Wolf Creek Widow. Penny Richards
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another baby before Lucy that had not survived, maybe because Meg had been so worn down and distraught and Elton had been so furious that it had happened so soon. She would never know.
By the time Lucy came along, he had abandoned or lost any good that had ever been in him, though Meg suspected that what little decency she’d seen was nothing but a show he put on for the world. It was a wonder that she’d carried Lucy to term.
Meg and Nita worked silently for several moments, the kind silence that usually came with long acquaintance and deep trust. The soft rattle of dried beans falling into the bowls and the sweet song of a robin wove seamlessly into the tranquillity of the late September day. Simple, everyday sounds. The sounds of life and peace.
Peace. Would God give her peace once she put enough distance between herself and her memories, or was she destined to be forever lost in this numbing emptiness?
Be still and know that I am God. The favorite passage stole quietly into her mind. She took a deep breath and looked around her at the familiar barnyard scene and realized at that moment she was at peace, that there were no memories tormenting her. Could she dare to hope that her joy in living would return to her this way? In small moments of contentment and little snippets of the day that were filled with something as simple as the soothing sameness that was in itself a sort of peace? Could she trust that God would help her healing by blessing her in tiny ways throughout the coming days? After what she’d suffered at Elton’s hands, it would be hard.
But what about Nita? Though she’d been blessed with a husband who cherished her, her life had been filled with problems and grief, too. She’d lived close to God and yet she’d lost four children and her son had gone to prison—not once, but twice. She and her family had been ridiculed and persecuted because she was Indian. How did she reconcile that with her love and trust of God? How had she stayed so optimistic and encouraging?
Meg wanted to ask, but thought she’d spilled enough of her guts for one day. Besides, it wouldn’t be a good idea to become too dependent on Nita or to like her too much, because she would be gone before year’s end, taking Meg’s secrets and fears with her.
* * *
The trip to Wolf Creek and back gave Ace plenty of time to think about things. He’d needed to escape from the fear he saw in Meg Thomerson’s eyes that his nearness seemed to generate. His guilt was bad enough without adding to her distress. He never wanted her to be afraid of him for any reason.
Meg had caught his eye the first time he’d seen her. About a year ago, he’d come back to Wolf Creek after spending a few years in Oklahoma, where he’d tried to put himself back together again after his two-year stint in prison. Tiny, blonde and green-eyed, she’d captured his interest with her bright smile and shy but sweet disposition.
It hadn’t taken long for him to find out she was married. It had taken even less time to learn that she had one child with another on the way 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,