A Texas Promise Read online

  “Who hit you?”

  She hated to keep evading the truth, but what else could she do. “I…I don’t remember.” If she told him the truth, the sheriff might try to track the man down. She couldn’t let that happen.

  “How did you make it all the way to Moccasin Rock?”

  At least Maggie didn’t need to feign confusion about that. “I’m not sure. I didn’t plan on coming here. I heard men shouting as I ran, and I thought they were coming after me. There are outbuildings all over the grounds, and I tried to get to one and hide. I didn’t have a plan, I didn’t even have any hope at that point. I kept moving and praying.”

  She cleared her throat, forcing herself to speak in a quiet, measured tone.

  “There was a wagon behind one of the buildings. No sign of the driver. I climbed up in the back and pulled several burlap bags over us. I uncovered the baby’s face. She was so still and quiet, and I was breathing so loudly that I couldn’t hear if she was or not.” Maggie’s voice broke. “That’s the last clear memory I have.”

  “So you don’t remember arriving here? Or going into the mercantile?”

  “No. I do remember a man saying he was a doctor and telling me that everything would be okay.”

  “My brother, Nathaniel. Now, tell me about the baby.”

  She jerked as if he’d shot at her, and took a deep breath to gather her composure. “What is there to tell?” Her tone was as casual as she could make it. “She’s a newborn. Her name is Lucinda.”

  He glanced at her left hand. Maggie placed her right hand over it, but it was too late. He’d seen that she had no ring.

  “Are you married?” he asked softly.

  “I’m a widow,” she said, and then mentally begged forgiveness for lying yet again.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. When did your husband die?”

  Maggie ducked her head. “It’s been a while.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking, how did he die?”

  “From illness.”

  The sheriff made another soft murmur of condolence. “So how did you end up in the asylum?”

  Despite Maggie’s efforts to remain calm, bitterness crept into her tone. “Hollis Anderson, a friend of my father’s, convinced him that I should be institutionalized.”

  The sheriff leaned forward, brow furrowed. “Your father? What does he have to do with all this?”

  “My husband and I lived with my father.”

  “Where?”

  Maggie hesitated. Trying to navigate her way through this web of deception was taking its toll. With a start, she realized she didn’t need to lie about everything. “Fai..Fair Haven.”

  “What about your mother?”

  A familiar ache settled in Maggie’s chest. Once again, a question she could answer honestly. “She died a few years ago.”

  The sheriff ran a hand across his jaw. “Let me get this straight. Your husband died. Someone else proposed to you. And your father had you committed, even though you were expecting a baby. Then the asylum caught fire, and you escaped, with your child.”

  Maggie nodded. Goodness, it sounded so bizarre when laid out like that. It had sounded better in her head.

  The sheriff continued, “And this Hollis Anderson, your fiancé, is so concerned that he has people combing the countryside for you.”

  “That man is not my fiancé!”

  At the sheriff’s startled reaction, Maggie groaned. She had to control her temper. No matter how badly she wanted to throw a fit about the injustice of it all, she couldn’t be locked up again. She wasn’t sure she would survive next time.

  “That Pinkerton agent told me that you are betrothed to Hollis Anderson,” he said, “and that you’d been placed in the asylum to rest.”

  Maggie’s voice shook. “Both of those are lies. I didn’t belong there, and I’m not betrothed. Although I’m sure that’s what the agent was told. Hollis Anderson has somehow wormed his way into my father’s good graces and has him believing all manner of things that are not true—including that he’s a fine, upstanding citizen and would make a great husband for me.”

  “I’m not saying that you should marry someone you don’t want to,” the sheriff said, “but how do you know he’s not a fine, upstanding citizen?”

  The front door opening and closing, and footsteps in the hallway drew their attention. They both turned as Peg Harmon entered the room. She looked at Maggie, then the sheriff, and a troubled expression crossed her face.

  The sheriff stood. “Hi, Peg. Everything go okay?”

  “I was about to ask you the same thing.”

  “Everything’s fine,” he said. “Maggie and I have been talking about how she and her baby managed to escape a burning insane asylum.”

  Maggie tensed at the surprise on the woman’s face. Was it her imagination, or did an odd look pass between Peg Harmon and the sheriff. Did they know this wasn’t her child? No. And they wouldn’t as long as she kept her mouth shut.

  “Was Susana Wilson okay?” the sheriff asked.

  “Yes,” Peg said, “she’s going to be fine. Adger’s a worrywart when it comes to her. He’s crazy about that woman.”

  While Peg chatted with the sheriff, Maggie’s attention was drawn to the baby, or what she could see of her inside the box. Instead of the old blanket Maggie had grabbed on her way out of the asylum, the infant was wrapped in a small patchwork quilt.

  Maggie glanced up to find the woman watching her. “It’s good to see you awake and aware of your surroundings,” Peg said. “Been praying for you and the little one, pretty steady.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. I’m grateful for the prayers, and for the care you’ve given us.”

  Peg nodded, and it appeared to Maggie as if the older woman was sizing her up. Say something to alleviate their concern. “I’m especially grateful to you for feeding Lucinda,” Maggie said, “since I haven’t been able to nurse her.”

  Vague but true.

  Peg studied her a moment longer, then gave a brisk nod as if she’d reached some sort of conclusion. Taking the baby from the box, she unwrapped her from the quilt, and then offered her to Maggie—one hand under the infant’s bottom, one supporting her neck and head.

  Maggie’s mind churned with a furious blend of fascination and fright. Take the baby, or they’ll know something’s wrong.

  She held her hands out for the precious bundle, and was horrified when the baby immediately began to cry. Maggie tried to hand her back to Peg, but the older woman was already leaving the room. “I’ll be back as quick as I can with a bottle.”

  The sheriff started to follow her out but Peg shooed him back. “Why don’t you stick around for a minute. If that gal’s head gets to spinning again and she gets weak, you’ll be there to catch the little one.”

  With a short nod, he returned to the rocker, although he didn’t appear any happier about the turn of events than Maggie did.

  As the baby’s cries escalated, so did Maggie’s distress.

  The sheriff watched both of them with an intensity that wasn’t helping.

  At some point, he would ask her what had happened before the fire. And she would have to tell him she didn’t remember.

  That was a lie. Not only did she remember, she doubted she’d ever forget.

  * * *

  Eli looked at the door, willing Peg to hurry. The baby was still wailing away, and Maggie, though dry-eyed, seemed almost as distraught. She held the child stiffly and several inches from her body. Because of her ribs? Maybe. But she was also nervous.

  She glanced up to see him watching her, and her color deepened. “This is my first child,” she said. “I’m new to all this.”

  “I understand. It must be especially difficult since you’ve lost your husband. A lot of responsibility for a young woman alone.”

  She lowered her head. “Yes, it is.”

  Eli decided that whatever her current situation, Maggie Radford wasn’t accustomed to lying. Nor was she good at it.

  �
��You know,” he said, “if you decide that she’s more than you can handle, there’s an orphanage over in Boone Springs. I can take her over there, if you’d like. They’ll find her a good home.”

  Maggie’s head snapped up. Instantly, and instinctively, she tightened her arms around the infant and glared at him.

  “You will do no such thing,” she hissed. “I’ll learn what I need to know.”

  Eli acknowledged her declaration with a nod. “Do you see what happened there?”

  Brow furrowed, she stared at him. “What do you mean?”

  “When you held the baby more firmly and forgot to be all nervous about it, she relaxed.” As if to prove his point, the baby made a soft snuffling sigh and stopped crying. “She’s still hungry,” Eli said, “but she isn’t scared anymore.”

  Maggie stared at the baby in amazement, and then turned to him. “That was risky, Sheriff. What if I’d agreed to let you take her away?”

  “It never occurred to me. You ran from a burning building through briars and brambles, barefoot, to keep her safe.”

  Maggie’s eyes widened. “I did, didn’t I?” She seemed more sure of herself.

  Peg’s return with a bottle brought fresh panic. Maggie tried again to hand the baby to the older woman.

  “No,” Peg said, with a shake of her head. “I’ll help you, but you’re going to be in charge of this. That’s for your sake, as well as hers. The sooner you two get accustomed to each other, the easier it will be.”

  She showed Maggie how to hold the baby and the bottle, with Maggie mumbling things about it being her first child.

  “It’s all right,” Peg said. “Every new mama has to learn.”

  At one point, Peg glanced at Eli, confusion in her eyes. He shrugged. He had no idea why the woman was pretending the baby was hers. But he intended to find out.

  Turning her attention back to Maggie, Peg said, “Give her a little bit for now, and afterwards you’ll need to put her on your shoulder and pat her back gently.” Each word was spoken softly. Gradually Maggie relaxed.

  Eli watched the scene unfold, curiously moved when the baby latched onto the bottle, drawing nourishment with a strength that surprised him. And when Maggie looked up with tears in her eyes and smiled at him, Eli’s heart turned over.

  Swallowing hard, he shot to his feet. “I’d best be on my way,” he told Peg. “I’ll be back soon. Miss Radford and I still have some things to talk about.” He directed his next remark to Maggie. “Whatever you do, don’t leave this house.”

  Maggie’s expression took on that defiant look again. “But I need—”

  He cut her off. “You need to stay safe. And since you can’t remember who hurt you, how can you possibly protect yourself. Unless you suddenly remember.”

  Shaking her head, Maggie dropped her gaze to the baby.

  “Well then, stay put. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “Thanks for sticking around today,” Peg said.

  “Yes, thank you, Sheriff,” Maggie said. “For everything.” But she still had that look in her eyes. She didn’t like being told what to do. Too bad.

  Eli nodded to them, grabbed his hat and left the house nearly at a run.

  What happened back there when she’d smiled at him? He slapped his hat on his head and headed for the jail. Nothing, that’s what.

  His heart had been closed up and sealed off behind a wall for years.

  It would take more than a woman’s wobbly smile and a baby’s soft sighs to break through it.

  Chapter Six

  “There are some clothes in that trunk,” Peg said. “Feel free to use whatever you like. I keep what I need in my bedroom.”

  Maggie raised the lid, surprised to find a stack of men’s shirts, trousers and even a couple of hats inside.

  She glanced at Peg in time to see an odd look pass over her face. Grief. Pain. Maggie dropped the lid closed.

  Peg sighed. “Wrong trunk. Those things belonged to my husband. He’s gone now.”

  “I’m sorry,” Maggie began, but Peg stopped her with a wave of her hand.

  “I can’t fret over the past and neither should you. We both have to carry on.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Maggie wasn’t sure what the woman was referring to, but she did see the wisdom of her words.

  “The clothes I was talking about must be in the front room,” Peg said. “There’s a flat-topped trunk in there against the north wall. I’ve got it covered with doilies and knick-knacks to pretty up the place. Move all that over to the side table and see if there’s anything you can use inside.”

  “Thank you.”

  Peg looked at the trunk again and then shoved it against the wall. “And if you should need anything in this, even if it’s only for rags, feel free to take it.”

  No matter what the woman said about not living in the past, she was hanging on to more than her husband’s old clothes. Should she ask Peg about his death? Would it help to talk about it? Or make things worse?

  Before Maggie could decide, Peg brushed her hands together and left the room.

  As Maggie made her way to the front of the house, the sound of rattling pots and pans drifted out from the kitchen. Since Peg Harmon was occupied, Maggie took the opportunity to study the woman’s home.

  As Peg mentioned, she’d prettied the place up with crocheted items and little figurines of animals, birds, even people—some made of glass or china, others wooden and hand-carved. What an odd assortment.

  The floor was fashioned from wide wood planks, painted a dark brown, and softened by the addition of a large braided rug. Everything was spotless. There was a sofa in the room, and two chairs. A photograph in an oval frame hung above the fireplace. An elderly couple. Peg’s parents she supposed.

  Finding the trunk, Maggie moved the figurines and doily aside, lifted the creaky lid and searched through the garments. Everything was old, some faded, others patched, but all were clean, and about the right size. She selected several items that would work until she could get home to her own wardrobe.

  After repacking the rest, she took the things she’d selected to the bedroom, where Peg was holding the baby again.

  “I have a pot of venison stew on the stove,” Peg said, “and I thought while it was cooking I would see if you wanted to learn more about caring for the baby.”

  As Maggie watched Lucinda’s little arms and legs flailing about, a fresh wave of anxiety descended on her. Along with a bone-deep weariness.

  Peg glanced up just as Maggie grabbed the bedpost for support. The woman’s expression softened. “Why don’t you sit a spell.” She nodded in the direction of the bed. “Or maybe you should lay down for a while.”

  “I think I will sleep if it’s okay.”

  “Why land’s sake, of course it’s okay.” Wrapping the baby up, Peg took her and left the room.

  Maggie was asleep within minutes of her head hitting the pillow. When she opened her eyes again, the sun’s position in the window told her she’d slept at length.

  “Do you feel up to taking a bath?” Peg asked from the doorway. “I’ll drag the tub in from the back porch and start heating water if you’d like. Or would you rather eat first? I’m sure you’re starving for some real food by now.”

  Maggie smiled. “I am hungry, but the bath sounds like heaven on earth.”

  At the asylum, she’d used a bucket of cold water, a rag, and a bar of soap she’d taken from a supply closet. She’d complained about the conditions, but only once, because that had prompted the woman in charge to pour the water over her head.

  Now, as Peg put pots of water on to heat, Maggie glanced around the kitchen. She wasn’t home yet, but this place was a vast improvement over where she’d spent the last few weeks. It was cozy, warm and clean. A round table stood in the center of the room, surrounded by plain ladder back chairs, with a lamp in the center, on yet another doily, and a well-worn Bible beside it.

  The cupboard had been painted a soft yellow, and was filled with vari
ous plates and bowls, while pots and pans hung from a rack. Crocks, baskets and more knickknacks lined a shelf.

  When the hot water was added to the tub, and then cold, Peg reached into a small basket and brought out a bar of soap with a strong odor and odd color. “That’s all I have right now,” she said. “But it’ll get you clean. I’ll leave you to your privacy. If you need me, just holler.”

  Even though the tub was small, Maggie longed to linger in the warm water. Instead, she made short work of the bath. She was disrupting the woman’s life. She didn’t want to inconvenience her anymore than necessary.

  Drying with the towel Peg left, Maggie rewrapped her ribs as best she could, and then slipped on a plain cotton dress. Silk had never felt as good as the clean cloth against clean skin. In the bedroom she brushed her hair, checked on the baby, and then returned to the kitchen to see that the tub had already been emptied. Peg was stirring something on the stove.

  “Can I help you with anything?” Maggie asked.

  The woman glanced up in surprise. “Sure. If you start to feeling poorly though, be sure and speak up. Can’t have you losing ground.”

  While Maggie sliced bread and set out the butter, Peg dished up the stew. Maggie found herself enjoying the experience more than she would ever have imagined. The older woman was pleasant company and the food delicious.

  Maggie’s attention was drawn to a small wooden carving on the shelf—a woman holding a baby.

  Peg noticed the direction of Maggie’s gaze. “A lot of the small figurines and the needlework pieces you see around the house have been given to me in lieu of payment. So was the soap, the stove wood, and most of the food in the pantry. Even this venison.”

  “Oh.” How did the woman survive?

  “A midwife doesn’t make much in a town the size of Moccasin Rock,” Peg said. The words were spoken matter-of-factly, not a smidgen of self-pity. “But God has never let me starve.” She glanced down at her hips, and then back at Maggie. “Not even close.”

  Since Peg was tall and willowy, Maggie smiled at that comment. “So you don’t charge for your services?”

  “I do, but it wouldn’t do any good to come up with a certain amount of money. People pay what they can, how they can and when they can.”