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Late in the afternoon, Sarah stood in the hall of her new house and laughed out loud. She couldn’t help it. It felt good to be in her own home without Alfred or Stanley or Grandfather watching her. With Helen’s help, and that of a daily maid named Judith, it had only taken two weeks to change this shell of a house into a home, even with Miss Taylor—Cynthia as she asked to be called—coming over almost every day for a “friendly chat” as the young woman put it. Even Janie’s early marriage and sudden departure didn’t upset the rhythm of the house.
She looked down at her dress, the third one she’d worn since morning. Emma didn’t like the nursing mixture they’d been forced to use, since they couldn’t find a wet nurse who was willing to stay with them or come to the house several times a day. Sarah shook her head. Too many men in the town and too few quality women. It didn’t matter. She’d feed her daughter and endure the moments if the contents of the bottle didn’t stay down. She’d change clothes a dozen times a day as long as Emma stayed healthy.
The scent of potpourri filled the air, along with Helen’s voice singing one of her favorite hymns. Sarah couldn’t help but smile. The girl was always singing some hymn or other, unless someone walked across her freshly scrubbed floors with muddy or dusty shoes. Then, she let the offender know that if it happened a second time, that person would never taste another of her cinnamon rolls ever again. So far, the threat never had to be carried out.
Three small wooden crates, lined up like soldiers on the new rug in the front parlor, drew Sarah from the hall. Boxes from a time when her life had been filled with love, boxes that had been hidden from the men who would have destroyed them just to cause pain, boxes kept in safekeeping by Grandfather’s housekeeper, who had known her grandmother and father, gentle souls that they were.
With twilight falling, Sarah realized they needed more lamps in the room. She lit a lamp on a small side table by the sofa, then turned to the boxes in the darker corner. Now was as good a time as any to go through those. An iron crowbar lay on top of the first crate.
A shiver ran down her spine. So much time had passed. Would the things inside the box still hold as much meaning as before? Would they give her the comfort of cherished memories, or would they just be cold, empty relics of the past?
“Need some help?”
Sarah swung around, raising the crowbar gripped in her fist. A scream clawed up her throat.
“Whoa there, ma’am. I didn’t mean to startle you.” Someone bigger and taller stood over her. With the lamplight behind him, she couldn’t make out his face. All she saw was a big man, stronger and more powerful than she.
Danger. She was in danger. Memories flooded her mind of all those times before. She wouldn’t be used as a punching bag again. Not without a fight.
She swung the crowbar. He grabbed it and ripped from her hand. Sarah lurched backward and moved to the side, out of his reach, or so she hoped.
The lamp cast a dim light on the man. Narrowed eyes glared at her. A scowl settled on his face. The muscles on his arms bulged. His fingers tightened around the metal. His knuckles turned white.
He took a step toward her.
She shifted. Her heel caught in the hem of her skirt. She twisted about trying to save herself, but lost her balance. Her scream shattered the silence. The floor raced up to catch her. She wrapped herself into a ball, closing her eyes and covering her head with her arms. “Don’t hurt me. Please, please, don’t.”
Something thudded nearby.
He was everywhere, above her, all around her. No place to hide.
She tensed for the first blow. Alfred liked...
Something soft touched her hand.
“It’s me, Miss Sarah. It’s Helen. You’re safe. No one’s going to hurt you.”
Sarah opened her eyes. Helen knelt next to her. No one else was in the room.
***
Mac breathed hard as he stood in the hall, far enough back so Sarah wouldn’t see him, but near enough so he could still see what was happening in the parlor. A door opened somewhere at the back of the house. Probably the same door he had come in. Hollingsworth must be home. Mac headed for the kitchen. He needed to let Sarah’s brother know what just happened.
He got to the kitchen. Drew was kneeling on the floor, tickling Emma under the chin while she lay on a quilt. The little girl clapped her hand and laughed, while the little ball of fur— called a dog— jumped around and yapped.
Something deep in Mac’s heart twisted. How he wanted to be with his girls.
“Sorry, I’m late. My meeting with Stanley lasted longer than I’d planned.” A grin covered the young man’s face as the baby laughed again.
“Something happened.” Mac wasn’t sure what caused it, but suspicions were growing by the moment.
Andrew’s face paled to the shade of his white shirt. “Sarah?”
The young man started for the hall, but, but Mac grabbed him. “Stop a minute. Helen’s with her.”
“Is she hurt?”
“Just scared.”
The young man sucked in a deep breath. A little color seeped back into his face. “What happened?”
“I came in the back door there with a few things Helen had ordered and something your sister wanted. Helen said Mrs. Greer was in the parlor and to take it to her.” He shrugged. “I startled her when I took the crowbar she was waving around. She screamed, fell, balled up like a baby, begging me not to hurt her.”
Sweat popped out on Mac’s face and rolled down his face. What had he done to cause the woman’s reaction? He wiped his face with the cuff of his shirt. “Helen came in and calmed her down.” He shrugged. “Seemed like my presence upset her, so I watched them from the hall.”
Hollingsworth slumped against the wall. His head dropped until his chin rested against to his chest.
“I still don’t know exactly what I did wrong to set her off that way,” Mac continued, “but maybe if you tell me—”
“Nothing.” The young man raised his head, his eyes filled with misery. “You did nothing. Sarah has been through...she’s been through a lot in the last few years.”
The memory of their first meeting in the hotel restaurant flashed in Mac’s mind, the woman’s icy, hard voice stating her husband was dead. “Bad marriage?”
Hollingsworth nodded, pushed away from the wall, and headed for the hall. “I need to see if I can help.”
The babe started crying. Mac bent down and picked her up, then sat on one of the chairs surrounding the kitchen table. He couldn’t help but grin when she rubbed her hand across his unshaven face. She twisted up her lips but didn’t cry.
His arms ached to hold his own girls, but right now they were better off on the family ranch with his sister and grandparents. He would never have struck his wife, like Mrs. Greer’s husband had done to her.
Helen entered the room. “Mrs. Greer’s doing better. Her brother’s with her now.”
Mac kept his face turned from the housekeeper, as much as he could, and handed the baby to her. He grabbed his hat and hurried out the door. With a whistle and call, his dog followed him. Away from the house, he wiped the moisture from his eyes and walked to his room in the boardinghouse.
He trudged down the dark, dusty road and touched the pouch under his shirt. The worn paper barely crackled now. Why, Lizzie? The question kept pounding in his head. When would he find the answer?
***
Still dressed in her lace-trimmed nightgown and wrapper, Sarah stood by her bedroom window. She pulled back the curtain an inch or two. Her hand trembled as she gripped the fabric. A few choice words rolled around in her mind, but she pressed her lips together so they wouldn’t slip out.
Mac, no, Mr. MacPherson, sat in his wagon in front of the house, with his hound perched behind the wagon seat. Good manners dictated that she be dressed and greet him before he and Drew left for the mining camps, but she couldn’t face the freighter yet—not after the way she’d acted yesterday. Maybe by the time they returned, her embarrassment would fade enough to speak to him without cringing. But not today.
Someone knocked on her bedroom door. She crossed the room and opened it.
“Mac’s here. I’m ready to leave.” Drew held his hat in his hands, his fingers playing with the brim. His eyes looked over her face bit by bit, as if he could find answers to the questions he would not ask. “Are you sure you’ll be all right while I’m gone?”
Sarah forced a smile. She laid her hand over his to still the movement of his fingers. “I’ll be fine. Helen’s here. Go ahead and get your business done.”
“I’d stay, but Stanley’s already threatening to send a letter to Grandfather giving a poor report of my work here. For the life of me, I can’t figure out why he wants me to go around to the mining camps and see what kind of businesses the people want set up in gullies and along streams.”
“No one knows what goes on in the mind of Snarly the snitch.”
Sarah slapped her hand over her mouth. She had to force herself not to look around to see if Stanley were lurking around the corner, trying to find something to use against them.
Drew burst out laughing.
Sarah blinked a couple times, dropped her hand, and giggled. The giggles grew until they became full-blown laughter. She held her sides while tears rolled down her cheeks.
Drew pulled out his handkerchief and handed it to her. “I haven’t thought of that name in years. Remember how you used to scrunch up your face and mimic him after he told on us to Grandfather?”
Sarah nodded and wiped her eyes.
The clock on the mantle chimed the hour.
“You’d better go, or that man out there’ll be pounding on the front door soon.” Sarah stood on her tiptoes and gave her brother a small peck on the cheek. It was the first one she could remember giving him in years. It felt good to reach out and let her sisterly love show. “Please be careful out there.”
Drew cleared his throat. “Thanks, sister. I will.”
A few moments later, footsteps clattered down the stairs, then the front door opened and closed. Sarah moved to the window and pulled back the curtain as the wagon moved out of sight.
Time to get ready for the day—one that would probably include Cynthia. It had been two days since her last visit.
***
As the clock in the parlor stuck the ten o’clock hour, a knock rapped on the front door. From the chair where she sat holding Emma, Sarah could see Cynthia on the porch.
Helen set a fresh pot of tea on the table by the sofa and answered the door.
“Miss Taylor to see Mrs. Greer.”
Sarah couldn’t help but smile. Even out here in a mining town, Cynthia tried to act the part of a member of high society. Sarah knew she was being too hard on the young woman. During their visits, she had learned that Cynthia had grown up with nothing except a drunken mother and overbearing brother. And now the poor girl needed a friend to learn how to stand against the man.
A memory of one of the dinners shortly after she had been brought to Boston flashed through Sarah’s mind—Grandfather leering at a young lady. The poor child was hardly older than herself at the time, probably seventeen, maybe eighteen, and kept her head bowed after catching the old man’s stare.
Another shudder shook her. What would have happened to Cynthia if she hadn’t come to Central City?
Sarah drew in a cleansing breath. Here was something she could do, help that had been unavailable to her during her marriage to Alfred. She could steer Cynthia in the right direction. She just needed to be sure she wouldn’t have to deal with the young girl’s controlling brother.
Cynthia stepped into the parlor.
Sarah stood. “Good morning. I’m glad you came by this morning.” She glanced at Helen, then Cynthia’s chaperone, Mrs. Chatterley. As usual, the older woman slipped onto a chair in the corner, took out her tatting shuttle and went to work on some lace. Sarah couldn’t remember the woman ever saying anything. “Could you get a cup for Cynthia, please?”
Helen scowled as she stood in the hall. She nodded and slipped away.
Sarah couldn’t understand Helen’s reaction to Cynthia today.
“I was thinking of going to the mercantile,” Sarah said. “Would you care to join me?”
The girl’s eyes sparkled. “Oh, yes. I heard they had some new ribbon that is just beautiful, and I wanted to see it, but my brother didn’t have time to take me.” Her lips puffed out in a pout. “Sometimes I wish I were a man, so I could do the things I really want to do.”
Try as she might, Sarah couldn’t keep a smile from her lips. She turned and filled the cups Helen brought in to cover it, then handed the tea to the girl. Mrs. Chatterley never took anything.
She picked up her own cup. “What would you do if you were allowed?”
Cynthia set the tea on the table and glanced around the room, as if checking to make sure Mrs. Chatterley wasn’t listening. “I want to ride astride on a horse and learn to shoot a gun.” She kept her voice low. “Terrible things for a proper young woman to do.”
Sarah understood. After all, she had done those things when she was about thirteen or fourteen, although her parents hadn’t exactly approved. “Growing up, I used to ride like that with my best friend Melody. Her parents had horses, and we used to race each other and explore the hills around where we lived. Sometimes we even pretended that we were knights of old, rescuing fair damsels. Of course we had to take turns about who got to be the knight. Her brother even taught us how to shoot, so we could protect ourselves when we were out alone. Which was good, because one day we ran across a big old bear.”
Cynthia’s eyes grew wide. “Really?”
Sarah laughed. “Not really. It was just an old brown quilt that had somehow found its way over a stump. But we pretended it was a bear and practiced our shooting on it.” Remembering those fun-filled times, she let out a sigh. “Oh, how I miss Melody.”
“What happened to her?”
“I don’t know. After I married, I never heard from her again.” She patted the pocket in her skirt. “But I think of her every time I slip my derringer into my pocket.”
“You carry a gun?” Cynthia’s eyes grew even wider.
“Just a small one.” Sarah glanced at the chaperone, but the older woman’s chin rested on her ample chest. “Don’t give up on your dreams. Maybe someday you’ll get to ride astride, too.”
A little while later, Miss Taylor and her chaperone left.
With a deep frown, Helen returned to the parlor and sat. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
Sarah smiled at the worried look on her housekeeper’s face. “Oh, it can’t be as bad as that, can it?”
Helen twisted her fingers together. “I think so. When I was at the mercantile earlier, I saw Miss Taylor. She was with Mr. Snodgrass. When I asked the clerk about them, she told me they lived at the hotel. She is his sister.”
Shock ripped through Sarah. No. No. No. Sarah kept the words trapped behind her clenched teeth. Sweet little Cynthia, Stanley’s sister? Slowly, as she thought about both of their faces, she realized they had the same eyes, the same hair. Why hadn’t she noticed that before? What did Stanley hope to gain by using his sister in this way? Was Cynthia aware of what her brother was doing?
She couldn’t take the chance of having anything to do with Stanley or his sister. “Thank you, Helen, for letting me know this. I will send a note to Cynthia and explain that we will not be able to continue our visits.” She folded her hands in her lap. “If she calls, please let her know that I’m not receiving.”
***
With the reins gripped in his gloved hands, Mac leaned against the wooden back of the seat of his fully loaded wagon in the mid-morning light. The hound behind him let out a mournful howl.
Mac rolled his shoulder backward, nudging the dog. “Tair, quiet.”
The dog stopped his howling but continued to whine.
“What’s the matter with your dog, Mr. MacPherson?” The young man peeked at Tair.
“Call me Mac.”
“Fine, then you must call me Andrew or Drew, if you’ve a mind.”
“Drew it is. Now about the dog. You have to understand just how sensitive he is. He sees you all sad and upset, so he wants to commiserate. His howling is just his way of showing you he feels bad for you.”
Drew glanced from Mac to the dog, then back again. “Really?”
Mac loosened his hold on the reins. It was so much fun teasing this young greenhorn, just like fooling around with his younger cousins Daniel and Rob back at the ranch. “Yup, I’ve been traveling with him ever since he got over that beating those boys gave him, and he’s been just like this, sympathizing with anyone he’s around who seems sorrowful.”
“I’ve never seen a dog that...that—”
“Or it could be that he’s mourning over the fact that you’re sitting in his place on the seat.” Mac laughed when Drew almost jumped off the seat. “Whoa there, man. Tair’s fine where he is.”
Drew relaxed on the seat and stayed quiet for a moment, but only a moment. “Mac, can I ask you something?”
Mac tilted his head toward the young man. “What?”
“If I’m to set up the businesses the miners need, I need to understand them more than I do.”
Mac nodded. Sounded sensible.
“I’ve read the stories of men finding fortunes in the gold fields in California, and there’s gold here. I guess my question is why aren’t you mining for it instead of hauling freight? You’re strong and don’t seem to have any ties around here. I’d think you could make a great fortune by going into the hills and mining gold. You’ll never get rich as a freighter.”
Tair whimpered when Mac choked as he tried to swallow a deep chuckle. When he could draw a full breath, he looked at Drew. “First of all, I think you need to put aside those stories you’ve read. Most men out here barely eke out enough gold to make it worthwhile. Many go back home broken and broke. Some who do strike it rich drink and gamble it away. A few’ll save and send it back home. The rest just follow the dream of big riches until they die from the cold, the hunger, or the bullet from a man who thinks he has a better right to whatever gold might be in the land than the man he just killed.”
Drew’s face turned a shade paler.
Mac snapped the reins as the wagon headed up a slight incline. “Why would I want that kind of life?”
“For the fortune that’s out there,” Drew said. “So you would be independent. So you didn’t have to be at someone’s beck and call for your very livelihood. It’s what I wish I could be.”
Mac shook his head. The boy had some problems to work through. He’d seen it often with his cousins on the farm back East and now on the ranch. Young men who chafe at authority, who buck at having to follow orders. “If it’s that all-fired important to you, why don’t you go mine for your fortune? You might be one of the lucky ones.”
Drew slumped on the seat. His hands clasped as his elbows rested on his legs. “I can’t leave my sister. She’s been through too much. And besides, there’s Stanley. I’ve got to stay and protect her.”
“I’ve answered your question, now answer mine. What’s the situation with your sister and Snodgrass?”
Drew sat rigid for several minutes as his fingers gripped the seat until his knuckles were white as a midwinter’s snowdrift. His face hardened like a frozen mountain above the snow. “Stanley’s my grandfather’s enforcer, the one who does the things that keep my grandfather’s hands clean.” He lifted his hat and ran a hand through it. “Clean as far as the law’s concerned anyway.”
He shook his head, then took a deep breath and let it out bit by bit. “I was only ten when all this started, so a lot of it I didn’t understand until recently. But Sarah was only sixteen when she was sold off as part of a business deal. That was thirteen years ago.”
Mac’s head jerked sideways. “He sold his own granddaughter, like a slave?”
“That’s what it amounted to, although it was considered legal, because they forced her to marry the old man. She begged them not to.”
“This is America. You canna force a woman to marry a man like that.”
“You can if you’re Andrew Elijah Hollingsworth and think the world exists for your pleasure and profit. Grandfather used me as a pawn and preyed on Sarah’s love for me to get her to do what he wanted. The marriage was acceptable to Grandfather, because even though Greer was an abusive drunk, in the man’s sober moments, he was good at accumulating wealth. A trait Grandfather prized above all others.”
Mac ground his teeth to keep from saying words even his ancient grandda would box his ears for. Scenes of Lizzie’s body flashed in his head, the way she swung when the barn door opened, the bruises on her face and body, her ripped dress. His wife’s torment, terrible though it had been, had happened only once. How had Drew’s sister survived? “What happened to her cur of a husband?”
“While Sarah was healing from one of his beatings, Alfred decided to look elsewhere for his pleasures. When his housekeeper found out he’d forced himself on her daughter, she bided her time. About six months ago, after her daughter died in childbirth and he wouldn’t acknowledge the baby, she prepared a special meal for him. His last meal, you might say.”
Mac snapped the reins again. “Justice was served.”
“You could say that, although the housekeeper died of a weak heart while she was in jail waiting to go to trial.”
They traveled on for a bit in silence, but something nagged at Mac’s mind. “What happened to the baby?”
“Haven’t you guessed by now? Sarah had been left childless and vowed to never marry again. She can’t stand a man to touch her. She flinches still when I get too close, though she knows I’d never hurt her.” After a moment or two, his lips tipped into a small smile. “She adopted the baby, and Emma couldn’t be loved more than if Sarah had given birth to her.”
Mac let out a whistle. For thirteen years the woman had lived through torment and made it through. Sarah was a survivor. He didn’t think he’d ever met any man with the inner strength it would take to endure that, much less a woman. Somehow he couldn’t get her face out of his mind.