In Honor's Defense

  BOOKS BY KAREN WITEMEYER

  A Tailor-Made Bride

  Head in the Clouds

  To Win Her Heart

  Short-Straw Bride

  Stealing the Preacher

  Full Steam Ahead

  A Worthy Pursuit

  No Other Will Do

  Heart on the Line

  More Than Meets the Eye

  More Than Words Can Say

  HANGER’S HORSEMEN

  At Love’s Command

  The Heart’s Charge

  In Honor’s Defense

  NOVELLAS

  A Cowboy Unmatched from A Match Made in Texas: A Novella Collection

  Love on the Mend: A Full Steam Ahead Novella from With All My Heart Romance Collection

  The Husband Maneuver: A Worthy Pursuit Novella from With This Ring? A Novella Collection of Proposals Gone Awry

  Worth the Wait: A LADIES OF HARPER’S STATION Novella

  The Love Knot: A LADIES OF HARPER’S STATION Novella from Hearts Entwined: A Historical Romance Novella Collection

  Gift of the Heart from Christmas Heirloom Novella Collection

  More Than a Pretty Face from Serving Up Love: A Four-in-One Harvey House Brides Collection

  An Archer Family Christmas from An Old-Fashioned Texas Christmas

  Inn for a Surprise from The Kissing Tree: Four Novellas Rooted in Timeless Love

  A Texas Christmas Carol from Under the Texas Mistletoe

  © 2022 by Karen M. Witemeyer

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Minneapolis, Minnesota 55438

  www.bethanyhouse.com

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan

  www.bakerpublishinggroup.com

  Ebook edition created 2022

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  ISBN 978-1-4934-3720-7

  Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Dan Thornberg, Design Source Creative Services

  Author is represented by the Books and Such Literary Agency

  Baker Publishing Group publications use paper produced from sustainable forestry practices and post-consumer waste whenever possible.

  To my Posse.

  I couldn’t ask for better brainstormers,

  more dedicated readers,

  or dearer friends.

  Thank you for blessing my

  writing journey and my life.

  Contents

  Cover

  Half Title Page

  Other Books by the Author

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Back Ads

  Back Cover

  But the salvation of the righteous is of the Lord: he is their strength in the time of trouble. And the Lord shall help them, and deliver them: he shall deliver them from the wicked, and save them, because they trust in him.

  —Psalm 37:39–40

  Prologue

  ST. LOUIS, MISSOURI

  1895

  Invisible people rarely received correspondence. A fact Damaris Baxter had accepted long ago. So when the housekeeper entered the parlor and held out an envelope with her name occupying the address line instead of her aunt’s, it took a moment to process the unprecedented event.

  As the youngest of eight children, with no particular radiance of either face or manner to draw attention, Damaris had grown accustomed to being overlooked. In fact, she held the Baxter family record for being left behind on outings most frequently with an impressive total of five. Her brother Joseph had managed the feat twice, being the one most likely to wander off after being counted, but he’d never truly been forgotten, just temporarily misplaced. Their parents had forgotten about Damaris for an entire afternoon on one occasion, not missing her until she failed to appear when called for supper.

  Mama had scolded her for being too quiet for her own good, accusing her of hiding away to read books instead of participating in family activities. She’d demanded Damaris pay closer attention in the future so as not to be left behind again. Mama had wept through the entire exchange, of course, then nearly hugged the life out of Damaris at the conclusion of her lecture, assuring Damaris that she was loved if not memorable.

  Being invisible had its uses, however. Forgettable girls rarely got called on to recite lessons in front of the class. Or asked to dance when one had a perfectly good book to read. Yet when one reached marriageable age, invisibility became a significant disadvantage. There was always someone prettier, wittier, or more charming to draw the attention of available suitors. Which was how Damaris ended up as a companion to her great-aunt Bertha at the age of twenty-three. Not only was Damaris on the shelf, she was in the back corner behind the knickknacks, collecting dust. At least with Aunt Bertha, she’d found a way to be useful.

  Damaris pulled her scattered thoughts together, set aside her needlework, and reached for the letter. “Thank you, Anna.” She tried not to sound as astonished as she felt, but her voice carried a touch of breathlessness despite her best efforts.

  Anna noticed, of course, and smiled. “It’s from Texas, miss.”

  “Texas?” From Douglas? But the handwriting on the envelope wasn’t his. Not that she was an expert on her brother’s penmanship. He was fifteen years older and had been absent for more of her life than he’d been present. He’d moved to Texas right after his son was born and had only returned to Missouri once, the Christmas after his wife died.

  Seven-year-old Nathaniel had seemed so lost during that visit, so withdrawn. Damaris’s heart had ached for the grieving little boy. At sixteen, she knew enough to realize there were no words to take away his pain, so she didn’t offer any. She simply made sure he was never alone. She sat on the floor next to him while he played. Brought him cookies from the kitchen. Offered to read him stories. When he finally grew comfortable enough with her to crawl into her lap and help her turn the pages, she’d fallen completely in love. She wrote him letters and sent him small gifts for his birthday and Christmas each year, never really minding that he didn’t write her back. Young boys couldn’t be expected to correspond with eccentric aunts they probably didn’t even remember meeting. She’d been in his life for ten days. A mere drop in the ocean of his young existence. Douglas wrote to their mother a few times a year, so Damaris managed to keep up with Nathaniel through secondhand sources.

  “I hope it’s not bad news,” Anna said when Damaris made no move to open the letter.

  Damaris’s heart pounded. What else could it be when it came from a stranger? Unless . . . could it be from Nathaniel? He’d be, what, fourteen by now? Perhaps it was his handwriting.

  Please, Lord. Let it be from Nathaniel, not some stranger with ill tidings.

  Damaris placed the envelope in her lap with all the care of a seamstress laying out a piece of expensive Venetian lace. She smoothed her hand over the front before stealing herself to flip it over and discover what lay inside. Her hand trembled slightly as she removed and unfolded the stationery.

  Miss Damaris Baxter,

  I write with a heavy heart to inform you of your brother’s untimely death. Douglas Baxter was found drowned in Lake Madison on March 7, 1895.

  A small cry escaped Damaris. Her brother drowned? It couldn’t be. Douglas had been athletic and strong, good at nearly every sport, including swimming. How vividly she recalled the summer after she turned five, when he’d taken it upon himself to teach all of the youngest Baxter siblings to swim. She’d been too young to do much more than cry and cling to him, but by the end of the summer, he’d had them all paddling across the swimming hole unaided—her included. How could he have drowned?

  “Are you all right, miss?” Anna turned from where she’d been adjusting the blanket on Aunt Bertha’s lap, the older woman snoring softly in her rocker by the window.

  “It’s my brother Douglas. He’s . . . They found him . . .” She couldn’t say it. Couldn’t make it real.
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  Anna’s eyes softened in sympathy. “I’m so sorry. Should I wake the missus?”

  Damaris shook her head. “No. Not yet.” She needed time to compose herself, to get a grip on her emotions before she broke the news to her aunt. And what about her mother? Had she been informed? Surely a letter of this sort would be sent to the deceased’s parents. So why had this one come to her?

  Blinking back the mist from her eyes, Damaris refocused on the letter.

  The cause of death was determined to be accidental. A true tragedy, ending the life of a man in his prime. You have my most sincere condolences.

  Damaris dropped her gaze to the signature—Ronald Mullins, Esquire. A lawyer? She would have expected notification to come from a minister or friend. She’d never heard the name Ronald Mullins, nor did she recall any mention of him in the letters Douglas had written to Mother.

  Mr. Douglas Baxter named you, Miss Damaris Baxter, guardian of his son, Nathaniel. You have also been named trustee of the boy’s estate, including the bank funds and property left behind by Mr. Baxter. I will provide you with a copy of all relevant documents when you come to claim the child.

  I place myself at your disposal, Miss Baxter. I stand ready to assist you in any way that might prove helpful during your time of mourning.

  Sincerely,

  Ronald P. Mullins, Esquire

  Douglas had chosen her? Damaris could barely find the strength to blink through the paralysis of shock. He’d entrusted Nathaniel’s care to the baby sister he barely knew. Why not their parents or Bartholomew? Bart was only a year younger than Douglas and had children close in age to Nathaniel. He seemed the logical choice. Yet Douglas had chosen her. Perhaps because she had no attachments to hinder or distract her. Of all their siblings, she was the only one with no family to keep her rooted in St. Louis. She was free to leave at any time, free to devote herself fully to Nathaniel’s care.

  Or maybe . . . Damaris caught her breath. Maybe the choice had belonged to Nathaniel. The idea kicked her heart into a rapid rhythm. What if Nathaniel had remembered his aunt Maris and requested that she be named his guardian?

  To be chosen for herself—it was the secret desire of her heart. To be important to someone. More than a glorified servant who fetched and carried and entertained at her aunt’s whim. To be wanted truly for herself. Seen instead of invisible. Valued instead of tolerated.

  “I must pack.” Damaris jumped up from the sofa with such speed that her forgotten basket of needlework threads toppled to the floor along with her embroidery hoop.

  A snuffling sound echoed from the window as Aunt Bertha stirred. “Damaris? Why are you fluttering about, girl? You know I dislike being disturbed during my afternoon respites. Clumsy child,” she chided as her gaze landed on the upturned basket and contents spilled across the carpet. “Clean up your mess, then bring me one of my tonics. I can’t have my nerves overset.”

  Anna hurried over to help right the sewing basket. Damaris smiled her thanks but didn’t stay to help. She had trunks to fill, railroad schedules to check, and a nephew who needed her.

  “Sorry, Aunt Bertha. I don’t have time to fetch your tonic. I’m moving to Texas.”

  CHAPTER

  ONE

  MADISONVILLE, TEXAS

  SIX WEEKS LATER

  Nathaniel? Is that you?” Damaris looked up from the misshapen loaf of bread she’d just turned out from the pan.

  Running footsteps thundered down the hall, but no voice rang in answer to her question. Not that she expected a response. Her nephew preferred pretending she didn’t exist to engaging in any form of verbal communication. Sullen looks, exaggerated eye rolls, and stomping frustration were more his style. After she’d arrived in Texas, it had taken less than a day for her beautiful delusions of mothering a sweet, heartbroken boy out of his grief to wither and die in the face of reality.

  At fourteen, Nathaniel was more man than boy, at least in stature and stubbornness. He matched her in height and surpassed her in cunning, constantly finding new ways to torture her. She’d been awakened by a chicken pecking at the quilt threads atop her midsection, a snake slithering down the back of her nightgown, and a pair of frogs dropped on her face. It had taken more fortitude than she’d realized she possessed not to run screaming back to Aunt Bertha.

  Yet underneath all the pranks, sarcasm, and anger lived the little boy she remembered. A boy who’d lost the linchpin that held his life together—his father. Was it any wonder he was spiraling out of control? He had no one to tether himself to. No one except her, an aunt he barely knew and trusted even less.

  After crying herself to sleep for the first week, mourning not only her brother but her starry-eyed dreams of home and belonging, Damaris resolved to meet her nephew’s challenge. Self-pity never accomplished anything. If she wanted a real relationship with her nephew, she’d have to fight for it. Stubborn for stubborn. No matter how hard he pushed, she’d prove herself reliable, winning him over with constancy and care. If he lashed out in anger, she’d respond with patience. If he avoided her, she’d seek him out. If he ignored her, she’d persist with one-sided conversations.

  “How was school?” she called, lifting her voice to carry down the hall to his bedroom. “Do you have much homework? I can help you with it after dinner if you like.”

  Miss Tatum had stopped by last week to let Damaris know that Nathaniel’s grades had dropped significantly over the last month. He only attended class half the time, and when he did show up, he failed to engage in his lessons. Worst of all, he’d started getting into fights during recess.

  He needs you, Lord, but I get the feeling he’s pushing you away as much as he’s pushing me. Show me how to help him.

  Heaven knew she’d need divine intervention to get through to the boy. While she believed in her ability to dose him with a constant flow of affection, she had absolutely no confidence in her ability to discipline him. She’d tried scoldings and reprimands, but they only brought out more rebellion and pranks, so she’d been terribly lax of late. She knew he needed boundaries, but those proved difficult to establish when he didn’t recognize her authority.

  “We’re having sausage gravy on toast tonight.” One of the few dishes she made of which he willingly ate a second helping.

  Her cooking skills seemed more suited to stove than oven. She could fry, sauté, stew, and boil to some degree of success, but disaster struck whenever she attempted roasting or baking. On the stove, she could move from a too-hot spot to a cooler one or vice versa, but the delicate mathematics of balancing the variables of wood, heat, and dampers never failed to give her the wrong answer when it came to the oven. Hence the lopsided bread in front of her. She flipped the outturned loaf right side up and placed it on a cooling rack. At least it wasn’t burnt. Just slightly caved in on one side.

  Not everything could be beautiful. A truth Damaris had come to terms with long ago when her own appearance failed to mature into anything other than plain. Yet a thing’s outward beauty should not determine its value. Bread’s value lay in its ability to fill an empty belly, not in how well it delighted the eye. She wouldn’t scorn her misshapen loaf just because it wasn’t as pretty as the ones in the baker’s window.

  “Can we have some of them fried apples you made last week for dessert?”

  Damaris squeaked and spun around. “Nathaniel! You startled me.”

  Her nephew leaned against the doorjamb, his arms crossed defensively over his chest, and his too-long brown hair hanging across his eyes. The prickly pose and droopy mane couldn’t hide the satisfaction gleaming in his eyes, however. He was proud of making her jump. For someone who had tromped through the house with all the delicacy of a drunken buffalo five minutes earlier, he certainly could move with stealth when he wanted.

  “So, can we? Have the apples?”

  Damaris smiled, her aggravation melting away as her heart softened. Nathaniel so rarely asked her for anything. “Of course.”

  There was a half-bushel of tart green apples in the root cellar. Maybe she could even make a brown betty with some bread cubes and extra cinnamon and sugar.

  “Thanks, Aunt Maris.”

  Warning bells rang in the back of Damaris’s mind. He never thanked her. Just ate whatever food she placed in front of him and disappeared either outside or into his room.

  Nathaniel pushed away from the wall. “I’ll be back before suppertime.”