Heart of Stone Page 4

  The only piece of jewelry her mother owned was a small circle of brass that represented eternity. It surrounded an Irish shamrock. Her mother wore it tied to a slim leather thong around her neck, and Laura couldn’t ever recall seeing her without it. She’d promised that one day it would be Laura’s.

  When her mother died, Laura’s uncle pocketed and sold the modest piece and used the money to buy himself whiskey. His due, he said, for taking in his brother’s brood.

  When Laura commissioned her fine sterling, she had the design on the medallion re-created on the hollow-handled knives and other pieces of the set. She never looked at the emblem without thinking of her mother.

  Once the silver was polished and ready for the noon meal, Laura moved on to the drawing room where the windows were opulently dressed with drapes only seen in the finest hotels and drawing rooms of the very wealthy. She loved the feel of the rose velvet she’d chosen for the side panels and the three swags of the valence. She kept them pulled back with thick gilt cord to reveal the icy Swiss lace panels beneath. Her first task of the day was to shake them to remove any dust that might have come in through an open window.

  Then, with rag in hand, she worked her way around the room, stopping now and then to admire her collection of bric-a-brac, the French Morbier grandfather clock, the assortment of Dresden and Staffordshire figurines. Every tabletop, every surface in the room held vases, urns, and lamps. Compotes filled with hard candies stood beside casually stacked, leather-bound books and candles in silver. A high-back Eastlake parlor organ she’d purchased in Biloxi and learned to play—not well but passably—stood against one wall.

  Tucked alongside all her lovely collections she’d scattered silver-framed daguerreotypes and photographs of people she’d never met, faces of nameless men’s and women’s likenesses that she’d acquired after the war claimed so many lives and fortunes all over the South. The photographs were her “people” now. A family on display lest anyone think she was not who she claimed to be. Like herself, she’d made up an identity for each and every one of them. They were part and parcel of the many signs of gentility she had acquired as she planned her home, a refuge for her sisters.

  She not only kept her things on display as a show of respectability—she’d noticed early on that a display of wealth enhanced status no matter what a person’s background—but she knew how to use them. Her possessions made it easier for her to accept her own lie.

  As she adjusted the floral pillow that she’d painstakingly embroidered in needlepoint—she had hated every excruciating moment—there came a sudden knock at the door. She set down the dust rag, wiped her hands on her apron, and went to answer it. Her new guests were not due to arrive until late afternoon.

  Through the lace panels hanging across the window on the front door, she easily recognized Brand McCormick.

  Laura sighed and opened the door, prepared to send him on his way—until she noticed the children, a boy and a girl, standing on either side of him. He was holding firm to their hands.

  Laura glanced up at the preacher, then returned her attention to the children. The boy, who appeared to be about nine—a shorter, mirror image of Brand—stared back. His brow was furrowed, his bottom lip thrust out in a pout. The girl was a bit younger and dressed in a smocked gingham dress. Her hair sported a crooked part and had been fashioned into two uneven braids.

  “Hello, Reverend,” Laura said. “To what do I owe the honor?”

  She sincerely hoped she’d been clear when he’d asked to come calling. But what man brought his children on a social call? Surely this was something else. She took a deep breath, prepared to be firm.

  He proudly introduced Janie and Sam.

  “Nice to meet you both,” Laura said.

  “Why do you have that rag on your head?” the girl asked, her critical stare unwavering.

  Laura’s hand flew to her head. She pulled off the scarf and started an avalanche of hairpins and curls.

  “I was dusting,” she said.

  Janie shrugged. “Now your hair just looks messy.”

  “Janie,” Brand warned, “mind your manners. Sam, why don’t you take your sister and explore the yard?”

  Laura had heard from Amelia that the McCormick children were a handful. Incorrigible had actually been her friend’s description. Before Laura could protest that she’d prefer they didn’t wander on their own, Janie piped up.

  “We wanna stay here. Don’t we, Sam?” Janie shot Sam a look that Laura easily read.

  “Yeah. We wanna stay here.” The boy pulled his hand out of Brand’s and crossed his arms.

  A buckboard rolled down Main. Laura wondered if she should ask the McCormicks in but then thought better of it. She couldn’t imagine these two loose in her drawing room.

  “We came to meet you and ask you something important,” Sam said.

  Janie was silent but watchful as she chewed on the end of a braid.

  “Something important?” Laura glanced up at Brand and found him smiling.

  “Will you come with us to the church social on Saturday night?” he asked.

  “Us?”

  “The three of us. My sister, Charity, is leading the choir in their first performance wearing their new robes. Sam and Janie are singing in the children’s choir. It’s a very special event.”

  “Church social?” Staring into his eyes had rendered Laura speechless until she pulled her thoughts together. “You want me to come to a church social?”

  “Yes. As our guest. I don’t know anyone I’d rather spend the evening with.”

  She tried to picture herself at a staid choir performance, making small talk with the good women of Glory, smiling politely at the men, watching children cavort and do whatever children did at a social. She tried to imagine pretending to be something she wasn’t, someone she would never be, for an entire evening.

  And on a preacher’s arm, no less.

  The reality was sobering. Even politeness couldn’t keep the smile on her face.

  “I’m sorry, Reverend. I don’t go to church socials.”

  Brand appeared undaunted.

  “Yes, you do,” Janie spoke up. “You were at the masquerade party. You were dressed up like an angel. With big fluffy wings. I saw you.”

  Laura groaned inwardly. It was true. A few months ago she had on a whim attended a masquerade party at the church hall, an event held to raise money for the very choir robes to be previewed at the upcoming performance.

  She’d dressed as an angel on a lark. She thought there’d be no harm in going in disguise. She’d donned a gold silk mask and a long, white robe with flowing sleeves bound by one of her gilttasseled drapery cords. She’d made ostrich feather wings out of a feather arrangement she kept in an urn near the fireplace.

  From the moment she’d stepped into the hall she’d been uncomfortable.

  When three liquored-up cowhands began to stare, she realized she had made a terrible mistake. She gave them an icy glare and their attention turned to Amelia. When Hank Larson came to his sweetheart’s rescue, a fistfight broke out. Then Laura slipped out a side door and hurried home.

  “I don’t make it a habit.” She found herself wondering why she had to defend herself to a child. “I’m sorry. I simply can’t go.”

  She remembered Brand at the masquerade. He’d greeted every guest at the door while wearing a Roman gladiator’s helmet and a flowing red cape.

  “You gotta come,” Sam urged. “We brought you a present.”

  “Present?” She drew back. She hated to think Brand had spent his hard-earned cash on a gift. His clothes were not worn, but they were not of the latest cut. His boots were polished but a bit scuffed around the heels. Preachers relied on the wealth of their congregation and for the most part, rich donors were few and far between in and around Glory.

  He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small glass jar with a metal lid. When he offered it to her, she let him drop it into her palm.

  “Open it,” Sam urg
ed.

  Laura obliged. A combination of oil of roses and a hint of almond swirled up from the open jar.

  “It’s salve for your hands,” Janie explained. “Miss Amelia makes it.”

  “It’s lovely.” Laura looked at Brand. “Thank you.”

  “It’s from all of us,” he said.

  She thanked Sam and Janie. Now that the gift had been delivered, the children seemed to have lost interest in her. Sam started to climb on the veranda railing, quickly straddling the top. Janie spied Peaches, Laura’s long-haired calico, stretched out on the porch swing. She left her father’s side and tiptoed toward the sleeping cat.

  Brand drew Laura’s attention again. “I’d love to have you hear them sing.”

  “This really isn’t fair, you know,” she said softly. “Using your children to get me to join you.”

  He shrugged, smiled down at her. “A man has to do what a man has to do.”

  Against her will, Laura found herself smiling. “When is the performance again?”

  “Saturday night. So, will you be our guest?” He didn’t appear to be leaving without an answer.

  “So. How about it?” Sam asked.

  “Will you, please?” Janie begged.

  Laura sighed. Refusing Brand was one thing. Sam and Janie were quite another.

  “Very well. Since you all insist.”

  She politely listened as he detailed the event and what she could expect. She could always send her regrets later. For now, she couldn’t turn him down. Not while he was wearing such a hopeful sparkle in his eyes.

  She forced herself to look away. Her mind wandered as he spoke of his sister’s plans for the choir. A few moments later, she noticed both children had disappeared. So had Peaches.

  “Where are your children?” Laura asked.

  Startled, Brand looked around. “They’re around somewhere. I don’t think that they would stray too—”

  A high, bloodcurdling scream rent the air. Brand bolted down the veranda stairs and headed around back. Laura gathered her skirt in her hands and followed. The high-pitched screams escalated as she rounded the corner of the house. The sound pierced Laura’s shell of reserve, reminding her all too much of the night Megan had disappeared. She had never gotten those screams out of her mind.

  Brand disappeared through the open doors in the carriage house. Laura followed him inside the dim interior. Her shiny black buggy was parked off to one side of the open room. Sam sat back on the front seat, casually stretched out, watching his sister helplessly dangle by her fingertips from the edge of the open loft high overhead. She was easily twenty feet above the ground.

  “Hang on, Janie. Hang on.” Brand skidded to a stop directly beneath his little girl.

  “Don’t move, Brand. Stay beneath her.” Laura struggled to lift the ladder that was usually propped up against the loft. Once it was righted, she leaned it against the edge of the loft beside Janie. Arms out, ready to catch Janie if she let go, Brand never took his eyes off his daughter.

  “Papa!” the girl shouted. “Help me!”

  Laura tied a knot in the hem of her skirt to keep from stepping on it and started up the ladder.

  “Your Papa will catch you if you fall. I’m coming up to get you, Janie. Just hang on a little longer.” She tried to sound calm and confident despite her racing heart.

  “No! Papa, help!”

  When she reached the top of the ladder, Laura was close enough to touch Janie, but feared if she leaned out to grab the child, the ladder would shift and they’d both go tumbling down.

  “I’m right here beside you, Janie. I’m going to put my hand on your waist. If you move your foot to your right, maybe you can put your toe on the ladder.” Laura didn’t allow one ounce of her own dread to creep into her tone.

  “That’s your left foot, sweetie,” Brand said. “The other foot.”

  Laura saw Janie slowly extend her leg. She gently guided the child’s foot to the ladder rung above her. She breathed a sigh of relief when Janie’s toe was secure.

  “That’s it,” Brand encouraged. “That’s it, honey. Now the other foot.”

  Laura slipped her hand around Janie’s waist and held on. “I’ve got you. Slide your other foot onto the ladder.”

  “I can’t. I’ll die!” Janie, hanging sideways, started to sob.

  At least, Laura thought, she’s not screaming anymore.

  Laura tried to cajole her. “Yes, you can. You can scoot your hands along the floor until you get close and then grab the ladder. I’ve got you.”

  “I can’t. I won’t! Papa, do something!”

  “Listen to Laura, honey.”

  “I don’t want to listen to her. I don’t want her, I want you—”

  Laura glanced down at Brand. His face had lost all color. She had broken up bar brawls and tossed ill-mannered patrons out of her establishment on their ears. She’d never backed down from an argument or a fight, never feared for her own safety—not when she had nothing to lose. She could certainly handle a seven-year-old.

  Laura lowered her voice and spoke with complete calm. “Once Janie is on the ladder, you grab hold of it, please, Brand. Janie, I’m going to hang on to you while you let go of the loft and reach for the ladder.” She tightened her grip on Janie’s waist.

  “Now, Janie, move your hands. Reach for the ladder,” she urged.

  “But—”

  “Do it!” Laura demanded. “Right now.”

  Janie inched her right hand and then her left over to a rung above her. Laura knew the minute Brand took firm hold of the ladder.

  “I’m going to start climbing down and you are going to follow after me,” she told Janie. “Ready?”

  The girl’s braids bobbed as she nodded.

  “Now, come on.” Laura started down the ladder. Janie sniffled and whimpered but slowly followed. Laura forgot that Brand was directly beneath her, his hands steady on the rails. When she reached the lowest rung, she realized she had stepped within the circle of his arms.

  All the courage she’d mustered to help Janie failed her. She whispered, “You can let go and step back, Reverend.”

  He let go of the ladder and gave her room to dismount. She made a great show of brushing off her apron and shaking out her skirt and petticoats while she collected herself. She refused to meet his gaze for as long as she could.

  When she finally looked up she realized she needn’t have been embarrassed by her reaction to his nearness. His attention was focused on Janie. He was hunkered down on one knee, hugging Janie close before he began to dry the child’s tears with his kerchief.

  Laura’s thoughts drifted back to that long-distant time when she’d been the one to dry her sister’s tears, to wash their faces, to sing them to sleep. She quickly smothered the memory the way one snuffs a dangerous flame. She couldn’t bear the searing pain.

  Instead, she concentrated on the man and child before her. She stood tall and reminded herself who she was, where she was.

  “How in the world did you end up there like that?” Brand asked Janie.

  “Sam and I climbed up. He climbed down first and when it was my turn he knocked the ladder down and ditched me.” The child spoke between sorrowful hiccups.

  Laura turned toward the buggy. Sam was no longer there.

  “What are you going to do to him, Papa?” Janie slipped her hand into his.

  “I’m going to give him a stern talking to, of course.”

  “I think you should beat him within an inch of his life—”

  “Jane McCormick. We’ve talked about forgiveness.”

  Janie looked doubtful. “But he did a really bad thing. Are we supposed to forgive really bad things, Papa? What if I fell and kilt myself? Would you forgive him then?”

  Laura watched Brand collect himself. A telling muscle flexed in his jaw. She reckoned he would probably like to shake Sam senseless, but after a moment or two, he slowly nodded.

  “I would forgive him, Janie. It’s what God wants us to do
.”

  “Are we supposed to forgive really bad things?”

  It was easy for him to say he would forgive his son, Laura thought. Janie was unharmed. But what if she’d been badly hurt or, heaven forbid, killed? Would Brand’s faith truly stand the test?

  Still clutching his handkerchief, Janie continued to snuffle as she leaned against Brand’s leg.

  “Shall we go back to the veranda and have some lemonade?” Laura suggested.

  “What about Sam?” Janie obviously wanted to see justice doled out quickly.

  “I’ll look for him as soon as we get you settled,” Brand assured her.

  Laura hoped the boy hadn’t snuck into the house. She could just imagine the havoc he could wreak inside.

  “Why don’t you look for him now?” she suggested to Brand before she turned to the child. “You can sit on my porch swing. Would you like that?”

  Janie rubbed her toe in the dirt. “Maybe.” Then she turned to her father. “But I think you better find him right away. He said something about skinning Mrs. Foster’s cat.”

  Brand found Sam hiding near the back porch steps and led him back to where Laura and Janie waited on the veranda. He whispered a quick prayer of thanksgiving when he saw Peaches curled up asleep on the veranda swing.

  He confined Sam to the far porch corner and made him sit on a stool with his nose pressed against the wall. How long would it take to forget the sight of Janie hanging above the carriage house floor, he wondered. His heart hadn’t settled down yet.

  “You need to think about what you did to Janie.”

  “How long?”

  “Until I say you’re done.”

  As Brand walked away, he was aware that some would say Sam needed a strong hand against his backside. Brand was tempted to spank him, but whenever his children erred and he wanted to punish them, he was reminded of his own father’s overbearing nature and unbending discipline and couldn’t bring himself to be firm as he should be.

  He found himself wondering what Laura would do if Sam were her child.

  Her quick action and courage had amazed and surprised him. A weak-willed woman might have taken one look at Janie dangling high above the ground and fainted dead away. He’d been frozen with fear and all he could think of was catching Janie if she fell. Laura had taken charge.