Long Trail Home

by Vickie McDonough

  He smiled at her spunk then sobered. “Maybe I do.”

  “Hmm?” Her eyes darted up, almost locking on his but not quite. “Help with what?”

  He yanked off his hat and forked his fingers through his hair then smacked the hat on again. “I, uh … it’s hard to see the place deserted like this. Ma should be here.”

  Annie touched his arm. “I’m so sorry for your loss. I can’t imagine how difficult it must have been for you to come home from the war and discover what happened here.”

  Her concern touched him. During the war, he’d shoved aside as many emotions as he could. He didn’t want to think of all the buddies he’d lost—buddies who’d been at his side one moment and gone the next. So many that he’d lost count. And why them, and not him? Why had God spared him at Shiloh—at Gettysburg—and during countless other battles, only for him to come back home to nothing?

  His throat clogged from the sudden lump that formed. Allowing himself to feel now only meant pain. He couldn’t let this snip of a woman into his heart. He’d done that once, but it wouldn’t happen again.

  “I’m happy to go inside with you if it would make things easier.”

  “I can do it myself. I don’t need help.”

  Annie stiffened at his terse words. “Fine then.” She turned back toward the picnic area. “I’ll just leave you to your business.”

  She walked away so quicky that he just stood there and watched. But between here and where the children were was rocky, slanted ground. Surely she’d stumble without his help. He kicked his feet into motion and caught up with her and reached for her arm. How did she even keep her balance with her nose held up so high?

  “Just hold your horses.” She stopped and spun around so fast the he nearly collided with her.

  “I didn’t ask to intrude on your business, if you recall. Miss Laura forced me on you, and I don’t blame you for not wanting me here. What could I do anyway? Hmm?”

  Riley hung his head. Now he’d gone and hurt her feelings. His ma would have taken a switch to him for the harsh way he’d said he didn’t need her help. He sighed regretfully. “I’m sorry for being gruff. It’s just that being here brings out a lot of emotion—and for so long I’ve stuffed those feelings down, packed tight like my belongings in my haversack.” He stared up at the pale blue sky. “I don’t know how to deal with feelings anymore.”

  When she didn’t say anything for a few moments, he glanced down at her pretty face. The irritation had faded, replaced by wistfulness and something else he couldn’t decipher.

  Annie licked her lips. “Sorry for getting upset. I understand what it’s like to push your pain aside. I was so angry and hurt at what my pa had done for so long. One day I realized that I was only hurting myself by staying mad at him, so I decided to put all that anger in a box and close the lid.”

  “Did it work?”

  She shrugged. “Sometimes. But there are still days when I start thinking about what he did, and it still hurts. Even after seven years.”

  Riley longed to ask her what had happened, but he didn’t want to intrude on her privacy or cause her more pain. “If you want to go in the house with me, you can.”

  She tilted her face up and she smiled. “I’d like that, if you don’t mind.”

  He wasn’t sure if he minded or not, so he kept quiet as he guided her back to the house. “Just let me go inside first and clear the floor so you won’t stumble on anything.”

  Maybe having her at his side would make things easier.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Annie hoped her presence would make it easier for Riley to return home, but he’d plunked her down on a kitchen chair and disappeared into one of the bedrooms. She could hear him rummaging around. Rising, she hurried to the window and peered out at the broken Indian arrow he had tossed aside. She couldn’t imagine the pain involved in one of those sharp arrowheads piercing one’s flesh. How dreadful to know that his parents must have been terrified and he wasn’t here to help defend them. What horrors had they faced at the hands of the Comanche?

  She shivered at the awful thoughts racing through her mind and tried to focus her attention on the cabin. Slivers of sunlight spotted the kitchen floor, shining through the holes in the log cabin’s chinking. The far side of the room served as a parlor with one rocker shoved up against the cold fireplace and another dumped over onto its side, with a broken bottom rung. A dusty rose-colored settee and a small writing table sat along the bedroom wall. How odd that the peg lamp sat there undisturbed by time or the heinous events that had occurred.

  The kitchen was less than half the size of the one at the school, and the scent of dirt and wood ash from the cast-iron stove, whipped up by the light breeze, caused Annie to sneeze. Dabbing her nose with the handkerchief she kept up her sleeve, she tried to imagine the place filled with the sweet scent of pies baking as Riley’s mother bustled around, preparing a meal for her small family. Had she been a good cook? Had she been tall with the same blue eyes as Riley? The same dark hair?

  Her mother’s hair had been light brown like her own, but she could no longer remember the color of her mother’s eyes. And her features had long ago faded in Annie’s mind. She rested her cheek in one hand and drew circles around a dusty knothole on the table. How different her life might have been if her daddy had worked a real job or owned a ranch like this one. She would never have been forced to pilfer scraps of food from people’s trash heaps, or steal clothes off some hard-working woman’s clothesline, or lift watches from proud young men. That last feat still bothered her.

  She couldn’t return to her old ways—she wouldn’t. But what would happen to her if the school were forced to close?

  She looked around the room again. If Mr. Morgan didn’t want this place, maybe he’d let her live here—but then if the school closed and he lost his job, he’d have to return home, most likely. Could he make this place into a home again?

  A few minutes later, after his quick search through the house, Riley guided Annie back outside. He carried a crate he’d found in one of the bedrooms under one arm, but all she could see was a quilt lying on top. His lips were pressed together so tight they were nearly white, a deep crease marred his forehead, and his eyes blinked over and over, as if he were trying hard not to weep. Did men actually cry? She dropped her gaze before he caught her staring.

  If she’d ever had her own home, it would bother her, too, seeing it in such disorder. While he was still in the back of the house, she had picked up the tablecloth from the floor, folded it, and laid it over the dusty table. She had wanted to do more to tidy up, but thought it might arouse his suspicions.

  “My ma never let her house get dirty like that,” he said. “I ought to come and clean it one of these days out of respect for her.”

  “It will be hard to keep it clean unless you repair the broken windows first.”

  He shot a glance her way. “How’d you know the glass was broken?”

  Annie’s heart tumbled, as if rolling end over end, down a steep incline. She had to be more careful with what she said. Mr. Morgan was no fool. She faked a tiny cough to clear the tightness from her throat and thought quickly. “Simple. I could feel the wind blowing in the opening—and glass crunched under my boots when I walked past the window.”

  “I suppose that makes sense.”

  “I could help clean up things, if you’d like.” As soon as the words left her mouth, she realized how dangerous such a situation would be.

  He shook his head. “Thanks, but I’m afraid you’d just be in the way.”

  Annie gasped. She gave him a quick punch in the side with her elbow then dropped his arm and crossed hers over her chest. “I can cook, clean, and do laundry just like most women, Mr. Morgan. Blind people are not incapable of doing common chores.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “What did you mean?”

  He shifted from foot to foot, as if he were searching for an escape. He shrugged. “I know you’re an extraord
inary woman, Miss Sheffield, but you must admit you have limitations.”

  She lifted her chin in the air. “No, I don’t.”

  He shook his head. “I knew people in the war who felt the same way.” He pinned a look on her, and she forced her eyes to focus on his top button. “Most of them are dead now.”

  She opened her mouth, but slammed it shut. Of course she knew a blind person couldn’t do everything that a seeing one could.

  “I apologize for snapping at you, and I don’t mean to hurt your feelings, ma’am, but honestly, it would take more time and effort to show you what needs to be done than it would to just do it myself.” He didn’t wait for her to respond but walked over to the chopping block and set down the crate. “I need to check the root cellar, and then I should be done here.”

  Even though his argument made perfect sense, she didn’t have to like it. Besides, she wanted to help him.

  He rounded the side of the house, and she heard a creak and the thump of a heavy door being dropped open. She glanced at the crate, then moseyed toward it and lifted up the edge of the heavy quilt. She peeked back toward the side of the house and then looked into the crate. He’d salvaged precious few items—a family Bible, two books, a shoebox, and the colorful but dirty quilt. She was starting to peek into the smaller box when she heard the cellar door thud closed. Jumping back, she slid over to where Riley had left her and tried to look innocent—an expression she’d cultivated when she was young but had rarely used of late.

  He came around the side of the house with several items of men’s clothing draped over one arm.

  Her heart softened. His pain must be incredible. He’d gone off to fight in the war and returned to find his family dead. She’d never known a man well, except for her father, and he didn’t count. Riley Morgan seemed like a decent man most of the time, but she didn’t dare drop her guard with him. Could they possibly become friends?

  And why did she even want to?

  Riley left the house, wishing he never had to return, but he knew his mother would be rolling in her grave if he put the ranch up for sale and brought folks to view the house without it being clean and in good repair. He’d come back just one more time. He’d buy the supplies, fix up the place, then never return again. It hurt too much.

  And besides, he wasn’t too likely to sell the place with those other arrows still stuck in the front of the house.

  Miss Sheffield stood in the same spot he’d left her, but she turned as he approached. He stopped beside the crate he’d filled earlier and added his pa’s clothing to the pile. With all the weight he had lost, they’d probably be baggy. But then again, if he kept eating Mrs. Alton’s delicious cooking, he’d bulk up quickly. The thought brought a small smile that quickly vanished. How many times during those long nights away had he dreamed about eating his ma’s chicken and dumplings again or her beans and cornbread—her apple pie. Never again would he taste them.

  Miss Sheffield kicked a rock and sent it skittering in front of them as she hurried to keep up with him. He peered down at her, realizing he’d forgotten to offer her his arm. Still, she walked quickly beside him, keeping up with his long-legged pace. He slowed down. “Here, take my arm and forgive me for neglecting to offer it sooner.”

  She batted her hand until it connected with his arm. Years had passed since he had a pretty woman walk beside him. The last woman to make him feel any longing had been Miranda. His heart constricted at thoughts of her betrayal. But he could not honestly blame her. She may have been a bit persnickety at times but she was young and desirable—a lovely woman from a wealthy family. He was just the son of a rancher who owned a tenth of the land her father did. Why should she wait for him to return from the war?

  Because she had promised she would.

  The thing that irritated him the most was that she didn’t have the decency to write and tell him that she’d married. He never again wanted to let a woman have such control over his emotions that she could cause him such pain.

  He forced himself to find something good to think about. He glanced up at the cloudless sky, thankful the day remained comfortable despite its being midsummer. Birds in the trees lining the river chirped cheerful tunes while a roadrunner streaked across the path in front of them. Bad things happened, but life always managed to go on. That’s what he needed—a reason to continue on. A purpose for his life.

  “Could I ask you a question, Mr. Morgan?”

  He liked the soft tone of her voice—low, with a slight huskiness. “I reckon so, ma’am.”

  “Please don’t call me that. It makes me feel old.”

  His gaze shot to her face, and he wondered how old she really was. Not much more than twenty, if he had to guess. Her cheeks looked as soft as peach skin, and his fingers twitched wondering what it would feel like to touch them. He cleared his throat. “Sorry, miss. What is it you want to know?”

  She turned her head up toward him, as if to look at him. “Why do you live in the tack room at the school when you have such a nice home here?”

  Riley winced. His home was no longer nice, but she couldn’t see what he saw. Namely, the devastation to his house and the graves atop the hill. She didn’t know how it pained him to be here. Didn’t know how he’d run out on his parents when they had needed him the most. How his brother had been alive one moment—running and laughing with his friends—then scared, writhing in pain, and dead a short while later.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked such a personal question.”

  “No, it’s all right.” He clenched his jaw. Being here was hard enough, but talking about it was another thing. He sighed before answering her. “This place has too many memories. I could never live here again. I plan to sell it.”

  Annie gasped. “How can you turn your back on your family home? If I had a place like this, I’d never leave it.”

  Her words cut straight to his heart. Was he making the wrong choice? Should he wait and reconsider selling after he had more time to think about it?

  No. He shook his head. There was nothing left for him here. The sooner he left the better.

  Laura peeked at the mantel clock. Only five more minutes before Mr. Otis Ramsey arrived. Her stomach had been churning ever since she’d received the note last night saying that he would visit the school promptly at ten the next morning. The back door tapped shut, footsteps sounded, and Annie entered the parlor.

  “Where are the children?” Laura asked.

  Annie smoothed her apron. “They’re all out behind the barn. Mr. Morgan is giving them rides on his horse, and Mrs. Alton is keeping watch on the others.”

  “Good. I sure don’t want any of them to overhear our conversation with Mr. Ramsey.”

  “I don’t mind telling you that I’m worried. What will we do if he says we can’t live here any longer?” Annie clutched her fingers in front of her.

  Laura reached out and squeezed her arm. “Don’t give up yet.”

  A hard knock echoed through the unusually quiet school, and both women turned toward the door. Laura took a strengthening breath, hurried toward the entrance, and opened the door. Though she knew kind Mr. Morrow well since she’d been his daughter’s best friend, she’d never met his nephew. A plump man with odd, purply-pink lips that reminded her of the plum wine she once drank gazed at her with narrowed hazel eyes.

  He sniffed and brushed his finger across the lower edge of his nose. “Miss Wilcox, I presume?” His eyes studied her approvingly from her head down to the last button on her shoe. Then his gaze flicked past her to where Annie stood, and his brows lifted. A sensual smirk tugged at his mouth.

  Any hopes she had that this man might reconsider and be sympathetic to her cause sank clear to Laura’s boot tips. “Mr. Ramsey?”

  He lifted his chin. “Who else were you expecting? Or are you normally in the habit of interrupting your so-called school teaching by accepting callers at this time of the morning?” His brow lifted in disdain, and without waiting to be invited, he pushed
past Laura. His gaze roved the parlor, as though he were mentally measuring its dimensions. Laura wondered if he was appraising the property, planning what furniture would be his to sell as well as the house itself.

  Passing Annie, he ambled to the kitchen doorway, tsked and shook his head, then spun around, staring at the young woman’s backside. The impudent man had uttered only a few brief sentences, and Laura already disliked him.

  “Would you care to take a seat in the parlor, or would you prefer to sit at the table?”

  “Yes, I believe I would.” He brushed past her back into the parlor, looking over the furnishings as though assigning a price tag to each lovely piece. “It’s far smaller than I expected. My home in St. Louis must be five times more spacious than this one.”

  His disdain for her home sent Laura’s blood boiling. If he disliked the place so much, maybe he’d give her time to figure out a way to buy it herself. But how was that possible?

  He plopped down hard on the settee, making it creak under his weight. He ran his hand over the round end table as if checking out the quality of the walnut wood.

  “May I offer you some tea, Mr. Ramsey?”

  “I’d prefer coffee. And some petit fours, if you have them.”

  Of all the nerve! She pressed her lips closed to keep from saying something she’d regret, and caught Annie’s expression. The girl was struggling hard to keep her mouth shut. Laura looped her arm through Annie’s and hauled her toward the kitchen.

  “She can stay here and keep me company,” Mr. Ramsey said.

  “I’m sorry.” Laura shook her head.

  “Annie has duties to be done.” Annie followed Laura into the kitchen, and lifting a hand to her throat, made a face and a gagging sound. Fortunately, Laura had pulled her into the kitchen so she hoped Mr. Ramsey hadn’t heard her.

  “What a lecher!” Annie whispered and gave an exaggerated shiver. “Ish! I feel as if spiders are crawling all over me.”

  Laura pulled the teakettle off the stove, glad that she’d had Mrs. Alton warm up some water a short while ago. “Shh … You don’t want him to hear you.”