“I was so sure,” she whispered. “I was so sure today was the day.”
“Hey, Vic,” Melvin Hurdish, of Hurdish Haberdashery, waved and tipped his fashionable hat as he strolled past.
She responded with a limp wrist. “H’lo, sir.”
Lyle Kant, holder of Kant Feed and Grain, approached from the opposite direction. “Mornin’, Miss Clark. How’s your pa these days?”
“Fair to middlin’, Mr. Kant. Fair to middlin’. And yourself?”
“Doin’ right well, thanks. Gotta run, a shipment is comin’ in from San Antonio.”
Valentine DeMarco emerged from the office of the Whistle Creek Clarion, a weekly newspaper which he owned, managed, and printed, all by his lonesome. A tall, rather bony specimen (Aunt Sophie always claimed the boy rushed around so much that he didn’t get enough to eat), his face lit up when he spied Vickie sitting disconsolately on her bench, and he loped toward her.
With the name foisted upon him by his unwise parents, and the less-than-masculine appearance and attitude he presented, poor Valentine had unwittingly served as the butt of many a joke and many a prankster since his arrival here two years ago. Vickie was, for the most part, a timid and retiring young lady. But she had gotten her dander up at his mistreatment by some of the town’s rougher crowd, and she had taken on his championship with a surprising fierceness.
No one, but no one, could ever question Victoria Clark’s loyalty to her few friends.
Now he was mostly left alone. Vickie’s determined support of him and his enterprise (and, through her, the Clark family) was partially responsible. The remainder was due to his unflappable good nature and affection for most of the human race, deserving or not.
“Hey, didja hear the news?”
She sighed. Couldn’t he see how upset she was? That she needed comforting and a little coddling, rather than being forced to participate in some guessing game?
“No, I surely did not. What is it?”
Vickie wouldn’t dream of questioning anything he might want to tell her. He was the newspaper editor, after all, with access to every telegram being sent or received, and town news racing along right under his fingertips.
“Stage comin’ in shortly.”
“Uh-huh.” Were she a true southern belle, she would have flirted a “Fiddle-dee-dee” right at his long, rather horsey face. But she simply wasn’t in the mood. “And?”
“Got us four soldiers returnin’ from the War, on another leg of their journey to get home. Thought maybe I’d talk to ’em, find out their names, where they’re goin’, what kinda experiences they had, and what they all went through.”
“Good heavens, Val.” Feeling a flash of irritation she folded the mail together and stuffed everything into a pouch, ready for transport home. “Those poor fellows are more likely to want a comfortable bed and sleep, than to talk to a reporter. Can’t you at least wait till morning, after they’ve had a chance to rest up?”
He shrugged. “May’s well get their story right off the bat. B’sides, the town fathers have already reserved rooms for ’em at the Whistle Creek Hotel. With some time gone by since Lee surrendered at Appomattox in April, these boys have got a lotta catchin’ up to do with the rest of the world.”
Curious, she looked up. “Even with the last battle being fought right here in Texas, near Brownsville, the war was finished up several months ago. Why has it taken so long for these soldiers to make their way home?”
“A little somethin’ called prison, honeybun.” He had settled one boot upon the edge of the seat, with one leg bent at the knee, so that he resembled nothing so much as a stork standing at rest. “In fact, one of these fellers lives roundabout, from what I heard.”
Did her heart suddenly stop beating? Or was it about to pound its way right out of her breast?
Meanwhile, her mouth had gone completely dry. “Roundabout?”
“Ahuh. ’Course, I only been settled in town less than a lifetime, so I don’t know the man. But you might be familiar with the name. Marsden. Sam Marsden.”
If she felt that the brightness of this late August day had abruptly turned as dark as the cloak of night, with little speckles of glitter floating around, she could hardly be blamed. Her head, with its feminine version of a Stetson clapped upon loose-gathered hair, seemed to be separating from her body, only to drift away somewhere, unattached, and a great roaring sounded in her ears.
Was she going to faint? Nonsense! She had never fainted in her life, and she wasn’t about to start now. But wasn’t that what all good little southern belles did on a regular basis, just to prove their femininity?
Feeling dizzied, she managed to speak. “I know—I know the—family…”
“Yeah? Well, he’s been outta circulation a long time. Some place called Rock Island, in the State of Illinois.” He shivered just a little. “As bad for Confederate troops taken captive as Andersonville was for the boys in blue.”
“Any—any injuries—?”
“Dunno. Reckon we’ll find out soon enough. Bound to be some excitement; people are already gatherin’. Hey, you wanna c’mon over to the hotel, have some dinner with me till the stage rolls in?”
“Huh. Dinner? Stage?”
Puzzled, he reached down to tuck a forefinger under her chin. “Hey, where’d you go, Vic? You off in some dream world somewhere? What’s wrong?”
She didn’t dare even brush a furtive tear from her lashes. Pull yourself together, girl, or the whole world will know, thanks to your supportive but oh so gossipy friend.
“Playin’ mum, huh? No answer for a free meal?”
As she swallowed, her throat actually hurt, as if she were coming down with some sort of catarrh. “Thank you, Val, but I really haven’t—haven’t much appetite.”
“Then come keep me company, if nothin’ else. It does my reputation good if I’m seen with a pretty girl once in a while.” He gave her one of his charming, wheedling grins.
And she managed a thin upward smile in return. Valentine was a dear man. On a regular basis he tried courting her, and the attempts continued despite the fact that he simply could not touch a heart that had already been stolen away.
“Of course I’ll keep you company. Aunt Sophie knows that I’ll be returning home directly, and she would be quite happy to see me safely in your care. Dinner, you say?”
“Yep. At the hotel; best food in town.” He extended an arm to provide escort, and continued chatting comfortably away as they proceeded across and down the street.
Her heart could not be touched by Valentine, or by any other, since she had been claimed by Sam Marsden, the man to whom she was secretly betrothed. She had heard nothing from him during this last year of bloodshed, and had feared him dead.
He was alive. He was on his way home, at last. In fact, according to the newspaperman, he was almost here. And a team of wild horses couldn’t drag her away from Whistle Creek with the stagecoach due at any hour.
* * * * *
“Man, this place has the best beef stew in town,” raved Valentine, digging in with gusto. Besides the stew, he had ordered a tall bottle of beer, and with that and his meal he was in fine fettle. Possibly excitement over the returning troops might have something to do with his mood, as well.
“Not that there are so many choices.”
Underneath surface chatter, Vickie knew she must keep up appearances. Best to try relegating all memories of her lost love—so soon to be restored!—to the background until she could confront and revel in the reality of Sam Marsden back home, in the flesh, in her arms.
Such a silly thing, a secret betrothal, now that she’d had so many months to reconsider her decision. What had prompted them to hide their plans? Why not announce their love to the world, and let the chips fall where they might?
Except that outside influences, whether deliberate or not, could always interfere. Such as family.
Hers considered the Marsdens little better than sharecroppers, thanks mainly to a shiftless and us
ually drunken clan patriarch, no matter the character of his sons; his considered the Clarks upstarts and snobs, too far above any average citizen’s station to breathe ordinary air. The differences between the two could not have been more vast.
Good reason, then, at the time, to remain silent.
Now, she desperately wished they two had simply eloped. At least she would have had more to remember, during these past two plus years, than a hasty kiss and a hasty embrace!
Instead, Sam had enlisted to waste his youth in fighting for a lost cause. Had, as far as she had been aware, been killed somewhere in some wilderness, and lay in an unmarked bloody pit with other slaughtered bodies. No word of his whereabouts, or even certainty of his death, for a full year. Simply missing.
And, of course, with the gulf that existed between their families, she hadn’t dared approached any of the Marsdens—his surly father, or his distant mother, Mariah, or his eldest surviving brother, Matthew— for news. Or even sympathy.
She had borne the torment of complete and total ignorance somehow, all on her own, sharing fear and sorrow with no one. Only the frail hope of finally receiving a letter, in answer to all those unanswered ones she had sent, kept the flame of courage alight.
Over countless generations, how many personal, tragic stories of love and loss, she wondered now, had been lived in the looming shadow of some war?
On that thought she gasped in a breath and slipped one arm suddenly across her middle, as if to contain some terrible spasm that was completely unexpected.
Sharply struck by the motion, Valentine interrupted swilling from his trough to stare. “What is it, Vic? A pain that you can’t stand?”
“No, of course not. You’re imagining things, Val,” she regained control enough to reply. “It must be the newspaper ink in your blood.”
“Always lookin’ for news,” he agreed. “Hey, you sure you don’t want somethin’ to eat? Some dessert, maybe? Chocolate cake that makes you roll over like a dog and beg for more.”
“What an attractive proposition. No, thanks. I had a big dinner at home. The lemonade is fine.”
Although the drink, with its pulp, lack of sugar, and occasional seed, was tart enough to strain more acid into a gut already churning with the stuff. Perhaps she was anticipating too much.
“Huh. Well, kiddo, you’re lookin’ a mite pasty. You sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine. Stop fussing at me. Are you about finished with your second helping? Seems to me you’ve gobbled down every portion the kitchen has to offer.”
Pretending to take offense, he drew himself up. “Hey, I’m a growin’ boy. Even your aunt has worried that I don’t get enough to eat.”
“All right, that’s true enough. But for heaven’s sake, do you have to inhale a week’s worth of meals in one sitting?” She was beginning to grow impatient, fidgeting in her seat while scanning the room and listening for any overt sound outside. “Get a move on, can’t you?”
With a shrug, Valentine scooped up the last spoonful of stew. “Sure. But you know there’s bound to be quite a crowd. Think you’re even gonna find a place to watch from, as short as you are?”
Her mouth tightened. “I’m tall enough. Come along. Much more work at that plate, and you’ll have it scraped clean through to the table.”
A throng of some fifty or so residents had gathered just outside the hotel, which stood an alley away from the way station and stable. There was almost a holiday atmosphere, with one shopkeeper hallooing across to a favored customer, and several good ole boys enjoying camaraderie after a few drinks at the Crossroads Bar, and various other interested parties interested for various reasons.
Sheriff Ross MacDonald was making an appearance, with watchful eyes taking in a number of activities all at once. A couple of town dignitaries had joined in, including Mayor Henry Thompkins.
A handful of spritely ladies of the evening were even lolling about on the upper veranda of their establishment, despite the hour being mid-afternoon, and some of them barely awake. Catcalls and whistles from a few of the raunchier men about town, who had clearly availed themselves of such services, merely added to the noise.
The weather being just south of broiling, and the skies clear, had helped to bring everyone out in force. So did the lone rider who had arrived half an hour ago, to announce that he had cantered past the stage about fifteen miles out of town, on its way toward Whistle Creek.
Valentine got Vickie settled on a railing affixed to the small porch of his Clarion office. Then, being an intrepid member of the press, he wormed his way through the mass of bodies, asking questions, making comments.
He finally returned to her side when a cloud of dust in the distance heralded the arrival of this long-awaited stage.
“Okay, my lady, we should be seein’ people right soon. Think your friend will recognize you?”
“My friend? Oh. You mean Sam. Well, I should certainly hope so. After all—”
After all, they’d known each other since childhood. They’d attended the same grammar school, where Sam had teased her without mercy because she blushed and wept. They’d infrequently taken part in services at the same Heavenly Light of God Church, where she had tried to avoid even being made aware of his presence. They’d sometimes appeared at social functions in and out of town: box lunch picnics, an occasional square dance, the rare barn raising.
By the ripe old age of sixteen, Vickie was more than ready to let bygones be bygones and fall madly in love with the tall, broad-shouldered boy who was growing into such strong-minded morals and character—despite his father’s attempted influence to the opposite.
Now, amidst all the revelry going on around them, Val gave her a sidelong look. “Ahuh. After all—what?”
“Oh, you know. Just the usual.” It was a lame response, even with the shrug.
“Honey, I don’t have a clue. I’m an only child, brought up on the streets of New York. Whoa, lookathere…I do believe that’s what everybody is waitin’ for.”
The driver couldn’t have been too surprised at the number of people milling around in the streets, apparently specifically just for the moment of his arrival; he was carrying four men semi-famous for what they had endured and for their much-belated return to normalcy, and everyone wanted to lionize them and shake their hands.
Once he had pulled his team to a halt at the station, his passengers slowly emerged, blinking in the bright sunlight and taking wary inventory of their surroundings. Someone sent up a cheer; others in the enthusiastic audience began to applaud.
Breath caught, Vickie slid off the railing to stand for a better view. After all this time, would she even recognize him? How would he look? Would he be thin? Wounded? Sick?
There. The last one out, and he stopped on the coach’s top step to glance about.
“Sam! Sam Marsden! Over here, Sam!”
Her gaze flew across the multitude bobbing about a few feet below. That shout belonged to his eldest brother, Matthew, she knew; the two middle brothers, Elijah and Jacob, who had cheerfully convinced their youngest sibling to enlist with them, had been killed during the War, but she had heard none of the details.
Sam still paused, allowed his indifferent gaze to sweep over the crowd, those standing, those sitting, those, like Vickie, sheltered under a porch roof. He saw her; his unhurried, steady glance took in her companion, and moved on. Without the slightest hint of recognition.
An Endless Love to Remember: A Historical Western Romance Book Page 2
