Heart of Stone (4 page)

“Ah,” he said.

She wondered if there was some special punishment reserved for sinners who fibbed to a minister. Even if it was for his own sake.

“Reverend, I’ve tried to be nice, but I am really not interested in gentleman callers.” There were enough black marks on her soul already. What difference did one more little lie make?

She realized her rebuff had not dimmed the determined light in his eyes. Not one bit. Brand McCormick raised his hat and tipped it in her direction. And smiled that smile.

“I understand. Some other time, perhaps,” he said.

“I don’t think so.”

He turned around and stepped out into the sunshine, into the Indian summer heat and dryness that was Texas.

She reached for her basket and watched as he walked down the steps and out into the street. Then she let go a pent-up, heartfelt sigh.

“Not at all, Preacher,” she whispered.

Not tomorrow. Not next week.

Not ever.

Once inside, Laura carried the basket directly into the kitchen and set it on the wide work table in the middle of the room. She
slipped out the letter Harrison had put in, bid Rodrigo good morning, and hurried upstairs to her room. Once there, she sat on the tufted chair in front of her dressing table, picked up a thick hat pin, and used it to open the envelope.

Her fingers trembled as she carefully unfolded the page.

Dear Mrs. Foster,

I’m sorry to inform you that I haven’t any positive news to send along regarding the whereabouts of Megan Lane.

Laura tried not to acknowledge the pain of her disappointment as she lowered the letter to her lap. She knew the rest of the page would detail how Mr. Abbott had spent the last of the retainer she’d sent him and how much more he would require to continue his search for her sister—for whom she had not one clue to help them with their search.

If she hadn’t met Tom Abbott during the war, if she didn’t know him to be a fine upstanding employee of the famed Pinkerton Detective Agency, “The Eye that Never Sleeps,” then she wouldn’t even consider sending him another advance. But she did know Tom to be completely discreet and one of the best private investigators Pinkerton had ever hired. He’d honed his skills during the war as a spy for the Union.

If anyone could find Megan after all these years, it was Tom.

If he failed…

If he failed she would have him start searching for Katie and Sarah.

She refused to let herself dwell on failure. She’d planned too long, paid too high a price to fail. She wasn’t about to give up hope.

Not yet. Not until every means had been exhausted. She would find her sisters.

She had to.

F
oster’s Boardinghouse was full of life over the week’s end. There was much conversation and laughter at the dinner table with two families in residence, but no matter how full her days were, loneliness was Laura’s only companion when she locked the door and tucked herself in at night. The hours of darkness seemed to stretch on forever. Restless hours filled with glimpses of what should have been her childhood—or the years between then and now. Her sisters, a loving home, the innocence of a first love, not to mention all she had suffered…Memories fueled the regret and shame that she hadn’t been able to protect Megan and the others, to bind her sisters together.

By day, she combated sleeplessness with hard work. She turned on her charm for boarders, making certain their stays under her roof—whether merely overnight or for an extended time—were memorable. She planned the details of every menu herself, inspected every cut of meat, every piece of fruit, every dish served. She oversaw the laundering of the linens, the polishing of the furniture. She taught Anna how to sprinkle lavender water on the pillows and turn perfect sheet corners.

She set a demanding pace for the Hernandezes only because she demanded perfection of herself.

Throwing herself into her work usually exhausted her by early
evening, but invariably, she’d awaken long before dawn. Eventually she’d give up tossing and turning, light the lamp, and read.

On Monday morning there were five guest rooms to clean, five sets of laundry to wash and hang, starch and press. She told Anna she would polish the silverware and dust the drawing room herself. She donned a full-length apron over a sprigged muslin gown, scooped her springy curls into a loose chignon, then made a head scarf out of a clean linen towel and tied it around her hair.

She found polishing the silver soothing. Her hands worked as her mind wandered back to a time when her mother was still alive and her family was whole.

The only piece of jewelry her mother owned was a small circle of brass that represented eternity. It surrounded an Irish shamrock. Her mother wore it tied to a slim leather thong around her neck, and Laura couldn’t ever recall seeing her without it. She’d promised that one day it would be Laura’s.

When her mother died, Laura’s uncle pocketed and sold the modest piece and used the money to buy himself whiskey. His due, he said, for taking in his brother’s brood.

When Laura commissioned her fine sterling, she had the design on the medallion re-created on the hollow-handled knives and other pieces of the set. She never looked at the emblem without thinking of her mother.

Once the silver was polished and ready for the noon meal, Laura moved on to the drawing room where the windows were opulently dressed with drapes only seen in the finest hotels and drawing rooms of the very wealthy. She loved the feel of the rose velvet she’d chosen for the side panels and the three swags of the valence. She kept them pulled back with thick gilt cord to reveal the icy Swiss lace panels beneath. Her first task of the day was to shake them to remove any dust that might have come in through an open window.

Then, with rag in hand, she worked her way around the room, stopping now and then to admire her collection of bric-a-brac, the
French Morbier grandfather clock, the assortment of Dresden and Staffordshire figurines. Every tabletop, every surface in the room held vases, urns, and lamps. Compotes filled with hard candies stood beside casually stacked, leather-bound books and candles in silver. A high-back Eastlake parlor organ she’d purchased in Biloxi and learned to play—not well but passably—stood against one wall.

Tucked alongside all her lovely collections she’d scattered silver-framed daguerreotypes and photographs of people she’d never met, faces of nameless men’s and women’s likenesses that she’d acquired after the war claimed so many lives and fortunes all over the South. The photographs were her “people” now. A family on display lest anyone think she was not who she claimed to be. Like herself, she’d made up an identity for each and every one of them. They were part and parcel of the many signs of gentility she had acquired as she planned her home, a refuge for her sisters.

She not only kept her things on display as a show of respectability—she’d noticed early on that a display of wealth enhanced status no matter what a person’s background—but she knew how to use them. Her possessions made it easier for her to accept her own lie.

As she adjusted the floral pillow that she’d painstakingly embroidered in needlepoint—she had hated every excruciating moment—there came a sudden knock at the door. She set down the dust rag, wiped her hands on her apron, and went to answer it. Her new guests were not due to arrive until late afternoon.

Through the lace panels hanging across the window on the front door, she easily recognized Brand McCormick.

Laura sighed and opened the door, prepared to send him on his way—until she noticed the children, a boy and a girl, standing on either side of him. He was holding firm to their hands.

Laura glanced up at the preacher, then returned her attention to the children. The boy, who appeared to be about nine—a shorter, mirror image of Brand—stared back. His brow was furrowed, his
bottom lip thrust out in a pout. The girl was a bit younger and dressed in a smocked gingham dress. Her hair sported a crooked part and had been fashioned into two uneven braids.

“Hello, Reverend,” Laura said. “To what do I owe the honor?”

She sincerely hoped she’d been clear when he’d asked to come calling. But what man brought his children on a social call? Surely this was something else. She took a deep breath, prepared to be firm.

He proudly introduced Janie and Sam.

“Nice to meet you both,” Laura said.

“Why do you have that rag on your head?” the girl asked, her critical stare unwavering.

Laura’s hand flew to her head. She pulled off the scarf and started an avalanche of hairpins and curls.

“I was dusting,” she said.

Janie shrugged. “Now your hair just looks messy.”

“Janie,” Brand warned, “mind your manners. Sam, why don’t you take your sister and explore the yard?”

Laura had heard from Amelia that the McCormick children were a handful.
Incorrigible
had actually been her friend’s description. Before Laura could protest that she’d prefer they didn’t wander on their own, Janie piped up.

“We wanna stay here.
Don’t
we, Sam?” Janie shot Sam a look that Laura easily read.

“Yeah. We wanna stay here.” The boy pulled his hand out of Brand’s and crossed his arms.

A buckboard rolled down Main. Laura wondered if she should ask the McCormicks in but then thought better of it. She couldn’t imagine these two loose in her drawing room.

“We came to meet you and ask you something important,” Sam said.

Janie was silent but watchful as she chewed on the end of a braid.

“Something important?” Laura glanced up at Brand and found him smiling.

“Will you come with us to the church social on Saturday night?” he asked.

“Us?”

“The three of us. My sister, Charity, is leading the choir in their first performance wearing their new robes. Sam and Janie are singing in the children’s choir. It’s a very special event.”

“Church social?” Staring into his eyes had rendered Laura speechless until she pulled her thoughts together. “You want me to come to a church social?”

“Yes. As our guest. I don’t know anyone I’d rather spend the evening with.”

She tried to picture herself at a staid choir performance, making small talk with the good women of Glory, smiling politely at the men, watching children cavort and do whatever children did at a social. She tried to imagine pretending to be something she wasn’t, someone she would never be, for an entire evening.

And on a preacher’s arm, no less.

The reality was sobering. Even politeness couldn’t keep the smile on her face.

“I’m sorry, Reverend. I don’t go to church socials.”

Brand appeared undaunted.

“Yes, you do,” Janie spoke up. “You were at the masquerade party. You were dressed up like an angel. With big fluffy wings. I saw you.”

Laura groaned inwardly. It was true. A few months ago she had on a whim attended a masquerade party at the church hall, an event held to raise money for the very choir robes to be previewed at the upcoming performance.

She’d dressed as an angel on a lark. She thought there’d be no harm in going in disguise. She’d donned a gold silk mask and a long, white robe with flowing sleeves bound by one of her gilttasseled drapery cords. She’d made ostrich feather wings out of a feather arrangement she kept in an urn near the fireplace.

From the moment she’d stepped into the hall she’d been uncomfortable.

When three liquored-up cowhands began to stare, she realized she had made a terrible mistake. She gave them an icy glare and their attention turned to Amelia. When Hank Larson came to his sweetheart’s rescue, a fistfight broke out. Then Laura slipped out a side door and hurried home.

“I don’t make it a habit.” She found herself wondering why she had to defend herself to a child. “I’m sorry. I simply can’t go.”

She remembered Brand at the masquerade. He’d greeted every guest at the door while wearing a Roman gladiator’s helmet and a flowing red cape.

“You gotta come,” Sam urged. “We brought you a present.”

“Present?” She drew back. She hated to think Brand had spent his hard-earned cash on a gift. His clothes were not worn, but they were not of the latest cut. His boots were polished but a bit scuffed around the heels. Preachers relied on the wealth of their congregation and for the most part, rich donors were few and far between in and around Glory.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small glass jar with a metal lid. When he offered it to her, she let him drop it into her palm.

“Open it,” Sam urged.

Laura obliged. A combination of oil of roses and a hint of almond swirled up from the open jar.

“It’s salve for your hands,” Janie explained. “Miss Amelia makes it.”

“It’s lovely.” Laura looked at Brand. “Thank you.”

“It’s from all of us,” he said.

She thanked Sam and Janie. Now that the gift had been delivered, the children seemed to have lost interest in her. Sam started to climb on the veranda railing, quickly straddling the top. Janie spied Peaches, Laura’s long-haired calico, stretched out on the porch swing. She left her father’s side and tiptoed toward the sleeping cat.

Brand drew Laura’s attention again. “I’d love to have you hear them sing.”

“This really isn’t fair, you know,” she said softly. “Using your children to get me to join you.”

He shrugged, smiled down at her. “A man has to do what a man has to do.”

Against her will, Laura found herself smiling. “When is the performance again?”

“Saturday night. So, will you be our guest?” He didn’t appear to be leaving without an answer.

“So. How about it?” Sam asked.

“Will you, please?” Janie begged.

Laura sighed. Refusing Brand was one thing. Sam and Janie were quite another.

“Very well. Since you all insist.”

She politely listened as he detailed the event and what she could expect. She could always send her regrets later. For now, she couldn’t turn him down. Not while he was wearing such a hopeful sparkle in his eyes.

She forced herself to look away. Her mind wandered as he spoke of his sister’s plans for the choir. A few moments later, she noticed both children had disappeared. So had Peaches.

“Where are your children?” Laura asked.

Startled, Brand looked around. “They’re around somewhere. I don’t think that they would stray too—”

A high, bloodcurdling scream rent the air. Brand bolted down the veranda stairs and headed around back. Laura gathered her skirt in her hands and followed. The high-pitched screams escalated as she rounded the corner of the house. The sound pierced Laura’s shell of reserve, reminding her all too much of the night Megan had disappeared. She had never gotten
those
screams out of her mind.

Brand disappeared through the open doors in the carriage house. Laura followed him inside the dim interior. Her shiny black
buggy was parked off to one side of the open room. Sam sat back on the front seat, casually stretched out, watching his sister helplessly dangle by her fingertips from the edge of the open loft high overhead. She was easily twenty feet above the ground.

“Hang on, Janie. Hang on.” Brand skidded to a stop directly beneath his little girl.

“Don’t move, Brand. Stay beneath her.” Laura struggled to lift the ladder that was usually propped up against the loft. Once it was righted, she leaned it against the edge of the loft beside Janie. Arms out, ready to catch Janie if she let go, Brand never took his eyes off his daughter.

“Papa!” the girl shouted. “Help me!”

Laura tied a knot in the hem of her skirt to keep from stepping on it and started up the ladder.

“Your Papa will catch you if you fall. I’m coming up to get you, Janie. Just hang on a little longer.” She tried to sound calm and confident despite her racing heart.

“No! Papa, help!”

When she reached the top of the ladder, Laura was close enough to touch Janie, but feared if she leaned out to grab the child, the ladder would shift and they’d both go tumbling down.

“I’m right here beside you, Janie. I’m going to put my hand on your waist. If you move your foot to your right, maybe you can put your toe on the ladder.” Laura didn’t allow one ounce of her own dread to creep into her tone.

“That’s your left foot, sweetie,” Brand said. “The other foot.”

Laura saw Janie slowly extend her leg. She gently guided the child’s foot to the ladder rung above her. She breathed a sigh of relief when Janie’s toe was secure.

“That’s it,” Brand encouraged. “That’s it, honey. Now the other foot.”

Laura slipped her hand around Janie’s waist and held on. “I’ve got you. Slide your other foot onto the ladder.”

“I can’t. I’ll
die
!” Janie, hanging sideways, started to sob.

At least
, Laura thought,
she’s not screaming anymore.