Heart of Stone (22 page)

L
aura was thankful she knew what to expect when she boarded the old Concord stagecoach at Brady City. After her long journey from New Orleans to Glory, she had promised herself that she would never undertake such a miserable experience again. Yet here she was, dusting off the cracked leather seat with the handkerchief she’d brought to cover her nose and mouth when the choking road dust became unbearable—which it surely would.

For now, it appeared she would be the only occupant of the stage until the next stop.

Escape had been far easier than she expected. The old veteran Rob Jenkins had been more than willing to swear allegiance when she slipped out of the house before dawn, found him curled up on a wooden bench outside the Silver Slipper, and shook him awake. She offered him twenty dollars and a gently worn gentleman’s coat—one a guest had left behind three years ago along with a pair of nearly new boots—if in exchange he would rent two horses at the livery and escort her out of town.

She wouldn’t let herself think of Brand, didn’t question what she was about to do. She simply went back to collect her things and bid the Hernandezes farewell. Leaving them in stunned disbelief, she
quickly stepped outside and circled around the house. Thankfully, Jesse had gone hunting, so she’d asked Rob to meet her behind the carriage house on horseback. True to his word, he’d brought along a gentle mare for her and strapped her carpet bag to the back of his own mount. Shielded from a view of Main Street—not that anyone was out and about in the violet light of the breaking dawn to see them—they slipped away unnoticed. The fact that morning turned into afternoon and no one had come tracking them was both reassuring and bittersweet.

Now, refusing to allow herself the luxury of emotion, she settled into the coach, prepared for the initial jolt as it pulled away from the depot. The driver, thankfully, had appeared to be sober. She couldn’t say as much for Rob, but he’d been lucid enough to escort her all the way to the Brady City depot and do exactly as she’d instructed.

While she remained bundled up in her hooded cape, her hair and face hidden from view, he purchased her a ticket that would take her as far as the New Mexico border.

“My wife’s been ill,” Rob told the stationmaster in his slow southern drawl. “I’m sending her to her folks in Albuquerque.”

When he handed her the ticket, his concern was evident.

“You sure about this, ma’am? I kin have you back to Glory ‘fore nightfall.”

She wasn’t sure of anything anymore, but that wasn’t something Rob Jenkins needed to know. She looked back the way they had come, searched the horizon.

Was she doing the right thing?

Surely if she wasn’t meant to leave, she’d know it in her heart. There would be a sign.

She felt nothing but the resolve to go on. There was no one in sight. No one coming after her.

“I’m sure, Rob.” She reached for his palsied hand and gave it a hard squeeze before quickly letting go. “I’ve paid you well for your silence. I’m counting on you to keep it. When you get back to
Glory, if you hear of anyone asking about me, do
not
play the hero and tell them where I’ve gone.”

“No, ma’am.” He tugged on his hat brim. “If there’s one thing you don’t have to worry about, it’s me bein’ a hero.” He studied the ground for a second then said, “Fine lady like you shouldn’t be out here on her own like this, no matter what she’s runnin’ from.”

“It’s none of your concern what I’m running from,” she told him gently.

“No. I ‘spect it’s not. But we’re all runnin’ from something,” he said, “even if we’re not going anywhere.”

“Promise me, Rob,” she urged.

“I may be an old broken-down sot, but I know how to hold my tongue. ‘Sides, in a day or two, I’ll probably forget all about this.”

She hoped he was right. She watched Rob ride off leading the mare behind him, trying to convince herself she wasn’t searching the horizon for Brand, when a nice-looking gentleman appeared outside the coach. He opened the door, gazed around the cramped interior, and tipped his bowler hat to her before stepping inside.

Instinctively she lay her hand over the reticule on her lap. The hard metal of her derringer was reassuring to the touch. The man didn’t appear to be threatening in the least, but appearances could be deceiving.

The driver yelled, “Hold on,” gave a whistle to the team, and the coach was off with a lurch, swinging and swaying with the pitch and roll of an oceangoing vessel—but one that bumped and jarred when the wheels slipped into ruts and holes. Laura held on to the strap dangling from the roof above her and let herself roll with the motion of the coach rather than fight it. Once she had grown somewhat accustomed to the jolting, she could spare a look at her fellow passenger.

He appeared to be in his late thirties with kind, soft-brown eyes and a well-trimmed beard. His wool suit coat and pants matched the vest he wore beneath them. There was a parcel wrapped in
brown paper and tied with twine on the seat beside him. He kept his hand on the package to keep it from tumbling to the floor.

If the constant sway and bounce of the coach bothered him, he didn’t let it show.

He smiled and Laura returned it with a slight smile of her own, then turned her attention to the passing landscape. They rode in silence for miles. She had no idea where they would stop next and didn’t care as long as they were headed away from Glory. Away from Brand and the madness of accepting his proposal.

After nearly an hour, the stranger shifted on the seat and set the parcel on his lap. “I’m Michael Noble,” he said with a nod. “A book drummer.”

Laura fanned the dust off her face with her handkerchief and adjusted the folds of her cape. The day had progressed from a chilly morning to a pleasantly warm fall afternoon.

“I’m Mrs. Foster.” She told him her name without thinking and hoped she would not regret it. She sized the man up for a moment or two more. “You sell books?”

“I do. Books of all kinds.” He patted the package on his lap. “Do you read, Mrs. Foster?”

She took him to be asking if she enjoyed reading as a hobby, not if she was literate. “I do. I have…” She paused, remembering her extensive collection. In her haste she’d forgotten to bring along the copy of
Cranford
she hadn’t finished reading. “I have quite a few books.”

“What are your favorites?”

She began to list some of her favorite novels and he commented as to whether or not he’d ever read them. Soon the journey became somewhat more enjoyable and the miles and hours flew by.

“We should nearly be there,” he finally said, opening the gold watch he’d slipped from his vest pocket.

“Where?”

“Why, San Angelo,” he told her, amazed that she had no idea where they were headed. “Speaking of books,” he added, “since
it seems your taste runs more to stories of heroes and adventure, passion and history, have you read the greatest book of them all?”

“Which book would that be, in your opinion, Mr. Noble?”

“The Bible.”

His answer momentarily silenced her. A thousand thoughts ran through her mind.

“I can see my question has taken you aback. Why is that?”

“My life has taken a few twists and turns of late. I have friends who recently suggested I might find answers there—”

“But you doubt it.” He nodded. “I see.”

No, you don’t see
, she thought.
You have no idea.

When they reached their first stop, which was little more than a way station, the driver helped her out and she assumed Mr. Noble would follow her inside. It felt good to stretch her legs, but when she saw the interior of the depot, she hoped this was not their overnight stop. There was little inside save a dirt floor, some hard benches, and a filthy table. Besides, she had hoped to be farther away from Glory before nightfall.

She ordered coffee and a plate of something that resembled hash. Though it tasted like the inside of an old boot, she ate as much as she could stomach. It was the only thing she’d had to eat all day.

After twenty minutes the driver appeared. “Time to get a move on,” he told her.

She left her plate half full of food, finished off her coffee, and walked back to the stage. After she took a look inside the empty coach she turned to the driver.

“Where is Mr. Noble?” When he hadn’t shown up inside the depot, she assumed he must have taken a stroll around the grounds to stretch his legs and was probably napping in the coach.

“This was his final stop,” the driver said. “He unloaded his books, bought a horse, and headed off.”

She thought it odd the man didn’t say good-bye but dismissed it when the driver offered to help her into the coach.

“The next stop isn’t all that far. It’ll be dusk in a couple of hours.”

The coach swayed as the driver climbed aboard. He cracked the whip and they were off again. Laura heard something thump against the carriage floor.

She looked down, and there, in the corner in the narrow space between the seats, lay Mr. Noble’s parcel. Carefully bracing one hand on the seat across from her, she quickly leaned down and grabbed it up before the jostling threw her off balance. It was heavier than she expected and, from the feel of it, a book.

She stared down at the twine tied in a thin bow and the words written across the heavy brown paper.

To Mrs. Foster. May your journey lead you home.

With a shiver, she slowly pulled the ends of the bow. The paper rustled as she opened it. She ran her fingertips over the tooled leather cover, fingered the gold-embossed title, and her vision wavered. She closed her eyes as a tear slipped out from beneath her lashes.

She’d asked for a sign. A fingerboard pointing the way couldn’t have been any clearer.

B
rand and Jesse headed north and east, toward Stephenville and Dallas, thinking Laura would try to lose herself in a larger town. They traversed a high tableland broken by a jumble of hills and fertile valleys. Eventually, the road slid down into the Bosque River valley, where post oaks, elms, and sumacs thrived in the uplands.

There was no sign of Laura in Stephenville.

Brand would always remember the town, not because it was their first stop, but because it was where he told Jesse the truth about Laura. There was no way he could walk into a brothel and ask for her without telling his son why she, of all people, could possibly be there.

Jesse remained thoughtful for a long while afterward. “It makes
no difference to you?” he finally asked. “You don’t mind what she is? Knowing what she’s done?”

Brand answered without hesitation. “I love her. She’s not that woman anymore.”

“Yet you’re looking for her in those places.”

Brand hesitated before he took a deep breath and admitted, “I’m praying I won’t find her there.”

There was no sign of Laura at any of the stage stops along the way to Dallas. No one admitted to seeing anyone answering to her description.

It was at the small towns and depots that Brand noticed the looks Jesse got whenever he walked into a room. Texas wasn’t a land that forgot or forgave easily. After years of wars with the Comanche and Kiowa—after raids and abductions of hundreds, if not thousands of settlers—a man with his son’s looks and heritage would never be easily accepted.

He found Jesse to be tireless, stubborn, and wise. Surprisingly, his son knew when to smile and try to charm anyone who might have an objection to his presence, and he knew when to stand up and fight for himself.

Thankfully, the fights were few and far between.

They rode through the Brazos Valley, level in places, gently rolling in others. Spring-fed creeks were full of fish—perch, bass, catfish. Cedars and small oaks covered low, rolling hills. Bois d’arc hedges surrounded fields.

When the Houston and Texas Central brought the first train to Dallas, the population had doubled overnight. The Texas and Pacific Line arrived a year later and the town boomed. The streets were packed with wagons and folks vying for space. One hotel proprietor laughed and told Brand that the town was growing faster than warts on a toad.

Jesse and Brand were there nearly a week before they gave up. No one, not at any hotel, boardinghouse, sporting club, or saloon had seen anyone fitting Laura’s description.

Brand refused to give up. They headed south, where the land opened up again and towns were few and far between. There was still no sign of her.

Before they headed west, they took a circuitous route to return to Glory to see Charity and the children. When they arrived at the house at suppertime, the children were nearly as excited to see Jesse as they were Brand. To Brand, it seemed as each of them had grown a good six inches in the last two weeks.

The children were allowed to monopolize the dinner conversation and hung on Brand and Jesse’s descriptions of all they’d seen. Once they’d been hustled off to bed and Jesse left to head to his room at Laura’s, Charity started clearing the table and doing up the dishes.

She was scraping chips of soap into the dishpan of hot water when she said, “John Lockwood arrived a few days ago. He’s boarding with the Cutters.”

The Reverend Lockwood, a friend from Brand’s divinity school days, was not only a minister but a teacher.

“Hopefully he’ll meet with the board’s approval.” Brand realized he hadn’t even asked about his replacement, a reminder of where his mind was now.

She set the soap and a paring knife down and turned to face him.

“The board made it clear to him that he’s only here temporarily. Just until you return. Amelia and the Cutters have fought hard for you. Folks want you back, Brand.”

He rose slowly. Days in and out of the saddle, miles spent riding in unpredictable weather that could fall forty degrees between dusk and dawn, were wearing on him. Jesse, on the other hand, seemed fueled by the hunt. He met each new town, each new day, with dogged determination.

“I’m in their debt, Sis, and yours.” Brand smiled at her from beside the kitchen table.

“You know I think of Sam and Janie as my own.”

“Believe me, I know, and I’m thankful for everything you’re doing.”