by Judith Pella
“Maria, tell me about him and my mother.”
“Oh, señorita, I don’t know…”
“Please! I have a right to know, but no one will be honest with me.”
The kind housekeeper gave Carolyn a sympathetic look; after all, this child was her dear Señor Leonard’s daughter. How could she refuse her?
“It was not a happy time,” said the servant. “There were arguments, you know, and the señora would try to lock her husband out of her room. Once he had to kick down the door—but you are too young to understand these things, señorita.”
“Did he…did he ever strike her?”
“It was said so in the trial, but I never saw.”
“Are you sure?”
“Why do you question me?” Maria’s voice rose slightly. “And does that give a wife the right to kill her husband? I do not wish to speak ill of your mother, Carolyn, but my dear Leonard did not deserve to die like that. It was very, very bad.” She paused and dabbed the corners of her eyes with the edge of her apron. “I know she was unhappy, too—in fact, I was surprised she did not take her own life like the other one. Leonard should not have died, it wasn’t right.”
“‘The other one’? What do you mean, Maria?”
The woman looked up sharply, startled and a little afraid. “Nada!” she said quickly.
“No, Maria! You meant something. What?”
“It is not good to ask so many questions. I must get breakfast.” She started to rise, but Carolyn laid a gentle restraining hand on the woman’s arm.
“I’m sorry, Maria,” Carolyn said contritely. Even Carolyn knew when she had pressed too hard, and rather than lose the rich source of information, she decided to try a subtler tactic. “I only want to know about my father. What was he like before all that?”
“Like I said,” Maria’s voice had lost some of its warmth, “he was handsome and smart.”
“You were very close to him?”
“I practically raised him. His mama had just died when I came.”
“Then you didn’t know her.”
“I know only that she was very beautiful.”
“There are photographs?”
“I remember one in the parlor. But they are all put away now.”
“Where?” Carolyn asked eagerly.
“It is not for me to say. Ask your grandfather, Señorita Carolyn, that is best. He would like to tell you about her, I think. He loved her very much and suffered great when she died.”
“Oh, why bother him? If you just tell me—”
“It is late. You may not be hungry for your morning meal, but your grandfather will be.”
“Maria.” Carolyn jumped up and grabbed the housekeeper’s arm as she rose from her chair. “Please, help me! My grandfather isn’t going to help, not if he thinks it’ll do my ma any good.”
“And why should I? What your mother did was terrible, a sin—I don’t care what may have been done to her.”
“But what if she is innocent? What if your knowledge could save an innocent person? And what if your keeping silent will allow the real murderer to walk away free? Could you live with that, Maria?”
“It is not so…I was there and I do not believe it.”
“But what would it hurt for me to look at pictures of my grandmother? That couldn’t possibly help my mother—”
“The past is buried, señorita. Leave it that way, for everyone’s sake.”
“But, Maria—”
“I am sorry, señorita. I…I cannot help you…”
Maria hurried from the room, and Carolyn watched her go with some disappointment. She felt as if she had wasted the whole interview and not found a single thing of any value.
Her father was handsome and smart. But that didn’t tell her anything about who he was as a person, or if he could have done the things her mother claimed. Maria, of course, thought he was a saint, but she was clearly prejudiced. And even she could not deny that there had been a lot of strife between him and Carolyn’s mother. She had become especially defensive when Carolyn had mentioned physical attacks. Could she be hiding something?
And what had she meant by Deborah taking her own life? Was Maria implying that things were so bad as to drive Deborah to the point of suicide? And then there was that strange comment about “the other one.” Whatever could that have meant? Maria was certainly not going to say any more about that, for she had seemed very distraught that she had mentioned anything at all. But what harm would it do for Carolyn to at least look at old photographs?
“Where is this all getting me?” Carolyn murmured to the empty room. “In deeper confusion, that’s all.”
And supposing Carolyn could prove Deborah had been abused? That might get her mother off on a self-defense plea, but Carolyn knew her mother wanted to be completely exonerated. Carolyn wanted it also. She did not want to think her mother had actually killed her father, in self-defense or otherwise.
Was that asking too much? Was she looking for the impossible? Where were the answers?
“Oh, God! Help me to solve this mystery. Help me to set things right. You know the truth, Lord; you know what happened nineteen years ago. And Sam always says that the truth will prevail. Let it be so now.” Carolyn paused in her prayer as a new thought came to her; then she added with some trepidation, “And, Lord, please give me the courage to accept the truth, whatever it is.”
31
Carolyn was quiet during breakfast. After her talk with Maria, she knew she had to speak with Caleb. But she was a little afraid. She wasn’t the most tactful person in the world. And now she had to find a way to get her grandfather to talk about sensitive subjects without alienating him. She didn’t expect it to be easy.
As they were finishing their meal and having a last cup of coffee, Carolyn mustered her nerve and broke the silence.
“I was wondering, Grandfather, if you could tell me what it was like when you first came to Texas. That must have been an exciting time.”
“It was. You had to be a real frontiersman to live here then. It was no place for the fainthearted.”
“But you came with a wife and child. Or was my father born in Texas?” Carolyn paused. “I guess it’s kind of funny, isn’t it? I mean, I don’t even know where my own father was born.”
“He was not born in Texas, but rather in Virginia. He was two years old when we came to Texas, before Texas became a state. Where we are now was considered the far frontier.”
“That must have been hard.”
“It wasn’t easy. My wife—”
“That would be my grandmother?”
“Yes, she would be. She was from one of the very best families in Virginia and knew nothing of the kind of life that confronted us in Texas.”
“Why did you come?”
“I suppose I had what they call ‘itchy feet’ in my youth. The confines of life in Richmond were too dull for me.”
“Is that why you went to California for the gold rush?”
“Where’d you get an idea like that? I was never in California.”
“I heard that’s how you got the ranch, from discovering gold.”
“I wanted to go to California, but at that time I…I couldn’t leave Texas. So I financed a friend’s expedition in exchange for receiving half of whatever he found. He struck gold and made me a wealthy man. Unfortunately, the money came too late to make my Elizabeth’s life any easier.”
“She had already died.”
“Yes.”
“You don’t blame yourself for her death, do you?”
His head jerked up with a sudden sharp look. “Why should I?”
“Some people might blame themselves, that’s all.”
“Well, that’s nonsense. A man must do what he must do, and it is a woman’s duty to follow her man, no matter what.”
Carolyn sensed her grandfather was growing agitated. She was afraid she’d lose him as she had Maria, so she quickly changed the subject.
“Do you have photographs,
Grandfather? I would give anything to know what they looked like.”
Caleb pushed back his plate and rose. “Come with me.”
Leaving her coffee, she jumped up eagerly. It had been so easy. Perhaps she was being too cautious around Caleb. Maybe he was just dying to tell her everything about his side of the family. Maybe he’d even be free with information about Deborah and those years, and Leonard’s death. Perhaps all she had to do was ask.
They left the dining room and went to Caleb’s study. He closed the door behind them, went to his desk, and picked up the framed daguerreotype. Without a word he handed it to Carolyn.
It was about five inches by seven inches; it was quite old and somewhat faded, and because it was a full-figure pose, it was not as clear as Carolyn would have liked. Her first impression was that this young man, who, at the time of the photo was about twenty-one, could have been Caleb in his youth. There were many similarities between father and son. As Maria had said, he was a handsome man, perhaps more handsome than Caleb would have been at that age. But his good looks were rather severe and dramatic, more like an imposing butte than a rolling valley. He was tall and sharp-featured, with eyes that even in the faded photograph appeared intense and striking. Carolyn immediately sensed she had seen those eyes before, and realized with a chill that Laban Stoner had the same eyes.
She shook away the pall that tried to overtake her and concentrated on other elements of the picture. She could tell he was a confident man, the way he stood so erect and proud, and held his head as if he defied anyone to challenge him. And that’s when, with a bit of a start, she saw herself in her father. She could have told herself a thousand times that she was a Stoner, that he was her father, and this was her family; but seeing it in this way was more profound than any words.
Tears rose in her eyes.
She didn’t care what kind of man her father was, it was still too unfair that she could not have known him. She lifted her moist eyes toward Caleb. And for a brief moment, as their eyes met, they understood each other’s loss.
Then Caleb said something that shattered the growing tenderness in her heart, sending fragile fragments in many directions.
“Do you see now why she must be punished for what she did?”
“I—I—”
“She took him from us and she must pay.”
“But, what if—” A sob broke in Carolyn’s voice; tears streamed down her face. “What if…she didn’t do it?”
“I know you want to believe that because she’s your mother, but I saw her, Carolyn. I saw her standing over my son’s body, his gun in her hand. I saw the terrible wound in his chest, his blood—”
He stopped suddenly and stepped toward Carolyn. There was something very cold and frightening in his aspect, and she retreated slightly. He grabbed her arm.
“Come with me,” he said as he led her from the study.
Without a word, he led her past the parlor and dining room to the back of the house. She stumbled along behind him, weeping and afraid, but unwilling to resist him. They came to a small, sunlit room, a sitting room or drawing room, with large French doors that faced east and drew in the morning sun. But when Caleb opened the door, Carolyn had the impression from the musty odor that the room was seldom used.
Caleb continued to pull at Carolyn’s arm, and she followed like a dumb sheep.
He led her around a dark green settee, then pointed with a trembling finger toward the Persian carpet. “There!” he said in a voice that was almost a growl. “His blood! My Leonard’s blood. And she put it there.”
Carolyn forced herself to look. It was a brown splotch on the carpet as large as a man’s hand. It didn’t look like much, and the sun had faded it over the years. Carolyn might not have even noticed it at all had it not been pointed out to her. But she trembled and her throat choked up when she realized it was her father’s blood. She was standing in the very spot where he had been killed!
Was she also standing in the spot where her mother had shot him?
Caleb roughly yanked her around to face him. “You cannot love them both, Carolyn.”
“Please! Don’t do this to me!” Then she wrenched her arm from Caleb’s grasp and fled for the stables. She had to get away—from him, from the ranch, from her own emotional turmoil—at least for a while.
32
The sun was arching toward the west when Carolyn rode back to the ranch.
She felt better now, at least not as emotional. She was still confused and sick over what had happened. But she thought she could face Caleb again. Whether she could face the ghosts of the past, she didn’t know. Whatever had made her think she was strong enough for that kind of confrontation? She should never have come to Stoner’s Crossing. This was no task for a confused eighteen-year-old girl—trying to solve a nineteen-year-old murder while mending the heart of a bitter old man.
But hadn’t she always had a too high opinion of herself—just like that man in the daguerreotype?
Well, you have failed, Carolyn! she thought. You are not a detective, nor are you some kind of bridge. The lines of hate and fear and bitterness that were drawn years ago cannot be wiped away so simply. The only thing you’ll probably be successful at is bringing yourself down with everyone else.
That was, perhaps, her greatest fear—that she’d come away from all this with the same hate that had destroyed so many other lives. Whether she’d end up hating Caleb, or her father, or her mother—it didn’t much matter, because either way would kill her now. They all had become too much a part of her.
When she walked into the house that afternoon, she was ready to pack her things and leave Stoner’s Crossing. It was just no use trying to win one family when in order to do so she must risk her other family. Caleb made that quite clear. But perhaps if she quit now, “cut her losses,” as Griff would say, she could salvage something. And, if nothing else, she could return to the way it used to be. If she must choose between these warring families, then she had to choose her mother. She couldn’t do anything else—wouldn’t do anything else!
As far as finding her father’s murderer…well, that was probably best left in the hands of professionals. Let the courts make that decision. That’s the way her mother had wanted it.
Yet it was not in Carolyn’s nature to let go so easily. She knew there was more to all of this than finding her father’s murderer. And even more than freeing her mother.
The image of that enigmatic man in the daguerreotype rose up before her once more—her father. This was about him, about who he really was. Carolyn could no longer satisfy herself with the childish fantasies she had once spun. She was already sensing he could never be as noble a man as her fancies had created, but there had to be some praiseworthy qualities about the man who had fathered her, who had lent part of himself to her being.
Carolyn went to her room, took her carpetbag from the wardrobe and dropped it on the bed—then she stopped and flopped down next to the bag. No. She couldn’t run from it. She had to go on, to dispel the myths so she could begin building her life, and who she was, on reality.
She thought of Maria. Yes, the old housekeeper had a slanted view of Leonard Stoner, but Carolyn had easily seen that the woman, try as she might to obscure it, knew there was a darker side to the man. Maria knew the family secrets, at least some of them. And she also knew where Caleb had hidden away all signs of the past.
Forgetting about her carpetbag, Carolyn hurried from her room in search of Maria.
At the stairway, she nearly collided with Caleb.
“What’s your hurry, young lady?” he asked in his normally stern tone.
“I was looking for Maria.”
“She is gone.”
“Oh, well, I guess it can wait until this evening.”
“She won’t be back this evening. She has gone to Waco to visit her sister who has taken ill.”
“That’s rather sudden, isn’t it? I mean, I just spoke to her this morning and she said nothing about it.”
/> “Apparently a letter came from town after breakfast and she left immediately. Her niece, Juana, will be taking over her duties while she is gone. If you have a need, you will find her in the kitchen, I believe.”
Why had Maria departed so suddenly without giving Carolyn a clearer explanation? Was it a coincidence that her sister had suddenly become ill, forcing Maria’s departure before Carolyn could question her further?
If Maria knew the family’s secrets, then the old servant must have left in order to protect not only herself but also the family she loved. But protect them from what…or whom? Carolyn? Caleb? Laban? Or simply from the truth?
Maybe Maria, having known Leonard, knew that his daughter was enough like him that she would not rest until she found those hidden secrets. And Maria was right. Carolyn could not leave the ranch now; she had to keep looking. In spite of the risks, in spite of the danger, she could not turn away from her chosen path.
She looked at her grandfather, as deeply into his eyes as she dared. He held many of the answers, locked within his iron will, not to be released easily. But now Carolyn was not totally dependent upon him for those answers. If Carolyn had read Maria correctly, it was possible there were more tangible things hidden somewhere in Caleb’s house. Perhaps she would not need to loosen her grandfather’s tongue, after all.
“Thank you, Grandfather, I don’t need anything right away.”
But as she walked away, why did she feel so vulnerable and as if she were being somehow deceptive. Why did Caleb Stoner’s penetrating gaze seem to burn into her back?
Part 8
Two New Friends
33
