Margaret Brownley (34 page)

Redd frowned and his face grew grim, but he didn’t utter a word.

Lucy watched Redd as she replied, “Could you come on Friday? Say around two?”

“Yes, yes, that would be perfect,” Emma said.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Lucy asked.

“I’m positive,” Miss Hogg snapped. “A woman waiting for a man around here is likely to end up an old maid.” She whispered in Lucy’s ear. “Don’t you make the same mistake I’ve made.” In a louder voice, she added, “I’ll see you Friday.” Head held high, she sailed past Redd and kept going.

Barrel slapped Redd on the back. “Looks like you finally got your wish. Miss Hogg has decided to leave you alone.” A crease settled between Redd’s eyebrows and his face remained as red as a summer ripe tomato, but whatever he was thinking he kept to himself.

Timber Joe and Annabelle walked off hand in hand and Lucy couldn’t take her eyes off them. No photograph could tell her more than what she already knew. God brought them together not only to love each other but to help each other heal.

Wolf removed the loose hair and dirt from Shadow’s coat with a wooden currycomb. “You don’t like this much, do you, fellow?”

Not wanting to be seen from the road, he stood in back of the mission behind a moss-covered wall. Several yards away was a small cemetery, the gravestones hidden by overgrown bushes. He couldn’t see the river for the trees but he could hear the steady sound of rushing waters.

Last night a thunderstorm had rolled through the area. Now the sky was clear but the air felt hot and sticky.

He patted his horse on the rump and exchanged the comb for the soft-bristle brush. Head and neck extended back, the horse watched his every move.

Upon seeing the brush, Shadow nodded and blew out his breath, relaxing.

Wolf laughed. “You like this better, eh?” He sensed rather than heard someone approach. The sheriff? He tensed.

“David!”

Hearing Lucy call to him, he stepped out from behind the wall where she could see him and waved.

Lucy ran toward him. Skirt lifted high above her ankles, she practically flew along the red brick path.

She seemed so anxious to reach him that he feared something was wrong. Still, no amount of worry could mask his pleasure at seeing her.

“Lucy. What is it?”

“Nothing. Everything.” She stopped in front him and, in one breathless sentence, blurted out, “Every pot has a lid and Timber Joe found his, and Sarah found hers, and Jenny found hers, and Monica found hers . . .” She continued with name after name.

Puzzled, he scratched his head. All this talk about pots and lids. Was she trying to invite him to supper? Even Shadow looked puzzled.

“I don’t care who you are or who your parents were, I don’t care what my father will say or what my friends will think or . . .”

She talked so fast, it was all he could do to make hide or hair out of what she said.

“I love you,” she said at last and fell silent.

He stared at her. Love? Did she say she loved him?

“Well?” she demanded. “Say something.”

He opened his mouth to object, to tell her all the reasons why they couldn’t be together. He would have done exactly that had she not somehow ended up in his arms. Once his lips found hers, he was doomed. The glorious feel of her body next to his crowded out any other thought. By the time he finally let her go, she was not only speechless but out of breath.

“I swear you could talk the bark off a tree,” he mustered at last.

She threw back her head and laughed. “And you could stop a riot with your kiss.”

He grinned like a foolish youth. “I hope I never have to try.”

Her pretty pink mouth still swollen from his kiss, she looked even more beautiful today than usual. Her eyes, bright as the sky, were every bit as blue. Tendrils of shiny hair hugged her face as he longed to do. He wanted to show her in every possible way how much he loved her. He wanted to hold her, to explore every curve of her body, every inch of her skin, every facet of her soul. It was wrong, of course, terribly, terribly wrong, but knowing it didn’t make it any easier to release her. He dropped his arms to his sides.

Why did she do this to him? Why did she insist upon making it so difficult for him to do what was right? “Lucy . . . what I said the other day . . .” He tried to hold back the words, but it would have been easier to hold back a tornado. “What I said about loving you . . .”

Her face brightened, her eyes sparkled, and he wished to God he’d never admitted what his heart knew was true. “Nothing’s changed.”

“I don’t care,” she whispered. “I just want to be with you.”

He grabbed her by the arms. “Lucy, listen to me. We can’t be together.”

Her face paled and her lips trembled. Hating himself for causing her such pain, he slid his hands down her arms. “You must know how impossible this is.”

She shook her head. “It doesn’t have to be.”

“But it is. You know it is. A white woman married to a half-breed. I fear for your safety.”

“Rocky Creek isn’t like that,” she said. “These are my friends. They’ll protect us.”

“Oh, Lucy, you don’t know what you’re saying. You’re so kind and loving you can’t see the world as it really is.”

She pulled away from him. “I know how the world is,” she said. Her eyes flashed with anger. “Our town has to hide its colored children so as not to build separate schools. Lee Wong can’t bring his family here because of the Chinese exclusion laws. Women don’t even rate a mention in the Texas constitution. I know how cruel the world can be. But I’ve grown up in this town all my life. People know me and love me. In time, they’ll get to know you, too, and when they do . . .”

“I can’t stay here. What happened . . .” He shook his head. “I can’t live in the same town as Myers and Barnes.”

“Then we’ll find another place to live,” she said, and he loved her even more for putting his needs in front of her own.

“You know that won’t work. Strangers won’t be as kind or as unforgiving as your friends,” he said. “And what about your father and brother?”

“I’ll . . . miss them, of course.” She’d hesitated for only a second, but it was enough for him to know how very much it would cost her to leave. “And I’ll find a way to put my brother through school.”

“Lucy, every town, every city is a war zone for people like me.” He swallowed hard. The fight against the invisible barrier that separated him from the rest of the world was not only a daily struggle, it defined him as a man. He reached for her hands.

She yanked away from him. “I don’t care. You’re the man I love. I don’t care about anything else.”

“You deserve so much more.” His voice grew tight. “You deserve a man with a name, a birthright. A profession.”

She shook her head in protest. “You’re a cabinetmaker.”

“And how many of your friends will be willing to hire a half-breed to build their furniture? I can tell you from experience that few, if any, will.”

“So is that it?” She tilted her chin up and swiped away a tear. “Are we supposed to just walk away from each other and forget how we feel?”

It was exactly what they must do, but to hear it put so bluntly was like a knife to his heart. “It’s best that way.”

“Best for who?” she cried out.

“For both of us,” he said. “Lucy, if I could change things, don’t you think I would? If I could make myself all white or all Indian, I would do it in a flash. If I could change the hatred that makes people like me live between two worlds, I wouldn’t hesitate a minute.”

“You’re like the man who can only see his lame leg.” She backed away from him. “It’s your barriers that are keeping us apart,” she stormed, “not society’s.” She whirled around and stormed away.

Stunned, he could do nothing more than watch her go. His barriers? What did she mean by his barriers?

Lucy hurried away from him, seething. She followed the brick path toward the front of the mission, swiping away the low-hanging branches. Fool man. What did she ever see in him? He was stubborn and pigheaded and . . . ohhh. She told herself it was for the best. Telling Wolf how she felt had settled it once and for all.

She’d only gone a few steps when a bough hit her in the face and she brushed it aside. Her locket flew up in the air, the golden chain catching on a limb over her head.

“Oh no!” she cried.

Instantly David came up behind her. “What’s wrong?”

“My locket.” She pointed up.

It was a stretch, but he managed to grab hold of the branch. Bending it downward, he lifted the golden chain off the leafy limb and examined it.

“The clasp is broken,” he said. “But I can fix it.” The locket fell open and he stared at it.

Inside the locket was a daguerreotype miniature. “My parents on their wedding day,” she said.

Photography had come a long way since the days of the daguerreotype, which required as much as a minute and a half exposure time. Headrests assured the absolute immobility a daguerreotype required, but resulted in stilted postures and pained expressions, which explained the look on her parents’ faces.

“It’s the only photograph I have of her,” she said wistfully. She could barely remember her mother’s smile. What she would give for a photograph of her mother that didn’t look so serious.

David’s eyes remained fixed on the locket in his hand, but he said nothing. Didn’t move. Didn’t flex a muscle.

Regretting the angry words spoken moments earlier, she stepped toward him. “David?” When he didn’t answer her, she laid her hand on his arm.

Usually that brought a smile to his face, but not this time. The eyes that met hers were those of a stranger’s. Mouth twisted as if in pain, his face darkened with emotion. At that moment she was more afraid than she had ever been in her life.

Her stomach in a knot, she gaped at him, her mouth open. Hot denial flooded through her. “No.” She reached for her locket, but he held his hand over his head, out of reach.

“No!” she gasped. “You’re wrong.”

“I’m not wrong,” he said with a certainty that turned her very bones cold. “The man in that photograph helped put me on that boat.”

“No, no, no.” She pounded against his chest with her fists. He caught her by the wrists and held her close.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered close to her ear. “I never meant for this to happen.”

All these years . . . the secrets . . . the shadows . . . her suspicion that nothing was as it seemed had haunted her, but nothing was as bad as the terrifying realization that now washed over her.

“No!” she cried again, as much for her own benefit as for his. “My father . . . he’s a good man. He wouldn’t—”

A sob caught in her voice. Backing away from him, she held him at bay with an outstretched hand. Shaking, she ran the rest of the way to her horse and wagon.

Twenty-five

Men should avoid looking pained or henpecked while being
photographed. Nor should they use the occasion to assert themselves.
As a matter of self-preservation, a photographer must never take sides
in family disputes (unless, of course, the husband is blatantly wrong).

– M
ISS
G
ERTRUDE
H
ASSLEBRINK, 1878