High Plains Promise (Love on the High Plains Book 2)

by Beaudelaire, Simone

  “Is that where you really were, after work today,” Samantha snarled, working herself further into a tirade. “Did you go to your whore? Did you bring her back to that farmhouse and take her on the floor, in the dirt, the way you always wanted?”

  “Melissa, why don't you go run and play,” Wesley murmured in his daughter's ear. She didn't need to hear this. But she clutched tighter around his neck. Her mother's unstable mood frightening her. He patted her back. “Samantha,” he said soothingly, “that farmhouse was torn down years ago. It's not there anymore. And I was with James Heitschmidt and the other elders and deacons for a meeting. Nothing more, I swear.

  “Liar!” she shrieked.

  “Mommy,” Melissa said softly, “Daddy loves you.”

  Samantha snapped. Her arm flew towards her daughter with the full force of her enraged adult strength. Wesley was faster though. Shifting Melissa to one arm, he used his free hand to catch his wife's wrist in a crushing grip.

  “Don't,” he hissed, tightening his grip on her arm, “hit,” he went on, almost spitting now, “the baby!” All his attempts to placate his wife ended where Melissa's safety was concerned. At this point, his life had become nothing short of a nightmare. His daughter was the only thing that kept him from doing something drastic and irrevocable.

  “Ow! Wes, you're hurting me!” Samantha wriggled in his grip. He tightened his hand further, unwilling to take the risk. Once, he'd let go and she'd shot out a second blow.

  “Stop struggling. I'll let you go, when I know you've calmed down. Melissa, I think we should go over to Lydia's. See if she has anything to eat. Mommy needs some time to herself today.”

  That set Samantha off again. Wrenching her arm futilely in his iron grip, she began screaming as loud as she could. “I know where you're really going! You can play house with your whore all you want, but she'll never have you! Not really. She can only be your slut.”

  “There's only one slut in this town,” Wesley replied. He released her arm with a sharp backwards shove, which sent her stumbling, and then he was out the door, slamming it shut behind him, and praying she wouldn't follow. He hoped she would nurse her rage and her bruised wrist alone at the house. Of course, she didn't. By the time Wesley reached the street, she was on the porch, screaming abuse towards them at the top of her lungs, for all to hear. He kept walking. There was no reasoning with her when she was in one of her moods. The best thing would be to stay away, until she calmed down.

  If only she didn't feel compelled to play out their family drama in public. That was the worst part. Everyone knew. Everyone. It was an open secret, the mess Wesley had made of his whole future, with one moment of stupid lust. And worst of all was how it had hurt Allison. The look in her eyes when he'd told her he'd impregnated Samantha and had to marry her. It had been a year before she'd spoken to him again. Another year before they were able to be friendly. It hurt like hell every time he saw his friend, the woman he should have married. But her support and kindness meant more to him than the sting of unrequited affection he experienced whenever he saw her. So he clung to her, and to their other friend Kristina. They were his lifeline. He was drowning though, in over his head.

  Once out of earshot of the house, he set Melissa on the ground and took her little hand, though his thoughts were still on his marriage. When he'd married Samantha, he'd known he was taking on a woman of easy virtue, and a rather unintelligent one at that. He hadn't realized the depth of her problems. Fits of rage were not her only symptom. She was the slowest learner he'd ever run across. Even his cousin Billy Fulton, with his squashed-looking face and slurred speech, could read, figure change at the cash register of Lydia's café, and look after himself with a little help. Samantha looked normal. In fact, she was quite beautiful. But she'd never learned to read and could scarcely count. When she went to the store, she had to trust that the clerk would give her the correct change, because she never could figure it out. Luckily, James Heitschmidt, the owner of the mercantile and his friend Kristina's father, was an honest man who would never consider cheating anyone. His clerk, Wesley's beloved Allison, took pains to be kind to her former fiancé's wife, even though it never helped.

  Wesley and his daughter arrived at the café, a two-story red brick building with a wooden shingle over the door. It was rather too cold, now in late November, to be out without a coat, and Melissa had begun to shiver. Wesley scooped her up again and snuggled her. In the crisis of the moment, he hadn't thought ahead too well. He tried the door. Locked. Damn it, could he never get even the smallest break? It was too soon to go home, and too cold to stay out. So what could he do?

  “Wesley, so glad I found you.” It was James Heitschmidt speaking, the tall, blond, heavily freckled Head of the elder board, and owner of the mercantile where Allison worked.

  “Hello, James. What can I do for you?” Wesley struggled to sound normal. If his life fell apart every time his wife threw a fit, he'd be unable to function at all.

  “I need some help at the vicarage. It hasn't been lived in for three years, and the new pastor arrives soon. He needs a place to stay.”

  “Well, James, I'd be glad to help, but I have Melissa here.” His little girl clung tighter to his neck.

  “Gentlemen?” A soft, soothing voice broke over Wesley, making him smile. Allison's sister Becky approached, her lovely face set in a serene half-smile. If anyone knew how to handle adversity with grace, it was Rebecca Spencer.

  James turned to her. “Miss Spencer, how are you today?”

  She flushed a little, in the bite of a sudden icy gust. “I'm just fine, Mr. Heitschmidt,” she replied. “Did I overhear that you are going to air out the vicarage?”

  “Yes,” James replied. He seemed about to elaborate, but nothing came out.

  “Well, then,” the little golden-haired woman continued, “why don't I take Melissa with me for a while? I have some cookies fresh from the oven, and I'd like a taste tester to be sure they're good.”

  It was awfully close to dinner time, but how could Wesley say no? He looked at his little daughter, gauging whether she would be okay parting from him. The child wriggled in his arms. He set her down and she ran to Becky, who scooped her up.

  “Thank you, Miss Rebecca,” Melissa said, giving her a big hug. “I'm really hungry.”

  Wesley closed his eyes. It wouldn't be the first time Samantha had refused to feed Melissa during the day, when she was in one of her precarious moods.

  Becky didn't bat an eyelash. “Well then, sweetheart, let's have a sandwich and then a cookie, what do you say? I wouldn't want you to get a stomach ache.”

  Melissa cheered.

  “Thank you, Miss Spencer,” Wesley said softly.

  “Any time, Mr. Fulton,” she replied. Then she turned and carried Melissa away down the chilly street to the Spencer house, a white two-story with lots of gingerbread trim painted black and matching shutters on all the windows. As soon as they ducked out of sight, Wesley turned. James was still staring at the door.

  “Shall we go?” Wesley asked. James shook his head a couple of times, as though trying to clear his mind.

  “Yes, let's,” he said at last, and the two men headed back down main street, past the commercial center, which consisted of red brick buildings of varying heights; the mercantile, a single-story structure with a sprawling layout, the bank, two stories with the telegraph office up front, the Occidental Hotel: five floors with a balcony. At last, they came to the church. Unlike its neighbors, it was of weathered white boards, and boasted an oversized steeple with an ostentatious brass bell. From inside, the sound of the bellowing pipe organ could be heard in the street. Wesley grinned a little. Sounded like Kristina was practicing for Sunday. Just to the south of the church, a little brick path led past a wind-blighted tree to a tiny, one-room structure. James unlocked the door of the vicarage and the two men were assaulted by the stench of a building that had been unoccupied for several years.

  Despite the cold, the first task was to o
pen all the windows. The endless Kansas wind would quickly take care of the musty aroma. James handed Wesley a broom and he worked on warming himself up by sweeping all the dust and cobwebs from the floors and out onto the stoop, where the breeze carried them away. James, meanwhile, was poking at the pot-bellied stove in the corner, making sure it was vented correctly. The new pastor was coming from Texas and would need that source of warmth immediately.

  They examined the furniture together. While dated, the pieces were solid and in good repair, protected as they had been under sheets. No mice had built nests in the curved back, upholstered sofa or the two armchairs. The mattress on the small bed was also free of encroaching rodents.

  “What about linens?” Wesley asked James.

  “The Ladies' Altar Guild will bring sheets, blankets, and towels tomorrow evening. That way, they'll be nice and fresh when he arrives the day after.”

  “Sounds good. And food?”

  “Allison and Kristina are going to stock the cupboards in the next day or two.”

  Wesley nodded. “Sounds like things are about set. I sure hope Reverend Williams likes it here. We haven't had a pastor in so long…” Suddenly Wesley realized how bad that sounded. “Not that you've done a bad job, I mean… sorry.”

  “Don't worry, Wes,” James replied. “I'm no pastor. I don't have time to devote to the ministry. I'm glad to fill in, but I know the difference. No offense taken. I'm glad Reverend Williams is coming too.”

  The men returned to examining the little vicarage for livability. There were no mouse holes visible in the baseboards. The walls appeared to be in good condition. The floors were still smooth, with no signs of warping. All that would really be needed was a thorough cleaning. The two men did the bulk of the work. The Ladies' Altar Guild would come in and do the dusting tomorrow. Provided the new pastor didn't have fancy tastes, the little house should be serviceable, comfortable, and sufficient.

  Task completed, they parted ways at the door with a handshake and James headed south, down the street towards his home. The church had fallen silent, indicating Kristina had finished practicing and left as well. No one walked down the broad brick road. No conversation rang from open windows. All was silent, but the endless, whispering wind. Dusk deepened, casting long shadows of trees and buildings. Wesley turned north and walked to the familiar home he'd visited over and over in his childhood. The Spencers' house; a mature couple and their two spinster daughters. Every time he visited here, he felt a pang of sorrow, no less diminished for the four years which had passed since the death of all his dreams.

  He knocked on the door. Allison opened it, looking lovely and as desirable as ever. It was hell to look at her. In some ways, worse than the confrontation with Samantha had been. All he could think every time he saw Allison was how different his life would be now if he hadn't been so noble with her. If he'd taken her there, on the floor of that farmhouse, she would have been the one who conceived his baby. His daughter could have had a stable, loving mother. This should have been Melissa's family.

  “Wesley,” Allison said. She tried to sound cool and collected, but there was a hint of something in her voice. There always was. He'd betrayed her. Her trust in him was not what it once had been, and deservedly so.

  Without a word, she ushered him into the parlor. She didn't sit, and so he also remained standing. Their eyes met, and Allison flinched a little. She looked away and he scanned the familiar room with its high-backed sofa, upholstered in black and rose velvet, the two blue velvet and wood armchairs, and the black pot-bellied stove in the corner of a room encircled with golden tongue-and groove paneling. Once, he'd considered this room more his home than the gracious two-story gingerbread he'd shared with his mother. In the wake of yet another brutal fight with his wife, this lovely and well-appointed room made the squalor of his own living conditions seem even uglier by comparison.

  “Have you eaten?” she asked.

  “No,” he replied.

  “Would you like some dinner? I think we have some leftovers. Melissa ate well, and since Dad's away on the Wichita run, we have an extra seat at the table.”

  “No thank you,” he declined. “I need to head home, I suppose.”

  Allison seemed poised on the verge of saying something, but then she bowed her head and left in silence. Wesley sank onto one of the armchairs, exhausted. He rested his elbows on his knees and his forehead in his hands. One reason he kept so busy with work and church responsibilities was that when he had a chance to think, he didn't like the results.

  “Are you sad, Daddy?” a little voice chirped in his ear. He looked up, meeting his daughter's beautiful dark eyes.

  “Not sad,” he lied, “just tired and hungry.”

  “They had chicken and potatoes. Do you want some?”

  Wesley's mouth watered at the thought of Mrs. Spencer's delicious cooking. But he couldn't be guilty of Samantha's accusations. He couldn't play house here and pretend. He had committed one sin. One. And he'd more than paid for it. He refused to compound it by making her suspicions true in the smallest way.

  “Let's go home, princess,” he said.

  The worry in her eyes was beyond her meager years. How could such a tiny, innocent child know such stress?

  He scooped her into his arms and, calling goodbye and thank you to the Spencers, walked out into the blustery street. Deep dusk had fallen and the temperature had dropped even further. Wesley cuddled Melissa close, protecting her from the cold as he hurried through the streets.

  In the fiery evening light, long shadows cast by the buildings hung ominously over the street, crowding him. He shivered and walked even faster. His long legs ate up the blocks until at last he reached his home. He opened the door silently and crept inside, cursing himself for his cowardice. This was his home, damn it, and he hadn't done anything wrong. So why was he sneaking in like a guilty adolescent?

  He set Melissa on the floor. She clung close to his side. Hand in hand they walked through the dark, silent house. The echoing of their footsteps on the reverberating wood floor lent weight to the growing notion they were alone. A quick check of the first floor confirmed it. Samantha was not in the parlor, or the kitchen, or the dining room. Wesley walked Melissa up the stairs to her little bedroom, the only well-kept space in the house.

  Her low trundle bed with its pink quilt waited invitingly in one corner, hemmed in by a white bureau and a dark rocking chair. Wesley pulled a little pink nightgown out of the top drawer of the bureau and gently dressed his daughter for bed. Then he settled in the rocking chair. His belly was cramping with hunger, but he would not forgo this time with Melissa.

  He folded his big hands around her tiny ones and prayed with her, not a memorized rhyming prayer. Just an honest conversation with God about the day. And then he sang her a lullaby. Glancing down, he saw that her eyes were closed. He kissed her forehead and tucked her into bed. He stood to leave and her arms snaked around his neck in a tight hug.

  “I love you, Daddy,” she murmured. “Everything will be all right.”

  Wesley's eyes burned. “I love you too, Melissa,” he told her, kissing her cheek. Her arms relaxed, falling to her sides.

  He hurried back down the stairs to the kitchen, where he began to rummage for food. His wife's haphazard kitchen system had him baffled as usual. Eventually, he found a loaf of bread in a lower cabinet. It must have been there for ages, as thick blue and white mold covered the entire surface. Trying not to gag, he tossed it into the backyard. A more extensive search of the kitchen revealed the fresh bread she had purchased that day, wrapped in a tea towel below the kitchen sink. The icebox held sliced meat, some of it not rotten, and some cheese from which the mold could be cut off. For this, he had given up roasted chicken with potatoes.

  Shaking his head, Wesley consumed his unpalatable supper and cleaned his own teeth, trying without success to remove the taste of the overly ripe cheese. Then he went to bed. Wherever Samantha was tonight, he hoped she stayed there. He was not
in the mood to see her.

  Allison sat in a little brown chair in front of her vanity, running an ivory-handled brush through her golden hair. She'd just bathed, a Friday night ritual, and now she wanted to dry her hair before going to bed. A knock sounded at her door.

  “Who is it?” she called.

  “Becky,” her sister replied.

  “C'mon in,” she said.

  Rebecca entered the room, dressed in a loose white nightgown, with a tan dressing gown belted around her tiny waist. While the sisters shared the same blond, blue-eyed coloring, the similarities ended there. Rebecca, though over a decade older than her sister, was more than a head shorter. Her body was slender, her hands and feet small. She looked almost fairy-like, all but her mysterious, emotion-concealing half-smile. Allison, on the other hand, was taller than some men, with lush curves and a plump-cheeked, full lipped grin.

  “Here, let me,” Becky said in her soft, serene voice, taking the brush from Allison's hand and running it gently through the thick, sunshine-colored mane.

  Allison's eyes closed at the tingling sensation in her scalp. She loved having her hair brushed, but she could feel that Becky's hand wasn't the steadiest.

  “Worried about Dad?” Allison guessed.

  “A bit. I hate that he's out there, who knows where, with those train robbers everyone's been talking about.” Becky's voice wavered a bit.

  “I know,” Allison agreed. “But you know Dad loves his job. If he doesn't drive the train, what is he good for? He's said that enough times. Thank the Lord Mom convinced him to keep his rifle with him.”

  “Did you see Wesley today?” Becky asked, changing the subject.

  “Hmmmm,” Allison said, not wanting to talk about her lost love.

  “He looks really bad,” Becky continued, “skinny and sad. I feel sorry for him.”

  “Why do we have to discuss Wesley?” Allison asked, swiveling in her chair and wincing as the brush tugged uncomfortably through her hair.

  “Sorry,” Becky replied. “I thought you were over him. It's been four years, honey.”