nerves quieted. How silly of her to feel frightened by him, she thought. Just because he looked dangerous didn’t mean he was. After all, he’d helped her before, and two of the most respected people in Wolf Creek had vouched for him.
Meg had no solution for feelings she knew were irrational, but at the moment it hurt her brain too much to try to figure things out. She decided to fetch a shawl to ward off the chill that gripped her despite the warm morning. As she neared the door to her room she found herself drawn to the other bedroom, the one she’d avoided the previous night.
The door swung wide on creaking hinges and she stepped inside. The room was musty-smelling after being empty so long. She reached for the tin of talcum powder that sat atop the chest of drawers next to a stack of diapers. Doctor Rachel had given it to her when Lucy was born.
Twisting the top, she sprinkled a little onto the inside of her forearm and smoothed it in. She’d used the precious gift sparingly, but still, it was almost gone. She raised her arm and breathed in the pleasant lavender aroma. The scent triggered a vision of her now-nine-and-a-half-month-old daughter, Lucy. Lucy of the sweet smile, chubby cheeks and dimpled knees.
She was filled with the sharp pain of loss, and at the same time her body ached in memory of nursing her baby. But that was finished. Her milk had dried up weeks ago. Meg closed the top of the canister and blinked her burning eyes. What was done was done. There was no changing it. All she could do was move forward. Somehow.
Holding the oval-shaped tin against her chest, she let her gaze roam the room. Some of the church ladies had come out and tidied up for her return. Teddy’s cot, with his ragged, patchwork rabbit sitting atop the pillow, was neatly made, as was Lucy’s little bed. Meg’s heart twisted in sudden longing.
“You must miss them terribly.”
She whirled at the sound of the unfamiliar feminine voice. Though middle-aged, the Indian woman who stood there was lovely. Her slender body was attired in a patterned skirt and blouse. A leather thong with a black stone hung around her neck. Her oval face boasted nicely shaped eyebrows, a bold nose and a pretty mouth. Ace Allen’s mother stood before her, a soft, understanding look in her dark eyes.
Meg tried to rein in her emotions and gave a short nod. “I’m afraid—” she swallowed “—they’ll forget me.”
“Then we should bring them home.”
The first hope she’d felt since the day that had changed her life stirred in her heart. “But I... There’s no way I can take care of them yet.”
“I’m here to help for as long as you need me.”
Rachel Gentry was right. There were good people in Wolf Creek. “I can’t pay you,” Meg whispered.
“I’m not looking for money,” Nita said. “Christians help each other out. And please accept my condolences on the loss of your husband. I understand how you’re feeling right now.”
Nita and her son were Christians? Meg hoped her surprise didn’t show on her face. That thought fled in the face of another. How could Nita know how Meg felt about Elton? Had she said something while under the influence of the laudanum?
“I lost my Yancy when Ace was eighteen.” A wistful smile curved the older woman’s lips. “A logging accident. It was hard, even though Ace was grown and away at school. Maybe harder since he wasn’t around to share my grief.”
Meg wondered what Nita Allen would say if she knew Meg felt no grief, only joy. This gentle woman who’d had a good husband wouldn’t understand that.
“I think it was the quiet that was the most disturbing,” Nita confessed.
The blessed, blessed quiet... No cursing. No yelling. No foul name-calling...
“Yancy was so big and blustery and fun-loving, he kept everyone laughing so hard they could hardly breathe when he was around, especially when he’d get to singing those Irish ditties.”
Elton had kept everyone on pins and needles. Afraid to breathe. Afraid to do or say anything for fear of it being wrong. And no one felt like singing in his presence.
“Your husband was Irish?” Meg asked, clinging to the single fact that jumped out at her.
“He was,” Nita said with a reminiscing smile. “And as handsome as could be. Ace got his blue eyes from his father, though Yancy’s were not so light as Ace’s.”
Meg found the notion of two people marrying from such disparate upbringings an intriguing notion. “Was it difficult, the two of you having such different backgrounds?”
“I won’t say it was always easy, but we had enough love and joy to make up for the bad. My Yancy was not a boring man.” Memories softened her smile. “He loved life and he was filled with Celtic songs and stories and romantic dreams and notions.”
“How on earth did you meet?” Meg asked, her problems forgotten as Nita Allen talked of her love for her Yancy.
Another smile curved the older woman’s lips. “He’d come to America and was just roaming around, looking over his new country, he said. We were drawn to each other from the very first and married, despite my parents’ fears of the worst.”
“And the worst never happened?”
“People can be very judgmental,” she said cautiously. “A white man married to an Indian woman...well, it isn’t always accepted. Yancy and I were able to look past it in most cases, and more often than not, people were standoffish rather than mean.”
Meg, whose own background wasn’t something she liked to remember, had often found that to be true with her, as well. With her mother’s lifestyle often the talk of the town, most people just avoided her as if she had the plague.
“Ace is the one who suffered the most. He grew up not really belonging anywhere. He lived with us until he convinced us to let him go live with his grandmother on the reservation, but he didn’t fit in there, either. He was neither white nor Indian. He was a half-breed. Believe me, it’s much more than a name people call you. It took him years to figure out who he is and what his place is in this world.”
Meg looked through the open door into the other room, where the man they were discussing had a small fire burning in the hearth. He still squatted, placing logs just so. It was strange to think of him as vulnerable in any way.
“And as for repayment,” Nita said, “someday you can return the favor.”
“What?” Meg said, as the words brought her thoughts back to their conversation.
“Someday I may need help from you, or someone else will. Then you’ll do what you can for them.”
Yes, she would. Somehow she would find a way to pay back the woman with the kind eyes and gentle manner who had taken her mind off her guilt and hopelessness for a few precious minutes. She would pay her back somehow, if it were the last thing she ever did.
* * *
Ace heard the murmur of the feminine voices coming from the other room. Maybe he should have listened to his mother. Maybe Meg Thomerson would have been a bit more receptive to his apology after some time spent with his mother and a good breakfast, but he had overridden her wishes and
