Texas, on the trail between Santa Fe and the Brazos River
October 1854
Nine times out of ten, Ranger Captain Jedadiah Harte listened to the Lord and acted without questioning Him on the finer points of His plans. Today, however, he felt like maybe he’d misunderstood.
Many times on the ride from San Antonio, he’d been tempted to slide his trusted matched Walker Colt revolvers from their resting place beneath his King James Bible and slip them back into his belt where they used to belong. Always he’d felt the strong pull of the Lord’s hand keeping his fingers on the reins and his heart on the straight and narrow.
To the surprise of everyone but the God who knew him well, Jed had turned over leadership to his second in command and hit the trail. The talk around headquarters gave him six months before he came riding into town and reclaimed it, but Jed knew better. A part of him would forever love being a ranger. The thrill of the chase and the triumph of good over evil never failed to satisfy.
In nearly fifteen years with the Rangers, “Heartless Harte,” as he’d become known, had amassed an impressive list of criminals dispatched to the afterlife, a testament to the deadly accuracy with which he could aim his Walker Colts. He’d been proud of his record, and more than one newspaperman had trailed Heartless Harte to write about it later in gory detail.
Then last spring he’d been tracking a couple of rustlers when he came across a camp meeting south of Gonzales. Normally he would have steered clear of the place in favor of a warm bedroll and a shot of red-eye, but something he later realized to be the hand of the Lord caused him to stay.
First thing, the circuit-riding preacher asked him where he planned to spend eternity. The question left him madder than a peeled rattler, and the answer left him frightened for the first time since he’d been out of knee pants.
Right then and there he gave his life over to the Lord and promised Him He’d be first in command. Baptized in a little creek in the middle of nowhere, the infamous Heartless Harte became just plain old Jed Harte, citizen and soldier for the cross.
No more killing and no more use for the Walker Colts; he’d promised the Lord. His rifle would shoot all the game he could eat and his bowie knife would skin the carcasses. He’d lived by his senses before he’d become a ranger, and he sure could do it again, although with fall nearly past and winter coming on, he had his doubts on exactly how.
Besides handling a firearm, he’d been pretty handy with a hammer and nail. If carpentering was a fine enough profession for his Savior, it sure was good enough for him.
His prayers had led him to believe his true calling came in winning souls, and someday he hoped to do just that. Heading for Galveston by way of the Brazos River, he felt he might have some luck gathering a following for Christ amongst the roughs on the dock. After all, those were his people; the ilk from which he’d come. What better place to finish his life than where it all started?
Jed shifted positions in the saddle and stretched to loosen the kinks. With an eye to the fading sun, he urged his mount into a gallop. A little luck and he’d make it by sunset. He’d camp there, maybe near a landing owned by a fellow he knew from his ranger days.
A decade ago, he’d helped him build a house to bring his bride home to. Now maybe Ben Delaney would return the favor by putting him up for the night. Tomorrow he’d catch a passing steamer downriver at first light and be off on the mission the good Lord had created him for.
Ducking his head to pass beneath the low limb of a spreading pecan tree, he thought about what he’d be doing right now if he were still back in San Antonio. The Lord knew what lay ahead, but Jed would never forget what he’d left behind. Someday, though, maybe he’d bring enough souls to the Lord to earn His forgiveness.
A lazy butterfly teased the rust-colored mane of his sorrel mare and landed on the horn of his saddle. For a few minutes they rode together in companionable silence, only the hoofbeats and the gulls’ cry breaking the peace.
Then, from out of the blue came a loud crack, and his whole world went black.
“So much black.”
Grace Delaney looked down at the yards of black muslin covering the rise in her belly. It spilled across the quilt and gathered in a dark pool at her feet on the chilly wide boards of the oak floor. Two months, three at the most, and her child would make an entrance into the world. A world filled with a future just as black as the widow’s weeds its mother wore.
Only five-year-old Bennett and little Mary-Celine, her precious children, kept Grace from shedding the prison of her widow’s clothing to disappear for good into the muddy swirls of the Brazos River. She fingered the heavy muslin of her skirt and banished the awful thought.
How little time had passed since she’d worn crinolines and whalebone corsets and attended the French Opera House in New Orleans and danced at the finest plantations along the river? Could it be less still since she’d come to Texas and settled at Delaney’s Landing as the seventeen-year-old bride of the dashing Ranger Ben Delaney?
Some days it seemed like just yesterday. Other days, it seemed like an eternity had passed since she and Ben had taken up farming together and built the landing that now supplied foodstuffs up and down the Brazos.
From the ruins of a burned plantation, they built a farm big enough to meet their needs and feed the family they planned. Bennett Delaney, Jr., came first, a strapping boy with a shock of dark hair like his mother and a fierce streak of stubbornness like his father. Three winters passed after Bennett’s birth, and with each one they buried a small blanket-wrapped bundle together and mourned the loss, only to find in the spring another child would be on the way.
Her husband loved babies, as did she, and what Texas took from them, they bore with the knowledge that the children were in a much better place. Finally, two summers ago, Mary had been born. Theresa, the former slave who now served as Grace’s friend, confidant, and house help, presided over all the births with concern. At the last confinement, she had stood toe to toe with the oversized Irishman and declared to Ben that Mary should be the last of the Delaneys.
No more babies or Grace would suffer for it.
Grace let the folds of crisp cloth slip from her fingers and slowly squared her shoulders. As much as she would love to give in to the bitter tiredness in her bones and the inescapable pain in her heart, she had no time for such luxuries. The steamer Lehigh would arrive at the landing midmorning tomorrow. With only Uncle Shaw and the day help to fill the order, time would be tight. She and Theresa would have to see to the garden, a job that would make for a long afternoon under the best of circumstances.
Today, with the ache in her back and the heaviness in her belly, it would be downright unbearable. And yet, she would manage.
She always seemed to manage.
“Oh, Ben, why did you have to leave me like this?”
A question she’d asked a thousand times, of him and of God, and yet no answers had been forthcoming. Dead men don’t speak, and obviously the comforting arms of the good Lord didn’t reach as far as Delaney’s Landing anymore.
He hadn’t been with her husband the day lightning struck him and knocked him off his horse to die alone in the dirt at the age of thirty-two. And now, with more work to do before tomorrow than half a dozen men could perform in a week, He couldn’t possibly be with her either.
No, the Lord of Theresa and her husband, Uncle Shaw, was not the Lord she knew. Their Lord showed patience and kindness and offered them peace and comfort. Only the blackness of exhausted sleep offered Grace comfort anymore.
Shaking off the thought along with the chill that had gathered in the small room, Grace stood slowly. Theresa met her at the door with a wool cloak and a tin cup filled with hot coffee.
“You tell those folks they’d best be treatin’ you right, Miz Grace, or they’ll have the Good Lord and me to deal with.”
Grace mustered a weak smile and shrugged into the cloak. The faint scent of wood smoke still clung to it from yesterday’s work in the fields.
Unfazed at her lack of response, Theresa slipped the tin cup into Grace’s hand and frowned. “Now don’t you mind what they say about a woman running Delaney’s Landing. Womenfolk, they’s a lot stronger than men, anyhow.” Her dark gaze settled on the curve of Grace’s belly. “Just let one of them try and push a young’un into the world.”
With a nod, Grace pressed past her to emerge onto the broad front porch of the home Ben built long ago. The door shut with a resounding crack, and in an instant the thick, cold air swirled around her, almost visible in the first shimmering lights of dawn.
As she’d done every morning since Ben’s death, Grace left her coffee untouched on the porch rail and made the trek down the path along the edge of the fence until she reached the giant pecan tree that marked the southeast corner of the Delaney property. Beneath its spreading limbs stood four simple wooden crosses, one newly planted and bearing the name Bennett Delaney, Sr.
Ignoring the protest of her sore muscles, Grace knelt at the edge of the fresh soil and smoothed the edges of the ragged blanket covering the mound. The quilt had been Bennett’s idea, a way to keep his pa warm when the weather turned cold a few weeks back. Already the sky blue blanket had begun to dull a bit, and the edges of the white lamb Grace had embroidered on the center square showed evidence of fraying.
She leaned forward a bit to touch the corner of the quilt and allowed her mind to tumble back in time to her son’s birth. The baby inside her shifted and pressed against her in protest. A moment later, the familiar pains shot up through her back and settled there. With difficulty she sat back on her heels to seek a measure of relief.
“Be patient, Little One,” she whispered. “There’s much to do before you come.”
And there was much to do. A garden to tend, orders to fill, and books to balance—these were just a few of the items she knew she must attend to before she could sink back into the blissful oblivion of another night’s sleep.
If only she had help. Uncle Shaw and Theresa had both become indispensable, each in their own way, but neither could ease her burdens completely.
Already news had traveled up and down the Brazos, and more than one captain had bypassed Delaney’s Landing in the mistaken impression that without Ben Delaney in charge, the landing would be closed and the warehouse shuttered. Those who did stop were surprised to find Ben’s widow had taken over the running of the warehouse and the filling of orders.
None of them were pleased.
Many refused to deal with her. Some made lewd comments or ignored her outright when she tried to conduct business as she’d seen Ben do. A captain by the name of Stockton had even suggested she pack up and leave Delaney’s Landing, offering her what he called a first-class deal for the property. She’d called it something else entirely and sent the man on his way with a few choice scalding words and a request never to return.
Only afterward did she give any thought to the danger she would have been in had the captain not gone willingly. Uncle Shaw, while strong of body, was getting on in years and could have done little to stop a man who didn’t want to be stopped. The day help, a dozen during harvest and less most of the time, were hired out from neighboring plantations and held a loyalty that was doubtful at best.
“Oh, Ben, what am I going to do?”
The silence rumbled thick around her, broken only by the occasional call of a gull. Her gaze skipped from Ben’s grave to the three others lined up beside him. Her husband and her babies, all waiting for her in heaven.
Heaven? Since when had she given the mythical place any consideration? Surely Ben’s death had caused some small bit of concern about it, but to give it any serious thought?
There had been no time.
Nudged by another insistent kick in her belly, Grace shifted to her knees and bowed her head. The north wind teased her hair and lifted the edge of her cloak to blow a chill air across the black muslin she wore.
It would be so easy to give up, to let the land win and let Delaney’s Landing become a thing of the past. Her family in New Orleans, if any of them still remained, had never quite forgiven her for leaving polite society to marry a Texas Ranger. Ben, on the other hand, had no family left on this side of the ocean. Besides, she could never leave Texas and the landing Ben loved.
On the wind came a thought, one more frightening than the threat of an angry steamboat captain. “Face it, Gracie, old girl. You’re on your own. At least as long as you’re able.”
What about the children? Like it or not, she had a family to take care of. Bennett and Mary depended on her, as did Theresa and Uncle Shaw. If she gave up, what would happen to them?
Too soon her time of confinement would come. Theresa already looked at her with baleful eyes, concern brimming on her face when she thought Grace couldn’t see.
And if the unthinkable happened and Theresa proved right?
“What will I do?” she repeated.
You will pray, came the soft yet insistent answer.
“Pray?”
Surprisingly, the idea seemed to set right. She tugged at the strings holding her cloak together and tried to conjure up just the right words to speak to the Lord. After all, it had been quite awhile since she’d made the attempt.
“God,” she finally managed, “I’m not asking this for me, because I can handle whatever life gives me. I’m asking for the babies.” She touched the gentle rise of her belly. “This one included,” she added.
Her eyes searched the sky, now fading from dark gray to a silver blue as the dawn gave way to morning. The distant whinny of a horse alerted her to the presence of a rider coming up the main road, most likely one of the day workers.
“Lord,” she whispered, “if You’re up there, I’d be mightily obliged if You’d send me a man to give me some help.”
Her boldness surprised her, and yet again, it felt right. She touched the back of her hand to the sky blue blanket.
“He’d need to be strong of health and a dead aim with a pistol. A ranger like Ben would be fine if You’ve got one. Just to keep the babies safe and the landing going until I’m up and around again. Amen.”
She sat back on her heels once more and waited for the answer. The limbs of the old pecan tree rustled and a squirrel skittered across the clearing ahead, but nothing earth shattering happened.
No answer came.
“Silly, I suppose,” she said as she rose with difficulty and shook out her aching limbs.
Grace wrapped her cloak around her and turned to take the long, slow walk back to the house. In a few hours the sun would stand high in the sky and the steamer would dock at the landing. No amount of wishful thinking would get the ship loaded and the bill of lading in order.
She looked up at the sky, barely visible through the canopy of dark green leaves overhead. A profound sadness settled around her like a mist. With a weak wave of her hand, she attempted in vain to push it away.
Mindful of her tender state, she stepped gingerly over a fallen limb and headed toward the fence line and the grassy path. What had seemed like a short walk earlier now felt like an almost impossible hike.
If only she could go home and fall into the soft feather bed she’d only just left. If only the Lord heard her pleas and answered.
“What did you expect, Grace?” she asked as the sound of horses’ hooves grew louder. “Did you think the Lord, if He exists, would hear your pitiful prayer and send someone just like that?”
Of course not, came the answer. First you must have faith.
“Faith?” She shook her head. “Lord, if that’s You talking to me, You ought to know I’m trying. For the babies, if not for me.”
A moment later, a sorrel mare stepped out of the brush into the path in front of her. Its rider, an oversized dark-haired man in dusty, trail-worn clothes, lay slumped over the saddle horn, a ribbon of blood flowing down the end of his outstretched arm.
As she crept closer to the horse and recognized the man in the saddle, she realized the Lord had sent her a ranger. Unfortunately, it looked like He had sent her a dead ranger.