Chapter 17
Seventeen
Addie’s limbs were heavy. Her breathing was almost nonexistent.
Yes. She was Addison Lanier. Daughter of the couple who’d died at the hand of Morton Sturm. Shivers raced through her limbs and pooled in her chest so every breath jittered in and out.
Nash lifted a hand as if to reach for her. He seemed to think better of it and pressed his palm to his chest. His mouth opened and closed with an audible click. His Adam’s apple bobbed.
The moment hung between them full of shocked silence.
Nash spoke first. “Addie, I…” He drew in a noisy breath. “I can’t believe it.” His hand moved back and forth over his chest. “I’m so sorry. You were only a child.”
She nodded. “Eleven.”
“I’m sorry.” He squared his shoulders. “But you realize that wasn’t me. I wasn’t there. And I have chosen a different path for my life.”
His waiting crowded her thoughts. Pressed at her pain. Throbbed in the pit of her stomach.
Not a word came.
His shoulders rose and fell. “I thought we had some sweet regard for each other.” A waiting pause before he hurried on. “I know I’ve grown fond of you. I thought…I wondered…”
The sharpness of her pain emerged in words. “What your father did is unforgivable.”
“I agree. But I’m not my father. Addie—” He reached toward her.
She backed against the door.
He lowered his hand.
“I can’t. I can’t.” She wrenched the door open and rushed inside, closing it and then collapsing against it.
Father Stone entered the kitchen and drew to a halt. “Addie, is something wrong?”
Wrong? Yes, more than she could fathom. Nash was right in thinking something warm and special had developed between them in those sweet, innocent days before the truth had been revealed.
Now those moments had been snatched away.
Gone the way of her parents. Nothing left but memories both good and sad.
She straightened. “Mr. Burns brought the news that the murdering man was hung last night.” Each word stung her tongue. “Excuse me.” She crossed to her room and closed the door.
Why did Nash have to be Morton Sturm’s son? That fact built an impenetrable wall between them.
She pulled her journal out and opened the pages. Then she closed it and put it away without writing anything. What could she say to her parents? And what did she expect they would say? They weren’t able to answer. To comfort and guide her. Thanks to Nash’s father.
As she returned to the kitchen, her shoulders sagged despite her best efforts to hold them up. Mother was already busy at the stove. So Addie set the table and helped with breakfast preparation. The familiar work did little to ease her.
With Mary at her side, rubbing her eyes and yawning, Mrs. Hammel emerged. “Thank you for washing and mending my dress.” Her hands smoothed down the fabric. “And taking care of—” She jabbed a finger toward the wound in her side. “And us.”
Mother flew to her side. “No one would fault you if you stayed in bed today.”
“No. I have things to take care of.” Mrs. Hammel glanced toward Father Stone where he sat at the head of the table nursing a cup of coffee. “A funeral?”
“I’ll take care of the details,” Father assured her.
Her nervous fingers worried her bodice. “I’ll need something else to wear.”
“I must go to the mining camps today. Can I bring you something?”
Mrs. Hammel hesitated, then shook her head. “This is something I must do on my own. But if I may leave Mary here—”
Mother didn’t let her finish. “We’d be happy to entertain Mary.”
A few minutes later, they gathered around the table for the meal.
As was his custom, Father opened his Bible to read a Scripture when they’d finished eating.
“I think this is timely. ‘To console those who mourn in Zion, to give them beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness.’” His expression gentle, his eyes kind, he spoke to Mrs. Hammel.
“I know it’s too early for you to see how this is possible—joy for mourning, praise instead of heaviness—but it is because of God’s unfailing love.
Look for it, reach for it, expect it, and welcome it. ”
“Thank you,” Mrs. Hammel murmured. “I will do my best.” She choked back a sob as she squeezed Mary’s hand. “I have a very good reason to move forward.”
A reason to move forward. That’s what Addie wanted…needed. Something besides helping the Stones with their charity work.
Her insides wailed as she thought of the house Nash had described. She pushed aside the idea and bowed her head as Father prayed.
Then she lost herself in an active day—unpacking and sorting out the kitchen to familiarize themselves with the contents and preparing food for the funeral. Ladies came by to welcome them to the community and to express their condolences to Mrs. Hammel. And they brought food.
Mrs. Hammel arranged for someone to take her to her cabin and returned with her belongings. “I brought everything. Do you mind if I keep it here while I decide what I’m going to do?”
Mother said, of course, she didn’t mind. “Don’t be hasty to make decisions. You need to allow yourself time to mourn.”
Mrs. Hammel’s eyes grew watery. “I’ll do my mourning in private.”
The funeral was the next day. Mrs. Hammel put on a brave face for her little daughter but carried a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes.
Addie sat near the front of the church beside Mother.
People crowded into the sanctuary. Many of those attending probably came out of curiosity.
They wanted to see how a woman whose husband had been murdered looked.
Addie could have informed them that the changes were on the inside.
Like anger and sorrow and pain and regret and—
Unforgiveness?
Was she guilty of that?
The service ended, and she followed Mrs. Hammel down the aisle. She glanced at the crowd as they left, wondering if she’d see a familiar face.
Nash wasn’t there. Well, she didn’t expect he would be. No doubt he’d gone to his ranch and the horses he expected to be delivered.
Would she ever see him again?
Did she want to?
Nash left as soon as Preacher Stone uttered the last amen. He’d been able to see the back of Addie’s head, but he didn’t mean to wait. It was hard enough without another rejection.
The other two murdered men had been duly laid to rest at the mining area’s little cemetery, with only a graveside service and Preacher Stone praying over the graves.
Nash didn’t know the men. He couldn’t explain why he’d been witness to their burials.
It had seemed the least he could do to make amends for what a murderer had done.
As if, in some small way, he could make amends for what his father had done.
Not that he was responsible, but not everyone believed that way.
Unforgivable.
The word she’d uttered so quietly thundered inside his head.
He rented a horse from the livery barn, grimacing as he passed under the place the body had hung before someone removed it and placed it in an unmarked grave. So far as Nash understood, only the two gravediggers and the undertaker had been there.
At the store, he filled two sacks with supplies and hung them over the back of the horse…over the condemning saddlebags. Grabbed the leather but uncoiled his fingers and allowed the bags to settle back in place. He’d carried them all these years. No reason he should stop now.
The reins were slack in his hand as he rode toward his ranch. He perked up as the house and corrals came into view. His herd of horses were in the nearby pasture. A man rose from the veranda and watched him approach.
“Howdy,” he called. “Thought I’d wait to see if anyone showed up to claim this bunch.”
“Got delayed,” Nash explained how Star had come up lame, forcing him to seek passage on the stagecoach. “And then a landslide made us hole up for a few days.” He didn’t add that murders in Golden Valley had further delayed him.
He wanted to put that out of his memories.
“Let’s have a look at what you brought.” The two of them sauntered to the pasture to study the animals. “They look to be in good condition.”
“I was told not to push them.”
“You brought them by yourself?” That would have been quite a task.
“Nah, but didn’t see any reason for the others to hang about cooling their heels.
” The man straightened. “Now that you’re here, I’ll be on my way.
” Ignoring Nash’s offer to spend the night, he got his horse from the barn and, with a touch of his finger to his hat brim, rode down the trail Nash had returned on.
“So that’s that.” No one else would hear him, but Nash would get used to that.
He tended his mount, spent a few more minutes studying his newly acquired horses, and then headed for the house.
The slanting sunrays warmed the inside. A fly flew across the room and banged into the window.
Nash stared at the insect as it continued to batter the glass.
Stupid thing. Didn’t have the brains to realize how futile it was.
Nash snorted. He wasn’t much smarter than a dumb fly wanting something he couldn’t have.
He unpacked his supplies, filling his cupboards.
Then he circled the house, went into the living room, and out again without going to the bedroom.
Why had he built a home meant for a family?
In the back of his mind, he’d known being the son of a murderer made it an impossible dream.
Hunger called. He opened a can of beans and ate them cold right from the can. A man could survive without someone to cook his meals and share his dreams.
He tossed the empty can into the woodbox and strode outside.
He needed to keep busy. What was that verse Gib often quoted, mostly in good fun? “Nothing is better than that a man should rejoice in his own works.” A verse found in Ecclesiastes.
Nash had plenty to do.
Night fell. His work would wait until morning. First, he’d best sleep. He stretched out on his bed, adjusting himself to the familiar mattress. His own bed, in his own house, with his plans for the future, should be enough.
Except sleep eluded him.
He squeezed his eyes tight and tried not to think of Addie’s shock when, as a child, she’d discovered her parents. His closed eyelids didn’t stop his imagination from filling in details. Brown eyes wide. Like he’d seen with the child staying with the preacher.
Ice flowed through his veins. His father was responsible for changing Addie’s life.
His father, not him. Not him. He knew it. Would have thought Addie did too.
Sourness burned his throat. Yes, he was the son of Morton Sturm.
But his choices had led him in a different direction.
Choices guided by his mother and Gib Jarvis who talked so openly about the value of following God’s guidance.
One verse the man had often quoted came from Psalms. “In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.” He’d always add, “What better guide could a man want for?”
Nash groaned. God, I chose to follow You, my heavenly Father, not my earthly father. I trust You to guide me into—
Had he expected God would make his life easy? Eliminate challenges? A sigh fluttered his lips.
I choose to follow You even now. Though, I’m asking that Addie change her mind about me. Sees me as a good man despite my name. His choice and his trust were challenged by Addie’s rejection more than learning of what his father had done.
Ma had hesitated to tell him when she got the news. Said she’d been surprised. They’d left because he was a robber. But that was a far cry from murder.
“Greed,” she’d said in a mournful tone, “can drive a man to do dreadful things.”
Had his father even considered how his actions impacted Nash’s life? If he’d cared, he would have changed his ways and come after them.
Thank goodness Gib had been a good substitute father. Thank You, God.
Sleep eventually claimed him.
Over the next few days, he chopped wood. He brought in more logs and chopped them. He checked the fence holding his horses. He planted a garden. That all done, he saddled up and headed back down the trail to get Star. He stopped at Shorty’s for the night.
The crates had been pulled from the storeroom to the wall beside the door. Two valises rested atop them. The bed had been stripped of blankets and sheets.
“Looks like you’re leaving.”
The man rubbed his hands together and grinned. “That I am. And it is thanks to Miss Addie.”
“How’s that?”
His grin faltered. “I am a married man. Our little son is dead because of my carelessness. What I did was unforgivable. Addie told me I needed to stop punishing myself and my wife.”
“Hmm.” Too bad she didn’t listen to her own advice and offer forgiveness to him.
Shorty served a meal with gingerbread for dessert. “Miss Addie showed me how to make this. When I get home, my wife will be surprised by how well I can cook…well, a few things.”
“I’m glad for you.” If only Nash could see the future as bright and exciting as Shorty did.
Shorty’s face clouded. “She might have given up on me by now. Or perhaps be willing to forgive me.”
Neither of them spoke. Nash wasn’t going to offer empty assurances when he understood how difficult forgiveness could be.
The lines in Shorty’s face hardened. His fist slammed his thigh. “I will never give up trying to win her back. Never.”
The chasm between Nash and Addie yawned too wide for a bridge. She wouldn’t forgive Nash’s father and, by extension, Nash. Nor did he blame her. What his father had done was unforgivable.
The next morning, he returned to the trail, leaving behind a man eager to return to his wife and beg for understanding.
What would happen to Shorty if his wife refused to forgive him? Would he disappear into the mountains again? Or stay and win her over?
The questions plagued him as he returned to the place he’d left Star. The horse had healed and eagerly welcomed Nash.
Nash scratched behind his ears. “Did you think I’d abandoned you? I’d never do that. But you needed time to rest and heal.”
Would time do the same work for Addie?