer as she stumbled. She clung tightly to him, unwilling to let him go. There must be something she could say to convince him to let the law take care of Justice Fletcher if he was truly guilty.
Had she found the truth only to lose the man who offered it to her? The Sam she had come to know in the last few days was a man of strong convictions. He would do what he thought was right, no matter what the danger.
A lone oak, atop the windy hill, spread its branches to shield three tombstones from the early morning light. Tall prairie grass waved freely across the lonely expanse, softly patting Charlotte's skirt and batting at her hands as Sam led her. The brushy mass around the headstones had recently been raked away and the ground cleaned.
She pulled her hand from his and bent to touch the wild violets that sprung across the area, their purple-blue blooms cheering the lonesome spot. Crows cawed in the distance, sending goose bumps racing up her arms.
The inscription on the tallest stone read Charles Anderson. “My father," said Sam. "He died almost ten years ago.”
The next was only a few years ago. Mitchell Anderson. Pvt. First Class. “My brother. He was in the Union Army. He was killed at Shiloh. He was just a kid,” he added in a whisper.
She nodded and bit her lip. So, as many had, this family had dealt with both sides of the war. A wound that would forever ache in their hearts. But why was Sam showing her all this?
Last he led her to the newest stone. The inscription was simple with no dates. It read Lucinda Anderson.
Lucinda. The name on the newspaper obituary that he had showed her. Was it possible? A chill traveled through her, despite the warming spring breeze. She pulled her hand from his grasp and folded her arms across her chest as if to warm herself.
“Was she. . .?” She couldn’t bring herself to look at him, to contemplate what he was about to tell her.
He cleared his throat. “My sister was Justice Fletcher’s third wife. After her death, I had her body moved from her grave in Black Well to our own cemetery. My mother couldn’t stand the thought of her buried in a lonely grave chosen for her by a man that didn’t love her. She wanted her here, with her family.”
His voice broke at the last and she winced in response to his pain.
He paused for a moment. “She’s the reason I have to go with the Marshall’s to arrest him. He took my sister’s life. I have to see this through, Charlotte.”
Charlotte shook her head, her eyes still on the cold, gray stone. “The paper. . .the clipping said that she drowned.”
“Yes. He told my mother that they were on a picnic. That she must have gone wading in the creek while he slept on the blanket where they had eaten. I didn’t believe it was possible when I heard that she drowned–Lucinda was terrified of water. She would never go wading by herself. The more I looked into her husband’s past, the more I knew he had to be stopped. ”
Charlotte nodded and forced her eyes from the ground where Lucinda’s body was buried. A whisper was all she could coax from her numb throat. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know…I didn’t…”
He shook his head. “I should have told you. It’s not easy for me to talk about. I keep thinking that if I’d been here when she met him, maybe I could have stopped it all from happening. ”
Charlotte turned her eyes back to the dusty grave, his words sinking into her mind. She had been destined for the same fate as Lucinda. The realization of what her life could have been seized her, sending her emotions blowing like a rag doll caught in a furious wind. Had Lucinda received the same promises as herself? The same sweet lies before he betrayed her.
Sam moved behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. “My sister was a widow. Her husband left her several pro
perties. Justice was the do-good attorney that was helping her out. The letter she wrote to me told me how much she loved him, how wonderful he was.” He gave a short, painful laugh. “And to think I was happy for her. If only I’d been here and not off on a fool’s mission for the rangers.”
His touch was soft and warm. Without thinking, she turned and was in his arms, her face on his shoulder as sobs poured from her innermost being. If it weren’t for Sam, she would already be wed to the monster that had killed Lucinda Anderson.
His arms tightened around her as she sighed and allowed herself to be swallowed in his embrace. If only they could stay this way. If time stood still, he wouldn’t have to leave and face the danger that was in front of him.
“That’s why I have to go do this myself, Charlotte.”
Pulling back from him, she wiped the tears from her eyes. “I understand. But I'm afraid of what will happen."
“I’m not sure you do understand,” he said. “This is as much to keep you safe as it is to punish Fletcher and stop him for good, the way the law intends.”
She willed herself to relax, to release the breath she was holding. According to the law, he said. That meant this wasn’t a vigilante hunt. He would do it without compromising his honesty and his principles.
“I know you have to go.” She marveled at the calm in her voice, thankful he couldn’t possibly see the roaring storm brewing inside of her.
Chapter 8
Only moments before, he had mounted the horse and urged it away. Now they were barely a speck on the lonely horizon. Would she ever see him again?
Charlotte tried to block the worry from her mind. She had to be strong, have faith that God would take care of him. That God would take away the storm of feelings connected to Justice and the future she once believed they would share.
“Best get inside now, Missy,” Rosie’s calm voice said from behind. “Why don’t you go on up to your room and wash your face. After you have yourself a nice bit of breakfast, you can meet Miz Anderson.”
Charlotte turned and forced a smile. “Of course. I’d like that.”
***
“She’s in a real good mood this morning and looking forward to meeting you,” Rosie said, glancing back, as Charlotte followed her up the stairs and down the long hallway.
Charlotte nodded. Did the woman not know the danger her son was riding into? Sam had said she was sick. Maybe she didn’t realize the risk of today’s mission. Possibly he had kept it from his mother, meaning she must watch her words when she spoke to her.
The room was bright and cheerful. Ashes glowed in the stone fireplace at the end of the room, the plain board walls painted a sunny yellow that gave the room the warmth and feel of summer. Soft lace curtains fluttered in the breeze when Rosie stepped across the room and opened a window to let in the fresh spring air. It would be a most pleasant room to sit in on cold winter afternoons.
Rosie turned to the woman in the bed. “Miz Charlotte. This here’s Miz Anderson.”
Despite the tremors of shock churning in her stomach, Charlotte smiled at the woman.
Sam's mother was lying in a large bed, an ornately carved oak headboard loomed high against the wall behind her. “It’s very nice to meet you," she said.
Surely this was Sam’s grandmother, not his mother, she thought. The woman’s face was a mass of wrinkles and her skin was white and paper thin. She had to be very ill to give such an appearance.
The sharp blue eyes in the tiny furrowed face gave Charlotte a thorough glance over. “So you’re the girl Sam’s brought home.”
Charlotte nodded. Her tongue felt numb and she searched her mind, trying to find something to say to the withered woman in front of her. Did Mrs. Anderson realize that Sam had kidnapped her to bring her here? Did she know what Charlotte's intended destination was–her connection to Justice, for instance?
“Well, sit down, child,” the invalid indicated a chair in the corner.
Charlotte hurried to fetch it and brought it closer to the bed before taking a seat.
“So, tell me…what do you think of my son?”
A small gasp escaped Charlotte's throat with this question. “He seems a very good man.” It was the best she could do without any information on how much the mother knew of her son’s mission.
Mrs. Anderson nodded and rested her head more deeply into her soft pillow. “He’s a good boy, my Sam, is. And he’ll be successful today, too. You mark my word on that, Miss Turner. He’ll make sure Mr. Fletcher hangs for his evil deeds.”
A spasm of surprise passed through Charlotte with the knowledge that his mother knew the true nature of the mission he was on. How could she be so calm?
“And I’m glad he managed to save you before you made it to Black Well.”
Charlotte nodded. “I’m very grateful to him for that. I had no idea. . .I mean-”
“Of course you didn’t,” she interrupted. “He fooled my daughter and several other women. Nothing to be ashamed of in that. He takes advantage of anyone that he can.” Her last sentence came out hoarse and weak. A wheeze filled the air as she began to cough.
Charlotte glanced at Rosie, who was hurrying to the small table beside the bed. She poured a small glass of water from the pitcher and brought it to the elderly woman.
“Now you just sit up a bit and take a sip of this, Miz Anderson. Your throat’s starting to get a little bit dry.”
Anxious, Charlotte waited as the woman took a few sips and then fell back against the pillow. The bright light in her eyes was beginning to fade and her face was stark as snow in the soft morning light.
Rosie reached behind the invalid’s head and added another pillow, managing to plump them without jostling the patient. “I think you better be getting back to sleep, Miz Anderson. You can visit more with Miss Charlotte later this afternoon.”
Rosie shut the door softly behind them as they left the room. “Let’s go on down to the kitchen. The coffee from breakfast is sure to still be hot.”
“Is she all right?” Charlotte cast an anxious glance at the door as they turned toward the stairs.
Rosie nodded. “She just gets plum tuckered out after a few minutes of conversation. And, no doubt, today’s an extra burden on her.”
In the kitchen, Rosie filled two cups and brought one to the table. “You jes’ sit down here and I’m gonna start on the cornbread for dinner.” She laughed. “Luther can’t abide a dinner without cornbread.”
Charlotte smiled and cleared her throat. “Could I ask you something, Rosie?”
The small dark woman put a dollop of lard in a heavy skillet and shoved it in the oven. “Course you can.”
“Well. . .” now that she’d started it seemed like none of her business. “I notice what good care you’re taking of Mrs. Anderson. . .and-”
“I take the best care of her I can,” Rosie interrupted, turning away to measure cornmeal into a large bowl. “She done more for me and Luther than I can ever repay her for.”
“But I thought–” Charlotte stopped, not sure how to word her thought. This woman obviously loved Mrs. Anderson and Sam. Yet she and her husband had been slaves to them–not a reason to feel gratitude towards someone in Charlotte's opinion.
Rosie continued as if she hadn’t noticed the pause in Charlotte’s statement. “The Reverend Anderson–Sam’s daddy–saved both our lives. Luther, he was hurt real bad from the treatment old Massr Harp gave to us. Why Luther’s foot was about clean cut off from an axe Mr. Harp threw at him. If it hadn’t been for him owing money to the Reverend Anderson, we’d both been dead long before now.”
Astonishment washed over her. “You mean you came here as payment to a debt?” she asked.
Rosie nodded and poured milk from a stoneware pitcher into the mixture in the bowl. “That’s right. Mr. Harp, he owed the Reverend some money and didn’t have it. I was standing right there when he offered the two of us to him as payment.” She took the skillet from the oven and poured from her bowl. The corn mixt
ure sizzled in the hot grease.
She laughed. “You should of seen the Reverend’s face when Mr. Harper suggested it to him. Why the poor man had never considered owning another human. Reverend Anderson was nothing but pure kindness every day of his life.”
Charlotte smiled. “Sam told me it was an interesting story how the two of you came to live here.”
Rosie put the cornbread in the oven and stood straight to stir the beans cooking on the stovetop. “Best thing that ever happened to Luther and me. Miz Anderson worked real hard to save Luther’s foot. And she did a pretty good job. He’s still got three of his toes on that foot.”
Charlotte swallowed the revulsion that was forcing its way up her throat at the memory of Luther's mangled hand, wondering if similar circumstances were behind its mutilation. She had heard the stories of beatings and mercilessness, but this was the first face to face encounter with it.
Rosie and Luther had lived years of cruel and malicious treatment, yet they had come through it with a thankful spirit. Which put in perspective the temptation to feel sorry for herself and her current situation. God had saved her from a man who meant nothing but harm to her.
Charlotte shrugged. “I guess I thought it was unusual when Sam mentioned that the two of you were still here.”
Rosie didn't say anything in reply. She took the large tea kettle from atop the stove and filled a dishpan.
“Seemed like the two of us was too old to start over, once the war ended," she said, finally speaking after a long moment's silence. "By then, the Reverend was dead and Miz Anderson needed somebody to help her out around the house. Sam offered us both a job if we’d stay.”
Chance Creek Brides (Volumes 1-3 & the Stagecoach Bride) Page 41
