Heart of Stone (9 page)

E
ven with her derringer within reach, Laura slept fitfully. By morning she’d decided that she wasn’t going to let Bryce Botsworth keep her in hiding. She would send all her guests off with a proper farewell.

She dressed carefully, choosing a yellow-and-blue striped gown with a hint of a bustle. Draped ruffles adorned the skirt all the way around. Head high, she swept into the dining room and helped herself to the buffet. As she greeted all the Botsworths cordially, Bryce bid her good morning. When she refused to quail under his knowing stare, his face turned a ruddy crimson.

“Are you all right, dear?” His wife leaned over and felt his forehead.

“Of course. It’s a bit warm in here, is all.” He smoothed down his shirtfront and tried to smile reassuringly. When one of the other guests asked him how long he’d been in the state house of representatives, he quickly entered into conversation. He never engaged Laura directly again until the family was assembled on the veranda, ready to leave, at which time he somberly thanked her for her hospitality.

Laura bid Amber Botsworth and her daughters farewell and watched Richard load them into the buggy and drive them to the stage stop at the mercantile.

Most afternoons were hers to do with as she wished. Today she went up to her suite to pen a letter to Tom Abbott, the former Pinkerton agent.

A wooden bandbox decorated with floral decoupage held her stationery. When she lifted the lid, the heady scent of French lavender wafted out. She held the small sachet beneath her nose, closed her eyes, and inhaled.

“I still have your note of regret in my pocket. Perhaps I’ll start a collection. The congregation is going to wonder why I smell like lavender.”

“I notice everything about you, Laura.”

She dreaded seeing Brand again, because somehow she had to muster the strength to turn his attentions when she did.

She sighed and drew a sheet of paper out of the box. Her stationery was a tasteful cream color with her initials engraved across the top.

L F M

She’d chosen the name
Laura
because she thought it pretty. For her middle initial, she used
M
for
Megan. Foster
she borrowed from the musical composer Stephen Collins Foster, who’d written “Beautiful Dreamer”—one of her favorite songs because of the melancholy melody.

She’d purchased a small volume on writing model letters and from it learned that the tone and skill a woman showed in her correspondence should mirror her position in the community. Proper communication showed one’s culture, education, and genteel background. She kept her letters to Tom Abbott distantly polite and he always replied in like manner. Mr. Abbott knew her only as Laura Foster.

Taking pen in hand, she dipped the nib in the small bottle of india ink and began.

Glory, Texas, September 15, 1874

Dear Mr. Abbott,

Enclosed is your retainer for another three months of effort in the service of locating my sister. I have the utmost confidence in your ability and understand that you are facing near-insurmountable odds. Given the amount of time that she and I have been separated, the ensuing war years, and the widespread heartache that coincided with them, as well as the unthinkable notion that my sister may have died at a young age, I can only hope for the best.

Laura paused and stared unseeing out the window as she let her thoughts drift back to her own life after the war. The post-war years had given her the means to an end. She was free, though haunted by the memory of her sisters. She worried most about Megan, unable to forget their wrenching parting.

If, by some miraculous chance, her sister’s life had become a fairy-tale, would Megan want to be found? Or was she living mired in degradation, beyond hope of rescue? And what of the others? Could she dare hope they’d been adopted by loving, caring families? She couldn’t rest until she knew.

She picked up her pen again.

When and if you do find my sister, please take great care in approaching her. If she is living a secure life in a respectable household, I fear she may not wish to hear from me, as contact may raise too many unfortunate answers to any questions those around her may ask. I know that you will be discreet and I trust in your good judgment, just as I hold great hope that you will eventually succeed.

And so I close with my best wishes,

Yours truly,

Laura M. Foster

She enclosed a bank draft made payable to Tom Abbott and penned the man’s New Orleans address. Then she lit a match and touched the flame to a stick of red sealing wax.

As she pressed her initialed stamp into the hot wax, she could almost hear her old partner Collier Holloway chiding her for pouring money down a rat hole. But Collier cared for no one in the world save himself. He’d told her so on more occasions than she could count.

She capped the bottle of ink, slipped her pen into a long carved box, and stood to shake the wrinkles out of her skirt. Downstairs, Rodrigo was putting together his own version of a peach cobbler. She set the letter in the empty market basket. He smiled and nodded in understanding. He would deliver it to Harrison Barker when he went to the mercantile tomorrow.

She heard the sound of someone splitting wood in back. “I’m going out for some fresh air. Call me when the new guests arrive.”

She walked out the back door. From the shade of the veranda, she paused to watch Richard split some narrow logs into kindling. Unlike some homesteaders and ranchers who used cow paddies and buffalo chips in their fireplaces, she could thankfully afford to have wood gathered and split.

She gazed out over her garden. She loved it, with its struggling young fruit trees, her roses, and Anna’s vegetable patch. It was nothing compared to Amelia Larson’s profusion of herbs and flowers, of course. But Amelia’s garden supported her livelihood. Dried, her friend’s plants filled the apothecary jars in her store.

Laura often thought of the beautiful hidden gardens and courtyards of New Orleans, the sound of trickling water fountains and the soft green hues that tinted the ferns and Spanish moss. Central Texas was a hard, brittle land in comparison.

As she stood musing, Richard noticed her and waved. She waved back. When she had hired the Hernandez family, the boy had been twelve. Now he was almost sixteen, on the verge of becoming a man.

Across the yard, Peaches dashed out of the carriage house and raced around the horse and buggy still hitched up in the yard. As soon as she reached Laura, she started nagging with meows, rubbing against Laura’s ankles.

“You, Miss Peaches, are a pest.” Laura cradled the cat in her arms, ruffling the cat’s fur, when Amelia appeared on the side veranda toting the heavy medical bag she’d inherited from her father.

“Anna sent me around,” Amelia told her.

“You look like you’re dragging. Is everything all right?”

Amelia sighed. “Not really.” She waved to Richard. “Did you know he’s not only delivering the
Gazette
for Hank, but he’s learning to set type and run the handpress?”

Laura set Peaches down on the veranda, linked arms with Amelia’s, and steered her toward the back door. “I heard. I’m glad Hank has someone to help him out too.”

As they stepped inside Laura asked, “How about a nice cup of café au lait?”

“That sounds heavenly.” Amelia took a deep breath as if she could already smell the brew. “I need some spoiling right about now.”

Laura led Amelia to a tiny parlor off the larger drawing room. It was barely big enough to house two chairs and a table. Where the walls weren’t painted a calm sea green, they were covered with the floor-to-ceiling cases that held Laura’s vast collection of books. It was her own private sanctuary on the first floor, a retreat from the world.

She prepared the steaming cream-and-coffee mixture herself and poured it into a tall chocolate pot, which she set on a tray with a small dish of crescent-shaped cookies Rodrigo called wedding cakes.

Laura found Amelia seated in one of two comfortable armchairs upholstered in rose chintz. Head back and eyes closed, she appeared to be sound asleep.

Laura set the tray down on a butler’s table without making a sound, but Amelia’s eyes opened and she smiled.

“Mmm. I can smell that from here.” She sat up straighter while Laura took the chair beside her and poured them each a generous cup.

“I love this room,” Amelia let her gaze roam the bookcases. “Hank would too.”

“No gentlemen allowed. This is my secret place.”

“I feel honored that you invited me to share it.”

Laura had first brought Amelia here when they were going over the Larsons’ wedding plans. “You’re the only guest who’s ever been allowed in here—outside of Peaches, of course.” Laura took a sip of coffee, then centered her cup on her saucer. “So, what’s causing that troubled look?”

Amelia sighed and Laura leaned forward. “This has nothing to do with Hank, does it? Is he all right?” Laura hated to think some kind of infection lingered in his system from his gunshot wounds.

Amelia shook her head. “Oh, my goodness, no. He’s healthy as a horse.”

Laura glanced at the medical bag at Amelia’s feet.

“Someone else, then.”

She was surprised when Amelia said, “I was summoned to the Silver Slipper earlier. One of the young women there has fallen desperately ill. I did all I could, but unfortunately, I’m afraid I can’t save her.”

The Silver Slipper was Glory’s only saloon and house of ill repute. It was a run-down, two-story building with a sagging balcony across the front and peeling paint on its clapboard exterior.

Laura found herself staring into her cup. She didn’t have to imagine what the place was like inside. Above the saloon there would be a number of small rooms barely wide enough to hold a narrow bed, a washstand, and, if the occupant was lucky, a window to the outside world.

“You…treat them? The women there?”

It was hard to believe someone like Amelia having any contact with the women of the Silver Slipper.

“Of course.” Amelia drained her cup and rested her head on the back of the chair. “I’m surprised you would ask.”

Laura flushed. “I didn’t mean to offend. I just can’t believe—”

Amelia studied her carefully. “Do you think less of me for treating them?”

Laura had forgotten Amelia knew her only as a wealthy, cultured widow. Naturally, if she truly was what she appeared to be, Laura would most likely be shocked at Amelia’s actions.

“On the contrary. I admire you for it,” Laura said truthfully. “Most people would turn their backs on those poor women.”

“My father didn’t. He would say that it’s not up to us to judge them. Judgment is coming sooner than later for the poor girl I saw today.”

Laura remembered the letter she’d just penned and thought of Megan and the countless lost souls like herself, of the untold abuse they suffered at the hands of men.

“Disease?” Laura asked softly.

Amelia shook her head no. Her eyes filled with tears. “She has…self-inflicted wounds. There were complications. I really can’t say more…” Her words drifted away.

She didn’t have to say more. Laura understood. She knew what lengths some women went to in order to keep from bearing unwanted children. She’d suspected as much before she even asked. Seeing how it affected Amelia, she was sorry she had.

“I’m sorry, Amelia.”

Amelia wiped her eyes. “Sometimes it’s very hard,” she said. “Let’s talk of something else. I didn’t get to chat with you after the choir performance the other night. Hattie Ellenberg asked me to help with refreshments and then we left a bit early.”

Laura watched Amelia blush. “Perfectly understandable.”

“So, did you have a nice evening?” Amelia asked.

Nice evening? It had been a mistake from beginning to end.

Amelia might be her only close friend and ally, but Laura could never confide everything—not even after hearing about Amelia’s mission of mercy to the Silver Slipper. She couldn’t risk losing her only friend.

“It was a pleasant outing. More coffee?”

“Please.” Amelia handed over her cup. “I hope we’ll be seeing you out and about more often. Especially with Brand.”

“Well—” Laura let her words drift away as she refilled the cup. “Here you go.”

“He’s very sweet on you, you know.”

“That’s what I was afraid of,” Laura said, thinking out loud.

“You know, Laura, you can protest all you like, but I saw the way he looked at you—”

Laura cut her off. “We’re not suited.”

“Fiddlesticks.” Amelia took a long sip and then asked, “Why not?”

For one thing, I’m no better than the women at the Silver Slipper.

“I’m not in the market for a husband,” she said. She picked up the dish. “Cookie?”

“Maybe just one. You know, I wasn’t looking for love when Hank came along either. In fact, I was fairly certain I was going to live my life alone. A spinster on the shelf. Then Hank and I discovered love finds us, Laura, whether we are looking for it or not.”

Love.

Laura wondered what Amelia would say if she told her friend she didn’t believe in love.

There came a soft knock on the door of Laura’s study. It was Anna, whose concern showed in her dark eyes.

“So sorry, señora. A man asking for Mrs. Larson.” She glanced at Amelia and then away. “He says it is an emergency.”

“Thank you, Anna.” By the time Laura turned around, Amelia had already set down her cup and had her medical bag in hand.

Laura asked Anna to collect the coffee tray and then followed Amelia to the entry hall. Beyond the front door, a grizzled older
man, stooped and bearded, waited on the veranda. He held a stained and battered hat in hand, curling the brim as he passed it round and round through gnarled fingers. His faded eyes were deep set, sunken in an emaciated face, his clothing a collection no better than a rag bag. His trousers, stained and wrinkled, were barely recognizable as part of a Confederate uniform.

She’d seen men like him before, drunks that hung around bars and saloons begging for odd jobs, for a few coins and a place to sleep. She knew how to handle bums and beggars and was about to tell him to go around back to the kitchen. But Amelia stepped out onto the veranda to speak to him.