A Stolen Heart

by Amanda Cabot

  Lydia couldn’t help smiling. The woman really was a whirlwind, but that might be just what she needed: a good strong wind to blow away the cobwebs of the past.

  4

  Lydia had never slept in a room so beautiful or so large, but after seeing the rest of the house, she shouldn’t have been surprised. It was evident that Mrs. Henderson—Aunt Bertha, Lydia corrected herself—was a wealthy woman and, as Travis had said, a lonely one. Though she smiled and chattered, Aunt Bertha’s eyes held an expression Lydia had no trouble recognizing. She’d seen it in her mother’s eyes from the day Papa left them until the day Mama had closed her eyes for the last time. Loneliness, sorrow, and, unless Lydia was mistaken, regret haunted her benefactress.

  Though the same emotions roiled through Lydia as she unpacked her smaller trunk, placing garments in the beautifully carved bureau and matching armoire, they were overshadowed by anger. How could Edgar have wed someone else when he’d promised to marry her? The laughter that burst from her lips was harsh and brittle, devoid of mirth. The answer to her question was found in Opal’s swollen belly. That explained the marriage, but it did not explain why Edgar had forgotten the words he’d spoken to Lydia, the promise to love and honor her for the rest of his life.

  She sank onto the edge of the bed and buried her head in her hands as she tried to make sense of everything that had happened. There was no undoing Edgar’s marriage, and she wouldn’t want to even if it were possible, not now when she realized just how shallow his love had been. It was almost as if he’d forgotten Lydia the minute he left Syracuse.

  One thing was certain: he hadn’t told Opal she was the second woman he’d asked to marry him, because when Lydia had introduced herself, there had been no flicker of recognition in Opal’s expression. Opal had no idea she was wearing a ring her husband had bought for someone else.

  Lydia couldn’t blame Opal. There were only two people to blame: Edgar and herself. She must have done something wrong, something that made it easy for Edgar to walk away from their betrothal as easily as Papa had walked away from his family. Perhaps when Edgar returned—if he returned—she’d discover what it was. In the meantime, she needed to put her anger aside and learn what God had in store for her.

  Lydia pulled the Bible from her valise and began to read.

  “Something smells good, Aunt Bertha.”

  Lydia looked up from the egg she was cracking and saw a slender, dark-haired woman about her height enter the kitchen. The visitor was unexpected, but then again, everything about Lydia’s time in Cimarron Creek had been unexpected. In less than twenty-four hours, her hopes and dreams had been shattered, and yet at the same time, though she wouldn’t have believed it possible, she had found sanctuary and something more: a sense of peace.

  The sanctuary had come quickly, the result of Aunt Bertha’s unconditional acceptance of her and the offer of a room for however long Lydia wanted to remain in Cimarron Creek. The peace had been hard won, coming only after Lydia had relinquished her anger and begged for understanding. Though there’d been no words carved on stone tablets, no donkeys providing guidance, the peace that settled over her as she thought of the town she’d seen so briefly told Lydia she was meant to stay here.

  But she wouldn’t stay unless she could do something to repay Aunt Bertha’s kindness. When she’d come downstairs for the evening meal, Lydia had told the older woman that she needed to feel useful.

  “I’ve been working since I was eight,” she explained. “First helping my mother with her housekeeping duties at the academy, then teaching. I don’t know how to be idle.”

  Aunt Bertha laughed, but though Lydia had suggested a variety of tasks she could perform, cooking breakfast was the only thing she had agreed Lydia might do. It might be only one meal a day, but Lydia was determined to make it a memorable one. That was why she’d been in the kitchen for almost two hours before the visitor arrived.

  “Who are you?” the young woman demanded as she took another step into the kitchen. Her posture and clothing told Lydia she was not a servant, yet she’d chosen to enter the house through the tradesmen’s door. Dressed in a freshly laundered white shirtwaist and a stylishly bustled navy skirt, the woman could have graced the pages of Godey’s Lady’s Book if it weren’t for her raised eyebrows and decidedly suspicious expression.

  “I might ask the same question,” Lydia said as she reached for another egg. Aunt Bertha had requested breakfast at eight o’clock, and Lydia didn’t plan to be late. “Mrs. Henderson didn’t tell me she was expecting a visitor.”

  The woman’s frown deepened, reminding Lydia of the other stagecoach passengers’ reaction when they heard her accent. It appeared the pretty brunette shared their disdain for Yankees. “I’m Catherine Whitfield, her great-niece.”

  If Lydia was supposed to be impressed, she was not. “And I’m Lydia Crawford, her new boarder,” she replied, matching the visitor’s tart tone.

  Unbidden, Catherine walked around the kitchen, her eyes cataloging both Lydia’s appearance and the meal preparations. “I don’t suppose you mean her any harm,” she said, her wariness diminishing. “You’d hardly be cooking breakfast if you meant to rob her.”

  Though the thought was ludicrous, Lydia tried to put herself in Catherine’s shoes. Many Texans believed they’d been robbed by the carpetbaggers and were understandably suspicious of Northerners. Catherine had no way of knowing how firmly Lydia tried to adhere to the Commandments. She would not steal any more than she would kill.

  “I assure you I did not travel all the way from Syracuse to take advantage of your great-aunt or anyone in Cimarron Creek. Cooking breakfast is the only thing she’ll let me do to help her.” When Lydia had suggested preparing all the meals, Aunt Bertha had refused but admitted that it was becoming more difficult for her to move in the morning and that she would appreciate being pampered then.

  “Jonas always wanted me to hire a cook,” she’d explained, “but I told him that would be pretentious. What else was I going to do with my days?” And so they’d settled on breakfast at eight.

  Aunt Bertha might claim that she was being pampered, but it was no hardship for Lydia to prepare meals here. Like the rest of the house, the kitchen was generously proportioned. Cupboards lined one wall; a huge range dominated another, but the room’s most notable feature was the marble-topped table. Large enough to seat six, it could also be used as a work space.

  Catherine laid her hand on the table, perhaps enjoying the coolness, and stared at Lydia. Lydia had no idea what changed Catherine’s mind, but as quickly as suspicion had blossomed, it seemed to fade, and Lydia found herself being favored with a tentative smile. It appeared Catherine had decided to trust her.

  A rush of pleasure swept through Lydia at this latest evidence that coming to Cimarron Creek had not been a mistake. Travis had helped her, Aunt Bertha had welcomed her, and Catherine had accepted her. After the shunning she’d experienced on the stagecoach, Catherine’s smile felt like balm on an open sore, and Lydia resolved to do whatever she could to foster it.

  “Would you like to join us for breakfast?” She’d made more than enough rolls and bacon for three, and it would be a simple matter to scramble a few more eggs.

  “I already ate,” Catherine admitted, “but whatever you have in the oven smells absolutely delicious.”

  “Then stay for them. They’re cinnamon rolls.”

  The last hint of suspicion vanished. Catherine perched on the edge of one of the chairs, her ankles crossed the way Lydia taught her pupils was proper for a well-bred lady. “If they taste as good as they smell, I’m going to come here every morning. I may even try to convince you to bake some for my pupils.”

  Lydia gave Catherine another appraising glance. Though she appeared to be a year or two younger than Lydia, she suspected they could become friends, especially since it seemed they had something in common. “That sounds like you’re the schoolteacher.”

  “The one and only.” Catherine echoed Travis’s
phrase, making Lydia wonder whether it was a characteristic of the town or only the Whitfield family.

  Lydia cracked the last egg, then began to beat them. She would wait until Aunt Bertha arrived before she cooked the eggs, but she wanted everything to be ready.

  “I taught in Syracuse,” she told Catherine. “A small, private boarding school for girls.”

  “That must have been nice. No boys to get into mischief.” A smile crossed Catherine’s face, as if she were remembering a particularly amusing incident, and in that moment, Lydia realized Catherine wasn’t simply pretty; she was beautiful.

  “My girls managed to find their share of trouble,” Lydia assured her visitor. “I wouldn’t have minded having some boys, though. The variety might have been fun.”

  “Fun?” Catherine raised one perfectly shaped eyebrow. “That’s a word I’ve never associated with teaching.”

  “Then why are you doing it?” Though Aunt Bertha hadn’t shared any details, she had made it clear last evening that the Whitfield and Henderson families had had more than their share of financial successes. Surely Catherine wasn’t teaching only for the salary she received.

  “I’m a Whitfield,” she said, as if that explained everything. “In this town, Whitfields and Hendersons are taught to do everything they can for the other residents.”

  “Noblesse oblige.”

  Catherine nodded. “That’s it. We’re the closest thing to nobility this town has, and we have obligations. I’m luckier than most of my cousins, though. Girls are only expected to have jobs until they marry. For the boys, it’s a lifetime sentence.”

  Lydia wondered if that was how Travis viewed being sheriff, if he’d taken the position only out of a sense of obligation. That might explain his comment about Edgar being a better sheriff.

  A week ago, Lydia would have scoffed at the idea of Edgar as a lawman, but today she wasn’t scoffing. When she’d wakened this morning, it was to the realization that the Edgar she thought she knew was gone—not simply from Cimarron Creek but from her life. He was a married man now, soon to be a father. The only thing he owed her was a few answers, and those would come only if he returned. For Opal’s sake, Lydia hoped he would. Until he did, she would do her best to put him out of her mind. It was less distressing to talk about the handsome sheriff. As far as she knew, he hadn’t lied to her.

  “I’ve only met one of your cousins so far. Travis.”

  Catherine’s smile broadened. “He’s a good one. If I had a brother, I’d want him to be like Travis. Of course, Warner and Porter are pretty good too. Folks used to call them the Three Musketeers because they were always together. Mama claims Warner and Porter are the brothers Travis should have had.”

  As she heard footsteps on the stairway and realized Aunt Bertha was approaching, Lydia tested the frying pan. The drop of water danced across the surface, telling her the skillet was ready. “I haven’t heard about Warner and Porter,” she told Catherine as she poured the beaten eggs into the pan. “Are they Whitfields too?”

  Catherine shook her head. “They’re Grays, but their mother was a Whitfield until she married Charles Gray. Just so you know, Uncle Charles owns the livery and stable. He’s training Porter to take over when he dies. Warner—he’s the older son—runs the drugstore.” Catherine’s smile turned mischievous. “We’re not supposed to brag, but Aunt Mary and Uncle Charles were proud as could be when Warner graduated from the Philadelphia College of Pharmacy. I don’t think they’ll let anyone in town forget their son’s accomplishments.”

  Though Lydia wanted to ask about Travis’s family and how long he’d been sheriff, Aunt Bertha entered the room. Unlike yesterday, when she’d worn an elaborately bustled gown, she was dressed in a simple morning frock today.

  “Good morning, Catherine,” she said when she spotted the visitor. “I didn’t expect you, but it looks like you and Lydia are getting acquainted. I overheard you telling her about Warner and Porter. Did you tell her about the Gospels?”

  When Catherine shook her head, Aunt Bertha explained. “My brother-in-law Adam and his wife had four sons they named Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. You can see why everyone calls them the Gospels. Matthew is our mayor and postmaster, while Mark . . .” Uncharacteristically, she paused. “That can wait for later. I should probably draw a family tree so you can keep all the aunts, uncles, and cousins straight, but right now something smells wonderful.”

  “Just breakfast. I invited Catherine to share it with us,” Lydia said as she stirred the eggs. They looked good, and so did Aunt Bertha. She’d seemed tired after supper and, though she’d claimed nothing was wrong, had been out of breath when she’d climbed the stairs last night. Now she appeared healthy and happy.

  “That’s an excellent idea.” Aunt Bertha sniffed, then smiled. “Are those cinnamon rolls I smell?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Aunt Bertha’s smile turned into a full-fledged grin. “You, my dear, can stay here forever. The only thing I like better than cinnamon rolls is fudge.”

  Catherine rose to give her aunt a quick hug. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say Porter inherited his sweet tooth from you.” She turned to Lydia and added, “If you’re ever invited to Porter’s house for a meal, you can expect a very sweet dessert.”

  The conversation continued as the three women filled their plates and took them to the dining room. When she’d swallowed the last bite of cinnamon roll and washed it down with a cup of coffee, Catherine looked from Lydia to her aunt. “Thank you both. There was a reason why I came over today, and it wasn’t simply to eat two of those delicious cinnamon rolls. Mama asked me to invite you for supper.” Turning to her aunt, Catherine said, “I hope you’ll come. It’ll do Mama a world of good to have company. And, Lydia, of course we’d love to have you come too.”

  Aunt Bertha nodded. “How is Gussie?”

  Lydia filed the name away for future reference at the same time that she noticed Catherine had made no reference to her father. She wouldn’t ask. Not only would that be rude, but in all likelihood there would be no need to ask. Aunt Bertha seemed determined to provide Lydia with the entire history of Cimarron Creek and its founding families.

  “You’ll have to see for yourself. She’s following the doctor’s advice, and she still claims we’ll go to Europe this summer, but as far as I can tell, she’s not getting any better.” Catherine frowned and took another sip of coffee. Judging from the way her hands trembled, Lydia guessed the coffee was meant to hide her distress. When she’d laid the cup back on its saucer, Catherine looked at her aunt. “Maybe you can convince her all those bleedings aren’t good for her. She won’t listen to me.”

  Aunt Bertha nodded as she said, “Gussie always had a mind of her own, but I’ll see what I can do.” She rose and gestured toward the back of the house. “You two go outside and enjoy my garden. I’ll wash the dishes.”

  Though Lydia tried to protest, it was like trying to stop a waterfall, and so she followed Catherine to the gardens she’d admired from her bedroom window.

  “I’m sorry your mother is unwell,” Lydia said as she and Catherine strolled between the rosebushes, enjoying their sweet perfume. “What does the doctor say is wrong?” It might be prying, but Lydia couldn’t help being concerned by the seemingly frequent bleedings. The doctor who’d treated pupils at the academy claimed bleeding was dangerous and should be used only in extreme cases.

  Catherine’s brown eyes reflected anger. “Doc Harrington is an old fool. He says Mama suffers from bad humors and that the only way to cure her is to drain them out. I’m afraid he’ll kill her, and if he does, I don’t know what I’ll do. Mama’s more than my mother. She’s my best friend and my whole family.”

  “What about your father?” The question slipped out before Lydia could censor it. She’d said she wouldn’t pry, but here she was doing exactly that.

  Catherine didn’t seem offended. “My father was killed in the war. I don’t remember him at all.”

  As f
ar as she knew, Lydia’s father was still alive. Unlike Catherine’s father, he had spent eight years with his daughter, leaving her with many memories. They’d been a family. If anyone had asked her, Lydia would have said they were a happy family, but she would have been wrong. Her father had left the home they’d made together when he found a woman he loved more than her mother.

  Lydia looked at Catherine, seeing the sorrow in those chocolate brown eyes. Her own story was no happier than Catherine’s, but there was no need to share it, especially when Catherine was so worried about her mother.

  “I wish there were something I could say other than ‘I’m sorry.’”

  Catherine fingered a yellow rose whose petals were tipped with blush pink. Idly, Lydia wondered whether that had been a deliberate attempt at cross-pollination or a fortunate accident.

  Turning her attention back to Lydia, Catherine shrugged. “Sometimes there’s nothing else to say.” As she took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders, Lydia could picture her in front of a schoolroom, controlling unruly pupils with her no-nonsense posture. “Let’s talk about happier things. You didn’t tell me what brought you to Cimarron Creek.”

  That wasn’t necessarily a happier subject. Lydia sniffed a red rose as she chose her words. “I came to visit a friend.” She had no reason to admit that Edgar had been more than that. Nothing would be gained, and Opal would be hurt if the full story were known.

  Catherine smiled. “It must have been Edgar Ellis.”

  “How’d you guess?”

  Catherine’s shrug said the answer should have been obvious. “He’s the only other Northerner in town. Or I should say, he was. The grapevine’s been buzzing with speculation ever since he disappeared.”

  It was the opening Lydia needed. Neither Faith nor Opal had known anything more than that Edgar had left the saloon one night, saying he needed some fresh air, and had never returned.