A Tender Hope

by Amanda Cabot

  That was just one more thing that hadn’t gone the way Jackson had expected. By now, he should have had a member of the Gang in custody. Instead, all he had to show for his efforts were a baby who aroused painful memories and a woman whose appearance raised questions rather than answering them.

  He should have been on his way back to camp, not thinking about Thea Michener and the baby who did not look like Micah, despite the fact that the very sight of him reminded Jackson of his younger brother. Instead, he’d be staying in Cimarron Creek for at least a few days.

  The town’s apothecary had offered Jackson temporary lodging, claiming he would have peace and quiet, not a visit from a man who seemed almost belligerent.

  “Rachel said she was supposed to arrive today,” the intruder continued. “I want to know everything about her.”

  Warner chuckled as he picked up his coffee mug and took a long slug. Apparently, he was used to the man’s brusque manner. “I suppose you also want a piece of the chocolate pie Mrs. Higgins made for me.”

  When the visitor’s eyes widened, Warner gestured to one of the empty chairs. “It’s yours once I introduce you.” He nodded in Jackson’s direction. “Nate, this is Ranger Jackson Guthrie. He’s got some business with Travis, the new midwife—I assume she’s the woman you’re so interested in—and her companion.”

  With barely a glance at Jackson, Nate fixed his gaze on Warner, his excitement reminding Jackson of the time when his older brothers had begun courting the women who were now their wives. Five years younger than Quincy and Jefferson and at the age where girls were annoying rather than attractive, Jackson had found his brothers’ antics silly. Today he found Nate’s enthusiasm for a woman he’d yet to meet more annoying than silly.

  “Two women? Rachel didn’t tell me that.”

  While Jackson remained silent, trying not to cringe at the picture of Nate courting either Mrs. Michener or her friend, Warner’s chuckle turned into a full-fledged laugh. “That’s what your sister gets for being out on the ranch. She misses all the good gossip. Now, if you want some of the pie, you know where the plates and forks are.”

  As Nate opened a cupboard, Warner sent Jackson a look of amusement. “The man who’s more interested in pie and finding himself a wife than displaying the manners his mother drummed into him is Nate Kenton. He raises the best goats and peaches in the area.”

  After plunking the now-filled plate onto the table along with a mug of coffee, Nate extended his hand toward Jackson. “Sorry. Warner’s right. Ma raised me to do better than this.” After they’d shaken hands, he settled onto the chair and raised an eyebrow. “What brings you to Cimarron Creek, Ranger Guthrie?”

  A woman. Though that was the truth, Jackson would not admit it, especially since Nate would probably misunderstand. He had no more intention of telling Nate about the criminals he was chasing than he had had of sharing that information with Warner. He’d simply told Warner about the baby and that he hoped the new midwife would be able to care for him. As the town’s sheriff, Travis Whitfield needed to know about Jackson’s search for the Gang, but civilians did not.

  “There’s no need for formality,” he said, trying to deflect the question. “The name’s Jackson.”

  “And I’m Nate.” Nate swallowed a generous bite of pie before adding, “It’s not often we get a Ranger in town.”

  “It’s not often I find an abandoned baby along the road.” Jackson leaned back in his chair, trying to relax.

  The kitchen was pleasant enough, with yellow curtains that matched the chair cushions, but somehow it lacked the warmth of his parents’ home. Perhaps the absence of a woman explained that. Ma would have put a vase of flowers on the table, but Warner had no wife to add a soft touch. When he’d invited Jackson to stay with him, he’d explained that he’d lived alone since his parents’ deaths and would welcome company.

  “So, two women and a baby arrived on the same day?” Nate reached for his mug. “What’s happening to our town, Warner? We haven’t had this much excitement since Lydia stepped off the stagecoach last year.”

  “You think I know what’s happening?” Warner forked his remaining bite of pie. “You ought to be asking Jackson. He’s the one who found the baby. I talked to Mrs. Michener, but he’s the only one who’s met both of the women.”

  “What do they look like? I heard the midwife was a widow.”

  “That’s true,” Jackson confirmed. The most unusual widow he’d ever met. Though recently bereaved, she wore not a stitch of black.

  “Her husband died a few months ago.” The report of Daniel Michener’s body being found had been the first big break Jackson had had on this case, because it had given him a name to put with the face he’d sketched.

  “Do you think she might be looking for a new one?”

  Jackson focused on the fact that Nate raised his left eyebrow when he asked a question rather than the idea that the woman he’d met only a few hours earlier might be eager to remarry. There was no reason he should care that her lack of obvious mourning might mean that one of the reasons Mrs. Michener had come to Cimarron Creek was to find a new husband, but there was also no need to share that information with Nate. Warner had also met the widow, and he hadn’t commented on her clothing.

  “Can’t say,” was all that Jackson would offer.

  “What does she look like?” the farmer continued. “Is she pretty?”

  This time Warner didn’t wait for Jackson to respond. “She sure is. Dark blonde hair, brown eyes, and the prettiest face you’ve ever seen.”

  “Is that right?”

  Jackson nodded. He’d seen all that and more the second Thea Michener had climbed out of her buggy. As it had then, disappointment warred with relief. Until that moment, he’d been certain that she was the woman he sought, but she wasn’t. There’d been no need to question her, to find a way to get her to reveal where the others were hiding out, because while she may have been Daniel Michener’s wife, Cimarron Creek’s new midwife was not the female member of the Gang.

  Although Daniel’s had been the only face he’d seen, Jackson had gotten a good look at all four of the bandits, and there was no doubt that each of them was almost as tall as he. Thea Michener was only a couple inches over five feet.

  He couldn’t explain it. He’d wanted her to be part of the Gang. He owed it to the Rangers, to the State of Texas, and, most of all, to his brother to put the remaining three members behind bars. Jackson knew that. But at the same time, once he’d met Thea Michener, he hadn’t wanted her to be part of the foursome that had robbed countless travelers and stolen so many Army payrolls.

  The woman intrigued him. It wasn’t only her clothing that was unexpected; so were her reactions. As she’d approached him, Jackson had seen fear on her face. It wasn’t the first time that had happened. Even innocent citizens sometimes feared Rangers, but his instincts had told him that Mrs. Michener’s fear wasn’t directed at him.

  She hadn’t known he was a Ranger when her eyes had dilated and she’d clenched her fists. It was the baby he’d held in his arms that had triggered her fear. For a second he’d been puzzled. That was hardly a normal reaction for a midwife. But then Jackson had recalled the sheriff in Ladreville mentioning that her baby had been stillborn. Perhaps seeing a live infant stirred the same painful memories that assailed Jackson whenever he saw a lanky youth with red hair.

  “You’re saying she’s real pretty?” Nate appeared to need reassurance.

  Once again, Jackson nodded. The memory of wide-set brown eyes, a classic nose, and a chin that hinted at stubbornness or at least determination was etched on his brain. “Mrs. Michener is good-looking, but so is the Frenchwoman she brought with her.”

  That got the farmer’s attention. “A Frenchwoman? I’ve heard they’re mighty pretty too.”

  Setting his now-empty mug onto the table, Warner wrinkled his nose at his visitor. “You’re just hoping she won’t speak enough English to understand that the last two women you set your
sights on turned you down.”

  “Seems to me you didn’t have any better luck with one of them.”

  “True, but I learned my lesson. You don’t see me running after every single gal in town.”

  “And you’re saying I do?”

  Warner simply shrugged, his casual gesture appearing to irritate Nate more than a retort would have. Jackson tried not to smile. The two men sounded like squabbling brothers. How many times had Micah bickered with him, his voice holding the same annoyed note when Jackson refused to engage in a game of sibling rivalry? How many times had he tried to elude the little brother who wanted to follow him everywhere, even into a fight he had no chance of surviving?

  If only . . . Jackson brushed the melancholy thoughts aside. He couldn’t change the past. All he could do was ensure that those who’d killed his brother got their just deserts.

  “Why the rush to marry?” he asked in an attempt to lighten his mood. Though Ma kept urging him to find the right girl and settle down, Jackson knew he wasn’t ready.

  Warner shrugged again, as if the answer should be apparent. “Nate here’s an old man—almost thirty.”

  “Careful.” Jackson held up a hand, as if to stop traffic. “I turned thirty a couple months back, but I’m not ready to call myself an old man.”

  “I’d have been married years ago if Warner’s parents had seen fit to have a daughter.” With his plate now empty, Nate seemed more interested in talking.

  “Growing up, Warner and his brother were my best friends. The truth is, I spent more time with them than my own family. I always wanted to be an official part of the Gray family, so I told them they needed a sister for me to marry.” He gave Warner a wry grin. “Since they didn’t oblige, maybe the Frenchwoman is the right one for me. Warner can court the widow.”

  Acid bubbled in Jackson’s stomach. It was none of his business, he tried to remind himself. He was only passing through town. There was no reason the idea of either of them courting Mrs. Michener should bother him, but it did.

  Aimee stared at the couple, trying to make sense of what had just happened. The wonderful feeling she’d had from the moment she’d entered Cimarron Creek, the feeling that this was where she was meant to be, had dissipated at the sight of the woman’s shock.

  The star on the man’s chest told Aimee this was Travis Whitfield, the sheriff who’d hired Thea. The woman must be his wife, Lydia. Aimee wasn’t surprised that they’d come to visit Thea, but she was surprised that they’d recognized her name and even more surprised that her identity had triggered such strong emotions.

  “Oui, je suis . . .” She broke off, embarrassed that she’d reverted to French. “Pardon me. Yes, I’m Aimee Jarre.”

  Something in her voice must have alerted Thea to her distress, because her friend rose and took the baby from Aimee’s arms, practically pushing her onto the settee.

  Lydia Whitfield’s eyes moved slowly from the top of Aimee’s head to her toes. “Your hair is the same shade as your mother’s, but her eyes are green. The way you hold your head reminds me of your grandmother.” She sounded bemused, as if this was the last thing she had expected.

  Aimee swallowed deeply as the woman’s words registered. Her mother. Her grandmother. Lydia Whitfield had met both of them! Her instincts hadn’t been wrong. The unmistakable feeling of elation that had washed over her when she’d arrived here was not an aberration. This was indeed where she was meant to be, for even though Pastor and Mrs. Russell had thought it unlikely, Aimee’s mother was here.

  “You know my mother and my grandmother?” Somehow, she managed to find the correct English words when all the while her heart was pounding so hard that she could barely breathe.

  Lydia nodded, her blue eyes radiating warmth. “Travis and I live in what used to be your grandmother’s house. She left it to me when she died, but before that I lived with her. It’s the one catty-cornered from here.”

  “The mansion?” Thea asked as she rocked Stuart to keep him from waking.

  Travis chuckled. “That’s one way of describing it. There are three of those huge houses in Cimarron Creek. Each of the founding fathers wanted to leave a legacy for future generations.”

  Lydia laid her hand on her husband’s arm. “I don’t think Miss Jarre is interested in the town’s history. She wants to know about her mother.”

  “Exactement.” Aimee nodded rapidly. “Where does she live?” It didn’t sound as if she stayed with Lydia and Travis, even though that was where she had grown up. “I want to see her—tonight if it’s possible.”

  She looked at Thea, relieved when her friend nodded. No matter how tired they were, this was important. This was the reason Aimee had crossed an ocean and traveled thousands of miles by train and stagecoach.

  Lydia exchanged an uncomfortable look with her husband. “I’m afraid it’s not that simple. You see, your mother’s on her way to France.”

  “France? Why?” Nothing was making sense.

  “She’s gone there to find you,” Lydia explained.

  As a wave of dizziness swept over her, Aimee leaned back in the settee. She wasn’t certain whether it was caused by relief or shock, but the light-headedness made her grateful she wasn’t still standing or holding Stuart as the impact of Lydia’s words registered. Her mother wanted to find her! Even though she’d let someone else adopt and raise her, her mother was now searching for her. This was the best news Aimee had ever heard, and yet . . .

  “Quel gâchis.”

  “It is a mess,” Thea agreed, “but we’ll sort it out.” She turned to Lydia and Travis. “Can you tell us what happened? Aimee’s been searching for her mother ever since her parents died and she discovered she’d been adopted. The letters she found didn’t reveal her real mother’s name, just that she’d given birth in Ladreville.”

  Aimee nodded, confirming Thea’s statements. It was good that her friend was making the explanations, because she wasn’t certain she could have mustered enough English. Though her schoolmistress had insisted they speak only English each morning, telling them they might one day want to travel to London, when Aimee was anxious or tired—and she was both right now—her command of English faltered.

  Thea continued her explanation. “When Aimee arrived in Ladreville and learned that no one knew much about her mother other than that she used to live here, I invited her to accompany me.”

  Lydia smiled at Aimee, almost as if she understood her confusion. “Your mother came back to Cimarron Creek a few months ago. That was the first time she’d been here in over twenty years. She was hoping her mother would know where you were.”

  “But Aunt Bertha—that’s your grandmother—had already died.” Travis confirmed what Aimee had already learned, that both of her grandparents were dead.

  “Grace was devastated.”

  Thea’s gasp echoed Aimee’s. What was Lydia saying? Had she been mistaken about her mother’s name?

  “Grace?” Thea asked. “I thought Aimee’s mother was Joan Henderson.”

  “It’s a long story.” Lydia turned so that she was facing Aimee directly. “When you were born and she was forced to give you up for adoption, Joan wanted to start a new life, so she fled to San Antonio and changed her name. She’s been Grace—first Grace Brown, then Grace Sims when she married—ever since. It was only after her husband died that she came back here, hoping to reconcile with her parents.”

  “But they had died.” Aimee’s heart ached at the thought of what her mother had endured. She’d had a child out of wedlock, given her up for adoption, been estranged from her parents, and returned to Cimarron Creek too late for a reunion with them. No matter what Aimee herself had experienced, it had not been that heartbreaking.

  Lydia nodded. “Grace wouldn’t give up hope that she would find you, but it took months before she learned that the family who adopted you had moved back to France. Once she knew that, she wanted to catch the first ship to Europe.”

  “Meanwhile I was leaving France to look
for her here.” Though it had been a shock when she’d found the papers that proved she’d been born in the United States and had been adopted by Jean-Joseph and Denise Jarre, Aimee had also felt a sense of relief. So many things made sense once she understood her origins.

  Lydia nodded again. “I’ll send a letter to Paris tomorrow. Grace was planning to spend a few weeks there before heading to the town where she thought you were living. She’s traveling with our new doctor, his wife, and their children. Once she learns you’re here, I know they’ll return immediately.”

  And then many of Aimee’s questions would be answered. Grace—it seemed odd to think of her by any name other than Joan—would tell her why she’d given her up for adoption. Though Aimee had suspicions, she wanted to hear the words from her mother’s lips.

  “What about my father?”

  Lydia and Travis exchanged another uncomfortable glance before Lydia responded. “That’s your mother’s story to tell. What you need to remember is that Grace loved you dearly. She would have kept you and raised you if she could have.”

  Though Aimee had assumed that her father had died before he could marry her mother, Lydia and Travis’s reaction made her wonder if he was still alive. But if he was, why hadn’t he married Grace?

  Aimee turned to Thea, seeking guidance. Though she wanted to press the sheriff and his wife for answers, it seemed they’d said all they would.

  “I imagine there are others in town who could share stories about Aimee’s mother and grandmother,” Thea said as she tickled Stuart’s nose. The infant had wakened but seemed content to remain in Thea’s arms.

  Once again, an uncomfortable silence fell as Lydia and Travis looked at each other. Finally, he spoke. “It’s a complicated situation. Lydia and I would be happy to tell you everything we know, but until Grace returns, it would be best if you didn’t say anything to others about being Grace’s daughter.”