Home by Morning (25 page)

He almost went to her then. The need to hold her burned inside him. But doubt remained, and there were still questions she needed to answer. “Once you knew Marsh was dead, why did you not come to us then?”

“Because Brother convinced me not to.” She sounded weary. Defeated. “He thought if I left the train the same time Marsh disappeared, it would arouse suspicion. He convinced me we should continue on to Washington and I should make my presentation.” A frown drew her dark brows together. “Which is why I don't understand why this man has come here now. Once they found Marsh's body and decided his death was accidental, all charges against Brother and me were dropped. So why is he here?”

“I will ask him.”

“Please, Thomas.” Her voice trembled as more tears gathered. “If you let Tait wear your badge and pretend to be you, this man will think he has the wrong Thomas Redstone and leave us alone. Then we can talk through all of this.”

“I will not bring dishonor on myself by hiding behind my friends.”

“How can you be so stubborn?!” Lurching to her feet, she loomed over the desk, tears and fury glistening in her eyes. “This isn't just about you and me anymore, Thomas. There's Lillie, too. She's our daughter now. She needs both of us. She
chose
both of us. And it's our duty to be the parents she needs us to be.”

He shot from the chair. “Do not tell me my duty, Prudence! Who has watched over her these last months? Me! Her
only
parent for too long!”

She glared at him, her expression as fierce as any warrior's, her beauty shining like a light from within. “I would have been here if I could.”

How many times had he heard that excuse.

Voices rose outside. In a lightning move, Thomas leaped from behind the desk and positioned himself between her and the door. “Go into the back,” he ordered, giving her a gentle push with the hand not gripping his knife.

“No.”

“Prudence—”

The door opened.

Brodie stepped in, a confused look on his face. When he saw the knife in Thomas's hand, he silently motioned for him to put it away. When Thomas reluctantly put it back into his belt, Declan allowed a man with a bulging documents case to enter. As others came in behind him, Tait Rylander moved to Thomas's side.

“Let me do the talking,” he said in a low voice.

“This fellow”—Declan hooked a thumb at the stranger—“was sent by an Indiana senator named Brooks, asking about a blind girl named Lillian.”

Thomas studied the small man with the pointed mustache. He let out the breath he had been holding. This was not one of the men he had seen at the Indianapolis train station. “Lillian Redstone. My daughter.”

*   *   *

With a hiss of irritation, Pru stepped out from behind Thomas. “
Our
daughter,” she corrected, with a glare at her husband.

Audra wrote furiously.

Small eyes that were less brown than muddy moved over Pru in an intrusive way. His lips pursed and unpursed, making the lacquered ends of his absurd mustache—obviously dyed with henna, since the hair of his sideburns was gray—bob up and down like the wings of tiny black bird.

Not a lawman, she guessed. More like a courthouse bureaucrat.

“And who might you be?” he asked Pru in an officious tone.

She glanced at Thomas, wondering if he would admit to their marriage, but he said nothing. “Her mother. And you are . . . ?”

“Virgil Squibb, solicitor.” He gave a nod so slight it verged on insult. “It was my understanding . . . ma'am . . . that it was Mr. Redstone, here, who took the child from the Riverbend
School for the Disabled in Indianapolis. Are you now admitting you took part in that abduction?”

“Abduction?” Edwina gave a trilling laugh that sounded close to hysteria.

Audra flipped to a clean page. “Is that ‘Squibb' with two
B
s?”

Ignoring them both, Pru stepped forward. “Lillian was
delivered
to Mr. Redstone. By the school. As ordered by the late Cyrus Marsh, who—”

“Please,” Tait interrupted. “I'll handle this.” He turned to the solicitor. Hard gray eyes clashed with muddy brown. “May I ask what your interest in the child might be, Mr. Squibb?”

“Who are you?”

“Tait Rylander. I represent the Redstone family, which, of course, includes the child in question. Their daughter.” He gave a smile that had doubtless struck fear into many an opponent—in either a boardroom or a courtroom. “And whom do you represent?”

Squibb drew himself up, although he still fell far short of Rylander's tall frame, and looked almost childlike beside Declan Brodie, who loomed behind him. “I am here at the behest of Leonard Brooks, Indiana state senator and sitting member on the Board of Trustees of the Riverbend School for the Disabled.”

Tait didn't appear impressed. “And
his
interest in this matter is . . . what?”

“The child's welfare, of course.” Squibb dug through his documents, pulled out a letter, and read, “‘
In regards to Mr. Redstone's illegal removal of the disabled child in question—Lillian, last name unknown—from the protection of the State of Indiana and the Riverbend School for the Disabled, please instruct him to release the child into the custody of Virgil Squibb, representative of the aforementioned school.
'” With a flourish, he shoved the paper back into his case. “I also have a Statement of Special Education Needs issued by the administrator.”

“May I see that, sir?” Audra asked.

He ignored her.

“The only things I would like to see,” Tait said in a cold voice, “are any
legal
documents issued by the court. Subpoenas, summons, warrants, orders, jurisdiction and enforcement notices—whatever you have in that bag of yours that is material to this case.”

Color flooded Squibb's face. “There is no case, per se. Not yet. And there will be none, if Mr. Redstone returns the child to the proper authorities.”

Ethan straightened from his slouched position beside the door. Lucinda drew her pistol from her pocket. Brodie narrowed his eyes. “Is that a threat, Squid?”

The man's cheeks lost their rosy hue. “Of course not. And it's
Squibb
.”

Tait waved Declan and Ethan away. “Then I ask again, Mr.
Squibb
. On what legal grounds do you ask Mr. Redstone to give up his daughter?”

Thomas's patience snapped. “I will not do it! Ever! Leave now!”

Pru put a hand on his arm. Being a man of action rather than words, Thomas had lasted longer than she'd thought he would.

Tait sent the Cheyenne a silent warning.

Pru added her own by squeezing his arm.

Muttering words she didn't know—which was probably best—Thomas jerked free of her grip, stomped around his desk, and plopped into his chair. “White people.” With an air of disgusted indifference, he pulled out his knife and began cleaning his nails.

Declan relaxed. Ethan leaned back against the wall beside the door. Audra shook out a cramp in her hand.

But Pru wasn't fooled. She knew Thomas was acutely aware of all that went on around him. He probably just wanted a reason to get out his knife.

“Well, Mr. Squibb?” Rylander pressed. “Why should he give her up?”

The solicitor tore his gaze from the ten-inch blade in Thomas's hand. “Because he took custody of the girl under false pretenses. He is not the child's father, no matter what he or the child says. And it is illegal for unmarried persons, especially males”—he punctuated this with a glare at Thomas—“to adopt orphans. If he gives her up—”

“No!” Thomas shouted, leaping to his feet. His arm shot out. A
thunk
as the knife struck. “She is my daughter!”

Silence. They all gaped at the blade quivering in the front wall. Then with a cry, the solicitor dropped his case. Papers
flew everywhere. “My God! He tried to kill me! Did you see? That savage attacked me!”

Declan snorted. “If he'd attacked you, you'd be dead by now.”

“And good riddance,” his wife seconded.

With a huff, Lucinda waved the hand still holding her double Derringer. “This is complete and utter nonsense. Tait, tell him.”

“Only if you put that away, sweetheart.”

Mumbling to herself, she complied.

With shaking hands, Squibb bent to gather his papers. By the time he had stuffed them back into his case, Tait had restored order.

“No one will be killing anyone, Mr. Squibb,” he said with a strained smile. “But perhaps it would be best if we continued this discussion in the privacy of my office at the hotel.”

“Oh, for heaven's sake,” Pru burst out. “There is no discussion to be had!” Hands on hips, she rounded on Thomas. “Are you going to tell them, or shall I?”

He crossed his arms.

“Fine!” She faced the others. “Lillie's adoption is entirely legal, and was signed by Judge Kohler in the Indianapolis courthouse. I have the papers to prove it.”

“Then the judge was misinformed, ma'am,” Squibb snapped. “Or defrauded. As I stated earlier, unmarried persons are not allowed to adopt—”

“We are married, you cretin! And I have the certificate to prove that, as well!”

Gasps, cries, expressions of shock. Even Audra stopped writing to gape at her. And her sister, bless her heart, broke into sobs—not happy ones, either.

“Good Lord!” Pru raised her hands in exasperation, then let them fall back to her sides. “Truly? You're that surprised that we married?”

“It's not that,” Edwina wailed. “It's that you did it without us!”

T
o avoid further hysterics, Tait left the others in the sheriff's office and marched Pru, Thomas, and Mr. Squibb down to the hotel. There, behind the locked door of his office, they discussed the matter calmly and rationally. Even so, and despite having documents proving she and Thomas were married and Lillie's adoption was legal—Pru had spent three days sitting outside Judge Kohler's office to make certain of that—it still took hours for Mr. Squibb to agree in writing to relinquish all interest in Lillie. Tait's legal expertise aside, the deciding factor was when Thomas—who had remained sullenly silent throughout—leaned over and whispered in the solicitor's ear that he would put his knife in his throat if he did not put his mark on Tait's paper and leave. Now.

Pru was utterly exhausted. With Thomas contributing little to the debate beyond scowls and snorts, she felt she was fighting this battle alone. She had sensed him watching her throughout the long discussion, but his stony face revealed nothing of what he was thinking. Was he upset that she had blurted out that they were married? Was he sorry he was now permanently burdened with a wife and child?

She had reservations herself—the same ones that had plagued her from the beginning. After all they had been through together, they were still so far apart in culture, religion,
expectations, she wondered if they would ever find a common ground, other than Lillie.

“Are you well, Pru?”

She looked up to see Tait eyeing her with concern.

“You didn't eat much of the lunch I had sent in.”

Aware of Thomas studying her, she put on a smile. “I'm just tired. It's been a very exciting, troubling, emotional few days.”

“Perhaps you should go rest. I'll tell Mrs. Bradshaw to send up a tray later, so you don't even have to come down for supper. How does that sound?”

“Wonderful.” She hadn't the energy to be interrogated by Thomas again, or answer Lillie's questions, or put on a happy face for her concerned friends. She just wanted to sleep. “Thomas, please reassure Lillie and tell her I'll talk to her tomorrow. And Tait,” she added with a weary smile as she pushed herself out of her chair, “you're a brilliant lawyer, and we couldn't be more grateful. We must owe you a fortune.”

“You're family. But a signed copy of Thomas's book would be nice.”

Pru looked at Thomas.

He nodded.

“Then you shall have it. Good day, gentlemen.”

Luck was with her, and she made it all the way to her room without her inquisitors finding her. As soon as the door closed behind her, she collapsed face-first on the bed, clothes and all. But she barely had a chance to close her eyes before the door opened again. Rising onto her elbows, she looked over to see Thomas standing in the doorway.

He held up her reticule. “You left this in Tait's office.”

“Thank you,” she said weakly and dropped her cheek to the pillow again. “Put it on the bureau.”

She heard the door close, then rustling, then felt hands fumbling with the buttons up the side of her high-top walking shoes. She reared up. “What—”

“Be still,” Thomas murmured.

A minute later, the boots and stockings were off and warm, strong hands began massaging her tired feet. She floated in bliss.

“Roll over.”

He had to help her, and soon those talented hands had undressed her down to her chemise and had moved up to pull the pins from her hair. After he slipped the counterpane from beneath her and covered her to her chin, he sat on the edge of the bed.

“Prudence. Listen to me.”

She forced open her eyes.

“I will tell
Katse'e
we are man and wife now, and that by the white man's law, she is our daughter forever. Tomorrow, you will move to the Arlan house, and there we will live as a family. But until you decide if we can make a life together, I will not ask you to live with me as my wife.” His rough hand cupped her cheek. Sadness clouded his eyes. “We still have much to talk about,
Eho'nehevehohtse.
But for now, sleep.
Nestaevahosevoomatse.
I will see you again.”

A light kiss on her mouth, and he was gone.

*   *   *

Pru slept like the dead, rousing only to eat a light supper from the tray Mrs. Bradshaw brought up, then sleeping again. At dawn, she awoke feeling like a new woman, and other than a headache and a slight queasiness from not eating enough the day before, she felt ready to take on the day. After a cold wash in the bowl atop the bureau, she dressed and quickly packed her valise for her move to the Arlan house. The sun was just peeking over the ridges when she hurried downstairs to go meet Thomas at his office.

She tiptoed past the dozing desk clerk and had almost reached the front doors when a familiar voice rang out, stopping Pru dead in her tracks and bringing Yancey awake with a start that almost toppled him from his stool.

“And where do you think you're going?” Her sister stood in the doorway of the dining room, hands on hips, Lucinda and Rosie at her shoulder.

Pru let out the breath she had been holding. “Did you stay awake all night, watching for me?”

Lucinda sniffed. “New mothers don't sleep.”

“You have some explaining to do, Sister.” Edwina waved her toward the dreaded corner table.

Leaving her valise under Yancey's watchful eye, which was only slightly safer than flinging it directly into the street, Pru dutifully followed her interrogators to the dining room. “Doesn't anyone in town eat breakfast anymore?” she asked, eyeing the empty tables. Before she'd left for Indiana, the dining room had been busy every morning.

Lucinda took her usual place by the window and gently settled her sleeping daughter into a wheeled bassinet by her chair. “Since the railroad workers left, we're only open for breakfast on the weekends. And don't try to change the subject.”

Pru took the chair across from her. “What was the subject?”

“And don't be coy.” With a swish of her skirts, Edwina plopped into the chair beside her. “Start talking.”

“Can I at least have something to eat first? I'm starving.”

“I've already alerted Cook,” Lucinda told her. “It should be out soon.”

Edwina plunked her half-finished muffin in front of her. “Start on this. Declan wants to leave for the ranch today, so I don't have much time.” She sat back, arms crossed. “Everything. From the beginning.”

Not surprisingly, they were less interested in Marsh and his threats, her work in Schuler, or even her education initiative, than in what was going on between her and Thomas and Lillie. Pru told them all she felt comfortable revealing—sisters didn't need to know
everything
, no matter how nosy they were. Most of it they had already heard from Thomas or guessed on their own.

Her food arrived. While Pru dug in to the delicious breakfast Cook had prepared, Edwina continued the questioning.

“So why did you keep sending him away?”

“No man deserves to be rejected so summarily,” Lucinda added with a scolding look. “I don't blame him for being angry with you.”

“You don't love him,” Edwina accused. “That's why you wouldn't come back with him, isn't it?”

“Of course I love him!” Pru slapped jelly on her toast, wishing she were slapping her sister instead. “Thomas is the finest man I know. But I explained about my work and how important—”

“Nonsense! It's because of Lone Tree, isn't it?”

The toast fell to her plate. “What?”

“It's because of what happened to you in the Indian camp and what that vile Arapaho did to you. You can't bear to have Thomas touch you.” Her sister's indignation gave way to rising tears. “Oh, Pru. I wish you could forget. I wish I could kill him for you all over again.”

“You didn't kill him the first time,” Lucinda reminded her. “It was the seventy-foot fall that did him in.”

“
After
I hit him with the shovel.” Edwina paused, a distant look in her blue eyes. “It made the most amazing sound—almost musical—when it struck his head. Like a bell, only twangier. I remember it so clearly.”

Lucinda gave the Southerner a wary look.

Pru, being more accustomed to her sister's strange drifts off subject, let it pass. “Lone Tree didn't rape me, if that's what you're insinuating.” Lifting her cup, she took a sip, pleased by the matter-of-fact tone in her voice. In the past, simply speaking his name would have sent her into panic, but now, she scarcely felt a thing. “The rape happened years earlier.”

She blinked, shocked by her own words. Where had that come from? She hadn't thought of Black Sam in years. Realizing her hand was shaking, she set her cup back into the saucer. Seeing the faces gaping at her from across the table, she looked away and tried to calm the pounding of her heart.

Edwina found her voice first. “You were raped earlier? How much earlier? And by whom?”

Pru pressed both hands against her stomach, sorry she had eaten so much. “It was a long time ago.”

“Answer me, Pru!”

Pru closed her eyes, saw that sweating, leering, snarling face above hers, and snapped them open again.

“Who?”

“Black Sam.”

“But . . . the slave who ran the smithy? He raped you?” When Pru nodded, Edwina slumped back in her chair, one hand at her throat. “I remember the way he looked at us. He scared me. I knew he hated us, but . . . he
raped
you?”

“He did. His way of showing me that I was no better than him, even if I had white blood.”

“Oh, Pru . . .” Tears brimmed again. “Why didn't you tell anyone?”

Pru pushed away her plate, appetite gone. “I was afraid of what Father might do. To me and to him. He probably would have hanged Black Sam. Or worse. Father was mostly a fair man, but I'd seen the whippings. Heard the cries and pleas when the overseer uncoiled his rope. I hear them, still.”

“Father only punished them if they deserved it.”

“Deserved it how? By being Negro?” A lifetime of bitterness left a vile taste in Pru's throat. “I was barely twelve when it happened. But even then, I knew I was treated better than the other coloreds. Educated, fed, clothed like a white. But whenever they looked at me, I knew it was a lie. I hate what Black Sam did to me. I still wake up with night terrors. But they had all suffered so much. Even him. Every day as a slave was a misery for them. I couldn't add to it.”

Edwina dashed the tears from her eyes. “That's not fair! How were they miserable? Daddy wasn't cruel to his people. And he did everything he could for you. I don't understand why you're saying such mean things about him.”

Pru put her hand over her sister's. “I loved Father, too. And I'm eternally grateful for all he gave me. But the world isn't always a fair place, Sister. People look at you and see a beautiful woman with a smile that lights up a room. They look at me and see an uppity colored stepping above her station. Same father. Same advantages. Same hopes and dreams. But viewed totally differently because of the color of our skin.” She shrugged. “Maybe that'll change someday. I hope so.”

Pru doubted Edwina would ever completely understand what it meant to be Negro. Or a slave. Where she loved, she loved completely. It truly didn't matter to her that her sister was mulatto. And Pru cherished her for that.

But Lucinda was Irish. She had seen much of the same ugliness Pru had. And although she might have clawed her way out of the foulest Irish hellhole and brothel district in New York, remnants of that cruel treatment still showed in her lovely green eyes.

“I understand all you've said here, Pru,” Lucinda said now. “And I'm deeply saddened that you had to suffer. But there's
one thing I'm confused about. If Lone Tree didn't force you, why were you so upset when you came back?”

Edwina nodded in agreement. “You were a mess. Wouldn't talk to anyone. Not even me. If you weren't raped, why were you so devastated?”

Pru wished Maddie were here. Maddie never judged, never criticized, and always found a better way to look at things. “It's complicated. I don't know if I can explain it so it would make sense.”

“Try.”

She thought for a moment. “As I said, Lone Tree didn't rape me, although he did make the attempt. Repeatedly. I think because he drank alcohol all day, he was incapable. And every time he tried and failed, it was my fault. He beat me. Kicked me. Treated me worse than the lowest dog.” She looked down at the hand over her stomach and felt that empty ache that never seemed to go away. “I think he damaged something inside that prevents me from conceiving.”

“No!” Edwina cried. “I don't believe it. You can't know that for certain until you and Thomas . . .”

Her voice trailed off when she saw Pru shake her head. “We have. Several times. And nothing has happened. I bled for a long time after I left the camp. Then I had terribly irregular courses. Now, I have none at all.”

“Oh, dearest.” Edwina leaned over to give her a hard hug, then sat back and wiped her face. “That bastard! I hated him before, but now I'm so glad I killed him.”

“I'm glad he's dead, too. He was vermin. Less than human. But in some ways, what he did to me wasn't as bad as what the rest of his tribe did.”

“What did they do?”

“Nothing.”

Edwina blinked round blue eyes. “Nothing? No one tried to help you or stop Lone Tree?”

Pru shook her head. “They went about their lives as if my suffering was inconsequential. Beneath their notice.” She gave a broken laugh. “Oh, a few of them jeered. One or two even sat and watched for a while. But most went by without even looking my way.”

Long-buried anger rose, erupting from her body in the
shaking of her hands and the rawness of her voice. “I know whites and Indians have done terrible things to each other. I understand hatred and resentment. I saw it in Black Sam, and on the faces of whites who wanted to blame me for all that they lacked. But to be treated as if I didn't exist? As if my life and suffering were meaningless?”