The Preacher's Daughter (5 page)

Ben trusted him to know what was best. “Tell her I’ll stop by tomorrow.”

“You can go tell her.”

He shook his head. “No. Tomorrow will be good. I’ll clean up the yard and carry in the dishes before I go.”

Ben counted wickets and balls and carried the croquet set to the shed behind the house. His attention was drawn to the mallet with the green rings and he remembered Lorabeth holding it as though it might break or vanish in her grasp. She’d seemed happier than a pup with a new bone to join them today.

He thought back to the first times he’d participated in family dinners and activities with the Chaneys and how out of place he’d felt. Lorabeth’s hesitation hadn’t seemed to be because she didn’t feel like she belonged, but more as though she was tiptoeing to make sure she didn’t wake herself up.

That was an odd thought, but it fit his observations. Her presence here was going to make the difference for Ellie getting the rest she needed. The fact that Lorabeth triggered his interest and piqued his curiosity was a distraction he could ignore. And intended to.

L
ater that week, Benjamin stood on his back porch in the yawning silence of the evening and studied the last fading streaks of orange in the darkening sky. A battalion of fireflies had flickered to life to dot the alfalfa field behind the barn. It was the last day of September and, while the crisp air felt good on his face, it reminded him that a long winter was in store.

The wide wooden stairs creaked beneath his weight, and he headed for the rows of stacked boxlike cages with chicken-wire doors that lined the side of the barn. A three-legged cat meowed, and he opened the door to scratch her ear. “Don’t be gettin’ used to chicken livers and cream,” he told the accident-prone feline called Lazarus by his owners. “Few more days and you’ll be back to catchin’ mice at the Fredericks’s place.”

The cat meowed a reply, and he hooked the door shut.

He stopped at the end of the row of cages where he’d been keeping an owl isolated and peeled a gunnysack curtain away.

“Well, Hoot, it’s your big night. Time for you to go back to your kin and your favorite knothole.”

The enormous bird blinked at him and waddled sideways away from his touch.

Ben urged the heavy bird onto his forearm and lifted him out. Three weeks ago, the Stoker kids had told him about the injured owl, and Ben found the creature on the bank of a creek, its wing broken. It appeared to have been there for some time, exposed to the elements and hungry, and Ben hadn’t been sure if the animal would live.

Carrying the owl to the front of the barn, he raised his arm. “Go on. Go home.”

The bird didn’t need any encouragement. It flapped its wings, slapping Ben in the face as it pushed away from his arm. The owl perched on the corner of the barn roof for a full minute, head swiveling as though getting its bearings. A moment later it flew into the darkened sky and soared overhead before disappearing into the night.

Closing his eyes, Ben listened and imagined he could hear the sound of wings in the distance. The heartfelt sense of satisfaction and fulfillment that always accompanied an animal’s healing and recovery cleansed Benjamin’s soul and set his world to right. He got too close, too attached, took it too personally when, in that occasional instance, an animal died in his care. He valued the life of all creatures. He lived to heal and care for them.

He’d killed a man.

Whenever the night was heavy with stars and loneliness rolled over him like a dark wave, Ben pondered loopholes in that “thou shalt not kill” commandment. The incident had been years ago. He’d been young, and the law had deemed it a defensive act.

That commandment was pretty cut-and-dried, but if God was Who the Missionary Baptists and the First Episcopals and the United Congregationalists said He was, then He’d known what kind of man Winston Parker was anyhow.

If he closed his eyes he could see that night all over again, just as vividly as if it had been yesterday. He’d been seventeen and had only recently come to live with Caleb and Ellie. Caleb had been called away that night and Ben had been attacked when he’d gone down to the darkened kitchen.

He’d recognized the man. Knew he was the same man who’d haunted his nightmares since childhood.

Ellie had struck a match, lighting a lantern and defining three people in its glow. Her face had blanched with shock. Ben sat tied to a chair with a rope. Winston Parker stood beside him, a gun pointed at Ben’s head. Ellie took a step forward. “Let him go.”

“I’ll let him go. Just as soon as you step outside with me.”

Ben struggled against the bindings, fear clawing at his heart. “If you hurt my sister, I’ll kill you, you son of a bitch!”

“I’m
real
scared,” Winston said with a smirk. “Now come on, Ellie. Out the door. I’m tired of waiting.”

“Where to?” she asked.

“My carriage,” he replied. “You remember my lovely carriage.”

She grabbed her stomach in revulsion.

Winston slowly pulled back the hammer of the gun until it clicked. He pressed the barrel directly against Ben’s perspiring temple. Strangely enough Ben was more afraid for Ellie than for himself. Death was certainly less painful than the life he’d endured until now.

“All right,” she said. “Put away the gun.”

“Don’t go,” Ben pleaded. “Let him shoot me! The noise will bring someone to help.”

She looked at him with tender appreciation. “Move the gun away,” she said calmly.

“No!” Benjamin howled in anguish.

Winston pulled the gun away from Benjamin’s head and backhanded him across the face. Ben’s lip caught fire and his head throbbed.

Ellie moved toward him, but Winston moved the barrel to point at Benjamin’s heart.

She halted, then walked stiffly to the door.

“Ellie, no!” Ben screamed. It was all happening just like before. Just like the last time when he’d been eight and unable to help her. He wouldn’t let this happen again. With every ounce of his strength, he strained against the bonds, rocked the chair sideways and turned it over, banging his head against the stove in the process.

He shook his head to clear the flash of dizzying white, ignored the pain shooting through his arm and shoulder where he’d hit the floor, and swung his legs so that the chair crashed against the stove. He did it again. And again. That man was taking his sister farther and farther away with each passing moment.

Finally the wood splintered and his ankles came free. He kicked out of the rope and stood, banging the back of the chair against the doorway until the pieces fell and he was loose. Without pause, he shot into the cool foggy night.

With dread clawing at his chest, he ran through the bushes and gardens in neighboring yards to the adjacent street. There, looming out of the enveloping darkness was the black carriage.

Winston was trying to shove Ellie inside, but she was putting up a good fight. Ben caught the man off guard, lighting into him with years of pent-up helplessness adding strength to his seventeen years.

He spun Winston toward him and pummeled his face with a fist. Winston returned the punch and lights flashed behind Ben’s eyes. He tasted blood.

Winston turned, raised the gun to Ellie’s head and shoved her back against the side of the carriage. “Get inside,” he hissed.

She clamped her teeth and said through them, “Shoot me.”

He glared.

She reached up, locked her fingers into Winston’s hair and yanked for all she was worth. He yelped and his head jerked back, dislodging the gun from her temple.

Ben regained his footing and barreled into Winston with all he was worth. With a grunt, Winston released Ellie. She grabbed the man’s hand and bashed it against the edge of the coach door. He howled and shoved her, the gun falling from his grip.

Ben struck him again and Winston toppled onto him, arms and leg flailing. Ellie beat at Winston’s head with both fists. Winston pressed Ben’s face into the ground until Ben thought his jaw would break. Moonlight glimmering from the barrel of the gun lying in the dirt caught his attention. He stretched out his arm, flexed his fingers and closed them around the barrel. This time he could help her. This time he could keep his sister safe.

In the next second a blast echoed in his ears.

The horses reared and whinnied and harnesses jingled; the carriage rocked. The smell of gunpowder burned his nose.

“Ben!” Ellie screamed.

On top of him, Winston’s body lay still and heavy. Ben rolled him off and staggered to his feet.

Ellie stared at the unmoving body. Looked at the gun in Ben’s hand.

“I didn’t mean to,” Ben said on a released breath.

A light came on in one of the nearby houses, then another. She knelt over Winston’s prone body and she pressed her fingers to his throat, then looked up at her brother. “He’s dead.”

When the truth about Winston Parker had been exposed, Ben had been pardoned. Sometimes the truth still haunted him. But he wouldn’t change what he’d done.

He’d do it again today if he had to.

Inside the barn Ben lit a lantern and saddled his black ranger with its characteristically white-spotted rump. Titus turned an intelligent-looking face toward Ben and nodded as though anticipating a run.

“We’re stayin’ on the road, you know,” Ben told him. “Not takin’ any chances of you steppin’ into a hole in a field. It’s a pretty night. Maybe we’ll see Hoot out there.”

He led the horse outside, closed the barn door and mounted.

Titus pranced and Ben patted his neck with a smile. “Well, all right then.” He nudged the horse’s sides, and the animal shot forward.

This particular breed was not that old, descending from two horses presented to General Ulysses Grant by a Turkish sultan maybe twenty years ago. Bred from an Arabian and a Barb and then later crossed with a Quarter Horse, they were known as Colorado Rangers. Because if its pedigree, Ben had paid a pretty penny for the colt four years ago. He liked to imagine Titus’s ancestors carrying sultans and princesses in exotic lands.

Titus carried him swiftly, sure-footedly anticipating the bends in the road and responding to the slight tension on the reins as they came within sight of Newton.

Ben reined his mount to an easy halt and viewed the lights of the city. Sometimes he thought about leaving Kansas behind. Making a start somewhere with mountains and cold rivers. Somewhere without the oppressive history this land held for him. But his older sister’s abiding love and his feelings of responsibility toward his younger brother held him fast. Ellie told him he spent too much time living in his head, that he needed more than animals for companions. In his opinion there weren’t many humans that were equal company or comfort. People were a disappointing breed.

The night breeze caressed his hair, and he gazed upward at the stars. Maybe Ellie was right. She was sure happy with her family and friends. Maybe he should try a little harder, work to discover and possess what was missing in his life.

Just the idea made his stomach burn. He leaned forward in the saddle and patted Titus’s neck. “What
is
missing?” he asked aloud.

The animal’s ears twitched.

A picture of his sister touching her husband’s chin with a look of adoration flitted across his thoughts, followed by another disturbing image: Lorabeth standing beside the bed with the red-and-white quilt.

All Ben knew of family life was what he’d observed from the outside looking in. What he knew firsthand about men and women wasn’t fit for a respectable person to think on.

Ben knew the dark side of men. He wasn’t afraid of what they could do to him. He’d already endured more than his life’s share of bad treatment, and he’d grown strong and capable in spite of it. He wasn’t afraid of hunger or poverty or even the judgment of other people. He could take care of himself, and he didn’t set much store by opinions or gossip.

What scared the wits out of him was that he was a man. And as a man what he was capable of. Choices were what set him apart. Good choices were what kept him from being like those others. He’d had no option but to kill once. But he could choose to live the rest of his life with honor and integrity, exercising self-control and challenging himself to become stronger.

But if what was missing was something inside him, he didn’t know if he could fix that. Where did a person look to find a piece of himself?

Lorabeth’s first full-time week couldn’t have come at a better time. Ellie had been so tired and her body felt so weighted and achy that she was more than grateful to have her competent young helper close. She didn’t remember this fatigue with her other pregnancies, but Caleb assured her each time was unique and that she had no reason for concern.

She felt positively slothful each time Lorabeth brought a tray to her in bed. Caleb spent as much time at home as possible, and even Ben stopped by nearly every day.

One morning midweek she’d asked Lorabeth to let the girls come play at the foot of the bed and later she read them stories while Lorabeth prepared ahead for the evening meal.

Ellie had just concluded
The Ugly Duckling,
and Anna was asleep on her shoulder when Ben leaned head and shoulders into her room.

“Is this a bad time?”

Ellie laid down the book. “Of course not. Come in.” She gestured for him to come to the side of the bed.

He pulled the chair close.

“Would you mind laying her down in her own bed?” she asked, indicating the sleeping child.

With a grin at Lillith, her brother gently lifted Anna and carried her, cradled in his arms, from the room.

“You, too, sweet pea,” she told the impish five-year-old. “Lie down for a nap and don’t wake your sister. Kiss.”

Lillith hugged her around the neck, pressing her sweet lips to Ellie’s cheek before scampering from the bed. She nearly collided with Ben in the doorway, and when he hauled up short, she raised her arms for him to carry her, as well. He obliged her, hushing her giggles as he strode from the room.

Minutes later, he returned.

“You look refreshed today,” he told Ellie, sitting beside her and taking her hand.

“I look tired and puffy, and you know it, but I don’t want to talk about me today. Tell me all about your animals.”

“Well, let’s see. I told you I spotted Hoot the other night, didn’t I? And the Olson brothers brought me a frog they think is sick. I’ve never done frog resuscitation before, but I think the little bugger’s gonna live. Oh, and I’ve adopted a goat.”

“Not a goat, Ben.”

“She’s a good companion around the place and she gives milk, so she’s not just another mouth to feed.”

“Companion, huh?”

She smirked and he grinned.

“I suppose you’ve named her?”

“Delilah.”

“You’ve named a goat Delilah.”

“It’s a good name.”

“It’s a fine name, it just doesn’t sound like it belongs to a goat.”

“How many goats have you known?”

She met his pale eyes, and knew he was alluding to something from their past. “A couple, as you well know. Remember the goat Caleb kept when Nate was a baby?”

But that wasn’t the same animal that had come to mind first. As a girl, she’d stolen out in the dark of night more than once to bring milk back to her younger brothers. There was a time when she’d grown a tobacco patch and rolled cigars to sell to the men outside the saloons just so she could pay for a few groceries. She’d stolen chickens from coops and vegetables from gardens, and still there’d never been enough.