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Hopeful Heart (Journey Home Series 3)

By Diane Kalas

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Chapter 1

Steamboat Alley, Missouri – November 1866

“Look out, Nat!”
Nat Renshaw collided with a human cesspool in the middle of the rutted street. Foul breath and sweat and grime saturated clothing surrounded the varmint, making Nat’s eyes water. On impact, his preoccupation with his future plans evaporated. He shoved the stranger to the ground with no more effort than brushing off a fly.

Alert to his surroundings now, Nat observed another man come running out of the bank brandishing a weapon. The unknown person dashed to a horse that was standing at a hitching rail.

Nat squinted against bright sunlight. Steamboat Alley never had a serious crime problem. From the look of things, he believed that record ended today.
“Come on, let’s get outta here,” the gun-toting man yelled to the offensive galoot sprawled on his back in the dirt.

Nat jerked his attention to the crumbled heap of humanity near him. The unkempt man staggered to his feet and tried to regain his balance, waving his revolver with a hand that shook as though he had the palsy. The menace steadied his wrist with his free hand and aimed it at Nat.

Every nerve in Nat’s body tightened with anger. He wouldn’t surrender his life to a criminal. Not without a fight. He hadn’t survived Andersonville Prison to die in the gutter as an unarmed civilian.

Liquid energy pumped through Nat’s veins. He lunged at the load of corruption, who threatened to shoot him, and delivered a powerful blow to the man’s whiskered jaw. To Nat’s satisfaction, the mangy cur collapsed like a sack of loose-packed potatoes.

From the corner of Nat’s vision, he recognized the clerk who bolted through the door at the Savings and Loan, a rifle in his hand. Nat spun around and waved the young man back inside to the safety of the building.

“We’ve been robbed!” the bank teller shouted.

“Stop. Take cover.” Nat’s heart lurched as both holdup men turned and fired their guns. The S & L employee clutched his chest and pitched face forward onto the boardwalk.

Stunning Nat, the bandit near the hitching rail fell backward, legs apart and palms up, motionless on the dirt. Nat pivoted to face the remaining threat.

“Halt, don’t move.” Nat’s athletic physique intimidated most men and he didn’t hesitate to use the advantage. His shoulder-length hair whipped across his face as he crouched low, arms spread wide, and circled the thief nearest him.

Nat inched closer to the outlaw, pleased to see the man retreat as though hunted prey. In one fluid motion, Nat directed a fierce kick to his opponent’s arm. The handgun slipped from his fingers onto the dust at Nat’s feet
.
“Oh, me arm’s busted.” The thief clutched his limb to his chest.

Retrieving the gun, Nat left the unsavory fool sitting in the dirt rocking back and forth in pain. He needed to check on the thief’s partner. Soon, townspeople joined Nat.

A bystander clapped Nat on the shoulder. “The bank’s bookkeeper and the holdup man are dead, Nat.”

Nat shifted his gaze between the bodies, hands on his hips. “Let’s get a buckboard and take the deceased to the church’s storage shed. Someone needs to visit the clerk’s family and give them the bad news. I’ll notify the authorities in St. Louis about both robbers.”

Out of curiosity, Nat picked up the bank employee’s rifle and sniffed the barrel. “Well, how about that. I didn’t know the accountant could shoot.”

“No joshing, Nat?” The citizens grouped together, talking among themselves.

Nat handed the weapon to the S & L’s president. “Check it out. It’s been fired.”

“Hey, Nat, he’s getting away.” The town’s farrier pointed to the fleeing man.

Nat glared at the cutthroat who snatched two stenciled bank bags, but couldn’t mount his horse and hang on to them at the same time. The uncoordinated scoundrel hopped around with one foot in the stirrup, while the other leg bounced as though it had springs attached. At last, the crook succeeded and urged the beast into a mad run for freedom.

Nat’s attention turned to the string of horses tied up outside Talbot’s Supply Depot. He performed a running side mount onto the back of a palomino. Tugging the reins free from the hitching post, he urged the animal into a gallop. The gunman headed out of town at breakneck speed, his mount leaving a trail of dust and grit behind.

“Don’t let ’im get away,” a citizen hollered.

Nat’s borrowed horse had stamina, which he needed to overtake the outlaw. Positioned low behind the horse’s head, he urged the beast onward with heel pokes to the sides.

“Go, boy.” Nat concentrated on the outlaw’s back as the distance between them narrowed. If he could come abreast of the rider, he would attempt to jump the man. Mighty risky move. If Nat lost his balance and fell from his saddle, he faced getting trampled. His heartbeats accelerated.

The miscreant took a quick glance behind him and then spurred his mount to put more distance between them. Nat drew the weapon he had retrieved from the robber and took aim. He didn’t want to kill the man. He intended to haul him to justice.

Fueled by the death of the bank's bookkeeper, Nat’s temper escalated. The chase was on.

The outlaw’s attempt to escape, added to his frustration. Nat’s arm muscles tightened as he gripped the reins with one hand and the gun with the other hand. He clamped his jaw together as red-hot fury focused on catching the bandit. He had friends who worked in the bank, all decent law-abiding folks. Probably were scared out of their wits with guns shoved in their faces and viewing the murder of a young man everyone knew.

“Miserable cowards, taking the citizen’s money,” Nat mumbled under his breath.

Fear disappeared, replaced by the thrill of the challenge. Nat loved a fist-flying fight, especially when he participated in defending a weaker person.
Coming alongside the villain, Nat removed his feet from the stirrups and leaned over to deliver the loudest Rebel yell ever. “YEE-AAY-EEE.”

From the wild-eyed stare on the cutthroat, he figured it had worked. The outlaw dropped the two moneybags.

Nat could expect anything from a man on his way to a neck stretching party. Trapped men will resort to any means to keep out of the hands of the law. On guard, he ducked when the gunman lashed him with the reins striking him across the chest.

Nat grabbed the leather straps and pulled the man off his mount in one swift movement. The criminal landed in a heap in the middle of the road, and then rolled into a sitting position.

“I cain’t bre-breathe. I’m bro-ken ever-everywhere.”

The race had ended.

Hoisting the man to his feet, Nat grinned. “Come on buzzard bait, I’m making a citizen’s arrest. You’re my prisoner.”

The robber stumbled, clutching his hand to his chest. “Me arm’s busted, I tell ya. Can’t even hang onto the money. Oh, it hurts.”

Nat laughed. “And I’m deaf.”

“Honest, I promise ta mend me ways. I can’t go to jail again.”

“Did you forget I’m deaf?”

Their mounts had not gone far and once astride, Nat led the way back to town. The money sacks were located and Nat picked them up.

###

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania - November 1866

Lucy Garner walked with cautious steps from her four-poster bed and passed the partially opened blue velvet draperies covering the windows. She eased her sore body down with care upon an upholstered desk chair. Two days ago, she gave birth to a stillborn with the assistance of a midwife, whom she paid handsomely, and trusted not to gossip.

The idea that she told a deliberate lie bothered her, but she had allowed the servants to believe she and the midwife had become friends. The day of Annabelle’s birth, Lucy entertained the midwife with refreshments in the parlor. They slipped upstairs to Lucy's bedroom when contractions increased in frequency and strength. The staff never questioned her.

She yearned to rest on the thick mattress. Instead, she smoothed a monogrammed sheet of paper on the flat surface of the walnut secretary.

The night wind rattled the windowpane. Lucy tore her gaze away from her task to see a full moon, casting shadows through the leafless branches. From the second floor of Walpole House, she had a clear vista of their well-tended grounds.
Shivering, she gathered her shawl tighter around her shoulders. From the upstairs landing, the familiar grandfather clock chimed and then counted the hour with four strikes.

Mindful of the Walpole servants, who would soon begin another harried day, she gathered her thoughts. She picked up a pen and dipped the nib into a bottle of black ink. The candlelight flickered in a draft from the lead glass windows. As she wrote, her hand trembled.

My Dearest Annabelle – I’ve given you my real mother’s name. From the moment I knew a tiny life was growing within me, I loved you. Now, our Father in heaven has taken you home to be with Him. I shall go to you one day, but you shall not return to me. Until that time when we shall meet again, I will always miss you.
Your loving Mother.

Lucy stared at the note and allowed herself the luxury of pondering some of the mother-daughter moments that might have been. After all, she wouldn’t be alone with Annabelle again. She would have shared breakfast with her daughter, combed her hair, and taught her to value books. Most of all, she would tell Annabelle how much she loved and wanted her child.

Folding the paper in half, she turned on the seat to reach for the wooden box on the corner of her desk. Lifting the top, she peered inside to see the white damask towel used as a shroud for the stillborn. She would not look again. If she lingered much longer, the pain in her heart would keep her from completing what she needed to do that morning.

Tears wet her cheeks and she brushed them away with swift strokes of her fingertips. She placed the message on top of the little form and closed the lid.
From the flowered china pitcher, she poured cold water into the matching bowl and washed her face. Patting her skin with the white patterned towel, she then refolded the linen before setting it aside. Out of habit, she returned her nightclothes to the armoire.

From a pile of serviceable clothing placed on a chaise lounge, she dressed in her oldest traveling suit of dark brown. Packing her worn carpetbag with selected belongings, she then donned her woolen coat and buttoned it. She placed a wide-brimmed hat upon her head and adjusted the fit. When she extinguished the candle, the space became airless and cold instead of a luxurious bedroom designed for comfort and beauty.

Cracking open her bedroom door, Lucy listened for servants moving about. She would leave this mansion and never look back. God had given her courage to face this decision, even though she had no idea how she would survive on her own with limited funds.

Slipping down the servant’s stairway, she opened the hallway door to scan inside the kitchen. No one around. The groomsmen would awaken in an hour to tend the horses. She had no time to waste. Her heartbeats quickened in anticipation of her new life.

Near the stables, Reverend Ashton stood beside his buggy, barely visible in dark clothing. “Morning, Miss Lucy. Are you sure you can’t wait until Mr. Walpole returns from Europe for a memorial service?”

“I’m sure, Reverend. I want this little funeral to be private, and I need your promise not to discuss my personal business with anyone.”

"Oh, of course. As clergy, I am obligated to keep confessions or anything told to me in strictest confidence. Never doubt that my lips are sealed."
Lucy accepted his assistance into the conveyance, stowing her carpetbag between them on the floor, and settled on the seat. She stared downward to her gloved hands, resting on the burial box on her lap.

“Reverend, you married Jamie and I out of the kindness of your heart, knowing my adoptive father wouldn’t consent to the union. I'm grateful for everything you've done on my behalf. Now that Jamie and our daughter are gone, my future isn’t here.”

"I understand." Reverend Ashton picked up the reins, and then paused. “Are you moving away without telling Mr. Walpole, Lucy? Has it been that bad that you’d sneak off at dawn’s early light?”

“I wrote a note for them, so they’d know I wasn’t abducted.” She glanced at the Reverend. “I must leave before they return from Europe with Colin. There’s something evil about that young man, and I feel God’s urging me to depart without delay.”

“Oh, my dear.” He shook his head and sighed. “I’ll read between the lines, Lucy, and not ask nosy questions.” He flicked the reins to move the horse forward.

In the garden shed, Lucy hunted for an India rubber sack to keep the wooden box dry. The rafters held noisy bats that flew helter-skelter and then streamed out the open door to scatter. She hurried to the buggy and climbed aboard once again. The Reverend guided the vehicle away from the mansion into the predawn light. For over fourteen years, she tried to call the Walpole residence home. That ended today.

The small county chapel for local housemaids, footmen, and groomsmen, who worked in the mansions nearby, had a cemetery at the far end of the property. She inserted the pine box with its precious contents into the protective material.

Lucy leaned into the strong autumn wind that tossed bare tree limbs in wide sweeps. Dried leaves crunched under her feet. A look over her shoulder caused icy fingers to skim down her spine. The chapel appeared as a jagged outline, against the moon, with those wisps of gray clouds that floated across the receding night sky in a foreboding manner.

Mature trees grew within the oldest section of the burial ground. Lucy walked into the seclusion of the dense woods and in the dim light, stumbled over the snarled roots of an ancient tree. Recovering her footing, she walked to the selected spot to bury her sacred treasure. A church groundskeeper had dug a smaller grave beside the resting place of Annabelle’s father. Nearby, a large rock would mark the site. The Reverend would arrange a headstone later.
Lucy believed that the innocent ones went directly into the Father’s presence. Annabelle’s little soul had departed for home. Lucy desired to do the decent thing and bury her baby in a safe place.

Clenching her jaw, she pushed up the sleeves of her blouse to the elbows before kneeling beside the grave. She placed the baby's remains into the ground and paused before getting to her feet. From hours of labor to deliver the dead baby, her back ached.

After preparing the burial site, the groundskeeper left the shovel behind. She forced herself to reach for it and fill the grave with soil piled alongside the opening. Within minutes, she accomplished her mission.

Reverend Ashton assisted Lucy to her feet. “I’ll pray for your safety, Miss Lucy.”

“Thank you, Reverend. You’ve been kinder to me than my adoptive parents have. I believe God is with me.” Lucy stepped away from the small mound neatly hidden by wild vines. “Now, it’s time to take me to the train depot, please.”

She would never use the Walpole name again. No one ever loved her in that house, apart from a few old servants who had moved away or died. She would not use Mrs. Ainsley, her married name and title, either.

“I’m Lucy Garner.” She reclaimed the surname, before the adoption years ago.

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