by Jodi Thomas
Cait sank into him and laid her hands over his, which were clasped at her waist. “I don’t catch butterflies anymore.”
“Why’s that?”
She leaned her head back against his shoulder and tilted her face up to meet his gaze. Her eyes sparkled with love. “If I caught them, they’d never find their way home . . . like you did.”
The butterfly fluttered away and Win smiled, silently wishing it luck in finding home.
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LACY’S STORY
A Texan’s Luck
COMING IN NOVEMBER FROM JOVE BOOKS
CEDAR POINT
NOVEMBER 1885
LACY FOLDED A few dollar bills into the last pay envelope and stuffed it in the bottom drawer of her desk. She leaned back, breathing in the familiar smells of the print shop. Ink, sawdust, paper, poverty. Home.
In the two years since she had taken over the shop, she managed to make the payroll every month but one. Once she’d taken all the money from the cashbox and traveled halfway across Texas to meet her husband. She shrugged. Once she’d been eighteen and a fool.
As the wind howled outside, Lacy closed her eyes, remembering how excited she’d been when she learned that Frank Walker Larson was stationed little more than a day’s ride by train and then stage from her. Finally, her husband would be more than just a name on the marriage license.
She’d dreamed of how it would be when they met. He would be young and handsome in his uniform. She’d run into his arms and he’d tell her everything was going to be all right. After the year of taking care of his father and keeping the shop running, Lacy would cuddle into his embrace and forget all her worries.
She opened her eyes to the shadowy world of her small print shop. The real world. Her husband had been handsome, she admitted. So tall and important he took her breath away. But he hadn’t welcomed her. His arms had folded around her in duty, nothing more. The Frank Larson she ran to was only a cold captain who preferred to be called Walker.
Lacy pushed away a tear as she remembered riding back on the dusty stagecoach that day. Now twenty, she was old enough to realize what a fool she had made of herself with Larson. The ride home had only prolonged her agony. Her body hurt from being used, but the dreams he killed scarred. The coach had been crowded with women wearing too much perfume and men smoking cheap cigars. When Lacy threw up in her handkerchief, the passengers decided that she would benefit from more air.
At the first stop, she was encouraged to take the seat on top of the stage. She’d pulled on her bonnet and gladly crawled into the chair tied among the luggage. As she watched the sunset that day, Lacy took the letters from her bag that Walker had written to his father years ago. She fell in love with her husband through reading his letters of adventure, memorizing every line as if it were written to her.
One by one, she watched them blow out of her hands, drifting in the wind behind the stage like dead leaves. That day she put away childhood. That day she’d given up on dreams.
Lacy stood in the dimly lit shop and pulled her shawl around her as if the wool could hug her frame. She stretched tired muscles. It was late and tomorrow would be a busy day. Every Saturday after all the papers were sold and the flyers nailed, Lacy rode out to her friends’ farm. There, she could relax for a few hours. She’d play with Bailee and Carter’s children and remember how years ago, when Sarah, Bailee, and she had been kicked off of a wagon train, they’d talked about what life would be like in Texas. Bailee had sworn she’d never marry and Sarah had thought she wouldn’t live to see another winter. But Lacy, then fifteen, had boasted that she would marry and have so many children she would have to start numbering them because she’d run out of names.
“Five years ago,” Lacy whispered to herself as she climbed the stairs. Five years since they came to Texas half-starved, out of money, and out of luck. Bailee found her man and had three sons with another baby on the way. Sarah wrote often about her twins.
“And then there is me.” Lacy walked into her small apartment above the shop. “I had a husband for fifteen minutes, once.”
Her rooms welcomed her with colorful quilts she’d made and tattered books she’d collected. When she first moved in and began to learn the newspaper business, she could barely read, but Lacy studied hard. Her father-in-law never tired of helping her learn those first few years. He’d treated her like a treasure even though she’d been little more than a rag-a-muffin when he’d paid her bail and married her to his son by proxy. From the first he talked of what a grand jewel she’d be to his son when the boy finally came home from serving in the army.
On evenings like this, she missed the old man dearly. She longed for the way he always talked about Walker as if his son were still a boy, and the way he could quote every article he’d ever written as though it were only yesterday and not material from twenty years in the business.
Before Lacy could heat water for tea, someone tapped on the back door.
She lifted the old Navy Colt from the pie safe drawer and went to answer. No one ever climbed the stairs to her back door except Bailee and she wouldn’t be calling so late.
The minute she saw Sheriff Riley’s stooped outline through the glass, she relaxed and set the gun aside.
“Evening.” She opened the door to a cold blast of air that almost took her breath away. “Want to come in for a cup of coffee, Sheriff? It’s cold enough to snow.” The little porch area at the top of a narrow flight of stairs held no protection from the night and lately, the sheriff was thin as bone.
Riley shook his head. “Now you know I can’t do that. What would folks say, a lady like yourself having a male guest after dark?”
She grinned, knowing no one would think a thing about the old man coming in from the winter night to sit a spell, but she wouldn’t spoil his fun. “You know you’re the only gentleman I ask inside. I’d shoot any other man who came knocking after dark.”
Riley nodded. “I’d hope so. You being a respectable lady and all. I wouldn’t even bother with a trial if I found a body on this porch.” Though he’d listened to their confessions of killing a robber on the road to Cedar Point five years ago, the sheriff had always treated Lacy, Sarah, and Bailee more like daughters than outlaws.
The sheriff, like everyone else in town, regarded her as if her husband had simply left for the day and would be back anytime. Here, she was Mrs. Larson and there was a solidness about it even if there was no substance to the man she married.
Riley shifted into his coat like an aging turtle. “I just came to tell you that I got a telegram a few minutes ago saying Zeb Whitaker will be getting out of jail next week. I promised you I’d let you know the minute I heard.”
Lacy fought to keep from reaching for the Colt. Big Zeb Whitaker was an old nightmare she laid aside years ago when he’d finally gone to prison. She could still feel his hands on her when he’d grabbed her and ripped the front of her dress open to see if she were woman enough to kidnap. She thought she killed him once. She would kill him for real if she had to. He was the first man Bailee, Sarah, and she met when they came to Texas and if Zeb had his way he would have taken their wagon and left them for dead.
“Lacy?” Riley said as though he didn’t think she listened.
“Yes.” She balled her fist to keep her hands from trembling.
“Rumor is he still thinks one of you three women has his stash of gold. I wouldn’t be surprised if he showed up around here. I’m not too worried about Bailee way out on the farm with Carter watching after her, and Sarah tucked away where Zeb will never find her.” Riley’s face wrinkled. “But you . . . with your man gone and all.”
He didn’t need to say more. She knew she was alone. Her man wasn’t gone, Walker had never been here. Except for the one brief meeting he was no more than a name on a piece of paper.
“I think you should leave town, Lacy.” When Riley met her stare, he added quickly. “Just f
or a few weeks. Go see Sarah. Or maybe you have family back East you could visit.”
Lacy wanted to scream, ‘with what!’ There were times over the past few years when she didn’t have enough money left to buy food. Once she survived on a basket of apples Bailee brought in from their farm. The two friends never discussed how Lacy was doing, but Bailee always brought apples and eggs and more from the farm, claiming she wanted to trade them for a newspaper. More often than not, Lacy swapped a ten cent paper for a week’s worth of food.
Lacy didn’t want the sheriff, or anyone else in town, to know how little she had. They all seemed to think her invisible husband sent her money regularly. “I’ll be fine here, Sheriff, don’t worry about me.”
Riley shook his head. “I don’t know, Lacy. I’m not as spry as I used to be. I’m not sure I can face a man like Zeb Whitaker.”
“He’s aged too, you know. He’s probably barely getting around. Who knows, he might come back to say he’s sorry for causing us so much trouble five years ago.”
“Mean don’t age well.” The sheriff frowned. “I’d feel a lot better if your man were here.”
“Walker’s down on the border fighting cattle rustlers,” Lacy lied. She’d been using that excuse for months now; it was time she made up another reason. “I’ll be all right. I have the gun you gave me.”
Mumbling to himself, Riley turned and headed down the steep stairs. Lacy knew he wasn’t happy about her staying, but this was her home, her only home, and she needed to run the shop. None of the three men who worked for her could take over her job.
Duncan was almost deaf. Folks coming in to place an ad had to stand next to his good ear and yell their order. Eli’s bones bothered him so much in winter that he stayed on his feet most of the day. If he sat for more than a few minutes he seemed to rust. And, of course, Jay Boy was just a kid Lacy paid a man’s wages because he supported his mother and little sister. He might be learning the business between errands, but he couldn’t take over.
Lacy closed the back door and locked it. She had to stay. If Whitaker came, she’d fight. Maybe even die, but she wouldn’t run.
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To Find You Again
COMING IN JULY FROM BERKLEY BOOKS
Chapter One
“AMAZING GRACE, how sweet the sound . . .”
The voices of the Sunset Methodist Church members blended with wheezy organ notes to circle Emma Louise Hartwell. Emma’s lips moved with the remembered words, but no sound came forth. Although she held her head high and aimed at the front of the church, her gaze followed dust motes, which drifted aimlessly through sunlight slanting in between boards covering a window. Next week the shutters would be removed, heralding the church’s official recognition of spring.
Emma shuddered as the four walls closed in on her, and her heart pounded like a war drum. She should’ve waited until next Sunday to make her first public appearance. At least then she would have the illusion of freedom through the glass panes. Now there was only warped wood and shadowed corners, so unlike . . .
No! She didn’t dare think about that, not while surrounded by those who had judged and sentenced her even though they didn’t know the truth. Of course, if they knew everything, her total condemnation would be assured.
A hushed scuffle between the Morrison children caught Emma’s attention. The boy and girl were tugging and punching at one another as their parents ignored them.
A Lakota child would never be so disobedient during a religious ceremony. They were taught from infancy to remain quiet and honor their elders, as well as revere their traditions and rituals. But then, the Lakota children wouldn’t have had to sit on hard benches surrounded by four walls for two hours either. Emma, who’d grown up attending Sunday service, found herself anxious to escape the confinement. However, the intervening years had taught her to remain still and silent, like a mouse when a hawk passed overhead.
The final hymn ended with a concluding groan of the organ, and Emma herself nearly groaned in relief. She wished she could forego decorum and run outside like the children, but this was the first time she’d attended service with her family since her return five months ago. Her mother said they had wanted to spare her the pitying looks. Emma believed her parents wanted to spare themselves the town’s censure.
Familiar townsfolk greeted John and Martha Hartwell, as well as their fair-haired daughter Sarah, but only a few acknowledged Emma’s presence. Even Sally and George, whom she’d known for years, didn’t stop to visit with her, but only sent her guarded nods, as if she had a catching disease. Still, Emma could understand their wariness. They had all grown up with the same stories she had heard about the “red devils.”
But they hadn’t lived in a Lakota village for almost seven years.
Emma followed her family to the doorway where the minister stood, shaking hands with the members of his flock.
“Fine job, Reverend,” Emma’s father said. He’d spoken those same words to the minister every Sunday that Emma could remember. It was another one of those oddly disconcerting reminders that some things hadn’t changed.
“How is Emma doing?” the reverend asked.
Emma bristled inwardly, but kept her outward expression composed and her eyes downcast. They talked about her as if she wasn’t standing right beside them. She hated that, but had promised her parents to remain as inconspicuous as possible.
“She’s fine, Reverend,” Martha Hartwell replied.
Emma risked sneaking a look at her mother and recognized the strain in her forced smile.
“We’re thinking of sending her to visit her aunt back in St. Paul,” her father interjected.
Emma gasped and opened her mouth to protest, but his warning look silenced her. Her cheeks burned with humiliation and anger. Her parents were going to rid themselves of their embarrassment one way or another. And they hadn’t even deemed her important enough to discuss their plans for her future. Bitterness filled her and the air suddenly seemed too heavy.
“Excuse me,” Emma whispered and stumbled past her sister, her parents, and the minister.
Her face burned from all the looks—pitying, accusing, and morbidly curious—directed toward her, as if she were a wolf caught in barbed wire. Her eyes stung, but she lifted her head high and held the tears at bay with the same stubbornness that didn’t let her despair overcome her. She had lived a life that few white women could even imagine. Nobody had a right to judge her.
Nobody.
She rounded a bend and her gaze blurred as the tears finally defeated her control. Now that she was out of sight, she surrendered to the anguish twisting in her belly, making her gasp for air. But she didn’t slow her pace. She prayed to God and Wakan Tanka, the Great Mystery, that she would escape the suffocating life that was now hers.
Nobody knew what she had left behind when she was returned—not even her family.
Pain arrowed through her breast and Emma stumbled. A firm hand caught her arm, steadying and shocking her.
“Easy, ma’am.”
She whirled around and the stranger released her. The man hastily removed his hat and worried the brim between callused fingers. He wore brown trousers with a tan buckskin jacket and a red scarf around his neck. Thick, wavy, brown hair hung to his shoulders and his dark blue eyes were steady, but guarded. The man’s black and white pony stood patiently on the road, its reins hanging to the ground.
“I’m sorry if I startled you, ma’am. It’s just that I saw you stumbling-like and thought you might be sick.”
The man’s voice was quiet and husky, as if he didn’t use it very often.
Emma’s cheeks warmed and she dashed a hand across them to erase the telltale tear tracks. “No, that’s all right. I didn’t hear you.”
A cool spring breeze soughed through the tree’s bare branches and Emma shuddered from the chill beneath the too-light cape.
The
man removed his jacket, revealing tan suspenders over a deep blue shirt, and awkwardly placed the coat over her shoulders. “You shouldn’t be out here, ma’am. You’ll catch your death dressed like that.”
Emma’s fingers curled into the soft material and the scent of cured deerhide tickled her nose with memories of another life. She caught herself and tried to hand the jacket back to him. “No. I can’t—”
“I’m fine. You’re the one who’s shivering like a plucked sage hen.”
She almost missed his shy, hesitant smile.
“Thank you,” she said softly. Besides the leather, she could smell woodsmoke, horses, and the faint scent of male sweat in the well-worn jacket. “You’re right. It was stupid of me to run off like that.”
The man dipped his head in acknowledgment, and his long hair brushed across his shoulders.
“Are you from around here?” Emma asked.
“Yes’m. About four miles northwest.”
That would make him a neighbor.
The steady clop clop of hooves directed Emma’s gaze to the road. A man dressed in a cavalry hat and pants and a sheepskin coat rode into view. He drew his black horse to a halt beside the other man’s mare.
“I was wondering what happened to you, Ridge,” the man said, eyeing Emma like she was a piece of prime rib.
She shivered anew, but this time it wasn’t from the cool wind.
“Ease off, Colt,” the man called Ridge said without force. “The lady needed some help is all.”
“She all right?” the man asked.
“The lady is fine,” Emma replied curtly. She’d had enough of people talking about her like she was invisible to last a lifetime.
The clatter of an approaching buckboard put an end to their stilted conversation and Emma’s heart plummeted into her stomach when she spotted her father’s stormy expression.
Colt backed his horse off the road as the wagon slowed to a stop beside them.
