by Loree Lough
“Thank God?” Josh had countered, smirking. “If you want to thank somebody, thank your pretty little wife, here, who slaughtered the hen and roasted it, who peeled the spuds and snapped the beans, with her own two hands.”
Chance recalled Josh’s words with startling clarity. Recalled, too, that Abe had simply shrugged and said, “I suppose you’ve got a point.” At that, he picked up his own fork, as did everyone at the table, and began eating without saying grace.
Two days later, while in the barn helping Abe repair the sickle’s broken handle, Marta had reached out to steady the workbench, and when she did, the sharp blade of the sickle slipped from the vise, nearly severing both hands. The doctor stopped the bleeding in time to save her life, but not quickly enough to save her fingers. And though Marta managed quite well with her thumbs-only stumps, Josh had convinced himself that his careless, Godless words had caused it.
Unable to listen to reason, he found solace only in his bible, the only place he could find guidance to rectify the awful thing his blasphemy had provoked. Day by day, nose in the pages of the leather-bound good book, his anger and bitterness grew. No matter how many verses he memorized, no matter how well-acquainted he became with scripture, Josh couldn’t undo what he believed his snide words had done. It was his lack of faith, he believed, that started the series of events that led to Marta’s deformity, which left her unable to comb fingers through her children’s flaxen hair or hold their tiny faces in her hands.
Josh alleged that repentance could only be reached if he buried himself in the Word. He spent every spare moment at the church, working his way from elder to deacon, and when the pastor passed away, the brethren chose him to take the man’s place, for they knew no man more devoted and devout than Josh Atwood.
He was hard on his parishioners, demanding pure and abiding faith in all things, and hard on his wife, demanding total surrender and submission, which he claimed was the Lord’s intention for wives. Hard on his brother’s son, too. But, Chance remembered, Josh was hardest of all on himself. He allowed himself no human pleasure, no lapse in judgment, no time for anything but prayer and work and more of the same. His chronic self-abuse turned him into a stone-hard, cold man without an ounce of Christ’s love or mercy or forgiveness in his heart.
It had taken Bess to help Chance see Josh as a suffering, tormented man, and in doing so, she’d lifted the burden of hate from his shoulders. Thanks to her, for the first time since the murder trial, Chance could think almost fondly of the uncle who’d opened his home to a frightened, orphaned youth.
So yes, he and Bess were friends, but in the months he’d been at Foggy Bottom, Chance had come to realize she was so much more. He’d never truly loved a woman before, and if not for his miserable past, he’d marry her, raise a house full of young’uns, and grow old beside her. But he’d never be able to admit it, especially not to Bess. He’d grow old, all right, but he’d do it alone, because she deserved more than a life of running and hiding to stay one step ahead of the hangman.
“Aren’t we friends?” she repeated, squeezing his hand again.
“‘Course we are,” he said at last. And that’s all we’ll ever be.
“Then why don’t you tell me what’s made you so sad all of a sudden. Maybe I can help.”
When she let go of his hand, his own felt so cold and so empty that Chance thought his heart might break. Better get used to the feeling, he thought, for it was only a tiny example of how life would be…when he left her….
“Maybe someday,” she said quietly, getting to her feet, “you’ll trust me enough to tell me whatever—or whoever—has hurt you so badly.” She headed for the house, but paused halfway there. “You can trust me, you know. With anything.” She stared hard at him from across the yard. “Do you believe that?”
It had nothing to do with trust! Chance trusted Bess with his very life, but he couldn’t burden her with the story of how he’d been tried and convicted and sentenced to hang for a murder he didn’t commit!
Bess made her way to the porch. “Whenever you’re ready to talk,” she said, stepping through the screen door, “I’m ready to listen.”
He didn’t know how long he sat there, alone on the bench beside her rusty rug beater. It wasn’t until a barnyard cat brushed against his boot that he realized the sun was setting. It would be suppertime soon, and he’d get to watch her bustling about in the kitchen, walking up and down behind the hired hands, refilling their plates and mugs and the biscuit basket. He’d revel in those moments, for there would be painfully few of them before he’d be forced to leave this place…and that woman.
Chance rose slowly and headed for the bunkhouse to wait for the dinner bell to ring.
The encroaching darkness that shrouded him couldn’t compare to the joyless gloom that hung in his heart.
Chapter Eleven
“Aren’t we friends?”
Bess hid behind both hands. How could she have asked such a silly question, especially after that kiss!
Nearly every time she closed her eyes, she pictured him, big and broad and brooding. But oh, how his handsome face changed when he smiled! Bess sighed softly at the mental image of his wide grin. His sparkling blue eyes. Honey gold hair that curved and curled beneath his wide-brimmed hat.
Her smile grew as she pictured that hat, for before Chance had come to town, Bess could have counted on one hand the number of fellows who sported western-style headwear. Now, she’d need ten hands to count them all: All over Baltimore, men strutted in what they called ‘ten gallon-ers.’ Foggy Bottom field hands claimed to have purchased theirs because it made good sense, since the height of the crown allowed air to circulate and cool their heads, while the width of the rim protected their necks and faces from the blistering effects of the sun. Matt and Mark, however, made no bones about it. “Hey, Pa,” they’d exclaimed when Homer Jensen stuck one in the window of his Baltimore haberdashery, “we’ll clean the barn twice over in exchange for a hat like Chance’s!” Her father hadn’t said yea or nay. Instead, he quietly paid for two white toppers for his twins…and plunked down enough cash to buy one a gray one for himself as well.
And the mimickery hadn’t stopped on their heads.
Men who’d never worn dungarees for anything but field work now emulated Chance’s style, from silver buckled leather belts to pearl-buttoned plaid shirts and snakeskin boots. It didn’t matter that the purpose of the boots’ pointy toes was to make it easy for a cowboy to slide his foot into his saddle’s stirrups, or that the slanted heels held them tight once in place. The goal was clear: Emulate Chance Walker.
Before Chance came to town, the men of Freeland had sported bushy beards, muttonchops, and handlebar mustaches. Now? Bess put a knuckle between her teeth to suppress a giggle. Now, she saw far fewer sideburns…and a whole lot of thick-and-tidy mustaches. She wondered if the men copied Chance’s ‘look’ because they genuinely liked and respected him, or if their womenfolk had talked them into it. If so, Bess wondered, did their ladyfriends get the same reaction from their men’s kisses as she’d gotten from Chance’s?
She knew how hard he’d tried to stay in the background, unnoticed. After that scene on the dock, Bess understood why. If he’d known he’d make such an impression, maybe he’d have passed right on by Freeland, rather than take the chance someone like that ghastly Texan might recognize him!
Not even the fracas on the docks could block that kiss from her thoughts. She tried to focus on fences and trees, farmhouses and barns, silos and fields that whizzed by on the other side of the train’s lace-curtained window. Tried counting the number of minuscule rosettes that made up the lace trim of the white cotton gloves poking from the opening in her drawstring purse. She adjusted the folds of her skirt, re-tied the bow on her bonnet.
Why, Bess even went so far as to pull her latest knitting project from her sewing bag. But nothing, it seemed, not chanting knit one, pearl two or the quiet click of her knitting needles, or the whisper of yarn sliding
past the wooden handles of her creweled cloth bag could distract her from thoughts of that kiss.
“Penny for your thoughts,” said a deep voice.
When had she closed her eyes? Bess wondered, snapping them open. Casting a quick glance at her seat mate, she blinked and licked her lips. What if her thoughts had been visible on her unguarded face!
“And how far will this rattling machine take you today, lovely lady?” the dapper gent asked, standing.
She didn’t trust her voice, and cleared her throat before answering. “Philadelphia.”
He moved to the seat directly across from her, then deposited his black Derby in the space he’d vacated. “Do you have family there?”
Bess stuffed her knitting back into the bag, reluctantly wrenching her mind from thoughts of Chance. “Everyone who’s important to me is in Maryland,” she admitted as Chance’s face appeared in her mind’s eye.
Nodding, her new companion leaned into the space that separated them. “Name’s Steele,” he said, extending his hand. “Billy Steele.”
Gracefully, she placed her hand in his open palm. Under other circumstances, she might have said ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance, I’m sure. My name is Bess.’ But she was a woman traveling alone…. “Bess,” she said, and that was all she intended to volunteer.
“Just plain Bess?’” His left brow rose, and when he smiled, his thin black mustache stretched wider above his upper lip.
At the man’s unintended reminder of Chance, Bess sighed. Already she missed him! But thoughts of him hadn’t distracted her enough to throw all caution to the wind. Though handsome and well-mannered, Billy Steele was a complete stranger. Etiquette required nothing more of her than a courteous nod.
“Smart girl,” Billy said, winking one green eye. “Keep your cards close to your vest. Never offer anybody anything they don’t need, and you’ll stay safe.” With that, he released her hand and nodded at the book beside her. “What’s that you’re reading?”
Bess glanced at her copy of Pride and Prejudice. She’d bought the Jane Austen novel to read during this trip, and followed the characters—Mr. Collins and Lady Catherine, Elizabeth and Jane, Cassandra, and that fearful cad, Darcy—and found herself eagerly turning each page to find out what might happen on the next. When nothing did, she wasn’t disappointed. At least, not at first. Rather, she hurried to the bottom of the next page, in the hopes that something extraordinary might happen there.
“What’s it about?”
She could have told Billy that mostly, it was about the ugly arrogance that goes hand-in-hand when rank gives its possessors a sense of superiority over the less fortunate. It’s a romance, she might have said. But the important part of the book, in essence, she believed, was the destructive tendencies of self-importance. ‘Station’, life had taught her, was nothing more than an accident of birth; to think oneself better than others simply because of the whims of the gods, as some of the story’s characters believed, was absolutely ludicrous. She preferred, instead, to remember the book’s satisfying ending, and wondered again, as she had while reading, if she and Chance might someday end up happily married.
She answered Billy Steele’s question in as straightforward a manner as possible. “I suppose I’d have to say the book is about life.”
Grinning mischievously, Billy chuckled. “Deep subject.”
“Very,” she agreed, grinning right back.
He reached for his watch and palmed the timepiece, popped open its gleaming gold lid and glanced at its pearlescent face before quickly snapping it shut and repocketed it. Billy nodded toward her now-closed sewing bag. “I realize you’ve packed plenty to eat during your trip, but I hate to eat alone.” Standing again, Billy offered Bess his arm. “Won’t you join me for lunch? It’s half past noon, and I’m famished!” With his free hand, he patted his slightly rounded tummy.
Bess gave the sewing bag, where she’d stored cookies and apples and sandwiches and water, a cursory glance, marveling that he’d seen so much, despite the fact that he’d had but a moment, at best, to view its contents. Smiling up at him, she said, “I’ll join you if, while we eat, you’ll tell me all about your exciting life as a detective.”
Billy’s brow crinkled. “Ah,” he said around a smirk of comprehension, “I apologize, Miss Bess.”
Smiling, Bess stood, too. “Whatever for?”
“For underestimating your intuitive powers.” Again he offered his arm.
Bess linked hers through it. “Intuition had nothing to do with it. Deductive reasoning is far more dependable than intuition will ever be.”
“What gave me away?” he asked, leading her down the narrow aisle. “Give me a hint, at least….”
Giggling, she emphasizing the last word: “The cat, as they say, Mr. Steele, is out of the bag.”
His merry laughter echoed in the tiny hallway that connected the cars. “I suppose it is, Just Plain Bess.” He held open the door of the dining car. As she passed through the opening, he asked, “Now, how do I get you to call me Just Plain Billy?”
Lunch would be many things, but boring would not be one of them.
Bess wondered halfway through the meal whether, if she’d known in advance that she’d spend the entire hour talking about Chance, would she still have agreed to dine with her dapper seatmate?
Yes, she thought, smiling, I would.
***
The farm consisted of nearly five hundred acres. Oaks, maples, and pines, Micah’s ever-ready lumber supply, flanked Foggy Bottom on the north and the south. In the valley between its densely forested borders, on grassy hills that rippled and crested like a verdant sea, Black Angus and Herefords grazed contentedly.
The grand plantation, split down the middle by Beckleysville Road, stretched in all directions as far and as wide as the eye could see. It was a big spread to manage, and not an hour of daylight passed without something—a stray animal, a sagging fencepost, a fallen tree—demanding Chance’s attention. With all that to occupy his mind and body, he wondered why couldn’t he get involved enough in any project to distract him from memories of Bess.
He’d deliberately put himself as far from the stone house as possible on the morning she’d left for her trip to Philadelphia. What would the men have said if they’d seen him ‘aw shucks-ing’ like some addlebrained schoolboy at the prospect of being apart from her for a few days? They’d have badgered him relentlessly, that’s what! The moment Chance learned when she would depart, he devised a plan to be absent, because he knew full well he couldn’t have stood there and watched her ride away from him.
Not after that kiss….
He’d been chomping at the bit to get that close to her since, well, since the first moment he’d set eyes on her. He didn’t count the night of Matt’s operation, because that kiss had been more relief at the success of her brother’s operation. Didn’t count the afternoon of her birthday party, either. He’d felt protective of her on the night of Matt’s accident, and almost brotherly on her birthday. But that kiss in the parlor….
It had been like nothing he’d ever experienced. Bess’s sweet lips woke a gentle warmth in his heart as her hands, combing tenderly through his hair, reminded him how good a simple, caring touch could feel. She’d reached a part of him that no woman before her had reached.
He thought of his boss in Kansas, whose wife was a renowned and gifted harpist. Several times, when no one was about, he’d pulled at the massive instrument’s taut strings, each time wincing, amazed that anything so beautiful could produce a sound so offensive. It was only when Mrs. Scott strummed and plucked at the oversized lyre did Chance understand what Heaven might sound like.
Until Bess, man-woman love began and ended with lies:
If he told a woman she was beautiful, he could have her, at least for a moment in time. And while she was his, she’d tell him that she’d never met a more virile man, because saying so might earn her, at the very least, dinner in town. It was a hard-edged, no-rules game that boast
ed no winners.
And yet, without schoolbooks or slate or chalk, Bess taught him that the exact opposite was true. Love was not frightening or threatening. It did not shout its presence, nor was it a stalking beast, ready to pounce and steal a man’s property…or his freedom. He’d gone through his life believing he neither needed nor wanted love, that he couldn’t afford to want it.
But that day in the parlor, when Bess stood in his arms and looked up at him adoringly, and touched him soothingly, and kissed him tenderly, he realized that love was a lot like Mrs. Scott and the music she made with her harp: It had simply taken the right woman to make his heart sing.
A crow cawed above, waking him from his daydream, and Chance looked around him. He’d started riding north at sunup to check on the men’s progress. Somehow, he’d ended up far east of the cornfields. Doesn’t matter if Bess is within arm’s reach or hundreds of miles away, she can distract you like no woman ever could.
Chuckling under his breath, he reined in his horse and turned her in the right direction. “I’m trusting you to keep me on the straight and narrow, Mamie,” he said, patting the filly’s withers. Chance stared hard at the horizon. Concentrate, and maybe you’ll get where you want to go, straight-away this time.
Concentrate? How could he concentrate on anything but that kiss!
She’d surprised him that day by slipping into the parlor, quiet as a cat. Either he’d disguised it well, or she’d chosen to overlook the way he lurched at the sudden sight of her. Grinning at the memory, he shook his head. More’n likely the latter, he admitted.
She’d looked so elegant, standing between the deep red curtains that festooned the doorway, despite the fact that she’d worn a plain brown dress beneath her ruffled white work apron. Her dark hair, curling around her delicate face like a softly-furred frame, shimmered with gold and red highlights in the sunlight that slanted through the French doors, and her chocolate brown eyes sparkled with girlish innocence. When he’d backed off to allow himself a glimpse of her beauty, she’d stared up at him, and blinked, willed him near again with nothing more than the silent draw of those long-lashed, inky eyes.
