A Stolen Heart

by Amanda Cabot

  She had thought he might dismiss the idea out of hand, but instead Travis looked thoughtful. “Who would you suggest?”

  “Someone you trust.”

  As much as he hated to admit it, especially since Pa would see it as proof that Travis couldn’t do his job, Lydia was right. He needed help. That was why he was on his way to Porter’s house. It would be easier to approach both of his cousins at the same time, and he knew Warner would be there for his usual Wednesday supper.

  “Are you looking for the other Musketeers?” Hilda asked when she opened the door. “They’re out back.”

  Exactly what Travis had expected. The two men were standing at the far edge of the property smoking cigars.

  Warner’s eyes lit when he saw Travis. “I hope you’ve come with good news. Did you find out who killed Nate’s goats and tried to place the blame on me?”

  How he wished he could answer in the affirmative. “No, I didn’t. That’s why I’m here.” Travis shook his head when Porter offered to get him a cigar. Unlike his cousins, he’d never developed a taste for tobacco.

  “I need your help.” He leaned against the fence, trying to appear casual. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while, and I realized Cimarron Creek needs a deputy sheriff.”

  Porter blew out smoke rings, smiling at their perfect shape. “Sheriff Allen didn’t need help.”

  That was the response Travis would have expected from his father, not his cousin. “True, but things are different now. We have a lot more crime than when Lionel was sheriff.”

  “And you think a deputy would change that? Maybe we need a new sheriff.”

  Warner stared at his brother, apparently as startled by his suggestion as Travis was. “You don’t mean that, Porter.”

  “Of course not. I was only joking.” He took another puff of his cigar. “I guess my joke fell flat. Sorry.”

  Travis wasn’t sure why the joke—if it was a joke—hurt. It was no more than what Pa had been saying. But somehow it seemed worse coming from a man who was almost as close as a brother.

  Warner cuffed his brother’s ear as he’d done when they were boys. “No more jokes.” Turning to Travis, he asked, “What do you want us to do other than agree that times have changed?”

  Travis looked from Porter to Warner. They were more than his childhood friends; they were the other Musketeers. “I’d like you both to become my deputies. There’s no one I trust more.”

  Porter studied the tip of his cigar, refusing to meet Travis’s gaze. “You’re not thinking straight, Travis. You know Pa wouldn’t let me walk away from the livery.”

  “And I’ve got a drugstore to run.” Warner echoed his brother’s protest.

  They were valid objections. Fortunately, Travis had anticipated their reaction. “I know. That’s why I thought you both could do it part time. It wouldn’t be forever, just until we catch whoever’s behind all these crimes.”

  For a moment, the only sound was the soughing of the wind. Then, his eyes narrowing with what looked like suspicion, Porter asked, “You think it’s one person?”

  “I’m not sure.” Travis wouldn’t admit that Lydia’s theory was beginning to make sense to him. “All I know is that I’ve got to find him or however many hims there are. I hoped you’d help.”

  Warner puffed on his cigar for a few seconds. When he spoke, Travis heard genuine regret in his voice. “I’d like to, but it would look mighty strange if I was investigating a crime that at least one person thinks I committed.”

  “And I’m his brother,” Porter added. “No one would believe I could be impartial.”

  Unfortunately, they were right. Clapping Travis on the shoulder, Warner said, “Sorry, Travis, but you need to find yourself a different deputy.”

  The question was, who?

  19

  She’s gone!”

  Lydia looked up from the bread she was slicing for breakfast toast, her heart sinking at the sight of Catherine’s red-rimmed eyes. It was the first Sunday in September. If Lydia had been in Syracuse, there would have been signs of autumn’s approach—oak trees shedding their leaves; cooler mornings, some with the hint of frost; flowers beginning to fade—but summer still dominated the Hill Country. The days were hot, most boasting the vibrant blue sky that never failed to make Lydia’s spirits soar. When she’d awakened this morning, she had smiled at the realization that this was another day to celebrate the majesty of God’s creation. But Catherine was not celebrating.

  “Oh, Catherine.” Lydia dropped the knife and rushed across the kitchen to wrap her arms around her friend. “Sit down,” she said. When Catherine remained immobile, Lydia pulled out a chair and guided Catherine into it. Though shock was keeping her upright, her friend looked as if she might collapse. Not only was her face tear-stained, but her color was bright and her breathing shallow as if she’d run the three blocks from her house.

  “What happened?” Lydia had no doubt about the cause of Catherine’s tears, but she knew Catherine well enough to know she needed to talk, that telling the story would help release her sorrow.

  Catherine buried her head in her hands, her shoulders shaking as she sobbed. A few seconds later, she looked up and brushed the tears from her cheeks. “I knew something was wrong when I woke. The house felt empty. It’s never been like that before.”

  She fixed her gaze on Lydia, as if asking whether she understood. Lydia did not. Since she and her mother had lived in the boarding school, there was never a time when it felt empty. Even when the pupils went home for the holidays, there were always staff members bustling around. It was only because Mama had not started supper that Lydia had discovered that she’d collapsed on the floor of the pantry.

  “There, there.” Lydia pulled her chair closer to Catherine and grasped her hands. The words were meaningless, but she hoped the physical contact would help her friend.

  “When I went into Mama’s room, she wasn’t breathing.” Tears began to well in Catherine’s eyes. “He killed her, Lydia. I know he did.”

  It was a harsh accusation, but Lydia had no doubt Catherine believed it. This was not the first time she had expressed her distrust of the town’s sole physician.

  “Mama was feeling worse last night, so he bled her again. After that, she went to sleep, and she never woke up.” Catherine gripped Lydia’s hands so tightly they stung. “Promise me, no matter what happens to me, you won’t let Doc Harrington treat me. Mama would still be alive if it weren’t for him.”

  The anguish in Catherine’s voice wrenched Lydia’s heart. If only there were something she could say or do to comfort her. The doctors who’d treated her students had told Lydia that Heroic Medicine, as bleeding and purging were called, had been discontinued by most physicians when they’d learned that it did more harm than good, but nothing would be gained by telling Catherine that.

  “You’re healthy, Catherine. You don’t need a doctor.” Lydia wouldn’t remind her that her mother had chosen to let the doctor treat her despite Catherine’s advice.

  Catherine stared at Lydia, her eyes so filled with pain that Lydia wanted to cry. “What am I going to do now?”

  “I’ll help you, and so will Aunt Bertha.”

  As if on cue, Aunt Bertha entered the room. “What happened?” Her smile faded at the sight of Catherine’s stricken expression. “Gussie?” When Lydia nodded, Aunt Bertha extended her arms to Catherine. “Come here, child. Let me give you a hug.” She wrapped her great-niece in her embrace. “It will be all right. Your mother is at peace now. Her pain is gone.”

  But Catherine’s had only begun. Lydia remembered the days after her mother’s death when she’d wandered aimlessly around her mother’s room, picking up something Mama had loved, then putting it back, as if keeping everything the way Mama had left it would somehow bring her back. And through it all, there had been an emptiness deep inside her that she had feared would never be filled.

  It was only days after the funeral that she had met Edgar. Thinking back, Lydia wonde
red whether the reason she’d been attracted to him was that Edgar helped fill some of those empty spots. Perhaps what she had believed was love was nothing more than the relief of not being alone, of having someone care about her.

  While Aunt Bertha patted Catherine’s back, comforting her as if she were a child, Lydia turned to practical matters. “I’ll speak to Reverend Dunn,” she told Catherine. “How soon would you like the funeral? Tomorrow afternoon?”

  Catherine turned and shook her head. “No. It has to be in the morning. Mama loved sunrises.”

  And so on Tuesday morning as the sun began to make its way over the treetops, Lydia stood at Catherine’s side while her mother was laid to rest. It seemed that most of the town had come to pay their respects. While Gussie had rarely left her home for the past year, she was still a Whitfield, and Whitfields were honored in this town.

  When they’d filed out of the church into the cemetery, Aunt Bertha took her place on Catherine’s right, with the entire Gray family next to her. Travis and his father had been among the first to arrive at the church, and to Lydia’s surprise, Travis had taken her arm as they’d exited the church and now stood at her side, flanked by his father. Though she hadn’t expected it, today Abe Whitfield had even managed a civil greeting.

  The graveyard service was mercifully short, and to Lydia’s relief, no one seemed to expect Catherine to toss a shovelful of dirt onto her mother’s casket. To Lydia’s way of thinking, that was as primitive as the bleeding Catherine deplored. She’d found herself unable to lift the shovel at her mother’s funeral, not wanting that to be her final memory of her mother.

  Today the gravediggers lowered Gussie’s coffin into the ground and the minister asked each of the mourners to place a wildflower in the grave as they left the cemetery. The actual burial would be done while everyone was at Aunt Bertha’s house, partaking of the breakfast Lydia and Opal had prepared.

  “I hate funerals,” Travis said as he carried his plate back to the kitchen, where Lydia was working. Though the house was large, the dining room could not accommodate all the mourners, and so Lydia had decided that the seats there would be reserved for the older generation. The rest of the guests were invited to fill their plates and find other places to eat. Many of them, including Travis, chose to remain standing, although only he had come to the kitchen.

  Lydia looked up from the cake slices she was arranging on a platter. “Aunt Bertha claims funerals are for the living, that they’re a time to say farewell to loved ones.”

  As she pronounced the words, Lydia remembered Aunt Bertha’s pained expression when she’d said that. Had she been thinking about her daughter? Though Aunt Bertha rarely spoke of Joan, she no longer hid her portrait but kept it on her bedside table. Was the constant reminder good or bad? Lydia did not know. She could only imagine how painful it must have been to have lost a child.

  “I suppose she’s right.” Travis’s words brought Lydia back to the present, and she realized he was responding to her comment. “At least Catherine knows what happened to her mother.”

  Lydia almost expected him to add a “but” to his statement. “Are you thinking about Joan and Edgar?”

  “Yes. It’s kind of hard not to on a day like this. I hate unresolved mysteries even more than I do funerals.”

  Hearing the pain and frustration in his voice, Lydia turned back to Travis. “I wish I could help you.”

  His eyes turned from silver to pewter as he managed a smile. “You do,” he said softly, “in more ways than you know.”

  “Gussie would have been proud of the turnout,” Aunt Bertha said two hours later when the house was once more empty. Lydia and Opal had washed the last of the dishes, while Aunt Bertha rested in the parlor. Now that Opal had returned to the Spur, Lydia joined the older woman. Though she had thought Aunt Bertha would be too tired by the morning’s events to do anything but sit, she was busily tatting a dresser scarf, claiming her arthritis no longer pained her as much as it used to.

  Aunt Bertha’s smile was bittersweet. “I know I shouldn’t have favorites, but Gussie was always my favorite niece, even if we were related only by marriage. She had a hard life, losing her husband and then having to raise Catherine alone, but I never heard her complain. She didn’t even complain when Doc Harrington insisted on bleeding her. Instead, she always claimed she felt better a couple days later. Gussie may not have had a strong body, but she had a strong spirit. I only wish she’d lived long enough to see Catherine married.” Aunt Bertha nodded as if she were about to make a grand announcement. “I saw Nate talking to Catherine, and it looked as if he was doing more than offering his condolences. That’s enough to make this old lady dream about wedding bells.”

  Though Lydia hated to destroy Aunt Bertha’s illusions, she knew little would be gained by letting her hope for something that was unlikely to happen. “I don’t think Catherine is interested in Nate any longer. She doesn’t trust him, and I can’t say that I blame her. It’s hard to trust a man who’s fickle.”

  Aunt Bertha leaned forward, her eyes narrowing as she stared at Lydia. “You sound as if you’re talking about someone other than Nate. Surely you don’t believe Travis is fickle.”

  As a blush stained her cheeks, Lydia dipped her head and tried to regain her composure. It was silly the way even the mention of Travis made her so flustered. “Travis has never done anything to make me feel I can’t trust him, but neither did my father.”

  Aunt Bertha laid down her tatting. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  Perhaps it was the emotional impact of the funeral. Perhaps it was the discussion she’d had with Travis about farewells and the realization that she’d never put her father’s memory to rest. Lydia wasn’t certain. All she knew was that it felt right to tell Aunt Bertha about her parents.

  Lydia gave a short nod. “There’s not much to tell. When I was eight, he left my mother and me because he found another woman. For the longest time, I thought I had done something to make him leave, even though Mama insisted it wasn’t my fault. When I became old enough to understand what had happened, my feelings of guilt turned to anger.”

  Aunt Bertha was silent for a moment, as if digesting what Lydia had revealed. “And that’s why when things didn’t work out with Edgar, you decided all men were louts.”

  Lydia stared at Aunt Bertha, startled by her seemingly casual statement. “How did you know about Edgar?”

  Touching the side of her head, Aunt Bertha said, “My hair may be gray, but what’s underneath is still functioning. I knew a smart woman like you wouldn’t just pack up and leave her home without a good reason. Most times that reason is a man.” She gave a little shrug. “It seemed like more than coincidence that you came to the same place as a single man from the North had a couple months earlier. Then, too, I saw the way you looked at Opal the first few days she worked here. It was more than curiosity over the woman you’d just hired. The way I saw it, you came out here expecting to marry Edgar. Am I right?”

  “Yes, but now . . .” Lydia paused, trying to put her feelings into words. “I’m not sure Edgar would have been the right man for me.”

  Her smile one of satisfaction, Aunt Bertha nodded. “Because of Travis. I know you want to deny it, but I’m not blind any more than I’m dumb. I can see the sparks between you. What you feel for him is more than friendship.”

  “Is it?” Aunt Bertha sounded so confident, while Lydia was anything but. “I’m confused. I’ve never felt this way about anyone. He makes me feel special, and there are times when I believe God brought me here to meet him, but then I think I’m deluding myself.”

  For once Aunt Bertha had no reply, and so Lydia continued, voicing the fear that sent shivers down her spine. “It isn’t only that I’m afraid of trusting men. The bigger problem is that I don’t think I can trust myself. How can I when I thought I loved Edgar, but now I’m not sure I did?”

  Aunt Bertha picked up her tatting and studied it for a moment. “I can’t tell you that I’ve ev
er been in your situation, but I can tell you that you need to follow your heart. If I’d done that, I wouldn’t have so many regrets.” Her fingers flew as she plied the shuttle, turning ordinary white thread into beautiful lace.

  “Regrets about your daughter?” Perhaps Lydia was being presumptuous in asking, but today was turning into a day for confidences.

  “Yes.” Aunt Bertha’s fingers stilled as she looked around the room. “It hurts too much to talk about her here. Why don’t you see if Porter can get my favorite carriage ready? We’ll take a ride.”

  Less than an hour later, Lydia and Aunt Bertha reached the summit where they’d come the first time they’d ridden out of town. Aunt Bertha shielded her eyes with her hand as she looked down at Cimarron Creek. “Joan always loved this spot. She said she thought heaven would be like this.”

  “So why did she leave?” A woman who thought her hometown was heavenly was not someone Lydia would have expected to flee.

  Aunt Bertha’s lips flattened as she said, “She had no choice. Jonas wouldn’t let the Henderson name be besmirched. He never believed Joan’s story that it wasn’t her fault. There were those who claimed Joan was the prettiest girl in town. I always thought that was true, but as her mother, I was hardly impartial. The boys seemed to think she was pretty. Joan always had a string of them following her around, but as far as I knew, there was no one special. That’s why I was so shocked by what happened.” Aunt Bertha shook her head. “I believed Joan was telling the truth, but Jonas was sure she’d led some fellow along, flirting with him and then giving him the one thing an unmarried girl should never give away.”

  Lydia had no trouble understanding Aunt Bertha’s euphemism, and so she wasn’t surprised when the older woman said, “When it was clear our daughter was going to have a baby, Jonas insisted she leave town.” Tears fell from Aunt Bertha’s eyes, and she covered her face with her hands for a moment as she sobbed.

  Lydia’s mind began to whirl as she considered the similarities—and the differences—between Joan’s story and Opal’s. Both had experienced the prospect of being an unwed mother and facing ostracism from the townspeople, but Edgar had come to Opal’s rescue, protecting her and her unborn child from shame.