High Plains Promise (Love on the High Plains Book 2) (5 page)

He handed Melissa to Cody and rose, grabbing his friend and crushing her to his chest. Inhaling the sweet, familiar Allison-scent of her, like clean laundry and woman, the world came back into focus a little… or rather, she did. Here was something real, an anchor to reality. Across the room, he heard Melissa and Cody talking, but didn't take in any of the words. He just concentrated on breathing, on holding Allison and on trying to regain his composure.

The next sound to register on his senses was the clatter of more boots on the floor planks.

“Son?” He glanced up. His mother was there, along with Kristina Heitschmidt. His loved ones were rallying around him. On some distant level, it helped a little.

“Mama, she's…” he started, but as usual Mrs. Fulton didn't wait for anyone. She took charge, pushing Allison away from him and hugging him herself.

Conversation swirled around him unheeded, and then Melissa thrust herself into his arms and they all stumbled from the room. He was led, unresisting, back down to the parlor and pressed into a seat. The room slowly came into focus. His mother sat beside him on the sofa.

“This is my fault,” Wesley said at last.

“No,” his mother protested. “It was an accident. She went through the ice. You know that.”

“Why was she out on the ice? Everyone knows it's not safe. The river never freezes hard enough to stand on. It must have been intentional.” Oh, Lord. Had he really said that out loud? He hadn't meant to.

“Wesley,” Cody crouched in front of him, meeting his eyes. “That doesn't make it your fault.”

“I knew she was… unstable. She's… tried things before. I shouldn't have left her. It's enough I work all day. There's no way I should be doing these other things; going to church, being a deacon. She never liked it.”

“You could have brought her with you,” Cody reminded him.

“She wouldn't go. Called them a bunch of two-faced hypocrites. There was… gossip, about her, at the church. They weren't nice to her there.” Wesley fell silent again.

“I'm sorry to hear that,” Cody told him. “I would never have permitted it. I promise you, Wesley, no matter what anyone says, she's going to have a beautiful funeral, right there at the church, and I don't care what anyone says about it.”

A rattling noise diverted attention to the doorway, where Kristina stood holding a tray of cups and tea accessories in shaking hands. Mrs. Fulton jumped from the sofa and rescued the tea service before Kristina could drop it. It was hers, after all. She'd given it to them, since Samantha had never been interested in owning such things.

Mrs. Fulton poured a cup and handed it to him. He didn't drink, just held the warm cup in his unsteady hands.

“Pastor, I…” Wesley began hesitantly, trying to engage in the reality around him for the first time since receiving the terrible news. “What am I going to do? How can I take care of Melissa alone?”

“Wesley, I'm going to be real honest here. I'm not sure exactly how you're going to make your life work now. Things will change, that's for certain. But you'll never be alone.”

Wesley handed the untouched tea back to his mother and buried his face in his hands.

“Let's pray,” Cody suggested. “Lord God, we cry out to you today for your comfort for Wesley. Help him, Lord. Remind him he's not alone. He has friends and family who love him, and you will never leave him.” And then the young pastor began to recite scripture. “The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want.”

“He maketh me lie down in green pastures.” Kristina joined him. “He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul.”

A third voice chimed in. Allison, holding Melissa, entered into the room and sat down beside her best friend, taking his other hand. “He leadeth me down the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.”

Wesley spoke too, his voice breaking on the next line. “Yea, thou I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil, for thou art with me. Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies. Thou anointest my head with oil. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”

“Amen,” Cody added. “That's where she is now, Wesley. In the house of the Lord. There's no better, safer place for her than there.”

Wesley nodded. Samantha was at peace at last, her troubles over. His own were only getting worse.

He needed something… what was it? That familiar scent wafted over him and he turned, crushing Allison and Melissa in another tight hug and letting the world slip away again.

By evening, everyone had left. Melissa cried herself to sleep in his arms in the rocking chair and he tucked her into her little bed. He returned slowly to his bedroom, regarded the rumpled bed, and gulped. The sheets hadn't been changed in a while. The bed smelled like Samantha, like the perfume he'd bought her, and their last lovemaking session, a few days before her death. She was gone from the guest bedroom now, her body at the church, prepared for visitation and burial. The bedding on which she'd lain had been removed and burned. The bare mattress had seemed to glare accusingly at him, so he'd shut the door, locking it behind him.

Now he would have to strip this bed, too. There was no way he would be able to sleep bathed in the scent of his late wife. Just inhaling it was interfering with his ability to think. No, he would have to remove it all. He folded the sheets and blankets and carried them down the hall to the guest room. Tossing them inside, he shut the door again and returned to his room. Now he had another bare bed to deal with. He began hunting for bedding. Where did most people keep sheets and blankets? In a linen closet or a clothes press. They were in neither. Under the bed? No. In the wardrobe? No. He knew there were more pieces somewhere. Samantha never put anything anywhere sensible. At last he opened her bureau drawers one by one and found sheets in the bottom, with piles of chemises on top of them. Rolling his eyes, he quickly made up the bed before continuing the hunt for more quilts. A sudden idea had him creeping into Melissa's room, where sure enough, a pile of quilts sat in the bottom of her wardrobe with dirty boots on top. He reached down to the second quilt in the pile, a navy one with gold stars on it, and carried it back to his bedroom. At last he had a clean, fragrance-free bed to sleep in, and he climbed between the sheets in his long gray union suit underwear, trying to relax.

“Mama! Mama!” Soft sobs rang through the house. Sighing, Wesley hauled himself out of bed and into Melissa's bedroom. Without a word, he scooped the weeping toddler into his arms and carried her back into his bedroom, tucking her into the bed beside him. For tonight, neither of them wanted to be alone. Just for tonight…

Allison stumbled home, blinded by tears, her heart aching with an almost physical pain. Wesley seemed destroyed by grief. Her love, her friend, the only man she'd ever given her heart to was hurting, and it hurt her too. The long steps from the Fulton house on the south side of town to the Spencers' on the north end seemed to take a year, and icy wind, blowing with crumbled leaves and bits of dirt, pelted her. She stumbled and nearly fell, barely managing to right herself. Leaning her hand against the slender trunk of an immature elm tree, she stopped moving and gave herself over to tears.

Around her, she could hear people talking, could hear them but could not take in what they were saying. They buzzed like flies on the windowsills of her mind, unimportant, unnoticed. Until a small warm hand grasped the hand she'd pressed against her cheek. She was pulled into a tight hug.

Opening swollen eyes, she took in the wavery, undulating form of her sister.

“Becky?”

“Yes, love. Come on, let's go home.”

For such a small person, Becky seemed surprisingly strong. She wrapped Allison's arm around her shoulder and supported the larger woman as they stumbled over the uneven street the last few blocks to their house. Becky wrestled her up the stairs and through the door. Their mother met them inside.

“Good heavens!” Mrs. Spencer exclaimed. “What is going on here? Allison, where have you been?”

“She's been with Wesley,” Becky answered for her sister.

“With Wesley? For Heaven's sake, why? Allison, don't you know how unseemly it is for you to be alone with a married man? I want you to stop doing that.”

“We weren't alone,” Allison choked. “Reverend Williams and Kristina were there.”

“Allison,” her mother said, gentling her voice. “Wesley has a wife. You need to stop spending so much time with him. It does you no good.”

“Actually, mother,” Becky interjected, “he doesn't.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“Haven't you been anywhere today?” Becky asked. At least that's what Allison thought she'd asked. She'd sunk down on the sofa, face in her hands, and was trying not to succumb to hysterics again.

“No, I've been working on a quilt all day.” That made sense. She rarely did anything else while their father was away on his twice-weekly Wichita run. “It seemed too blustery to go outside. Why?”

“Mother,” Becky rolled her eyes. As though they had any other weather. When she spoke her voice dropped to almost inaudible. “Samantha Fulton died. She fell through the ice on the river and drowned.”

“Died!” Mrs. Spencer shrieked, and Allison gasped at the sudden noise. “Well, it must have been suicide. Everyone knows she was crazy.”

Allison squeezed her burning eyes shut. A little part of her mind, the last bit that was still coherent, whispered to her. “Perhaps, Mother,” she rasped, her throat hurting as much as her eyes, as much as her heart, “she didn't know what she was doing. We're all going to assume it was an accident, for Wesley's sake.”

The sofa sagged as her mother sat beside her, taking her hand.

“All right,” she said gently, at last. “We can assume that. But why does this upset you so very much, Allison? You weren't her friend. She…”

“You don't have to remind me what she did. I don't want to think about it now,” Allison hissed.

“Mother,” Becky said, coming to sit on her sister's other side, “I think Allison is hurting because Wesley is hurting. Those two still have a deep connection.”

“Bah,” Mrs. Spencer scoffed unsympathetically, “that connection should have been cut years ago, the first time Fulton lowered his trousers for another woman.”

“Mother!” Becky exclaimed, aghast at Mrs. Spencer's insensitivity.

A flood of images tumbled through Allison's mind; Wesley kissing Samantha at their wedding, stretching out in bed with Samantha, holding Samantha. All the years that should have gone to
her
, had gone to that woman. And now, in her death, Samantha had dealt yet another blow to her rival by breaking Wesley's heart.

Sickened, Allison wrenched herself from the sofa and stumbled up the stairs.

“Well, Mother,” Becky said, sarcasm dripping from her normally gentle voice. “You certainly handled
that
well. Why can't you stop going on about Wesley? He's certainly more than paid for his mistake.”

“But has he learned from it?” Mrs. Spencer asked, turning to her older daughter, undaunted by the disapproving tone. “Will he expect Allison to fall into his arms now that he's free? I don't want her to do that.”

“You'd rather she remain a spinster, then?” Becky asked. “It's a blessing to them both that Samantha is gone. I know that's a terrible thing to say, but it's true. She should have been in an institution, not married. It's only by the grace of God their daughter is normal.”

“If she's even his daughter,” Mrs. Spencer pointed out. “I think she must not be. Mrs. Fulton is more than half-crazy herself. A baby from her son and
that woman
would not have been so healthy.”

“Mother!” Becky protested, though in the back of her mind she acknowledged there was a lot of truth in what Mrs. Spencer was saying. “That's enough. Don't say anything else about Wesley
or
Samantha. You're going to hurt your daughter even worse.”

“You know, I don't understand you,” her mother said, her mouth turning down into a sneer. “How can you forgive Wesley so easily, after what he did?”

“I don't know, Mother,” Rebecca replied. “He has always seemed like such a little boy to me. I'm not surprised he's made some mistakes. You know he's only twenty-four, same as Allison. When he did… what he did, he was barely nineteen. That's the age for making foolish decisions.”

Becky glanced at her mother's face. As always, the question lingered, unasked, in Mrs. Spencer's narrowed eyes, the tension around her mouth. But Becky wouldn't answer. She never had.

“I'm going to go upstairs now too. I need to be sure Allison is all right. And it's late. Good night, Mother.”

“Good night, Rebecca,” Mrs. Spencer replied, her gaze still sharp as a razor on her daughter's retreating back.

Wesley passed the rest of the week in a daze. On Sunday, he somehow found clothes and pulled them on. He'd managed to give Melissa a bath and dress her, though her hair was a mess. He knew nothing about long hair. That was one thing Samantha had handled well. They'd eaten oatmeal again and now were walking hand in hand to church. He'd been there earlier in the week for the funeral. Samantha, wearing her favorite pink dress, her hair spread around her, surrounded by golden mums, had been laid to rest in a service which was breathtaking in its tender beauty. Poor Samantha had been treated to more kindness in death than she'd ever received in life. And then, after the funeral, the heavens had unleashed a torrent of snow, which had buried the whole town. He'd held and rocked Melissa as the storm raged, and then tried to put her down in her own bed again, only to be awakened by her crying over and over throughout the night. About three in the morning, he'd given up and taken her back to his bed. And there they'd succumbed to utter exhaustion until dawn woke them, light sparkling on the surface of the three foot snow drifts piled against the sides of buildings.

He carried Melissa through the messy streets to the church, noting how even the sparkling of the sun on the crusty surface of the snow failed to lighten his mood. Each day had been harder than the one before, and he hadn't been back to work yet. He knew Melissa would be content to color in the corner of his office for a day or two, but he couldn't bring her there every day until she was old enough to start school. He needed help. But where would he find it?

Seated on the red cushion that covered his usual pew, Melissa perched on his lap, he noticed for the first time that the church was decorated for Christmas. A large tree had been adorned with candles and gilded ornaments. The communion rail sported a cheerful garland of evergreen boughs and bright red bows. How lovely it was. A new thought occurred to Wesley. Christmas had nearly arrived, and Melissa would have to face the holiday with no mother to care for her.

Wesley shook his head as the organ began to play the opening hymn. He sang, a little raggedly, and couldn't help but smile as Melissa fumbled through the semi-familiar lyrics.

Then Cody stepped into the pulpit and began the morning announcements. At the end of the usual committee meetings and prayer requests, he dropped a bombshell, which left the congregation gasping.

“Friends, in the short time I've been here, you've made me feel welcome, and I thank you. But no one has done more to facilitate my integration than Miss Kristina Heitschmidt. Therefore, I have decided to make her a permanent part of my life by marrying her. To my very great surprise, she has agreed. More details will be provided later,” Cody continued, “and I sincerely hope all of you will wish us well. And now, if you would take your Bibles and turn to Psalm 57. We will read responsively, whole verse by whole verse.”

Wesley was still trying to close his gaping jaws, even as his finger fumbled by rote to the center of the pew Bible. He'd known from the beginning that Cody and Kristina belonged together, but to become engaged, just like that? Then he smiled. They would be so good together. As good as he and Allison would have been, if only…