She stiffened but didn’t turn around. “My father warned me you’d say that if you ever came back around. How right he was.” She wrapped her arms around her middle. She wasn’t prepared for Murphy’s lies.
“I came to the farm right after the war ended.” His words came out forcefully, showing a sense of desperation as he spoke. “I planned to either stay and farm if that was what you wanted or take you to my family’s ranch. Your father—” abruptly, he lowered his voice, spoke in a hushed, pain-filled tone. “Your father showed me your grave. I offered to stay and help him with the farm, but he told me to leave.”
Slowly she turned, steeling herself. He was so very handsome, and his eyes implored her to believe him, told her he was truthful, but his eyes lied. She knew he wasn’t being truthful. She was gullible when it came to this man. “You can save your lies, Murphy. There are two graves on the property. One is my mother’s and the second is my father’s. Just where is my supposed grave?”
“Under the willow tree,” he answered with a hint of a tremor. “There’s a big, almost white rock. Your father took me there.”
What utter nonsense he spoke! “Go away, Murphy.” Her voice quavered as she trembled. “My father wouldn’t have done such a thing. Why would he have told you I was dead? He never would have allowed me to mourn for you as long as I did. He only discovered the rotten truth when I decided to marry again. No…” She shook her head as bitter tears stung her eyes. “You went right to your ranch and forgot about the woman you married. You forgot about me.” Her tears spilled over and trailed down her face.
“I can’t say why your father would have done such a cruel thing,” he said softly. “But he did. He told me you had died, told me to go on back to my family. I mourned you too, Brooke. I haven’t looked at another in eight years.” He sighed. “ I’ll be back soon, and we can talk.”
She laughed. “Like you did last time? Don’t bother.” She ran to her horse and pulled herself up onto the saddle. Without a backward glance, she urged her mount toward the trail as fast as she could.
* * *
Murphy set up camp that evening at the edge of the woods just outside the border of her property. On a little hill he could see the house below, and he hoped she could see him from there. His plan had been to go right back to the ranch, but all his plans had fallen aside. Now he wanted her to see he was sticking around. He had returned to her after the war, and by gum he needed to convince her he was telling the truth.
Her father… he’d told Murphy Brooke was dead. Hadn’t he?
“Brooke is here… Those who love her know where she is… Best you leave…”
A chill washed over Murphy as he replayed the old man’s words in his head. Had he actually used the word “dead”?
So her father had sent Murphy away, apparently told Brooke that he’d never come back for her, never intended to honor their marriage. Her father was to blame for their circumstances. Why? Why destroy his daughter’s marriage?
He shook his head. There was no understanding it. Murphy’d never gotten on with Andy Malery. Brook’s father had hated him from the first. The old man had always been afraid Murphy would take Brooke to Texas after the war. Murphy’d known it, but he never would have thought the hatred ran that deep. So deep the old man would lie to them both to keep them apart… to keep Brooke on the farm with him. His anger at the old man melted into sadness at all he and Brooke had missed out on.
There had been something special between them from the first moment they’d laid eyes on one another.
Murphy had been wounded not too far from the farm. He’d taken shelter there, and Andy had tried to get him to move along, off his property. Thank God for Brooke. She had saved his life.
She’d also kept him alive while he’d been away after his injuries healed. Knowing he would go back to her had kept him going, kept him safe.
For eight years… thinking she was dead. He’d been a broken man, barely able to function… And now, finding out she lived, she’d been alive all these years.
He wanted to hug her and kiss her and hold her. He needed to hear about her life since he had last seen her. She was his wife… He felt the shock of seeing her from head to toe. He had mourned her for so very long it had become part of him. It had been hard to hide his grief from his family, but he’d managed because he hadn’t been ready to talk about his wife… his loss.
As he watched the house and yard below, the front door opened and a dark-haired boy came out. He jumped down each step and raced into the barn. There was no mistaking that thick head of walnut brown hair, so like his own. Even the way the boy carried himself.
It had to be.
Murphy could hardly breathe. His heart pounded, and his chest hurt more than ever. He had a son. He had a son and he hadn’t known. Why? Anguish filled him. He wanted to scream to the heavens. Brooke must have hidden herself and the boy when he’d come around and had her father tell him she was dead. Had she decided she didn’t want to be married to him? So she’d deceived him for eight years.
Murphy had watched too many of his friends die in battle, and each one had been a painful experience. And then he had thought his wife dead and that had been twice as tortuous, but this… hiding his child—his son from him was the worst betrayal he’d ever felt in his life.
Staring at the barn door, he waited for the boy to come back out. He impatiently swiped at his moist eyes. Why had she never sent word to him about the child’s birth? What… why? Had he done something so wrong that she felt she could never forgive him? That he deserved to be punished? He’d believed in their love. But he’d been told she was dead.
He could call himself stupid now, and maybe some would, but he’d had no way of knowing that Brooke was alive.
The boy came out of the barn and froze, then turned and stared at Murphy for a moment. His eyes narrowed as though he were trying to figure something out. Then he scurried into the house.
Murphy had watched his nieces and nephews grow. He knew for a fact how much he had missed by not being in his son’s life. Did his son think him dead or did he think he was abandoned? Had Brooke simply not loved him the way he loved her? She’d mentioned mourning him, yet when she found out he was alive… Why had she done nothing?
Despite his stomach churning, he built a fire. He didn’t need it to cook; he just wanted her to know he was staying. He’d always lived a moral, honorable life. He believed himself to be a good Christian. Why hadn’t she at least sent him a letter about his child?
* * *
“Ma, who is that man out there? He’s set up camp,” MJ asked.
Brooke swallowed hard. “He’s a soldier I once met. I’m sure he’ll be moving on soon. How about we have some supper and then I’ll read to you for a bit?”
MJ smiled. “That’s a good idea. Ma? Do you miss Grandpa? I miss him something awful. Today would have been a good day for us to go fishing together. He liked to fish.”
“He sure did.” A smile tugged at her lips. “Especially when he was fishing with you. And yes, I do miss him very much.”
MJ chattered throughout supper, but Brooke couldn’t keep her mind off Murphy. All he’d done these last years was keep her from finding another husband. She should have contacted him and asked for a divorce, but her pride hadn’t allowed it. And now… her pride had lost her the property that should have stayed in her family. Since they were still married, her inheritance had become his. A sigh slipped out. She’d need to pack up soon.
He must have known she was alive. That drivel he was spouting about her father saying she was dead, showing him a rock. It made no sense. What reason would her father have for doing such an awful thing? By the time the war had ended, it had been a struggle to keep MJ fed. Her father never would have turned away her son’s father. No, he must have seen the condition of the farm and just left. How had he expected them to survive? She touched her threadbare and patched dress. It was decent only in that it kept her properly covered, but she made do. Somehow
her pa had always made sure MJ had clothes and shoes that fit. They weren’t new, but that hadn’t mattered. Every penny they’d made had gone to the farm, though there had been precious little to put into the land over the last few years. And now even that was no longer hers.
After reading for a while, she tucked her yawning boy into bed. The house was too quiet, and the loneliness she constantly carried felt as though it was strangling her. Murphy had to have some agenda, but she couldn’t think of what he was up to. Maybe he wanted to take MJ back to the ranch. The pounding of her heart drummed in her ears. There was no one left to help her. So many had died and the rest moved. When she’d buried her father, there were very few people left to attend.
Her thoughts drifted to the man who was still her husband. Murphy still looked so very handsome. He’d made it through the war. At first when she’d found out he was alive; she’d come up with so many reasons why he couldn’t make it back to her. Maybe it had been fanciful thinking, but it had kept her sane. The notion he’d been too injured and couldn’t get to her had been part of her thinking for so long. She had watched the road thinking any day she would spot him walking along it, that he would see her and drop everything and run to her. Too many notions and excuses had filled her head, but none of them true.
He wasn’t the fun, smiling, loyal, loving man she’d married. Or maybe he had been once… but people changed, and he had changed for the worse. The Murphy she’d fallen in love with, the man she’d married, was gone.
Restless, she eased from the bed. Tea sounded like a good idea. Wandering into the kitchen, she put water on to boil. The window was too much of a temptation. It would hurt, but she looked. Murphy was out there, but she’d already known that. Seeing his fire made her stomach contract painfully. He wanted her son. That must be it. Well, she’d fight him tooth and nail about that.
And just maybe, while she was at it, she should fight him for her land. Why should she have to leave what should have been her birthright? Let that no-account man go back to Texas and leave the land to her.
The water boiled, but she didn’t want tea anymore. She moved the pot from the stove to the counter and then banked the fire. Spring planting would need to be done and soon. It was doubtful she and MJ could handle it alone, but by golly she had no intention of leaving, despite what she had said in Tom’s office. Now that her mind was made up, she had no choice but to do the plowing and planting. God would see them through. Her faith was powerful.
Chapter Three
Brooke wiped her forehead with her sleeve. It was awkward since she didn’t dare stop the plow. It was too hard to get Maisy going if they stopped. The rows weren’t as straight as her father’s had always been, but there were rows. Her major crop was wheat. That was her money crop. She’d also planted many vegetables to sell. That was her “we need to eat and buy supplies” crop. Spring always cheered her, but it was also an in-between time. Food wasn’t plentiful on the farm.
She’d been at it for more than an hour and her back and arms already hurt something awful. Her shoulders burned, and she would have thought they were being pulled out of their sockets. From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed Murphy coming her way.
Heaving a sigh, she reined in the horse. “Whoa, Maisy,” she called out and stopped the plowing. She waited until he got closer and then pulled her revolver out of her pocket and pointed it at him.
“Get off my property you low down… Just get off,” she growled. It was one of her better growls.
“I want to help,” he said with a shrug. “I would have offered when you started, but I know how stubborn you can be. When I noticed you were slowing, I figured you’d be happy for the help.” His stare unnerved her. He wasn’t afraid of her gun or her growl.
He took another step closer.
“You’re stepping on my plowed rows,” she snapped. “Even you should know better.” It didn’t matter, though, not really. He could stand there all day if he wanted. She put the gun away and jiggled the reins. “C’mon, Maisy.”
With a jolt, the horse began pulling the plow again.
“If you come home to the ranch with me, you wouldn’t have to do so much work.” He walked right next to her, pesky as a fly. “Or if you have your heart set on staying here, let me help.”
“Now why would you want to do that?” she grumbled.
He angled a look in her direction but kept walking. “I’ve been trying to work everything out in my head, and I can’t figure out why your father told me you were dead.”
Again with that horrid story. She huffed out a breath in exasperation. “Did you get shot in the head? Maybe you hit it against a rock? Thrown from a horse? Trying to work things out in your head isn’t working.” She kept going.
He stopped walking, and she smiled. At last. But his stride was long, and he caught up fast. “You know, I remember you as a sweet kind woman.”
“You must be remembering wrong.”
He stumbled over one of the uneven furrows. “Tarnation, woman! Can you stop so we can talk?”
“No.” She’d never admit it, but she was enjoying their banter.
“Ma!” Her heart constricted as MJ ran their way.
“I know he’s mine,” Murphy said in a low voice, but try as she might, she could not detect any malice or threat in his tone.
Still, best to be careful. “Prove it. He could be the child of one of many beaus I’ve had.” Realizing what she’d just said, her face heated. “That didn’t come out right.”
“I know you’re a God-loving woman. You’d never be that way,” he said tenderly.
“Can I help too?” MJ asked as he came up to them out of breath.
“Sweetheart I will need you when we plant. This plow is too heavy for even me. Could you clean out Maisy’s stall for me?”
MJ frowned as he began walking next to Murphy. “Why are you bothering my ma?”
“I just wanted to help. Look how tired she is,” Murphy said.
“MJ.”
“I’ll go clean the stall,” he said in a disappointed voice. He raced back to the barn.
Now she couldn’t see where she was going; her eyes were filled with tears. Finally, she stopped and swallowed a sob. “You weren’t here for MJ all these years, so don’t think you can use him to get to me.” She put her hands on her hips.
“What does MJ stand for?”
Her mind came up blank, so she shrugged. “I just like the letters is all.” She closed her eyes, trying to stem her tears, but it didn’t work.
“Brooke…” he said on a sigh. “I want to hold you and tell you everything will be fine. I know you won’t let me, but please let me do just one thing for you. Go on inside, and I’ll finish the plowing.” His voice was incredibly gentle, and it made her feel soft inside.
She studied him for a moment, taking in his healthy, muscled body, his clothing that was obviously used for work but was in better condition than her finest Sunday dress. He had a powerful jaw, but his features were soft, with kindness lighting his eyes. Overcome with emotions she couldn’t name, she whirled about and ran to the house. Her tears would not stop, and she didn’t want him to know how much she hurt.
As much as she wanted to start over, to believe his story, she just couldn’t. Throughout her entire life, her father had never lied to her, and she couldn’t trust Murphy’s story. He was up to something… but what? They had rushed into a wedding. She’d hardly known him when they married. Her heart had been overflowing, and with his return to the war looming, it had seemed like their only choice. But she should have waited.
* * *
Plowing was heavy work, definitely not fit for a woman; her arms must be screaming. At least she hadn’t put up too much of a fuss and was allowing him to plow for her. It might be a small start, but it was a start. He couldn’t get the grin he was wearing to disappear. MJ was his son. Brooke hadn’t denied it. Did MJ stand for Murphy John? Or maybe he was Murphy Junior. It didn’t matter. She’d as good as admitted he was
the boy’s father.
He’d missed so much. The boy’s birth, his first words, first steps… teaching him about hunting and fishing and farming… ranching.
Even with Brooke’s father not approving of him, Murphy still could not understand why the man had taken such a drastic step as to make sure his daughter remained without a husband, his grandson without a father. Though they had never gotten on well, the old man had always been civil. A frown pinched Murphy’s forehead. Had he done something wrong? Why had her father taken such a dislike to him?
It must have been awful for Brooke, thinking her husband didn’t want her. Had her father not cared how much he was hurting her to lie like he had? Had she spent all these years thinking he wanted someone else? Anger rushed through his veins, heating him into a fury. He was tempted to take the plow and dig up the old man. Even from the grave, her father was still interfering in his life.
He turned Maisy to make another row. He’d been so feverish when Brooke had found him in the barn. He had escaped detection from the Union Army hiding in that hole he’d made, but he’d been there three days, weakened by his injury, unable to adequately clean it so infection had begun to set in. He had thought Brooke was an angel at first, but as soon as her father joined her, he knew better. Even then, the old man hadn’t wanted to help him. Andy Malery had told Brooke to leave Murphy there to die. Luckily, she hadn’t listened.
Brooke had been so kind and caring as she nursed him, her touch gentle and soothing. She even took the bullet out of him. Her father made a few spiteful remarks to her, but she’d ignored him. She’d just call him grouchy.
Murphy and Brooke got to know each other those three weeks while he healed. Their relationship was easy and quickly turned into an attraction which developed into love. A love so deep he’d mourned her absence while he was off fighting. When the war was finally over, he’d been elated and excited to see his wife. He had looked forward to starting their life together. What a fool he’d been. He should have asked more questions when he’d finally arrived at the farm. He should have asked for details; Andy Malery hadn’t even told him how Brooke had supposedly died, and Murphy hadn’t questioned. He should have been suspicious. All he’d been was an idiot.
Murphy: Cowboy Deceived: The Kavanagh Brothers Book 6 Page 2
