High Plains Promise (Love on the High Plains Book 2) (17 page)

Images swirled faster in Wesley's mind. Holding onto his father, on the back of a galloping horse. Sneaking into a train car and hiding among sacks of wheat. Mucking horse stalls, far to the north. Gathering eggs out west. “What happened?” He forced his eyes to focus on Andrew.

His father was slowly shaking his head. “I don't know. Somehow, she found us. I woke up in the middle of the night, in a hotel room in St. Louis, feeling something wasn't right. She was there, holding a knife to your throat.” Andrew's own throat convulsed. “She said… she said she wouldn't let me have you. She would… kill us all before that would happen. Starting with you. I…” Andrew broke off, shuddering. “What would you do for your daughter, Wesley, if her safety was threatened? What would you sacrifice to protect her? I knew, if your mother won, you would be safe. She didn't want to hurt you. I agreed to her terms. To leave and let her keep you, on one condition. I had to receive regular reports on your well-being. If I heard from my sources that you had been harmed, I would have ended her, and the consequences be damned. Maybe it was wrong, but I didn't know what else to do. Can you possibly understand my position?”

Wesley nodded.

“I'd have fought them all. But to keep you safe, I had to let you go. However, my spies, the Spencers, have kept me informed about you all these years. Your mother had to let Allison play with you, let you play at their house, so I could get regular reports. I even sent them money sometimes, when I heard your mother overspent her allowance.”

Overspent? Allowance?
He must have looked puzzled, because his father hurried to explain. “Your mother's parents once owned a large cattle ranch. When they passed on, her father arranged in his will for the property to be sold, but the money was placed in the care of a lawyer from Wichita. Your mother was to receive payments each month for her comfort and support, and she did. When we were… together, she was able to spend that money on herself. After the separation, it was still enough for the two of you to live on, if she was frugal, which she usually was. I think having her income restricted offended her.”

Wesley nodded. “She hated it. Although she never discussed money with me, which I thought was bizarre, given my profession. She always called the Spencers trash. I figured it was because Mr. Spencer drove the train. She loved to talk about her daddy, the landowner, the cattle rancher.”

“I'm sure that played a role,” his father concurred. “Charlotte always was a bit of snob.”

“Why did you marry a snob?” Wesley asked.

“Why did you marry a…” His father trailed off. “Never mind.”

Wesley lowered his eyes. It seemed being swayed by the lusts of the flesh into marrying unsuitable women was a family tradition. Squashing down his emotions, he focused on the conversation.

“At any rate, they would have been trash to her regardless, but knowing they were reporting back to me made them intolerable, except she had to tolerate them. She must have hated them, more than anyone, in time. No wonder she despised the idea of you marrying Allison.” He grinned. “So that's the long answer to the short question. I kept an eye on you through them, until you stopped living in her home. Until you were a man and could care for yourself. That's when I tried writing to you. I don't know why my letters never got through, but I've been writing you each month since you turned eighteen. Wesley, I hated that I had to leave you, but under the circumstances, I didn't know what else to do.”

All the jagged pieces of Wesley's childhood fell into place with a nearly audible jangle. He couldn't quite remember the night his father was describing. Or maybe he just didn't want to. But it all made terrible sense.

Trying to come to grips with years of suppressed memories, Wesley buried his face in his hands.

An eerie silence descended on the Fulton house.
Silence is wrong.
Allison dragged herself out of the deep place she'd gone and tried to make sense of her surroundings. The bedroom she'd shared with her husband the last several months was the same as always. The spare, bare blond wooden floors reflected the sunlight… it looked like early afternoon. The red crazy quilt, still crumpled from not having been made up that morning, was wadded at the foot of the bed. A pile of multicolored towels, stained with an unholy mess, protected the white sheets. But… she'd given birth. She knew she had. Where was the baby? Last she recalled, she'd been kneeling by the bedposts. Now she was lying on the pillows, an uncomfortable bunch of fabric under her hips. What had happened in between?

“Mother?” she called. “Mother? Mrs. Fulton?”

“Yes, what?” came the cranky reply from the next room.

“What's happening?” Allison looked up at the plaster of the ceiling, tracing one slender crack from the window to the door frame.
Wesley needs to patch that.

“What do you mean?” Mrs. Fulton's bespectacled face interposed itself between her and the crack, and she glared.

“Where's my baby?” Allison placed her hand on her belly, feeling the slackness. “Are you cleaning him… or her? What did I have?”

“You had a boy,” Mrs. Fulton replied, and her face contorted into an expression Allison couldn't read.

Allison smiled despite her exhaustion. “A boy. Maybe Wesley will like that. I hope I can call him Peter. I like that name. Where is he?”

“He…” Mrs. Fulton broke off, and an even stranger look crossed her face. “I'm sorry, Allison.”

“Sorry?” Allison asked, instantly alert. “Sorry about what? Where's my son?”

“He…” The woman gulped. “He was stillborn.”

Wesley and his father sat in silence for the longest time. After a while, Wesley raised his burning eyes from his hands and slowly sipped his drink. He wished he'd ordered a beer, or better yet a whiskey shot… several shots. He needed them. But all he had was this mug of warm, sickly sweet soda, and no voice to order something different. So his mother really was crazy. He'd heard rumors. He'd fought people over them, many times. But this made sense. And the memories were emerging, minute by minute. His father wasn't lying to make his abandonment seem more palatable. Wesley could feel the sharp steel touching his throat now. Could hear the screaming.

Suddenly, it was all too much. Abandoning his drink on the counter, he staggered out the door into the alley, between the saloon and the shoddy rooming house next door, and vomited.

“Son?”

Wesley raised his head. His father was extending a handkerchief in his direction. He took the square of fabric and wiped his forehead, and then his mouth. He felt like hell.

“I guess you remember,” Andrew said softly. “I didn't realize you'd forgotten so much.”

“Yeah,” Wesley replied. He straightened and stepped away from the mess, back into the main street, eager to feel the sun on his face.

“Are you all right?” his father asked. “I'm sorry I upset you.”

“No, I needed to know the truth,” Wesley replied, after several slow deep breaths. “I needed to understand why I grew up the way I did. No wonder mother hates Allison.”

Andrew nodded. “I'd be amazed if she didn't. I'm also amazed you left her. Did you say she was about to give birth?”

Wesley nodded. “She was pretty mad. I haven't been the best husband to her. She may not get over this for a while.”

“Why did you then?” Andrew asked.

Wesley shrugged. “I wanted to see you, to know what it was all about, what I've been avoiding thinking about my whole life. I'm not sorry. Besides, I didn't leave her alone. I let Mother know to check in on her. I'm sure if anything… happened, Mother would have gotten the midwife for her.”

Andrew's jaw dropped.

“What?” Wesley demanded.

“Think, son. What did you just say? You left
your mother
, who hates the Spencers, who thinks they're trash, who disapproves of your wife – she does, doesn't she?” Wesley nodded. “A woman with a history of violent and unstable behavior – in charge of looking after Allison in her most vulnerable moment?”

Realization dawned on Wesley. Two seconds later, both men were running hell bent for leather towards the train station.

Allison lay in her marriage bed, on her side, staring blankly at nothing. Slow tears ran from the corners of her eyes. Already the pillow was soaked with them, but it didn't matter.
Dead. He was moving and squirming in my belly this morning. How could he have died between then and now… in such a short time? What happened? Why did my baby die?
Even sobs were beyond Allison's reach. She could only stare, breathing slowly, and let aimless tears run across her face. She touched her slack, empty belly. Blood trickled from between her thighs. She felt like a battlefield.
This must be what they feel like to the loser.
What would Wesley say? Would he be relieved? Would she ever be able to forgive him if he was?

A soft, muffled sound shattered the silence of Allison's lonely vigil. Her eyes narrowed.
You're dreaming, Allison. That, or grief has pushed you over the edge. It must have been a bird… or maybe a cat outside the window.

Allison closed her eyes and willed sleep to come.

Rebecca Heitschmidt woke with a gasp. She'd been snuggled up with her husband, enjoying a late-afternoon nap. She blinked twice, and then bolted from the bed, pulling on her shift and tying her bloomers loosely around her belly. She tossed her dress over her head and patted James on the arm.

“Wake up,” she hissed urgently.

He mumbled and rolled to his side.

She grabbed his shoulder and gave a rough shake. “Wake up, James.”

“Wha…” He yawned hugely. “What is it, Rebecca?”

“Allison needs me,” she replied. Come on, get up.”

“Allison? How do you know? Did someone come?”

Rebecca shook her head sharply. “Listen, James. We need to go NOW! Come ON! Something's wrong, I can feel it.” She tugged on his arm and he rose from the bed, quickly pulling on his underwear over his freckled thighs, and then adding trousers and a shirt.

“What about the sprout?” he asked, waving toward the room across the hall where Melissa was also napping.

“Grab her. We need to move!” Rebecca insisted.

“I don't understand,” James said, taking hold of Rebecca's hand and pulling her to a stop.