Patricia Rice (39 page)

Dora knew she was crushing the fine cloth of Pace's coat sleeve, but she couldn't break her grip. She hesitated as her eyes adjusted to the dim light. This church was strange to her with its high, decorated altar and fancy carved pews. The dust-moted silence reminded her of a long ago memory of a church with panels of stained glass, of her mother squeezing her hand and telling her to hush. She wasn't entirely alien to churches then. She had been born into one fancier than this. God was God, no matter how he was worshipped.

Relaxing, she let Pace lead her to a pew. Several old women hurried over to admire the baby, and Dora perked up. She basked in their "oohhs" and "aahhs." Frances squirmed restlessly but didn't wake.

More churchgoers filed in, and Pace tensed beside her. Dora knew that the early arrivals would have already notified the others of their presence. She could sense curious glances, but everyone took their seats. The time had passed for further talk.

It took a little while before she realized all the other benches had filled but no one took the place beside them. She was so accustomed to standing alone, that the emptiness hadn't struck her, but Pace would have noticed. Pace belonged to this community as she never had. He should have been out on the steps exchanging gossip with the other men and straggling in late as they did now. But no one dared claim friendship with a man who had fought for the Yankees.

Biting her lower lip, Dora glanced over her shoulder to check the late arrivals. She saw Sally standing uncertainly in the rear of the church with her two oldest children. Billy John held the baby. He ignored the empty seats beside Pace and looked for others in the crowded room.

Sally's gaze met Dora's, swung to the stiff man at Dora's side, then without looking at her own husband, she marched down the aisle, dragging her children after her. She plumped her wide skirt and petticoats across the bench, settled the youngsters, then reached to take Frances and jiggle her for a smile.

Billy John stared after his wife and his big ears got red. The bench had room enough for just one more beside his wife. Or he could take a place on the other side of the church by himself. Scowling, he followed his wife up the aisle.

Pace's stiff stance didn't lessen any, but he nodded a greeting and was saved from saying anything by the preacher's arrival.

By the time the service ended and both women had taken turns quieting squirming infants and children, Pace showed signs of relaxing. It was next to impossible to remain formal while wiping running noses and searching pockets for strings and keys to amuse bored toddlers. By the time the choir finished singing, Pace had one toddler over his shoulder and Billy John had the other. They practically ran out of the building ahead of the women with the infants.

Sally laughed at the sight, and Dora managed a nervous smile. She knew the ordeal for her was just beginning, but Frances provided both shield and incentive. Awkward in the multitude of unaccustomed petticoats, Dora idled down the aisle beside Sally.

Several of the women had stayed behind to admire the babies. They gossiped with Sally and looked at Dora with curiosity, but they said nothing overtly rude. Dora had done very little to disturb the townspeople. They considered her Quaker beliefs odd, but they couldn't ignore her nursing skills.

Pace didn't fare so well. Even before she reached the church door, Dora could hear the raised voices outside and recognized one as her husband's. Walking faster, her silk skirt swishing down the church steps, she searched the crowd for Pace's gray top hat. She recognized the porcine creature confronting him.

Holding Frances in one arm and lifting her skirt with the other, Dora hastened through the milling crowd. A path opened miraculously before her.

"You're a damned murderer and a thief, Nicholls!" Sweat pouring down his round face beneath his silk hat, the big man shook his massive fist in Pace's face. "I'll see you hanged."

"You're a gut-crawling worm, Patterson. Where are those other two pieces of slime you dragged out to terrorize my family? If they had laws for animals, I'd haul you all into court."

The man called Patterson balled both hands into fists. "Why, you no-account nigger lover, I ought to—"

Dora's breath caught in her lungs as a circle formed around the two men. She wouldn't let this happen the first time she came to town with Pace as his wife. Furious, she shoved her way through the circle.

"Stop this right now! This is the Lord's day. 'Tis ungodly to behave like this."

Pace and Patterson both turned to glare at her. Their hesitation gave time for Joe Mitchell to step into the ring and speak in placating tones.

"You're correct, Mrs. Nicholls. This is neither the time nor the place for this argument." He turned to Pace with a small frown on his handsome brow. "However, Pace, you do have a few things to answer for. A man is dead, and there's not only valuable property missing, but papers of some import to the citizens of this town. You're the only Yankee known in the vicinity who might have reason to free those slaves."

Dora watched Pace's jaw muscles tighten beneath sun-darkened skin, but he visibly bit back his temper.

"You have any witnesses? I hear the overseer lived to talk."

Mitchell's frown grew a little deeper. "The overseer claimed a slave did it, but everyone knows damned well Homer kept those slaves chained."

Patterson shook his fist under Pace's nose again. "And everyone knows damned well who broke those chains."

Pace smacked the fist away. "Prove it in court, Patterson, otherwise get the hell out of my face."

"We'll take it to court if we have to, Payson," Joe yelled over Patterson's protests. "This is a law-abiding town and we can't allow damned roughnecks like you to run all over us."

That was the final insult coming from a man who had cheated and lied and stolen every waking minute of his life. Even Dora understood that. When Pace's hands knotted into fists and he yelled, "Get out of the way, Dora, go on to the carriage," she merely sighed with resignation and stepped between the two men. In a swift motion, she removed Pace's hat, holding it in the same hand as she held Frances while she held out her other. "I'd rather not have to get blood out of thy best coat, Pace Nicholls."

He didn't even look at her as he shrugged out of the tight coat and handed it over. The other man struggled to do the same. Pace could have landed a perfect blow while Patterson's arms were tied up in his coat sleeves, but he waited while Dora pushed back through the crowd.

"I'll be at Sally's," she warned him as she left. "It's too hot for Frances in the carriage."

She thought Pace's expression softened for just a moment as he glanced toward her and his daughter. There may have even been an apologetic gleam in his eye as he met her gaze. But then it disappeared and his fist plowed into Patterson's bulging stomach. Dora hurried out of the way as the crowd closed around the combatants.

The preacher's carrying voice shouted over the noise of the crowd, but Dora followed Sally into the mercantile and back to the cool interior of her parlor. She'd had more than enough attention for one day, and Frances was squirming in the first throes of hunger.

"Men! You'd think they'd find a better way of settling their differences." Sally dropped down on the horsehair sofa and bounced her own whimpering infant in her arms.

"I've always thought so," Dora murmured, but after hearing the argument today, she didn't know what that better way would be. If Pace truly had freed those slaves, morally, he had done the correct thing by relieving their suffering. Perhaps even legally, under federal law, he might have been right, although she was less sure of that.

She couldn't believe Pace personally responsible for the death of Homer, but she couldn't find any justification in killing, under any circumstances. Two wrongs didn't make a right. The matter seemed hopelessly entangled.

But if Joe Mitchell had anything to do with what had happened that night, then she knew Pace had done the right thing. Joe would find profit in his own mother's death if he could, and never leave a trace to prove it. She just wished Pace was punching Joe's nose right now instead of that other unfortunate man's.

The shouts and yells at the church didn't last long. Sally checked out the front window to see what was happening and reported the crowd breaking up. She shooed her toddlers back upstairs and waited with Dora.

Frances hadn't quite finished nursing when they heard the sounds of shoes stomping through the front entrance. Dora adjusted the shawl and shrank back into the sofa as the parlor door opened.

She knew Pace stood there before she even looked up. Billy John stood behind him but escaped upstairs to check on the kids. Pace waited for her to finish nursing his daughter.

Dust covered his newly pressed shirt, and one sleeve had pulled loose of the shoulder seam. His hair fell in his face and blood smeared his cheek. She saw nothing of triumph in his eyes, only that dead blankness that had characterized his expression since he'd come home from the war. For a little while, Dora had thought it had gone away.

"If you're almost done, I'll bring the carriage around," he said stiffly.

She nodded and watched him go, unable to hide her sadness. Sally tut-tutted but didn't say anything until Dora fastened her bodice and prepared to go. As she took the infant from her hands, Sally said, "There's something you ought to know, Dora."

Dora gave her a questioning look.

Sally handed Frances back to her. "Billy John says Joe Mitchell's got deeds on almost every property from the railroad station to the river."

Dora looked at her blankly.

Sally gave her a look of frustration. "Haven't you ever looked at a map? That property of yours and Pace's is right in the middle of that path."

It didn't make sense at the moment, but Dora figured it would when she had time to think about it. Right now, her only concern was driving that terrible look of pain from Pace's eyes.

Chapter 30

Vain are these dreams, and vain these hopes;

And yet 'tis these give birth

To each high purpose, generous deed,

That sanctifies our earth.

He who hath highest aim in view,

Must dream at first what he will do.

Miss Letitia Elizabeth Landon

Dora had no nasty comments to make as they rode down the road toward home, but Pace accepted her silence as disapproval. He knew Dora wouldn't rant or nag, but her silences spoke for themselves. He knew he deserved her opinion of him, but he couldn't change into what she wanted either. She shouldn't ask for or expect anything more.

The hell of it was, she wasn't asking for anything more. Dora never asked for anything. She just looked at him with those big blue eyes and either made him feel ten feet tall or lower than pond scum. Right now, the scum was winning. He'd rather she just yelled at him. He could deal with that.

He glanced at her in hopes of seeing an argument tightening her lips, but he only saw that sad, faraway look in her eyes. His conscience stabbed him.

Well, he had no intention of apologizing for something he couldn't have avoided. When he halted the carriage in front of the house, he got out to help her down.

"I need to check on the tobacco beds. I won't hold up dinner too long." Pace knew he sounded gruff. It was a defensive mechanism he couldn't turn off. He waited for Dora to look wounded or angry, but she merely touched his jaw to check the swelling, then nodded and went up the stairs without his help. She may as well have stabbed him in the gut.

He never knew what in hell to expect from her. Sometimes it was like living with three different women. Since he already had Josie and his mother to contend with, as well as a house full of female servants, he didn't need three more in his wife. He never knew from one minute to the next whether she would be terrified, angry, or disappointed with him. He didn't want her to be any of those.

Cursing to himself, Pace drove the carriage back to the stables, unhooked the horse, brushed it down, and threw it some grain, then wandered out to the tobacco bed. He should have changed clothes, but there didn't seem much point in it. Dora should have berated him for tearing up the shirt she'd so proudly laundered. He didn't have many left. But she hadn't even seemed to notice.

Hell, what difference did it make? They were his shirts. This was his house. He wasted his own money, no matter how much it felt like his father's and Charlie's. He should give thanks he had a woman who could keep her mouth shut.

But Dora had never used to keep her mouth shut around him. He was the one person in the world she used to talk to. Now who did she have? His mother? Josie? Or did she just keep it all bottled up inside?

Like he did
. That thought came from out of nowhere and Pace dispensed it to the same place. Men didn't talk about how they felt. They showed it in their actions.

He stopped outside the kitchen to wash up at the pump before going in the house to put on a clean shirt for Sunday dinner. In the warmth of the late April sun, someone had opened the kitchen windows to the breeze. As he bent over the basin, a familiar voice drifted through those windows, and Pace nearly banged his head on the pump as he straightened.