Heart of Stone (6 page)

She stared silently back. Almost as if she couldn’t comprehend a word he’d just said. It quickly dawned on him that his comment had wounded her. Laura might have wanted children desperately.

“I’m so sorry,” he said quickly. “That’s none of my business.”

“I—”

“Really, forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive, Reverend.” She looked away for an instant, as if collecting herself. “Thank you for the hand cream. It’s lovely.”

It was a clear hint that he should be on his way.

“I’ll look forward to Saturday night.” He reminded her that he would see her again soon. “The choir performance starts at seven. Would it be all right to come get you at six-thirty?”

She hesitated a moment. “I’ll meet you there. In case I’m detained by my guests,” she added.

“It’s no problem, really. Charity and the children have to be there early.”

“I’d prefer meeting you there.” Her tone brooked no argument.

Her independent streak presented a challenge, but he wasn’t about to risk giving up on her.

The beguiling Mrs. Foster had just met her match.

T
wo days later, Brand finally had time to hunt down Hank Larson. He spent a harrowing morning with the church board, during a meeting in which a heated discussion arose over whether or not it was proper to charge folks for a cup of coffee after church. Members nearly came to blows until he stepped in to remind them they could surely find a peaceful solution to the problem.

Afterward, he hightailed it over to the
Glory Gazette
office, only to learn from Richard Hernandez, Laura’s employee and Hank’s apprentice, that Hank had ridden a mile outside of town to do some target practice. Brand found the gun-toting journalist shooting cans off a fallen cottonwood log.

“What brings you out here, Reverend?” Hank holstered his Colt. “No trouble, I hope.”

Thinking of the board meeting, Brand said, “Nothing a little prayer won’t help.” He tied his horse’s reins to what was left of a four-foot cottonwood stump.

“Actually,” he added, “I came looking for advice.”

“You’re usually the one dispensing advice, Preacher.”

“Not this time. This time it involves an affair of the heart. Since you are newly married, I think you’re just the man to help.”

“This doesn’t have anything to do with the beautiful Mrs. Foster, does it?”

Dozens of rusted, bullet-ridden cans lined the ground around the fallen log. Brand planted a boot on it. He shoved his low-crowned hat off his forehead.

“How did you guess?”

Hank laughed. “Oh, could have been the look in your eye when you were strutting down Main with Mrs. Foster on your arm a few mornings ago. Or the fact that you called on Amelia and you let Sam and Janie choose one of her salves for Laura.”

“All true, I won’t deny it. When did you know for certain you were ready to marry again?”

“The day I realized I couldn’t live in the same town with Amelia without having her by my side. But I did have to propose quite a few times before she finally said yes, remember?”

“So many times that you’d about given up hope.”

Hank stared at him for a moment.

“Mind my asking how long ago you lost your wife?” Hank asked.

For the longest time, Brand had experienced a sinking feeling when anyone mentioned Jane as his “lost” wife or his “late” wife. But now, although the pain was still there, it was muted, not as swift or razor sharp.

“Almost seven years ago,” Brand said.

“You’ll love her always, but she’s in heaven and you’re still here. It’s natural to worry about being disloyal. Believe me, I know.” Hank had been a widower himself before he married Amelia. “If there are qualities in Laura that you admire—”

“Laura’s unlike any woman I’ve ever known. She’s wealthy, refined. Independent.”

“Not to mention stunning,” Hank added.

Brand smiled. “I’ve noticed. Believe me.”

Hank began to line up more cans.

“A few months back you assured me that Amelia wasn’t one to judge a man by the size of his bankroll. If a wealthy man is what Mrs. Foster requires, then she’s not the woman for you,” he said.

“I’ve got two children and Charity to support,” Brand reminded him.

“Love finds a way, Brand.”

“I’ve asked Laura to the choir performance on Saturday night.” Brand shook his head, hoping he’d done the right thing.

Hank looked at him for a long, telling moment. “A good start, I guess.”

“Not very romantic.” Brand shrugged. He wasn’t used to feeling helpless.

“Did she accept?”

Brand nodded. “I think Janie and Sam had a lot to do with her agreeing to go.”

Hank patted Brand on the shoulder. “Congratulations. It’s a start.

“You just keep the faith, Reverend, and take it one step at a time. Meanwhile, I’ll ask Amelia if she’s got any ideas. Women are a whole lot better at these things than we are.”

T
he week flew by all too quickly for Laura.

She awoke each day determined to send Reverend McCormick a note to let him know she wouldn’t be able to attend the recital. Each time, she balked. It was one thing to live a lie. Quite another to keep lying to a preacher.

Saturday morning she sat alone in her drawing room trying to practice an organ piece. In a valiant attempt to cultivate gentility before she moved to Texas, she’d taken lessons from an ancient gentleman in New Orleans. Monsieur Beaurevaus was patient and talented. He kept his hands to himself and taught her a few basic songs. She could use more lessons, but decided she didn’t have the temperament to succeed.

When the doorbell rang, shrill and insistent, she went immediately to the entry hall. Kansas state representative Bryce Botsworth and his family were on their way to San Antonio. The Botsworths and their two daughters were scheduled to stay only one night.

Laura opened the door to greet them, focusing on Mrs. Botsworth first. The woman was short, just an inch or two over five feet. Her hair was bright red, her skin white as a dove’s wing. Her eyes were bright green.

Her daughters, reed thin and a bit taller than their mother, favored her coloring. Both girls appeared to be under twenty.

“Welcome,” Laura said, smiling at the woman and then the young ladies. “I’m sure you’re ready for some tea or other refreshment. Do come right—”

She paused the minute she finally turned to Mr. Botsworth. He was of medium height, portly, with short, thick hands. Dressed in a somber black suit with a silk cravat and diamond stick pin, he whipped off his hat, exposing a bald pate.

When Laura looked into the man’s eyes, she couldn’t help but notice his speculative stare. Her speech faltered. Her blood ran cold. It took all of her will not to turn and leave them standing there on the threshold.

“Do come in. Please. I’ll just…I’ll…Please, step right into the parlor. Let me go find Richard. He’ll take your luggage up…upstairs.”

“Thank you so much,” Mrs. Botsworth said, leading the way into the drawing room. “Come, girls.” She moved into the drawing room. “Oh, my. This is quite lovely. Very unexpected for a small town like this. Just look, Bryce.”

Bryce
was
looking, Laura noticed, but not at the drawing room. He was staring at her. Then, without a word, Mr. Botsworth turned and followed in his family’s wake. He didn’t break stride, nor did he look at Laura again. Had she imagined his interest? She couldn’t be at all certain.

Laura took a deep breath and hoped no one noticed that her hands trembled slightly as she smoothed the front of her gown. “Make yourself comfortable,” she said.

She hurried down the hall to the kitchen, forced herself not to run. Once there, she shoved open the swinging door and, without
thinking, collapsed against the wall. She pressed her hands to her heart, afraid it was about to beat its way out of her chest.

“Señora?”

Rodrigo was at the sink, peeling potatoes. He glanced over his shoulder and, the minute he saw her, set down the paring knife and dried his hands. Concern marred his dark features.

Laura waved him off when he rushed to her side.

“Please, keep working. I’m fine. It’s…it’s just the heat.”

“Agua?”
He offered. “Water?”

“Yes. Yes. Some water. And put on the teapot.” She gave the bellpull near the door a yank. Soon Anna would come running.

Laura tried to rein in her emotions. She took a deep breath, reminded herself that there were guests to be settled, refreshments to be served.

She tried to convince herself Bryce Botsworth had never,
ever
laid eyes on her. She didn’t recognize him at all—but hundreds of men had passed through her life, hundreds had taken pleasure in her arms while she willed herself to feel nothing.

Something in Botsworth’s stare sent chills down her spine.

Help me.

The plea for help came from somewhere deep inside. Certainly not a prayer; she never prayed. If there was a God in heaven, He would have never let two innocent children enter that house on Rue de Lafayette.

She took another deep breath. Inhaled the scent of beef and onions roasting in the big stove across the room. Studied the carefully placed crocks and pitchers on the dry sink, the china collection in the cupboards, the starched, lace-trimmed curtains hanging across the wide bank of windows along the back wall.

This
was her world. The world she’d created out of the blood, sweat, and tears of her past. This was the home where she would reunite what was left of her family. She had to stay strong, to cling to her dream, or surely perish. She was not about to let Bryce Botsworth or any other man bring her down.

Rodrigo brought her a glass of water. Not trusting herself to hold it, she sat heavily at the table. He set the glass down and hovered. She tried to smile, to reassure him.

“It’s all right. You can finish up.” She nodded toward the bowl of potato peels.

She lifted the glass, amazed the water didn’t slosh. Her hands were a bit steadier. She took a long drink, willed the water to stay down.

Anna walked in and took in the scene. Like Laura, she was still in her thirties. The mother of only one child, sixteen-year-old Richard, Anna didn’t appear much older than her son. She was slim with light-brown skin, smooth and flawless. She wore her dark hair in a braid coiled into a knot at her nape.

Her dark eyes flashed toward her husband and there was no missing the look of concern that passed between them.

Laura forced herself to smile. The Hernandez family was as dependent upon her as she was them. She tried to alleviate their fear.

“I’m fine now.” She rose, raised a hand to her hair, and found it perfectly in place, as usual. Her appearance was perfect. Her shame was hidden. “Just a bit warm. The Botsworth family has arrived. I’d like you to serve tea and lemonade, Anna. In the drawing room. Rodrigo, their bags are on the veranda. If Richard is here, have him put the luggage in the green and blue rooms. If not, please take them up yourself.”

“He is here, señora. I will call him.” Rodrigo went out the back door, headed for the small log structure where the family lived near the edge of Laura’s property.

There
, she thought.
Routine. Normalcy.

Surely she was mistaken about Representative Botsworth. She had stirred up her own emotional tornado.

As soon as she sent her regrets to Brand McCormick—which she was determined to do before the tall standing clock in the hall chimed again—she could relax.

“Anna,” she began, remembering to sound calm and collected,
“I’ll have a letter for Richard to deliver in the next few minutes. Please have him wait here after he takes the luggage upstairs.”

The Botsworths went out to look at a homestead—their older daughter was engaged and they thought to invest in some land for a wedding gift to the newlyweds. Laura kept to herself upstairs until they went out, then met with Anna and Rodrigo to go over the dinner details. Soon enough, the Botsworth girls returned and took turns at the parlor organ. Both of them played far and away better than Laura. When she heard the older girl tell her parents that she didn’t care how much land they bought here, there was no way she would live in Texas, Laura breathed a sigh of relief.

Calm now, convinced she’d been mistaken about Bryce Botsworth, Laura presided at the head of the dinner table as always. She displayed all the finesse she could muster. She had read that the perfect hostess was mistress of the art of small talk. The flow of conversation was in her hands and she kept a list of several suitable topics in mind. Certain topics, of course—politics, religion, and money—were never to be discussed.

She welcomed the Botsworths and her other guests and made certain the serving platters and bowls kept moving around the table. When their plates were filled with steaming pot roast, potatoes, carrots, and flaky biscuits oozing with fresh creamy butter, she even went so far as to ask Mr. Botsworth, since he was the most prestigious among them, to give the blessing. Laura found most of her guests expected the ritual.

He complied without hesitation. Everyone bowed their heads in prayer. Laura snuck a glance at the man seated at the end of the table. Eyes closed, his strong voice resonated as he asked God to bless the food before them and to keep them all safe—no matter where their journeys might take them.

Eventually she became involved in a discussion of books with his well-read daughters, Vivian and Imogene. Mrs. Botsworth—who insisted Laura call her by her given name, Amber—was pleasant,
though she tended to go on incessantly once she had everyone’s attention. Tonight, Laura didn’t mind in the least.

The doorbell rang when they were in the middle of the main course. Since she wasn’t expecting any new boarders that evening, Laura remained seated, knowing that Anna, on duty in the kitchen, would answer the bell.

“I’ve heard that ice water is very unhealthy,” Amber Botsworth was just saying as Anna slipped into the room and whispered to Laura that Reverend McCormick was at the door asking to speak to her.

Laura excused herself. She brushed a wayward curl out of her eye before she opened the wide pocket doors separating the dining room from the entry hall. Silently she drew the doors closed behind her.

“Laura,” Brand nodded. He was smiling, looking very handsome in a new black suit. His preacher’s collar might as well have been a danger sign.

What next?
she wondered.

“Oh, Reverend, I’m so sorry. Didn’t you get my note?”

He drew his hand out of his coat pocket and flipped her letter up between his first two fingers. “I did.” He looked her over from head to toe. “It seems you have recovered from your headache.”

Laura blushed. “I…it actually faded away a few minutes ago, and I felt obligated to join my guests for dinner. There’s a Kansas state representative here tonight. I thought it too late to let you know—”

“Not at all. I was ready early, so I thought I’d stop by and see how you were feeling.”

Laughter filtered through the closed dining room doors.

“My guests…”

Brand’s gaze had not left her since she’d opened the door. Though she tried to look away, she was arrested by his calm, steady perusal. She was lying and knew he knew it.