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She tried the doorknob. It was locked. She pounded on the door. Paint chipped against her fist. She pounded some more.
“What do you think you are doing?” a shrill voice called from the other side of the road.
She spun about to see a woman charging forward from the house across the street. She was not the round and cheerful Mrs. Cherry whom Melody had known all of her life.
This woman was tall, lean and pinch-faced. Her eyes snapped with indignation, as though Melody were an intruder.
The woman wore a dress that looked as if it had come from Paris, France. She had rouge on her cheeks and even a dash of kohl around her eyes.
“Who are you?” the woman barked, snapping her skirt as she stomped up the walk.
“Melody Irene?” Thank the Lord! Her father’s voice came from the right, near the corner of the house. She spun toward it.
“Papa?” she gasped.
He took a step toward her and she dashed into his arms.
“Papa!” She sobbed and hung on to his neck. He seemed shorter than he had, thinner, too, but she hugged him as if he was her lifeline.
“Is it really you?” He cupped the back of her head, holding her close. “My little girl?”
“It’s me.” Relief flooded her. She was home and Papa held her in his arms. Everything would be all right now.
“We gave up hope.” She felt his chest heave then cave.
“I’m sorry, Papa. I can’t tell you how sorry.”
They hung on to each other for a long moment, hugging and weeping.
“Mama!” Flynn called.
At last she pulled away. “Papa, there’s someone I want you and Mama to meet.”
She gazed into eyes that didn’t seem like her father’s. They used to be snapping blue, his expression always on the verge of a laugh. Now they were clouded... It was all her fault.
“I’m sorry, baby...truly, truly sorry, but your mama...she passed on two years ago.”
Papa turned her about by the shoulders. Her heart had stopped. Surely it had. Through a dizzy haze she faced the neighbor who looked as though steam might spout from her ears.
“And this is your stepmama, Dixie.”
Chapter Four (#ulink_7f2b3e31-35a3-52f3-a098-c9734cb751c7)
“Mama!” Flynn cried out, reaching his arms over the side of the wagon. “Hold you!”
If Melody had heard her son, Reeve would be surprised. The shock and the grief had to cut to the bone.
The creaking of his saddle leather when he got off his horse and Flynn’s distressed cries were the only sounds that filled the anguished silence.
He crossed the yard quickly, then stood behind Melody. He wanted to touch her in comfort but figured it would be best to simply be there.
Despair had to be slicing her off at the knees but she stood tall with her back straight and her features set.
“Why, you wicked girl,” Dixie murmured, allowing her gaze to roam over Melody, from head to toe and back again. “Devil give you credit, breaking your daddy’s heart, coming home bold as blazes and not just you but a passel of brats.” She glanced at Reeve, her gaze roaming subtly where it shouldn’t. “And a man.”
He’d met this kind of woman before. Unless he missed his guess she was a whore who had become too old to ply her trade and so had latched on to a susceptible widower.
“Marshal Prentis,” Melody said in a voice so brittle he wondered that it didn’t crack. She didn’t look at him. She didn’t even appear to be breathing. “Would you kindly take the children to the hotel?”
If it weren’t for the fact that her composure was probably holding on by a brittle thread, he would have touched her, offered comfort.
“Of course, Mrs. Travers,” he said instead. At least her father would know that Melody had been married. He guessed Dixie had been hinting that she was not.
In time it would come out that Melody had been married to an outlaw, but that time was not now.
“Come with us, Mellie,” Libby called gently from where she stood in the wagon bed. “It’s not a time to be alone.”
“I’ll be along.”
Reeve noticed the effort it took for her to speak those few words. Her lips trembled ever so slightly.
Another woman might have collapsed where she stood. In spite of her delicate appearance, Melody Dawson was as strong as iron.
While many had gone from girl to woman sheltered and coddled, Melody had grown up among thieves and ruffians. Through it all she had gained a sense of integrity, not lost it.
Joe walked up and touched her elbow. “Come on, Melody.”
“I’ve got to speak with my father alone, but I’ll be along.”
“Not on your life!” Dixie Dawson claimed her husband by latching on to his coat sleeve and tugging him down the walkway.
“Papa?” Melody hurried after her father.
“You’ve done enough damage for one lifetime, young woman.” It was fair to say that the stepmother actually growled.
“Papa, don’t you want to meet your grandsons?”
The man stopped and turned. His eyes brightened for an instant but they still seemed drawn and weary.
“Grandsons?”
“Those brats don’t have anything to do with us. They’ll only cause trouble.”
“I’d like to see—”
“Come along, Porter.” Dixie pulled Mr. Dawson down the path. He didn’t protest again even when his wife shooed him up the front steps of the house across the road as if he was a chicken being put away for the night.
Melody’s shoulders trembled; her hands twisted into white fists.
“I’m home for good, Papa,” she called. “I’ll be staying at the hotel until I get settled.”
“Your mama left you the house,” Porter Dawson answered while his wife tried to drag him inside. “The back door is open.”
“You old fool,” he heard Dixie grumble. Without trying to hide what she did, she yanked her husband’s ear. “Keep your mouth shut.”
“The sky’s clouding up. We’d better get the children out of the weather before it snows,” Reeve said, touching Melody’s shoulder to urge her toward the wagon.
“I don’t know him. He’s my father, but he’s not the one I left behind.” She looked up at Reeve, her amber eyes wide and hurting. “My daddy was so strong. Whatever happened to him is my fault.”
“We can talk about it later. First we need to get the children fed and settled.”
He wished that she would lean into him for comfort. It would feel natural to hug her close. The one thing he wanted at this moment was to ease her grief. He knew, of course, that he couldn’t. It was impossible.
All one could hope for was to wade through the pain. To come out on the other side stronger, and if not exactly healed, at least able to feel life’s joy again.
He knew she had the strength to be all right in the end, but all of a sudden it felt wrong to leave her.
He’d spent his life being a protector, but he’d never felt the need to watch over another person who wasn’t kin. Maybe it was because of the children, her own and the ones she had taken on. Or it might be that her inner strength combined with her delicate beauty touched him in a way he hadn’t been touched before.
Whatever it was that called him to her, he could not abandon her, just now, to pick up the threads of her life alone.
* * *
Reeve sat on his bed and took off his boots. It was late, the fire in the grate had fallen to embers and it was well past time to get some rest.
Unfortunately, restlessness had been his companion much of the evening, keeping him pacing the floor and watching the snow drift beyond the window.
Melody was in a fix, and he wondered what he could do to turn things around. She hadn’t returned home to the welcome of her parents as she had expected. Even the parent she had left was in no position to give her support.
It wouldn’t be right to ride off, leaving her and the children with their lives in an upheaval.
He wouldn’t do it.
Still, ignoring his obligation as a US marshal weighed heavily upon him.
He could take a few more days. After that it was his duty to get back to work, to bring law and order to a wild land. There was still the matter of a couple of Traverses who had escaped justice. He’d need to apprehend them.
A quiet knock sounded at his door. He crossed the room and opened it.
“Miss Libby? What are you doing out in the hall at this hour?” He was surprised to see her at his door, a lamp in hand and her bare toes peeking out from under her sleeping gown. “You ought to be in your room.”
“It’s Melody, Marshal Prentis. I don’t know where she is. She fed the baby an hour ago, then went out. She hasn’t come back. She hasn’t cried yet like she ought to, either. I’m right worried.”
“I’ll walk you back to your room.” He crossed to the bed, sat down and yanked his boots back on. “I reckon she’s gone home. She probably needs some time alone. Would you mind tending the others for a while?”
This late at night, the hotel was quiet. Only a few snores came from behind the closed doors along the hallway.
“I’ll let you know when I find her. And, Libby, you did right to come to me.”
“I didn’t have anyone else to turn to.” She opened the door to her room, then stepped inside. Closing the door halfway, she peered around it. “I wish...well, I wish I wasn’t too young to marry you, but since I am, there’s Melody. Joe and I have been watching, and we think you would suit her just fine.”
“I’d be honored if she favored me that way, Libby, but the truth is my profession makes me something of a nomad and Miss Dawson needs to settle. I’m afraid we wouldn’t be right for one another.”
Even if they were right, even if she was the one person in the world who was perfect for him, he had a penance to pay. He might never be able to make amends for what he had done to his family, but he would spend the rest of his life trying.
* * *
Melody’s mind recognized the fact that the night was frigid but somehow she didn’t feel it. She didn’t feel anything at all. Wind shot snow at her face and caked the toes of her boots, but she was already numb, body and soul.
Mama...just the name in Melody’s mind cut her heart to shreds. No matter the pain, all she could think of was going home.
She carried a lantern that she had borrowed from the hotel through the darkness. A circle of light surrounded her, making the snowflakes swirling about glitter. There had been a time when the shimmer and sparkle would have delighted her. Now it only made the knot in her chest constrict.
Mama had been partial to snow. She used to catch the flakes on her tongue and spin about with her arms spread wide. Then, pink-cheeked with cold, she would dash into the house to bake something warm and cozy. Cookies most of the time. On days like that, Melody would have the joy of cracking eggs and dumping them into the batter, stirring it all up then licking the bowl clean.
How could a cherished memory become a pain so sharp that it dried up her well of tears? If only she could let them out, the cramp in her chest might ease. Maybe living with the Traverses had so dulled her emotions that she no longer reacted to them.
She entered the house around the back, through the mudroom then into the kitchen. Setting the lantern on the table with a quiet click, she glanced about a room that Mama might have stepped out of only yesterday.
Lit softly by the lantern’s glow, her apron hung on its peg. Mama ought to be here, wearing it, taking something out of the oven or sweeping the floor. Melody ought to be hearing her mother’s voice, singing while she went about her chores.
With memories crowding in on her from every which way, she picked up the lantern and hurried out of the kitchen, into the parlor.
Mama sat in the rocking chair beside the fire. Melody saw the picture in her mind as clearly as if it were real. She looked away but there was her mother again, standing beside the window, holding her baby girl in her arms and pointing at the snow falling in the yard.
Melody closed her eyes, trying to ground herself in the here and now. She couldn’t let grief overcome her. Her babies depended upon her, the other children, too.
She couldn’t fall apart. Remaining strong was the only thing that would insure a stable future.
With a steadying breath, she opened her eyes and looked about the parlor in which she had spent so many happy hours. Someone had been keeping the place up. Probably her father. It smelled fresh, not like someplace forgotten and left to gather dust.
She lifted the lantern high. Once again, it seemed that Mama had only stepped out for a moment. Even her knitting lay in the yellow basket beside the chair, waiting for her return.
“Melody...baby?”
The sound of her mother’s voice made her spin toward the door. In that instant, she realized that her father had been confused. Mama was alive after all.
“Mama!” she cried and ran several steps toward the empty doorway.
Of course, Mama was dead. The voice had been in her mind, a memory so vivid that she heard it.
Once again, pain cut her heart, as though Papa had just now delivered the news. She bent in half, her knees giving out where she stood. The sob that had been clogging her heart for hours broke free.
She needed something to hold on to, something that was Mama’s. She crawled to the knitting basket and plucked out the half-finished project with the needles still crossed midstitch.
Kneeling, she clutched it to her heart, and rocked to and fro.
“Mama,” she sobbed, holding back none of the grief now. “What happened to you?”
