by Jo Noelle
This was his dream, to be the kind of man the Lord would approve of. It had nothing to do with what he could buy or what he could build. What would I be willing to sacrifice?
Hugh stood with a bowed head and answered that question. “Everything I am,” he whispered. With a final blast, his heart jumped, and a subconscious desire surfaced—become the man she deserves. But immediately, Hugh shook his head. Could this one moment make up for my lifetime of ruin and waste?
The cowpoke placed his hand on Hugh’s shoulder. “You think you can’t be forgiven. You think you can never be worthy. You’re right about that, but only because you need a partner. You need Jesus just like every other poor soul on God’s earth.”
Hugh’s head hung low. Maybe if he had recognized the mistakes he was making years ago, he could seek forgiveness. Now it was too late. “I think it would take a bit more than the life of one good man who lived more than a thousand years ago to be forgiven for all I’ve done.”
“Yeah. A man is no help to you at all. You need Jesus for that. And afore you start woe-is-me-ing about being a gambler, remember this—Christ was stripped and beaten, then hung on a cross. At His feet, the soldiers gambled over who would get His coat. He didn’t speak too many words from up there on that tree, but the ones He did say were mighty. ‘Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.’ They were gamblers—you’re a gambler. And they were offered forgiveness. Since those words have already been spoken, are you going to accept them?”
Hugh wondered if all he really needed to do was accept the Lord’s grace. It seemed too simple. He expected it to be hard—needed it to be to swallow all his regrets. Could there be enough forgiveness for him?
The cowboy laughed, nearly doubled over. “Well, don’t you think a lot of yourself!” When his laughter slowed, he straightened his hat.
His voice was bold, powerful when he said, “Truth is, He’s the Son of God, and it does just take Him. He’ll even have grace to spare, enough for legions more folks who need it.” Then he pinned Hugh with a glare. “Choose.”
Hugh searched his heart and found it had already changed. The shattered pieces had rearranged and welded together. “I accept the love Jesus offers me.” The words were calming and sweet.
The light in the room began to grow, radiating, filling the room so there was no darkness at all. Hugh squinted and raised his hand to shield his eyes, but the light seemed to come from everywhere—above, below, and around everything else. With a cracking explosion, the light flared to a degree that made it impossible to distinguish anything at all. With another blast, the light and the cowpoke disappeared.
It wasn’t dark. In fact, it looked like an ordinary evening, but Hugh found he sorely missed that light.
He knew another sure place to find it and got on his horse to head up the canyon.
Hugh stood with his hat in his hands when Callum swung the door wide. Julianne and her parents sat at the kitchen table with Millie. Hugh acknowledged each one with a nod and their names.
He had to wonder if it had been such a good idea to jump on a horse and come straight over here after his conversation with the angel. He wanted to share the experience with the only person he trusted. A person who had a pure heart. Someone who believed in him.
Instead of stepping farther into the room, he asked, “Miss Parker, would you join me for a word? With Reverend Parker’s permission?” A little panic swelled. He had come over to tell her—what? He thought that she would understand his conversion, understand him when no one else would. His heart burned to tell his experience.
Without her eyes ever leaving Hugh’s, she said, “Mama, Daddy, I’d like to talk with Mr. Fontaine. We’ll sit on the porch and leave the door open.” She was out the door by the time she finished the sentence.
She settled close to Hugh. The bench wasn’t large, but he’d seen two grown men sit on it to whittle without so much at their pants touching. Julianne’s shoulder and arm grazed his. The skirt of her dress draped over the side of his leg.
Hugh couldn’t concentrate on what he had to say. His brain seemed like a wheel stuck in a rut, demanding that he confess his love for her.
With some effort, he reminded himself that she was not his. It might be some time before he trusted himself to be a new man. Could he ask her to wait? The words sat on his tongue.
He thought Julianne was studying his face. He didn’t dare look to make sure. After a moment she said, “There’s something different about you…something momentous.”
Hugh’s confidence grew. He believed there was indeed a significant shift in his life.
Julianne leaned forward to capture his gaze. “Did you come to tell me something? Or ask me something?” Her lips tipped up in a sweet smile.
Hugh looked at her hands, neatly folded in her lap. If he looked at her hands instead of her face, he might be able to talk to her. “Miss Parker, one day I hope to be worthy of your respect.”
Hugh took a deep breath and plunged into his history. He told her of the little boy who felt abandoned and unwanted, but in the same breath confessed his mother’s desire to shelter him. He told of his school days and of Sister Esther who held him when he cried and taught him to turn the other cheek whenever he could. He told Julianne of himself as a young man, making his way by taking profits for any weakness of a fellowman’s—until he met a woman who made him want to be better.
A few minutes earlier, he felt as if a dam had burst, and now like the lake was dried up. He waited for Julianne to say something, anything to give him a clue of her thoughts. Finally, he raised his eyes from looking at his boots.
One delicate hand left Julianne’s lap to tuck a wavy tendril behind her ear, and Hugh was lost to gazing at her. “You called me Miss Parker?” she asked, “I won’t be Miss Parker to you.” Her hand touched his shoulder lightly and dropped back into her lap. “Hugh, I already respect you.”
He shook his head as if the compliment could be shuddered away. “I’m not part of acceptable society. Even though my mother’s only desire was to keep me from that life she led, what did I do? I gambled to buy food and clothes, and to build a saloon.” Hugh sighed. “I let her down.”
“I see.” Julianne turned on the bench, her knee sliding against his thigh. “Let me tell you the man I see. The first time I met you, you were my personal Good Samaritan. You helped me from my…um…predicament. You had every right to mock me, but you didn’t—much. Even that told me you have an admirable sense of humor. You have your own business, so I imagine you’re hardworking.”
Although it was difficult to hear Julianne compliment him, he kept still and listened. This would be a good time to ask for her to wait. He could walk away now and end this conversation on a positive feeling. But his confession wasn’t over yet.
“There’s more.” Hugh bit the inside of his cheeks. He worried that this next story might be the one when she would turn away from him. His gut twisted. There was no easy way to tell her about the cowpoke. When he started, though, he couldn’t stop, and the whole truth from the poker game through this afternoon tumbled out.
Hugh finished, feeling exposed and studying his boots again, as they sat in silence. He wondered if she was trying to figure how to creep away slowly or to decide how to tell him that he was a lunatic and guardian angels don’t exist.
Julianne surprised Hugh—her hand squeezed his softly. When he looked at her, her other hand was wiping her eyes. His palm cupped the side of her face, his thumb brushing a tear away.
“And there’s one more thing I know about you. You’re humble.” Julianne gave Hugh a soft smile below her glistening eyes.
If Hugh had thought her beautiful before, he was overwhelmed now. Her soul was as lovely as her face. “I need to work out how to live this new life. I don’t know if I’ve changed for good, so I can’t…”
Julianne stood, and Hugh rose too. She leaned toward him and spoke softly. “It only takes one moment to change, and then for the rest of your life, you ju
st hang on to that moment. Think on that.” Then she stretched to her toes and kissed his cheek. “Think on that, too.” Before stepping into the house, she stopped and said, “I’ll see you again very soon. Goodnight, Hugh.”
Chapter 18
Julianne Parker
Julianne didn’t sleep most of the night. There had been no change in the comfort of the pallet where she slept or the sounds in the house. There had been a little rain overnight, but it wasn’t enough to be blamed for her restlessness.
For most of the night, she’d lain awake thinking about Hugh’s green eyes, intent with hope that she believed him. She remembered his humility and sincerity as he told his stories. She’d thanked the Lord for reaching out with His mercy to save Hugh.
If she did fall into sleep for a few moments, she was in his arms or lying by his side with his warm chest against her back, his heavy arm snugly draped around her. That was something she didn’t want to wake from, but all too soon, she did.
Julianne knew it was still early, but she didn’t know how much longer she could stay in bed. She needed to get up—to do something. The chickens. She could always collect eggs, and it would bother no one.
She slipped out from under the quilt, pulled a green gingham dress over her shift, and slid her feet into stockings and then boots. She grabbed a wicker basket and crept out the front door. Brisk morning air cooled her face. She pulled the shawl around her shoulders a little tighter and turned toward the henhouse. The moon had already set and the dawn was beginning to lighten the eastern peaks.
After gathering the eggs, she left the coop with the basket over her arm and drove the door’s wooden latch in place. When she turned back toward the church, a man stood a few feet away, between her and the kitchen.
Dougal. She’d known him from his tangled brown hair and red beard—the same man who’d ridden his horse through the group gathered at the saloon. He was the one who’d stirred the crowd into a brawl.
A startled gasp escaped her. In two steps, his huge hand clamped around her waist, the other on her mouth. She twisted and wiggled fiercely, but her feet slipped around in the mud as she struggled. It happened so quickly that she hadn’t thought to run away soon enough to escape his reach.
His rancid breath hissed in her ear. “Thought I’d haf’ta sit all day to git you ’lone, lil’ Miss Preacher.”
When Julianne screamed, she thought she could hear him suppressing a maniacal laugh. He pressed her against the chicken wire. Now his hand pressed a moist cloth over her nose and mouth. Though she kicked him, his iron grip held her until the world went black.
Sometime later, Julianne began to wake. Her head pulsed with pain as the wagon rocked under her cheek. She tried to move, sit up, or yell, but nothing worked. Her thoughts crept like sludge. By the time the wagon stopped, Julianne could keep her eyes open.
She was tied and gagged. Her pulse fluttered, fear gripping her. Her arms were crossed, and her wrists were tied as were her thighs and feet.
Julianne glanced around wildly. She tried to pull her knees up to her chest to stay away from the man, but felt the tension of a rope along her back denied her movement. Dougal leaned over the bed of the wagon and grabbed the rope behind her back, jerking her toward the tailgate. She’d been trussed up like a roasting chicken.
Julianne tried to scream, but the feeble sound was only a whisper. The large man pulled her out and slung her over his shoulder. She tried to buck, but he slung her back farther so she was nearly upside down behind him. Julianne squeezed her eyes, and tears leaked out the edges.
At least she knew he hadn’t taken her very far away. She recognized a few of the buildings in Creede. When she could get away, she would be able to get help.
He hauled her down some stairs and unlocked a door before he pushed her inside. Without her hands free to break her fall, her cheek, shoulder, and hip slammed onto a hard-packed dirt floor. He immediately left and relocked the door.
A thin, high-pitched voice behind her said, “Make some noise so’s I kin find ya. Don’t you fret none—you have friends here. We’z all in a bad way, but we’ll help each other.”
The space was absolutely black in front of her. There were no windows as far as she could tell, nor another door.
She kicked her bound feet against the door behind her. It didn’t even rattle. “We’ll get these off.” The woman’s voice was calm. Hands began pulling at the ropes. More tugged at the gag in her mouth.
“Thank you.” Julianne sighed with relief to breathe freely, but nearly retched at the pungent smell of defecation. With the ropes gone, she stretched her sore limbs. She sat with her back against the door. “What is this place? And who are you?”
Voices echoed out of the darkness as seven women said their names—Ann, Elizabeth, Hannah, Lydia, Helen, Sophia, Marta.
Then Julianne heard the high-pitched voice from before. “I’m Clara.” A small hand felt its way from Julianne’s elbow to her hand and took hold. “We’ve been throwed down a root cellar.”
Julianne remembered the rumors. “There’s talk around town of a few women who’ve gone missing. I had no idea there were so many.”
“Do you think you can stand?” the woman asked. “It’s mighty cold in here, and we huddle together as best we can.”
The woman tugged, and Julianne stood. The group gathered together like they were hugging each other.
Clara moved one of Julianne’s hands to the right and said, “There are sacks of potatoes and carrots on the shelves over yonder.” Then she moved Julianne’s hand to the left. “And there are the pails to relieve ourselves under those shelves, and empty ones on top. There’s a few barrels of water straight in front of you. When the sun comes full up, we can see a little light around the door.”
“There’s food and water, so Dougal didn’t want us to die,” Julianne said. “I don’t understand this.”
“We know who else is a part of this, and why,” Clara answered, sounding bitter.
Another person tapped Julianne on the shoulder. “My name is Sophia. I ran away from my uncle’s home in Denver. I figured I could earn some money working in a saloon, serving drinks, dancing, that kind of thing, instead of being a free servant to him. Without my own money, I didn’t know how I’d ever be able to stay away from him. So, I came here. I went to the Nugget and asked if they could hire me. Mr. Grady told Dougal to get me a room.”
Julianne’s temper flared. Despicable, evil, depraved, revolting…
Sophia continued her story. “While we walked, he chatted me up. Told me they were starting a saloon in Durango near a new railroad connection. He said I’d have good pay, and they’d treat me right. I thought he was taking me to a hotel where I’d wait until we left for the new town, but he led me here and threw me in. Later that day, another woman was tossed in.”
“That was me.” A third person spoke up beside Julianne. “My name is Marta. I came out on the train from Kansas City a couple of weeks ago. I thought I was taking a job caring for children, but that big man who met me at the station brought me here and locked me in.”
Clara’s voice spoke up again. “We’ve all been collected.”
“I won’t stay in Durango. I’ll never be a dancehall girl,” Julianne exclaimed.
“You won’t be.” Clara’s voice was nearly a whisper. “They’re taking us to be whores. Dougal told me men would pay a good price for me.”
A glacial chill ran through Julianne. She was determined to do something about it. What can we do? “We’ve got to get out of here before Dougal comes back. How much time do we have?”
“No telling. He comes whenever he snatches a woman.”
She could hear the women move around her. She felt along the wall toward the potato shelves. As far as she could tell, it was a typical root cellar—a square room with a low wooden ceiling. The walls were made of rocks mortared together. “Maybe there’s a weak rock that could be removed, and we could dig a tunnel wide enough for us to squeeze through.”
“The dirt on the outside is always thinnest at the corners of the walls near the front of the cellar, where it is mostly exposed. I’ll use my knife to whittle away at the boards in the ceiling. When I cut through, we’ll dig the dirt out.” Julianne slipped her knife out of her boot. She shot a quick prayer of gratitude for her grandmother’s gift.
“You have a knife?” someone asked while someone else said, “Great idea.”
Clara piped in. “Dougal has never stepped into this room for more than the second it takes to shove a woman to the floor in front of him. But if he did, we better use a bucket to move the dirt to the back of the room and hide it behind the water barrels.”
All the women spoke at once—a spark of hope entered the room.
“I’ll start,” Julianne said. An empty bucket pushed into Julianne’s hand. She turned it over on the floor and stepped up, feeling around the corner for the smallest board and began to saw back and forth. After a long while, her arms and shoulders ached from being held above her head.
“Someone take this knife. I can’t keep my arms up,” she said, coming down from standing on the bucket. She wished she could see the progress she was making.
“I’ll have a turn,” Clara said, her voice very close. They felt along each other’s arms until they could transfer the knife. Soon she heard the sound of Clara chipping away on the wood.
Julianne felt her way along the cold rock wall past the door. Her arms and shoulders burned. Even her back and neck felt the strain of reaching for the ceiling. Doing something to free herself and the other women kept her spirits up. She was caged but alive. Thank you, God, for the pain.
