Her Patchwork Family. Lyn Cote
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possible explanation could she give to explain why they were out in the night?
Tucker and she came to their house at last. When they came to her abandoned slippers, they paused as she slipped her feet into them. Then they walked up the flagstone path and through the front door. Felicity had never been so grateful to hear her door close behind her. Either the judge had not seen them or he had chosen to be merciful again and behave as if he had not seen them. And she must make certain that Tucker’s night wandering ended now.
Tucker tried to go on, but she squeezed his shoulder and led him down the hall to the moonlit kitchen. “Sit down at the table.” When he made no move to obey, she added, “Please.”
The boy sank into the chair. She sat down across from him. He would not meet her gaze. “Tucker…” What could she say? He knew he should be upstairs in bed. So she just sat, letting her tight, serrated worry flow out. She prayed, waiting for the Inner Light to lead her.
“Are we going to sit here all night?” the boy finally snapped.
She stared into his eyes. “That’s up to thee.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” The boy’s tone showed plainly that he didn’t hold her in any respect, probably held no adult in respect. The defiant eyes that returned her gaze told her much more than she wanted to deal with tonight.
It grieved her. “Tucker Stout, I don’t understand what took thee out of thy comfortable bed in a comfortable home—”
“I like being on my own. I don’t like people interfering with me, see?” His brows drew together.
“I must on the whole agree with thee.” Peace began trickling through her, soothing her rasped nerves. “I also like being on my own. And I don’t like interference of any kind either. So we have that in common. What interference are thee expecting from me?”
The boy snorted. “You’ll be telling me to wash my hands and do this and do that and say grace at the table and don’t pick my nose—”
The last forced a chuckle from her. Her good humor surged back. “Does thee do that often?”
Rebellious, Tucker made as if to rise. She pressed a hand over his and said, “Sit, please.”
He stared and then capitulated, scowling.
“May I ask thee a question?” She waited for his permission.
Finally, he realized that she wasn’t going to speak until he granted her the opportunity. “Okay, ask me.”
“If thee runs away and is caught and sent to jail, won’t they tell thee to wash thy hands, and do this and don’t do that?”
He stared at her.
“I would think that Vista and I would be preferable to jail guards.” She folded her hands in front of her on the table and waited. Would he accept this simple truth?
He lifted one shoulder and demanded, “So what do you want me to say, lady?”
“Nothing, really. I will ask for no promise from thee. And I am not going to tie thee to thy bed. Or bolt thy door and window shut. And this is the last time I will come after thee. Thee must decide for thyself which to choose—this home or jail.”
Tucker looked at her as if she were speaking in ancient Greek.
Felicity rose. “I will bid thee good-night. Will thee turn the lock on the back door, please? Thank thee.” She walked up the stairs without a backward glance. Oh, Father above, heal this wounded heart. Only Thee can. I cannot.
In her room again, she took off her robe and slippers and sank onto the side of her bed, still praying. Forcing herself to have faith, she lay down again, trying not to listen for Tucker’s footsteps on the stair. Her final thought was not about Tucker but about Judge Hawkins. What was he doing out well after midnight? And had he seen her with Tucker? And if he had, what would he do?
Chapter Three
After a too-short, two-block walk, Felicity strode up the Hawkins’ front stone pathway. Her every step tightened her anxiety. She mounted the steps. And before she could turn tail, she sounded the brass knocker on the door twice politely. The judge’s troubled eyes had haunted her for several days, etching her heart with sympathy. What beset the judge? Did God have work of mercy for her to do at this home?
Even if the answer had been no, she couldn’t have stayed away. She’d stewed for hours till she’d come up with a reasonable excuse to visit him at his home, where she might glimpse a hint of what tortured his eyes. So here she was with deep apprehension—deep, gnawing apprehension.
While she waited, golden twilight wrapped around her with its heavy humidity. She took out a handkerchief and blotted the perspiration from her face. Why did women have to smother themselves with gloves, high shoes and hats even in summer?
Drawing in the hot, moist air, she resisted the urge to pluck the bonnet from her head and tear off her gloves. She needed all her “armor” to meet Tyrone Hawkins face to face without a courtroom of people looking on. Her hand again tingled with his remembered touch that first day at the wharf…
The door opened, revealing a dainty older woman with silvered blond hair.
Felicity smiled, uneasiness over the unsolicited visit skating up her spine. “Is Tyrone Hawkins at home, please?”
The woman looked her over thoroughly. “Yes, my son is home. Won’t you step in?”
This gave Felicity another jolt. The judge’s mother had answered the door herself? The judge lived on Madison Boulevard in a home nearly as large as the house she had inherited. These types of estates needed staff to maintain. Wondering at this discrepancy, Felicity crossed the threshold. She followed the woman through a long hallway out onto the shaded back porch. “Ty, we have company.”
He was already rising from his wicker chair. “Miss…”
Though her heart was fluttering against her breastbone, she said, “I am Felicity Gabriel.” She offered him her hand, a fresh wave of awareness of his deep sadness flowing through her. “We met yesterday in court?”
“I remembered your name,” he said, taking her fingers, not her full hand, as if holding himself at a distance. “However, I didn’t expect to see you here this evening.” He bowed formally. His words and expression warned her away as if he’d thrown up an arm to fend her off.
Grateful for the excuse to turn from his intense, unwelcoming gaze, Felicity offered her hand to his mother.
“My mother, Louise Hawkins.”
“Louise Hawkins, I am pleased to meet thee,” Felicity greeted her. His mother’s eyebrows rose at her Plain Speech but Felicity was used to this and made no comment.
“Won’t you sit down, Miss Gabriel?” Louise invited. The woman watched Felicity as if she were an exhibit in a sideshow. Had Louise Hawkins heard gossip about her, too?
Looking anywhere but at the tall, brooding man and the rudely inquisitive woman, Felicity noted a little girl with long dark braids, sitting far from the adults, rocking in a child’s rocker. She held a rag doll and was sucking her thumb.
Felicity sat down in the white wicker chair that her hostess had indicated, which put her opposite Tyrone and beside Louise. Why hadn’t he introduced the little girl?
“What can I do for you, Miss Gabriel?” Ty Hawkins’s brusque voice snapped Felicity back to the fabricated purpose for this visit.
“I have come to thank thee for letting me take Tucker Stout to my home.”
“No need to thank me. Prison isn’t the place for children.” He didn’t look her in the eye, but focused on a point over her shoulder.
“Indeed.” She resisted the temptation to lower her eyes. I have nothing to be ashamed of.
Her