The Journey Home. Linda Ford
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leave you here alone?”
“Who says I’m alone?”
He laughed. “I mean apart from me and my horse.”
“I didn’t mean you.”
Again he laughed. This woman amazed him. Did she truly think he’d look around, see a virtually abandoned home and think she had a passel of brothers or sons or a husband to protect her? “What kind of brother leaves his sister alone?”
She studied him with narrow-eyed concentration. Weak light poked around the quilt at the window, but it didn’t take morning sun on her face for him to know she resented his questions. But he couldn’t dismiss his concern. Why would her brother leave her here alone? It didn’t seem natural. For sure it wasn’t safe. He wasn’t the only man wandering about the countryside. Hundreds of them rode the rails every day looking for work or avoiding the realities of the Depression. Work was scarce. Pay even scarcer. He’d been trying for months to earn enough money to buy himself an outfit to start new in the North. He’d managed to save a few dollars. A few more and he’d be on his way.
“He’s coming for me.” She kept her face buried in her hands, the rag muffling her words. “Real soon.”
“Until then you’re here alone.”
“I am not alone. God is with me. He has promised to be with me always.”
Her words sifted through his thoughts, trickled down his nerves and pooled in his heart like something warm and alive. “I used to believe that.”
“It’s still true whether or not you believe it.”
He laughed softly into his hands at the solid assurance in her voice. Could she really be so convinced? He stole a look at her. She regarded him. He wished he could see her mouth. Would it be all pruned up sourlike, or flat with determination?
She lowered her hand to speak and his eyes widened in surprise at the faint smile curving her lips. “One thing I know about God is He is unchanging. He doesn’t have moods or regret or uncertainty as we often do.” She turned enough to see the window and seemed to look right through the quilt and see something special beyond the fabric and glass. “‘Fear not: for I have redeemed thee, I have called thee by thy name; thou art mine. When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee: when thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned; neither shall the flame kindle thee.’”
His heart burned within him. Had he not heard the words from his parents’ lips time and again? I have called thee by name. Thou art mine. Yet somehow they sounded more convincing coming from this woman. He almost believed them.
Chapter Two
The man scrambled to his feet. Charlotte stood, as well, feeling as if every pore held a spoonful of irritating sandy dirt. Oh, for a good bath. Oh, for a quenching drink of water. For three days she’d metered out the last drops of her supply. Apart from a few swallows this morning, she’d had only the warm drink from the man’s canteen.
She swiped at her hair, scrubbed the dirty rag over her face, shook her skirts and coughed.
The man slapped his hat against his leg and filled the air with a swirl of dust. She coughed again.
“Sorry,” he muttered. “I should have waited until I was outside.”
Charlotte threw open the door and choked on the thick air. The floor lay buried in several inches of dirt. The outside door must have ripped from its hinges. She closed the solid wood, blocking her only escape route. “Person can’t breathe out there yet.”
She kept her face toward the knob, thought of ushering the man out to his destiny. But his remark about the charity of a Christian woman still echoed in her head. She’d give him a few more minutes, then she’d rush him on his way. Presuming he’d allow her to rush him. If he didn’t…No point in threatening him with the rifle. Anger scalded her throat. If Harry had had the decency to leave her a bullet or two, she’d have had no trouble getting rid of the man in the first place.
Maybe she could appeal to his decency. After all, his parents were white folk and religious, so surely the man had been raised to know right from wrong. Of course the same could be said about a lot of men who nevertheless chose wrong. The thought erased every vestige of calmness.
She heard him move about the room and stiffened as he approached her bedroll. Harry and Nellie had left her bedding and enough food for a week. How very kind of them.
“Where are you headed from here, Mr. Douglas?” She hoped he’d hear the urgent suggestion in her words.
“Kody, if you please. I’m going wherever I can find work.”
She ignored his suggestion she call him Kody. Father or son, made never mind to her. He’d soon be riding the tail of the wind out of her house and out of her life. Couldn’t be too soon to suit her. “I expect you’ll have to ride some to find work. It’s mighty scarce around here. Lots of folks pulling up stakes and moving on.”
“My sentiments exactly. It’s an unfriendly country in my opinion.”
At the harshness of his voice, she turned to study him. The typical angular high cheekbones, lips pulled into a hard, unyielding line that spoke of determination. “I take it you’ve been as disappointed in life as many of the folks around here.” Harry and Nellie among them.
He faced her full on, his black eyes steady as if measuring her.
She met his gaze, knew they both had secrets bringing them to this place, this time and this house. She believed God cared for her, controlled every aspect of her life. Didn’t the Scripture say all the days of her life were written before one of them came to be? But right now she struggled to believe it. How could God have planned for the country to blow from county to county? For Harry to abandon her? For a half-breed to be in her house? But she was being overly dramatic. Harry would send for her as he’d promised. He’d taken care of her since she was ten and their mother grew too ill to manage on her own. He’d provided her with a safe home since Mother died, as he’d sworn he would—apart from that time Nellie had demanded she be sent away. Charlotte shuddered. She would never forget her subsequent ordeal at the Appleby home.
Anxious to escape the past as much as the present, she opened the door again, breathing shallowly as she picked her way over the dirt on the floor.
Mr. Douglas followed close on her heels, whistling when he saw the damage in the front room. “Looks like your brother could plant a garden in here.”
She ignored his comment. Her brother wouldn’t be planting a garden anywhere near this house. And God willing, she’d shake off the dust of the place this very afternoon and be on her way to join him. Out of habit and desperation, she went to the window to see if Mr. Henderson rode her way with the promised letter from Harry. But she saw only the changed landscape—mounds of dirt in new places, fields scraped clean in others. A desolate, angry scene.
“Lady, could you point me to your well? I’d like to wash this storm off my face and refill my canteen.”
She turned away from the hopeless view. His face looked as if he’d scrubbed in garden soil. She touched her cheeks, guessing she looked no better. “Well’s out there.” She pointed to the little shack Harry had built to store tools in.
Kody tromped into the kitchen.
Charlotte followed and screamed as she came face-to-face with a paint horse.
“This is Sam,” Kody said. “He won’t hurt you.”
“You brought your horse into my house?” She sniffed. “Phew. He’s stunk up the place like a barn.”
Kody shook his head. “Sam, I told you not to do that in here.”
The horse whinnied.
Charlotte thought the sound as unbelieving as her thoughts. “A horse answers the call of nature without