The Heart's Charge Page 6

  Get your mind back on business, Brooks.

  At the same moment the silent scold pierced his mind, Miss Southerland reached for the baby and reclaimed Sarah from his potato hold, her mind obviously on nothing but business. Yet when a loud creak announced the opening of the front door, a touch of color darkened her cheeks as she lurched away from him.

  Maybe her mind hadn’t been completely on business after all.

  “Eliza Southerland.” A thickset black woman, hair streaked with silver, walked out onto the porch, her eyes shining nearly as brightly as the yellow apron she wore over a drab gray gown. “Did you go and catch yourself a man without tellin’ me a thing about it? Shame on you for keepin’ secrets, girl. ’Specially when they’s as handsome as this’un.”

  Miss Southerland’s cheeks darkened further. Jonah bit back a grin.

  “I did not catch myself a man, Miss Georgia,” she insisted in a voice haughty enough to belong to Queen Victoria herself. Jonah half expected to see the back of her skirt lengthen into a fancy train covered in beads and lace as she made the short climb up the porch steps. “I caught myself a newborn foundling in need of a wet nurse. You know full well that children are my only concern.”

  “And you know my thoughts on a woman closin’ herself off to opportunities the Good Lord drops in her lap because she’s too blinded by her own notions.”

  Miss Southerland’s head dipped slightly. “Yes, well, just because you were right about Katherine doesn’t mean you’re right about everything.”

  Georgia Harris placed a hand on Miss Southerland’s shoulder, her face softening. “’Course it don’t, sugar. I make as many mistakes as the next woman.” She gave a small chuckle. “Prob’ly more, since I got a weakness for meddlin’.” Her gaze fell to baby Sarah. She pushed down the fabric that had bunched up around the infant’s neck to get a better look. “Let’s get you and this sweet child in the house. I got just the nurse in mind. Tildy James is fixin’ to wean her youngest. I’m sure she’d be willin’ to feed this young’un for a spell. Might even help keep her womb empty a little longer. Heaven knows that gal has a talent for gettin’ herself with child.”

  “A hazard of catching oneself a man,” Miss Southerland muttered.

  Miss Georgia cackled as she steered her charge toward the front door, shaking her head as she went. “You got yourself a point, there, ’Liza. Though there’s nothing sweeter than holding a babe created from the love shared between a wife and her husband.” She paused on the threshold, her voice growing nostalgic. “I thank God ever’ day for the three children he done gave Abe and me. Havin’ them’s the only thing that made losin’ Abe bearable.” Her work-worn hand circled Miss Southerland’s arm. “Takin’ care of children like you do is a holy callin’, ’Liza girl, but so is bein’ a wife and mother. And in all my Bible readin’, I ain’t never come across a passage that says you can’t do both. Keep your eyes and your heart open, child. That’s all I’m sayin’.”

  Pretty sure the womenfolk had forgotten his existence, and certain he didn’t want to be roped into any conversation centered around marriage and procreating, Jonah eased his steps back the way he’d come. Tending horses might not be as holy a calling as tending children, but about now he was definitely feeling the urge to get as far away from Miss Georgia and her meddling as possible.

  Before he could make a clean escape, however, Miss Georgia turned and speared him with a gaze as targeted as any sharpshooter’s. “Come on into the house, mister,” she said. “I’ve got coffee on the back burner and fresh bread in the pie safe.”

  Jonah tugged his hat from his head in a show of manners he hoped would cover his retreat. “Maybe in a bit, ma’am.” After the conversation had shifted to something safer. Like Comanches. “I need to see to the horses.”

  “Uh-huh.” Skepticism dripped from her tone, but she didn’t press him. “I’ll send Samuel out to help ya.”

  “Much obliged.” More for her allowing his escape than for the help, but she probably knew that too.

  Samuel turned out to be a boy of around ten, one of Miss Georgia’s eight grandchildren who apparently took weeklong shifts living with her throughout the year. To keep the lonelies away, according to Samuel, who had inherited his grandmother’s chatty nature.

  Since there was no point in unhitching the wagon when they’d be headed off to another homestead soon to deliver the baby, Samuel fetched a bucket of water for the ponies to share while Jonah double-checked rigging he knew to be secure. He did take a closer look at the rear axle, though, not liking the cracks in the wood. A broken axle could strand one of the Harmony House ladies out in the middle of nowhere the next time they went out. The thought of Eliza alone on the road with nothing but her pride to protect her soured his stomach. The wagon needed serious repairs.

  “Which are you, Mr. Brooks?”

  Jonah straightened from his crouch, realizing too late he’d not kept up with Samuel’s prattling. “What?”

  “A gunslinger or a lawman?” The kid pointed to the pistol strapped to his thigh. “Mama says only two types of men wear guns like that, and I’m supposed to steer clear of both.”

  “Sounds like your mama’s a smart woman.” Steering clear of trouble of all sorts, no matter which side it came from, was a good idea. “I’m actually neither. I’m a Horseman. Rode with the 10th Cavalry until a few years ago. Then with Captain Hanger. Now, I suppose, I’m retired. Still carry the gun, though.” He shrugged. “Habit, I guess.”

  “You’re a Buffalo Soldier?” The awe in the kid’s voice made Jonah uncomfortable.

  He’d felt much the same as a youngster, idolizing men who served their country with courage and distinction. Men who looked like him. Shared his heritage.

  But being on the other side, having experienced the ugliness of war, the brutality and injustice, Jonah didn’t feel comfortable being cast as a hero. Not after Wounded Knee.

  “Not anymore, kid.” Jonah thumped Samuel’s back and strode forward to check on Bessie and Tessie, two old girls who wouldn’t have the energy to tangle their traces even if they discovered the inclination.

  “But you used to be, right?” The boy was persistent, trailing after him like an eager puppy. “Maybe you can stop the kiddy-snatchers.”

  Jonah spun around. “The what?”

  “The kiddy-snatchers.” Samuel’s wide eyes blinked up at him, nothing but sincerity shining in their depths. “Rawley told me about ’em. They come out of the woods when no one’s around and snatch up boys old enough to be out on their own but too young to put up a fight. Once a boy is snatched, he’s never seen again. Ever.”

  “Samuel Crawford Harris! What have I told you about tellin’ tales?” Georgia Harris stood with hands planted firmly on hips, a glower darkening her previously pleasant countenance.

  “But Gramma Georgia, it’s the truth!”

  His adamancy didn’t leave a dent. She raised a brow. “Have you seen a child be snatched?”

  “No, but Rawley said—”

  “Rawley is a boxcar boy who rides the rails with a gang of troublemakers who steal from honest folk and stir up mischief. He probably made up the story just to frighten you.”

  Samuel’s expression turned mulish. “He wouldn’t! He’s my friend.”

  “Even though your mama told you not to see him again?” She wagged a finger in the boy’s direction. “Do I need to have a conversation with your daddy when he comes to pick you up tomorrow?”

  All defiance leaked out of Samuel with the speed of water passing through a sieve. “No, ma’am.”

  Miss Georgia nodded in satisfaction, and a smile returned to soften her face. “That’s my good boy. Now, run up to the house and help yourself to a slice of Gramma’s bread for helping Mr. Brooks. There’s jam on the counter too.”

  Samuel headed for the house, defeat drooping his shoulders. He passed Miss Southerland along the way. Her brow crinkled, and she twisted her head to watch him go but made no move to interfere.


  “Let me give you the directions to Tildy’s house,” Miss Georgia was saying, but Jonah only listened with half an ear, his focus on the boy.

  When Samuel reached the porch, he grabbed the railing, then stopped and glanced over his shoulder. Directly at Jonah.

  A small shiver vibrated against Jonah’s nape. Tall tale or not, he couldn’t leave the kid hanging.

  He dipped his chin. Samuel dipped his in return.

  The Horsemen had just been hired.

  CHAPTER

  EIGHT

  Mark leaned against the side of the house and watched the kids play in the yard. Kate was avoiding him. Had been for the last hour. After he’d seen to the horses, he searched her out in the kitchen and found her peeling potatoes. He’d offered to help, hoping to spend some time with her and maybe wheedle past whatever reluctance was keeping her from answering his questions. He’d start with some innocuous questions about her family. Share a few tidbits about his own from his mother’s last letter. Do a little reminiscing over old times. Then gently move into the unknown territory of what had transpired between the past and present.

  He’d barely managed the opening smile of his campaign before the little minx retreated. She’d thrust the bowl of peelings at him, thanked him for his help, then left. Left! With no explanation beyond a muttered excuse about needing to restock the baby supplies in the downstairs cabinet. As if that were a matter of great urgency. Supper seemed a more imminent need, in his estimation, but he had let her go, staying behind to peel potatoes.

  He conquered the tower of tubers heroically, determined to impress the fair maiden with his knightly knife skills. He even went so far as to chop the spuds into chunks and dump them in the pot of water waiting on the worktable. All for naught. Kate had not returned. And unless restocking supplies included knitting new blankets by hand, her excuse had run out of viable duration.

  The Kate Palmer he’d known wouldn’t abandon a guest, especially not an old friend she hadn’t seen in a decade. She was kind and hospitable, always cognizant of the feelings of others. Sometimes too cognizant, he thought, frowning at the memory of the way she’d rejected his proposal all those years ago, insisting that she wouldn’t allow him to sacrifice his future to salvage her reputation. As if a future with her would have been some kind of punishment.

  Therefore the fact that she’d abandoned him to finish potato duty alone meant he had spooked her. The trouble was, he couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or a bad thing. Had dormant feelings awoken in her the way they had in him, or had his feelings always been one-sided? Maybe her rejection of his proposal had not been as noble as he’d thought. Maybe she’d just been sparing his feelings, covering the fact that she had no actual desire to tie her life to his, preferring to live with a tattered reputation rather than as his wife.

  Thankfully a squabble breaking out amid the younger ranks saved him from pondering that particularly depressing thought any further.

  “That’s mine!” Ted yelled, stomping his foot for good measure. “Give it back, Ruby!”

  The girl shook her head and handed the wooden horse on wheels to the smaller boy behind her. “You’ve had it long enough. It’s Quill’s turn. Miss Katherine told us we have to share. Remember?”

  Mark pushed away from the side of the house and eased his way toward the confrontation in the middle of the yard.

  “I’m not done with it yet!” Ted grabbed the toy and yanked it away from Quill, who immediately commenced crying.

  Ruby made a grab for the toy herself, but Ted ran off, knowing she’d never catch him with the limp that slowed her down. “I’m gonna tell Miss Katherine!” She shouted the threat after him, but Ted just turned and stuck his tongue out.

  “Hold up there, partner.” Mark scooped Ted up from behind in a one-armed hold. “A gentleman never sticks his tongue out at a lady.” He gently but firmly removed the toy horse from Ted’s grip. “Neither does he refuse to share with those around him.”

  Ted’s legs kicked Mark’s knees as he squirmed in protest. “Not fair! It’s my turn.”

  “Tell you what. Why don’t we play a different game altogether?” Mark strolled over to a small elm a few feet away that tethered the end of the empty clothesline stretching across the yard from the back porch. Raising the wooden horse above his head, he secured it in a V formed by two branches.

  Ted’s squirming slowed, and his head tipped back as he frowned up at his captor. “What kind o’ game?”

  “It’s called Cavalry.”

  “How do you play?” The quiet question came from Ruby, who approached slowly with one twin on either side, their hands clasped in hers. Quill sniffed and rubbed his teary eyes with the heel of one hand.

  “Well,” Mark said, “when I was in the Army, I was a trumpeter. It was my job to sound the bugle.”

  Abner, who had been building some kind of structure out of sticks and rocks at the edge of the barn, abandoned his project and jogged over to join the discussion. “You mean like the battle charge?”

  “Yep. But there were a bunch of other calls too. Mostly used in camp to tell the soldiers what to do and where to be. One tune told the men it was time to wake up; one called them to the stable to take care of their horses; one told them it was time to eat; one told them it was time to practice their drills; one told them it was time to get ready for bed; and the final tune—“Taps”—signaled that all lamps were to be extinguished and all talking was to cease. How about I teach you a few of the calls, and we see if you can remember what to do for each one?”

  Ted’s face scrunched as he craned his neck to meet Mark’s eye. “But you ain’t got no bugle.”

  Mark grinned. “Actually, I do. In my saddlebag. Shall we fetch it?”

  A chorus of excited yeses had them setting off for the barn.

  Mark had removed the saddles and gear from Cooper and Augustus earlier, so the bag he sought sat near the barn entrance on a low shelf. It took only a moment to throw open the flap and pull out what he sought.

  “That’s jus’ a bunch o’ old clothes,” Ted said, disgust lacing his tone.

  Mark chuckled and hunkered down so the boy could better see the odd lumps inside the bundle. He unwrapped a trouser leg to expose the top of the bugle’s bell. “When I was in the Army, I would wear it strapped around my chest so the bugle was always close at hand in case my captain needed me to signal the men. But now that I’m retired from the cavalry, the horn stays in my bag. I cover it with spare clothes to protect it.”

  He finished unwrapping it, taking a moment to shine a fingerprint off the bell before shoving the clothes back in the pouch. It wasn’t the concert trumpet he’d once hoped to play in the Boston Symphony, but this one carried memories as well as music. So many that he’d purchased the instrument from the Army when he’d mustered out, not wanting to hand it over to another trumpeter who might think it merely a piece of brass.

  “Now,” he said, straightening, “let’s start the game!”

  Mark set his lips to the mouthpiece and sounded the most recognizable call in his repertoire. At the same time, he pointed dramatically with his left arm, straight as a cavalry saber.

  Abner was the first to yell. “Charge!”

  The rest joined in as they ran out of the barn and charged into the yard.

  What kind of a coward hid behind baby clothes? Katherine blew out a sigh, shook her head, and clicked the cabinet door closed. One could only count a pile of diapers so many times, and she’d exceeded that number by about fifteen.

  Setting her shoulders, she slowly unfolded from her kneeling position and gained her feet. He was just a man, for heaven’s sake. A friend, even. One didn’t desert one’s friends. At least not without an extremely good reason. And while preserving her sanity had seemed a viable justification when Mark appeared in her doorway oozing charm and chivalry, now that her more mature self had retaken command of a mind temporarily infected by a sixteen-year-old girl’s panic, she could admit that she’d taken the w
rong path.

  Time to correct her course.

  She glanced at the clock on the parlor mantel and gasped when she spied the hour hand nearly atop the five. Good heavens! An hour? Her mother would be horrified by the extent of her rudeness. She’d left the parlor a handful of times to check on the children, but she’d made a point to use the front door in order to avoid the kitchen. Of course, by now the kitchen was probably empty. Mark had no doubt abandoned the potatoes minutes after she’d abandoned him. But where had he gone? She would have heard him had he moved about in the house. Yet she hadn’t spotted him in the yard either. He must have retired to the barn and the company of his horse. A friend who wouldn’t bolt the moment they were alone together.

  Another sigh escaped her before she stiffened. Fisting her hands, Katherine lifted her chin and threw back her shoulders. No more sighing. If she could face down closed-minded charity matrons and bigoted bankers without cowering, she could converse with Mark Wallace.

  Barely two steps into her march of redemption, the piercing call of a horn echoed through the house. Short staccato notes. Immediately recognizable. A set of low notes followed by a set of higher notes before returning to the lower. Katherine ran to the kitchen and peered out the side window just in time to see the children charging out of the barn. Mark brought up the rear, a bugle in his hand.

  He still played. Her heart leapt. When he joined the Army, she thought she’d driven him away from music altogether. God had gifted Mark with an incredible facility for music. Believing she had inadvertently stolen that gift from him had left her morose and depressed for months after he’d left. Lingering guilt was probably what sent her into hiding today too. But she should have known better. A gift bestowed by God couldn’t be stolen by man. Or woman. It might be neglected or stifled, but never stolen. The Lord had simply provided a new way for Mark to put it to use.