Betrayal

by Robin Lee Hatcher

  Julia didn’t take her eyes off Jemima for more than an instant. Not until the baby demanded — with strong lungs — to be fed.

  “I’ll just go into the bedroom,” Rose said as she took the infant from Julia. “By the time she’s done, we should be ready to sit down to eat too.” She motioned with her head toward her brother. “You two make yourself acquainted. I’ll be back soon enough.”

  Julia felt a moment of panic. Rose had introduced her brother upon Julia’s arrival, but for the life of her, she couldn’t remember his name now.

  It was Faith who came to her rescue. “Uncle Roland? Can you get my doll? Charity put it on top of the cupboard, and I can’t reach it.”

  Roland … Roland March. That was his name. The panic subsided.

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Grace,” he said as he rose from the sofa.

  She watched as he crossed the parlor and entered the kitchen. He was a tall man and had no trouble retrieving the doll where Faith’s sister had tried to hide it. When he turned around, his gaze met Julia’s and he smiled.

  And in that moment, Julia realized what her friend had in mind. How could she not have known it before now? Rose, who was so happily wed, wanted the same for everyone — and she thought her brother would make some woman a fine husband. Hadn’t she said those very words to Julia in the past?

  Oh, Rose. I thought you understood how I felt.

  It didn’t matter that Roland March was nothing like Angus. Julia had no interest in giving over her life to another husband. Not even if she could have a baby would she marry again — and it did not seem to be the Lord’s will for her to be a mother.

  The Collins family was a boisterous bunch, and the meal that Sunday was anything but silent. Frequent laughter punctured the air as bowls and platters were passed in a circle, older children aiding the younger ones, several conversations taking place at the same time. Hugh had some fond memories of his boyhood with his mum and sisters around the table in their tenement apartment, but those memories were nothing like what he experienced now. In truth, the cacophony was a bit overwhelming for a man who’d spent many of his adult years in solitude.

  Julia was the only one at the table who was as quiet as Hugh, and something in her expression told him she was troubled by her own thoughts. Was it because she no longer held the baby in her arms or was it something else? He wished he knew.

  “Mr. Brennan,” Roland said from his place directly across the table, “my sister tells me you’re from Illinois.”

  “Yes. I grew up in Chicago.”

  “How long have you been in Wyoming?”

  “Not long. Just came here this spring.”

  “So you haven’t always been a cowboy?”

  Hugh had met a fair number of lawyers over the years. A necessary evil, he supposed. Most attorneys were brilliant actors even if not brilliant thinkers. And none he’d met had cared about his innocence. When he’d been innocent. He tried not to let his opinion of those in the legal profession reveal itself in his abrupt answer. “No.”

  “And what sort of profession did you practice in Chicago?”

  An image of steel bars flashed in his mind, and he felt himself tense. He didn’t want to lie, but he didn’t want to tell the whole truth either. His past was none of this man’s business. He’d put it behind him, as best he could. It was better forgotten — if that would ever be possible. “Nothing special. Any work I could find.”

  “Mr. Brennan seems to be skilled at whatever he’s asked to do,” Julia said softly, her eyes fixed on her plate as she moved food around with her fork without taking a bite.

  It surprised Hugh, the way her simple words of praise made him feel. More of a man. Less of a failure. The tension drained from his shoulders, and he felt himself being drawn into the warm circle of friends seated around the table.

  TWELVE

  There was a lightness in Hugh’s chest on Monday morning as he rode once again toward the neighboring farm. The feeling had begun around the Collins supper table and persisted even after he and Julia returned to Sage-hen. Was it a sense of belonging or of purpose or of hope? Maybe all three.

  Not even a week ago, he’d been convinced that a man like him didn’t have friends, but this morning, he could believe he already had a friend or two right here in Wyoming. God said he was a new creation in Christ. Maybe there were good folks here on earth who would see that new creation and overlook his unsavory past. Good folks like Peter and Rose Collins. The salt of the earth. That’s what his mum would’ve called them.

  Peter was standing on the front porch when Hugh rode into the barnyard. He waved an arm and called out, “Mornin’, Hugh.”

  “Morning.”

  “I sure appreciate your offer to help pull those stumps.”

  “Glad to do it.” Hugh stopped his horse and dismounted.

  “My brother-in-law had to go into town to take care of some business, but if he gets back in time, he’ll join us.” Peter held up the cup in his hand. “Want some coffee before we get started?”

  “No thanks. Had plenty with my breakfast.”

  “All right then.” Peter set the cup on the porch rail. “You can put your horse in the corral while I get the team.”

  A short while later, the two men headed off on foot. Hugh carried a couple of shovels and an ax. Peter held a saw in one hand while he led the pair of horses with his other. Neither man spoke, the only sound the soft jangle of harnesses. But once they arrived at the new field, Peter explained that he planned to plant more corn in this section of land. Only first he had to get rid of the half dozen stumps that dotted the field.

  “I chopped down the trees last fall. Maples. They’ve got taproots that grow straight down deep. Been meaning to get the field cleared ever since the snow melted but there just never seemed to be enough time, what with the new baby and all.”

  “Tell me where to start, and we’ll get it done.”

  “We’ll need to dig a trench around the base first.” Peter motioned toward the nearest stump. “Any small roots we find have to be cut and removed, and we’ve got to go deep enough beneath the tree to cut the taproot with the saw. Once it’s severed, we’ll put a chain around the stump and let the horses pull it out.”

  Hugh set down the ax before handing the second shovel to Peter. Then the two of them got to work, each taking a different stump. The ground was hard and resisted every jab of the shovel. They would be lucky, Hugh decided, to get half of them removed in a single day.

  Julia dried the last of the breakfast dishes and put them away. Afterward, she went outside and stood on the porch, listening to the sounds of morning. The cackling of the hens. The swish of horses’ tails. The soft applause of leaves as a breeze swayed the branches.

  Peaceful. Quiet.

  Lonely.

  Lonely?

  Miles away, the train whistle blew. A faint but mournful sound. A lonely sound.

  But she wasn’t lonely. She had what she wanted — a warm house, plenty of food, and land upon which to raise her cattle. She was no longer subject to a husband who abused or ridiculed her. She had a faithful dog as a companion and a new family of cats to eventually rid her barn of small rodents.

  And Hugh?

  Her gaze moved toward the road, as if she expected to still be able to see him. Of course she couldn’t. He’d left as soon as he finished breakfast. Gone to help Peter clear a field of tree stumps. It had been good of him to volunteer yesterday. Neighborly.

  Like he belongs here.

  She closed her eyes. What was the matter with her this morning? Maybe it was that she didn’t have enough to do. In the time he’d worked for her, Hugh had taken over many tasks she used to do herself. If idleness was the cause of her confused feelings and thoughts, then she would be glad when it was time for him to move on.

  With a shake of her head, she went back inside. Now would be a good time to do some much needed mending. In her bedroom, she settled on the chair near the window and reached into her sewing basket for
the skirt with the torn hem.

  Although Julia liked to sew new clothes well enough, mending was one of her least favorite tasks. Perhaps that was because it had been one of her chores from a very early age. She could still recall the scent of her mother’s cologne as she’d leaned over Julia’s shoulder and showed her how to make almost invisible stitches in the colorful fabrics.

  “Oh, Mama,” she whispered. “How I wish you would write to me. How I wish you would forgive me.”

  She sighed, her mending forgotten.

  “Julia Crane, is that you?”

  Julia felt her insides grow tense as she turned to face Madame Rousseau. “Yes’m.”

  “Come over here. As I live and breathe, you’ve blossomed over the summer. I never expected you to turn out so pretty.”

  Julia’s mother had told her time and again to stay out of sight of the woman who owned the saloon. At fourteen, Julia was old enough to understand why.

  Madame Rousseau frowned. “You aren’t still staying in my shack near Trouble Creek, are you? What could Madeline be thinking, keeping you hidden away in that horrid place?”

  “We like it there,” Julia answered, though it was a falsehood. She wasn’t happy in that house where the wind blew through as if the walls were fabric instead of wood.

  “It won’t do. It just won’t do.”

  And it wouldn’t do. Not once Madame Rousseau made up her mind for it to change. In less than a week, Julia and her mother were living in a room on the third floor of the saloon. That room became both Julia’s home and her prison.

  At night the laughter and shouts and what passed for music filtered up the staircase and beneath the closed, locked door, leaving Julia tense and sleepless. And she didn’t like to think what concessions her mother made to Madame Rousseau that allowed Julia to live there without working.

  Working. A respectable sounding word for a way of life that wasn’t.

  “Someday it’ll be better. Someday it will.” Her mother had said those words time and time again through the years. She’d made certain Julia went to school and had told her she must ignore the teasing and cruel words of her classmates. “Study hard. Improve your mind and you can improve your life. Be a lady. Don’t wind up like me, my darling girl.”

  Take me away from here, God. That was Julia’s constant prayer. Please take me away from here.

  Julia’s eyes refocused, and with a glance at the clock, she realized she’d been lost in thought for a long while. But her memories wouldn’t be denied.

  She dropped the skirt into the basket and went to her wardrobe. On the top shelf, within easy reach, was a plain wooden box where she kept a few prized possessions. While Angus lived, she’d hidden the box elsewhere, knowing he would have destroyed it and everything inside when he was in one of his moods.

  Julia carried the box to her bed where she opened the lid. On top, there were the letters from her mother, sent during the early years of Julia’s marriage, tied in a bundle with a yellow ribbon. In a second bundle were the letters her mother had returned to her unopened. Those were from more recent years. In addition, there was a necklace that her great-grandmother had worn when she left England for America, a small silver cross given to Julia by Reverend Adair at her baptism, and a ring that had belonged to Angus’s mother. She picked up the latter object and held it up to catch the light.

  Her husband had shown her the ring once, soon after he’d brought Julia to Wyoming as his bride. “It’s not worth anything,” he’d said at the time. “Cut glass is all it is. But my father gave it to my mother, and she liked it. I don’t want you wearing it.”

  She hadn’t cared about the ring. It was rather an ugly thing. Though the glass stone was bright and sparkly, the metal setting reminded her of a gargoyle. Why would any woman want it on her finger? She’d never seen the ring again while Angus lived and had forgotten all about it until she was going through her husband’s things several months after his death and discovered it in the back of a dresser drawer, wrapped in a handkerchief.

  But the ugly ring wasn’t the reason she’d taken the keepsake box from the wardrobe. It was the letters she wanted to see. She reached for the bundled envelopes and untied the yellow ribbon. Then she opened the letter with the oldest postmark.

  My darling girl,

  I hope this letter finds you well and settling into your new life with your husband. I have thought of you so often since the day of the wedding. I know it was not the kind of ceremony you would have liked. I know you would have chosen a church wedding performed by the reverend, but that just wasn’t possible. It was more important that you marry quickly and go, before Madame Rousseau made it difficult for you to do so.

  Still, you were the prettiest bride I’ve seen in all my born days, and if I believed in God, I’d be thanking Him for giving you a fine husband and a new home.

  “Oh, Mama,” she whispered, tears blurring her vision. “You were grasping at straws, trying to protect me. But how I wish … how I wish …”

  “Julia dear, I want you to meet Mr. Grace.”

  Her mother’s words drew Julia’s gaze from the dress she was making. She wasn’t sure what she expected, but it wasn’t the man she saw before her. His attire was plain, the clothes of a working man. However, his face was anything but plain. Never had she seen such a handsome man. Perhaps four or five years older than she, he was tall and fair, his hair even lighter than her own. His eyes were dark blue. When he smiled, she felt her heart flip in response.

  “How do you do, Miss Crane?” he said, his voice smooth, like warm honey.

  She answered as she’d been taught to do. “I’m well, sir. Thank you.” She glanced toward her mother who remained near the open door of the room they shared, wondering why she’d brought Mr. Grace here instead of calling for her to come down.

  “Would you mind if I sat?” he asked, already doing so.

  Fear fluttered through her. Was this Madame Rousseau’s doing? No, it couldn’t be. Her mother wouldn’t look so pleased if that were the case.

  Her gaze returned to Mr. Grace. “I’m afraid I haven’t any refreshments to offer you, sir.”

  “Quite all right. I’m here for a different reason.”

  “Different reason?”

  “Miss Crane, the truth is, I’m here to ask for your hand in marriage.”

  “Marriage?” Her eyes widened in disbelief. “But we only just met.”

  He smiled again. “I know more than you think, Julia. When I first saw you in town, I inquired about you. And now we’ll become better acquainted. First of all, I’d like you to call me Angus. Would you do that?”

  “I —” She glanced toward her mother, who nodded ever so slightly. “I suppose that would be all right … Angus.”

  The wedding took place less than a week later. It was held in Madame Rousseau’s private suite on the first floor above the saloon early on a Wednesday morning. All of the girls who worked for Madame Rousseau were there, a few of them attending in satin robes and bedroom slippers. No one seemed to think that strange, not even the justice of the peace who performed the brief ceremony.

  In no time at all, Angus and Julia were declared husband and wife. Angus gave his bride a perfunctory kiss on the lips, took hold of her left arm, and propelled her out of the suite, down the stairs, and out onto the boardwalk, where a wagon and team of horses awaited them, Julia’s trunk already in the bed.

  “Julia,” her mother called before Angus could help her up to the wagon seat.

  She turned to accept her mother’s embrace.

  “Be happy. I’ve done the best by you that I could.”

  “I know you have, Mama. I’ll be happy.”

  “You’ll never have to work in a place like this. You’ve got a husband and a home. Make the best of it.”

  “I will.”

  Her mother looked at Angus. “You treat her good now, you hear?”

  He grunted his response.

  “You write me as soon as you get to your new home,
” her mother continued, looking once more at Julia. “You write me as often as you can. I know you’ll be busy, learning how to be a proper rancher’s wife and all, but just write enough so I’ll know you’re doing okay.”

  Tears flooded Julia’s eyes as she whispered, “I will, Mama. You write to me too. I … I’ll miss you.”

  “Let’s go.” Angus took hold of her arm again, his grip painfully tight. “We’ve got a lot of ground to cover before nightfall.”

  He sounded almost angry, and a flicker of doubt passed through her heart. But it was too late to change things now.

  Once again, Hugh slapped the reins against the rumps of the horses as the animals strained forward in the harness. “Giddup there!” They pulled with all of their might, their coats covered with sweat.

  “It’s starting to move,” Peter shouted. “Keep ‘em going.”

  “Hey there. Giddup.”

  For a few moments longer, everything was as it had been for the past ten minutes, men and horses all doing their jobs. Then the groan and rattle of leather and chains was replaced by a sharper, louder sound. Unexpectedly, the horses broke into a trot, no longer meeting resistance. Hugh was jerked to his knees and the reins soared out of his hands. Completely free now, the team hurried toward the barn.

  “What hap —” The question died in Hugh’s throat as he looked behind him. Peter was on the ground near the splintered stump, his head bleeding, his eyes closed. “Collins!” Hugh jumped up, rushed to where the injured man lay, and dropped to his knees a second time.

  The wound in Peter’s head looked both long and deep, although it was hard to be sure of anything because of the blood. Lots and lots of blood. He jerked his shirt loose from his trousers and peeled out of it. Then he pressed the fabric to the wound, hoping to staunch the flow.

  “Collins, are you with me?”

  The man didn’t answer. His eyes didn’t flicker or try to open.

  Hugh straightened his back and looked toward the Collins house. Too far away but he shouted anyway. “Mrs. Collins! Rose! Anyone!” No one was in sight. No one came at the sound of his voice.