A Borrowed Dream

by Amanda Cabot

  Because he could do none of his normal chores, Seth had volunteered to keep Hannah amused. From Austin’s perspective, it was an ideal solution. Not only did he not have to worry about his daughter when he was riding the range, but she’d blossomed under the attention Seth had showered on her. In less than two weeks, Seth had become part of the family.

  If only that could be permanent.

  “Are you ready?”

  Grace nodded as she pinned her veil in place. “I think so. And yet . . .”

  Catherine understood her hesitation. Today would be the first time the majority of Cimarron Creek’s residents saw Grace’s face. After some deliberation, Grace had decided that church was the right place for the unveiling. The plan was for her to wear the heavy veil into the sanctuary as she did each week, but remove it once she and Catherine were in their customary seats in the front of the church.

  Though Hannah knew that Grace’s scars were gone, Austin had said they would sit in the back of the church, since neither of them could predict Hannah’s reaction when she first saw Grace.

  If everything went as planned, few would see her face until the service was over, delaying the inevitable questions and speculation and giving Grace a chance to bask in the peace that worship always brought her. All that would change once the benediction was pronounced and the congregation began to file out of the church.

  Both Grace and Catherine knew the grapevine would buzz at the sight of the widow without her veil. As Lydia and Travis had pointed out, the familial resemblance was remarkable. Catherine prayed there would be no unpleasantness, but there was no way to know how some of the town’s busybodies would react.

  That concern was trivial compared to the fear that Grace’s rapist would recognize her. If he did, what would he do? Would he flee, or would he feign innocence? Though part of Catherine hoped the man who had attacked Grace was long gone from Cimarron Creek, another part knew that Grace needed to know who had fathered her child.

  Grace held out her hands. “Look at me. My hands are trembling like leaves in the wind. I keep telling myself he won’t be there, that a man who did what he did wouldn’t be enough of a hypocrite to attend church, but I haven’t managed to convince myself.”

  Grasping Grace’s hands to still the trembling, Catherine said, “It’s possible that he repented and that if he is there and recognizes you, he’ll ask for your forgiveness.”

  “Do you believe that?” The catch in Grace’s voice said she did not.

  “I’d like to. But even if that doesn’t happen, you won’t be alone.” Besides Catherine, Lydia and Travis would be in the pew with Grace.

  Grace managed a weak smile and lowered her veil. “I know. Thank you.”

  Ten minutes later, they walked down the central aisle of the sanctuary and took seats in their usual pew. Grace gripped Catherine’s hand for an instant before releasing it to lift her veil.

  The unusual act did not go unnoticed. Catherine heard murmurs from several women in the pews behind them and a gasp coming from the pew opposite them. Aunt Mary’s eyes were wide with surprise. As Catherine watched, she nudged Uncle Charles. He turned, obviously annoyed, but the annoyance vanished the instant he saw Grace. Blood drained from his face, and though he did not speak the name, Catherine saw his lips form the word Joan.

  Afterward she could not have said which hymns they sang and what subject Reverend Dunn had chosen for his sermon. Though she tried to focus on the service, Catherine’s mind was whirling with the memory of the fear she’d seen in Uncle Charles’s eyes. It was so strange. She couldn’t imagine why he would look afraid when he saw Joan. Unless . . .

  Was it possible that her uncle was Grace’s assailant? As memories of the way he’d treated her—the touches, the leers, the overly long hugs—flooded through her, Catherine knew it was not only possible, it was likely.

  “There’s something we need to do,” she told Grace as they filed out of the church. Fortunately, Grace had kept her eyes fixed on the altar when she’d lifted her veil and was unaware of Aunt Mary’s and Uncle Charles’s reactions. “I hope I’m wrong, but I’m afraid I’m not.”

  Grace closed her eyes for a second. “You think he’s here?” There was no question of who she meant.

  “Yes, but we need to be sure.” Dodging parishioners who wanted to talk to Grace, Catherine led her toward her aunt and uncle, who were standing with Warner. It wasn’t her imagination, Catherine was certain, that Uncle Charles was nervous when he saw them approaching.

  “Good morning, ladies.” His greeting sounded forced.

  Aunt Mary studied Grace’s face. Though Catherine knew she had observed the resemblance to other Whitfields, she said only, “I’m glad to see that your mourning is ending, Mrs. Sims. Will you both be joining us for dinner today? I’m serving roast chicken.”

  Catherine cared nothing about the menu or her aunt’s attempt at friendliness. She needed an answer to her question. Grace had said that the man who attacked her had a scar on the back of his neck. Was that the reason Uncle Charles wore his hair longer than fashionable? There was only one way to find out.

  Catherine walked boldly to her uncle’s side and raised her hand to brush aside the hair that covered his neck.

  Tucker settled back in one of the rocking chairs on the front porch of the boardinghouse that he now called home and looked around. Oklahoma wasn’t as bad as he’d feared. Thanks to men with more money than sense when it came to poker, he had no trouble paying for his room. Six days a week he played cards in the saloon. Six days a week his pockets were full. The problem was the seventh day.

  There was nothing to do on Sunday. Everything was shut tighter than a miser’s purse. No stores, no saloons, nothing to do but go to church, and that was one thing Tucker had no intention of doing. He’d heard enough about fire and brimstone when he was growing up. He didn’t need another preacher telling him what would happen if he didn’t repent and walk the straight and narrow. He knew what fate awaited him, and it was too late to change. That was why he was stuck here leafing through one of the magazines someone had left in the parlor.

  He frowned as he turned a page. There was nothing to interest a man, just a bunch of words and too many advertisements for those patent medicines the ladies seemed to like.

  Tucker flipped another page. Figures. The only real picture was a drawing of some rancher tending to a cow. Tucker had no interest in cows, and his only interest in ranchers was in parting them from their earnings. He turned to the next page, then stopped. There was something familiar about that picture, something that tickled his brain. He turned back to it and stared, his heartbeat accelerating at what he saw.

  Yes, sirree! He’d found the mother lode right here in the land of cows with long horns. Tucker grinned as he studied the picture again. No doubt about it. That was no ordinary rancher looking at a cow’s leg. That was Austin Goddard, the man he had traveled halfway across the country to find. And thanks to some artist named Seth Dalton, Tucker knew exactly where the good doctor was hiding out. Yes, sirree. Lady Luck was with him today.

  Gripping the magazine in one hand, he strode down the street, practically running until he reached the telegraph office. “Send this to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania,” he directed the man when he’d written out the message. One of Enright’s cardinal rules was that someone checked for messages every day. Before he ate breakfast tomorrow morning, Enright would know of Tucker’s success. Now all he had to do was find his way to Cimarron Creek, Texas.

  23

  What is going on?” Aunt Mary slapped Catherine’s hand as she brushed the hair from Uncle Charles’s neck, revealing a curved scar. Knowing how vain he was, Catherine suspected hiding it was the reason he’d always worn his hair longer than fashionable. He hadn’t wanted anyone to see that his skin wasn’t perfect.

  “How dare you be so familiar with my husband?”

  Ignoring her aunt, Catherine turned to Grace, who’d shifted her position so that she had a clear view of the o
lder man’s neck. “Is this what you remember?”

  Her face as pale as Uncle Charles’s had been, Grace nodded but said nothing. For once in her life, the woman who delivered almost as many monologues as her mother had was speechless. Catherine’s fears had been confirmed. She looked at her aunt, wondering if she had any idea what had just transpired and how many lives would be impacted if the truth were revealed.

  “This is not the place to have this discussion,” Catherine said firmly. While no one was close enough to overhear them now, that could change, particularly if the conversation became heated. And then there was Grace. As Catherine watched, she fingered her veil, as if she wanted to pull it over her face. Though she left it swept back, the pallor in her cheeks told Catherine she was shocked by the revelation. While Grace had known it was possible—perhaps even probable—that her attacker still lived in Cimarron Creek, Catherine doubted she had expected him to be a part of the family.

  “Grace and I are unable to accept your invitation to dinner,” Catherine told her aunt. She could not imagine sitting at the same table as Uncle Charles, knowing what she now did. “She and I need some time alone, but we will call on you this afternoon. You may expect us at two.”

  Aunt Mary bristled. Her lips thinned and her eyes radiated anger as she glared at her niece. “I resent your tone, Catherine. I am not one of your pupils. If you intend to continue like this, you will not be welcome in my home, neither you nor Mrs. Sims.”

  “Joan.” Uncle Charles spoke for the first time, his voice little more than a croak. “She’s Joan Henderson, Bertha’s daughter.”

  Grace nodded. “Yes, I am. Or rather, I was. But as Catherine said, she and I need to reflect on what we’ve learned this morning.” Her voice had returned, and so had her determination. She laid her hand on Catherine’s arm. “It’s time for us to return home.”

  Though it was not the shortest route, Grace turned onto Oak, clearly wanting to avoid the curious parishioners clustered around the front of the church. Grace’s obvious resemblance to the founding families coupled with the heated discussion with Aunt Mary and Uncle Charles was certain to set tongues wagging. Fortunately, no one had any reason to link Austin to Grace’s smooth skin. As he had promised, Austin had kept Hannah in the back of the church and had ushered her out as soon as the service was over, lest she inadvertently say something that might trigger speculation. As far as the congregation knew, Grace’s face had always been beautiful. That was good. The scene with Aunt Mary and Uncle Charles was not.

  Once they were inside the house and had put away their hats and gloves, Catherine turned to Grace. Though it was time for the midday meal, she suspected Grace had as little appetite as she did. “What do you want to do about Charles?” Catherine couldn’t bear to refer to him as “uncle” and admit that they were related, if only by marriage.

  Grace sank onto one of the chairs, waiting until Catherine was seated across from her before she spoke. “There’s only one thing to do. I need to forgive him.”

  Though it was the right thing to do, it wasn’t Grace’s only choice. “Even if you do that, you could still press charges against him. What he did was wrong.”

  Tears filled Grace’s eyes, but her voice was firm as she said, “Nothing good would come from that. If Charles’s conscience hasn’t punished him, sitting in jail won’t make him repent. It would only cause his family pain. Mary and Warner don’t deserve that.”

  Once again Catherine was struck by Grace’s kindness. This was the woman who had hesitated over having life-changing surgery because she did not want to endanger Hannah. Now she was worried about her attacker’s family. But they weren’t the only ones to consider.

  “What if he hurts another woman? How would you feel if you let him go unpunished and that happened?”

  Though she hadn’t intended it, something in Catherine’s voice must have betrayed her personal concerns, for Grace laid her hand on Catherine’s. “Did he hurt you?”

  “Not the way he did you, but there were touches and looks that made me uncomfortable. The only reason I went to Sunday dinner at their house was to support Warner.”

  Grace was silent for a moment, considering. “You’re right. We’ll talk to Charles. After I’ve forgiven him, we’ll tell Travis what Charles did. It’ll be up to him to decide on the punishment.” Once again, Grace was magnanimous.

  “I doubt I could be as generous as you and offer forgiveness for something so horrible.” Though she knew it was wrong, Catherine still had not forgiven Doc Harrington for his role in her mother’s death.

  “You might be surprised at how strong you are. Douglas used to tell me that adversity forces us to search deep inside us and that it reveals who we truly are. I’ve made my decision. Now I hope that I can follow through with it.” Grace stared at her hands for a few seconds. “I’m not looking forward to this afternoon, but I am looking forward to it being over.”

  “Come in.” Aunt Mary’s voice was curt, and her customary smile was missing. “Charles is in the parlor. He said this had nothing to do with our son, so Warner is visiting Travis.” She led the way to the sitting room and gestured toward the chairs facing the settee where Charles was seated. Catherine noticed that he did not pay them the courtesy of rising when she and Grace entered the room.

  “What is this all about, Joan?” Aunt Mary’s voice held more than a hint of rancor. “I thought you’d died years ago.” Her belligerent tone was only making a difficult situation worse.

  Apparently refusing to sink to Aunt Mary’s level, Grace kept her voice neutral. “As you can see, I did not die. I left Cimarron Creek because my parents did not want the shame of having an unwed mother for a daughter. They did not want anyone to think that a Henderson was less than perfect.”

  Charles frowned but remained silent while his wife smirked. “So, you got yourself in trouble,” she said, a note of gloating in her voice. Catherine could almost hear her thinking, How the mighty are fallen. If this was how family reacted, it was no wonder Aunt Bertha and Uncle Jonas had not wanted their daughter to remain in Cimarron Creek and be subjected to the town’s censure.

  “What does this have to do with us?” Aunt Mary demanded.

  “Grace didn’t get herself in trouble, as you put it.” Catherine leapt to her friend’s defense, not wanting Grace to have to deal with what Catherine suspected would soon become verbal abuse. She had seen the way Aunt Mary had attacked Lydia after Aunt Bertha’s death and wanted to spare Grace that pain.

  “Grace was raped.” Though she had planned to say “attacked,” the defiance on her aunt’s face made Catherine use the harsher word. She wanted there to be no doubt of exactly what Charles had done. “It was dark and she didn’t see the man, but when she was struggling to get away, she felt a curved scar on the back of his neck—a scar like the one your husband has.”

  Blood rushed to Aunt Mary’s face, and she clenched her fists in anger. “You can’t be suggesting that Charles would have done such a vile thing. It’s preposterous.”

  “Ask him.” While her aunt had raised her voice to little less than a shout, Catherine kept hers low.

  “Preposterous!” Aunt Mary repeated the word. “I trust Charles. He would never hurt a young girl. He loves me.” She turned to her husband. “Isn’t that right, Charles?”

  “Of course it is. She’s lying.” His words were brave, but they held no conviction, and judging from the way Aunt Mary moved closer to the edge of the settee, putting a distance between herself and her husband, she knew it.

  “Are you planning to tell Travis of your suspicions?” Aunt Mary glared at Grace, as if daring her to involve the sheriff. Aunt Bertha and Uncle Jonas hadn’t been the only ones in the Henderson-Whitfield clan who worried about having the family name besmirched.

  “No. There’s been enough suffering. I don’t want to cause you any pain.” Grace kept her gaze fixed on Aunt Mary as she said, “I’ve forgiven Charles for what he did. The only thing I want is for him to admit to thos
e of us in this room that he was the father of my child.”

  As Grace turned to look at him, Charles sneered. “You can’t be sure. Anyone could have seen you leaving your cousins’ house.”

  He’d convicted himself and he hadn’t even realized it. Catherine shook her head. “Grace didn’t say where or when the attack took place. Only one other person would have known that.”

  The blood drained from Aunt Mary’s face, leaving her as pale as a ghost. She stared at the man she’d married, horror on her face. “You did it, didn’t you? What kind of man are you?”

  He lowered his head under the force of her fury. “She was so pretty. All the fellas said that.”

  Aunt Mary rose and pointed a finger at Grace. “There’s your answer, Joan. He admitted it. Are you happy?”

  Though she’d flinched at being called Joan, Grace shook her head. “No, I’m not happy, but at least I know the truth.”

  “And so do I.” Aunt Mary took a step away from the settee, as if distancing herself from the man who’d betrayed his marriage vows and dishonored Grace. “The man I loved, the man I thought loved me, was no better than a rutting stallion.” She glared down at her husband. “How will I ever be able to hold my head up in this town? First my son, now my husband.”

  She strode to the small desk in the corner of the room and tugged the drawer open. Before Catherine realized what she intended, her aunt pulled a revolver from the desk. “I hate you, Charles,” Aunt Mary said as she aimed the weapon at him. “I hate you.”