by Barbara Goss
“Can Dusty go with us?” she asked.
Jeremy frowned. “Dusty is visiting his family and will be gone a few days.” He raised one shaggy eyebrow. “He didn't tell you?”
She tried to hide her disappointment. “He did say something about it. I'd forgotten.”
The Garrisons lived a mere mile from the Grants, in a large, two-story home with pillars that impressed Brook more than the affluence. Jeremy explained that Elmer Garrison owned the large, prosperous general store.
A lovely Mexican girl answered the door and led them to a sitting room to await the Garrisons.
Brook's first impression of Elmer and Martha Garrison was disappointing. She didn't know why she felt let down; perhaps she'd expected to see a glamorous couple exactly resembling herself.
Elmer was short, wiry, and nearly bald, with black hair only adorning the sides of his large, shiny head. He seemed nervous and business-like, hardly the type she'd expect to be capable of giving the type of love Mrs. Grant had to give her offspring.
Martha wrung her handkerchief nervously the whole time. A thin, serious woman, the deeply embedded frown lines showed she was a worrier. Her medium-brown hair, pulled tightly back into a bun, gave her a severe look.
The couple greeted them stiffly, and Brook could see they were quite curious as to why Jeremy Grant and a strange woman would call on them. She wondered how Captain Grant would handle the situation.
Grant had introduced her merely as his friend, Brook. When they were all seated and comfortable, the Garrisons looked blankly at Jeremy Grant. He cleared his throat and laughed nervously. “I suppose you wonder why we are here. Well, let me explain,” he said, smiling at Brook. “My friend is visiting us and wanted to meet someone who'd lost family to Indians.”
Martha gasped slightly and her hand flew to her mouth in dismay.
“You see,” Grant continued, “she lost her family also and, well. ... I thought if she talked to others who had experienced similar circumstances, it would make it easier for her. Will you help her?”
“Indians attacked her family, too?” Mr. Garrison asked.
“A Comanche raid separated her from her family,” Jeremy said.
“Comanche? It was Comanche who took our baby girl, too! Right, Elmer?” Martha's eyes bulged with excitement.
Elmer merely nodded.
“How old was she?” Grant asked.
“Young,” Martha said. “She was only six months old.”
“Do you think she's still alive and living with the Indians?” Jeremy Grant asked casually.
“We try not to think about it,” Elmer curtly replied.
Jeremy Grant was not put off. “But let's just say she did survive and stood on your doorstep one morning. Would you know her?”
The couple seemed thoughtful.
“I would think she'd resemble someone on either side of our family. Yes, I would know her,” Elmer said with conviction.
Jeremy looked at Mrs. Garrison. “Would you know your daughter?”
“Well,” Martha began, “I'm not sure. Her hair was dark, her eyes brown, and,” she perked with sudden excitement, “I remember she had a birthmark on her right leg. So, yes, I would know her.”
Jeremy Grant swung a quick look at Brook. She shook her head slightly.
They stayed and made small talk before saying good-bye. The couple expressed sympathy for Brook and her family, and Brook assured them that sharing their tragedy with her helped cope with her loss.
Brook left the Garrisons' home elated. Jeremy Grant, however, seemed disappointed.
As they rode side by side toward home, Brook expressed her relief that Elmer and Martha were not her parents. She chattered on and on about it before noticing Jeremy's silence. “Is something wrong?” she asked.
“When do you want to visit the McCallisters?” he countered.
“We may as well get it over with.” He hesitated, and then agreed. “Tomorrow we visit Angus McCallister.”
Chapter 5
Brook opened her eyes to bright spring sunshine. Smoky, basking in the strong Texas rays, stretched lazily at the bottom of the bed, repositioning himself to make the most of the sun's warmth. Brook stretched also.
Today she would visit the McCallisters. Jeremy had said Angus' wife was the second Mrs. McCallister. If Angus was her father, then that meant her mother had died. A strong sense of disappointment swept over her. She wanted a mother so badly, especially after meeting Jeremy's loving mother. Jeremy had also said that the son was probably a stepson; therefore she'd have no sisters or brothers. Again a wave of disappointment engulfed her. Perhaps, she thought, searching for a bright spot, the McCallisters were not her family either. Maybe a loving older couple would turn out to be her own parents. She banished the thought. No sense setting herself up for disappointment.
A soft knock on her door broke off her daydreams. “Come in,” she called, pulling her sheet up to her chin.
“It’s only me”, Flora Grant whispered as she entered.
Brook smiled. “Good morning.”
Mrs. Grant eased into the chair beside her bed. “Just came to tell you breakfast is ready and, she paused for breath. Poor Mrs. Grant was so corpulent that often she had to catch her breath after a minor exertion such as climbing the stairs.
“And,” she continued, “to invite you to our worship service. We usually visit the local church, but we can't today because we must keep you a secret until we find your family. When we can't go to church, we make our own. Will you join us?”
Brook hesitated, remembering the Tatums' elaborate, long services. Considering her place as a guest in this lovely home, she answered as her conscience commanded. “Yes, of course I'll join you.”
“Wonderful. Jeremy will be pleased,” Flora answered, pulling herself to her feet once more. “Services begin in an hour. You'd best get dressed and breakfasted.” She patted the kitten. “Such a good little fellow you are, Smoky.”
“Is Dusty back yet?” Brook asked.
“No, he won't be back for a few days. His family lives on a reservation in Oklahoma, quite a ride away.”
Brook swung her legs from the bed. “I'll be down in a few minutes.”
Mrs. Grant left with a sad, thoughtful look that Brook thought she understood. She's disappointed because I seem more interested in friendship with Dusty than her son.
After a hearty breakfast, Brook was escorted to the living room, where Flora played a hymn on the piano that stood against one wall. Grant smiled the first real welcome ever as she apprehensively edged into a chair.
As soon as Mrs. Grant's song ended, her son cleared his throat. He stood before the fireplace with a Bible balanced in one hand.
“Our message this morning,” he announced, “is from my favorite book of the Bible, James. We'll look at chapter five, verses thirteen through eighteen, on prayer.”
“Is any among you afflicted? Let him pray. Is any merry? Let him sing psalms…” he began to read.
Brook listened carefully, anticipating a long, boring recitation.
". . . And he prayed again, and the heaven gave rain, and the earth brought forth her fruit." Jeremy closed the book softly. Mrs. Grant sat beside her, with hands folded serenely in her lap.
Jeremy stood before them and talked, not preached, to them. “There is power in prayer,” he said. “But you may not receive unless you ask. God is your Father. He loves you. You are His child, and He wants to give you what is best for you. It is very important that you talk to Him. Just as earthly parents and children must communicate, so must you converse with your Father in heaven.”
Brook found herself paying careful attention. This was different from Mr. Tatum's long sermons. Jeremy was not preaching or reading words she didn't understand directly from the book. He was talking to her in plain language. She cocked her auburn head, as if to ask, “How do I talk to God?”
As if in direct answer, Jeremy's next statement was clear. “Talk to God just as you would your earthly
father. You don't need words from a book or fancy prayers. Just tell Him how you feel. Yes, He does know everything already. Sometimes parents know what their children will say, yet they still long to hear those thoughts spoken. As parents must communicate with children, so must we communicate with God, our Father. God wants you to take the time to talk to Him. It shows you care enough to share your thoughts, hopes, and wishes with Him. He thrives on it."
While Jeremy went on to describe the different ways God answers prayer, Brook's mind still dwelt on talking to God as one would a real father. She didn't know how to talk to a real father either, so how should she talk to God?
If God was her Father, she reasoned, then no matter what happened, she had family. God was family. Hadn't Jeremy said so? He'd also said God loved her. Therefore, no matter what happened with the Garrisons or the McCallisters, she would not worry. She had a Father, a loving, understanding Father who'd love her the way Mrs. Grant loved Jeremy.
The McCallisters lived about two miles from the town, in a sprawling ranch house with many surrounding buildings. Brook and Jeremy stood on the large veranda, waiting for an answer to his knock. Nervously Brook played with the parasol Mrs. Grant had given her to protect her skin from the sun. She liked it better than the floppy hat she'd always worn while she'd stayed with the Indians, because, unlike the Indians, she sunburned easily. Brook tilted her head to get the most of a breeze, for the day grew hot. The ruffles of her gray and red dress bounced lightly in the wind. She patted them back into place and twisted her red parasol again.
Finally, an older, white-haired woman dressed in black opened the door and peeked out. Bright blue eyes were all that was left to show she'd once been attractive. Opening the door just a crack, she squinted up as Jeremy spoke, watching his face carefully.
When he asked if Mr. McCallister was at home and could see them, she nodded. Then, the cautious woman switched her glance to Brook, who instantly smiled to show they were harmless and friendly. Instead of assurance, a look of pure horror spread across the woman's face, and she shrieked, holding one hand to her breast.
“Goodness, what's wrong, Jeremy?” Brook gasped.
Catching her as she fell, he murmured, “I don't know. What happened?”
Holding the woman in his arms, he called into the house, “Anyone home? Mrs. McCallister? Angus? Anyone here?”
A short, stocky woman came to help Jeremy. “What happened to her? Who are you?” she asked as she eased Jeremy's burden into an upholstered chair near the front door. Jeremy and Brook followed her into the living room.
Brook looked about curiously. She loved the room, which looked and smelled like nature. Her eyes scanned the wooden walls and the stone fireplace with live plants growing upon the sturdy wooden mantel.
Jeremy introduced himself and Brook and explained that he'd hardly told the old woman their business when she had screamed and collapsed.
“She'll be fine,” the woman with salt and peppered hair, said without affection. “The old prune is tougher than all of us.” As the old woman drooped in the chair, the younger one introduced herself: “I'm Angus' wife, Ada, and this,” she nodded toward the other woman, “is his mother, Maggie. Please have a seat.” When her guests dropped together onto the large sofa with thick oak legs and arms, she chose the matching armchair across from them. She did not relax, but perched on the edge of her seat as if ready to leave on an impulse.
“What can I do for you?” she questioned politely.
“Is Angus at home?” Jeremy asked.
“Yes, but he's indisposed at the moment.”
Glancing uneasily at poor Maggie, he expressed concern. “Are you certain she's all right?”
“Quite. She's merely fainted.”
“I see.” Jeremy looked about the room nervously, as if thinking his way out of a dilemma. “We did want to see Angus ... as well as yourself, that is.”
“May I ask why?”
From her chair near the door, Maggie began to come back to reality. Jeremy explained, “It's about his daughter.”
Brook gave him a surprised look, and then glanced at Maggie, who had gasped more loudly than Ada McCallister. Maggie stared, wide-eyed at Brook.
“Daughter?” Ada repeated, as if she'd never heard the word before.
Maggie pounded the arms of her chair with both hands and made a cackling noise that Brook could only identify as a laugh because of the sparkle in the old woman's eyes.
“Pay her no mind,” ordered Ada. “She's—” Instead of using words, Ada pointed to her own temple, made a wry face, and whispered, “You know what I mean?”
When Brook and Jeremy nodded, Ada regained her composure. “Yes. Angus had a daughter, but she and his first wife were killed by Comanche many years ago. Of course I never met either, so I cannot tell you much about them, except what I've heard. What would you like to know?”
Jeremy watched Maggie carefully as he spoke to Ada. “What about Maggie? Surely she remembers. May we ask her?”
Maggie watched them all with a knowing look and bright, sparkling eyes.
“She probably could tell you plenty, except she doesn't speak. She took sick several years ago and hasn't spoken a word since then.”
Jeremy's face showed disappointment. “Well, then, we must see Angus. Please take us to him.”
“He doesn't see anyone. He's ill.”
Brook watched Maggie carefully. The woman might not speak with her mouth, but her face spoke volumes. Maggie didn't like Ada or at least didn't like what she had said.
Jeremy grew agitated. “We must see him. We'll make an appointment.”
Ada stood and spoke softly but harshly. “That is not possible. I'll show you to the door.”
The old woman slapped the arms of her chair again, and then stamped her feet loudly, as if to gain attention.
“See what I mean?” Ada said.
“Perhaps,” Brook spoke for the first time, “she wants to tell us something.”
Maggie's face took on an excited look, with a slight smile, but it drooped suddenly as Ada opened the front door.
“Sorry I couldn't help you. Good day.”
Jeremy shrugged, and then reluctantly followed her to the door.
Maggie's pleading eyes held Brook's, and Brook stood stubbornly, with arms folded before her. “I'm not leaving.”
“Brook!” Jeremy looked back at her in amazement. “But you must….” He glanced from Brook to Ada. “We've been shown the door.”
“This home also belongs to Angus and Maggie, and she'd like me to stay until I see Angus. Isn't that right, Maggie?”
The old woman nodded excitedly and began pounding the chair arms again.
“Please, miss,” Ada implored. “Don't start trouble. The old lady is nutty enough now. Don't encourage her.” She held the door wider. “Please leave. Quickly.”
Jeremy Grant looked from one woman to the other in confusion before letting his eyes rest on Brook. He didn't scowl, as she'd expected, but smiled proudly. “My friend has a point, Mrs. McCallister. We are Maggie's guests.”
Ada let the door slam shut. “But the woman is crazy!”
“I think she is merely frustrated by not being able to talk,” Brook said, smiling at the old woman affectionately. Maggie smiled in return and nodded excitedly. “I believe Maggie will take us to Angus.”
With a curt nod and a big smile, the old woman stood and took Brook's hand.
“Now see here,” cried Ada. “I'll get my son! Ram will put an end to this foolishness.”
But Brook's next remark knocked the anger from Ada McCallister and made her mouth drop in shock. “Maggie is taking me to see the man who may be my father.”
Already leading them down the long hall, Maggie turned to see the shocked expression on Ada's face and cackled loudly.
Brook and Jeremy allowed Maggie to pull them down the narrow passage and around a corner, until they stood before a large wooden door. Maggie held up her hand, motioning them to halt as she squeezed
through the portal and closed it behind her. Evidently she wanted to prepare Angus for the visit.
Jeremy stood close, for the hall was extremely narrow. He gently put his hands upon Brook's shoulders. “Now don't get your hopes up,” he whispered.
“What do you mean?”
“He may not be your father, or he may not be what you'd like your father to be.”
She looked up at him in puzzlement. “Do you know something I don't?”
“I haven't seen the man in years, but…” he let his voice drop. “I just don't want to see you disappointed.”
She smiled. “No one can choose parents.”
“Yes, but Ada said he was ill. He may be sicker than you think, or—”
Before he could finish, the door opened, and Maggie appeared. Taking one hand of each, she gently pulled them into the darkened room.
Chapter 6
On the way back to Captain Grant's home, Brook remained silent. Jeremy rode beside her, quiet also. What thoughts labored in that handsome, proud head? Brook could only wonder, for he said so little. Yet she felt herself beginning to like him, despite her first impression. Perhaps Mrs. Grant had pleaded his case well, or maybe his recent considerate conduct had changed her mind. Whatever the reason, her feelings toward him had definitely begun to alter. Yet she dearly missed Dusty.
Her fondness for Mrs. Grant, Jeremy, and Dusty comforted her somewhat in her disappointment today. What more family did she need? She had God, too, she reminded herself. A true Father. Her earthly one had proved to be less than what she had longed for.
As they neared the populated area of Fort Worth and began taking Jeremy's shortcuts—winding up and down one street after another—Brook replayed the afternoon in her mind.
The old woman—Brook liked her. Was that woman her grandmother? Despite her inability to speak, Brook felt no disappointment about Maggie. She was intriguing and spunky, and Brook liked to think she had inherited those qualities from her—if indeed they were related.
