“Lizzy Lou,” he whispered, “I can’t think of you as a sister. I never could.”
She nodded, though she didn’t quite believe him. He might think so, but their definitions would be different. So different.
“You’re going to the Independence Day Celebration with me.”
She nodded, clinging tightly, knowing this precious moment in his arms drew to a close.
“You’re safe with me, Lizzy.”
She nodded.
“Do you understand?”
He sought her face, no doubt mottled with splotches and puffiness and insecurities.
He walked her through the door into the back room, sat her in a chair well out of sight from the front door, and brought her a glass of water.
She drank, though she didn’t really want it. All she wanted was to remain in his arms forever.
“Give me thirty minutes. I’ll clean up, lock up, and I’ll walk you home.”
Chapter 8
On the morning of Independence Day, Elizabeth accepted Mother’s invitation to prepare, together, for the day’s events. Two windows stood open, the screens keeping out insects but allowing cross-ventilation. The morning remained gloriously cool in this high mountain valley. Not nearly as hot or humid as St. Louis, the day would be warm but so enjoyable.
Mother took her turn at the dressing table. With care, Elizabeth lifted the hot curling iron from its lamp, and applied it to Mother’s bangs.
“I’m so pleased.” Mother fairly bubbled over with happiness. “You and Morgan. Perfect. You two make the most handsome couple.”
Elizabeth’s stomach turned a somersault. “Thank you, Mother.”
If only it weren’t playacting…and a soon-to-be stepbrother’s kindness. She’d replayed his actions, defending her from Raymond Cresswell, over and over again—and Morgan’s words.
He’d been so sincere—so affectionate. Could she trust herself to know the difference?
Mother had complimented and carried on, whispering and planning, joyfully, since Elizabeth had shared the news of Morgan’s invitation.
“You do look captivating in that dress, Elizabeth Louise, even if it hasn’t a proper bustle. The color flatters the blue of your eyes.”
“Thank you.”
The freshly ironed blue gingham reflected in the dressing table’s mirror as she applied the curling iron to yet another lock of Mother’s hair.
“Why haven’t you worn it before today?”
She’d been able to accept the bright blue of the gingham dress, only because of its simple lines and timeless form. Even without the high fashion, the dress made her uncomfortable. How could she explain that to a woman who knew no such feelings? Plain gray didn’t put her on display, didn’t catch the eye, didn’t make a spectacle…as if she tried too hard to fancy up her plain face.
She had no delusions of beauty. If only she’d favored her mother more than her father.
But all the wishing in the world wouldn’t make it so.
“I saved it for this special occasion.” A much easier answer. What occasion could be better?
Morgan had invited her to accompany him under duress, true, but she would ensure this social outing was enjoyable. For him as well as herself.
Memories of his chaste kisses, his embrace, his whispered I can’t think of you as a sister, Lizzy Lou. I never could.
And she hadn’t been able to think of him as a brother.
Her belly tingled with anticipation. Where did that leave them?
Mother tittered on and on. So much happier than Elizabeth had seen her in a very long while.
“Tell me.” Mother’s eyes sparkled with shared secrets. “I want to know how you and Morgan are coming along.”
Elizabeth held a curl in place while it cooled, and set the iron back on its heating lamp. “Quite well.”
“But do you like him?”
Since when had Mother ever wanted to know if she was fond of a man?
“I do. Very much. He’s a good man.”
“Just like his father, don’t you think?”
“I do.”
“I think it’s marvelous that you and Morgan are attending the festivities together. And even better that you’re courting. Just think what it could be like, Elizabeth. The four of us. Happily entwined into one happy family.”
When Mother put it that way, it seemed almost…possible.
“I told Geo that you two should marry.”
She couldn’t admit entertaining the same wishes, in the most secret recesses in her heart. “Oh?”
“As husband and wife, you and Morgan should live in this big house with us. Soon it’ll be too cold in that drafty cabin.”
“That would be lovely, wouldn’t it?” She’d not been able to suppress the daydreams. But her daydreams always centered on her and Morgan in that lovely, snug cabin. The two of them, quiet and building a life together, just the two of them. Let their parents live in the big house.
Mother held a gold eardrop to her right ear, a pearl to the left, assessing her reflection. “And Geo believes it’s a fine idea. The four of us, here, together. It’s precisely what he wants to see happen. Having only one son gives him the best understanding—he understands why I’m so careful with you.”
Mother met Elizabeth’s gaze in the mirror, obviously awaiting a reply.
“Yes.”
“So, now that we’ve settled on Sunday for our nuptials, and the plans are in motion, the only thing that remains is seeing you properly dressed, Elizabeth Louise.”
No sense arguing, though her nicest of plain, gray dresses would do. This occasion wasn’t about her, and she had no interest in attracting attention. “We haven’t time to engage a seamstress, nor have a gown made. Even if we did, you’re the bride. You need a dress.”
“I have something. I’m prepared. You wouldn’t think I’d wait until mere days before my wedding to consider a gown, do you?”
In St. Louis, Mother had kept standing weekly appointments with the dressmaker. She’d enjoyed spending Father’s money—perhaps a little too much. “No, Mother.”
“Something cool in this heat. But not white. And not gray.” Mother smoothed her pale blue summer dress, the finest piece she brought with her from home. Far nicer than the purple monstrosity. She couldn’t help but smile, remembering Morgan’s reaction.
“You’re smiling.” Mother turned on the stool to look Elizabeth in the eye. “What is it? Tell me.”
Criticism of Mother’s purple silk costume would not please her. “Anticipating your wedding day. You’ll make a lovely bride.”
Joy erupted over Mother’s features, and she seemed so young and buoyant, as if the weight and misery of last winter and Father’s loss had never occurred.
She had Mr. George Hudson to thank.
“You’ll be every bit as happy, my dear.” Mother spun back to face the mirror, apparently settling on the gold eardrops. She fastened one to her left earlobe. “You’ll see. Any day now, your charming Morgan will declare himself and then we will be planning your marriage.”
Elizabeth wasn’t so certain. She might dream, but she didn’t dare hope. She’d not been passed over all these years without cause. To assume matters would change now, simply because Morgan Hudson had come into her life, seemed presumptuous.
Mother donned her right earring, turned a little to the left, then to the right, admiring her appearance. With only a few white hairs, and retaining the slender figure of her youth, Mother remained a beauty. She’d taken great pains to avoid the sun on her hands and face, making use of gloves and parasol every time she went out.
“You’re beautiful, Mother.”
“Thank you, my darling daughter. Thank you.” Mother’s focus was upon her reflection, and, as typical, didn’t think to examine Elizabeth once more and return the favor. Even if Elizabeth were no great beauty.
How could she, untried, inexperienced, and hopeless, think to hold Morgan’s attention?
Chapter 9
/> Mountain Home’s Independence Day Celebration was far grander than Elizabeth had anticipated. People must have come from ranches and little communities surrounding the town, for the streets and public places were more crowded than Elizabeth had ever seen.
True to his word, Morgan had escorted her from event to event, urging her to choose which of the offerings appealed to her the most. His only commitment was hosting the shooting competition, a tradition officiated by the Hudsons since the first Independence Day event in Mountain Home.
Morgan had seated Elizabeth on a park bench in the shade to rest, an hour before the event. Not five minutes before, Mother and Mr. Hudson had kept her company, but Mother had flitted off, dragging Mr. Hudson along.
Elizabeth suspected George Hudson should’ve been helping set up the targets against a densely packed barrier of hay, not attending to Mother. But Morgan had things under control.
She noticed familiar faces entering the park. She stood and waved to catch her friend’s notice. “Felicity! Mrs. Gideon!”
The handsome couple and their two boys—remarkably better behaved with their father on hand—were all smiles and handshakes.
“May I introduce my husband, Mr. Rocky Gideon, owner of The Peerless and these two rascals.”
Elizabeth laughed at Felicity’s buoyant good humor. This couple’s love for each other and for their young children was obvious in every movement, touch, and word. Often, Elizabeth had been able to convince herself she was better off a spinster. But not when faced with Rocky and Felicity Gideon.
“It’s so good to see you again.” Felicity held onto the two-year-old, fighting to keep him in her arms. His brother perched on his father’s shoulders, far better behaved than on the train.
“And you.” Mrs. Gideon had invited her to come by their home, a big house on the fringes of town. So much time had elapsed—and she’d not paid a call. “I’m working at the gunsmith shop. Mr. Hudson’s so busy with entertaining Mother, he’s not…working much.”
Felicity laughed in good humor. “The wedding is soon?”
“Yes. It seems every conversation is about the details.”
“Targets!” The elder son yelled from his perch on Mr. Gideon’s shoulders. “They’s gonna shoot targets.” He made a little-boy sound reminiscent of a firing pistol. “I shoot guns!” Little fingers playacted steps of aiming with one eye closed, pulling the trigger, and blowing gunsmoke from the barrel.
“You do?” Elizabeth wiggled the boy’s shoe and smiled at him.
The boy chattered on, happily, gesturing with both arms and a toothy grin.
His father held on tight to his son’s ankles, lest he tumble off.
“I think lots of people want to watch the contest.” Elizabeth had lost her seat on the bench to an elderly couple. The street had filled, more and more people headed toward the contest arena. Ropes strung from sawhorse to sawhorse kept observers at a distance.
“Daddy shoot good?” The boy patted his father’s head. “You win?”
“I might.” Rocky Gideon wore a holster about his belt, his pistols likely a temptation to eager fingers. No wonder he’d put the boy upon his shoulders and out of reach. “I’d best sign in.” He kissed his wife’s cheek. “Coming?”
“I’m sorry, Elizabeth—Do stop by, won’t you? First chance?”
“I will. I promise.”
The Gideons made their way through the crowd, and Elizabeth decided to follow. She caught a glimpse of a familiar face beneath one of a hundred bowler hats. But that couldn’t be…
She paused, watched through the crowd of milling people—and sure enough, the man in question—slender, not remarkably tall, brown hair and brown eyes, fastidious in dress, had just tucked his watch back into his pocket.
Her heart rate spiked. Adrenaline flooded her system.
Wardie Ferwinckle! What on earth was Wardie doing in Mountain Home? The young man had been Father’s partner, fresh from dental school. The last she’d seen him had been at the funeral services—months ago.
He ambled through the pressing crowd and Elizabeth lost sight of him—one more brown suit of clothes and one more brown bowler in a sea of men in their finery.
Obvious one moment—invisible the next. She swallowed, her throat dry. Her pulse continued to pound.
Morgan—she needed to tell Morgan.
“Miss Speare?”
Above the din, a man’s voice, familiar. She spun to him.
Ray Cresswell. The last thing she wanted was a conversation without Morgan present.
He removed his hat, without flourish, without peacocking. “Ma’am.”
“Mr. Cresswell.” She nodded and put a quick end to the exchange. Despite the crowd and public street, she wasn’t comfortable.
“I mean you no harm, Miss Speare. I want to apologize.”
The fool seemed genuine, sincere. Good manners warred with her desire to leave. Where was Morgan?
Had he left the targets for the sign-in table?
The most unsettling sensation of being watched prickled at her skin.
Mr. Ferwinckle? Did Father’s dental partner lurk in the growing crowd, watching her, waiting for a vulnerable moment to strike?
“I behaved poorly in the shop when I saw you last.” Ray shifted with discomfort. “I apologize, Miss Speare and beg your forgiveness. I was not myself that afternoon.”
Did she dare ask Mr. Cresswell to escort her to Morgan’s side? It seemed Raymond Cresswell’s ill behavior had been exacerbated by his cousin’s presence. Like two dogs with one bone, the cousins hadn’t been courteous.
Approaching Morgan, escorted on his cousin’s arm, seemed a poor plan.
Fine hairs on the back of her neck rose and that prickling, miserable sensation of someone following her every movement returned.
“Apology accepted, Mr. Cresswell. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must go.”
She needed Morgan.
He’d know what to do about the appearance of young Wardie Ferwinckle in Mountain Home.
According to Morgan’s timepiece, the shooting contest was set to begin in less than five minutes. He scanned the crowd, one more time, but couldn’t find Dad anywhere.
That irresponsible Zylphia had wrought some serious damage to a punctual, responsible, dutiful man.
Morgan shook his head, drew a breath, and, hands on his hips, surveyed the gathering crowd, prepared targets nailed to thick backdrops of hay. On this east edge of town facing east, the likelihood of accidental injury—since everybody knew the shooting contest was always held here on the Fourth—was markedly reduced.
Behind him, the sun inched toward the horizon. Days were long this time of year, and so was the list of entertainments. It would be two hours yet before the light faded appreciably and at least three until the fireworks began.
Something happened—not a gunshot—he would’ve heard that, even over the din of voices. An argument? A fistfight?
In the street, blocked from his view by at least twenty or thirty men and their families, a commotion arose. Voices surged. A dog barked in rapid warning.
Out of habit, Morgan settled his hand on the grip of his pistol. He searched the crowd, instantly worried about Dad. And Zylphia. But mostly, for Lizzy.
Confusion worsened. The crowd pushed right through the rope barrier, dragging the sawhorses, pulling the devices onto their sides. Children cried. A woman screamed.
Morgan drew, ready to fire, and ran into the melee while most folks—women, children, men carrying little ones, ran past in the opposite direction, desperate to get away.
Until he knew the law had matters in hand, until he’d found Lizzy, Dad, and Zylphia, he had no choice.
Chapter 10
Though half an hour had passed, and the four of them were safely returned to the Hudson home, Liz’s hands still shook.
She’d done everything she could to calm Mother, finally given up on that lost cause, but had persuaded Mr. Hudson to open his shirt and expose the bullet wound on h
is side.
Mr. Hudson had been shot.
“We need to call for the doctor.” Mother had repeated her demand no fewer than five times.
“No doctor. I don’t need a doctor. Save him for those others who need him more.” George winced as Liz pressed the cold, wet cloth against his wound.
Absently, she noted Mr. Hudson’s blood on the cuff of her new gingham dress. She’d have to soak it out before laundry day.
On her hands, beneath her nails, she saw visions of blood that wasn’t there. Father’s blood. She shivered in December’s chill, the slushy mud on the road beneath Father’s cooling body seeping through her skirts.
No. No.
She wouldn’t remember. Not now. She had to stop Mr. Hudson’s bleeding. He allowed her to clean the gash on his side and press soft, cotton toweling against the slice that welled blood.
Had the bullet grazed his side, never entering his body? If only they’d be so lucky.
“Tell me again what happened.” Morgan halted in his pacing.
“A fellow grabbed Zylphia,” Mr. Hudson repeated for the third or fourth time. “I saw a man draw, take aim.”
Mr. Hudson no doubt believed that’s what he saw. More than likely, though, someone bumped into Mother. Someone aimed, and in the crowd, it looked like Mother was the target.
“In the crowd.” Morgan palmed the back of his neck, tugging the tight muscles.
“In the crowd.” George repeated. “He drew. On Zylphia. You can’t expect me to stand by.”
Not much interest in the annual shooting contest survived after shots were fired in the crowd, so everyone disbanded. Whoever was responsible for shots fired had fled easily in the stampede.
“I can’t listen to this gruesome story.” Mother fluttered her hands near her face, distress and panic melding into one high-strung worry.
If Elizabeth saw Father’s blood, remembered his cooling body beneath her hands as she’d pressed her petticoats against his chest wound to staunch the blood—what must Mother remember?
Mr. Hudson’s bleeding slowed—finally. The bullet had carved a furrow in the skin. No puncture wound. Thank God.
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