Prairie Storm (2 page)

Straight and tall, with deeply tanned skin and piercing blue eyes, he towered over his congregation like a stately cottonwood tree. Rather than a fine silk top hat, the preacher wore a brown Stetson that perched just above his dark brows and straight slash of a nose. In a blue chambray shirt, worn denim trousers, and scuffed leather boots, he looked like he ought to be rounding up strays on a Texas cattle ranch. But there he stood, waving his big black Bible and barking out Scripture like John the Baptist himself.

Lily glared at him. Three or four months more with the traveling show and she would have enough money for a train ticket to Philadelphia. Though she had fled her pious father almost two years before and had vowed never to return, now Lily was determined to journey back to the big brownstone that once had been her home. The consequences would be severe, she knew, but her future with the show held no hope at all.

Lily heard the woman's husband, Seth, give a grunt of disgust. “This little town has had enough troubles without a bunch of ne'er-do-wells looking to skin the locals.”

“Aye,” the Irishwoman agreed. “These sorts of people wander through Ireland in bright caravans, selling useless potions and swindling innocents of their hard-earned coins. The doctors are bad, and the fortune-tellers are worse. But 'tis the actors who cause all the bawdy revelry.”

Behind them Lily bristled. It was true that Dr. Kasmarzik's potion, which sold for ten cents a bottle, was nothing more than a mixture of corn syrup, vinegar, peppermint oil, and a dash of turpentine. But her acting had never caused one moment of bawdiness. She performed selections from Shakespeare and the poets of Europe. She played the melodeon and sang arias from the great operas. Educated at the finest school for young ladies in Philadelphia, she brought culture and dignity to Dr. Kasmarzik's show. If customers did sometimes get out of hand, it certainly wasn't due to her performances.

“I've seen whole villages run amok when the traveling caravans passed through,” the flame-haired Caitrin continued. “Husbands neglect their chores, and their wives form long lines at the fortune-teller's wagon. Children roam about neglected and hungry. On top of all that, the members of the traveling shows usually manage to steal anything left unattended.”

Of all the gall
, Lily thought, clenching her teeth. How dare these provincial prairie hens accuse her of thievery! She considered passing around them, but they continued on in the direction of the baby's cries, so she followed.

The preacher had managed to draw a bigger crowd than Madame Zahara, Lily realized. At thirty-five, Beatrice Waldowski cast a commanding presence in her flowing robes, long raven hair, crimson lips, and sultry brown eyes outlined in black kohl. Lily was never sure whether it was Madame Zahara's mystic predictions or the intimidating woman herself who struck awe in the hearts of the most rough-hewn customers. Whatever it was brought them back night after night to spend their coins at her table.

But now she had stiff competition. The preacher had spread open his Bible in his big hand and was holding it out toward the people like a plate of tempting hors d'oeuvres. The evening breeze riffled the thin pages, lifting and turning them one at a time, but the preacher didn't seem to notice. He just kept right on talking, reciting the story of Nicodemus's visit to Jesus in the middle of the night.

Lily shook her head. How many times had she heard
that
sermon? She could probably preach it with as much accuracy as she could recite Jakov Kasmarzik's opening act for the traveling show. Before long the preacher would announce those familiar words, “For God so loved the world—”

Ha
, Lily thought. If God loved the world so much, why had he allowed her father to beat her black and blue while her mother stood by wringing her hands and doing nothing? Why had God let Ted and Jakov die of diphtheria? Why had he snatched away helpless little Abigail? For that matter, why was God permitting that poor baby in the distance to go on crying unattended? Couldn't any of these pious Crawthumpers hear the child's sobs? To her, the baby's wails sounded as loud and demanding as the clanging bells of a fire wagon.

“Do you suppose Madame Zahara really can tell a person what's going to happen, Caitie?” The woman named Rosie paused to look back at the tent where Lily's table was set up. “Do you think she might know whether I'm bearing a boy or a girl?”

When the two couples halted at the edge of the crowd, Lily tried to move around them, but they were blocking her path. The preacher had packed the people as close around him as oysters in a can. Rooted to the ground, the crowd gaped upward as the man expounded on his text.

“You'll not set foot near that wagon, Rosie,” Caitrin said in a loud whisper. “Sure, you recall the very words of Scripture about such deviltry.”

“I do not. I've been to church all my life, and I don't recall anyone ever saying it was wrong to visit a fortune-teller.”

“It's in the middle of Deuteronomy, Rosie,” Seth drawled. “I remember reading it that time you made me search for the verse about foundlings.”

“I declare,” Rosie muttered. “One of these days Deuteronomy is going to do me in.”

Lily searched for another way through the crowd as Caitrin pulled a small Bible from her pocket and scanned the pages. “Here 'tis. ‘There shall not be found among you any one that maketh his son or his daughter to pass through the fire,'” she read in a low voice, “‘or that useth divination, or an observer of times, or an enchanter, or a witch, or a charmer, or a consulter with familiar spirits, or a wizard, or a necromancer. For all that do these things are an abomination unto the Lord.'”

“Well, for pete's sakey,” Rosie whispered. “I had no idea.”

Lily pinched her lips and tapped the woman on the shoulder. “Excuse me,” she said. “Could you step aside, ma'am? I'm trying to find that crying baby.”

Brown eyes focused on Lily, roving from her white blonde hair down the purple velvet cape to the tips of her scuffed brown boots. “Oh, have you lost your baby?”

Lily swallowed as the question stabbed through her. “Oh,” she breathed. “Yes, I've lost … lost my baby. My Abigail.”

“I can hear her crying,” Rosie whispered. “Where did you leave your child?”

“I don't … don't know where she is.” Lily shook her head. That wasn't what she meant to say. She knew Abigail was buried in the little box. The wooden box. “I need my baby. I can't … I can't stop hearing the cries.”

“We'll find your daughter,” Rosie said, taking Lily's hand. “Come on, Caitrin. Let's help this poor woman look for her baby. In the crush of people, the dear child could get hurt. Seth, you and Jack stay right here. We'll be back in a minute.”

“I hear the wee one now,” Caitrin said, in a strong Irish lilt. “'Tis on the other side beyond the Reverend Book. Let's go around the crowd.”

Lily tried to force down the tears that welled unexpectedly in her eyes as the two women began to move her toward the sound she had been following. She wanted to tell them it wasn't Abigail, that her baby was dead, that this was some other woman's child. But the preacher's voice rang too loudly, hammering every word into the silence like a nail into a coffin.

“‘Except a man be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God!'” he thundered. Lily huddled down between Rosie and Caitrin as they pressed her through the throng. “‘How can a man be born when he is old? can he enter the second time into his mother's womb, and be born?'”

No
, Lily thought. Abby was dead, and she could never be born a second time. Only once would that precious newborn be laid on her mother's exhausted body. Only once would Lily feel the gentle pressure of the baby's weight in her arms, the nuzzle of a pink cheek, the grip of tiny fingers. Abby was lost. Lost forever.

“I've found her!” Rosie cried, dragging Lily toward a leather saddlebag hanging on the side of a horse that had been hobbled near the road. Within the pouch, something pushed, wriggled, and flailed as a cacophony of desperate cries drifted into the evening air. “Here's your baby!”

“Abigail?” Lily whispered, approaching the bag. Her heart faltered as she laid her hand on the soft leather. At her touch, the wailing ceased. But this couldn't be Abby. There must be another mother nearby. Some woman had left her baby in this bag. But why?

“Goodness gracious,” Rosie said, “why did you put your daughter into a saddlebag? That's no place for a baby.”

“No, I—” The baby began to wail again, cutting off her words.

“Why don't you take the poor little thing out and feed her? I grew up in an orphanage, and I've taken care of many a baby. I can almost bet your sweet Abigail is wet and hungry.”

Hardly able to make herself breathe, Lily drew open the leather pouch and slipped her hands around the warm, damp little body. Oh, Abigail! The baby felt just like Abby … only smaller … newer. She lifted the squirming bundle out of the bag and tucked it against her neck. The child's soft lips immediately began to root hungrily.

“Aw, she's precious!” Rosie cried. “But she looks like she's half-starved. You'd better feed her.”

“Aye, sit here on this blanket,” Caitrin spoke up, guiding Lily to a square of brightly woven wool stripes spread beneath a spindly tree. “Is this your camp? Here, I'll put the pillow behind your back. There now, little Abigail is so hungry she can hardly bear it. Sure, she's all wrinkled up like a newborn! How old is she?”

Lily couldn't make herself speak. The kicking baby clung to her, sobbing in anguish as she tucked it beneath the purple cape. Where was the child's mother? She was the one who should be feeding this baby.

“Do you need help with your buttons?” Rosie asked, kneeling on the blanket.

“No, I can … I can do this.” Lily couldn't hold back her tears as she performed the familiar motions of slipping apart the row of buttons, untying her camisole ribbon, and nestling the baby close. The moment the child began to nurse, all crying ceased, and the tiny legs curled into a ball.

“Abigail was famished!” Rosie said with a laugh. “Goodness, I don't believe she'd been fed for hours.”

“
Whisht
, Rosie,” Caitrin murmured. “The lady's still weeping, can't you see? There now, madam, you've got your baby once again. The wee thing will forget all about her hunger in a moment, and the pair of you can have a good night's rest.”

Lily tried to stop crying. Truly she did. But as the baby drank milk meant for little Abby, her pain and longing only intensified. All around her, the world drifted away—the two caring women, the rough blanket, even the preacher, whose voice droned like the hum of a lazy bee. The baby's fingers were splayed across the bodice of Lily's dress, and she knew they were not Abby's fingers. The tiny head wreathed in a cloud of dark curls bore no resemblance to Abby with her golden wisps. The face was smaller, the cheeks sunken, the skin wrinkled. Abigail had been plump and round, at four months the picture of health. This was not Abby.

“She's still crying,” Rosie whispered to Caitrin. “I hate to leave her alone like this.”

The Irishwoman glanced over her shoulder. “The preaching's nearly finished for the evening, so it is. Sure, we'd best get back to our men.” She laid a hand on Lily's arm. “Are you all right? I know you're not from one of the homesteads around Hope, so you must have come traveling our way. Perhaps Rosie and I could have a look in the crowd for your husband.”

“My husband is dead,” Lily whispered as she cupped the baby's tiny head. The child was still nursing as though every drop of milk must be drained into her tiny, shrunken stomach. Lily shifted the baby into her other arm, and the child began to suckle again. “Three days ago. He's buried near Topeka. My daughter lies beside him.”

“Your daughter?”

Lily brushed her damp cheek. “I buried her in a wooden box.”

“Oh, dear,” Rosie said. “I'm so sorry. No wonder you're upset—a husband and a daughter both gone. I couldn't imagine how any woman could forget where she'd put her baby, but now I see you've been through a terrible trial. If I lost Seth and Chipper, I'd be just wild with grief. I couldn't bear it. Oh, honey, do you and little Abigail need a place to sleep tonight? I hate to think of you out here on the prairie with nothing but a blanket and that old horse. Seth and I have a great big house, lots of space, and we'd be glad to put you and your daughter up for the night.”

Lily could feel that the baby had finally drifted off to sleep, warm and content at last. “No, no, you don't understand,” she murmured, drawing the tiny form out from beneath the purple cape and gazing down at the child's blissful face. “This is … this is going to be all right. In a moment, I'll leave.”

“Leave?” Caitrin exclaimed. “But 'tis almost fully dark now. You're a nursing mother and a
frainey
one at that. Sure, you can't be tramping down the road in the middle of the night.”

“Hey!” The preacher's voice pealed out like a clap of thunder. “What's going on here?”

Lily's head snapped up. Just beyond the blanket stood the two men who had accompanied Rosie and Caitrin. Between them, his boots planted a pace apart on the prairie grass, towered the preacher. He swept off his Stetson, took a step toward the women, and punched the air with his forefinger.

“Look here, lady,” he snarled at Lily. “I don't know who you are or what you're up to, but you'd better hand over my baby. I've been given two jobs to do in this world. One of them is to preach the gospel. And the other is to take care of Samuel.”

“Samuel?” Rosie and Caitrin said in unison.
“Samuel?”

Chapter 2

Y
ES, Samuel. That's my baby.” Elijah stuffed his hat back onto his head and took another step toward the pretty blonde-haired woman in the purple cape. What was going on here? “Who're you?”