Spirit of the Wolf (4 page)

Moonlight, slanting down from the heavens, reflected bright white from the corral fence. The black loam of the well-trod earth contrasted with the silvery coats of six horses, motionless, save the vapors of their soft, puffing breaths.

Bess didn't know how long she'd been sitting there, staring at them through her latched window. She only knew that this perch high above Foggy Bottom was one of the few places on earth where she felt truly happy. On nights like this, when sleep eluded her, this window drew her near. Of all the well-appointed rooms in the manor house, she liked this one best, because everything in it reminded her of her mother.

Her mama had sewn the ruffled white curtains that hung at the many-paned windows. She'd crocheted the lovely fringe that trimmed the canopy above Bess's bed, and embroidered flower baskets from colorful satiny threads on the fluffy white pillows plumped against the window seat. Even the paintings, hung by wide pink satin ribbons from ornate black hooks near the ceiling, bore her mother's signature. And in the chiffonnier hung now-too-small dresses and skirts, jackets and shirts of every style and rainbow hue that Mary had designed and sewn for her little girl. The lovely frocks might be handed down to her own daughter one day...if Bess ever changed her mind about marrying.

If
she married
—and
what chance was there of that!
—Bess
would do things differently from other brides, right down to the sort of reception she'd organize. No pomp and circumstance for Bess Beckley! Her informally-garbed guests would gather in the shady back yard to watch and listen as the bride and groom exchanged vows beneath the grape arbor. She'd wear her mother's wedding dress, and the ring Bess would wear for the rest of her life would be the one Micah had slipped onto Mary's finger on their special day.

String quartet? Absolutely not! Fiddlers, instead. A banjo, a mandolin, a jug blower
and a juice harp
to make music that would set folks' toes to tapping.

She'
d
serve none of those fancy finger sandwiches so favored by Baltimore's elite. Fried chicken and a spit-roasted pig would feed
her
hungry guests. Her mother would have loved a celebration like that, Bess knew.

Sighing heavily, she wondered what her mama would have thought about the handsome stranger who arrived today. A romantic by nature, Mary, too, would have been mesmerized by his soft southern drawl. She'd have hidden a grin behind her dainty hand and whispered, "Oh, Bess, honey
,
isn't he a
fine-looking
fellow
!" And when the giggles faded, Mary's dark brows would have risen sympathetically as she commented on the sadness in his ice-blue eyes...and speculated on what might have caused it.

Bess snuggled deeper into the overstuffed backrest of her window
seat and hugged a fat white pillow, her fingertips lightly stroking the tiny knots that made up the candle
-
wicked bouquet. By now, her mother would have discovered the cause of the big stranger's woes, for she had such a way with people! Bess envied her ability to identify and soothe the pain in others.

It had been that aspect of her gentle nature that cost Mary her life.
Bess leaned
her forehead against the cool window glass
and clos
ed her eyes a
s
the memory roll over her
like a wave a
t high tide....

On a cool March day, much like this one had been, Everett Thomas had sent his son to fetch Mary, the local midwife. She'd been baking bread, and a dozen loaves of spongy dough were waiting for their turn in the oven when the boy burst into the kitchen, teary-eyed and panting. "M-m-ma's baby is comin',
m
-
m
-Miss
m
-
m
-Mary
, y
-y-you gotta come, quick!" Mary had lai
d
a flour-dusted palm against his fear-flushed cheek and kissed his forehead. "We'll stop at the barn on our way out," she told him, removing her frilly white apron and cooking cap, "and let Mr. Beckley know that a miracle is about to happen at your house." Her touch had been enough, Bess recalled, to ease the boy's fright. He was smiling by the time he and Mary headed for the barn, hand in hand.

At Mary's funeral, t
he Thomas clan talked about it in excruciating detail
:
Three times that night, Everett had said, Lizbeth would have died
,
if not for Mary
; n
early twelve hours after
arriving
at the Thomas house, Bess's mother gently
placed
a howling ten pound, four ounce baby boy in his mama's waiting, weary arms. Neighborly concern inspired Everett to invite Mary to stay the night. But she declined the friendly offer, saying in her playfully polite way that she'd rather brave the perils of the night than listen to newborn Daniel exercise his powerful little lungs for even one minute longer.

Birthing babies often took countless hours, so when Mary didn't return to Foggy Bottom before dark, her family hadn't given it a thought. First thing next morning, Micah headed out to the Thomas'
s
. As usual, his plan was to hitch his horse to the back of her buckboard, the way he often did when a woman's labor kept h
er
away from home all night, and drive the wagon so that his exhausted wife could doze, head resting on his shoulder.

But halfway between Foggy Bottom and the Thomas farm, Micah had found her, lying still and pale alongside Beckleysville Road.
Later, h
e
told
his only daughter
how he'd dismounted, scooped her up, and gently lay her
in
the blanketed wagon bottom. All the way to the doctor's office, he'd said, he refused to believe that her cold, clammy skin and partially opened eyes were proof of the unthinkable.

"I never should have let her hitch that horse to her wagon," Micah whimpered at the funeral. He'd been trying for weeks to break the beast, but it was a spirited steed. "I told her he wasn't ready for
such
work just yet...." Still, he'd let Mary convince him they couldn't spare the other horses for her mission of mercy at the neighbors' that day. She'd reminded him she was an able horsewoman, and that the short ride to Lizbeth's was the best use they could make of the newly-acquired animal.
If he'd been more forceful.
...

It had been decided, between the sheriff and the doctor, that Mary's horse had likely
reared up,
frightened by a rabbit or a raccoon
, upturning the wagon and tossing
Mary into the underbrush. The doctor assured Micah she hadn't suffered
, but the fact did little to
ease the family’s pain.

Bess
had been
twelve when it happened, Matt and Mark
,
barely walking. In the graveyard, Micah promised his children that he'd miss and remember
his
Mary always.
H
e'd also promised that sadness would not haunt Foggy Bottom. "She's with Jesus now," he
'd said
, "and that's something to be joyful about."

She had taken comfort from the strength of his words. But in the weeks and months to follow, Bess learned Micah hadn't believed them
,
himself. If she'd known then what she knew now about her father's fragile emotional condition, she'd have been even
more
diligent about filling Mary's shoes.

Gradually, Bess took over more and more of
her mother
's duties. By the age of seventeen, she was running the house with organized yet gentle efficiency
, and
kept Micah's ledgers in better order than even he ever had. It was good, she
repeatedly
told herself, that the work kept her so busy, because although her determination was genuine, Bess missed her mother more than she cared to admit. And of course, she couldn't admit it, for Bess sensed how much her father and brothers depended on her stubborn strength.

Only in the privacy of
this room could
Bess give in to loneliness and despair. Only here could she admit feeling tired, overburdened, deserted. Only in this peaceful, private place did she have the freedom to voice the whys and wherefores of death and dying...or dare to let tears fall. Surrounded by the things her sweet mama had so lovingly made
,
especially for her, Bess did her most honest mourning.

Now,
she
took a deep breath and sat back, peering out into the dark, silent yard. A rabbit raced alongside the corral fence, a barnyard cat close on its heels. She said a little prayer for the bunny and glanced at the clock on her mantle. Nearly midnight. She could almost hear her mother's voice: "The breakfast bell rings early at Foggy Bottom;
better
get some sleep
,
or you'll pay the price tomorrow!"

But not even the comforting weight of the afghan Mary had crocheted sooth
ed
Bess's ragged nerves. Her mind swirled with thoughts of
Chance
. Where had he come from? And what deep secret had darkened
his
beautiful blue eyes? He'd flirted blatantly with her during dinner.
Why, to be honest, he'd started flirting the moment he climbed down from the wagon!

The thought made her smile a bit
as she
stretched, yawned, closed her eyes. At the sound of whinnying horses, she opened them again. As a mother reads the meanings of her baby's cries, Bess knew her horses' moods. It wasn't like them to make such a racket at this hour.

She'd heard in town yesterday that rustlers had run off with a dozen of Abe
Macpherson's
best
quarter horses
....
Well
, she determined, getting to her feet,
they won't get away with
ours.
At least, not without a fight
!

Quietly, she scrambled across her
room
and, without lighting a lamp, stepped into her boots and buttoned them halfway. She belted a navy skirt atop her nightgown and shrugged into a red lambswool jacket, fastening it as she hurried down the stairs.

For a moment, Bess stood in the shadowy foyer and peeked through the bubbly leaded window beside the door. Instantly, she recognized the tall silhouette. She threw open the door and half-walked, half-ran toward the corral. "
Chance
Walker," she whispered loudly, "what're you doing out here at this hour?"

He'd been leaning against the corral gate's top rail, and straightened at the sound of her voice. "Well, if it ain't Just Plain Bess," he said. "I might ask the same question...."

"I couldn't sleep," she said. "I was
—“

"
—l
ooking out your window," he finished. "I know."

She glanced up at the house, and realized that from where he stood, he could, indeed, have seen her sitting in her window seat. Bess ignored her hard-beating heart. "Are you aware
that
it's after midnight?"

His quiet chuckle punctuated her commen
t. "Don't you worry. Your daddy will
get his money's worth out of me tomorrow."

Bess gasped, and clutched her jacket tighter around her throat. "
That isn't… I didn't….
I only meant...."

He took a step nearer. "Whoa, there, Bess. Settle down. I was only funnin' with you."

In the twilight,
his eyes
looked
more
silver-gray than blue. She thought again of the wolf, and hugged herself to fend off the unexpected chill
that wrapped around her
. Blinking, she forced herself to say, "That's an interesting accent you've got there. Where are you from?"

"Texas."

The retort was short and deliberately evasive, so she pressed him for more. "I've been to Texas."

He took another step closer. "Is that so?"

Bess didn't understand the worry lines that creased his brow. It took all her willpower not to step back
,
put more distance between them. She felt a little afraid, a little curious
…
and a whole lot interested. So she
stood her ground and
nodded in response to his question.

"Went with Pa to Houston, on business."

"Well," he drawled, smirking, "there's Texas, and then there's
west
Texas...."

She didn't understand the comment, but the smug expression on his face told her he held the western part of the state in high esteem.

He hadn't moved any closer, yet somehow,
Chance
's nose seemed only inches from hers. His eyes bored into hers with such
concentration
that it made her pulse race, and Bess didn't understand why his mere nearness inspired such an intense physical reaction in her. Her father had a favorite saying
—“
Y
ou
learn with your ears open and your mouth shut
.
"
A
nd her mother often said "
Y
ou catch more flies with honey than with vinegar." With those witticisms to comfort her, Bess
smiled.