Hope Reborn (12 page)

Suddenly, it dawned on him that this was the first Saturday evening in six years he hadn’t teared up heating the bath water for his babies. Maybe his time of mourning had come to its end.

He looked around. He’d built the bathhouse for Sue, and the big house. They were hers and his and held so many memories. He sighed. Should he go west, escape all this and start making some new memories?

The land there in the Red River Valley belonged to her and Levi. Well, he’d more than quadrupled the Baylor brothers’ original holdings. Could be time to follow that dream to Llano, do something different.

But he hated splitting the family up, too. Mercy, the clan had grown so big. If he’d read Wallace right, Rebecca had turned him down one more time. Might do the both of them good to have several hundred miles separating them.

Probably a good idea to go ahead and get everything legally separated. Levi and Rose could have the big house, and he could build himself one even grander, make it bigger.

An image of him and May pouring over a set of plans floated across his mind’s eye.

Oh, Lord, please do not let me act like a silly old man. She’s so young and famous. Why in the world would she want to stay there in Texas?

What a wonderful treat! Except for the snake. May didn’t much care for it when Rebecca blew off the water moccasin’s head. Texas women were as tough as the men.

She didn’t like it either when New Blue thought a snake snack peachy keen delicious. But, oh, that pocket of cold water right in front of the levy; now that was to die for.

The dash from the wagon to the bathhouse exhilarated her—then seeing it. Who would have ever thought to build such a nice place to bathe out in the woods?

Perhaps Henry would agree to adopt her, be her daddy, too, and she could live out the rest of her days in Texas. Chester seemed perfectly content to sit in Mammy’s kitchen and chat the days away. May had even caught him helping chop vegetables.

While Miss Laura oversaw the little girls getting clean, May and the ladies tended to the mules and wagon. Well all she did was watch in amazement.

Rebecca and Rose unhitched the harness while Mary Rachel put grain and hay in the animals’ stalls. The three worked like they had done it a thousand times.

And the barn, a work of art in itself. The notched beam overhead fit perfectly into the post’s notch and then nothing but little old wooden pegs held them together.

Really, what kind of man was Henry Buckmeyer? She’d read about Caesar building a bridge in three days, but he had five legions of men to do the work. How many in a legion? Oh, yes, a thousand.

No wonder.

On second blush, the fantasy didn’t work. She didn’t want to be Henry’s daughter, she wanted to be his wife, wake up every morning beside him. Listen to him talk about everything from peanuts to politics.

Her desire to know him so inside and out—that ate at her day and night. He would become a part of her, and she would be as close as his next shave. Oh, May, May, May. A romance writer should be able to come up with something better than that.

As much fun as swimming with the little girls had been, she’d so much rather frolic in the water with their daddy. Of its own, her hand pressed against her tummy.

Would he want another baby?

The inside of the bathhouse showed the thought and care that went into its building and impressed her even more than the outside. The tub must have been eight foot in diameter, held all the little girls together at one time.

They seemed to have as much fun bathing as swimming in the lake. They helped wash each other’s hair at a number two wash tub set up on the wall just for that purpose. Their daddy truly thought of everything.

With all the little ones squeaky clean, Rebecca waved both hands, fingers pointing down as though sweeping. “Now all you little ladies skedaddle on up to the house. See if you can talk Daddy into reading you a story before supper. Get, get, get now, and leave us alone.”

Mary Rachel obviously loved being included in with the big girls. “Yes, indeed, shoo! You, too, Gwendolyn. You see them to the house without getting dirty.”

The fifteen-year-old glared. “That isn’t fair.”

“What?” Mary Rachel made a face. “What does Daddy always say? Life isn’t fair! So please, GB, take ‘em on up to the house.”

The ladies all peeled down to their camisoles and pantalettes, talking and laughing and sharing, so May followed their lead.

In the tub, they spread out and rested their arms along its top edge.

“So, Rebecca Ruth, did Wallace propose again?” Mary Rachel’s tone sounded more than a little bit bored.

“Yes, the man simply will not take no for an answer.”

“He sure wouldn’t have to ask me twice.”

“Sister! I never knew you were interested in Wallace Rusk. When did all this happen?”

“I don’t know. He’s handsome and funny. I think he’d make a grand husband and have never understood all your rejections.”

Rose shook her head. “Oh, Mary Rachel, don’t be in such a hurry to marry. Enjoy being a young single woman as long as you dare. Believe me. Marrying at fifteen is not as much fun as it may seem at your age.”

Rebecca kicked her feet and rippled the water. “I might consider him more seriously if he weren’t a lawman—always gone and always in danger—and I’ve clearly indicated as much, but he’ll never quit. I’d never marry a Texas Ranger.”

“Whoa now, sisters.” Rose dunked her head and came up smiling, her face framed in fiery red. “Let’s not speak negatively of being married to a man with such an honorable profession. Why, no one could even guess how many lives my Levi has saved. Mine included.”

May loved the banter. She’d never experienced having sisters, or even enjoyed close women friends she could confide in, speak of love with. Always considered that one of the reasons she turned to writing romance novels.

Dare she share?

“What kind of wood is this tub made from that holds water? It’s so smooth.”

Rose smiled. “Cypress, it’s native to these parts, grows around swamps and rivers. You came through Jefferson, didn’t you? They’re known for their Cypress Lake there.”

May giggled. “You used all three forms of ‘there’ in one sentence. I’ll have to remember that. It’s fun.”

Rebecca splashed water at her younger sister. “So, little cheater, getting to read Miss May’s next novel before all the rest, do you love it? Tell us about it.” She looked to May. “Can she?”

Her scribe smiled broadly and nodded. “It’s her best yet.” She pulled her shoulders upwards and closed her eyes. “It’s set in France, on the Riviera, so romantic, and oh, so.…”

She opened her eyes. “Just you wait.” She turned to May. “I’m hoping you might allow me to be your permanent scribe. If you’re happy with my penmanship, I mean. And I don’t even want any pay.”

May laughed. “Dear Mary Rachel, no one in the world would say anything bad about your lovely script. I’d be honored to have you, but I’m not certain your father would agree with you coming back to New York with me.

“Besides, I might even go on west. All the way to California. I’m thinking I’d enjoy doing a little prospecting, pick up a few gold nuggets.”

“Oh, that sounds so exciting.”

“What a wonderful adventure. I suppose you’d get a lot of great new ideas for your books.”

The conversation went on at least another fifteen minutes about the gold rush and how beautiful California would be and the excitement of seeing the Pacific Ocean and floating in its salt water.

Then church the next morning became the topic, who’d be there and when the next social was.

May listened closely, trying to understand why these wonderful, intelligent women would believe in a god they’d only heard stories about from a book some dreadfully old men wrote.

Did they deem her characters real as well? Whatever they thought, it didn’t matter. She loved these young ladies with an unfamiliar part of her heart.

Though she couldn’t understand the bond she experienced, she would wish nothing more than to have them all in her life until the day she died. Baylors and Buckmeyers alike.

She’d love having a tub full of daughters to adore.

Why, oh, why couldn’t she have met Henry long ago?

Before he gave his heart away to Sue?

Henry filled his lungs and willed himself calm.

A part of him wanted to leave her. He’d made a point of telling her that she needed to be ready by eight-thirty. However, the bigger part of him wanted her riding beside him in the buggy into town.

If she didn’t come on in the next few minutes, he’d have to send Levi and Jean Paul ahead in the wagons. No need for everyone to be late.

He would not ask Mary Rachel to go upstairs again though. The rustle of petticoats pulled him around.

He blinked once, then twice, but the vision didn’t vanish. May. How could one woman be so attractive? She floated down the stairs’ steps with the biggest smile he’d seen since meeting her.

The dress he’d asked Laura to make her obviously pleased the lady. She did it great justice.

The pale pink bodice with lavender accents brought out her dark features, and the double wide lace at her neck—Laura’s idea—the perfect touch to show off her beautiful face. A wide skirt with cascading wisteria blossoms accentuated her tiny waist.

The vision swayed toward him.

He lifted and extended his elbow. She took his arm. Her fragrance filled his senses, made him a bit lightheaded. He escorted her out and to the buggy. She took his hand to step up and into the carriage.

He climbed in after her. “You’re late.”

Why had he said that?

He had to stop speaking his mind, It was only a few minutes. He could make up the time.

Her smile vanished. He was angry with her, and she didn’t like that. She’d hurried as fast as she possibly could, but her hair gave her fits, and she never wanted to go in the first place.

Why was she?

Why hadn’t she stood up last night at supper and told him the truth? What she believed. Because she wanted to make him happy, didn’t want to upset his stupid superstitions, wanted him to love her.

That’s why.

“I apologize, Henry. Perhaps you should go on without me next time. It wasn’t my objective to make the lot of you late to your church meeting.”

Her tone sounded sharper than she’d intended, but his rebuke irritated her to the core. He should realize her sacrifice to even go and appreciate that instead of being angry with her.

“Of course you’re forgiven, but I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m usually more patient, but….” He patted her hand then slapped the reins over the matched pair of blacks. “You look lovely in that new dress. Coming down the stairs, I thought...well…I’m glad you like it.”

What had he thought? Why doesn’t he say what’s on his mind? Her mad melted into a puddle at her feet, and she glanced over. “Laura said you asked her to sew it for me. That was so thoughtful, and it is beautiful. Thank you.”

“My pleasure.”

The two covered wagons pulled out after the buggy. “The Buckmeyers certainly are their own parade with everyone going together. Do you all go every Sunday?”

“Yes, ma’am. It’s the highlight of our week, gathering at the Lord’s house and worshipping. Gives a person the strength to make it through the next week. Don’t know how the heathens make it through a day without Him.”

So! He’d considered her a heathen.

Well, she could certainly tell him that she had not one bit of trouble making it through the days. Imagine! Week after week; her whole adult life without needing or believing in a fairytale, omnipotent being.

She didn’t lean on some storybook deity created by man.

The horse’s rhythmic clippity-clop filled the silence between her and Henry. She’d so looked forward to being alone with him, and here she was—finally—and what was she doing?

Being angry and ruining her opportunity to get to know him better. How could she show him how wonderful she could be?

His religion was a part of him. She understood that, but he’d have to give her the same understanding and accept her right not to believe.

Well, she was on her way to his Methodist church, no matter her beliefs, so she might as well make the best of it. Enjoy every minute of the time alone with the amazing man on the trip to and from.

If there could ever be any chance of romance, the subject would definitely have to be discussed, but not this day. She took in a deep breath. “It’s a beautiful morning. Cooler than the last few days.”

The weather? She couldn’t think of anything better than the weather?

“Yes, but I’m still hunting that first Blue Norther.” He laughed. “I love Texas nine months out of the year. Seems the older I get, the more I hate the heat.”

“We could trade. You, Houston, and the little ladies come to New York in the summer, and Chester and I can come here in late fall, stay for the winter months, out of all that ice and snow up north.”

He glanced at her and smiled. “I’d like that. Sounds like a fine idea. You have room for all of us?”

She nodded. Certainly, she had a place for him. “Oh, yes. Chester found me a great deal on a lovely brownstone that’s right across from Central Park.”

“City fathers did good leaving all that green.”

“It is lovely. The place took most of my last royalty check, but it was worth it. The poor woman I bought it from—her husband had died and her children wanted their share—Chester got it well under market.”

The man chuckled. “Sounds like Levi. He’s been buying us headrights for years. That’s how we put the big ranch together.”

“Headright? What is that?”

He launched into an explanation of how in Texas’ early years, the politicians had offered land to entice settlers, and even a single man could get over seventeen hundred acres.

They handed the head of a family over four thousand acres. She loved the information, all of it great fodder, but more, she loved the sound of his voice.

He could believe anything he wanted to as long as he kept on bathing her in that beautiful baritone.

Too soon, he reined the team to a stop in front of a quaint little rock church building up ahead on a hill. Seemed the whole town was there, or close to it from the multitudes of buggies and wagons and saddled horses tied to a long pick line.

Next to the building, a bigger, open-walled structure with pews and pulpit graced the well manicured church lawn.

Guess it made sense. Instead of the sixty or so folks milling about cramming into the building in this Texas heat, everyone could be outside but in the shade. “Isn’t that a tabernacle?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He jumped down, tied the team, then opened her door. She took his hand and stepped out. Then he extended his arm. How proud walking beside him made her, her hand resting on his arm.

Seemed the man knew everyone and called most by name as he introduced her on their long many-times-interrupted walk toward the building. Had to be one reason he didn’t like being late.

He made a point of letting everyone know that she was the May Meriwether who had written all those wonderful romance stories that his girls loved reading.

Women claiming to be fans and avid readers of all her works stopped him along the way and gushed over her something awful. She caught Henry grinning.

A hand on his other arm stopped him. “Henry, I hoped to see you. How have you been?”

“May, this is ‘Lizbeth Cooper; Liz, this is May…”

“Yes, yes, I know.” The young lady extended her hand, but kept her other one on Henry’s arm. “Just about everyone in town’s been talking about your houseguest.”

May took the woman’s hand, and offered her best why-am-I-talking-to-the-likes-of-you smile. “Mis’ess Cooper.”

“Actually, it’s Akins.” She turned back to Henry. “I’ve taken back my maiden name. Daniel took off better than a year ago; the judge said I didn’t have to keep his name now that I was legally single again.”

“I hate to hear that, Liz.” He lifted her hand from his arm. May loved it. “You’ll excuse us. We best take our seats.”

Third row from the front. Why did he have to sit so close? There’d be no way she could possibly slip out without all his friends seeing. And that Liz creature sat right across the center aisle shooting her daggers.

Very obviously, the girl wanted to get her hooks into Henry. She understood him needing his daughters to protect him. And sitting right there in church. What a full-blown brazen hussy.

The preacher or deacon—whatever they called the man—got up and made some announcements, then another guy—was he the cantor?—took front stage, turned his hands palms up, raised them slightly, and everyone stood.

May didn’t want to stand, being perfectly comfortable sitting, but she scooted forward a bit. Henry extended his hand. How could she turn down the opportunity to touch and be touched by the man?

Especially right there in the midst of all his neighbors and in full sight of his God and that legally divorced Lizbeth. Why, it almost seemed like her duty.

He helped May to her feet and gave her a little squeeze then didn’t take his hand away, so she gave him a little squeeze back and hung on. A tingle ran up her arm and all the way to her heart.

It was fun to be naughty in front of God and everyone. If she wasn’t such a good, moral woman, she could show them all a thing or three, especially with Henry.

She could have him eating out of the palm of her hand if only he weren’t so in love with dead Sue. She chided herself to stop being bad. She’d waited so long, and would not settle for a tumble in the hay, no matter how wonderful the man.

But would he—if she were willing? Good thing she’d never find out. So there. Let that hussy shoot her daggers. Henry Buckmeyer held May’s hand.

The front fellow opened his mouth and belted out a song. Most joined in by the third or fourth word. “Streams of mercy, never ceasing, call for songs of loudest praise. Teach me some melodious sonnet.”

Henry said mercy a lot. Streams of never ceasing mercy. That sounded good.

His lips moved, but she couldn’t make out his baritone. She quit focusing on the words and listened harder to hear him. Was he singing at all?

After two songs, rather pleasant lively tunes that May had never heard before, the cantor had everyone sit down then started another slower song. She paid careful attention to the words again.

“Sweet hour of prayer! Sweet hour of prayer! That calls me from a world of care, and bids me at my Father’s throne make all my wants and wishes known.” What a beautiful thought.

“In seasons of distress and grief, my soul has often found relief, and oft escaped the tempter’s snare, by thy return, sweet hour of prayer!”

Oh, to have her soul relieved. Who made up all these hymns? And why hadn’t she ever heard any of them before? Well, that was obvious, she didn’t go to church.

She may not believe in these people’s God, but still, their music pleased her deep inside. Too bad she didn’t write plays. A good musical always packed the theater.

After another slow number, the deacon—if that’s what they called him; she might have it wrong—got back up and told everyone to open their Bibles to some scripture.

She had one somewhere. Chester had given it to her when she was in her early twenties, but she hadn’t thought to bring it. Had he packed it? Probably not, knowing she never read it.

What difference would it make anyway? Reading some long-dead-men’s claims the Almighty had told them something or other in a trance or dream.