Caught in the Middle (14 page)

Nick shrugged. “He could’ve been the one who held the pistol on me. If so, he got new boots, because Anne shot the old ones.”

“How about you, Mrs. Tillerton? Does he look familiar?”

She nodded. Weary lines appeared around her mouth. “He had a bandanna and a hat at the holdup so I didn’t recognize him then, but now I do. That’s Finn Cravens.”

If Nick and Deputy Puckett hadn’t been watching, Anne would’ve marched over and kicked the dead man hard enough to make him cry, even now.

Moron
.

So he was on his way to town to claim his son, but he thought he’d pull one last heist before he retired?

Fool.

He quit buffalo hunting because of a better opportunity?

Imbecile.

Not until she heard Nick clear his throat did Anne realize that the last word had been pronounced aloud. She closed her eyes, unwilling to consider the implications and decisions before her.

Nick’s shoes scuffed the floor. “The boy’s father?”

Anne nodded. She’d counted the days, haunted the telegraph office, and pestered the postmaster, waiting for her opportunity to flee the confines of Garber. Looking again, she prayed that she’d made a mistake, but it was Finn’s nearly white hair filled with dirt and grass splayed on the brick floor.

“We’ll find his family,” Nick said.

“He’s an orphan.” She tilted her head up to find the lone square of sky through the high prison window. “He doesn’t have any family. He told us stories of growing up on the streets of New Orleans and heading west as soon as he was big enough to work.” Anne covered her eyes. “What am I going to do?”

Neither man offered an answer. Not surprising.

“I want to go to the house,” she said. “Sammy may not have known his father, but I want to be with him, just the same.”

With bowed heads they stepped out of her way. Their low voices still rumbled as she busted through the prison door and pushed through the crowd.

Poor, poor Sammy. Abandoned by his mother, orphaned by his criminal father. She hoped he’d never know what happened to his parents. Maybe by the time he was grown he’d have a family and would never feel the lack. Anne shoved her fists into her duster. Her mother died giving birth to her, and she’d never gotten over the lack. Her father hadn’t paid her a lick of attention through her childhood, and she was his natural-born daughter. What chance did Sammy have for a loving family?

She’d reached the Pucketts’ neighborhood with its fenced yards when she heard Nick behind her. He fell in step, hands in his pockets, for once having nothing to say.

Anne opened her mouth but then, with a shake of her head, closed it again. She had no plan. She could make no promises, but a quiet determination was forming. Sammy would not be placed in an orphanage. He would not piddle his years away in an institution, only to be released on the streets when half-grown without any skills, connections, or way to support himself. In Indian Territory they’d met a handful of men who’d grown up in orphanages, were looking for work, and didn’t know the first thing about riding, shooting, or getting along in camp—Finn, for example. She could do better for the boy.

But how?

Could she find a family for him? The Pucketts might take
him in. Joel would raise Cain about it and accuse her of further taking advantage of his parents, but it’d be good for the boy. Then she could come back and visit between hunts.

But her heart pounded as she thought about leaving him. He would cry. His chubby fingers would twine around her hair and lock on to her sleeve. Every morning Mrs. Puckett distracted him with toast and jelly so Anne could leave for work, but she couldn’t justify sneaking away permanently. Not like Tessa. Prying Sammy off of her would be the lowest point of her fairly miserable life.

White wispy clouds raced high above a bright sky. Every day she’d waited for Finn, hoping to get back to hunting while winter delayed. Now she wondered if she would ever be free to ride Indian Territory again. They reached the Pucketts’ house, but she couldn’t go inside. Not yet. Anne darted into the gazebo with Nick right behind her. First, she must choose.

The leaves of the peony bushes shuddered as she brushed against them.

“I can’t do it,” she said.

Nicholas stood at her side. “No one expects you to. You aren’t prepared to raise a child.”

She spun around. “Aren’t you supposed to encourage me? Aren’t you supposed to challenge me to sacrifice? What about doing my Christian duty?”

“I’m thinking of you, Anne. All I’ve heard since you arrived was how you couldn’t stand being here, how you detested Garber and couldn’t wait until you got back to Pushmataha. Isn’t that your first priority?”

Anne dropped to the iron bench and clasped her hands between her knees. Finding Finn had been her focus for the last month, but it had become a reluctant goal. Every day
she spent with the Pucketts she felt her love for the family growing. Every day with Nicholas weakened her distrust of men. Instinctively Anne knew that staying with these people would destroy her carefully built defenses. She had to leave before she was tempted to give up her independence, but could she now?

“I’m surprised at you. You’re so quick to free me from guilt.” Anne wasn’t being fair, but she had to say it anyway. “Your desire to be rid of me overpowers any compassion for Sammy.”

Her aim was true. Nick flinched, but he didn’t flee. “You are my first priority. I want what’s best for you. As much as I care about Sammy, no one could fault you for placing him in an institution. That’s what those places are for. This child isn’t your problem.”

“Whose problem is he, then? You may turn away, but I can’t. I’ve been there, Nick. I’ve had my face bruised and swollen with no advocate. People saw, but I wasn’t their problem. I’ve been hungry and unkempt, but the only one responsible for me didn’t care. I can’t pretend like I don’t see.”

Nick knelt before her. He steadied himself with a hand on her knee. “I know you. I know you want to help, but please give yourself time to think it through. This would be a permanent decision, and it needs to be the right decision for both of you.”

Anne stared at his hand resting on her britches’ leg. Sammy already felt like part of her. She carried his smile close, using it as a reward for a hard day’s work. Sitting in the cramped office, hunched over tiny figures in a ledger, and all she had to look forward to in the evenings was his delighted squeal when he saw her. She didn’t know how she’d do it, but her decision was made.

“Thank you for walking me home.” She gave her leg a shake, and he dutifully removed his hand.

“It’s a shock. Not that this Finn Cravens would’ve been a good father—”

“Still, he was Sammy’s father, and I wasn’t willing to interfere. Now . . . well, now everything has changed.” A clearing breeze danced through their sanctuary. Anne stood and turned her face into it.

Nick rose. “Would you like me to stay while you tell Mrs. Puckett?”

“I think it’d be better if I talked to her alone.” Would Mrs. Puckett recommend the same course Nick had, or would her mother’s heart yearn to help the boy?

Anne watched the quiet house as she silently buried her dreams of independence. She’d have to make new dreams. No longer could she withhold her heart. Her boy deserved her love no matter what it cost her.

“It’s not the right time to bring it up, but I’ll be with Molly and Bailey on Wednesday. Under the circumstances, I don’t expect you to go.” Nick looked hopeful, desperate for reciprocation, but she had nothing to give. He lowered his eyes. “I’d be proud to escort you if you’re up to it.”

“Considering all I’m facing, Ophelia doesn’t seem that scary.”

“And as far as Sammy goes, I’ll stand by your decision. You’ll make the best choice for both of you. I know you will.”

If only she was as confident. Anne wished she could reassure him. She wished she had the words to ease his haggard countenance, but she could barely hold herself together. “I’ll go with you to the Stanfords’ dinner.” What all that entailed, she couldn’t fathom, but she wanted to promise
him something. “If you don’t mind, though, I’d like to be alone for now.”

“Of course.” He wriggled his hat down tight over his head, his mouth pulled into an uncharacteristically grim line. “Send for me if I can assist.”

He waited, but she had nothing left to say. With hands thrust into his pockets and shoulders hunched he trudged away.

Anne started forward and felt his absence. She looked for Nick, but he had already jogged out of earshot. Probably for the best. She couldn’t rely on him indefinitely. Yet, with all her misgivings over her future, she still wasn’t convinced that gaining custody of Sammy was a disaster. With everything that had happened in her life, she’d kept hoping that somewhere it would all make sense. Somehow it would all match up and she could see that her suffering had a purpose. She wasn’t there yet. She didn’t see any divine justice, and the offenses had piled higher and higher, but Sammy might be the turning point. Would everything now fall into place, or would this be just another calamity God was forcing her to endure?

And she still didn’t know how to respond to God’s interference. The way these people talked, God required a heap of meekness, surrender, and sacrifice—but she rarely witnessed any. And she couldn’t afford to be weak if she had Sammy. She needed to be ready to fight, not go belly up and surrender. She wouldn’t lose this child. Not again.

She needed to carry on just as she’d been doing. Every time she felt herself settling into the Pucketts’ household, she told herself that she hated Garber, that she would soon return to the countryside, where she would be free, unshackled by
responsibility. But the gentle routines had molded her. Could it be that her earliest desires hadn’t been misinformed? Were there really homes like the Pucketts’ everywhere? Was her husband, Jay, the exception rather than the rule?

Her desire to stay meant forming attachments that could be broken. It’d mean giving part of herself to people who could betray her, but Sammy deserved her love. She would have to change for him, and loving the boy would affect her other relationships, too. Her cup already brimmed with feelings that she’d denied, and caring for Sammy could be the droplet that caused it to spill over.

Well, she’d take her fences one at a time. She had enough to sort through before complicating matters further.

 13 

The humid night air stifled Anne’s cry when she rolled to her side. Her arm. She’d forgotten how badly it hurt when she lay on it. Gently she lowered herself onto her back. She mustn’t wake Jay, especially whining over an arm he swore wasn’t broken.

Sweat dampened the back of her neck and her forehead as she searched for something to look forward to with the sunrise. Some reason not to end her misery. Maybe Jay’s chores would keep him away from the house. Maybe he would allow her to scrounge the thickets for blackberries and mulberries. They had to eat, after all. At least, he did. Whether there was enough left for her didn’t matter.

Silently she slid her hand over her tattered nightgown. It did matter. She remembered now the reason she must survive. Why she must stay strong and healthy. She carried a child. His child. Perhaps becoming a father would change Jay. Perhaps he’d be pleased with her and would treat her like he had in the beginning. This child would be their fresh start.

Anne must have drowsed, for a movement startled her
awake. She tensed, prepared for anything from a brutal caress to an outright strike, but instead, someone snuggled against her.

Her eyes darted around the room. Where was she? This wasn’t her home. She turned her head to see an infant curled against her.

Her child? She touched her flat stomach and the memories returned. The brutal beating that led to her miscarriage. Jay’s death. Buffalo hunting in Pushmataha. Tessa’s desertion.

Anne rose on her elbow. The springs on the iron frame squeaked beneath her. The lemon scent from the sachet that Mrs. Puckett stored with her linens wafted off Anne’s sheets. Calm. Safe. Sammy’s blond locks were matted to his wet head. He’d left his trundle to find her sometime during the night. Anne untangled the blanket that was wrapped around him and fanned him with its corner, her present catching up with her.

With the death of Finn Cravens, no one else could lay a claim on Sammy. She’d wanted to be a mother, to know the maternal bonds that had been denied her in her childhood, but Jay had stolen her baby from her. And Sammy had lost his family, as well. But perhaps it accomplished a purpose. Anne wrapped a blond curl around her finger. Didn’t she deserve something good after the shabby way she’d been treated?

She would start small, ease into this new role. Instead of ridiculing the sermons on Sunday, she would give the pastor a chance. Praying would be a good start, and she could learn the language of faith that everyone around her spoke so fluently. If it paid off, then maybe she’d trust God with a little more. Selling her buffalo equipment to Anoli would give her some funds, so it wasn’t like she was expecting God to handle it
all on His own. She wanted to be fair. They shouldn’t expect too much from each other starting out.

So she and God were good. She hadn’t foreseen being a mother in this way, but she was ready. Somehow she would manage to give Sammy everything he needed. He belonged to her and no one would take him away.

Anne’s half day at the office had flown by. Nick had seemed relieved that she’d decided to stay in town with Sammy and even referred her to a solicitor who might have advice on taking custody of the boy. Now, in her bedroom mirror she watched her jaw harden. She’d do whatever it took to see that Sammy was a permanent part of her family, but her time at Nick’s office was temporary. Harold’s recovery would soon bring her employment to an end, and she’d need to find another way to support herself. Of course, neither Nick nor she broached the subject, and Anne was glad to save that conversation for a later date.

What she couldn’t delay was dinner with the Stanfords that night and her absolute dread of getting into a dress again, but she’d given her word.

Mrs. Puckett bent over a trunk, flinging wads of fabric in every direction.

“Mary wore this dress at her coming out, so it wouldn’t be appropriate for a widow. Caroline’s dress here is bound to be too short. Here’s one of Sadie’s. You’re about her size. It looks nice enough and the mice haven’t been in it.” Mrs. Puckett lifted the gown out of the trunk and shook it, letting the protective tissue paper float to the attic floor.

“No, no.” Anne pried a sheet out of Sammy’s hand before
he could rip it further. She went to her knees to collect them and give herself time to collect her own thoughts. She hadn’t worn a dress since Jay died.

She closed her eyes. Not just died. That wasn’t the whole story. Anne hadn’t dressed like a lady since she’d killed him. She’d shot him dead. Even through all the beatings she’d endured, all the losses, she’d never considered shooting him before. He was her cross to bear. She deserved her punishment the way she’d dressed up to be alluring. She’d wanted a man’s attention, and she’d gotten it. Vanity had earned its just reward.

Could this dress undo all the independence she’d won? Was she any stronger than when she’d stepped into a feminine role the first time? She watched as Mrs. Puckett held the dress against herself and smoothed the wrinkles. It wasn’t a cursed gown that would carry her off to a dank underworld. It was just a dress, worn by the fearless Puckett girls who’d gone on to marry happily and give their mother grandchildren, albeit at an unsatisfactory distance.

Anne would wear it to a dinner to see her old friend Molly. Nothing could happen there, could it? And besides, if she was dressed nice, Mrs. Stanford would have to allow her in. The woman had probably been salivating all day—if the lady made spit—waiting for the opportunity to turn Anne away at her doorstep, but she wouldn’t get it.

Anne could do this. Mrs. Puckett cooed and awed as she held the navy wool dress against her. She had to take care of Sammy. No longer could she ignore etiquette and convention. What kind of life would her boy have if his mother was an outcast? Until she thought of something better, working for Nicholas and living with the Pucketts was the safest place for
them. And if her attendance could improve Nick’s relationship with his employer, then it wouldn’t kill her to share a meal with them.

Sometimes it wasn’t about winning or losing. Sometimes it was about living to fight another day.

“You knew I couldn’t stay in Prairie Lea when there was so much drama taking place here in Garber. Besides, you were so good to send us business when Bailey and I were getting started at the sawmill that we wanted to come applaud your success.”

In her usual fashion, Nick’s sister insisted on having two escorts. Her husband had her left arm and carried their son on his other side. Nicholas had her right and hauled their bag—allowing Molly to promenade down the big city streets with her new gown on full display. Garber might be more cosmopolitan than little Prairie Lea back in Caldwell County, but his sister could teach these women a thing or two about presentation. He couldn’t wait to hear her opinion of Ophelia Stanford.

“And to see Anne,” Bailey said. “Molly’s just itching to hear the latest on the mysterious Mrs. Tillerton.”

“I haven’t mentioned your association to Mother. Can you imagine what Father and she would say if they knew you were socializing with Anne?”

“I don’t think anyone would accuse Anne of socializing, but she’s a special lady—definitely more interesting than anyone else I’ve met here. Besides, I thought our parents had finally learned not to meddle.”

Molly laughed. “If they objected to Bailey . . . But please
tell me Anne isn’t wearing her hideous buckskins here in the city. It was one thing when she was hunting . . .” Molly shook her head. “I guess that’s how she wants to present herself, but I wish she’d reconsider.”

“She promised me that she’d come tonight.” Nick tipped his hat to some ladies as they passed. “Believe me, if I knew the key to helping her ease back into polite society I’d turn it.”

“That’s the problem, though,” Molly said. “I don’t think she’s ever been in polite society. She went from the backwoods to being imprisoned, and then she was ostracized as a woman who had killed her husband. It’ll take more than a new outfit to civilize her. But tell me about this baby she has. Is he the same age as Carter?”

They reached the hotel with plenty of daylight remaining. Their early arrival would give them time to talk before they had to guard their conversations with the Stanfords. Molly toured the lobby of the hotel admiring the décor while Bailey plopped in a chair and stretched his long legs.

“I got you a room on my floor,” Nick said, “although those are usually reserved for long-term residents.”

Bailey bounced his son on his knee. “I don’t know that you’ll want us close to you. Carter throws a fit at bedtime. If he gets going—”

“Hopefully, he’ll be fine,” Molly said. “Look, there’s another infant. They’re probably used to children.”

Nick saw the lady with the little boy standing at her knee. He nodded a polite greeting and stepped up to the clerk’s desk. “I reserved a room for—” He blinked.

“Yes, sir?”

Wait a minute. It couldn’t be. Nick didn’t want to turn
around, for he was fairly certain what he’d just seen, and if it was her, then he’d snubbed—

The hair on the back of his neck rose, and he prayed Anne hadn’t bolted for the door after his insensitivity. Nick turned to search the room, but she had fled. He ran to the heavy double doors and threw them wide, looking down the road in both directions.

There. No mistaking Sammy’s blond head or Anne’s curly hair, although it was twisted up, leaving only a few corkscrew tendrils dangling. Lengthening his strides, Nick caught up with her before she reached the first crossroad.

“Good of you to make an appearance.” He fell into step next to her. “I don’t wish to correct you, but you do realize that you’re going away from the hotel?”

She arranged Sammy up higher on her waist—a waist he couldn’t help but notice now that there was no canvas duster or bulky pants to cover it.

“This isn’t going to work,” she said. “I’m exposing myself for no reason. I surely don’t want to go to the Stanfords’, so if you and Molly are going to cut me in public—”

“Molly didn’t see you, and I . . . I . . .” He stepped in front of her. “Please come back. You look very nice.” He kept his eyes on her face, completely ignoring the compulsion to step back and appreciate the changes the somber dress worked on her. No, he had to walk a fine line. If he made his true evaluation obvious, she’d feel uncomfortable and want to hide. He dispensed praise easily. It was hard to remember that she didn’t know what to do with it.