Summer Moon (7 page)

9

With Scrappy’s help, Kate drugged the boy; then the wrangler carried him into the house where they placed him in the smallest of the spare rooms upstairs. Her heart broke for the child, so small and vulnerable, fighting to the last not to give in to them, struggling to be brave.

Once they had him inside, they stripped off his filthy, tattered clothing and had Scrappy burn them, then in the huge tub in the bathing room, they washed him, then dressed him in one of Reed Senior’s cut-off nightshirts. After putting him in bed, they splinted his bruised and badly sprained ankle between two pieces of a cut-down broomstick and then Scrappy tied him into the narrow bed.

Beneath the white linen sheets, with his long hair combed back off his sweet face and his cheeks shining, he looked like an angel. But they all knew that he wasn’t the angel he seemed, which is why Kate finally agreed to let Scrappy tie him to the bedposts.

She was now as convinced as Sofia that the boy was Daniel. Why else would Reed have brought him to Lone Star?

When they were through, she looked in on Reed, found him sleeping peacefully, his fever nearly gone, and then realizing that she was starved, Kate went downstairs.

As the sun crested at noon, Kate and Sofia sat at a small table next to tall windows at the end of the kitchen, lingering over cups of strong black coffee, which was nothing like the pale tea and honey Kate was used to at the orphanage. The two women had shared a late breakfast that included samples from the covered dishes the neighbors had brought with them to the funeral.

As she looked around the huge room, Kate recalled the pride Reed had expressed in his words to her about this room.

I want to see my children and grandchildren living in this house, this grand tribute to all that is Lone Star. The kitchen is a wife’s dream, with long windows to let in plenty of light, and a view of the horse corral. There’s a new wood stove, too. Of course, you will have a housekeeper who cooks as well.

The kitchen was indeed warm and cozy, much larger than the entire shack Kate had shared with her mother. Sofia moved effortlessly, busying herself with things Kate knew little about. The nuns turned out well-educated young ladies, hoping for them to make fine marriages or become teachers or nannies. Experience in a kitchen was not as highly stressed as reading, writing, and the arts.

Within a few moments she felt at ease in the housekeeper’s domain. Sofia allowed her time to get her bearings as new mistress, and Kate was grateful to have the other woman’s help and expertise. If not for Sofia, she would never have known the boy upstairs was Reed’s long-lost son.

She set her coffee cup down and covered her mouth when a yawn crept up on her. Then she folded her hands in her lap and watched Sofia pump water into one of two wash pans on the dry sink.

“Do you think either of them is awake yet?” As anxious as she was filled with nervous excitement to return to Reed’s side, Kate stretched and collected cups, saucers, and spoons and carried them to the workbench.

Sofia answered without turning around. “I will finish up here. You look in on them.”

With a dish towel wadded in her hands, Sofia reached for the handle of a kettle boiling on the stove and swung it over to two deep dishpans. She added steaming water to each, replaced the kettle, and then slipped the scraped dishes into the hot water.

Kate rubbed her brow, studied the woman’s erect shoulders and the delicate, pale nape of her neck exposed by her upswept, tightly coiled hair. There was an enviable, exotic beauty that lingered in Sofia despite her age. She carried herself more like a queen than like a housekeeper. Her tailored black silk gown was worth far more than everything Kate owned combined. The woman had been welcoming and considerate to a fault, not outwardly concerned about her standing despite the arrival of a new mistress.

“Sofia, I hope you will forgive me for being frank, but there is no one else I can turn to.”

Sofia’s hands grew still in the sudsy water.

“What is it, señora?”

“First, please, assure me that Reed could not have hurt that boy.”

Without a second’s pause, Sofia turned and looked over her shoulder at Kate. In Sofia’s eyes, Kate saw the truth.

“
Never,
señora. He would never do a child harm.”

A weight lifted. Unable to sit any longer, Kate stood up and wrapped half a loaf of bread in a clean dish towel; then she set it aside. She took a deep breath and plunged in before she could talk herself out of asking any more.

“I entered into this marriage on blind faith, Sofia. Reed said in one of his letters that you have known him since he was a young man, so I hope perhaps you can explain to me why he would keep the fact that he was a Ranger from me. Not only have I learned that his child has been alive all these years, but in his letters, he always referred to his father in past tense, as if he was dead and not alive.
Why?
”

Sofia seemed to ponder the questions as she continued to wash the plates and serving dishes and set them on the waiter to drain. She was careful with each knife, keeping the hollow handles dry, slowly toweling each one, and laying them out in a row. Kate began to think that Sofia was not going to answer at all.

When Sofia finally rinsed her hands and turned around, her expression was grave. “Sit down, señora, and we will talk.”

Kate sat in the chair she had used before. Sofia sat opposite. The already overly warm spring breeze blew in through the open windows, carrying the scent of grass and wildflowers. To Kate, so used to chilly winds off the coast, it seemed like heaven.

“Reed Junior’s first wife’s name was Becky Greene. His father never approved of her because he believed she was only marrying Reed for the wealth he would inherit when Lone Star became his. Reed Senior feared she was not in love with his son, which proved to be true.

“Reed Junior married against his father’s wishes, without his consent. It was soon apparent that Becky did not really love him as much as she loved being a Benton. She fought the life that her husband had chosen—life on the edge of the ranch where he worked the cattle with the rest of the men. They lived here in this house when they were first married, but then Reed Junior insisted they move out to an old dog-run cabin, one built when his father first bought the land. But here, in this house, is where Becky thought she belonged.

“Young Reed naturally wanted her with him and insisted upon it. When Becky discovered she was having a child, she argued with him constantly. If he would not move back here, she wanted him to let her return alone. Finally, he agreed. Becky stayed here the last few weeks before Daniel’s birth.

“A few months afterward, Reed Junior moved his family back out to the frontier. I think he realized that what his father had always believed was true. Becky did not really love him. Always, she flirted with other men.”

Kate sat there feeling disconnected, as if listening to a tale about someone else, not the sincere, tenderhearted gentleman she had come to know through his letters. Reed had mentioned little about his first wife and son, save that he had married young, and had lost them both.

I have had enough time to dwell on the past. My heart and my home are so empty now. I would hope that you would consider filling them with love and happiness.

Kate propped her elbow on the table and rested her chin in her hand. “Then Becky was killed and Daniel captured. How old was Daniel? How did it happen?”

Sofia shifted on her chair, obviously quite ill at ease. Kate sensed the woman might feel disloyal talking about Reed and things that he should explain himself, but even if Kate had to pull every word out of her, she was determined to try. She had to know the truth.

Sofia continued. “They had been living on the edge of the ranch for three years. On the night she died, Becky and the boy were alone. Reed had gone to the aid of some neighbors when their house was raided. When he got home, he found Becky outside, scalped, lying near the burned-out shell of the cabin. Daniel’s body was never found. All the horses were gone.”

Kate tried to imagine Becky, alone in the darkness. The image of a young woman ravaged, lying dead beside the remains of her home was horrifying. The accounts of Indian attacks Kate had read in the
Applesby Sentinel
did not actually describe gruesome practices of torture and bondage, but intelligent people could read between the lines.

“What she must have suffered at the last,” Kate whispered.

“The Indians did not kill her, señora. It is believed Becky killed herself. She always swore that is what she would do before she let herself be taken. There is not a woman in Texas unaware of what happens to female captives. They are beaten, forced to submit. Some have returned to their families with their skin tattooed, their noses burnt off, their minds gone.

“Others, those with half-Indian children, refuse to stay with their white families even when they are finally rescued. Some cannot face the shame they suffer when they return. Others, like the boy upstairs, turn Comanche and cannot remember another way of life. Becky knew what would happen to her. She had one of Reed’s guns. She was scalped, but died of a bullet through her temple. The Comanche would not have killed her outright.”

Kate’s nails cut into her palms. She opened her fists, pressed her damp hands against her skirt. “But . . . she left her little boy to the mercy of Comanche raiders,” Kate whispered. Her thoughts spiraled back to her own childhood, to the night that she lay too sick to move, too sick to crawl after her mama when she left her on the steps of Saint Perpetua’s.

She would never forget her mother’s parting words.

“This is for the best, Katie. Someday when you realize
that, I hope to God you’ll forgive me. I should have done
this when you were born, so’s you wouldn’t remember. I’ve been selfish, Katie-girl, trying to keep you with
me . . .”

Kate shook herself, remembering all too well the silent tears she had shed. Grief and fear had swallowed her just as sure as the sickness in her lungs. Her mother had turned her back on her and walked out of her life forever.

Hopefully Daniel was too young to remember anything of the terrifying night that his mother had taken her own life. Becky had abandoned him to the mercy of the Comanche just as surely as Meg Whittington had left Kate on the steps of the orphanage.

“Are you all right, señora? I’m sorry if I upset you, but you asked. This is what I know.”

Kate looked up at Sofia, startled out of her dark memory. “Yes . . . I’m fine.”

She vowed then and there that as long as she had anything to say about it, Daniel would never, ever feel abandoned again. Then she collected herself. “What happened afterward? After Reed found out?”

Sofia’s eyes spoke of deep sorrow. “There was bad blood between them already. Reed blamed his father for his mother’s early death. She hated Texas and longed to go back to Georgia. Junior thought that if his father had paid more attention to her and less to the ranch, Virginia would have lived longer.

“The señor wanted so much for him, but Junior refused his help. Soon they fought over everything. If Reed Senior said it was day, Reed Junior insisted it was night. Time and again the señor urged him to bring Becky and Daniel back to Benton House. He wanted Junior to go into state politics, but Reed Junior loved ranching. He found joy in working alongside the men. He did not want to be a politician, nor was he ready to be a gentleman rancher.

“After Becky’s burial, they had a terrible, terrible argument. I don’t know what it was about, but Reed Junior left that very day and joined the Rangers. He never came back until he walked in the door yesterday.”

Like pieces of a puzzle that
almost
fit, the story Sofia had just related left Kate with more questions than answers.

“If Reed and his father were estranged, how did you both know about our marriage? How did you know to expect me? Why would Reed have me meet him here in the first place? I could have joined him where the Rangers are, couldn’t I?”

For the space of a heartbeat, consternation danced across Sofia’s features, so briefly that Kate began to doubt that she saw it. Then the housekeeper slowly pushed away from the table, stood, and carefully replaced the chair. Reaching down, she brushed at an uneven fold in the tablecloth; then she cleared her throat.

“Reed was estranged from his father, but not from me, señora. I was the one who suggested that you come here first. Besides, a Ranger camp is no place for a new bride.”

“And Reed agreed, even though he and his father were not speaking?”

Sofia looked away. “Yes.”

“So, it was
you
who told Reed’s father about me? About our proxy marriage?”

For a long, tense moment, Sofia said nothing. When she looked at Kate again, her eyes held only dark memories.

“The señor was as excited as a child, so looking forward to your arrival. He grew weaker by the day, but struggled to live long enough to meet you. He prayed that you could mend the trouble between them and bring his son home to Lone Star.”

10

The sun was well up when Reed rolled over. He groaned as nagging pain shot through his shoulder, then opened his eyes, surprised to find himself in one of the upstairs rooms in Benton House at Lone Star.

Lone Star.
His father’s tribute to himself. A ranch that was bigger than some eastern states, with its own little town smack in the middle of it, and this house—a grand mansion by Texas standards. Money had bought the old man everything he ever wanted.

Everything but his only son’s love. His father’s money and power, his need to prove himself right, his stubborn belief that he knew what was best for everyone—those were the things that had driven Reed away.

He loved the land and in one respect, could appreciate all his father had done here, but living on the ranch came with too high a price. His father’s devotion and onesidedness to the place had drained his mother, left her neglected and alone, pining for her old life in Georgia. It was a way of life that was gone after the war, but nothing could dissuade her. On her final breath she had begged to be buried on Georgia soil.

Reed had seen this land suck away his mother’s life. He loved Texas, but he wasn’t about to bend to his father’s will and forfeit his own soul.

Bracing himself, he sat up and slowly swung his legs over the side of the bed. Flashing stars swam in front of his eyes until the pounding ache finally faded. He rubbed his eyes, then trailed his hand down his cheek and realized he was sporting more than a night’s growth of stubble.

Not until he looked down at his bandaged right shoulder did it all come back to him, and he suddenly remembered why he was at Lone Star.

Everything else had been a dream.

Reaching for the half-empty glass of water on the bedside table, he watched his hand shake and the water slosh as he carried the glass to his lips and drained it.

Now he recalled that he’d had one hell of a nightmare. It had started with him walking in and seeing his father laid out in a coffin in the parlor and ended with Becky making sweet love to him.

A dream so vivid that even now he couldn’t rid himself of the lingering memory of it.

Dream? Hell, must have been a nightmare if he had dreamed of making love to Becky. The longer he sat there thinking about it, the more he grew good and pissed at himself for having wanted her in that way again—even if it was only in a dream.

Thinking of Becky naturally called Daniel to mind, and in a blink of an eye, memory hit him as hard as a swift kick in the gut from an ornery mule. He remembered everything that had come to pass and the reason he had come back: The raid on the Comanche summer camp. The ambush. Hand-to-hand combat. Women and children screaming, running.

He had caught a bullet that hurt like hell, but luckily it had passed clean through his shoulder. Another had grazed his scalp.

The worst pain had been inflicted when his friend, Capt. Jonah Taylor, had tracked him down at the medic’s tent and told him that they had discovered a white boy among the renegades.

Even now, his heart tightened as he sat on the edge of the bed rubbing his shoulder, staring at his bare knees and long bare feet. He hurt deep inside again, the way he had when Jonah stood there looking down at him with undisguised pity.

Memory of everything that happened after that morning was a blur. The trip back had been a long, arduous ride while he tried to keep the squirming, kicking child on the horse. With every mile, fever took a stronger hold on him. The last thing he half recalled was tying the boy to the hitching post in front of the house.

Had that been part of his feverish nightmare, too? Where was the boy now?

Reed rubbed his temple. His forehead was warm, and his shoulder beneath the bandage ached. He was thirsty and hungry as a bear after hibernation. He figured he was going to live when the scent of bacon hit him and his stomach growled.

Hoping to spot his pants and shirt, he looked around the room. Sofia’s touches were everywhere. Starched lace curtains hung at all the windows. The floors were polished to such a high gleaming shine that they appeared slick. There wasn’t a speck of dust on the bedside table or the tall chest of drawers. His clothes were nowhere in sight, but his holster and guns were hanging on the back of a side chair by a window across the room.

He stood up, fighting dizziness as he wound the bedsheet around his hips. He turned and tugged it free of the mattress. His gaze was immediately drawn to a smeared, coin-size bloodstain in the middle of the bed. He frowned and looked down at his bandaged shoulder, but the cloth was clean. There didn’t appear to be any bleeding. He had not reopened his wound.

Then one of the floorboards creaked and was followed by the sound of a woman’s voice. “You’re awake,” she said.

He turned in time to watch her gaze drop to the sheet he had wound around his hips, then shoot back up to his face.

At first glance, he was so shocked by her resemblance to Becky that all he could do was stare. She appeared just as stunned as he, but then she smiled, and the expression on her face scared the hell out of him. There was something in her eyes that he didn’t want to name, something that held such shining promise, such admiration, almost as if he had hung the moon. Something he barely recognized anymore.

Something akin to love.

As she stood there apparently not knowing where to look, he noticed that his first impression had been wrong. In reality, she didn’t look so much like his late wife. This woman was taller, long of limb. Her lips were fuller than Becky’s. Her brown eyes were huge. Her hair, a deep, rich color, was vibrant with auburn highlights.

She was fresh-faced and glowing, the high color across her cheeks giving away her embarrassment. Was that because she knew he was naked beneath the sheet or because of his intent stare?

Before he could get a word out, she took a deep breath and focused on the tray as she bustled into the room.

In a prim, businesslike manner, one not in the least cold or unattractive, she set the tray down and began to fuss with a flowery little china pot, the silver cutlery, a covered dish—all the time glancing over at him from beneath lowered lashes.

Reed kept a tight hold on the sheet. The smell of fresh bacon and eggs and hot coffee made his legs weak and his mouth water. He slowly lowered himself to the edge of the bed.

“Sofia thought you might be awake and hungry,” she said. Her voice was low, smoky, arousing.

Sofia must have hired kitchen help. The woman certainly wasn’t dressed any better than a maid. Her faded gown had seen better days. Even he, no expert on women’s fashions, could see that.

She was definitely a handsome woman, and he was a man who had been without for a long, long while. Still, there was something about the way she moved, something in the sound of her voice, too, that left him feeling oddly satisfied.

As he watched her lean over and ready his meal, a feeling he couldn’t dismiss continued to nag him. Something was missing here. She kept flashing him embarrassed, familiar glances, as if waiting for him to say something, and yet he had no recollection of her at all.

When he caught the scent of roses, something haunting and undeniable about her teased the edges of his consciousness. It teased him elsewhere, too. He glanced down to make certain the sheet was tightly wrapped.

“I don’t know how you take your coffee.” She sounded shy and preoccupied, almost as if thinking out loud rather than speaking to him directly. She had yet to actually meet his eyes again, though she hovered over the tray less than a foot away.

He could listen to her warm voice all day, for it was as potent as a caress. He watched her pick up the empty coffee cup, put it down, pick it up again. He studied her well shaped, pale fingers as they nervously moved over the flowered china.

He tried smiling. It had been a long time since he had been even halfway interested in a woman. “Do I know you, ma’am?”

She fumbled and dropped the cup. He made an instinctive lunge for it and was forced to grab for his sheet instead. He watched the cup slowly fall to the floor and shatter.

“Pardon me, but what did you say?” She stood there amid the broken china, ignoring it completely. Her eyes had gone huge and liquid and frightened. He wondered why.

“Have we met?” he asked.

She blanched. “Why, I’m . . . I’m Kate, Reed. Katherine Whittington.” She pressed her palm hard against her midriff as if he’d punched her. “I . . . we’re . . .”

“We’re what?” He didn’t like the break in her voice or the stunned look of utter betrayal in her eyes. He would have recognized the look anywhere—because he saw it deep in his own eyes every time he looked in the mirror.

He watched as she drew a calming breath, this Kate, this woman whom he had somehow wounded without intent, saw her square her shoulders and steady herself.

“We’re married.” Her lower lip trembled.

She had to be insane. Maybe Sofia had taken pity on a crazy woman and hired her. He didn’t like the nagging suspicion that he did know her from someplace, the feeling that somehow, she did belong here. He reached up, touched his temple. The scabbed-over wound was tender. Maybe something had happened to his mind.

“Where did you come from? How did you get in here?” He glanced toward the door, then back.

“Surely, you remember. We . . . we corresponded for months. We were married by proxy three weeks ago.”

As if a damn good explanation would make it all true, or else to trap him in her lunacy, she kept talking. “You sent me money to make the trip out here.” Her sultry voice had risen half an octave by the end of the sentence.

He shook his head, saw her eyes go wider. It was obvious his denial hurt her. “I don’t know about any correspondence. I don’t have any idea what you are talking about.”

“I can
prove
it. I have all of your letters.”

“I never
wrote
you any damn letters.”

She spun away. The toe of her shoe connected with a piece of china. It skittered across the floor and smacked against the oak baseboard. Quickly kneeling, she began to gather up the shattered bits and cup them in her palm. Her hand shook as she set the shards on the tray.

She cleared her throat, her eyes suspiciously bright, but she spoke with more determination.

“I’ve kept all your letters. Every last one of them.”

She was beginning to frighten him. Not
her
exactly, for even in his weakened condition she was no match for him, but he was completely unaware of what might have gone on here while he was unconscious.

“I don’t know what you’re up to. What day is it? What year?”

“May fifteenth, eighteen seventy. We were married by proxy.”

She spoke slowly, carefully pronouncing each word as if
he
were the lunatic. The day and the date fit. He left the Rangers on the eleventh. It had probably taken him at least two days, if not more, to get here.

Married by proxy.

Suddenly he realized that this whole charade had the ring of one of his father’s schemes. His last five years away had given the old man plenty of time to concoct something like this, time to dredge up a plan to keep him here.

The woman looked so stricken that Reed feared she was about to faint. He had an oddly compelling urge to comfort her, to reach out and take her hand. She was either a pawn of his father’s or she was a very good actress.

“Look, ma’am—”

“
Kate.
It’s . . . Kate.”

“Look, Kate. I’m sorry, but whatever it is you think I agreed to, whatever you were led to believe, well, it’s all been a lie. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“But . . . it can’t be a lie.” When a solitary tear slipped and fell over the edge of her lower lashes to trickle down her cheek, she dashed it away with the back of her hand.

Something danced on the edges of his mind. The scent of roses, a vision of her long, dark hair, not in the pert little bun perched like a sparrow on her head right now, but rich skeins woven into a thick braid. He envisioned it loose, rippling to her hips. Reed shook his head.

“My father is behind this somehow. Just ask him,” he said.

She blinked, and another tear fell. Something about her tensed, and she batted the tear away. Then she looked him square in the eye and said, “Your father is dead.”