and that her husband was pretty much good for nothing. At best Elton was handsome and shiftless; at worst, he was a drunk, guilty of ill treatment. Whenever Meg was a victim of Elton’s anger, the news spread around town, but she always seemed to put it behind her. She never lost her smile or gave in to her circumstances. He admired her for that and even for sticking to the no-account man she was married to. She was one of the strongest women he’d ever known, and Ace figured she and her kids deserved better, but then, that wasn’t for him to say.
He recalled the day he and Colt and big Dan Mercer had surrounded the Thomerson house. Every minute of that day was etched into his mind in vivid detail—from getting word that Elton and his cohort had escaped from prison to the moment he’d felt for a pulse in Elton’s neck.
What he remembered most was cradling a battered Meg in his arms on the way back to Wolf Creek, trying his best not to jar her lest he do her even more harm than Elton had. In retrospect, he should have hitched up her old wagon and made her a pallet in the back to transport her to Rachel’s, but he hadn’t wanted to take the time. Besides, he knew it might be the only time he ever got to hold her.
Especially since you robbed her of a husband and her children of a father. The cruel reminder slipped into his mind as it was wont to do when he least expected it.
There was no making amends for something like that. To say he was sorry and ask for her forgiveness would be a waste of breath. He hadn’t yet found the courage to tell God he was sorry for shooting Elton and ask for His forgiveness. Ace figured that until he could go through a day and not feel glad that Elton was dead, asking for the Lord’s forgiveness would be futile. He didn’t want to add to his other transgressions.
He was miserable without the Lord to lean on, weighed down by guilt and disgust. He’d been through a lot in his life. Clinging to a deep spiritual belief system and parents who demanded his best, he’d managed to come through all his trials with minimal emotional scarring. He wondered if that would be the case this time or if this second accidental killing would be his undoing...one way or the other.
He wasn’t sure how he could get to the point of true sorrow for what he’d done, since sly memories had a habit of slipping into his mind at unexpected times. Like Elton’s taunting voice saying that he wondered how Meg was paying Ace for the food he left on her doorstep.
Ace ground his teeth at the remembrance, and his horse danced sideways, the reins a conduit for his anger. Until he could forgive Elton for his treatment of Meg and himself for his lack of sorrow, the best he could do was help Meg get through the next few weeks.
He returned to Meg’s house just after noon and saw her leaning against the trunk of one of the big oaks in the front, staring up into the leafy branches that shaded her. Though her hair still straggled around her thin face, and purple shadows beneath her eyes proclaimed her sleepless nights, she was still beautiful.
When she heard his horse, she looked at him, an expectant expression on her face instead of the alarm he halfway expected. Relieved, he nodded at her in acknowledgment and shifted his gaze to the front porch, where his mother was busy scrubbing the graying pine boards with a broom and a bucket of soapy water.
He couldn’t help noticing the chunk of wood missing from a board a few feet from the edge. He’d put that mark there, a warning to Elton, who’d grabbed his wife by the arm he’d already broken. Just thinking about it brought back the fury that had overwhelmed him at the other man’s callous disregard for the woman he’d promised to love and cherish.
Ace closed his eyes and drew on the strength that had seen him through the dark days of his incarceration. When he opened his eyes, he was calmer, at least on the outside. Meg was following him toward the house.
His mother glanced up from her scrubbing, and he experienced a surge of love he never failed to feel whenever he looked at her. Like Meg, life had given her many hardships, yet both women had overcome their struggles with enviable serenity and a quiet dignity.
Nita Allen suffered no fools but had often been deemed foolish by her husband for her willingness to give of herself and her means, even to those the world labeled as takers and users. She was often hurt, yet she never changed, nor would she ever.
So here she was, lending a hand to yet another lost and needy soul. He hadn’t been the least surprised when she volunteered to help. He smiled at the busy image she made. From years of living with her, he knew that the water had already been used inside the house to clean something or other. When she was done with the porch, she’d water some plant or another with what was left. Nita Allen wasn’t one to see anything die or go to waste, especially a life.
He could smell the beans she’d brought. They were simmering in a cast-iron Dutch oven hanging on a metal tripod that straddled a small fire she’d built outside. It smelled as though she’d added some salt pork from the smokehouse. There would be johnnycakes and wild green onion and perhaps some potatoes fried in the bacon grease left over from breakfast.
Neither woman spoke, but they both watched as he rode closer and slid from the gelding’s back. It struck him how very different his mother was from the small blonde woman, yet how very alike their expressions were. He suspected that they had other traits in common, too.
“Well?” Nita asked with her customary bluntness.
Ace looped the reins over the hitching post. “Rachel says she thinks we should wait to bring the children home.”
The anticipation in Meg’s eyes faded. Something inside him stirred in response—the innate need born in a man to protect, to shield loved ones from any more pain.
“But she told me they could come home.” Meg’s voice was laced with distress.
“Rachel says she knows mothers and she knows you, and she’s afraid you’ll overdo it with them around. She doesn’t want you picking one of them up without thinking or chasing after them yet. She said you need at least another week or so to heal before taking up their care again. I’m sorry.”
Instead of answering, Meg turned and walked away. Her back was ramrod-straight, and her chin was high. She placed her feet carefully, as if she were so fragile she might shatter if she took a wrong step. And perhaps she would. Automatically wanting to comfort her, Ace started to follow.
“Let her go.” Nita’s voice was low but firm. “You, of all people, should know that she has to work through this in her own way, in her own time.”
They watched as she entered the edge of the woods at the side of the house, the same area where Dan Mercer had wounded Joseph Jones.
Ace thought of all the time he’d spent in the forest through the years. It was the place he’d often gone as a boy to try to sort out his mixed heritage. He’d learned of his Celtic past from his father, who’d filled his mind with stories of bards and fanciful tales and a strangely melodic language he’d tried so hard to learn.
From his mother he absorbed tales of the Keetoowah, the spiritual core of the Cherokee people, who stressed the importance of maintaining the old ways. The mission school he’d attended taught him the tenets of Christianity.
Vastly different, yet with fascinating similarities. All sought solitude for meditation and prayer. Both cultures thought nature was sacred. God had created a place of nature for Adam and had walked with him in the garden; God spoke to Adam there.
The woods were Ace’s garden. His refuge. A place to listen for the voice of God that whispered in the wind and murmured through the leaves of the trees and the rustle of creatures going
