Captive Trail (24 page)

Now it seemed she had escaped that life. Ned spoke of a family who had lost a child who sounded like her. Would she soon meet her true family?

The faint call of the horn reached them through the narrow window. Quinta’s head jerked around.

“Stagecoach!” She leaped to her feet and ran to the entry to unbar the door.

Taabe rose and put away her embroidery so the kittens wouldn’t play with it. She wanted to fly as Quinta had to the
front yard. Ned was here—that knowledge always tugged her toward him. But now she always waited to see if he had strangers with him.

Two of the sisters hurried past the doorway. Sister Adele paused and poked her head in. “You are all right, Taabe?”

“I wait here.”

Sister Adele nodded. Taabe leaned against the cool wall by the window, trying to see the stagecoach, but all that came within her view at first were the mules pulling it. They stood, stamping and snorting, and then she saw him. Ned strode past the leaders, lifting his hat then settling it onto his head. Taabe put her ear to the opening but couldn’t make out his words to the sisters.

A moment later, Sister Adele came to the door. “Taabe, Mr. Bright is here to see you. He’s alone.”

The nun stepped aside and Ned walked in smiling. His face was smoothly shaven this morning. The trail must not be dusty today, since rain had fallen lightly in the night—his blue flannel shirt looked fresh. He held his hat in one hand and extended the other to her.

Taabe stepped forward and took his hand for a moment.

“I have a message for you,” he said. “I hope it makes you happy.”

She waited, not wanting to hope too much.

“I wrote to the people near Victoria. The Morgan family.”

“Billie Morgan,” she said, remembering the name he’d pressed her about two weeks ago. The more she repeated the name to herself, the more it seemed to belong.

Ned’s eyes widened. “Yes. That was the name of the child they lost. She was nine years old, as I told you before. And she had a kitten. Taabe, Billie’s kitten was named Fluffy.”

Tears rushed to her eyes so quickly, Taabe had no time to stop them. They flowed unhindered down her cheeks. She
raised her hand to her face, overcome with relief, but not knowing what to do, how to act. She looked to Ned for a hint, and he held out his arms to her.

N
ed stood for a minute, holding Taabe close and stroking her back with small, tender pats. She clung to him as Quinta would in a time of stress, and he tried not to read too much into that. Still, he couldn’t stifle the rightness of it. This was meant to be. God had placed her in the path of his stagecoach on that first mail run, meaning for him to find and protect her. Yet he was the messenger who brought the news that meant she would leave him.

He rested his cheek against her cool, silky hair. “I believe you are the Morgan girl, Billie,” he said slowly, pronouncing each word carefully. “That is your name. Your brother wants to come and get you. If you want me to, I will tell him to come. Sister Natalie and the other nuns can help you prepare.”

Her shoulders quaked, and she gave a small sob. Ned reached into his pocket for a handkerchief, and she disentangled herself and stood back. She took his bandanna, mopped her tears, and handed it back to him.

“Write.” Taabe made gestures as though writing with a pencil.

“You want to write to Mr. Morgan?”

“Write. Billie Morgan.” She made the motions again.

Ned smiled. “You want to write your name.”

She nodded. In her eyes, Ned saw a longing and a resolution. This was a definitive action—the moment she would claim her true name. She would leave Taabe behind and become Billie.

For a moment he wanted to discourage her—to tell her she should wait until Mr. Morgan came and they were certain. But that would only prolong her distress. In his heart there was no doubt, and he could not make her wait any longer.

“I’ll tell the sisters.” He touched her shoulder gently. “I’m sure they will help you learn to do that, and that it won’t take you long.”

She gave him a watery smile. “You write letter.”

“I will. I’ll do it tonight.”

“How long?”

“How long before he comes here?”

“Yes.”

Ned shrugged. “It will take the letter several days to get there—perhaps a week or more. And he’ll have to ride …” He thought about the way the Comanche rode, day and night, disregarding hunger and fatigue. Would Judson Morgan ride that way, coming to reclaim his sister? Or would he take a stagecoach partway, or perhaps even drive his own wagon to take her home in?

“I don’t know. I guess it will be a couple of weeks, maybe longer.” A thought struck him, and he smiled. “Not before the next full moon.”

She nodded in perfect comprehension, and he hastened to qualify the statement.

“I’m guessing. It may be longer, but not before then.”

“I will … be ready.”

He smiled, a bittersweet smile accompanied by stinging in his eyes. “I’m sure you will. But I’ll miss you, Taabe. If you go with the Morgans …” He shook his head and looked away.

She laid her hand against the front of his jacket.

“You.” She pulled her hand back and touched her heart.

“Aw, Taabe, I don’t know what I’ll do if you’re that far away.” He looked at her face, wanting to say all kinds of things. But he couldn’t make any sort of declaration now—that might confuse the issue with her family. She had so much to think about, it wouldn’t be fair to ask her for promises when she didn’t know what her future would be. He managed a smile. “I’d better go now, or I’ll be crying next. Quinta wouldn’t understand, and Brownie would rag me all the way to the home station.”

She pressed her lips together, as though unsure whether to smile. “You come back.”

“I will. I’ll be here on Friday.”

Her lips curved upward. “Stagecoach day.”

“Yes. Friday is a stagecoach day. You’ve got my number, haven’t you?” Her blank look made him laugh. He reached for her hand and pressed it firmly. “It means you’ve got me all figured out. I wish I had
you
figured out. I’ll see you soon.” He went out, settling his hat as he walked down the steps. Quinta and Sister Adele were talking to Brownie, while Quinta stroked the nose of the near lead mule.

“All set?” Brownie called.

Ned nodded. “Let’s move. I’m afraid I took more time than I intended.”

“Is Taabe leaving us?” Quinta asked.

“Maybe. Her brother wants—that is, Mr. Morgan wants to come and meet her and probably take her home. If he really
is her brother. But …” He looked at Sister Adele. “I can’t see much room for doubt. He was excited to hear about the music and the horses. It’s all true. But the kitten is what clinched it.”

Sister Adele smiled. “This is what we’ve prayed for all these weeks.”

“Yes,” Ned said with less conviction than he should. He tweaked Quinta’s pigtail. “I’ll see you Friday,
chica.”
“You’d better.”

He grinned as he climbed to the driver’s box and gathered the reins. Brownie let go of the leaders’ bridles and clambered up on the other side. “Let ’em tear, boss.”

Ned slackened the reins and clucked to the mules. “Tear, you fools.”

The mules set out in a smart road trot. Ned looked at Brownie and shrugged. “Awful hard to get mules to break any faster than that.”

Brownie shook his head mournfully. “You wasn’t hardly tryin’.”

Billie woke each morning thinking, “Soon I shall leave here.”

The sisters seemed more dear, now that she had this understanding, and each of their small kindnesses moved her. Quinta shadowed her whenever the nuns didn’t require her presence elsewhere.

“I’ll show you your name, Taabe,” Quinta said the same day Ned brought the news. She fetched her slate and chalk and sat down beside her.

“I am Billie. I am not Taabe Waipu.”

“That’s right,” Quinta said. “You must call yourself Billie now, and think of yourself that way. I will help you by calling you Billie.”

She wrote
B-I-L-L
on the slate and stopped, frowning.

“Hold on.” Quinta rose and walked over to Sister Riva who sat nearby mending. “Is it Billy with a
Y
or with an
I-E?
I’d think the
Y
way is for a boy.”

Sister Riva smiled. “It is
I-E
. Mr. Bright showed us the letter from Mr. Morgan. She is named for her father, Bill Morgan, who died fighting—” She hesitated and her gaze flickered over Quinta. “I believe he died in battle.”

Billie barely had time to realize she had understood not only what Sister Riva said, but also what she’d left unsaid—that her father had died fighting the Mexicans. Riva had swallowed that detail in deference to Quinta’s heritage. Billie’s love for the quiet nun swelled.

Quinta nodded and returned to Billie’s side.

“Did you hear that, Billie? You are named for a hero.”

“Yes.” She smiled at Quinta and patted the cushion beside her. “You show me.”

Billie’s English lessons continued with Sister Adele, and Quinta broadened her vocabulary considerably, including a sprinkling of Spanish sayings.

Ned was right about Billie’s quickness—she learned to write her new-old name perfectly by the next time he returned. He brought another visitor, a white-haired man looking for his granddaughter. Billie met with him, but the gentleman left disappointed. His lost grandchild would have been only eleven now, and she had green eyes. Billie wondered why people made these arduous journeys when the captain had written to them and told them she was likely not their loved one.

While Brownie helped the tired old gentleman back into the stagecoach, Ned stole a moment with her. He hadn’t received any news from the Morgan family yet—not enough time had elapsed—but, to Billie’s delight, he still wanted to spend a few minutes with her.

Sister Natalie sat nearby, reviewing the four students’ most recent essays, while Ned assured Billie he would bring her any news the moment he received it.

“I practice,” she said to him.

“What do you practice?”

“I talk English. I write. I sew. I play the song about God’s grace.”

Ned smiled and glanced toward Sister Natalie. “It’s hard to believe how far she’s come since she arrived here.”

Sister Natalie looked up and nodded. “We shall miss our Taabe.”

“Billie.”

They both looked at her, and she repeated her true name. “Billie. Not Taabe.”

“Of course, child.” Sister Natalie’s face held a wistfulness that Billie regretted. She had put that expression there, had caused new worry lines near the dear sister’s mouth.

Ned had almost the same set to his face. They were grieving already. Grieving because she would be gone.

But she couldn’t ignore the joy that burgeoned inside her when she thought about meeting her brother. Anxiety, however, was that joy’s constant companion.

She turned to Ned. “This man—brother …”

“Judson Morgan.”

“Yes. What happens …” She reached for the small word that changed a meaning so drastically. “If … what happens if he does not love me?”

Ned inhaled and looked at her for a moment before speaking. “They already love you. They want you at home. They have loved you all this time. If you are Billie Morgan, they have been looking for you and hoping for twelve years.”

She nodded slowly. Had it been that long? She supposed
it had. So much had happened to her since she went to live with the Numinu.

“If
that happened,” Ned said, “and they changed their minds—I’m sure it will not, but if it did—you must remember that you have people here who care about you. You will never be without a home again.”

Sister Natalie spoke with a tremor in her voice. “That is true, child. You will always be welcome here. No matter how many pupils we gain, you were our first, and we will always love you. If you leave us and you have troubles in the world, you may come back at any time.”

Billie knew it was true. Even if the sisters knew every detail of her life in the Comanche camp, they would accept her and treat her with compassion. And now that she had spent time with them, she truly loved each of them, and she felt their love in return. “Thank you,” she whispered.