The revival was over. Like a stone pulled from a fast-moving stream, leaving only silty depression and a placid surface, life in Buckskin Joe smoothed out now that the impediment was gone. Amy felt the difference in herself and saw her relief mirrored on the faces around her.
But there was one difference. In her life the hole was still there, and the silt trickled slowly—too slowly to hide the pain she felt. But then, the others in Buckskin Joe weren’t as attached to the lanky evangelist with the brown eyes.
Within a week the snow came again. The wind howled, and drifts piled up, raking the meadow bare and stacking the snow against the cabins until sometimes only chimneys were visible.
Those miners who hadn’t fled to a lower altitude found themselves without occupation. The stamp mill ceased its monotonous pounding, and Buckskin Joe was held in a quietness that amplified the braying of the jacks and the muffled gurgle of the waterfall.
The miners moved from saloon to home and back again, wallowing through the drifts as if the snow itself must be challenged.
Shortly after Daniel’s departure, Father Dyer also left, snowshoeing over the mountains to minister to another flock in another mining camp.
That week of the storm, while Buckskin Joe was digging out and life was restricted to the necessary, Amy once again considered the black velvet cloak hanging from the tallest hook in her bedroom.
Just having it in the room brought back dreadful memories of the day Silverheels had wrapped it around her. She could still see Lizzie’s flushed, pain-filled face even though the picture was overlapped with the memory of that bleak caravan winding down to the rocky, snow-swept cemetery.
Amy recalled the things Father Dyer had said at the graveside. As he spoke his face had turned from one to the other of the flower-bright girls. And Amy had watched them shed his words, like delicate blossoms repelling spring showers.
But Amy had left that place feeling his words heavy against her heart. Father Dyer had talked about the prostitutes Jesus had encountered, and how His word to them had changed their lives even as He forgave their sins.
As Amy turned to go, Father Dyer lifted his hand and quoted Jesus’ words. Crystal Thomas was standing there, her dusky skin glowing and her lips moving as she quoted the words along with him. “‘I am the resurrection and the life; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live:…believest thou this?’”
Changed. That was Daniel’s word, and it made her think of his sermon. Some of the words still bounced around in her thoughts: How much more shall…the blood of Christ purge…to serve the living God?
In his sermon he had talked about this kind of change. He called it being redeemed, not only for eternity but for now. And for a moment, she hoped.
The cloak continued to hang in Amy’s room. Finally Augusta spurred Amy to action. On the day that the sun came out, warming and cheering all of Buckskin Joe, she peered around the doorpost at Amy. Nodding at the cloak hanging there she said, “Might as well take that back. You wear it and people’ll line you up with Silverheels. Don’t wear it, and she’ll want it back.”
“I’d better,” Amy said with a sigh. “As long as the stages aren’t running, I can’t work at the post office; there’s no want of me at the Grand Hotel. I might as well go up there.”
Augusta left and Amy set aside her mending. She went to lift the cloak down from its hook. Most certainly it was too long for her. “Best be rid of it,” she murmured, shuddering.
But just one more time she wanted to feel its luxury against her face. Amy slipped it around her shoulders and tried to see her reflection as she turned in front of her scrap of a mirror.
Silverheels’ perfume still clung to the cloak. But all Amy’s turning merited her nothing; the mirror simply wasn’t large enough. With a sigh, Amy pushed her hands deep into the pockets as she turned away. A piece of paper cracked beneath her fingers.
Slowly Amy pulled out the paper and turned it over. It seemed to be a portion of a very old envelope, and it was folded over an oval object. Jewelry? Amy’s curiosity prodded her to unfold the paper, even while her conscience stung.
There was writing on the envelope, but Amy’s fingers were intent on lifting out the oval. Not jewelry; just a dim old photograph set in an ornate frame.
She carried the photograph to the window and held it up. With a gasp, she bent closer. Surely not another coincidence! As she fingered it, she realized a second glance wasn’t necessary. The photograph was identical to the one Father had on his dresser!
Slowly she picked up the envelope and smoothed out the paper. The first words stated: Property of—the name was spread across the paper—Amelia Randolph. Amy’s heart thumped until her whole body trembled. She sat down and tried to calm herself. When she picked up the envelope to study the curiously rounded letters, she remembered something else. Crystal, that woman Augusta hired, had referred to Silverheels as Amelia.
Studying the round bold signature, Amy murmured, “I’m nearly certain that this is the very writing I saw on the envelope in Father’s trunk.”
She tried to persuade herself, murmuring, “The name’s common.” But that writing, those rounded letters, they were uncommon. Amy picked up the photograph again. She recognized the dress. Even though the picture was dim, she could see the tucking, the rose embroidery. “It’s blue with pink roses,” Amy murmured. “I know; the dress is at home in the trunk, next to the letter with this same curious, rounded writing.”
Amy paced the room. “I’m certain this is a copy of the photograph Father has. I’ve seen it often enough. This is a photograph of me when I was just three.”
Clutching the oval, she went to sit on the bed, staring down at the object. She was finding it difficult to think clearly, but facts couldn’t be denied.
Finally she got up. Moving quickly before she could change her mind, Amy gathered up the cloak, thrust the paper and photograph back into the pocket, and ran downstairs.
“Augusta, may I borrow your old coat while I return this cloak and pick up my shawl?” Augusta looked up from the pie crusts she was rolling and nodded.
Plunging through the snow to the road and on to the meadow, Amy nearly lost her courage. But the paper crackled in her hand. She began to walk faster.
By the time she reached the front door of the boardinghouse, Amy’s heart was thumping with gladness, and all the questions were being shoved to the back of her mind.
Running into the hall, Amy tapped on Silverheels’ door. There was no answer. As she hesitated, disappointed and trembling, Amy heard the stairs creak.
She ran to the stairwell and stopped. It was Silverheels. Amy clung to the bannister, waiting breathlessly. It was too much, too unbelievable.
Silverheels stopped on the stairs. Her pale face was tilted, unaware of Amy. She seemed to be listening as she lingered on the steps. Watching, Amy decided she must have just awakened. There was a strange dazed expression on her face.
Amy wanted to fly up the steps, but her trembling legs kept her there, waiting. There was a softness on Silverheels’ troubled face. A mother look. Amy blinked at the tears in her eyes as the woman slowly, hesitantly, walked down the stairs.
When she reached the landing, Amy’s questions were settled. It didn’t matter what she was; this woman was her mother—only that was important.
She clung to the railing for support as she whispered, “You really are my mother. I know you now. So long ago. I was tiny, but I remember.”
She saw Silverheels’ ashen face clearly for just one moment before her tears veiled it. “Mother, oh, Mother! Did you know they told me you were dead?”
Amy could smell Silverheels’ perfume. Blind from her tears, she reached and the woman’s arms closed around her.
When Amy could control her sobbing, Silverheels led her down the hall to her room. Once the door was closed, they faced each other. Silverheels examined Amy’s tear-streaked face. For a moment her voice broke and then became firm as she said, “Amy, you are my dear little girl, but you are forgetting—”
Amy shook her head. “Let’s not talk about that. Please, just tell me what happened and why.”
The woman stiffened. Leading the way to the round pink couch, she patted the cushions in place and slowly said, “I’m stunned. Of course I’d guessed, but never did I dream that you would. How—”
Amy placed the photograph on Silverheels’ knee. “It was in the pocket of the cloak you gave me to wear.”
“Oh, how careless. I’d been going through things.”
“You mean you wouldn’t have told me?”
“Amy, I didn’t think you’d accept me.”
Amy pressed her fingers against her eyes. “But you are my mother, and that means everything. I—I guess I can’t understand, but now that I’ve found you, I don’t intend to leave you ever.”
After a long silence, Silverheels asked, “What about your husband?”
“That’s not working out.”
There was a twisted bitter smile on Silverheels’ face, “What will your father say?” Amy stared at her. The smile was like a hand pushing them apart. Amy felt it and fought.
Moving quickly she pressed her head against the soft shoulder and felt only resistance. But after a moment their arms went around each other and Amy sobbed, “Oh, Mother, I can scarcely believe this. Why did Father tell me you were dead? Why—” She bent over, crying uncontrollably.
“Hush, my dear.” Soft fingers pressed against Amy’s lips and then, with a quiet moan, Silverheels lifted Amy’s face with both hands. “If only you knew—”
Abruptly she stopped and pushed Amy away from her. Jumping to her feet, she paced the floor in quick, hard steps, stopping frequently to press her hands together, to wheel and come back. Amy mopped her eyes, crying softly.
Silverheels knelt in front of Amy, pressing a fresh handkerchief into her hands, “There, don’t carry on so.”
Amy wiped her eyes and sat up. Silverheels’ smile was sunny and tender as she said, “We’re big girls now, and we don’t cry.”
Then she frowned again, got to her feet, and paced the floor. Amy watched the quick, hard steps.
Coming back to her, Silverheels said, “Of course, my dear, it is unthinkable for you to remain. I have my career.” The words were clipped and she gave her twisted smile again. “I’m certain your father will drive me out of town if he were to find out that—”
Amy exclaimed sharply, “Do you mean that—” she couldn’t continue, but Silverheels nodded with a faint, sad smile. Slowly Amy said, “I didn’t dream Father would be like that.” She looked up and said, “And having found you, I’ll never leave you.”
Silverheels slumped down on the couch with her head cradled on her arm. In a moment she sat up, sighing, “You don’t understand. You’re grown; you don’t need me. I’ve made my life and I know you won’t understand this, but I forbid you to waste yourself on me.”
She lifted her hand to stop Amy’s protest, and continued, her voice growing stronger with each word, “I not only want you to deny that I’m your mother, but I want you to leave Buckskin Joe. Go, forever.”
The soft note in Silverheels’ voice was gone, and as Amy watched, her mother’s face hardened. “I want you to catch the next stage and go home. Don’t ever mention my name again.”
Shaking her head in confusion, Amy pressed her fingers against her throbbing temples and caught her breath. “Leave when I’ve just found you? That’s impossible. Mother, how can you—”
Silverheels jumped to her feet and walked to the door. For a moment she stood with her back to Amy. When she whirled around, her face was contorted into ugliness. “It is unfortunate you bumbled into this whole affair, but now I must tell you. Amy, I left because I wanted to. I wanted my freedom more than I wanted my daughter. That hasn’t changed.
“I despise all that you stand for. You, your father, and your husband. Get out of my life.”
“Mother,” Amy pleaded, “you’re judging me by their narrowness; please—I intend to be my own person, too. Doesn’t that matter?”
“Let you stay and be the nice little self-sacrificing missionary? I don’t convert. Can’t you understand? I’m trying to be kind to you. Amy, I’m a prostitute. I’ll drag you down with me.
“Amy, go!” She gave a hoarse, choked laugh. “I’ll never acknowledge you as my child. It would ruin me to admit to a grown woman as my daughter. Forget about this. And don’t tell your father you’ve found me. Do you understand? I don’t want him whining at my door.” She ran to the dresser. Coming back she pushed a handful of coins into Amy’s hand. “Here; it’s gold—enough to get you home. I’m buying my freedom once again.”
She had her hand on Amy’s shoulder, moving her toward the hall. With a sharp jerk Amy whirled away, slashing out with her hands.
Silverheels caught and flung Amy onto the couch. “Amy, stop it! You’re being a good little missionary, but I’ll tell you something. Given the opportunity, you’d be just like your mother. I saw the way your eyes sparkled when you came here looking at the gals and their fellows. I saw you eyeing the pretty clothes and my jewelry. I could see you nearly green with envy over it all.
“And I’ll tell you something else. My passion is dancing; yours is the piano. But does it matter what it is? You’ll sell your soul for the piano, just as I sold mine for the dance. See, I know how Aunt Maude feels about pianos.” She leaned close to whisper, “Amy, down underneath, we’re alike, and you can’t escape it.” She paused, forced her voice between clenched teeth, and hissed out the words, “Now go. I don’t want to see you again ever. Get out of Buckskin Joe before I scratch your eyes out.”
Suddenly Mattie appeared. “Yer shawl is here. She had me wash it for you.” There was a man behind her. He came into the room with a lifted eyebrow and a grin.
“Theodore,” Silverheels murmured. “Please—until this evening. I’ll see you then. This is important.”
“A new one, huh? Pretty.” He chuckled and touched Amy’s hair. “Nearly as pretty as yours.”
Amy turned away. She was fighting the cold, sick anger welling up inside. Behind her, she heard the murmuring, the soft laughter, and the closing door.
While she waited, Amy picked up one of the china dolls from the table.
“Beautiful, isn’t she?” Silverheels’ brittle voice was behind her. “Just what every little girl dreams about. One of my lovers gave it to me. Take it to remember me.”
“There’s the cloak,” Amy pointed.
“I intended you to have it. Amy, I’d like to give you a nice heavy wrap if you don’t care for the cloak. I can well afford it.”
Amy’s emotions had flattened, and she discovered that she could speak with indifference, overlooking the arrogant statement. “It isn’t necessary. I need nothing more than I have.”
She faced Silverheels, waiting and wondering.
“What is it, my dear?” The mocking voice shredded into pieces those precious early minutes. Amy accepted the cold, final separation. She looked around the room, seeing the luxury. A kind of deadness began taking over the new warmth.
“I was just thinking—not very many girls have their mothers die twice.” She looped the shawl over her arm.
Silverheels’ eyes were shadowed, but the smile on her face taunted Amy as she turned to go. She called, “Don’t forget your dolly.”
Amy turned and picked up the doll. The cold spot in her heart disappeared. She looked down at the doll. “When I was little I looked at dolls like this. They always belonged to the other children. I would have given anything to have had—” She paused, the rush of anger leaving her breathless.
One more second she stared at the beautiful, porcelain face; then Amy threw the doll with all her might, arrow straight, at Silverheels’ mocking smile.