Heart of Stone (23 page)

“Just come back safe. We’ll be all right.”

I
t was late afternoon when Laura woke up, startled when she didn’t immediately recall where she was. If the small window with its faded gingham curtain hadn’t been enough of a hint, then the narrow bed with its worn, lumpy mattress was enough to remind her of her present situation.

Sleep had never been her friend and still wasn’t. She’d been here going on three weeks and more than ever before, she’d managed very few hours of uninterrupted sleep. Whenever she finally did manage to doze off for a nap as she’d just done, she awoke within minutes, aching all over. She’d made up her mind to ask for a newer mattress as soon as she’d been here a month—which wasn’t far off at all.

She missed Peaches and sometimes imagined she saw the cat curled up at the foot of the bed. The room was barely big enough to swing a cat in. Along with the bed, there was a chair and a small bedside table just wide enough to hold a lamp and her one book. Gone were all the gilded trappings of wealth she’d possessed. Gone was the library collection she’d held dear. Gone were the friends she had made in Glory. And the love of her life.

She slipped out from beneath the covers. The minute her feet hit the cold floorboards, her toes curled away from the late November chill. She doubted she’d ever grow used to the cold or the dryness. She doubted she’d ever feel warm again.

The clink of glasses and dishes in a wash tin filtered up through the floor. She heard the muted sound of masculine voices. After slipping into her underclothes she donned one of the two simple gowns she’d brought with her, hoping not to call attention to herself. She parted her hair down the middle and wove it into two thick braids, which she wound around and anchored to the crown of her head.

She was forever trying to poke escaped curls back into place.

She picked up the book the illusive drummer had given her, intent upon stealing a few minutes of reading before she went downstairs. Pulling the straight-back chair over to the window where the weak fall light filtered in, she set the book on her lap and tried to forget about the lovely, cozy study she’d left behind. Specifically, she remembered the steaming pots of flavorful tea and chocolate Anna had brewed for her the day she shared her private retreat with Amelia. She’d never forget Amelia’s heartfelt words the day Laura had revealed her secret.

“Most of all, you’re my dearest friend.”

Thinking of Amelia and how strong her friend was, Laura refused to give into tears. Turning to the window, she looked down the empty street. Soon the lamp outside the building would be lit, throwing a haloed glow out into the night. Customers would begin filing in. Word of her addition to the staff had quickly spread by word of mouth. Men came from miles around. Some nights there was standing room only downstairs.

Before she left the room she stopped to study her reflection in the small, clouded mirror in a frame on the wall. Her gown hung loose around her waist. Since she left Glory, with none of Rodrigo’s wonderful cooking to tempt her, she had lost weight. Not only that, but shadows filled the hollows beneath her eyes. She attempted a smile but failed miserably.

T
he next day, after meeting with Reverend Lockwood, Brand and Jesse were soon on the trail again.

They stopped at every stagecoach depot along the route south and west. It wasn’t until San Angelo that they were rewarded with a glimmer of hope.

Morning rain had forced them to wrap up in slickers. By afternoon, the rain had turned to sleet. Jesse said little, but set on forging through an area of cattle ranches where
vaqueros
worked the
herds. Most of the white ranchers they questioned didn’t hide the fact they wanted Jesse off their land.

Brand finally called a halt for the night at the stage depot near San Angelo, a trading post across the river from Fort Concho. The stage stop was a sparsely furnished one-room outpost managed by a wiry-bearded man in his sixties. He was stoop shouldered and intent upon “rustling up some grub” for them.

Brand warmed himself a few paces back from the low fireplace on the wall opposite the small cast-iron stove. He described Laura to the station manager. The man paused in the act of stirring a batch of refried pinto beans and nodded.

“Didn’t catch her name. Not sure she even said it, but she’s a hard ‘un to forget.”

The cold immediately seeped out of Brand. Jesse sat up straighter on the bench across the room.

“Where was she headed?” Brand asked the depot master.

“South, toward Presidio.” The man tossed a stack of tortillas atop the stove. “It’s the last stop, on the border. ‘Course, she coulda stopped somewhere along the way. Not many places to light, though.”

Jessie looked at Brand. “We going to follow her into Mexico?”

“You think I’m not up to it?”

Brand pictured Laura the way she’d looked in the sunshine that day by the creek. She was so lovely, so fragile, despite the stubborn strength that helped her win her independence.

Would he follow her into a foreign country with his children and his sister to think of? Was love coloring his common sense? He was a preacher. She was a fallen woman. The odds were against them. And yet, it that quiet place in his heart, he knew that they belonged together, and with God’s help, they
would
be together. He would follow her to the ends of the earth if he had to. He walked over to a grimy table marred by rings from the bottom of a hot kettle. He sat down across from Jesse on a hard wooden bench.

Jesse studied him carefully. “Nobody would blame you for turning back.”

“I loved your mother, Jesse, but I gave up too soon. I regret the years I lost knowing you. I’ll never get them back.” Brand looked down at his hands. They were still reddened by the cold. “I love Laura. I couldn’t forgive myself if I didn’t try to find her.” Brand met Jesse’s eyes again. “If you’re ready to stop, I’ll go it alone.”

Jesse shrugged. “I figure I can keep going as long as you can.”

L
aura found herself wishing she’d brought her fur coat instead of her wool cape. Then she smiled, trying to imagine the reaction if she walked into the crowded room downstairs in ermine.

Today her room was cold as Collier Holloway’s smile. She’d hung an extra blanket over the window hoping to keep out the wind that seeped in through the missing chinks in the plaster around the frame. She draped the quilt off the bed over her shoulders whenever she was chilled. It wouldn’t do for her to fall ill and miss a day of work.

Not that she needed the money. She’d tucked the pile of emergency cash she always kept in the house into her corset the morning she left Glory. Though she’d deposited most of her savings in an account at Cutter’s bank, she never fully trusted all of her funds to any one source. She had brought along enough to cover her needs for the next few months.

Thankfully, those needs were few. She’d lived on nothing for most of her life. The money she earned here didn’t compare to what she made in New Orleans, but her pay was piling up as fast as the wind-driven snow that had just started to fall.

The sound of men’s voices drifted up through the floor, a low,
deep murmur that blended with the shuffle of heavy boots and the scrape of chairs across the floorboards. She glanced at the small silver watch she’d pinned to her bodice, a trinket she’d bought years ago.

With fifteen minutes to spare before she went downstairs, she picked up the book on her bedside table and turned up the flame in the hurricane lamp.

The bed sagged as she sat on the edge of the mattress and opened her Bible. It was still the only book she had and for now it was more than enough. Michael Noble had been right. The pages were full of all the drama, history, and pageantry that she ever wished for in a novel—and so much more.

She glanced down at the page she had marked with a dried desert marigold.

“The publicans and the harlots go into the kingdom of God before you.”

Maybe the publicans
, she thought,
whatever they are.

Although she’d prayed over it, though she tried so hard to believe, she still wasn’t entirely convinced there was such hope for prostitutes. She imagined Brand saying, “That’s where faith comes in, Laura. In belief.”

“I’m trying,” she whispered into the silent room. “I’m trying.”

B
rand and Jesse left San Angelo, traversed high, rolling prairies, and crossed rugged hills to the valley of the Pecos. The trail twisted down canyons and over high passes with towering ranges that slashed across each other. They saw signs of mountain lion, deer, coyotes, and bobcats.

There was a new stationmaster and his wife at the first stop they came to. It was a lonely outpost and the woman was more than willing to chat. If Laura had passed through after the couple arrived, the woman would have definitely remembered her. She didn’t.

Heading southwest, they moved on toward Fort Stockton and
nearby St. Gall. The hills were covered in cedar, oak, mesquite, and agrita. The sky darkened and the air felt cold enough for snow as they followed Spring Creek. Thinly wooded rocky hills offered no protection from the elements with the daylight hours at their shortest and the weather fierce.

By the time they reached Fort Stockton and St. Gall at Comanche Springs, Brand was never so glad to see signs of civilization in his life. The Army supply center had been established near Comanche Springs, the crossroads for wagon trains, mail stages, and travelers.

They boarded their horses at the town livery. A hot meal was in order before they searched for lodging, so they took the stable proprietor’s suggestion. Jesse pulled his coat collar up against the biting wind, shielding the lower half of his face as they headed for the only café in town, a few doors down.

The buildings were mostly made of adobe—mud and straw bricks covered with a coat of whitewashed stucco. Second stories fronted by narrow balconies had been added to a few places. They reached the Old Coyote Café, which was full of Army personnel. Jesse shot a doubtful glance at Brand, but there was one table left in the corner of the room, so Brand walked in and sat down.

A middle-aged, harried-looking waitress said she’d be right with them. Jesse chose a chair that put his back to the room. Brand eased himself into a chair in the corner and tried to stifle a groan. Jesse noticed.

“Riding all day too much for you?” he chided.

“In this weather?” Brand laughed. “I expect it’s too much for you too. You’re just too stubborn to show it.”

Jesse chuckled and slid a glance around the room before he took off his hat and brushed a dusting of frost off the brim. The soldiers seated around them eyed Jesse closely.

“I can’t picture Laura here,” Brand said, lowering his voice as he leaned across the table. “There might be more soldiers than civilians, but even so, this place makes Glory look like a metropolis.”

“Whatever that is,” Jesse said.

Brand was about to explain when the waitress walked over. Whip thin and lanky, she appeared to be in her mid-forties. Her hair was the color of watered-down cocoa. She gave them a once over and stared hard at Jesse for a second too long.

“We don’t serve Indians,” she said.

The room went dead silent. Jesse didn’t move.

Brand introduced himself with a non-threatening smile.

“I’m Reverend Brand McCormick and this is my son, Jesse.” He knew there was no ignoring Jesse’s heritage. He added, “He’s not Comanche.”

Every eye in the place was on them by now.

“I understand you have the right not to, but I’d appreciate it if you’d serve us both. We’ve had a long, hard day’s ride,” Brand said. “We’re just passing through.”

He watched Jesse casually lean back in his chair and fold his hands on the table in front of him. “I’d hate for you to toss my pa out in the cold because of me,” he said.

“My pa.”
Though the situation was tense, Brand found himself smiling.

The woman glanced around the room and then back at Jesse. She raised her voice just enough so that every man in the room heard her.

“I suppose, seein’ how this is my place, I have a right to decide who I serve and who I don’t.” She frowned and worried her bottom lip for a second before she said, “I’ll bring you two coffees while y’all decide whether you’ll be having meatloaf or venison stew.”

It was a moment or two before conversation took up around the room again. Jesse said nothing, but Brand saw his shoulders rise and fall on a sigh of relief.

They had a cup of coffee and decided on the stew when the waitress confided she preferred it to the meatloaf. She disappeared into the kitchen and then was back in no time with two huge bowls of stew. She set them down and walked away.

They’d barely had two bites when she was back. “Here’s some sourdough to sop that stew gravy up with, Reverend.” She folded her arms at her waist. “Where you two headed?”

“Actually, we’re not sure. We’re looking for someone,” Brand told her. He knew better than to expect more than a word or two out of Jesse, what with a room filled with Fort Stockton’s enlisted men.

Brand went on to describe Laura. When he saw a hint of something akin to recognition behind the woman’s eyes, he feared his heart might stop beating. She recovered so quickly, he almost doubted what he’d seen—until he noticed that Jesse was suddenly sitting a bit straighter, listening intently.

“Have you seen anyone fitting her description?” Brand asked.

“Doesn’t sound like the type we usually see around these parts.” The woman hesitated a second before she added, “Why are you looking for her?”

Brand tried to choose his words carefully, afraid he’d put the woman off and not get another word out of her. The truth was always the way. “I asked her to marry me and she took off.” He quickly added, “If she’s still not willing, so be it. I just want to see that she gets back home safely.” He stared down at his stew, certain he couldn’t eat another bite.

“Maybe
she came through here. Maybe she didn’t. How about I go back in the kitchen and talk to the cook?”

“Thank you kindly,” Brand said, watching her go, trying to keep his hope from walking away with her.

When he looked over at Jesse, Brand found him staring after the waitress.

“She’s seen her,” he said softly. “She might not be willing to tell you anything with me here. How about I go back to the livery stable? See if there’s a place I can bed down in for the night?”

It wouldn’t be the first time they’d slept in a barn. Brand wouldn’t stay in a hotel or boardinghouse that refused Jesse.

“Sit tight and finish your stew. One of us ought to have a good meal under his belt.”

He stared at the men in the room. Wondered if the cook might have seen or heard of someone who looked like Laura. He tried to imagine her living in St. Gall. Not only was it a far cry from New Orleans, but it was the exact opposite of a well-settled, family-oriented community like Glory.

Holloway’s words came back to haunt him.
“That woman’s like a cat. She always lands on her feet.”

Maybe she’d landed here because the town was full of men.

He looked up and found Jesse chewing a mouthful of stew. He swallowed and washed the bite down with some coffee. “You really ready for what we might find?”

Brand nodded, but he was thinking,
Not really.

As Jesse concentrated on the stew again, Brand found himself praying he’d be ready for whatever they found.

L
aurel? We’re getting pretty busy downstairs. I could use a hand.”

Although the sound of Betty Jean’s voice came through the door just fine, the woman knocked again just to make sure. “Come on, honey. We got a passel of men down there and they’re running out of patience.”

“Coming, Betty,” Laura called back. She tossed the quilt off her shoulders and pulled the edges of her thick sweater together and buttoned it up tight. Heading out, she paused long enough to lift an apron off the hook behind the door and slip the strings around her neck. She tied the apron around her waist and smoothed the front down.

When she opened the door to step out into the hall, she nearly ran smack into Betty Jean Frank.

“What are you doing out here if things are so hectic downstairs?”

Now that she was outside her room, Laura didn’t think the place sounded any busier than usual for this time of day.

“It’s a madhouse. I just came to hurry you up, is all.” Betty Jean was watching her closely as they hurried down the hall together.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

Betty Jean shrugged. “Nothing. It’s just…I hope you know how much we appreciate all the help you’ve been, even though we can’t pay much.”

“It’s not about money,” Laura shook her head. “I told you that in the beginning. I’m just grateful to you and Ansel for taking a chance on me.” She’d told them she hadn’t any experience, but that she needed the work and promised she’d try to please. It had been hard at first, the long hours excruciating, but waiting tables was second nature to her now. Though St. Gall wasn’t the kind of place she’d want to stay in forever, it was fine for the time being.

She followed Betty Jean along the upstairs hall and then down the stairs. The heat rising from the kitchen was a welcome relief. In no time at all she’d have to shed her sweater.

Betty Jean pointed toward a group of men at a table near the stairs. “See what you can do for them, honey,” she said before she left Laura’s side and headed across the room.

E
ven the heady aroma of venison stew couldn’t tempt Brand into taking another bite. Jesse, on the other hand, was having no trouble shoveling it in. When he finished with his own bowl, he nodded toward Brand’s.

“Go ahead. Have at it,” Brand said, sliding the bowl across the table. Jesse broke off another hunk of sourdough and dipped it into the thick gravy.

Brand looked up and found the waitress back at his elbow. “I’m going back to the kitchen. Laurel will be helping you folks.” She had a curious expression on her face as she nodded across the dining room.

As she walked away, Brand had a clear view of the interior of the café. He noted the appreciative stares of the enlisted and other
men around the room, followed their gazes, and found himself staring at Laura.

All breath left him.

“Hey, Miss Laurel. Evenin’,” one of the soldiers said. “It’s about time you showed up. You know we’re all here just for the pleasure of seeing you.” There was nothing impolite about the way the solider addressed her, only the deepest admiration and respect.

Laura’s smile lit up the room. She was thinner, but her dimpled grin was her own. More than that, there was a new, radiant peacefulness about her.

“Thank you kindly, Private Tipton,” she said. “Now what’ll you gentlemen have tonight? Stew or meatloaf?”

Laurel.

Laura.

He’d found her.

She knew each man at the table by name. She smiled politely, but demurely. Her hair—he’d never seen it so severely styled—was braided and pinned atop her head. He missed her curls and found himself wishing he had the right to walk across the room, take her hair down, and separate the braided strands into a fine, shimmering nimbus.

Content to watch her, he remained as still as the frozen sleet caught in the nooks and crannies outside the adobe. Rather than risk a scene, he chose to wait until she noticed him.

Everything he’d practiced saying for when he found her left him. All he could do was drink in the sight of her and say a silent prayer of thanks.

“You wanna pick your jaw up off the table?” Jesse paused with a spoonful of stew halfway to his mouth to stare at Brand. “What’s wrong?”

When Brand didn’t answer, Jesse looked back over his shoulder to see what had caught Brand’s eye.

L
aura had learned to become aware of every nuance of movement at the tables. When customers turned to look for her, it was because they needed something—more coffee, some water, another helping of food.

She scanned the tables, immediately arrested when her gaze stopped on the familiar face of a young man. His dark hair was long enough to skim his shoulders. His eyes were black. She watched them widen in disbelief.