Titans (14 page)

T
he evening of April ninth, Neal Gordon dressed for his monthly Monday night poker game with no thought that it would begin the longest night of his life. He had planned to sleep like a well-nursed baby. His world had never looked brighter. The calf count was in, larger than anticipated, nearly all strong and healthy, and the fall calving season promised a bumper crop as well. Beef on the hoof was selling at top dollar. An order had come from the president of the Fort Worth Dressed Meat and Provision Company, for five hundred head, and another from the U.S. Army for two thousand, and more large drafts were coming. The grazing pastures had never looked thicker or greener. Watering tanks were running over, and the Trinity was flowing at full crest. Now if he could just nail down that farm for sale in Cooke County, his cup would runneth over.

The bomb that blasted his euphoria all to hell fell close to the end of the evening when the library was full of male good humor, tobacco smoke, and bourbon fumes. Seated at the card table were Neal's closest friends: W. A. Huffman, president of the Board of Trade; Jason Laird, president of the Fort Worth Union Stockyards and owner of the Texas Land and Cattle Bank; Buckley Paddock, editor and publisher of the
Fort Worth Gazette
; and Sloan Singleton.

Jason Laird, father of Barnard, said, “You're looking pretty pleased with yourself over there, Neal. You must have a good hand. Whatever happened to your infernal poker face?”

“Don't let that face fool you, Jason. He's probably got squat,” Buckley said. “That pleased-as-punch look means he thinks he's got a land deal in Gainesville County sewed up.”

“Explain, please,” W.A. said.

Neal said, “You tell 'em, Sloan. I'm concentrating on my hand over here.”

Sloan explained, to which Neal, studying his cards, spoke around the cigar between his teeth. “It's not a done deal until Samantha gets home and says it is. I had a little run-in with Liam Barrows, the owner of the farm, some years ago. With hope, he won't remember it or will want to sell his place so badly, he'll intentionally forget it. Either he or his sons, that is. I doubt Liam is still living.”

“He isn't,” Buckley said, throwing a few chips to the center of the table. “Neither are his sons, I reckon. It's the daughter selling the place, a woman by the name of Millicent Holloway.”

Neal, about to contribute his own chips, paused with his hand over his stack. He sat back and slowly removed the cigar from his mouth. “Who did you say?”

Buckley, startled by the quiet, dead inflection of Neal's tone, repeated, “Millicent Holloway. At least, that's the person who sent the telegram and paid for the ad. I just assumed she was the owner of the place.”

Sloan was sitting next to Neal. “The name resurrect a ghost, Neal? You look like you've seen one.”

Neal felt a wheeze form in his chest. Before it could gather force, he took a hasty swallow of bourbon to discourage it. “Actually, yes, for a moment there, I sure did,” he said, forcing a sickly grin. “Never mind. A story from long ago. Girl from my past by the same name. She's dead now.”

“Then I can see how that would make your blood jump,” Buckley said. He tapped the table with his finger. “Hit me.”

Neal, the dealer, threw the publisher a card, aware that he was still in the corner of Sloan's worried eye, and he dared not make contact with it. The boy knew he could tap-dance around the truth if a tune called for it. The blood that had drained out of his head when he heard the name Millicent Holloway now returned. Dear God! He had sent Samantha straight to the farm of her birthplace and into the hands of her real parents. A surge of fear threatened to expel the contents of his stomach. Would they know each other by instinct—mother and daughter? He'd heard of that happening—parent and child recognizing a family connection through some intuitive sense. In their conversation, would one turn lead to another and then another and then… to the inevitable revelation? The horror of it brought sweat to his forehead.

Sloan touched his arm. “Neal? Are you all right? All of a sudden, you don't look well.”

“I'm fine, Sloan. Really.” With great effort, Neal directed a knowing smile to the older group at the table, men longer in experience with the ways of women than his younger protégé. They must not think him sick and leave his house too soon, leaving him the better part of the night to face alone. “I guess I just got struck in my breadbasket by a memory.”

“Was she pretty, your Millicent?” Jason Laird asked.

The face and form of his daughter popped into Neal's mind. “Yes, very much so,” he said and flipped a chip onto the table. “I'll raise you five.”

It was midnight when the elite contingent of Fort Worth businessmen departed in the carriage that had brought them from town. All lived in imposing homes within a few blocks of one another. Sloan Singleton was the last to leave. He remained with Neal on the porch to see the others off. “Neal, level with me,” he said. “Are you feeling all right? Anything amiss with you besides the memory of an old girlfriend?”

Sloan was one of the few able to read him, not that Neal considered himself a complicated man. He just wasn't an open book. Things were basically either black or white with him, no areas of gray, no
if
s,
and
s, or
but
s. He and Sloan were no longer mentor and pupil. The boy had come into his own, and they had become, if not like father and son, like close uncle and nephew, only on an equal footing. Just the strong stance of him next to Neal, the moonlight pouring over Sloan's taller height and broad shoulders, drove home that point.

“Serious changes might be coming,” Neal said, “and I'm worried how I'll handle 'em. I'm not one for compromise. I'll know more tomorrow, and that's all I care to say at the moment.”

Sloan nodded in acceptance but clear dissatisfaction with his answer. They both had lines that required an invitation to cross. “And Samantha. Is she okay?”

A stomach muscle kicked. “As far as I know. You got a reason to think otherwise?”

Sloan shuffled a foot, as if thinking it was not his place to say. “She came by the house the other day to use the telephone, and… teared up about something, Neal. It was just a few trickles, but I was concerned. Samantha's not one to cry.”

“No, she's not,” Neal said, alarmed. “Did she give a reason?”

“Only that she had a lot of things on her mind… sad things, melancholy things, she said.”

“Such as?”

“She didn't say, and I couldn't get anything more out of her. We don't talk like we used to. Samantha doesn't confide in me anymore.”

Neal turned away to look up at the stars. Of course not, you blockhead! She's in love with you, and you're in love with a powder puff! “Well, you're a very busy man, Sloan. You've got a big ranch to run, duties and responsibilities and… other interests besides.”

“I'm never too busy to be available for Samantha if she needs me, Neal. She can come to me anytime with anything. Remind Samantha of that when she gets home, will you? I feel she's forgotten. I… care for her, you know. Always have, always will.”

“I don't doubt it. Neither does she,” Neal said, hearing regret in Sloan's voice and the wish that it could be more, but it wasn't. “You and Samantha have always been like devoted siblings, Sloan. Speaking as her father and… feeling about you the way I do, I'd hoped that… well, it could have gone deeper between you two.”

Sloan pulled his hat brim lower, a prelude to departure. His horse was tethered to the porch railing. The Thoroughbred gave a soft snort. It was time for stable and bin. “Me, too, but it looks like our feelings for each other didn't work out that way. Now, if I can be assured I'm not leaving an old man to expire in his chair tonight, I'll say good night.”

“Be assured,” Neal said. “Good night, son.”

He'd have liked the boy's company longer but it was late enough already, and Sloan was rotating a portion of his herd to another pasture tomorrow and would be up before dawn. Neal contemplated not going to bed at all. It was only six hours until daylight, and his feet would hit the floor an hour before that. What was the point of lying sleepless in bed imagining the worst—that tomorrow afternoon when Samantha stepped from the train, she'd look at him in a new light, for he intended to be at the station with Estelle to meet her. She would be sensitive and tender, as was her way, but she would be firm and fair, as he'd raised her.
Mother and Daddy, you need to know that I met my real parents at the Barrows farm. It all happened by chance
…

Where it would go from there, only God knew. What Neal knew was that he could not share his daughter with another set of parents and have things stay the same between them. It simply wasn't in his makeup. Whatever he gave heart and soul to must belong to him alone. One could not serve two masters. Loyalties could not be split. He became aware of this trait… this way of feeling… when he was six years old. He found an abandoned dog by the side of the road, brought it to the ranch, nurtured it to health and loved it, but the dog took up with the son of the foreman and divided his devotion. “Take him. He's yours,” he said to the boy, and never so much as patted the dog's head again. It had been that way ever since. A terrible failing to have, but there it was. Estelle knew of it and accepted it.

That was not to say he wouldn't fight until his heart gave out to hold on to what was his, but what would he do if Samantha should choose to divide her affections? That would be the killing point with him. He could not imagine—it was unfathomable, unthinkable—that he would say to the people who, for one reason or the other, had given her up,
Take her. She's yours.
And, oh, my God, what would that do to Estelle?

He remained on the porch until the clip-clop of Sloan's Thoroughbred faded away. What had prompted Samantha to cry in the hallway of the Triple S? Neal had seen her cry only a few times in her life, none after childhood. She'd cried daintily, quietly, keeping her tears private, her pride and valiant restraint crushing his heart, elevating his respect for her. Estelle, now, she cried loudly, her face like the side of a mountain cracking open, all brown grooves and coursing rain.

Neal went back inside, a memory following, threatening to explode into tears. Samantha was five years old. Estelle was sick, in the feverish, infectious throes of influenza. Their old housekeeper, Mildred's mother, had fingers thick and rough as hemp ropes, fine for kneading dough and pounding steaks, but none too gentle when it came to combing and braiding a little girl's hair. Neal had come upon Mrs. Swift making the attempt and ordered, “Stop that!” when his daughter turned to him, too stoic to utter a sound but with her large gray eyes filled with tears. To this very moment, he remembered the wave of tenderness that had swept over him and a respect for her bravery that had left him weak. He had ordered Mrs. Swift back to the kitchen and taken over the job of making order out of the reddish-gold chaos of his little girl's hair. He'd set her on a footstool between his knees, a sprite on a lily pad in the shadow of a mountain. “You won't pull it, will you, Daddy?” Samantha had said, and he'd answered, “I would rather die than cause my little daughter pain.”

And so he would.

His eyes felt gritty as he began to clear the library of the wreckage left after his Monday night poker party, a surprise for Silbia in the morning. He opened windows to let out the smoke and dumped trays of moist cigar tips and ashes into a bin. He cleared the table of leftover food and wiped it down after carrying plates and glasses into the kitchen and setting them in a pan of soapy water for tomorrow's washing, swept the floor, and put the card-playing paraphernalia away. The clock struck three as Neal climbed the stairs to his room with the thought of undressing and drawing a tub of hot water. He did neither. He stepped out onto his balcony, pulled a chair to the railing on which he propped his booted feet, lit a cigar, and spent the rest of the night looking at the stars.

T
he cabbie who'd agreed to drive them to the dock showed up as scheduled and delivered them to the ferry on time the next morning. “We're going to cross the river on
that
?” Mildred said, pointing at the crude wooden structure floating on water the color of a rusted nail. It was little more than a huge raft anchored by thick, heavy ropes to trees on each side of the Red River, presumably to assure a safe crossing and keep it from floating downstream. The only access to its deck was a makeshift pathway of wooden planks barely visible in the red mud. Samantha looked down in dismay at her handmade fawn boots stitched with flowers. Never mind, she thought. Her boots were worth the sacrifice and any discomfort if the ferry brought her nearer to learning the truth she'd come to find.

After an interminable wait while Samantha worried they'd not return in time to catch the two o'clock train, passengers were permitted to board. She and Mildred found standing space where they could among commercial cargo, luggage, crates of squawking fowl, and a team of mules and wagon. The “captain” was a tall, burly man with a long pole for a helm by which he directed the course of his ship. Not trusting the saggy rope railings to prevent a lurch overboard, the women stood as close to the center of the barge as they could among other passengers with the same concern.

“Are you eventually going to tell me why we're risking life and limb to see this doctor?” Mildred shouted over the wind when they were afloat.

“No,” Samantha said.

“Does he know you're coming?”

“No.”

“Do you know where he lives in Marietta?”

“No.” The return address on Dr. Tolman's letter had listed only the number of a mailbox.

Mildred blew out her cheeks. “Then how you going to find him?”

“I've got a plan,” Samantha said.

It was simple. Their cabbie in Gainesville had said there would be a number of his kind waiting on the other side of the river to transport passengers the five miles into Marietta. That worry satisfied, Samantha asked if he knew the name of a hotel in town. The Wayfarer Inn, he'd said. There was only one. A restaurant was next door. Splendid, Samantha had thought. She would deposit Mildred safe and sound in the lobby with access to a menu while she paid a visit to the doctor's office. The hotel manager would give her the address. In a small town like Marietta, he would know it.

Disembarking by a wooden pathway like the one on the other side, Samantha and Mildred climbed a flight of rickety wooden stairs that led to a large clearing that served as a waiting area for the ferry. Here people milled about or sat on benches, and cabbies were lined up with their teams and vehicles to collect fares. The women climbed aboard one and they were off to Marietta.

The manager of the Wayfarer Inn said that yes, Samantha's companion could wait in the lobby, and yes, he knew where Dr. Tolman lived—“that is, while he was alive,” he said.

Incredulous, Samantha said, “I beg your pardon?”

“Our good doctor died a few weeks ago.”

Sick with shock and disappointment, Samantha collapsed into a chair beside Mildred. The housekeeper prodded gently. “You going to tell me what this is all about? Maybe I can help.”

Numbly, Samantha said, “Dr. Tolman is the doctor who placed me with my adoptive parents. I assume he also delivered me. He was… my only link to… my birth.”

“Oh,” Mildred said. Her face remained impassive, but a world of understanding was in her response.

Samantha glanced at her. “You've… never heard anything about how I came to be adopted, have you, Mildred?”

“No, Miss Sam, I never have. Now I understand why you made me swear to say nothing to your folks about this trip. It would kill them if they knew what you were about, but don't feel this is wronging them. Your curiosity is natural. I had plenty of it when I was in captivity. Even if my mama hadn't told me, I would have known in my soul I didn't belong where I was born.”

“It's not that, Mildred. I feel I'm where I belong and was meant to be. I don't want to be anywhere else or with any other family. I'm not even sure why I'm curious about the situation of my birth. Before Dr. Tolman's letter came, I wouldn't have given it thought.”

“What letter?”

Samantha sighed. “It doesn't matter. I've come to a dead end.”

“Maybe not,” the housekeeper said.

Samantha turned to her in surprise. “What do you mean?”

“There might still be somebody at the doctor's office who was around at the time you were born who would know something, maybe a nurse. A midwife? Since we're here, don't you think it's worth a shot to find out?”

Samantha hopped up. “Mildred, you're a genius.” She approached the registration counter again. Fifteen minutes later, encouraged by the information the manager had given her, she left Mildred in the hotel lobby with their portmanteaus and walked the few blocks to Dr. Tolman's infirmary. His daughter had come in from Oklahoma City to get his house ready to sell and to clean out his office of his personal belongings before his replacement arrived. Samantha found the rustic, low-roofed log building easily enough. It sat next to a house of similar design posted with a
FOR SALE
sign in the front yard—Dr. Tolman's residence, Samantha presumed. Before the infirmary a bracketed physician's shingle with a black ribbon streaming from a finial swung in the brisk wind.

The small waiting room was empty except for a woman behind a counter industriously sweeping the floor with a large broom. She wore her hair bound in a kerchief, her dress sleeves rolled, and a voluminous apron around her stout, middle-aged figure. She glanced up at Samantha's entrance with the friendly but quizzical look reserved for strangers. Samantha hesitated. Dr. Tolman's daughter, she'd guess. Where did she begin to explain why she'd come? “Good afternoon, madam. I'm Samantha Gordon.”

“Good for you,” the woman said, an impish twinkle in her eyes. “I am Eleanor Brewster.”

“Dr. Tolman's daughter?”

“I plead the Fifth until I know who's asking and why.”

Put off a little, but thinking she liked the woman, Samantha said, “I have reason to believe your late father may have delivered me. I was given up for adoption, and I know that Dr. Tolman is responsible for placing me with the good people who became my parents.”

Eleanor Brewster set the broom aside and wiped her hands on her apron. “Is that so? Well, aren't you the sweet one to come by and say so. I've been receiving such accolades of Dad's work ever since the funeral.” She opened the gate to the reception area. “Come on in and sit a spell. I've got some coffee brewing.”

A cup of coffee later, after explaining the reason for her visit, Samantha learned that Eleanor Brewster couldn't help her. She had grown up in Oklahoma City and was twelve years old when Samantha was born. Her father had come alone to the small outpost of Marietta in the Indian Territory of Oklahoma in 1878 to render his medical services to the Chickasaw Nation. Eleanor Brewster had no recollection of her father's mention of an infant for whom he'd arranged an adoption. “But then,” she said, “I wouldn't have remembered if he had. There were so many stories of Dad finding homes for the orphaned and abandoned.” His patients' records were still in his office, Eleanor said. They could look through them to see what they could find.

Samantha consulted her lapel watch. There was enough time if she hurried, she said. She had to get the ferry back to Gainesville in time to catch the two o'clock train. With an eye on the clock, together they scoured the records of names and details of girls born in late March 1880. They discovered four, but Eleanor could account for each of them. One had died and three still lived in the county. “Now, here's a name I recognize,” she said, pointing to the signature of Bridget Mahoney that appeared in the birth records of the dates in question. “Bridget was Dad's midwife. Wherever Dad went, she went. She was indispensable to him. If Dad delivered you, she would have been there.”

Samantha's heart lifted, but Eleanor's face fell. “Unfortunately,” she said, “Bridget moved to San Francisco with her husband during the Gold Rush around 1889.”

“Do you know where I can write to her?” Samantha asked.

“I'm afraid I don't, but leave me an address, and if I come across it, I'll mail it to you.”

It was time to go. Hastily, out of courtesy for Eleanor's efforts but certain it was a lost cause, Samantha wrote down her mother's address in Fort Worth. The women hugged in saying good-bye. “Honey lamb,” the older woman said, “if I may offer a piece of advice. If you're happy where you are, there are no greener pastures.”

“I agree,” Samantha said. She felt a strange peace and relief, as if she'd closed a book on a conclusive and satisfying ending. She'd done all she could do. She could go home now. There was no more to the story.

“Neal, for goodness' sakes! You're going to wear out the soles of your boots if you don't stop pacing. You've been at it now ever since we got here,” Estelle said, speaking from a bench on the platform of the train depot. “I'm usually the worry wart.”

Neal made no comment and peered beyond the station lights in the dark direction the train would arrive from Gainesville. The Katy was due any minute—finally! Samantha's face would tell the full story. The minute she set foot on the deboarding steps and her gaze lit upon him, Neal would know if he was to be consigned to heaven or hell. He had wrestled with the decision of whether to prepare Estelle for the darkest day of her life, but he chose to wait. He'd obeyed a personal rule that many times had served him well: Never show your hand until the other fellow lays down his cards. Sometimes you could get away with a bluff, but this time Neal doubted he'd be so lucky.

The train rushed into the station, whistle blowing and steam rolling, and Estelle, searching the compartment windows, joined Neal with the others awaiting the opening of the doors. Neal tasted something vile rising from the nether regions of his stomach. “There they are!” Estelle cried, spotting the golden roll of Samantha's hair under the brim of her spring hat. Samantha caught Estelle's wave and returned it through the glass, and Neal's heart fell. Her face did indeed express it all. Despair, heartsickness, disappointment written all over it. Neal waited until Estelle had embraced and released her, Samantha's glance at him over her shoulder flashing dismay.

“Hello, daughter,” he said quietly when it was his turn, hardly able to speak for the grief swelling in his throat.

Samantha said in a voice mournful as a funeral dirge, “I'm sorry, Daddy, but the farm was sold by the time we got there.”

Neal opened his mouth, but no sound came.

“Now, Neal, keep your temper,” Estelle said, patting his shoulder. “It's not Samantha's fault that somebody else bought the place.”

“The seller didn't even show up,” Samantha said, “but I made sure the property had been sold. I spoke to a field hand who works for the Barrows, and he confirmed it.”

Neal continued to stare speechless at Samantha, mired in an undertow of disbelief. Finally, he spoke. “You… never met the owner?”

“Didn't have the decency to even meet us,” Mildred put in flatly.

“I'm sorry, Daddy,” Samantha said again. “I can see how disappointed you are.”

“You have no idea,” Neal said huskily and drew her into a rough embrace.