Long Trail Home

by Vickie McDonough

  Riley shoved his pistol in the holster and spun around, needing to get outside—away from the horrible images attacking his mind. Maybe his parents had made it out safely.

  Maybe he was lying to himself.

  Something under the dining table caught his eye, and he halted. Dark brown spattering stained a faded blue-checkered cloth. His mother’s tablecloth. Finding it hard to breath, he slowly bent down and nudged it with his pistol. Bloodstains.

  He tugged on the cloth, and something clinked underneath it. He tossed the tattered fabric aside and blinked his eyes, staring hard to comprehend what he saw. A single teacup from his ma’s china still remained intact. How had something so delicate survived the carnage?

  Reverently, he picked it up, turning it around, amazed to not find a single crack or chip. Grime coated the ivory cup. He rubbed it with his thumb, revealing the colorful floral pattern that his ma had loved so much. He ripped off a section of the tablecloth—a section without blood—and wrapped up the cup. He went outside, tugging his hat down to shade his eyes from the glare of the sun. Why should it be shining so brightly on such a dreadful day?

  Riley carefully placed the cup in his saddlebag, then glanced at the hill where the family cemetery rested. He didn’t want to go up there, but he had to know. Leading Gypsy, he walked past the house, forcing himself not to look at his father’s rusty tools and the wood still stacked neatly behind the cabin. A few weeds grew along the charred spot where the barn had been, proving the attack hadn’t happened recently. Why hadn’t Miranda written and told him? Why hadn’t anyone from town?

  As he crested the hill, the scene before him blurred as tears filled his eyes. Instead of only three graves—one for Timothy and two for the baby girls who had not lived—there were two more.

  The graves of Calder and Emily Morgan.

  His parents were dead.

  CHAPTER TWO

  WACO, TEXAS, 1865

  Childish squeals and laughter echoed off the walls. Annie stood out of the way in the corner of the dining room, watching the four youngest students from the Wilcox School for Blind Children search for the spoon she’d hidden within easy reach. The three girls and one boy, ranging in age from four to seven, felt their way around the long table, the hutch, and the bench seat that rested under the bay window of the house.

  “I’m gonna find it first,” Rusty bellowed. The redheaded boy with a smattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks never let blindness slow him down, and because of that, he always sported scrapes and bruises.

  “Nuh-uh. I always find the spoon before you do.” Lissa, a charming six-year-old, didn’t let Rusty’s constant bragging discourage her. Annie brushed her hand over the girl’s light-brown hair, almost the same color as her own, and received a wide smile and a hug. Lissa leaned back and felt around Annie’s apron, finding the big front pockets. “Shucks, nothing there.”

  Annie smiled.

  Rusty patted the seats of each chair, drawing closer to the spoon. Annie was tempted to tiptoe over and move it so one of the girls could find it, but so what if Rusty found it first again?

  Love for the children filled her heart and overflowed. They gave her life purpose. Without them, what would she have to look forward to each morning?

  Miss Laura stepped into the room and smiled. “Ah, Seek and Find. Such a fun game. But Mrs. Alton almost has dinner ready. You children must wash up now and help set the table, and after we eat, I have something special planned.”

  Chubby, dark-haired Camilla turned her black, unseeing gaze toward Laura. “It is a sweet, si?”

  “Perhaps. I will tell you it’s something special for Miss Annie’s birthday.”

  Camilla clapped her hands. “Bueno.”

  Annie crossed her arms. How could she have forgotten today was her birthday? She’d never celebrated as a child, except the time her daddy snitched a light blue hair ribbon for her from a store. This birthday was a big one—her twentieth. She shook her head. It was hard to believe she’d lived at the Wilcox School for almost seven years now—nearly one third of her life—the best third.

  Becky, with her short blonde braids and crossed eyes, rounded the table, heading toward Rusty. The girl was quiet and shy, but competition brought out her tenacious side. She loved to win, but she never gloated about it.

  Rusty reached toward the final chair, but Becky patted the seat first. Obviously hurrying in order to beat him, she caught her foot on the chair leg and she stumbled. Her hand smacked down as she fought to balance herself, hitting the edge of the spoon, and flipping it up. The metal thunked against the underside of the table and clattered to the floor. In an instant, the three nearest children dropped to their knees, their hands smacking the wooden slats as they searched for the treasure. Chairs squeaked as they were shoved out of the way and the children scrambled under the table. Lissa stood on the opposite side of the room, a scowl on her face. She knew she was too far away to reach the spoon before one of the others found it. Annie crossed the room, gently touched the girl’s shoulder, and the child spun toward her.

  Laura had cautioned her many times about caring too much, because it was so hard when the children had to return to their parents or move to a school for older children. The goal of the school was to educate the students, to teach them to care for themselves and do basic chores, so they could return to their families and live a fairly normal, productive life.

  But what was normal? Annie had always argued that point. She’d never lived in a house before coming here. Oh, she and her daddy had spent the night in plenty of barns, abandoned shacks, and even a few abandoned sod houses, but never one of their own. She shivered at the thought of the smelly grass house. Dirt, worms, and worse critters had dropped from the ceiling onto her head and shoulders too many times to count. No, give her a solid floor, four wooden walls, and a permanent roof, and she was happy. Two or three meals a day didn’t hurt either.

  “Got it.” Camilla backed out from under the table and stood, holding up her prize.

  “Ah …” Rusty scooted across the floor, then sat in the middle of the room, his arms crossed over his knees. His lower lip stuck out, but Annie knew he wouldn’t stay upset for long. He couldn’t, and besides, it was time for dinner—and that always made him happy.

  Later that night, after the children were tucked in bed, Annie stood at her window staring out at the half moon and recalled the enjoyable evening. Mrs. Alton had cooked a special dinner in honor of her birthday—a delicious turkey that a generous neighbor had donated, potatoes, and fresh corn on the cob, dripping with butter. There was a time of singing, a special treat of gingerbread, and then Annie opened her gifts—a new dress Miss Laura had given her and the precious trinkets the children had made. This had been one of the best evenings of her life.

  She crossed the room that she and Laura shared and sat on her bed. She picked up her brush and ran it through her hair. One hundred strokes each night, just as Laura had taught her.

  “I wonder what that smile’s for, as if I didn’t know.” Laura leaned against the doorframe, looking more wrung out than she normally did at bedtime.

  “Are you feeling all right?” Annie couldn’t help her concern. She had grown to love the kind woman as much as if Laura were her real mother.

  In four steps, Laura crossed the room. She flopped onto her bed, pulled the pins from her bun, and forked her fingers through her blonde tresses. Annie much preferred her own hair hanging down and tied at the nape, but Laura liked hers up and out of the way. The severe hairstyle made her friend look older than her thirty-four years.

  “Thank you for the party and that beautiful blue dress. I love it, but you shouldn’t have gone to such expense on my part.”

  “Think nothing of it. I enjoyed plotting with Miss Wishard and choosing the fabric I thought you’d like best. I just wish I could give you a better wage for all you do here, so you could purchase more things for yourself. I fear I’m taking advantage of your kindheartedness.” Laura set the
pins on the small table that stood between the beds and shook out her long hair. She scrubbed her scalp with her fingertips. “It always feels so nice to set my hair free from its binding every evening.”

  Annie lifted her eyebrows, giving her friend a teasing smirk.

  Raising her hand, palm facing out, Laura gave her a mock glare. “Don’t start on me, young lady.”

  Giggling, Annie laid her brush down. “I’m no longer a young lady. I’m twenty, and a full-fledged spinster now.”

  Instead of laughing as Annie had expected, Laura rose and stared out the window. The light breeze fluttered the ivory curtains and her friend’s long hair.

  “What is it?” All manner of thoughts assailed Annie, and her hand clutched a fold in her nightgown. Was her friend sick? Was the school in trouble? Had one of the children done something naughty?

  Laura turned, leaning back against the windowsill. She pressed her lips together, then caught Annie’s eye, but for a moment she didn’t say anything. Finally, she sighed. “I think it’s time you consider finding a man to marry.”

  An icy numbness held Annie stiff. A shaft of fear unlike any she had known, not since her mother had died when she was six, gripped her chest. “Y—you want me to leave?”

  Darkness enveloped the camp as the last of the purple hue on the horizon faded to a deep navy. Night meant rest for most, if one could sleep, and a relief from the endless marches and battles. But night also meant opportunity—opportunity for the enemy to sneak in close and attack. Opportunity for homesick and fed-up soldiers to give up and slip away. He had to stay awake. Had to keep the enemy away and his fellow soldiers close. Don’t go to sleep, Morgan.

  His stomach growled, reminding him he was still alive. One of the lucky ones. He sniffed a sarcastic laugh. The lucky ones were the men free from pain and hunger. The ones who no longer felt anything.

  He hung his head. His ma would be ashamed of him. But wasn’t death preferable to this endless suffering? How much longer would Americans battle one another? The war was lost. The South had lost.

  And yet the fighting continued.

  Should he leave, like Roscoe and Smitty had? Just slip into the shadows and head home? He stared into the darkness, feeling its lure. Texas was so far away; if he ran, who’d ever find him there?

  He glanced back over his shoulders to see dozens of campfires flickering like the evil eyes of a cruel monster that demanded a man give his all—his life. And for what? So one man could own another? To reunite a country whose people held such opposing viewpoints that cousin was willing to kill cousin over it?

  As he stared at the fire, the soldiers faded away, and the blaze took the shape of a woman. Skirts flaming, she stepped from the bonfire, a smoky apparition. Miranda?

  Her finger beckoned him to come to her. He pushed away from the tree, trotted, then ran to her. How long it had been since he’d seen the woman he loved.

  He reached for her. Touched her cheek, and the warmth of her skin fueled a fire within him that he’d smothered for months. Years.

  Riley turned his cheek toward Miranda’s soft, moist kiss. So many years had passed since she had trickled playful smooches along his jaw. He tried to focus on her face, to see her green eyes crinkling with humor—to feel her velvety skin—but she backed away, her form fading into a wall of smoke and shadows. She turned and disappeared into the haze. “Miranda. Wait!”

  Riley opened his eyes, and the hillside where he and Timothy had played as boys took shape. He bolted upright and smacked into something hard. Gypsy squealed and lunged sideways. Shaking her head, she trotted down the hill where she found a clump of grass and started grazing. Riley swiped at his wet cheek then stared at the dampness on his hand. Gypsy’s slobber, not Miranda’s kisses.

  Just his luck.

  He stood and stretched, working the kinks out of his back and trying to shake that vivid dream from his mind. He’d often slept on the ground, but never had he passed the night on a grave before, at least not that he knew of. His eyes felt raw and scratchy from the tears he’d shed yesterday, and his heart ached as badly as if Gypsy had kicked him in the chest. His whole family was dead.

  As he headed downhill to the creek for a drink, he argued with himself. He still had relatives, but except for his uncle Jud, he hadn’t seen them since he moved to Waco. Maybe after he and Miranda were married, they could go visit his uncle and get reacquainted with the rest of the Morgan family. He wasn’t sure he could ever live on this ranch again after what had happened, but maybe they could make a fresh start over in the Hill Country, if he could just talk his fiancée into moving that far from her parents.

  At the creek bank, he bent and scooped up a handful of water, keeping watch around him, as he’d learned to do those first weeks of war. Only the sounds of nature intruded on the quiet—the gurgling water as it played hide-and-seek among the many rocks lining the creek bed. A colorful cardinal teased his mate, sounding just like Private Boone Perkins from Tennessee rattling on about his gal, saying how she was “Purty purty purty.” The whisper of wind swished through the dry summer grass. But a man never knew when a birdcall might be an Indian or a Union soldier. Out here in the wilds of Texas, a man never knew when his enemy might creep up on him— and wasn’t his family’s demise proof of that?

  He needed to get away from this place. Away from the new horrors he’d dreamed about last night—of the fear and pain his parents had endured—horrors that now filled his nightmares alongside those of the war. He doubted he’d ever get a good night’s sleep again.

  Riley splashed more warm water over his face, wishing there was enough to bathe in. He stood and studied the house where he’d hope to find peace and happiness again. Maybe when he and Miranda were married and she slept curled up against his side, all soft and warm, he’d find that peace again. But then, peace had been elusive, ever since his brother had died so suddenly.

  A Bible verse his mother often quoted rushed into his mind as if she were standing right beside him, ruffling his hair and talking softly. “Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.”

  He snorted. He wasn’t afraid. Never had been. But he couldn’t argue that his heart certainly was troubled. He grabbed his canteen from where he’d dropped it last night and filled it with water. From his saddlebag, he retrieved one of the last pieces of jerky he’d bought at a store a few towns back and bit off a hunk.

  The loneliness of the place surrounded him like a bunch of Yankees stalking in for the kill. He whistled to Gypsy. The horse whickered and trotted toward him, slowing to snag another bite of grass. He patted the bay’s neck, soothed by the animal’s companionship, and stared across the valley. What had happened to the dozens of Morgan horses his father had owned? Had the Indians stolen the high-quality broodmares and stallion that his family had raised?

  Sighing, he shoved the last bite of jerky into his mouth and wished he had a cup of coffee. He could get some at the Coopers’ house. He quickly saddled his horse. He rolled up the blanket he hadn’t used last night, piled on his gear, and walked back toward the fenced graves. He bent down to snatch up a handful of wildflowers and carried them to his mother’s grave, his heart breaking.

  Why hadn’t he hugged her the day he’d left?

  That day she had lost both sons, not just Timothy. But at least she hadn’t known the truth—that he’d been responsible for his brother’s death. She would never know now. She would have forgiven him anyhow, being the kind, godly woman she was. His dad would have had a harder time of it, but he would have come around too, sooner or later.

  Riley hadn’t prayed in years and found the words as hard to swallow as burnt biscuits, but he forced himself. “Take care of them, God. At least they’re together with Timothy and the babies now, and Ma no longer has to grieve over them or worry about me.”

  He took a final look at the five graves, then closed the gate, mounted, and rode ou
t of the yard. His homecoming sure hadn’t turned out as expected.

  Twenty minutes later, he rode up to the front of the Cooper mansion. He had often teased Miranda about how the house looked like one you would see on a Georgia plantation, and she’d just smile and tell him for the hundredth time how homesick her daddy had been when he first came to Texas, and how he’d wanted a house that reminded him of the one he’d been born in. Four tall, white columns evenly spaced along the expansive front porch rose over thirty feet high, supporting the second-story roof and a fenced veranda that served as the roof to the first-floor porch. They reminded him of soldiers standing guard. The brick house, which had once been a reddish-brown, now sported a fresh coat of tan paint. Evidently, Mr. Cooper had prospered from the war, unlike many of his neighbors.

  Riley dismounted. Unease battled excitement. He loped up the steps and pounded on the door, sidestepping from foot to foot. Four long years he’d waited to see his gal again. The large, red door opened, and Jewel, the Cooper’s housemaid answered.

  She eyed him up and down, her mouth puckering up on one side. “There ain’t no work here, if’n that’s what you’s wantin’, but get yourself along to the back door, and I’ll have Cook fix you a plate of food.”

  Riley yanked off his hat and fought back a grin, glad to see that the snappish maid hadn’t changed. Jewel always was a crotchety, ol’ hen, but she had a big heart, once you got on her good side. “Don’t you recognize me, Jewel?”

  She scowled and leaned forward, studying him. Suddenly her brown eyes widened and she grinned. “That you, Mistuh Morgan? Why you done growed a foot and shrank that much ‘round the middle. C’mon in.”