Wading in between the combatants, who were rolling on the carpet like two trollops at the dock, he grabbed Vickie around the waist and hauled her away, still fighting, still screaming, still kicking for release.
Meanwhile poor Sophie was left to deal with Jessica, who was weeping hysterically. At the same time, Riley sat nearly helpless in his chair, thundering a whole volley of expletives. For a few minutes, until this and that were brought under control, it was a scene of complete chaos.
Finally Jessica, blotting frantically at dabs of blood on her cheek from scratch marks, was settled in one corner of the room. Vickie, squalling and spitting like a tom cat on the prowl, was settled in the other. Then their father could somewhat take charge.
“What in tarnation is goin’ on here?” he shouted, boiling over with fury. “I’ve never seen such behavior, not even from fish wives caterwaulin’ over a catch. What’s got into the two of you?”
Neither deigned to respond. Jessica was sobbing too loudly at what she probably considered such heinous mistreatment, and Vickie was being soothed and cosseted by the ever-faithful newsman, who refused to leave her side.
“Answer me!” The order came as a boom, startling everyone.
The truth must out, and clearly there would be no gainsaying an irate parent rightfully demanding the meaning of such commotion.
Carefully Sophie began to explain. The burgeoning attachment between Sam Marsden and Vickie, more than two years ago. His request for her hand in marriage. Their secret betrothal. His disappearance during the War, and her near-surrender to total despair. Then Sam’s miraculous return from the depths of hell, Jessica’s appearance on the scene, and its perhaps inevitable chain of events afterward, thanks mainly to Buckley Marsden’s interference.
To give him credit, Riley calmed down enough to listen to the entire explanation without question or comment, until Sophie was completely finished. But his expression grew darker with every sentence, and more foreboding.
“This is a bad business,” he finally said quietly, into the silence that was being broken only by Jessica’s muffled whimpers. “A very bad business. I sure ’nuff don’t like what I’m hearin’. Reckon I gotta give this matter some thought, b’fore I decide what to do.”
“Sam wants nothing to do with her,” spat out Jessica. “Obviously what happened before was just a fling, and he meant nothing by it. Otherwise, why not claim her immediately once he got back home safe?”
Riley glanced at his younger daughter, with her topsy-turvy blonde hair and her tear-stained colorless face and her torn, rumpled clothing. “That true, Victoria?”
“I don’t know, Papa,” she said wretchedly. “I haven’t had a chance to find out.”
“This young man take advantage of you, b’fore he left? Stole your maidenhood?”
She gasped. “No, of course not! He just—he just—promised…”
“Helluva note,” muttered their parent, “takin’ up with two girls at once. I gotta find out more. Gotta get the facts of all this. Then we’ll talk again, all of us.” He glared up at the outsider who, in his opinion, had no lookout being involved in this family quarrel. “Except for you.”
Immediately Jessica came awkwardly to her feet. “Oh, I might have known!” she blazed. “I might have known you’d take her side. That sniveling little fool. Well, kindly let me know, Papa, when you’ve reached that decision. Until then, I’ll be in my room!”
Gathering up her skirts, she pelted away, into the hallway, and up the stairs. A moment later, her door slammed shut with a crash that rattled picture frames on the wall.
Resentful, incensed, hurt beyond measure, Vickie, from her corner, began spouting what could only be the beginning of a tirade. Val cut her off mid-phrase.
“Come with me,” he ordered grimly. Grabbing her hand, he pulled her physically from the chair and upright, over all her burgeoning protests. “Yes. Come with me. Outside. Away from all this. You’ll excuse us, Miss Sophie, Mr. Clark. We need some fresh air. Oh—and thanks for dinner.”
Vickie being Vickie, she fought and complained every step of the way as he dragged her onto the front veranda, down the stairs, and along the side of the house toward the garden. By the time they finally reached Aunt Sophie’s favorite bench, she was huffing so much there was no breath left to object.
“There,” he said, releasing her at last. “Sit. Cool off. Then talk to me.”
Instead, she burst into tears.
Val sighed. Finally he sank down beside her, wrapped one arm around her shoulders, and gave her a little friendly shake. “Okay, girl, enough with the waterworks. I ain’t never seen you cry out in public like this. Tell me what’s goin’ on.”
“It’s—it’s just as—Aunt Sophie…described…” she managed to get out, between hiccoughs. “Only she—she doesn’t know just how much… Oh, Val, I love him so terribly. Without Sam, everything—everything is gray, and gloomy. And he’s—he’s—simply—t-t-thrown me aside, for no—reason… and accepted—her!—instead…” The tears began again, with such violence that her slender frame shook.
Gently he patted her. Not the sort of thing a friend does. Especially not, Lord knew, a male friend with no rights beyond that friendship. But desperate times, and all that. At least the force of her weeping had abated somewhat, so perhaps his presence was of some help. While he patted and murmured, he stared off into the distance. Musing. Cogitating. Given the rather forlorn expression on his angular face, his thoughts were not happy ones.
When she finally straightened to survey him, sniffling a little, the melancholy instantly washed away and Val dredged up a smile for her. “So, sugar plum. Feelin’ any better?”
Slowly she shook her head.
“Well, I must say, with all that misery bottled up inside, you’ve done a good job of hidin’ it. Well. So you love him, huh?”
A solemn nod, with enormous blue-gray eyes welling up again.
He sandwiched her limp hand between both of his big rough palms. “I’m sorry, Vic. I truly am sorry. I wish I’d known.”
Vickie was not so wrapped up in her own suffering that she could not recognize another’s. While she had taken his easy-going, bantering companionship for granted since he had re-located to Whistle Creek, she had not given any thought as to whether his emotions towards her had run any deeper than what showed on the surface. Like those of a stalwart, though sometimes exasperating, brother.
Now she realized that Valentine DeMarco must be feeling for her exactly what she was feeling for Sam. And her heart, contracting, began to hurt. She could only think of all the painful convolutions through which human beings tied themselves in knots, thanks to the great god Cupid!
“Oh, Val,” she whispered. “The same holds true for me.”
His small grimace might have been of distaste, or of irony. “Yeah. Life sentence, I reckon. C’mon, honey bun. If you’ve got things under control for a bit—no more need to kill your sister right at the moment?—let’s go for a nice walk. We could both use a clearin’ of the air.”
Chapter 10
“You headin’ off somewheres again?” Buckley Marsden complained, as he rounded the corner of the barn only to find his son mounting up on Blackjack, the great stallion he had always ridden in his youth.
“Yeah.”
Buckley paused, stroking his chin. “Well, now, if you was to say you’re plannin’ to see that pretty little Clark filly you got tied up hootin’ and hollerin’ for marriage,” he said slyly, “I’d think it pretty wily on your part.”
“Ahuh.” Sam, settled at ease in the saddle, expertly turned the horse.
Neither a yes or no answer. Typical. Things hadn’t been right between them for a long time, Buckley mused. And much worse since Sam’s return from those dire places he had inhabited for the last couple of years. Although, come to think of it, the boy still seemed to carry those places around with him, far down in the depths of his dark eyes.
Shrugging, as Blackjack trotted away, Buckley decided
to think about it from the comfort of his rump-sprung porch chair and a snootful of redeye.
Probably all the fault of Sam’s mother anyway, putting high-falutin’ ideas into his head.
* * * * *
At the moment, his unexpected betrothal to Jessica Clark was the farthest thing from Sam’s mind. His primary objective for this getaway from the farm was Whistle Creek and the postmaster’s office, because he wanted to see if the search by Grenelle Hubbs for missing correspondence had yielded any results. It had been several days since his last trip to town, and his request for help. Surely, in all that time, the man might have picked up something useful.
“Well, h’lo, there, Samuel. Nice day, ain’t it?” Grenelle pushed back his visor, adjusted his spectacles, and beamed.
“Ain’t much change in the weather roundabouts,” Sam admitted. “That’s always a pretty safe topic. Other parts of the country, now—well, things can get right nasty.”
“Snow and ice, y’ mean. Ahuh. Well, son, reckon you come in here hopin’ I had some luck, eh?” They were alone in the post office, so Grenelle could speak freely about personal business. “Gotta tell you, took some lookin’. Any mail arrivin’ the last couple a years addressed to you, didn’t wanna just turn it over to your paw, outa hand, y’ know…”
Sam understood. No doubt the whole town understood, and would have agreed.
Pulling out a canvas rucksack from beneath some hidden crevice under the counter, the postmaster shoved it over.
“By golly gum, come across this batch tucked away. Not a whole lot, mind you. Stuff sent that got returned. Prob’ly more, missin’ along the way. Mail service wasn’t too reliable durin’ the War, had pieces lost every which way. Not nobody’s fault, y’know—couldn’t be helped, with things as they was…”
He rambled on in this vein for a few minutes, while Sam picked up the bag with trembling fingers. How many memories might this help to open up? How much of the past might this blast apart, finally providing answers to questions of long standing?
At last Sam managed to get a word in edgewise, to thank the old man for complying with this request, and for his dedicated service to his profession. After more pleasantries were exchanged, Sam finally made his escape out into the strong afternoon sunlight.
Feeling almost dazed and dazzled. As much as he had hoped for this miracle, he had, realistically, not expected such a thing to occur. What were the odds of misplaced correspondence being returned to its place of origin, so it might one day be given over into the hands of its rightful owner? And, more to the point, why hadn’t mail been dispatched back to the sender; his affianced?
Now. Where to go that he might settle down, open the pack, and look through what lay locked inside? Not home, for sure. No privacy there. No place in town, where chances were he would run into too many hail-fellows-well-met wanting to buy him a drink. Or wanting him to buy them a drink.
In the end he rode out of town a few miles, found a shady spot off the beaten track of road, and dismounted to tether Blackjack in the midst of lush green grass not yet burnt by deep summer.
There, he settled himself against the sturdy trunk of a massive sycamore, pulled off his hat, and opened the rucksack.
With much trepidation.
Did he actually want to know any information in these letters? Just how damaging to his psyche might they be? Would he be better off just tossing them in a ditch somewhere, to molder and crumble under the force of rain and sun?
Too bad he hadn’t sought Beau before hightailing it out of town. Beau, his closest comrade during their prison camp days, knew him inside and out. Asked for advice, Beau would offer it; if not, he would keep silent. The best kind of friend.
Maybe, depending upon what came to light in the next few minutes—providing he ever got up enough courage to open the envelopes—he would confab with Beau, share this confidence, pursue counsel. Maybe.
Meanwhile, here he slouched, like the worst of cowards. Procrastinating.
Curiosity warred with caution.
Sam sighed. No point in delaying this any farther.
He had to know.
Grenelle had not only saved this small batch of correspondence from the trash, but he had thoughtfully put them together in order by date.
And now Sam discovered why his messages had not been returned to Jessica, instead languishing in what was probably a dead letter box. The return address on each was small and faded, in some cases eradicated altogether. Even the main address, to Sam Marsden, First Sergeant of the CSA, was blurred.
Not surprising. Clearly the missives had been through a lot. Almost as much as he had.
He extracted and unfolded his first communication, to discover that this had been written the day after he had departed for training camp. The writer wished him well, urged him to take care and come home safe, and stated she would be waiting for his return, no matter how long that might take. Enclosed was the flattened, pressed, papery blossom of a bluebonnet. A remembrance.
Six letters in all, spaced months apart. It was amazing that so many had been retrieved, given the vagaries and the unknowns of troops scattered all around the two separate nations during a time of such utter chaos.
Six letters. Every one filled with a report of small doings about the ranch and town, deliberately set in a tone of lightness and amusement to lift the dark iron from a soldier’s soul. Every word written with the recipient in mind, overflowing with warmth and concern and all-encompassing love.
Every one holding some small treasure: another blossom or two—the deep reddish phlox, the off-white of Blackfoot daisy; one green hair ribbon tied into a loose bow; a small square of vellum, with the imprint of feminine lips forming a kiss. In pink, no less.
Oh, now that was an intriguing notion. Take both young women, smear some sort of rouge onto their mouths, and demand they put some sort of impression onto onionskin paper, that he might compare…
Meanwhile, he could see that every missive was wearing the same signature.
V. Not J, as in Jessica, the girl to whom he had supposedly given his heart. But V. As in—Victoria? Vickie? If it were Victoria Clark, then why on earth hadn’t she mentioned the fact?
Still… The initial, transcribed in pencil, was as blotched and blurry as other phrases, including main and return address. Possibly not a V. An L? A W? What was wrong with the silly girl, whoever she was, that she couldn’t have signed her full name?
Sam slid down farther on his spine, against the burly, uncomfortable knot of an exposed root.
“Why can’t I remember? What is wrong with me, that somethin’ so important is just—gone—?”
He wanted to slap his forehead in frustration. Except that he had done that a few dozen times already, to no avail.
“We haven’t spent that much time together,” he mused. If he spoke the words aloud, would this whole thing make more sense to him? “But Jessie has never talked to me, in person, like this, as she’s s’posed to have done in these letters. How’s come? Can a girl change so much from one to the other? Is she just bein’ careful?”
Blackjack, a few feet away, ripped up a chunk of grass between big hard teeth and champed it down. Good stuff, he seemed to snort at his master. You ought to try it.
“I did, ole boy, once upon a time. Supplies were runnin’ low at the Island, y’ see, and us men behind the prison fence were getting’ mighty hungry. Found out that kinda turf is way different from collard greens and beet tops, fresh outa the garden. No sustenance, Jack. And it don’t lay so well on the stomach, neither.”
So where exactly did this situation leave him? In more of a muddle than ever, apparently.
“All Jess has discussed with me is weddin’ stuff,” he told the horse, who seemed less than engrossed. “The date, her dress, the kinda flowers she wants, the size of the ring she expects…man. Nothin’ much I’m interested in.”
An Endless Love to Remember: A Historical Western Romance Book Page 17
