Hope Reborn (24 page)

A single tear rolled down her cheek. “And of course, I shot right where Sue’s picture had been hanging all those years. The only way it could be any worse is if Henry hadn’t taken it down, and I’d shattered the thing.”

“How about I explain –”

“No. Don’t you dare! I’d rather them think I’m crazy than know I can’t stop myself from killing the commodore every few years.”

“You only have to get it through that thick skull of yours that the act was self defense.”

“But it wasn’t.”

Chester’s head bobbed up and down slightly. He looked off for a bit then back. “Yes, May, it was.”

“He would never have hurt me. He loved me.”

He grimaced then showed his pearly whites. “You remember that quadroon the commodore called Honey Pie?”

“Yes.” She shook her head, didn’t like to think about those days, much less the pretty slaves her mother hated so much. “What about her?”

“He didn’t sell her.”

“What?” She quickly flipped through her memories and confirmed what she’d thought. “Yes, he did. I remember. Mother was so happy about it. I recall perfectly the evening he told her. Mama hated Miss Honey Pie.”

“No, that’s just what he told her. We knew—the house and field slaves. We all knew.”

“What exactly did you all know?”

“Honey Pie got uppity on him, and he beat her to death.”

She gasped. “What? No! Who told you that?”

“Our father, the day he got sold off. He warned me never to cross the commodore, or he’d kill me, too. If the monster had known for certain what he only suspected, Pa would not have been sold off, and we’d be orphans.”

“But…but.… Why haven’t you ever told me this before?”

“To what end, May?” He shrugged. “We’ve not talked much about those days. I saw no reason to bring it up. But baby girl, I’m telling you now, and I’m telling you true.

“He’d would have killed your mother for a fact. And for what? Getting between him and me that day? You know that’s exactly correct if you’d only let yourself accept it.”

Chester shook his head. “No one did that to him and lived to tell about it.”

She took a sip of toddy then leaned back in Henry’s chair. Why hadn’t he told her all this before? Did it make any difference? The string of light-skinned slaves who never did any work was no secret.

That the commodore kept them for their beauty alone, she was confident, but beating to death the one he prized most? But Chester wouldn’t lie about such a thing. She believed that.

What kind of fiend had she loved all these years?

Leaning forward, she gulped a goodly draught of the brew. “Where’s the bottle?”

“You don’t need inebriation. It helps nothing. You need to believe the truth and forgive yourself.”

She curled her lip and spat her words. “You do not know what I need, so don’t be acting as though you’re so smart.”

“Oh, but yes I do, my darling. You most assuredly need the Lord, not a bottle of whiskey.”

That night while she fought to find sleep, May wrestled with the truth her brother had painted. Was the commodore a monster, and she righteous for saving them all from him?

Against her will, the days after his death played out, scrutinized her life at Sea Side. She recoiled in distaste. Oh, how weary she was of living a lie for the past twenty-nine years.

Could it be true? Could she be the victim of the white savage instead of his murderer?

Sometime between the clock chiming two and three, she dozed fitfully. Instead of any respite though, she dream-walked into her childhood home once more, her heart hardened for the years.

But where fearful dread had once existed, a sweet peace engulfed her. No doubt remained. Her father’s father was a monster, and her saving her mother’s life didn’t mean she was.

Other than that one horrible day, she’d never harmed another human being and never harbored any desire to force her will on anyone by violence. At last, she knew the truth.

What exactly caused her to pull the trigger that night? Love for her mother? Her poor mother, married to such an evil fiend. Who could blame her for turning toward a forbidden love with handsome, young Silas?

Had the commodore known?

Maybe the look on his face when she hollered for him to stop caused her to fire. Had she known all along in the recesses of her soul what he really was?

The pure hate, meanness, out of his mind rage in his expression told it all. Destroying him before he killed her mother—it was May’s only choice. The hardness in her chest melted away.

But in essence, he’d killed her mother anyway. She never recovered from the day, even though it took her months of ghastly suffering to die.

A miniature hand on her cheek pulled her from her dreams. “Mama?”

She pried one eye open. Houston grinned at her. “Morning, sweetheart.”

“Mammy says you should get up, you done missed breakfast, and you’s about to miss dinner, too.”

May resisted the urge to correct his grammar—or that he called her Mama. Actually, she loved the sound of it, but would the boy’s father really make it so? “What time is it?”

He shrugged. “Pert near dinner time. Uncle Wallace done called us to wash up.” He held his hands out. “See?”

“Yes, sir.” She sat up and inspected them. “You got them nice and clean. So did Mammy send you?”

“No, ma’am. Me and Bonnie figured I should come get you.”

She scooted up in bed. “What is everyone saying about yesterday?”

“Mean about you shooting the Captain’s pistol?”

She hated pumping the boy for information, but so much more wanted to know if she should show her face. She nodded. “Yes, that.”

“Not much.”

“Is everyone mad at me?”

“Naw, Uncle Chester said you was having a moon day. That’s all.”

“That’s all?”

“Yes, ma’am, except for Mammy says sometimes womens get a little crazy.” The five-year-old screwed up his face and glanced toward the ceiling as though deep in working a puzzle out. “Mama May, what’s a moon day? ’Cause I ain’t never had one.”

“You just take my word for it, you don’t want to. They’re no fun, believe me.” She kissed the boy on the cheek then sent him packing. Shortly she strolled out, might as well get it over with.

Either way, sooner or later, she had to face the music.

Normalcy reigned outside Henry’s library. Well, Chester acted a bit too nice, but she paid him no never mind. No embarrassing questions popped up all through dinner, then after a short pile of ruined pages, May joined the older girls for their Saturday bath.

She loved the big wooden tub and how her ingenious Henry had plumbed the thing. And the whole house for that matter.

Who would ever guess water closets existed in the backwoods of Texas?

Patrick Henry Buckmeyer. She’d never met another like him anywhere; traveling how many miles to buy a slave he intended on setting free from the first. “What makes him do that?”

“What was that, Miss May?”

She looked across the water. Mary Rachel grinned at her. “What was what, dear?”

“Just now. You asked ‘what makes him do that’.” The girl smiled. “What makes who do what?”

“Oh, I guess I asked it aloud. Didn’t mean to.” She laughed. “I was thinking about your father, him going all the way to New Orleans to buy Mammy’s brother, only to set him free.”

Rose piped up. “I think it’s because he just cannot help being wonderful.”

Rebecca leaned back, looked at her best friend then shrugged. “He definitely is an amazing man, but still, we’ve wondered the same thing.”

“Any conclusions?”

The man’s oldest daughter shook her head. “It’s a conundrum; he’s the sweetest human being on earth. You ought to have seen him with Blue Dog’s first litter. You’d have thought he was the grandpa or something. But when that wolf inside—or whatever it is he keeps chained up—gets loose.…”

She fell silent, and Rose took over. “That look in his eyes just before he’s about to go berserk.…” She pushed waves across the still water as though she played alone a million miles away.

The remembrance obviously sent both young women off to some faraway place.

Rebecca shook her head and returned to the bathhouse. “First time I saw it, I was only nine. This thief had a knife to Mama’s throat.” She laughed. “I wanted Daddy to blow Littlejohn’s head off. The toady had already hurt me, kicked me halfway across camp, and he was about to hurt her.”

Rose nodded. “You’ve seen it, Miss May, when Frank pointed that long gun at him that day at church. Remember? He charged in and would have beaten the man to death if Levi hadn’t pulled him off.”

“I do remember.” Her voice cracked; she cleared her throat then smiled. “I got so mad at him over that. I wanted him to run the other way, but of course he couldn’t.”

“No.”

“I’ve since realized that would have been the wrong way to handle such a situation. And after I thought about it, I really couldn’t say that I’d want him to change one bit.”

“Anyway, we think maybe he’s trying to balance the scales.” Rose twisted an errant red curl and pushed it into the pile pinned on top of her head. “You know, because he’s killed so many men.”

Rebecca shook her head. “Not ever anyone who didn’t need killing, but Mama said sometimes, they would trouble him terrible late of a night. That their ghosts haunted his dreams.”

Rose held her hands up. “Oh ladies, the battles Levi has fought in his dreams!”

Rebecca chuckled. “So what you’re telling me is that I shouldn’t let Wallace sleep any at all.”

Giggles aplenty filled the warm room. Every time the mirth quieted, Rose would raise a knowing eyebrow and give them a little smirk.

A twinge of jealously bit May, but then the conversation turned to Rebecca and her ranger’s coming nuptials. No one mentioned one word about the hole in Henry’s library wall.

Or a double wedding either.

May would love nothing better, except on the other side of the page, she didn’t want to wait until December. The way she looked at it, she’d already waited too long to be a bride.

Henry needed to get himself home. She needed to get things settled with him. She wanted to marry him that very day.

Like always, the last day of the week turned into the first. She didn’t really want to go to church, but didn’t see a way out. Shooting Henry’s wall needed to be the only black mark against her when he got home.

And if Charley was right, CeCe would be more than eager to give her father a full report.

She needed to spend some time with that girl, hopefully she’d get to spend a lot of time with all the little Buckmeyer ladies—and their father. And of course, his adorable little man Houston.

Rainy nights might be the best, having the little darling snuggled in between her and his daddy. Even throwing CeCe in wouldn’t spoil the party.

The service dragged on, but it was nice when the cantor—was that what they called him? Didn’t seem right. Anyway, when the leader of the church asked everyone to pray for Henry and the boys’ safe and successful return, a nice feeling washed over her.

Being part of something bigger than herself, she liked that.

Maybe that caused so many Christians to buy into the fairytale; a way to bond together, like being in the army or some social club. God was good, and the church people could put all the bad in the world off on the devil.

Could that be it? Could it really be so simple?

That evening she managed to get two pages worth keeping, but it cost her ten marred ones. And her favorite quill pen. She hated that. Never in all her days as a mistress of the ink had she not been able to tell the tale.

Especially once she got it going and brought her characters to life. Wouldn’t that be fun? Living in the world she’d created with all her fictitious friends? Except that was the problem.

The heroes of her novels, she knew exactly how to handle. Henry posed another matter indeed. The man was real and held her heart in his grasp. And she had to write about him loving Sue.

Arrrugghhh. She never should have agreed to this.

What if he didn’t approve? The pressure to get it right kept making her wad pages, and her gaffes littered the floor. If Henry Buckmeyer didn’t get himself home—and soon—she might truly go crazy.

She needed him for so many reasons. She loved him. Oh, how she loved the man and hated the separation.

Why hadn’t he let her go with him?

Out on the porch, sipping her hot toddy, she pondered that question until time for bed. A darkness hovered over New Orleans, she’d felt it in her bones. Henry shouldn’t have gone at all, but at least Levi insisted on accompanying him.

A better man to have your back never existed, least wise that’s what Wallace claimed. The Ranger had the steadiest aim, could smell danger a mile off, and never lost his head no matter what.

The instant her curls hit the feather pillow, a chill washed over her heart. Was that why he wouldn’t hear of her going? Did he leave her knowing he was coming back in a wooden box?

Oh no.

She closed her eyes.

Is that it, God? You are not good, but some sick monster who torments little girls? Let them think they’re happy only to pull the rug out from under them? Then keep on and on knocking them down every time they find love?

No, that can’t be God. Henry said God was love.

Hello? Are You listening out there? Are You really even out there at all? Is my love safe? Is he on his way home? Can you really watch over someone and actually keep them safe?

If you can, why did you let me kill the commodore? And then let my mother die anyway? She was so young. And Sue, why did she have to die?

May rolled over and buried her face in the cotton case. She didn’t want Sue alive. Was that bad? Who could wish for those precious little girls to grow up without their mother?

Maybe she really was a monster after all. But didn’t Sue’s death—and her own mother’s—just prove there couldn’t be a loving God out there? The world harbored too much evil.

If she were in charge, no little girl would ever have to go through losing their mother. But what about that rumbling in her gut? Would the little Buckmeyer girls be orphaned completely?

No. She was just being ridiculous.

Henry was fine. He’d be home with Mammy’s brother within the week. Five more days, or even less. He might even arrive in four.

He could find himself a real fast stallion and do the last hundred miles riding through the night just to get home to her a day early.

Then logic trumped wishful thinking.

A single horse couldn’t outrun a stage, changing teams every ten miles or so. No. She was being silly. But she hated the premonition that swathed her heart like the linen sheets draped over the furniture to close Sea Side.

What about her love story?

Was Henry’s God about to close the book?

Monday, the ninth day of September, a good day. While Fillmore and Congress argued over Texas’ northern border, she knocked out five pages slick as anything. With only three false starts.