Redeeming Love (35 page)

The rains came day after day. After the first few nights, Angel found comfort in the sounds of the owl in the rafters and the soft stirring of mice in the hay. Michael kept her warm. Sometimes he would explore her body, rousing alien sensations that unnerved her. When his own desire became too great, he drew away and talked about his past and especially the old slave he still loved. In those quiet, unthreatening moments, Angel found herself telling him what Sally had taught her.

Head propped up on his hand, Michael toyed with her hair. “Do you think she was right about everything, Amanda?”

“Not by your rules, I guess.”

“Whose do you want to live by?”

She thought before answering. “My own.”

Outside the confines of the barn and Michael’s protective arms, Angel was affectionately accosted by Miriam. At every turn, the girl undermined Angel’s determination to remain aloof. Miriam made her laugh. She was so 243

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young and full of innocent mischief. What Angel could not comprehend was why this girl should want to be
her
friend. She knew she should discourage her, but Miriam grew obtuse at her rebuffs and continued to tease and delight her.

Starved of any family life as a child, Angel did not know what was expected of her when she and Michael spent evenings in the cabin with the family. She sat quietly and observed. She was captivated by the respectful camaraderie between John and Elizabeth Altman and their five children.

John was a hard man who seldom smiled, but it was clear he adored his children—and that he had a special affection for his eldest daughter, despite their constant arguing.

Dark-eyed Andrew and his father were much alike in appearance and manner. Jacob was gregarious and given to practical jokes. Leah was solemn and shy. Little Ruth, open and bright, was the darling of the whole family.

For some reason Angel could not contemplate, the child adored her.

Perhaps it was her blonde hair that drew Ruthie’s infatuation. Whatever it was, every time she and Michael came in to join the family, Ruthie sat at her feet.

It amused Miriam. “They say dogs and children can always pick a tenderhearted person. Can’t argue with that, now, can you?”

For a full week after they moved in, Elizabeth was too weak to get out of bed. Angel cooked and took care of the household duties while Miriam saw to her mother and the children. Michael and John dug up stumps in the field. When they came in for supper, John sat with his wife and held her hand, talking to her softly while the children played pick-up sticks and string games.

Watching John, Angel was reminded of all those weeks Michael had cared for her after Magowan’s beating. She remembered his tender care and consideration. He had tolerated her worst insults with quiet patience. He was in his own element with these people. She was the one who didn’t belong.

Angel couldn’t help but make comparisons. Her father had hated her enough even before she was born to want her thrown away like so much trash. Her mother had been so obsessed with him that she had almost for-244

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gotten she had a child. From her life with harlots, Angel was used to women who worried incessantly about the shape of their bodies and whether they were beginning to age. She was used to women who fussed with their hair and clothing and talked about sex as easily as the weather.

Elizabeth and Miriam were new and fascinating to her. They adored one another. They spoke no harsh words, were clean and neat without being preoccupied about their appearance, and talked about everything
but
sex.

Though Elizabeth was too weak to do any work, she organized and orches-trated Miriam’s and the children’s days. At her urging, Andrew made a fish trap to set up in the creek. Leah fetched water. Jacob weeded the vegetable garden. Even little Ruth helped, setting out the dishes and utensils and picking wild flowers for the table. Miriam washed, ironed, and mended clothes while overseeing her siblings. Angel felt useless.

Once Elizabeth was up, she assumed full command. Unpacking her Dutch oven and pans, she took over the cooking. The Altmans had replenished their own supplies in Sacramento, and she made delicious meals of fried salt pork with gravy, baked beans sweetened with molasses, cornbread, and stewed jackrabbit with dumplings. When the fish trap worked, she fried the trout in seasonings. She skillet-baked johnnycakes while she spit-roasted two ducks. Most days, she made sourdough biscuits for breakfast. As a special treat, she soaked dried apples and made a pie.

She sighed one evening as she set the food on the table. “Someday we’ll have another cow and have milk and butter again.”

“We had one when we left home,” Miriam said to Angel, “but the Indians took a liking to her near Fort Laramie.”

“I’d give Papa’s watch for a spoonful of plum jam,” Jacob said, making his mother laugh and cuff him lightly.

Following supper, it was the Altman family custom to have devotions.

John frequently asked Michael to read the Bible. The children were bright and full of questions. If God created Adam and Eve, why did he let them sin? Did God really want them running around Eden
naked?
Even in winter?

If there was only Adam and Eve, who’d their children marry?

Eyes twinkling, John settled back to smoke his pipe while Elizabeth tried to answer the endless questions. Michael shared his own opinions and 245

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beliefs. He told stories rather than read them. “You’d make a fine preacher,”

John said. Angel almost protested and then realized he meant it as a compliment.

Angel never joined in the discussions. Even when Miriam asked her what she thought, she shrugged it off or turned the question back on the girl. Then, one evening, Ruthie went straight to the heart of the matter.

“Don’t you believe in God?”

Unsure how to respond, Angel said, “My mother was Catholic.”

Andrew’s mouth fell open. “Brother Bartholomew said they worship idols.” Elizabeth blushed bright red at his comment, and John coughed.

Andrew apologized.

“No need,” Angel said. “My mother didn’t worship any idols that I remember, but she prayed a lot.” Not that it ever did her any good.

“What’d she pray for?” irrepressible Ruthie asked.

“Deliverance.” Determined not to become part of a religious discussion, she took up the materials Michael had purchased for her new clothing.

There was a still silence in the cabin that made Angel’s skin prickle.

“What’s
deliv’rance
mean?” Ruthie asked.

“We’ll talk about it later,” Elizabeth hushed her. “Right now, you children have school work to do.” She got up and took out the children’s school books. Angel looked up after a moment and saw Michael’s gentle gaze on her. Her heart fluttered strangely. She wished for the cool, quiet darkness of the barn and no one noticing her, not even this man who had come to matter entirely too much.

She returned her studious attention to the cloth in her lap. How should she start? Never having made her own clothing before, she didn’t know how to begin. She kept thinking of all the money Michael had spent and was afraid to cut into it and ruin it.

“You look glum.” Miriam grinned. “Don’t you like to sew?”

Angel could feel the color mounting in her cheeks. She was humiliated by her own ignorance and inexperience. Of course, Elizabeth and Miriam would know exactly what to do. Any
decent
girl would be able to make a shirtwaist and skirt.

Miriam suddenly looked aggrieved, as though she realized she had 246

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drawn attention where she shouldn’t have. She gave Angel a tentative smile.

“I don’t enjoy it much myself. Mama is the seamstress in our family.”

“I’d love to help you,” Elizabeth volunteered.

“You’ve enough to do already,” Angel said roughly.

Miriam brightened. “Oh, let Mama do it for you, Amanda. She loves to sew, and she hasn’t had much to work with over the past year.” Not waiting for an answer, she took the material from Angel and handed it over to her mother.

Elizabeth laughed, looking delighted. “Do you mind, Amanda?”

“I suppose not,” Angel said. She gave a start of surprise when Ruthie climbed up into her lap.

Miriam grinned. “She only bites her brothers.”

Angel touched the dark, silky hair and was enchanted. Little Ruth was soft and cuddly, with pink cheeks and bright brown eyes. Angel felt her heart grieve. What would her own child have looked like? She blotted out the horrible memory of Duke and the doctor and savored Ruthie’s affection.

The child chattered like a little magpie, and Angel nodded and listened.

Glancing up, Angel encountered Michael’s gaze.
He wants children,
she thought, and the thought hit her solid in the pit of her stomach. What if he knew she couldn’t have them? Would his love for her die then? She couldn’t hold his gaze.

“Papa, would you play the fiddle for us?” Miriam asked. “You haven’t played in so long.”

“Papa,
please,”
Jacob and Leah begged.

“It’s packed away in the trunk,” he said, eyes shadowed. Angel expected that to be the end of the discussion, but Miriam was dogged.

“No, it’s not. I unpacked it this morning.” John gave his daughter a dark look, but she only smiled, knelt down beside him, and put her hand on his knee. “Please, Papa.” Her voice was very gentle. “‘For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven.’ Remember? ‘A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance.’”

Elizabeth had stilled where she stood, her hands on the fabric spread out over the supper table. When John looked at her, his eyes were dark with pain. Her own were swimming in tears. “It has been a long time, John. I’m 247

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sure Amanda and Michael would enjoy hearing you.”

Miriam nodded to Leah, who fetched the instrument and bow, then held them out to her father. After a long moment, he took hold of them and laid them in his lap.

“I tuned it this afternoon while you were out in the field,” Miriam admitted as he ran his fingers across the strings. Then, lifting it, he set it beneath his chin and began to play. At the first few notes of the tune, Miriam’s eyes flooded with tears, and she sang with a high, pure voice. When he finished playing, he laid the fiddle on his lap again.

“That was beautiful,” he said, plainly moved. He touched his daughter’s hair. “For David, hmm?”

“Yes, Papa.”

Elizabeth raised her head, tears running down her cheeks. “Our son,”

she told Angel and Michael. “He was only fourteen when—” Her voice broke, and she looked away.

“He sang alto,” Miriam said. “He had a wonderful voice. He far preferred lively songs, but ‘Amazing Grace’ was his favorite hymn. He was so full of life and adventure.”

“He was killed near the Scott’s Bluff,” Elizabeth managed. “His horse threw him when he was chasing a buffalo. He hit his head.”

No one said anything for a long time. “Gramma died at the Humboldt Sink,” Jacob said finally, breaking the silence.

Elizabeth sat down slowly. “We were the only family she had left, and when we decided to come west, she came with us. She was never very well.”

“She wasn’t sorry, Liza,” John said.

“I know, John.”

Angel wondered if Elizabeth was sorry. Maybe she never wanted to leave home. Maybe all this was John’s idea. Angel looked between the two of them and wondered if John wasn’t thinking the same thing, but when Elizabeth regained her composure and looked across the cabin at her husband, there was no resentment in her expression. John lifted the fiddle again and played another hymn. Michael joined in the singing this time. His rich, deep voice filled the cabin, and the children were in awe of him.

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“Well, now!” Elizabeth said, smiling in delight. “The Lord blessed you indeed, Mr. Hosea.”

The boys wanted to sing road songs, and their father obliged. When they exhausted their repertoire, Michael told them about Ezra and the slaves who sang in the cotton fields. He sang one he remembered. It was deep and mournful. “Swing low, sweet chariot, comin’ for to carry me home…”

Michael’s voice pierced Angel’s heart.

Angel was tense when she and Michael finally returned to the barn loft.

The
what-ifs
went around and around in her head. What if Mama had married a man like John Altman? What if she herself had grown up in a family like that? What if she had come to Michael whole and pure?

But it hadn’t happened that way, and wishing didn’t make it any better.

“You’d have done very well in the Silver Dollar Saloon,” she said, striving for lightness. “The singer they had wasn’t nearly as good as you. He used some of your same tunes,” she added wryly, “but the lyrics were different.”

“Where do you think the church got most of their music in the first place?” Michael chuckled. “Preachers need recognizable tunes to get their congregations singing along.” He put his arms behind his head. “Maybe I could’ve won a few converts.”