Page 30 of Comanche Magic

  Chase smiled slightly. "May Belle, promise me you'll never move so far away I can't hunt you up when I need to understand this girl."

  "What?"

  "I could kiss you. You haven't said a damned thing I didn't already know, but, like you say, I look at things so different that I—" He laughed softly. "Thank you, you gorgeous creature, you! You've just told me what I have to do."

  "I have?"

  "Franny doesn't believe anyone will love her if they know. Don't you see?" Chase pushed erect and lifted his wife off his lap. She stirred slightly, but her eyes remained focused on something he couldn't see. "I have to prove to her she's wrong. The best place to start is with her family, just like you said."

  May Belle reached out and grasped his arm. "Chase, that could be a mistake. They may not be as forgiving as you and yours are. Trust me, I know."

  "Forgiving?" Chase rose on a knee to exit the bed. "May Belle, if anyone has something to forgive, it's Franny." As he strode from the room, he said, "I can't take time to explain it all right now. Just trust me when I say that when I get done with them, her family will be the ones asking for forgiveness, not my wife." When he reached the ladder, Chase yelled downstairs. "Ma, can you get me a blanket?"

  He circled back to the bed to gather Franny up into his arms. May Belle followed in his wake as he carried his burden downstairs.

  Loretta came into the sitting room from the kitchen. "A blanket?"

  "Franny and I are going to take a little trip," he said softly. "I don't want her to get chilled."

  "A trip? Chase, she's in no condition to go anywhere."

  "Ma, please. The blanket?"

  Loretta cast a concerned glance at May Belle, but then she went to the bedroom. She returned a moment later with a quilt folded over one arm. As she handed it to Chase, she said, "What are you going to do?"

  His throat aching, Chase repositioned his wife in his arms. Looking over her blond head at his mother, he said, "Franny and I are going to go make a miracle."

  Loretta fastened bewildered eyes on him. "A what?" "A miracle," Chase said as he carried his burden to the door. "The deaf shall be made to hear, and the blind shall be made to see."

  20

  The Graham house was lit up like a Christ­mas tree when Chase drew the wagon up near the porch. Both arms aching from trying to drive with one arm while he held Franny with the other, he looped the reins around the guide and then sat there a moment, flexing to get the cramps out. Franny sat quietly beside him, her slight weight leaned against him, her gaze still fixed on something he couldn't see. During all the long hours of the trip, she hadn't spoken or moved on her own accord.

  Jumping down from the wagon, Chase caught her behind the knees and around the shoulders to lift her off the seat. As he turned with her toward the house, it occurred to him that the wish he'd made when he first saw her was about to be granted. He was going to fight a mountain lion for her. And, by God, he was going to win. He strode briskly up the steps. When he reached the door, he didn't bother to knock. He just drew back a foot and booted the damned thing open. Under such force, the door slapped the interior wall. Everyone inside the house whirled to stare. The girls were in the kitchen, washing dishes from the evening meal. Mary Graham sat at the table, snapping peas into a large bowl. Frankie and Matthew were sitting hunched over a checkerboard in the parlor area. Chase couldn't recall ever having seen so many expressions of con­demnation in one room. Clearly Frankie had wasted no time in hightailing it home to share his news.

  How dare they? Chase looked from face to face, acutely aware of the slight burden he held in his arms, of the suffering she had endured. How could any of her family look upon her with scorn?

  Life went on, Chase noticed. They'd obviously man­aged to eat. And they'd eaten the food Franny had bought for them. Nothing new. She'd been feeding the whole ungrateful lot of them for nine years. Well, they were about to learn just how dearly she had paid to keep their goddamned larder stocked. Chase caught the edge of the door and hooked it closed with his foot. The resulting thwack of wood against wood made all of them jump.

  "Frankie?" Mary Graham called. "Is something amiss?"

  "It's all right, Ma." Frankie pushed up from his chair. "You and that woman aren't welcome in this house," he said stonily. "Get her out of here."

  "Francine? Is it you?" Mary called. "Do hush, Frankie. Your sister will always be welcome in my house."

  "As the prodigal child?" Chase demanded coldly.

  "Because it's your Christian duty to forgive and love the sinner amongst you?"

  Chase ignored Frankie's threatening stance and strode directly to the table where Mary Graham sat. The smells of roast beef and potatoes blended with the sweet scent of the freshly picked vegetables. Partially resting Franny's weight upon the table, he sent the bowl of snapped peas flying with a sweep of his arm. Alaina squeaked as the porcelain hit the floor and shat­tered. Peas went in every direction. Not caring, Chase carefully laid out his wife on the table before her mother.

  "I've brought you what's left of your daughter," he said raggedly.

  Mary Graham's sightless eyes homed in on his voice. "Chase Wolf?"

  Frankie came into the kitchen. "I asked you nicely to leave."

  Chase shot him a cold glare. "You call that nicely? I'll deal with you in a minute, young man. Meanwhile, kindly keep your mouth shut and your ears open."

  When he turned back, he saw that Mary was run­ning her hands over Franny. "Oh, dear God. What's wrong with her? Is she sick?"

  Chase braced his hands on the table and leaned for­ward. "Sick? I wish to God she were. Then maybe a doctor could make her well. Plain and simple, the girl's heart is broken. I've brought her to you because as much as I love her, I can't mend it." Pitching his voice a little lower, he added, "You are the only one who can, and I believe you know why."

  "I won't have you upsetting my ma like this," Frankie objected and came striding toward the table.

  "Take that piece of trash back where you found her. Get her out of our home."

  That cut it. Chase turned and caught the boy across the mouth with the back of his hand. Frankie staggered under the blow, managed to catch himself from falling, and straightened, holding his wrist to his lips.

  "Don't ever speak to or about your sister in that manner again," Chase said in a dangerously silken voice, "or so help me God, I'll beat the living tar right out of you. Do you understand me, Frankie?"

  His eyes glittering with anger and hatred, Frankie muttered, "You can't come in here and throw your weight around. I'll go get the law."

  "You do that," Chase said softly. Turning back to Mary, he said, "When you get back, your mother will see to it that your bags are packed and waiting for you on the porch. Won't you, Mrs. Graham? You know which side your bread's buttered on, don't you?"

  Mary closed her eyes.

  "Closing your eyes won't help," Chase whispered sav­agely. "You're already blind." He leaned closer. "Only not quite as blind as you've pretended to be. You knew. I saw it in your face the day I met you. You knew! All these years, you knew."

  "Stop it," Mary whispered. She ran trembling hands over her daughter's hair. "What's wrong with her? It's not—it's not something catching, is it?"

  For the first time in his life, Chase wanted to slap a woman. He knotted his hands into fists where they rested on the table. "And if it were? Just think of it. You could make her feel guilty for another ten years and reap the rewards."

  Mary Graham's face drained of color. "What are you accusing me of, Mr. Wolf?"

  "I think you'd better leave," Frankie injected.

  "I think you'd better shut up," Chase shot back. Keeping his gaze fixed on Mary, he said, "We're going to get to the bottom of this before I go. The easy way or the hard way. Your choice. But one way or another, my wife's going to hear it from your lips. Admit it, Mrs. Graham. You've known all along what Franny was doing to support this family. Haven't you?"

  She propped an elbow
on the table to press a shaky hand over her face.

  "If you love her," Chase prodded, "and I know you must, then, for her sake and for the love of God, admit it!"

  With a broken sob, she said, "God forgive me. Yes, I suspected."

  With a derisive snort, Chase said, "You suspected?"

  "Ma?" Alaina's voice was shrill. "What are you saying?"

  Chase straightened. "The unspeakable truth, Alaina," he said more calmly. "Your father was killed. Your mother is blind. She had eight children to feed, one of them sickly and in need of elixirs to keep him alive, and she had no way of earning the money to support you all." Chase cut a glance back at Mary. "To keep starvation from the door, she had to make a decision no mother should ever have to make. Isn't that right, Mrs. Graham?"

  "Don't," Mary whispered. "Say what you must to me, but not in front of the children. Grant me at least that."

  Chase raked a hand through his hair and glanced from child to child. All but Jason were present. Seeing their stricken expressions, he was nearly swayed from his purpose. But then he drew his gaze back to Franny. No one had protected her from the ugly realities. In contrast, her brothers and sisters had been too shel­tered. It was time they shouldered at least some of the burden. Franny couldn't carry it alone anymore. It was as simple and as heartbreaking as that. All of the kids, save Jason, were old enough to hear the truth, and for Franny's sake, Chase was determined that they would.

  "I'm sorry," Chase said softly. "But the way I see it, I have to choose between my wife or all of you. That isn't a choice. As much as it may hurt you to face this, you'll never know a measure of the pain that Franny has suf­fered. And all for what?" He looked to Frankie. "So her brother can spit at her feet and disown her? So he can scorn her for being a whore and offer to sell her to strangers?" He glanced at each of the girls. "So her sisters can curl their lips and feel self-righteous?"

  Silence fell over the room. A shocked silence.

  "It's time they know the truth, Mrs. Graham. All of it. About the measles epidemic and Franny bringing it home. How, deep down, you blamed her for your blindness and Jason's idiocy. In a sense, she was even responsible for your husband's death, wasn't she? If not for your affliction and Jason's, he wouldn't have had to work such long hours to pay the doctors and buy medicine. He might not have taken that job, roofing the church steeple to earn extra money. Isn't that right?"

  "Stop it," she cried raggedly.

  "I can't," Chase said hoarsely. And it was the truth. Not because he wanted to draw blood with words, but because he was drawing tears. From Franny. She still lay motionless on the table. Her expression hadn't altered. But there were tears in her eyes. Silent tears.

  "You're making me sound like a monster," Mary accused.

  "No," Chase retorted. "A mother who loves her children. A mother who sacrificed one to save the other seven. I don't judge you for that. I know Franny wouldn't either. But I do judge you for the way you went about it."

  Pausing for emphasis, Chase settled his gaze on Franny's pale face. "She loves all of you so much, she would have done it, regardless. You didn't need to make her burden greater than it already was by heap­ing guilt on her. But that's exactly what you did. She disobeyed her parents. Nothing big. Just a typical infraction, common among kids that age, and while doing it, she contracted measles. You've held that over her head for nine endless years."

  "You know nothing!" Mary cried. "How dare you come in here and start flinging accusations. You know nothing about this family, or about me."

  "I know that for nine years, you pretended you didn't know how she earned the money to feed all of you. The truth is, you not only knew, but probably arranged it."

  Mary Graham flinched as though he had struck her. Chase saw Franny squeeze her eyes closed. He felt sick. Sick to his soul. But he couldn't stop. She had to hear it. And she had to hear it from her mother.

  "Taking in laundry to earn extra money. The madam from the brothel seeking Franny out on the street, your sending her to the establishment to pick up the soiled linen. It sounds innocent enough, but I kept coming back to the madam seeking Frannie out on the street. Whores don't dare do things like that. They start trying to talk to innocent local girls, and they get run out of town on a rail."

  Chase leaned closer. "But that madam approached Franny, bold as brass, didn't she? And once Franny started doing the brothel laundry, the madam suggested other ways she might earn money. A lot more money. How dare the woman take that risk? If the girl had gone home and told, the brothel would have been shut down. Yet she tried to recruit Franny, not once, but several times, seemingly with no fear of consequences."

  "Stop it," Mary whispered.

  "No. I think you spoke with that madam, Mrs. Gra­ham. That's why she wasn't afraid to approach Franny, because her mother had given her blessing. Didn't you? Because you were desperate. Your baby was dying. Your other children were hungry. And Franny was your only way out."

  Mary Graham's sobs became more broken. "You have no right. And no proof. Lies, all of it. Lies."

  "I don't think so," Chase retorted evenly. "I admit, it took me a while to fit all the pieces together. The pity is that Franny never did. You knew exactly how to play her, didn't you, Mrs. Graham? How to wield her guilt. You used it against her like a finely honed knife, justi­fying your actions the entire time because if not for her, you wouldn't have been in this mess. Isn't that how you reasoned? The sacrifice of one child to save the others. What better choice than the child who inad­vertently caused all your woes?"

  "No."

  "Oh, yes. On the surface, it wasn't obvious. A gentle blind woman who seemed to love all her children, who attended church every Sunday, who in her naiveté didn't suspect where her beautiful eldest daughter got the exorbitant sums of money needed to keep this fam­ily going. It all looked good. Sounded plausible. But something about it always seemed off plumb to me. I kept circling it, remembering all Franny had told me. And I have to tell you, long after I first started to suspect, I kept shoving the thoughts aside because I didn't want to believe it."

  Showing no mercy, Chase moved in for the kill.

  "You know what my first clue was? The day I met you, you heard my footsteps. Scarcely anyone can lay brag to that. I walk like an Indian, toe to heel, and make hardly any noise, even in boots. But you homed in on me exactly, by sound. The blind develop acute hearing. Don't they, Mrs. Graham? To compensate for their affliction."

  "So? How does that—"

  "Because," he broke in, "you had to have heard Franny when she got up that first night and put on her special dress. You had to have heard her sneak out of the house to leave for that brothel."

  "No. No, if I'd heard her, I would have stopped her."

  "Exactly," Chase said softly. "Only you didn't. Not because you didn't hear her, but because it was what you wanted her to do, what you'd been praying she would do. Because it was the only way for this family to make it. Why, in God's name, can't you just admit that? I understand it's painful for you, that you wish to

  God doing such a vile thing was never necessary and that it breaks your heart to admit, even to yourself, that you did it. But better that than making this girl bear all the shame alone!"

  "You're accusing me of pushing my daughter into prostitution!"

  Chase ignored that. "I could believe you didn't hear her that first night. But what of all the other nights, Mrs. Graham? Were you conveniently deaf those times as well? And when she returned in the morning? You had to have wondered where Franny had been and how she'd gotten her hands on so much money. But you didn't ask, did you? Not about her absences or about the windfalls. You didn't need to. Because you knew."

  "Oh, God . . . Forgive me, Francine. Forgive me."

  Chase closed his eyes, relieved yet filled with regret. His voice hoarse with emotion, he said, "She forgives you, Mrs. Graham. The trouble is, she can't forgive herself."

  "Ma?"

  At the sound of Frankie's voice, Chase opene
d his eyes to see that the youth's face had gone absolutely colorless.

  "Ma?" he repeated. "Say it's not true. That you never."

  The plea was heartfelt. It went unanswered. Mary Graham just sobbed and shook her head. The other children seemed rooted, their eyes filled with increduli­ty and shock. It gave Chase little satisfaction to destroy a family in this way.

  Frankie backed slowly toward the door. Watching him, Chase could almost taste the boy's anguish. "Don't, Frankie," he said softly. "You're not a little boy anymore. You can't run off to lick your own wounds when your family needs you."

  "My ma pushed my sister into"—the tendons along Frankie's throat distended as though he might strangle on the words—"being a prostitute? To support all of us? My own mother?"

  Chase took a ragged breath and turned his gaze back to Franny. She lay now with her arms hugging her waist. Her eyes remained closed, and tears still streamed down her cheeks.

  "Your ma did what she had to do," Chase said softly. "What else could she do, Frankie? Go get a job? She's blind. The only other option for widows with children is to remarry, and what man wants to marry a blind woman with eight children? Jason was sick. If he hadn't gotten his elixir, he probably would have died. And on top of that, all you kids were going to starve." Chase looked the boy dead in the eye. "If your ma could have, I'm sure she would have gone in Franny's place. But blind women don't bring top dollar in places like that. Do they, Frankie? Pretty little girls with golden hair do."

  Mary sobbed again. "Oh, God . . . Oh, God . . ." She curled her arms over Franny. "My little girl. God for­give me. My little girl."

  Frankie leaned his shoulders against the door, his gaze fixed on Franny. "I was so small then, she seemed grown-up to me," he said shakily.