Hope Reborn (8 page)

He leaned in close. “I got my bluff in on them early, and bless the Lord, I haven’t had to use the switch on the little darlings much at all.”

She smiled. What was it with this man? Usually, the men she’d been around only cursed in God’s name, not blessed Him. “Well, they certainly are well behaved.”

“Thank you. Care for water or a little something to eat? Dinner’s still another hour or so.”

“No, no. I’m fine, but if perhaps I could see my room, I’d like to get organized for Mary Rachel to start this afternoon.” She looked around. “Where did Chester get off to?”

“He stayed with Jean Paul. I suspect they have already carried your things upstairs.”

“How’s that possible? I would have seen.”

“We have two other sets of stairs.” He looked toward the one right beside the front double doors and extended his bent arm. “Mary Rachel has your room all ready.”

She laid her hand over his forearm and let him lead her upstairs, pleased as punch over her decision to accept his offer—and to make the trip, a grand adventure, indeed.

“I’d envisioned Texas as being wide open, only a few trees, and more desert-like, yet all I’ve seen completely dispels my previous impressions.”

“Yes, ma’am, it’s a big state. Why, you’ve barely scratched its surface.”

Henry stopped at the side of the door and let her waltz on in. She took three steps then twirled around slowly soaking in the room, then glanced back to him. “Ten foot ceilings?”

“Helps with the heat.”

“I love your home. Truly. It’s beautiful, or did I already say that? Are all the rooms this charming?”

“Size wise, this is the second largest, next to mine, but yes, I promised Sue’s father I’d build her a home as grand as the one she grew up in.”

“Your wife was obviously a very lucky woman.”

He smiled. “Well, we don’t believe in luck. All good things come from the Lord. We give Him the glory instead of luck. Shame you can’t get to know her.” He looked off, resisting again the urge to go have a visit with her. “I’m certain you two would’ve been great friends.”

“Why, thank you, Henry. What a nice thing for you to say. I do wish I could have had that opportunity.”

He smiled at this most intriguing lady then eased the door closed. Well, if his Sue was still alive, he would never have invited Miss May Meriwether home. No. His wife would have skinned him and the novelist both if she’d have known what was in his heart.  

Exactly like the man figured. All of May’s things were unpacked, and her manuscript sat on the writing table that looked out of place. She smiled. An extra chair had definitely just been brought into the room.

It didn’t match anything, but looked very comfortable. She tried it out, seemed a bit big. She wiggled, but oh so perfect.

Was it Henry’s personal chair? She liked the thought of being in it, if it was. How long since he’d sat there? Oh, goodness gracious. She had to stop.

Henry’s rugged charm certainly attracted her, and she had no complaints about his manners, but the religious fanatic would never be interested in an agnostic woman.

Especially one who had no need for any man. Well, except for making babies. She couldn’t do that alone. But he already had so many. Between his five—if she’d counted right—and all the extras, his house could be called a zoo.

So even if he did like her—which he didn’t—and she liked him, he’d never do for her any more than she’d do for him. Why, the man would have to be crazy to want another child.

And one thing was certain. If she ever gave her heart away to any male, it would only be to fulfill the longing in her soul for her own baby. The memory of her mother’s deathbed conversation washed over her.

“You’ll never know how very much I love you, Millicent, until you have a daughter of your own,” she’d said.

Would May ever know?

More of that last conversation tried to replay in her head, but she didn’t want to hear more. It broke her heart that day, the second worse day of her life. No twelve-year-old should lose their mother.

Besides, every other time she toyed with the memory, her heart broke all over again. No, she neatly folded her reminiscence and tucked it away as far into obscurity as possible.

Perspiration trickled down her temple. She patted it with her lace-trimmed handkerchief. How could anyone get used to this horrible heat?

She hated remembering the day her mother died. What brought it on anyway? Oh, yes—babies—and Henry Buckmeyer. That look in his eye at the Donoho said it all.

That he still mourned. So lovesick over his dead wife, he wasn’t interested in her or most likely, any other woman. Poor man. Must have been a blow to be widowed so young. In his early forties?

Moreover, not one time had she caught him gawking. Other than helping her out of the carriage, or offering his arm to go up the stairs, he’d not touched her, and then only being the perfect gentleman—nothing more than Chester would have done in the same situation.

She placed her feet back on the floor, leaned forward, straightened the stack of clean paper, then picked up the quill and tickled her chin with the feather to get her creative juices flowing.

Oh, the time he had prayed over supper last night. He’d held her hand then, too. But that didn’t really count, and he didn’t hang on too long or give her a little squeeze or anything that might imply an interest.

He’d made no advances; unquestionably not in the market for an old maid ink slinger.

She put all thoughts of Patrick Henry Buckmeyer from her mind and found her place in the story. After only ten pages, a knock interrupted her rewrite.

“Yes?”

The door opened, and Mary Rachel’s head appeared. “Daddy says you have time to wash up before dinner. I filled your pitcher this morning. It’s there on the bureau in its bowl.”

May capped the ink well, set her quill down, then examined her hands. As customary, she’d not gotten a speck of ink on her anywhere. She hated getting dirty, stained with the offending liquid even worse.

But if he wanted her to wash…. “Thank you, dear. I’ll be right down.”

She resisted the urge to change dresses or tidy her unruly curls or even daub on more perfume. No need for any of that, she had no one to impress.

Plain and simple, he’d invited her only to indulge his favorite daughter. She grinned. That was so funny, him calling each one his favorite. She’d use that in one of her novels to be sure.

Maybe she’d write about a widower—with a passel of children—looking for love out in the wild west. Henry himself would make an excellent model for her next hero.

Unlike all the perfectly handsome mannequin men who played hard to get in her other books.

Or was he?

May practically skipped down the stairs and found all the men sitting at the table. The girls carried in a beautiful soup tureen, a platter of sandwiches, another of sliced vegetables, and drinks for each place.

She did miss New York’s ice. It would be especially nice out here in the core of this volcano known as Texas.

In mere minutes, the Buckmeyer fellows all stood, and the little ladies took their chairs one by one in obvious order of age. Mary Rachel sat on her father’s left.

The chair on his right remained empty. He offered it to her with a sweep of his hand and a smile. She took the seat between him and Chester, and all the males sat after she did.

All hands came out, palms up. Oh, yes. No doubt time to pray. She laid her left in Henry’s and reached across Chester to take Mammy’s, but he grabbed it and wrapped his left hand around the colored woman’s as though he did such every day.

“Houston, I believe it’s your turn to say grace. And don’t be long-winded.” Henry gave her a little squeeze. She glanced at him, and he smiled.

Thankful everyone bowed their head, she did likewise, knowing full well she had blushed, by the warmth in her cheeks. A little wave of flutters rolled in her tummy.

“God is good. God is great. Thank you for this little bit of grub. And please give us meat and taters for supper. Amen.” The boy looked straight to his father who pursed his lips and gave his boy a half nod.

“Thank you, Son.”

The soup, a vegetable medley in a delicious chicken stock, hit the spot. The sandwich tray came by
,
with wholes, halves, and quarters. She chose a half with ham.

From the second tray, she took a leaf of lettuce and two slices of the reddest tomatoes she’d seen since she was a little girl. She’d enjoy a thin sliver of the purple onion, but.…

“Henry, you lied to me.”

The man eyed her hard. “How’s that?”

“You told me Mammy was good in the kitchen, not that she was a master chef you had stolen away from Queen Victoria’s court.”

The cook leaned out past Chester. Her lips spread into the biggest grin. “Oh, Miss May, now you’re the one fibbing, not my Mister Henry.”

“Truth be told, I’ve never eaten at the Queen’s table except in my stories, but the cuisine couldn’t be any better. This soup is divine, and that’s a fact.”

“I agree. Mammy can cook rings around all of ‘em. We’re all blessed to have her.”

Blessed, not lucky? An odd way to put it. May took another sip then forced her hand to lay down the spoon. If she didn’t watch it, she’d weigh a ton before she headed back east.

But exactly when she would do that posed another question.

If Chester agreed, she might just go on to California, try her hand at prospecting for gold. That would certainly be an adventure she could write about; a poor gold miner striking it rich and having all the ladies wanting to be his wife.

She faced Henry. “You ever get the bug to go find a mountain of gold?”

He laughed. “No, I have plenty enough of what I need. I like it right here.”

“Uncle Henry.”

The man looked to the middle of the table, where the oldest boy sat. “What is it, Charley?”

“Can me and my boys go with Jean Paul and the others in the morning?”

Mary Rachel leaned out. “My boys and I, Charley. Say it right, or I’ll tell the Major, and he’ll tan your hide.”

The young lady who sat beside Jean Paul shook her finger at the little towhead—Laura, if May rightly remembered. “And probably mine, too. Try hard to remember and use proper English so you don’t get me in trouble, too.”

The boy said several words in a language May had never heard then smiled a very hollow grin at Mary Rachel. He faced the man. “Uncle Henry, can my boys and I go with them in the morning?”

“Exactly where are you and the boys wanting to go?”

Houston jumped to his feet. “Running that sounder of hogs, Pa. ‘Bout high time we had some fun around here. Chores and schooling’s all we ever do.”

“We’ll have to see about that. Now that I know what’s afoot, you boys settle down and finish your dinner, and let me think on this a while.”

For the next few minutes nothing but spoons clinging the china bowls sounded. It duly impressed May how Henry had done so long without a wife, and so well.

Not that she would ever experience the joy of rearing a child. She wanted a baby alright, but not someone else’s.

“What about you, Bart? You wanting to go, too?”

The dark-haired boy sitting on the other side of Houston nodded. “Yes, sir. I want to shoot a bid old hod and tut his belly and pull his duts out, and –”

“Whoa, Bartholomew. That’s not proper talk for the dinner table.” The second oldest girl faced her palm toward the boy.

The man guffawed and glanced at May.

She covered her mouth with her napkin and did her best not to gag or regurgitate.

Barely able to talk for laughing, he touched her hand. “I apologize, ma’am. You’ll have to forgive Bart. He gets excited.”

She placed the napkin back on the table and nodded with what she hoped was enough of a smile to get by. “Of course.” Gracious. The child couldn’t be more than five, and he had a gun?

And his uncle was thinking about letting him go to the woods and shoot a wild hog? Texians. Would anyone believe it without seeing for themselves?  

Henry regained his composure. “Shooter sound? You boys been seeing to his hooves? Keeping him brushed out?”

Charley nodded. “Yes, sir. You know how the Major is. He don’t cotton to slackers, especially when it comes to horse flesh.”

Laura beat Mary Rachel to the correction. “Charley, he doesn’t. ‘Don’t’ isn’t correct.”

“Sorry, ma’am.”

“Bart, you good doubling with your brother?”

Disappointment flashed across the boy’s face then he hid it. “Yes, sir, but I’m a tough wanger. Tan I tarry my long wifle?”

“No, we best rope them.”

Houston jumped to his feet. “Oh, Pa, you’re taking all the fun out of it.” The boy punched the air. “We want to shoot ‘em dead. We hate them nasty rooters.”

“Sit.”

“Don’t know why we can’t shoot ‘em. Buzzards need to eat, too.”

“And you, young man, will be riding with me.” The man’s tone silenced the boy.

All three returned to their midday repast. Charley, Houston, and Bart—she had them down. Levi’s, Henry’s, and Levi’s.

Shortly, Henry and all the other males, even Chester, rose and began clearing the table. What was with the man? Out of his own mouth, he claimed to have everything he needed, yet he helped clear the table while the girls sat and visited.

And who had clued Chester into the arrangement? And what was with him holding Mammy’s hand? May hated that name. So many colored women had that moniker hung around their necks. Why, it was almost as bad as calling one of the colored men Boy.

“Miss May, would you care for some coffee or tea, before we get started?”

May looked across the table at the seventeen-year-old. “Thank you, but no. We can get right to work, unless you have something else you need to do.”

The girl stood. “I’m all yours.”

Following an initial flurry of questions and instructions, Mary Rachel worked in silence. May returned to the rewrite, thankful the girl wasn’t a chatter box.

After what must have been two hours, she capped her ink well and studied on Henry’s baby girl. Could a mother ask more than for her daughter to turn out just like Mary Rachel?

The girl looked up. “What? Am I doing something wrong?”

“No, no. I was only thinking what a wonderful young lady you were. Your mother must have been so proud of you.”

Mary Rachel sniffed then her lips turned down, like she was trying to keep from crying. “I hope so. It’s so strange. It’s been six years, and I still miss her every day something terrible.”