Spirit of the Wolf (18 page)

Another eagle screeched overhead, reminding
Chance
of the creature's freedom to come or go or stay as it chose. Suddenly, he no longer felt quite so envious of that great, wild bird.

He kissed her,
and then
clutch
ed
her to him in a desperate attempt to blot out thoughts of being caught, of
leaving Foggy Bottom, of losing his precious Bess
.
He felt
her heart
thumping
against his chest, felt her fingers comb through his hair. He took her face in his hands and
looked deep into those innocent, s
oulful doe eyes. Inhaling deeply,
Chance
looked up into the pale blue sky and shook his head. He'd never felt more loved or wanted than when he was with Bess. Had never felt more important or cherished than when in her arms. Was it wrong to want her on every human level?
Not wrong, perhaps, but not right, either....

And so
Chance
took a caref
ul, if not reluctant, step back, reminding
himself he'd
soon leave Foggy Bottom soon. Too soon
. "When you cut that cake," he said, tenderly tidying her mussed hair, "
make mine an end
slice."

Was it his imagination, or had he put extra emphasis on the word ‘end’?

The next days passed in a flurry of activity.

The men Micah had hired at the start of the season were busy every hour of every day
,
readying the farm for the harvest. He'd promised Bess that next year
, if
she
cut savvy deals
in Baltimore
this
year
, she
could travel west on his behalf
to
choose and purchase
the
stud bulls that would sire a whole new line of dairy cows at Foggy Bottom. That he trusted her enough to let her go alone to the meeting with the Texas rancher made Bess happier than she'd been in years. Happy, and proud, too.

It was important to outfit herself like a woman who understood a thing or two about negotiating:

Her practical, low-heeled shoes
went well with
what Micah teasingly referred to as her
“Do Business”
dress. Richly trimmed in deep green cotton, the folds of its sea-green skirt shimmered in light and shadow. The three buttons that graced each wide cuff were covered in the same dark green fabric, as were the two that held the glimmering golden throat clasp on its collar. When her mother had worn the dress, she looked to Bess like a goddess. No such aura came to mind when
she donned it herself, however.

Her mother had been one of those rare beauties who needed no rouge on her high cheekbones
or lips
. Her luxurious, waist-length brown hair shone with lustrous red and gold
strands, and h
er skin, so pale it was almost translucent, reminded Bess of the fragile china that her mother reserved for special
dinners
.

She'd never recognized the similarities in her face and her mother's. Nor did she see the likeness between her own delicate frame and Mary's. She had no way of knowing that every time he looked at Bess, Micah was reminded of his beloved wife, or that the striking resemblance was a daily reminder of a painful fact: Mary was gone to him, forever. Bess could not have known that this fact caused him to hold his daughter at arm's length, avoiding her when he could
,
avoiding her dancing brown eyes when he couldn't.

So when
Chance
occasionally referred to her as
J.P., for Just Plain Bess, it had been all too easy to believe
he saw her as plain
, too
. Not until he began to show genuine interest in her
,
not as someone who could help him carve a wedge of Foggy Bottom
for
hi
mself,
but as
a
woman
,
did
she
begin to see herself as more than 'just plain.'

She remembered the first time she'd come face to face with the fact that she did, indeed, look very much like her beautiful mother.

She'd been in the dining room
polishing the silver when she heard a noise in the parlor. Leaving her cleaning supplies behind, Bess tip-toed across the foyer's Persian rug to peek through the velvet curtains on either side of the wide doorway.

Chance
had stood before the fireplace, one big hand gripping the mantle on either side of the gilded frame that housed
a
tintype of her family. He'd seemed entranced by the images, captured forever by the photographer. Sensing her presence, he turned. For a fleeting moment, Bess saw naked vulnerability in his blue eyes. But in a blink, the warm, sweet look was gone, and in its place,
Chance
's usual, guarded expression.

"Didn't hear you come in," he'd said, pocketing both hands.

Crossing to where he stood, she’d felt
oddly like an intruder in her own home. "Would you like me to introduce you to everyone?"

"Maybe some other time," he
’d
said, glancing at the clock. "It's time to
—“

"
S
urely you can spare a moment."
One by one, she identified
grandparents, aunts and uncles, and cousins, saving the family portrait for last. "The
twins
favor Mama, don't you think?"

Nodding, he’d whispered,
"
I reckon, but
you could be her twin."
He touched a curl that had escaped her cleaning bonnet. “
Your hair is thicker
, a
nd thos
e doe-eyes of yours are bigger
." His thumb skimmed her lashes. "You're livin
g
, breathin
g
proof there's a God in the heavens."

H
e’d gone
on to say, "Met a man in Kansas City once. Said he'd been all the way across the ocean, where he'd spent
a year
in sunny Italy. Told me about
all
these beautiful statues, carved by Michelangelo
, an
d described paintings by a man name of Lorenzo Ghiberti."

Though s
he
’d been
impressed to learn that
Chance
, rough and tumble cowboy, knew so much about foreign art
, Bess hadn’t understood the connection between
fine
art and hi
m,
seeing her as
proof the
re was a God
…

…until
h
e
showed her.

"No painter or sculptor could create a work of art as magnificent as Bess Beckley
,” he’d said, drawing her close
.
“
It took God to do that."

And then
he'd kissed her.

Bess had felt his
h
eart, beating hard against her chest. Suddenly, without warning or reason,
Chance
ended the beautiful moment
and looked at the ceiling
and, eyes
closed
,
drew a deep, shuddering breath.
T
hree
syllables towa
rd the scones
flanking the mantle, syllables that
sounded
an awful lot
like 'I love you.'
"What? What did you say?"

One corner of his mouth twitched involuntarily, as if he were trying to
take back the words…and whatever emotion had inspired them.
Ever so gently, he
traced her lower lip with a calloused fingertip
, then
rest
ed
his chin atop her head
and
said,
"I'd better get back to work."

And just like that, he left her to admit that without him, she felt cold and empty, and very much alone.

Bess's heart fluttered, remembering
th
e k
iss she'd
so often
dream
t
of
and thought about
as she went about her chores
. And disappointing as it was,
no opportunity
to repeat the magical moment had
presented itself
since.
Chance
busied himself with
overseeing the harvest, and she had plenty to keep her busy, preparing for her meeting with the Texas cattle rancher.

Excitement bubbled inside her in anticipation of this, her first real business trip. After lunch, Bess hummed contentedly as she straightened the rows of canned goods she'd stored on the pantry shelves. Soon, the humming escalated to under-her-breath singing as she stacked neatly-folded line-dried sheets and pillowslips in the linen c
upboard
. By the time she
stood out back
beating rugs, Bess's song could be heard clear across the yard.

"Amazing Grace," she sang, "how sweet thou art...."

Of all the melodies she could have chosen, he wondered why Bess sang
that
particular hymn. It was his uncle's favorite, sung morning and night...and as he beat
Chance
for
boyhood
infraction
s
, and before and after every lecture.... By the time
Chance
turned fifteen, he'd come to hate th
e
song with a vengeance.

Always before, hearing it conjured painful memories
, r
aised doubts and awakened suspicions that he
’d
kept carefully hidden under layers of pretended sternness. Christians, he'd come to be
lieve, were all the same, good
when decent folks were in plain sight, but mean and evil
when
no one but family could see.

His aunt Polly had endured nearly as many whippings as
Chance
over the years. Several times, in trying to rescue her from yet another lash of Josh's thick, leather strap, it was
Chance
's skin that
later stung
with ugly, red welts. "In the name of the Lord God," Josh would thunder, "you will obey me!" After each beating, once
his wife and nephew quit sniffling, he’d
insist that
they
join him in praising the Lord by singing his favorite hymn, Amazing Grace.

But t
his time, the
melody
didn't
summon
angry, bitter feelings. Bess's sweet, angelic voice trilled with meaning and intent, and for the first time in his life,
Chance
understood
the
words
.

"Through many dangers, toils, and snares, I have already come. 'Twas grace has brought me safe thus far, and grace will lead me home." Suddenly, she saw him standing there, and lurched with fright. "Goodness gracious. You nearly scared me out of my boots!"

"Sorry," he said, walking closer and taking the rug beater from her
.
"I was just enjoying your song. Please don't stop."

She grabbed the tool and gave the rug a
nother
good wallop. "I'll sing
,
on one condition."

He tipped back his hat and
both
crossed his arms over his chest, waiting for her to name her terms.

"You have to join me."

Chance
laughed. "Me?" He pointed at a nearby tree, where several chickadees perched on a low branch. "What'd they ever do to you?"

Bess's merry giggle was punctuated with a wink and a bright smile. "I've heard you sing. You have a beautiful voice."

Chance
shrugged. He supposed his voice was pleasant enough, but he'd always thought of it
more
as a way to soothe
restless
cows on moonlit nights.

Bess sat on the rough-hewn bench alongside the flagstone walk and patted the empty space beside her. When he joined her, their backs to the white-picketed kitchen porch, she took his hand. "Oh, Lord my God," she began softly, "when I in awesome wonder, consider all the worlds thy hands have made...."

With a gentle poke of her elbow to his ribs, she nudged him. "Come on now, sing with me."

"Can't," he said. "Don't know that one. But it's beautiful. Don't stop."