Titans (32 page)

T
revor arrived in Gainesville shortly after noon, booked a room at the Harvey House without taking time for a meal, rented a horse, set it to a trot, and reached the Texas-Oklahoma border of the Red River two hours later. Luckily, the Saturday ferry traffic was light of both passengers and river rafts, and he made it across without delay. He set off for Marietta, estimating the short distance would take a half hour, getting him into town by midafternoon. He reined in before a small hotel called the Wayfarer Inn and asked the manager for the infirmary address of a Dr. Donald Tolman.

The man looked surprised. “You're the second person in the last few months asking about the doc, and I have to tell you what I told her. He ain't alive no more. Died back around the first of April.”

“Her?” Trevor queried.

“A nice young lady. Anyway, we got a new doc now if you wish to see him. He took over Dr. Tolman's practice.”

Trevor's heart jumped. “Do you recall the nice young lady's name?”

The manager shook his head. “Never heard it.”

“Would it be in the registry?”

“She didn't take a room here. She deposited her maid in the lobby and went off to Dr, Tolman's residence, then came back and collected her to head back to the ferry.”

“What did she look like? The nice young lady, not the maid.”

Trevor's question was met with a calculating gaze. “Can't recall.”

Trevor extracted a large bill from his wallet. “Would this refresh your memory?”

The manager made to snatch the bill, but Trevor held it back. “Pretty, reddish hair, nice way of speaking,” the man said.

“Did you learn where she was from?”

“No.”

Trevor handed over the bill. “Where can I find the late Dr. Tolman's infirmary?”

Ten minutes later, Trevor walked into the rustic log facility that served the medical needs of the surrounding territory and introduced himself to a stout, happy-faced woman behind the reception desk. “I may have come on an impossible mission,” he said at his most charming, “but I'm attempting to find information about an infant girl born around March twenty-third, 1880, who was given to Dr. Tolman to be put up for adoption. She may be a relative of mine. I understand he's deceased, but would there be a record on hand of her birth and circumstances?”

The woman had listened as if starstruck. Trevor understood. It wasn't every day that someone of his sartorial appearance walked through the planked door of the infirmary. “Why, I declare,” she said, composure returned, “you're the second person who's asked after a little girl born about that time.”

Once again, Trevor's heartbeat quickened. “A pretty young woman with reddish hair, and do you remember her name and the date she called?”

“I didn't meet her. I was in Ardmore that day visiting my nephew, but yes, that sounds like the young woman Dr. Tolman's daughter described to me. I served as Dr. Tolman's midwife until his death. Eleanor was in town at the time to settle her father's affairs. Last April that was. I don't believe she mentioned the young woman's name.”

“I'd appreciate hearing every word you may recall,” Trevor said. “I assume Dr. Tolman's daughter does not live here?”

The midwife shook her head. “In Oklahoma City, and Eleanor told me that the young woman was trying to find information about her birth parents and siblings. She believed she'd been born around here or across the river in Texas. I was not Dr. Tolman's midwife at the time she was inquiring about. She and Eleanor looked through his files but could find no record of a little girl's birth date that would have fit hers.” The midwife's gaze sharpened, her expression wondering if she'd given out too much information. “You say you are a relative of hers?”

“I could be her father.”

The midwife pressed her hand to her throat. “Oh, my goodness.”

“Did… Eleanor say what the young woman looked like?”

Flustered, the woman answered, “Only that she was very pretty, with a nice manner to her, and she had the most glorious shade of hair. Not red, not gold, but a combination of both, Eleanor said. Does that description ring any bells?”

“It certainly does,” Trevor said. “And does the name Samantha Gordon ring any bells for you?”

“I'm afraid not,” the woman said, looking sorrowful.

“Did she tell Eleanor where she was from, where she lived?”

“I asked her that question, and she said that she assumed Fort Worth, Texas. The girl left a postal address in that city in case Eleanor came across any other information. I doubt she did.”

Trevor drew a quick breath. “Is there anything else you remember that Eleanor said?”

“Well, yes.” The midwife looked about to cry. “Eleanor said the young woman—I wish I could verify her name for you—looked so disappointed that she couldn't help her. She felt sorry for her. As pretty and well dressed as she was, she made Eleanor think of a little waif. I'm sorry I can't be of more assistance to you, sir, but I so hope you find each other.”

Once more, Trevor removed his wallet and extracted several bills that he dunked into a tin can on her desk marked
FOR THE CHICKASAW ORPHANS
. “You've been more help than you know,” he said.

The sun had not yet begun to set when Trevor made it back to the livery stable in Gainesville to turn in his horse. He was tired, hot, and hungry. At the Harvey House, before going up to his room for a bath, he asked for the address of the Leon Holloways.

“Ah, yes, our newcomers,” the clerk said. “They bought the Billings place. Nice man, Mr. Holloway.”

“And Mrs. Holloway?” he asked.

The clerk thought over his answer. “Pretty as a rose but a bit… prickly. No offense if she's family.”

“She's not and none taken.”

After a bath and a sustaining meal in the hotel dining room, Trevor wrote a note and asked the clerk if there was anyone around who would deliver it. He'd be paid when he returned with an answer. The offer was snatched up by a schoolboy named Jeeper hired on Saturdays to clean toilets and swab floors. He set aside his mop and bucket to sprint down the street and across the town common to an avenue bordered by a park. There he pressed the newfangled doorbell of the house belonging to the Leon Holloways. The man to whom he'd been instructed to deliver the note—“Only to him, no one else”—answered the door, a napkin tucked into his collar. He'd been called from his supper. He read the note, removed the napkin, and reached for his cloth cap hanging from a hall tree in the foyer.

“Leon?” A woman's voice called from the dining room. “Who is it?”

“Nobody,” her husband answered, winking an apology at the messenger. He stepped outside, closed the door softly behind him, and followed the boy to the hotel.

Trevor, sitting outside on a bench to await Jeeper's return, was surprised to see Leon Holloway in the boy's wake. The note had asked that the man meet him in the morning in the lounge of the hotel. Trevor was standing when they hurried up. He put a quarter in Jeeper's palm and held out his other hand to Leon. “Thank you for coming,” he said.

“Is it about Nathan?” Leon huffed. “Is he all right?”

“He's fine,” Trevor said. “He doesn't know I've come.”

“Then why have you?”

“Shall we go into the bar, Mr. Holloway?” Trevor invited. “We will both need fortification for me to answer that.”

They had ordered room service during the day, but as evening fell, Samantha and Sloan dressed to have supper in the hotel dining room. They would go down separately, Sloan first, and book a table. Samantha would follow a little later, and as the maître d' led her in, Sloan Singleton, an old family friend from home in town for the horse auction, would spot her, rise from his table in pleased surprise, and ask her to join him.

Sloan asked for a table by a window giving a view of the wide portico. He expected to see no guest coming and going that he knew, but since his arrival, he'd kept an eye out for anyone of his acquaintance staying at the hotel. Those attending the horse sale usually stayed in lodging closer to the auction grounds.

Glancing out the window, he then thought he was hallucinating when he saw the doorman assist his sister, Billie June, down from a two-seater trap. Sloan was so engaged that for a moment, he did not register the identity of the driver who came around to offer his arm, leaving his trap and horse to the care of a hotel groomsman. When his vision cleared, Sloan stood abruptly, knocking over his water glass, and threw his napkin on the table.

A waiter rushed over. “Mr. Singleton, sir? Is something wrong?”

“There damn sure is!” Sloan growled and strode toward the dining room entrance. He was standing, tall and menacing, directly in front of the rotating hotel door when it swung open and disgorged his sister and Daniel Lane.

“Oh, God,” moaned Billie June.

Leon took a sip of his scotch and water. He drank only beer, but rarely and never after supper, but Trevor Waverling was right. This situation called for fortification. Leon had remained quiet, listening without expression, showing no physical reaction while Trevor Waverling laid out his reasons for suspecting that Samantha Gordon was his daughter and Millicent her mother. First of all, Millicent was Millicent, Trevor said, so that point explained a lot. She had given birth to a pair of boy and girl twins. She had kept her son and given her daughter away. She'd hated the man by whom she'd conceived them enough to get rid of both, but she had to keep one because she was known to be pregnant.

Leon felt the hair rise on his neck. With every pitch, Trevor Waverling had hit the stake squarely. If Leon were of a mind to, all he could tell the man was that Millicent had indeed birthed a pair of girl and boy twins. He, too, was convinced Samantha Gordon was her daughter, a conviction of which Millicent was blithely unaware, and Leon wanted to keep it that way. But the tools manufacturer could stew in his theories without a yea or nay confirmation from him. Samantha Gordon already had a loving father and mother, a good home. Trevor Waverling had made his bed, knowingly or innocently, when he went off and left Millicent pregnant. Whether the twins were the result of rape or mutual consent had no bearing on the other issue at hand, and that was Leon's promise to Millicent never to reveal that she'd given birth to an infant she'd given away. Furthermore, Leon knew what it was like to have the boy he loved like his own torn away from him—and by this man. Trevor Waverling was proposing to inflict the same hurt to Neal Gordon, a man who couldn't love a daughter he'd sired more than that sweet girl who'd come to check out the farm. Trevor Waverling was not owed the truth. Let sleeping dogs lie. If Leon felt any sorrow in taking the truth to his grave, it was from denying Nathan the sister with whom he'd shared a womb.

“I can appreciate that it's asking a lot of you to tell me, Mr. Holloway,” Trevor said when Leon did not speak, “but as a father, surely you understand why I must know. Are my son and Samantha Gordon twins? Is she my daughter?”

Leon had sensed immediately that here was a man quick to divine the truth by astute observance. He must be very careful to give nothing away by so much as the quiver of an eyelid. Later, Leon would not know how he did it, but he met Trevor Waverling's gaze, incisive as a scalpel's, with his own. “Mr. Waverling, is that your first drink?” he asked.

For the hold of a heartbeat, Trevor looked confused by the question, then he leaned forward, powerful shoulders straining the fabric of his expensive frock coat. “I assure you I'm not drunk, Mr. Holloway, and you did not answer my question.”

“My right,” Leon said. He should get up and go, he thought, but this man might confront Millicent, and her hate would get the better of her. She'd hurl the truth in his face out of pure spite. Somehow, he had to prevent that from happening. Leon pulled out his pipe, then his tobacco pouch. Meticulously, he filled the bowl with its mixture, tamped it down with his forefinger, set the pipe stem between his teeth, and struck a match to the powerful blend, made by an old Comanche chief who sold the concoction for a living. Leon drew on the stem and, when the tobacco was glowing to his satisfaction, said casually, “Millicent delivered when I wasn't there. I was in Oklahoma City. When I got home, there was Nathan.”

“Delivered by a Dr. Tolman.”

Leon bit down hard on the pipe stem to avoid showing his surprise that the man knew of Dr. Tolman. “Nope,” he said. “A midwife delivered her.”

“What was her name?”

“Can't remember if I ever knew. It was a long time ago.”

“Do you suppose she took the other twin?”

Leon removed his pipe. “What other twin? If Millicent was pregnant with twins, it was news to her and would have been a hell of a shock. All I can tell you is that she never said a word to me about expectin' or havin' twins. I might've had somethin' to say about that, you know.”

Trevor eyed him keenly. Leon's gaze behind the smoke held steady. “Well, if the midwife was there when you arrived, wouldn't you have seen if she made off with a baby?”

“Couldn't say. She was in her buggy, ready to leave, when I showed up. Millicent was nursin' Nathan.”

Trevor Waverling sat back and pulled at the lapels of his coat—striving for patience, Leon judged. “I have reason to believe the midwife was associated with a doctor from Marietta, a Donald Tolman.”

“Wouldn't know about that,” Leon said.

“What
do
you know?” Trevor demanded with a flash of irritation. “What doctor attended Millicent when she had her other children?” He leaned over the table, the glass of his barely touched scotch and water forming a puddle around its base.

Leon relit his pipe and blew the smoke across the table. “A Dr. Bledsoe. Came to Gainesville the summer my son was born.”