“I just don’t know if I’m strong enough to get through all of this by myself,” she whispered, then leaned her head down until her forehead rested on their clutched hands.
“Maybe you won’t have to.” He lifted her chin.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you and Sadie can stay here as long as you like. Even after the others have gone. My mother loves having you here.
“Really?”
Brent tried to sound reassuring as he spoke. “Just relax and stay put for a while. Don’t worry about the future. Each day has enough grief of its own.”
“That’s a scripture.” Emma dabbed at her eyes.
“Is it?” he said, his forehead wrinkling as he thought about it. “Maybe I learned something in Sunday school, after all.”
“You were a Sunday school kid?”
“Of course. But I was a little monster – at least that’s what they tell me.”
“That’s hard to imagine.”
“A holy terror,” he said with a laugh. “Or so I hear. A lot like some of these kids my mom has taken in.” A couple of youngsters chose that very moment to race across the room, chasing one another. They bumped into Emma, nearly spilling the cup of coffee.
“Sorry, Miss!” Off they ran, their laughter and chatter almost contagious.
“If I ever get married, I’m going to have daughters,” Brent said, as he glanced their way.
“Oh, you’re so sure, are you?” Emma asked.
For the first time in days, Brent saw a smile cross her lips. “Well, pretty sure. I figure girls are easier than boys. What about you?” Emma forged ahead with her answer.
“Me? I’m probably never going to get married – at least not now. I’ve got Sadie to think about. She needs me.”
“Of course she does, but don’t give up completely on the idea of finding the right person,” Brent said, grinning at her. “I’m sure some dashingly handsome fellow is going to come along and snatch you up.”
“Well then,” she said playfully. “I’ll have boys. Four boys.”
“That’s funny,” Brent said softly.
“What?”
“Oh nothing.” His hands began to tremble a little. “It’s just that I’ve always wanted four kids too.”
“But girls. You want girls,” Emma said, as she pulled her hand away. “So that settles it.”
“Settles what?”
“You’re not the dashingly handsome fellow that’s going to sweep me off my feet!” she said with a laugh. “Couldn’t be.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Brent reached for her hand once again. This time, for some reason, he couldn’t seem to let go.
***
Friday, September 14th, 7:51 a.m. The Murphy Villa
Gillian’s eyes shifted back and forth from Brent to Emma. They were lost in conversation, completely unaware of the fact that she had entered the kitchen. They seemed so completely unlike each other, and yet…
In so many ways they complemented each other. The last couple of days had convinced her that Emma’s visit here was far more than coincidental. In some unique way, the storm had brought Brent and Emma together. What a beautiful couple they make.
Her heart began to break within her, as she thought about Douglas. Where are you? Will you come back to us? Their marriage had already weathered so many storms. Brent’s article in The Courier had pretty much captured the story – the tale of how she longed for a child but couldn’t have one. The reality of adopting a little boy who turned out to be such a difficulty.
Had he really been that difficult, that rebellious? Looking across the room at him now, all Gillian saw was a well-mannered young man who seemed to always look out for the interest of others. He’s so wonderful, even if he’s not our own flesh and blood. Some things run deeper than that. But would Douglas ever forgive her for not being able to bear the son he had longed for, someone to carry on the Murphy name? Someone to pick up where he left off when he retired from the railroad? Someone who loved the things he loved and hated the things he hated? Would he always hold her responsible?
“Come home to us, Douglas,” she whispered, “and see your son. See what an amazing man he is. See what others see in him. See what I see in him.” Gillian immediately dissolved into a haze of silent tears, turning her head away from Brent and Emma – tears for a son who needed a father and tears for her own broken heart. An unbearable ache gripped her. Lord, bring him home to me. I’m not too proud to beg, Father. I need him. I love him. In spite of everything, I will always love him.
***
Friday, September 14th, 9:52 a.m. The Courier
Everett Maxwell could not believe his good fortune at meeting one of the world’s most acclaimed women. Clara Barton. She stood before him now – a small thing with eyes that burned like fire. What a fervor! He knew and recognized such zeal, though it had certainly been lacking in his own eyes in recent days.
“Miss Barton, it’s so wonderful to meet you.” Everett extended his hand in the elderly woman’s direction. She gripped it firmly. Even for a woman in her late seventies, she had quite a grip.
“How was your trip down from D.C.?”
“Long and extremely tiring.” She took a seat across from his desk. Getting across from the mainland was quite a chore. Folks all the way up to Houston are fighting to get here – but I guess I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.”
“It’s going to take some time to get everything in place,” he responded. “But I’m so glad you’re here now. How are you, Miss Barton?”
“I’m fine,” she said, her face never losing its serious edge. “We’ve settled in and are preparing to set up a temporary office to work out of. We’re sharing headquarters with The New York World.”
“So I hear,” Everett said. “Right here on The Strand.”
“The folks at that newspaper have been so kind,” she said.
Sure. Since when have big city reporters been kind?
“They’ve agreed all contributions the paper receives will go toward our efforts at the Red Cross.”
Everett shook his head in disbelief. “Really?”
“Really. And I plan to take advantage of this opportunity for the children of Galveston.”
“That’s very kind of you,” Everett said with a nod. “So, with all those newspapermen over at your place, what brings you here – to The Courier?”
“Those gentlemen aren’t Galvestonians,” she replied. “You are. You know this island inside and out – at least from what I’ve read in your paper.”
“You’ve read our little paper?” He felt his lips turn up in a smile.
“Absolutely. And I particularly loved that story about the little orphan girl. What was her name, again?”
“Lilly Mae.”
“Yes,” Clara said. “She’s the reason I’m here. I—and I’m speaking for the Red Cross here—want to establish a new orphanage for the storm’s littlest victims.”
Everett nodded. “Much needed.”
“We’ll also be needing lumber to help people rebuild homes,” she said as she jotted down notes. “But that will take money – which is one of the reasons I’ve come to you.”
Everett swallowed hard. Money? She thinks I have access to money?
“I had an idea about raising funds,” she continued. “We’ll take dozens of photographs of the devastation and sell them.”
“Sell them?” A novel idea.
“Naturally. I’ll be speaking at a conference on the east coast in a few weeks. I’ll take photographs with me. We’ll sell them anywhere and everywhere. Once people see the destruction with their own eyes, I have no doubt they will be filled with compassion for you Galvestonians. What has happened here is simply unbelievable.”
Everett nodded in agreement. “Let’s pray it never happens again.”
“Mr. Maxwell, that is the prayer of the entire country. Now, point me in the direction of that young whipper-snapper – the one who did the write-
up on the little girl. I’d like to meet him in person.”
“Brent Murphy? He’s at home for a much-needed rest. Should I send for him?”
“No sir.” Clara stood. “There will be plenty of time for that later. Right now I need to get settled into the hotel.”
“Can I escort you?” He offered his arm.
She took it willingly. “I’d be delighted.”
***
Friday, September 14th, 11:45 a.m. Galveston Island
Henri paced back and forth across the beach, sand between her toes, and the now-familiar smell of putrid smoke rising to her nostrils. She choked back the wave of nausea that suddenly swept over her.
“This doesn’t make sense.” She stopped to review the situation in her mind once again. “I need to go home. The very last thing I need to be doing is staying here and…”
Helping.
There are children everywhere who need help. And, according to Big John, I have a mission here. Maybe I’m not alone. Clara Barton is here now. With both of us on the same team, who knows what might happen?
“But Lord,” she argued aloud in prayer, “this is ridiculous. I’m so young!”
Immediately she was reminded of the biblical story of Timothy, a young man who had been used mightily of God. His age hadn’t been a hindrance.
“But I’m not good at leading, and they’re going to need leaders,” she argued.
I have called you. I will equip you. For the first time in forever, Henrietta Mullins heard the Lord’s voice – and wept with sheer relief.
***
Friday, September 14th, 10:22 p.m. The Murphy Villa
Emma entered the Victorian home, completely exhausted. It had been a long walk from the hospital, one she did not care to repeat any time soon.
“Just couldn’t stay away, could you?” She looked up into Brent’s eyes. They were kind, compassionate.
“No,” she said wearily, feeling every muscle in her body ache. “I had to go back and see what could be done. Your mother said she didn’t mind keeping an eye on Sadie.”
“Sadie’s fast asleep,” Brent said. “Has been ever since I got home from the paper. I think she’s enjoying her stay here.”
“There’s much to enjoy here,” Emma said. No sooner were the words out than she realized what she had said. “I mean,” she stammered, “it’s such a lovely home, and your mother is so kind.”
“Is that all?” He gently took hold of her hand. She couldn’t help but notice the ink under his nails, even in the warm, soft glow of the lamplight. Emma felt her heart begin to flutter. Their eyes met for a brief moment.
“No. That’s not all.” Her gaze shifted to the ground. “I, uh… I have enjoyed getting to know you too, Mr. Murphy.”
“Mr. Murphy?” He let go of her hand abruptly. Emma looked at him curiously.
“What did I say?”
“I’m not Mr. Murphy, that’s all,” Brent said with a shrug. “I’ll never live up to that name. Trust me.”
“There’s more to a man than his name.” She reached for his hand once again. “And, at least as far as I’m concerned, you are a remarkable man. You risked your life to save my sister. You’ve given of yourself several times over to help others in need. If that’s not a man, I don’t know what is.”
***
Friday, September 14th, 10:53 p.m. The Murphy Villa
She called me a man. For the first time in years, someone has referred to me as something other than a child. In my heart, I know that I have become a man my father could be proud of. All that separated us seems too nonsensical now, in light of all that has happened. When he comes back…
Brent looked up from his tablet, scratching his head. “If you will come home,” he whispered, “I will make you proud.”
Moments later, he drifted off to sleep. A dream overtook him immediately, and he tossed and turned as it progressed.
Standing alone at the station, a fog began to roll in. Brent gazed to the right and then the left, searching for his father’s train. It should come in any time now, just as it had done so many times in the past. At that moment, it pulled into the station, emptying its cars of all passengers. They waved excitedly as they greeted their loved ones. Brent waited alone, hoping, praying. His father was nowhere to be seen.
“Do you know a Mr. Douglas Murphy?” He posed the question to a lady in a rather large, awkward-looking hat. “He’s tall with black hair.” She shook her head and marched off in the opposite direction.
Brent’s heart raced against his chest. He ran up and down the tracks, his face pressed against the window of each car. His father had to be onboard. Surely he’s coming home to us.
Waking with a start, Brent realized he was soaked in sweat. It’s hot in here, but not that hot. He shot out of bed, making his way to the window. There he gazed out into the darkness. Utter darkness. For some reason, Brent couldn’t seem to get the lump out of his throat. Tears began to course down his cheeks.
Lord, are You there? I don’t even know if you can hear me anymore, Lord, but I need you. My mother needs You. My father…
The lump grew so large he could barely swallow.
My father needs You, Lord. Watch over him. Bring him home again. Help us to be the family that You want us to be. I forgive him, Father! I forgive him for all of the times he hurt me, for all of the times he ignored me. Bring him back to us, Lord.
The tears flowed like rain. Brent stood in the window until the sun crept up and swallowed the darkness. He prayed as never before, and wept for the father he had never even realized he loved – until now.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Saturday, September 15th, 5:20 a.m. The Murphy Villa
Emma awoke in a pool of tears after a heartbreaking dream. “Mama, I need you,” she cried out, still half-asleep. “Sadie needs you.”
Her sister stirred in the bed next to her. “Emma?”
Now fully awake, she responded with trembling voice. “Yes, baby?”
“I miss them too,” Sadie whispered softly. “So very much.” Emma reached to take hold of her. Together they cried openly, unashamed.
“We’re going to wake the others,” Sadie said finally.
A gentle rap on the door confirmed her words. “Everything okay in there?” Brent’s voice immediately consoled her, though Emma couldn’t begin to explain why her heart suddenly leaped within her.
“Yes,” she answered.
“I’m not sure I believe you,” he said firmly. “Can I open the door?”
Emma scurried for a robe, wrapping the sash tightly around her middle. “Just a minute.”
The door opened just a crack. “I just want to make sure you’re really all right.”
“I am.” She stepped out into the hall. Sadie followed shortly behind.
“I thought I heard crying in there.” Brent held up a lantern. He moved in her direction until the light shone on her face. She couldn’t hide her tears, nor did she want to. Not anymore. “I was afraid of that. Are you alright?”
Emma stared into his eyes. Red. Just like mine probably are. “Looks like I’m not the only one,” she whispered. “You’ve been crying too.”
“Who, me?” he asked, feigning innocence. “Nah. I just, uh… got something in my eye.”
“Yeah. Mine too.” Tears began to fall again. Emma hung her head in shame. It wasn’t right to grieve openly like this, especially not in front of someone like Brent, who had already been so kind, and who was going through so much, himself. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
He set the lantern down and wrapped his arms around her. “You go ahead and cry, Emma. Don’t let me stop you. Don’t let anyone stop you.”
His arms were exactly what she needed. Emma’s head fell to his chest, and his fingers stroked her hair gently as he spoke words of comfort and reassurance. I needed arms to hold me, Lord. Thank You so much for sending him when You did. He’s here at exactly the right moment. Emma wept until she could weep no more. From out of the room S
adie came, pressing herself into the middle of their locked embrace. When Emma finally felt courageous enough to look up into Brent’s eyes, she was amazed to find them full of tears. Even in the soft glow of the lamplight, she saw herself in their reflection.
***
Saturday, September 15th, 9:10 a.m. Galveston Island
Henrietta paced up and down the patch of land that had been St. Mary’s Orphanage. To her right the Infirmary still stood, though it had certainly suffered its share of damage during the storm. The dormitories were gone, the chapel had completely disappeared – everything she had known and loved swept out to sea. All that remained was a huge heap of rubble to her left. Most of the debris appeared unfamiliar, probably from houses and buildings miles away. Sofas, mattresses, chimneys and windowpanes were all wedged together with a wall of sand holding them in place. It might be days, even weeks, before anyone could get to this mess. But what could she do?
Henrietta’s heart ached to start right away, to begin the building process again. There were children everywhere who would need a place to stay. The familiar dirge of the Island’s Negro victims filled her ears again.
"Dere's no rain to wet you,
O, yes, I want to go home.
Dere's no sun to burn you,
O, yes, I want to go home;
O, push along, believers,
O, yes, I want to go home;
O, yes, I want to go home.
The words cut to her heart and for the very first time since arriving on Galveston Island, Henrietta Mullins realized…
She did not want to go home. She whispered a prayer of thanks as she headed to find others who could assist her in such a large task.
If You’re asking me to stay, Lord, I’ll need help.
Lots of it.
***
Saturday, September 15th, 2:02 p.m. The Train Station
Boxed Set: Deep in the Heart of Texas: Hurricane, Mismatched in Texas, Christmas at the Crossroads Page 20
