Victoria’s Secret
by ShiningStar
Disclaimer: The characters and situations of the TV program
"Big Valley" are the creations of Four Star/Republic Pictures and
have been used without permission. No
copyright infringement is intended by the author. The ideas expressed in this story are copyrighted to the author.
Chapter 1: The Beginning of Deception
Victoria Barkley stood on the rise behind the small frame
house, one arm shielding her eyes from the afternoon sun, the other draped
protectively across her swollen belly. A small cloud of dust rose on the
horizon where the road snaked irregularly between the ranch and the new town of
Stockton.
It couldn’t really be called a town—only an almost-empty general store, a blacksmith, and the inevitable saloon—but it was a beginning. Somehow, just knowing it was there, made the unending stretch of valley seem less lonely. It didn’t have that effect on her today, however. She felt abandoned and, more than that, she felt a raging resentment toward her husband Tom who had ridden off down that road three weeks earlier.
They’d parted in anger. “I have to go, Vic.”
“You always have to go! And why there?” She didn’t add, again.
“I told you, I have to go,” he said, his voice tinged with impatience. “Just leave it at that.”
“You remember what happened last time.”
He wasn’t sure exactly which time she was talking about, so he shrugged.
“You went off to Nevada, and the baby came before you got back.”
“I thought I’d be back, Vic, and the baby was two months early.”
“This one could be, too.”
“I won’t be gone that long this time.”
“You can’t be sure.”
“I can be sure.”
He tried to embrace her, but she turned away. Sighing, he mounted his horse and looked down at her. “Silas is here to help you with the boys, and Duke’ll look after the ranch.”
But who’ll look after me? she wanted to scream at him.
“Take care, Vic. I’ll be back soon—a week, no more.”
It had been three weeks now, and there had been no word from him. And yesterday, the baby in her belly had stopped moving—like the last time. This morning she’d sent Silas to take eight-year-old Jarrod and Nick, four years younger, to the Hall ranch.
Jarrod hadn’t wanted to go. “I can take care of Nick, Mother. I should stay here and help you while Father’s gone.”
She touched his earnest face gently. Sometimes she thought he’d been born an old man, full of care and responsibility. Other times she blamed Tom Barkley for putting too much responsibility on his first-born. “I’ll be fine, Jarrod, and I’d feel better if I knew you and Nick were at the Halls.”
Huge tears welled in his eyes, and he dashed them away roughly on the back of his sleeve. “Please, Mother, I don’t like to be away from you.”
“Think of it as a holiday,” she said, trying to make her voice light. “Helen loves to spoil the both of you.”
“But she doesn’t have any little boys—she doesn’t know about being a mother.”
“All the more reason I should share the two of you with her. She and Bill would like to have children.”
Jarrod cut his eyes up to the bulge beneath her dress. “Mother, will—will this baby be all right?” At five, he’d been old enough to remember what happened three years ago.
“Of course,” she said briskly. “Of course, it will! Now go get your things together—and Nick’s, too.”
“You be all right ‘til I gets back, Miz Barkley?” Silas lifted the boys into the wagon and put one booted foot on the step.
“I’ll be fine, Silas, but don’t linger—just rest the horses a little and come straight back.”
“Oh, yes, m’am, I sure do that.” He boosted himself onto the wagon seat and took the reins from Jarrod’s hands. “Be back ‘fore sundown.”
* * * * * * * *
Now she devoutly hoped that the puff of dust was Silas returning before she really expected him. Her back ached menacingly, and the baby still hadn’t moved, though she’d prodded it regularly all day. But she couldn’t think of that now. If she thought about what had happened before, she’d go crazy.
She drew a bucket of water from the well and splashed her face and neck, then her bare sun-browned arms. She could remember a time when her skin had been milky-white and smooth as fresh cream. There had been a time when her dark hair had shimmered in the sunlight like silk. But that was a long time ago, before she’d run off with Tom Barkley, married him and come West.
He’d said he had to follow his dreams, and she’d vowed to follow them, too. But too soon dreams turned to drudgery. She’d sweated in the summers as she’d planted and tended the garden that would keep them alive in the winters. She’d ridden with her husband to drive the few pitiful cattle with which they’d begun their now-enviable herd, chased down strays, and pulled stubborn calves from their straining mothers. In the winters, she’d frozen to the bone as she toiled beside him trying to keep the stock fed and watered.
She’d given birth to Jarrod on the floor of the dugout that had been their first home. Of course, Tom had been gone, and only the unexpected arrival of Jenny Miles had saved the day. Eighteen months later, Tom had been there for the birth of their second son, Liam—named for her father—but their joy had been short-lived. The baby gasped out his little life before his first birthday. Pneumonia, the doctor said. Nick’s advent six months later had been bittersweet.
Victoria pressed a hand to her back and tried to will away the familiar warning twinges. Her mind went over everything that she must do while she was still on her feet—including sending Duke for Jenny Miles again. Jenny hadn’t been well since the birth of her own son, Evan, but she would come because Victoria needed her. Jenny had always been there for her—even when Tom wasn’t—and she’d been there three years ago when Victoria had labored for two days before giving birth to a stillborn baby girl.
Victoria had longed for a girl after producing the requisite heirs to the soon-to-be empire that her husband was crafting. Times were getting better. Tom was building a house for them—not the house, he said, in which they would eventually live, but better than a dugout. The ultimate house would be large and sprawling with a grand staircase, and Victoria had pictured her beautiful daughter coming down the steps in her wedding dress someday. But it was not to be.
Exhausted after her hours of agony, she was aware of the ominous silence in the room, and she’d called out weakly to Jenny.
“I’m so sorry, Victoria,” Jenny said, tears streaming down her worn face. “I’m so sorry.”
“Boy or girl?”
“A little girl.”
“I want to see her.”
Jenny had brought the baby swaddled in a blanket. Weak as she was, Victoria cradled the lifeless form of her daughter and tried to memorize every feature of the pinched, unfinished face before Jenny’s husband came in to say that the small coffin was ready.
When Tom came back, she’d informed him coldly that their unnamed daughter was buried beside Liam—if he was interested. And then she hadn’t let him touch her for a long time. He’d moved them into the new house and gone off again. After six months, she’d given him up for dead.
So when he returned—thinner, quieter, more introspective—she’d set out to bring him back to himself. They’d made love and conceived this child, but things remained strained between the two of them. Now he’d left her again, and she almost hated him.
In the next few hours, Silas helped her prepare the bed, and Duke rode for Jenny Miles. By the time Jenny arrived, Victoria was holding to the doorframe, unwilling to give in to the pain that was consuming her—afraid of how it would end.
This time she didn’t ask—and didn’t look. Wally Miles buried the baby girl beside her sister and brother while Victoria slept. On the second day, Mrs. Montoya came to take Jenny’s place. On the third day, when Victoria awoke, her breasts aching with the milk now filling them, Tom was there.
“Vic, I’m sorry.” He knelt beside the bed and brought her hand to his lips, but she snatched it away.
“You’re always sorry!”
“Please, Vic.”
“Leave me alone.”
“Vic, I have to tell you—I have to explain. . .”
“I don’t want to hear it!”
“You have to hear it, Vic.”
Somewhere a baby wailed hungrily, and suddenly, in a warm wet gush, her milk let down, wetting the front of her nightdress.
Victoria struggled to sit up. “My baby!” she choked.
Tom touched her shoulder. “No, Vic—not your baby—not ours.”
Tears filled her eyes as she fell back against the pillows. “Whose then?”
“A little feller that needs to eat mighty bad.”
Her throat constricted, but she didn’t look at him. “Whose—whose baby?”
The long silence spoke the answer, but she could only repeat herself. “Whose baby, Tom?”
He took a deep breath. “Mine. Mine, Vic.”
She squeezed her eyes shut more tightly. “Oh, Tom,” she moaned. The pain that washed over her was worse than giving birth—worse than knowing that her baby was dead. “Oh, Tom.”
“Sayin’ I’m sorry don’t do no good,” he said slowly. “But it ain’t his fault. It ain’t the baby’s fault.”
“Why?” The word echoed in the still room.
He sighed. “You ‘member when I went to Strawberry awhile back. . .”
“Six months. Almost six months without a word.”
“I shoulda told you about it when I came back. Started to—then things got better between us, and I didn’t wanta spoil ‘em.”
He rose and walked to the window.
“Tell me now.”
“Wanted to buy that mine I’d heard about—wanted it bad. So did some other fellers, and when I put in the winnin’ bid, they went after me. There was four of ‘em—left me for dead behind the hotel.” He paused as if considering his next words.
“Don’t make excuses for yourself!”
“I’m not makin’ excuses, Vic, just tellin’ you what happened. She—Leah found me when she got off work. Brother ran the place, an’ she worked for him. She got me back to her place some way and got the doc. He said my skull was busted and most o’ my ribs. Said I was hurt inside, too.”
“Not too hurt,” she snapped bitterly.
“Vic, it wasn’t like that. I was laid up pretty near four months. She—she wanted to send for you, but I said no.”
“Why?”
“Didn’t seem like a good idea. Guess I shoulda done it.”
“Go on.”
“Last few weeks I was getting’ stronger and—I don’t know how it happened, Vic, I swear I don’t!”
“There isn’t but one way,” she said coldly. “A man makes a decision to be unfaithful, and he does it.”
“It wasn’t that way.”
“Then how was it?”
“I—I don’t know.”
“And then you left. Did you know she was. . .”
“No. I never knew anything, not until a few weeks ago. Woman named Rachel—a friend o’ hers—wrote me what happened. Leah’s brother got drunk and beat her—knocked her down a flight of stairs at the hotel when she was about five months along—showin’ and all.”
Victoria opened her eyes unwillingly and glanced at his hunched shoulders without sympathy.
“Doc thought she’d lose the baby, but she didn’t.”
“And now she doesn’t want it!”
“She can’t—tend it.”
“Feed it, you mean? So you brought it here for me to wet-nurse? I’m supposed to keep her brat alive, and then you can take it back to her when she’s all right again?”
Tom shuddered at the venom in her words.
“Vic, she won’t never be all right. Hit her head when she fell. One side don’t work anymore—arm—leg—can’t talk—can’t think. She don’t even know she had a baby.”
There was a slight stirring of pity in Victoria’s soul. “I’m sorry for her then.”
He nodded.
“What—what happened to her brother?”
Tom shook his head. “You don’t want to know.”
“Did you kill him?”
“Wanted to. Thought about it.”
“Where is he?”
“Don’t know. Took him a day’s ride outta town, took off his boots, left him a canteen of water, and rode back.”
“Then you killed him.”
“Maybe.”
“What about her?”
“Woman’s been takin’ care of her—Rachel—she’s got a sister back East that’ll take ‘em in.”
“For how long?”
He shrugged. “Forever, I reckon.”
“And you’re going to pay for it?”
“Gonna help. I owe it to her, Vic.”
“Why? Did you force your way into her bed?”
“You know better’n that.”
“I don’t know anything!”
“She saved my life, Vic. I owe her for my life.”
“And another son!”
“Th’ baby has nothin’ to do with it.”
“Why’d you bring him back then?”
“I couldn’t leave him to starve, could I? And they—Rachel and an old colored woman named Hannah—can’t take care of Leah and him both. Leah’s no more’n a baby herself now.”
“What kind of a life will he have here? Everybody’ll know about him!”
He turned around then and crossed the room slowly. “Nobody has to know, Vic.”
She looked at him then and read his meaning in his eyes. The breath went out of her. “You want me to…you expect me to. . .”
He took her hand and brought it to his lips. “I love you, Vic. I’m sorry about our baby—sorry about both of ‘em. Sorry I wasn’t here. Sorry I did what I did in Strawberry.”
She jerked her hand away. “But like you said, being sorry doesn’t change anything!”
“No, it don’t.”
The baby wailed again. It was a thin, weak cry and tore at Victoria’s heart. She’d heard babies cry that way before when they were dying. Well, let this one die! Her babies had died, and they weren’t. . . Let him die and be done with it! Maybe she’d never forget what Tom had done, but at least it wouldn’t be staring her in the face every day for the rest of her life! Let him die and wipe away the evidence!
“Baby’s gonna die if he don’t get fed, Vic.” Tom’s voice was even. He was making a statement—not begging.
“There’s room for another grave on the hill!” she spat. “There’s room for a hundred! I’ve only filled three—now it’s your turn!”
He looked at her for a moment, then turned and started for the door. She wasn’t aware that she’d called his name until he stopped halfway between the bedroom and the unfurnished room that was meant to be the parlor.
“What?”
“Bring him to me.”
Chapter 3: Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust
Her black widows weeds spreading perilously close to the sputtering logs in the fireplace of her bedroom, Victoria reached for the crumpled paper she’d tossed angrily into the flames. Its edges were already curling and defied her efforts to grasp them. As they disintegrated into gray ash, searing pain enveloped her slender fingers.
Stepping backwards from the hearth, she quickly poured
water from the china pitcher and plunged her fingers into the basin to cool
them and cursed under her breath. She leaned down to inspect the damage. It was
worse than she’d imagined. She might have to see Dr. Merar tomorrow.
But her burned hand was nothing compared to the agony of her
soul. Why? Why did the letter have to come now—only two days after she’d buried
her husband? It was a voice from the past she thought she’d put behind her, but
now she knew it had only been lurking in the shadow of the years. Damn you,
Tom Barkley! Damn you for what you did! Damn you for dying and leaving me with
the mess you made!
She slathered ointment on her fingers and wrapped them in
a clean handkerchief—one of Tom’s, she realized suddenly. It had been the first
thing her hand had fallen on in the drawer. He was gone, but his things were
still here. He was gone, but what happened twenty-four years ago was not.
* * * * * * * *
From the moment she’d accepted the bundle into her arms, she’d known she would play out the deceptive game that Tom had suggested. The month-old infant was smaller than most newborns, and his pinched and mottled face could only be described as ugly. Later, after she’d fed him, she performed the ritual all mothers had done since time began. She unwrapped him and inspected his naked little body, counted fingers and toes, searched for the slightest defect—of which there was none.
That night, while she was feeding the baby again, they set the rules of the game. Only Silas and the Miles knew of their baby’s death. Silas would carry the knowledge to his grave, and—when Tom explained things to Wally and Jenny, so would they.
“What will you tell them?”
Tom shrugged. “What do you want me to tell them?”
“It doesn’t matter—they’ll guess the truth.”
“Then I’ll say I brought him back from my trip and that we don’t want anyone to know that he’s not the baby you birthed.”
She smoothed the tuft of downy blonde hair just above the baby’s forehead, then put her lips against his face. “I don’t want to know the rest.”
“All right.”
And for twenty-four years, she hadn’t known anything—not
until the letter came today. Jarrod had brought it from Stockton. “It’s
addressed to Father, but it doesn’t look like business. Do you want me to. . .”
She’d almost told him to take care of it, but then she’d glanced at the name in the corner: R. Caulfield, Willow Road, Providence Rhode Island.
“No,” she said, taking it in her hands. “No, I’ll see what it is.”
She’d locked the door to her bedroom before she tore open the envelope and read the letter so many times that now she could recall every word.
Dear Mr. Barkley,
My health is no better than I told you in my last letter.
With both my sister and Hannah gone, I can’t do for Leah the way she should be
taken care of. There’s a new place just opened here—a hospital and home for people
like her. I talked to the doctor who’s in charge. He can give her a place, but
it will cost more than what you’ve been sending me every month. Also, he
insists on being paid six months in advance--$500. I don’t know what to do but
ask you for the money. At least, when I’m gone, I know Leah will be taken care
of.
Rachel Caulfield
Victoria’s blood boiled again, just thinking about the
letter. Five hundred dollars wouldn’t strain the Barkley assets—and Tom would
have paid it without question—but Tom was gone. He would expect her to honor
his commitment just as he’d honored the unspoken agreement between them all
these years. Heath was their son, accepted as such by his brothers and sister
as well as by the entire Valley. Why would anyone question his parentage to
begin with? Whereas Jarrod and Nick had her dark hair and coloring, Heath
favored Tom with his blonde hair and blue eyes—and he and Audra and Gene looked
so much alike that people often commented about it.
What Tom had told Wally and Jenny, she didn’t know. Jenny had never mentioned it—never would. Wally—he was ebullient and outgoing but close as the grave when it came to confidences. No, Victoria had never worried about them. And Silas—well, Silas was part of them. Their secrets were his.
Oh, yes, Tom would expect her to see that Rachel received the money for Leah’s care. But Tom was dead—gone in a hail of bullets that he might have avoided just as he might have avoided the circumstances that brought him back to the valley with a sickly, half-starved infant who, for the first few weeks, fed ravenously at her breast almost without stopping.
I came so close—God help me! So close to refusing—and he’d
have died. He’d have died in a matter of days. I even wanted him to. I didn’t want
to look at the evidence that my husband had been unfaithful to me. And now—now
when I look at him, I never think of that—only that he’s my son.
Leah—she’s not his mother! I fed him, nursed him, held
his hand as he took his first steps, comforted his hurts, listened to his
childish confessions. I’m his mother! He’s a man now—a Barkley—with all the
privileges and rights of the name! I didn’t let him die! The debt’s paid—paid
in full.
She rose, holding her aching hand close to her chest.
There were state institutions that cost nothing for the indigent. When Rachel
Caulfield received no reply to her letter, she’d turn the woman over to one of
those places soon enough. Victoria Barkley wouldn’t sign her name regularly to
checks for the purpose of caring for a stranger—especially a stranger that
she’d secretly hated for so long.
What was it about her, Tom, that made you forget about me?
Was she special, or was she just there?
Victoria sat down again, her legs trembling so violently
that they wouldn’t hold her remembering how Heath had been ready for school
before she’d let Tom Barkley back into her bed.
A man has needs, Vic.
So does a woman. She needs to know she’s set apart—that she’s the only one.
You’re the only one, Vic.
Now. Now.
It was the only time.
It was one time too many.
As if he sensed her wavering, he took her in his arms,
and this time she hadn’t pushed him away.
Audra was born the next spring and then Gene scarcely a year later. Victoria rarely went down the hill anymore to stand beside the three tiny graves—one of them unmarked. Denied life—and denied even a name in death—her baby girl—for years she couldn’t think of her without weeping for hours. In her heart, she’d called the baby Lily for the delicate lilies that floated in the stream nearby. But she hadn’t told Tom—and he never went down the hill either.
No, let the woman live out her life the same way she’d lived it for twenty-four years—out of the sight and mind of Victoria Barkley.
“That’s a nasty burn, Victoria. Just this side of being infected. Why didn’t you come in sooner?” Dr. Howard Merar took a closer look at the blistered fingers that rested on his examining table.
“You know I’ve had things to attend to,” Victoria Barkley said sharply.
“How are you sleeping at night?”
“I’m not.”
“I can give you something. . .”
“No!” She clinched her teeth against the pain as the doctor probed the damaged flesh. “No, thank you, Howard, I’ll manage.”
He shook his head. “There’s not much I can do about this now, Victoria. You may lose the use of at least one of those fingers, but I can stave off gangrene at any rate. And give you something for the pain.”
She swayed a little, suddenly nauseous. “That I’ll take.”
He poured something in a glass and handed it to her. “Here—lie down while I finish up.” He helped her onto the table and covered her with a blanket when she began to shiver.
The medicine made her sleepy, and when she woke, he was still sitting beside her. “Feeling better?”
“A little.” Her tongue felt thick.
“Lie still a little longer. I sent someone to Jarrod’s office to tell him he could pick you up here before he went home tonight.”
She closed her eyes. “Howard, did you ever know anyone with a head injury—a really bad one that caused them to be—well, helpless?”
“Sure, I saw a lot of that during the war.”
“What happened to them?”
“Most of them died—they were the lucky ones. The others, well, they went home. You couldn’t say they were really alive though.”
“Their families had to take care of them, you mean.”
“Or find some place to put them.”
“A hospital.”
He shook his head. “Nothing so fancy. Asylums, they’re called.”
“But people are cared for there.”
“I’ve seen a few of those places, and no, I can’t honestly say people are taken care of in them.”
“Why not?”
“No money for one thing. No help either. I’d beggar myself before I’d put a member of my family in one.”
“They’re that bad?”
“Do you believe in hell, Victoria?”
“I think so—yes.”
“Well, that’s what they’re like.” He reached to check her pulse. “Why do you want to know?”
“I—I heard of someone I knew—they were injured in an accident, and. . .”
Jarrod burst through the door then. “Mother!”
“I’m all right, Jarrod.”
“You said you’d burned your hand, but. . .”
“It’s nothing.”
“It’s more than nothing,” the doctor interrupted sternly. “You can take her home, but she needs to rest, and I’ll come out and change the dressing on that hand tomorrow. And she should stay off the stairs right after she’s taken the pain medicine.”
“We’ll keep her under lock and key.”
Victoria eased into a sitting position. “Don’t talk about me like I’m not here!” she snapped. “Jarrod, if you’ll get my coat and handbag. . .”
“Of course, Mother.”
Howard followed them out to the buggy. “Keep the hand dry for now, Victoria, and don’t try to use it.”
She nodded her thanks for his ministrations as Jarrod picked up the reins.
* * * * * * * *
They’d driven half the distance to the ranch when she said, “Jarrod, I’ll need three thousand dollars transferred to my private account tomorrow.”
He cut his eyes toward her quickly. “Three. . .”
“Is that a problem?”
“No, of course not, Mother. I was just wondering why. . .”
“It’s not your place to wonder.”
“I didn’t mean to pry into your business, Mother.”
“I don’t intend that you shall.”
He fell silent for a few minutes. Then he tried again. “Mother, we’re all still in shock over Father’s. . .” His voice trailed off.
“His death,” Victoria said coldly. “Your father is dead—murdered. I’m the head of the family now—not you. Not you or Nick or Heath either. Nick and Heath will run the ranch, of course, and you’ll continue to handle the family’s legal business. But my business is just that—mine. Do I make myself clear?”
“Quite clear, Mother.”
“Then I can count on the money being in my account
tomorrow.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
* * * * * * * *
A few days later, she sat at the small secretary that Tom had bought for her when Audra was born. He’d placed it near the east window of their bedroom so that she could enjoy the morning sun as she wrote letters to her friends or in the journal that she had kept since Heath was a baby. Now, as the sun rose higher in the sky, she put down her pen and sat back to contemplate what she was about to do.
The single sheet of paper lay on the blotter awaiting her signature. Every word she’d written on it had been torn from her mind and heart. Perhaps the woman—Leah—deserved to go to hell for what she’d done. Perhaps Tom did, too, and maybe he had. Maybe she would join him someday. If what she’d been taught in church all her life—that hatred was equivalent to murder—then she was guilty and, as such, could expect no mercy.
She’d hated the woman the first time she heard her name, and she hated her now. But she wouldn’t break faith with her husband’s agreement. It was a matter of honor, pure and simple. She picked up the paper and read what she had written.
Tom Barkley is dead. Enclosed you will find a bank draft
in the amount of five hundred dollars. You may expect a similar draft every six
months. No further communication between us is required.
Before she changed her whirling mind, she picked up the
pen and signed her name hastily. Then she folded the paper and slipped it with
a bank draft inside an envelope and sealed it.
****Eighteen months later****
Victoria had thought that there would never be another
moment of horror in her life such as the day she stood over the bloody,
lifeless body of her husband. She had been wrong.
Audra’s nineteenth birthday celebration—a dance and buffet—began gaily. She was strikingly beautiful in her new silk dress bought in San Francisco, and her brothers had never looked more handsome despite their complaints about the formal eveningwear she’d insisted they wear for the occasion.
Victoria had been a little surprised when Wally and Jenny Miles were accompanied by their son Evan. Evan had always been a strange, moody sort, and Wally had sent him East to school at a young age. He had become, she observed, a handsome young man, and it was obvious that Audra thought so, too.
It wasn’t like Audra to act so impulsively—accompanying Evan Miles to the summerhouse was totally out of character. Her piercing screams had brought them all on the run. The ensuing fight between Heath and Evan had made for an ugly end to such a joyous evening. Then Wally’s parting shot had shaken her to the depths of her soul.
“Evan is my son—I’ll die defending him! But the other one—what is he besides a mistake?”
“Mother.” Jarrod Barkley stepped into the darkened parlor where his mother sat staring into the fire. “Mother, it’s over. You’re not doing yourself any good brooding like this.”
Slowly she brought her eyes from the mesmerizing flicker of the flames to rest on her son’s face. “I know.”
He pulled a chair close to her and sat down, taking her small cold hands between his larger ones. “If you hadn’t killed Evan Miles, Audra would be dead.”
“I know that, too.”
“You have to put it behind you.”
She shook her head. “I’ll learn to live with it, Jarrod, but I’ll never be able to put it behind me. I killed my best friend’s only son.”
“He wasn’t—wasn’t right, Mother. All the evidence I collected. . .”
“I always knew there was something strange about Evan, but I hoped—well, I hoped he’d outgrow whatever it was.”
“It was a sickness. You don’t outgrow that.”
“I suppose not.” She rose. “I’m going up to bed now” She offered her cheek for his kiss. “Please don’t worry about me, Jarrod.”
In her room, she lay across the bed without bothering to undress. The trouble that had started just two weeks ago on the night of Audra’s birthday party had escalated into a full-scale feud between the Barkleys and Wally Miles. Heath had taken a bullet—though it wasn’t a serious wound—and then Evan had assaulted Audra in the barn.
Victoria closed her eyes, but she could still see Evan Miles choking the life from her precious daughter. Unable to stop him on her own, she’d snatched the rifle from his saddle and shot him. His blood had licked her skirt like a rippling stream as she pushed his body aside and gathered the unconscious Audra into her arms.
Later there had been forgiveness as well as agony in Jenny’s eyes. But the worst had been Wally—the way his spirit had shriveled before them as Jarrod listed the damning evidence of Evan’s sickness. Not only had Wally lost the physical presence of his son—he’d lost his dream for him, too.
It had taken a coroner’s jury less than five minutes to rule self-defense, but Victoria couldn’t defend herself against what she had done. She had long felt herself spiritually guilty of murder because of her hatred for the woman Leah—and now she’d actually spilled a person’s blood. Surely, surely there would be no forgiveness, no peace, no joy for the rest of her life.
* * * * * * * *
In the days that followed, she knew her family was watching her. Audra was too cheerful, too ever-present. Sometimes she wanted to scream at her to be left alone. Nick or Heath or both of them came in for lunch almost daily. Jarrod was rarely late coming from town, and he hadn’t been to San Francisco for over a month. Gene made far too many visits home from college, and his studies were suffering.
Sometimes she went back to the night of the party and tried to remember everything that had happened, but it was a blur. Audra had been frightened, and her brothers had leapt to her defense. Heath—why had it been Heath’s fists that ended things? Why not Jarrod or Nick or Gene? And why did it bother her that it was Heath?
Like a spider patiently spinning and respinning its web, Victoria made herself relive every moment of the altercation. And, eventually, it came to her—what Wally had said. What is he besides a mistake? The breath went out of her, and she sank to the floor on the stair landing. Who else had heard? Who else was remembering—and questioning?
But the rest eluded her. All she could remember now was Wally’s angry face as he spewed the unthinkable. He knew. Tom had told him the truth. Well, that was like Tom Barkley—he didn’t make or accept excuses, especially for himself.
* * * * * * * *
After awhile, she persuaded herself that only she had heard
what Wally said. He had probably forgotten it himself. In fact, he had hired a
manager for the ranch and was taking Jenny back East. There’s nothing for us
here now, Victoria. Evan’s gone. I always meant for him to take over the ranch after
me but. . .but it wouldn’t have happened even if he’d lived. It just wouldn’t
have happened.
His words hadn’t made her feel any better—but she couldn’t
deny that she would be glad to have him out of the Valley.
* * * * * * * *
Jarrod brought the letter on the very day that Wally and Jenny Miles left Stockton on the train. In fact, he’d seen them off himself.
Tell your mother to put all this behind her, Jenny
said as she paused before boarding. If it had to be one of them—Audra or
Evan—it was best that it wasn’t Audra.
Her words left him inexplicably unsettled, but it was the
letter in his case that disturbed him more. What—or who—was in Providence,
Rhode Island? And what business did they have with his deceased father—and now
his mother?
He waited until after dinner to give it to her and did so privately, not missing how she paled as she took it gingerly between her fingers. “Mother, you told me not to interfere in your business, but perhaps I need to.” He seated her gently, then poured a glass of sherry and put it in her hands. “Providence is a long way from here—and I know for a fact that neither you nor Father has family there.”
She sipped the sherry in silence. Not rebuffed, he tried again.
“There’s something else I’ve been wanting to ask you.”
She lifted her head.
“What did Wally Miles mean when he said what is he but a mistake? Who was he talking about?
Victoria’s throat constricted, and the sherry dribbled from her mouth onto the front of her dress.
“Mother!” Jarrod was on his feet, offering his clean handkerchief immediately. “Mother, what is it?”
She wasn’t sure she had strength enough in her limbs to move, but she found herself on her feet. When Jarrod tried to take her arm, she shook him off. “He didn’t mean anything! Leave it alone, Jarrod! For god’s sake, leave it alone!” And then she fled, clutching the letter in her scarred fingers.
* * * * * * * *
Dear Mrs. Barkley:
This is to inform you of the death of Mrs. Rachel Caulfield
who held the legal guardianship for Leah Thompson, declared incompetent by the
county court on June 12, 1850. When she placed her ward with us, she gave your
name as the person to contact regarding Miss Thompson’s affairs in the event of
her—Mrs.Caulfield’s—death.
The cost of providing fulltime care for Miss Thompson is
$1000 per year. This amount covers a private room, meals, laundry, and medical
care. Her account is current as of this date with the next payment being due on
August 1 of this year.
However, there is another matter that I must bring to
your attention. One year ago, a surgeon removed a malignant tumor, and another
was discovered last month. Our best medical opinion is that Miss Thompson has
only a short time left to live—perhaps six months. While in our care, she has
regained some of her cognitive skills. She recognizes the people whom she sees
daily, and she walks with assistance. Her speech, though halting, is sometimes
coherent.
Mrs. Caulfield came to see her regularly, often bringing
small gifts and giving her a great deal
of personal attention. Miss Thompson is aware of her guardian’s death and is
grieving in a way that our staff—which has come to love her—finds
heartbreaking.
We are a small private institution and pride ourselves on
giving our patients the best care—both physical and emotional. At a recent
staff meeting, it was suggested that there might be family somewhere who would
be willing to care for Miss Thompson in her last days—a place where she could
feel loved. I felt compelled to bring that suggestion to your attention.
Should you wish more information, please contact me. Your
communication will be given prompt attention.
Yours very truly,
Dr. Jeremiah King, MD, Ph.D
Medical Director, Jordan Carroll Memorial Hospital
Victoria crumpled the paper in her hand, feeling the pull
of the scar tissue that restricted the full use of three fingers. At the same
time, she felt her life unraveling. She had accepted the deceit, lived with it
for twenty-four years, honored her husband’s commitment to the woman Leah, and
endeavored to emerge from her own grief to be a bulwark for her children after
their father’s death.
Now every defense she’d built, every fortification against despair, each watchtower against a silent enemy that threatened to tear her family apart—everything was crumbling, and she was helpless to stop it.
Still grasping the paper tightly, she sank to her knees and
pressed her forehead to the carpet. None of this is my fault! I was faithful
to you, Tom Barkley! I helped you build your empire and gave you sons to
preserve it—and I raised Heath as my own—loved him as my own! Now your lie is
threatening all of us—God help me, it became my lie, too. Nothing will ever
wash it away. It will be with us forever like your blood still stains the table
where they laid out your body for me to wash! You’re dead and buried and safe
from their wrath—and it’s me your children will despise!
* * * * * * * *
Standing outside his mother’s closed door, Jarrod could hear the hoarse sobs that seemed torn painfully from the depths of her soul. This time, he was sure, she wasn’t crying for his father. She wasn’t weeping for Tom Barkley.
Pleading a severe headache, Victoria kept to her room the next day. Each of her children in turn came to ask if there was anything she needed, but she couldn’t tell them. She couldn’t say that she needed to wipe away twenty-five years of hatred and deceit. And even if she could wipe them away, she would still know that she was capable of both—and perhaps that was the worst injury to her spirit.
On the second day, however, she rose and dressed and presented herself at the breakfast table promptly at seven. “Feeling better, Mother?” Nick asked, deliberately monitoring the volume of his voice.
“Yes, thank you, Nick,” she lied. She didn’t meet Jarrod’s eyes—couldn’t meet them.
“Mother, why don’t we go to San Francisco for a few days?” Audra suggested, filling her mother’s cup from the silver pot that Silas placed on the table.
“I think not, Audra darling. Not right away.”
Audra pouted a little. “I think it would do us both good to get away.”
“You may be right, but I can’t leave now.” She glanced up. “Don’t sulk, Audra. It’s not attractive.”
Audra bit her lip. “I’m sorry, Mother.”
“Well, I think you should both go,” Nick declared, stabbing his fork into a large slice of ham on the platter in front of him. “I’d get away from here myself if I could.”
No one bothered to ask why. The business with the Miles and Evan’s death had cast a pall over the entire family. Privately, the younger members of the family had counted on the inquest to end their unrest, but it had only worsened.
“We can’t run away from what’s happened,” Victoria said quietly.
Audra burst into tears. “It’s my fault! All my fault! If I hadn’t gone outside with Evan. . .”
“It’s not your fault!” Nick boomed.
“Nicholas, your voice,” his mother murmured.
“Well, it’s not! Evan was crazy! Everybody in the valley knew he wasn’t right from the time he was just a kid!”
Jarrod laid his knife across the top of his plate. “That’s enough, Nick. Evan deserves our pity—he was sick.”
“He was insane!”
Victoria closed her eyes against the memory of her bloody skirt and the bruises encircling her daughter’s slender throat. “He might have gotten better with treatment somewhere, but he never had the chance. I murdered him.”
“He’d have killed Audra if you hadn’t pulled that trigger!” Nick insisted loudly.
“Nick, I said that’s enough!” Jarrod rarely raised his voice, but when he did, the family listened.
Heath rose and moved to stand behind Victoria, circling her protectively with his arms. “Mother, you’ve got to stop this. We all do. Maybe Audra shouldn’t have gone outside with him. Maybe I shouldn’t have hit him. But if it had been anyone else, it would’ve been finished that night. Evan was the one who wouldn’t let it end.”
Jarrod threw his younger brother a grateful look. Heath had been the voice of reason since he could talk, the peacemaker in any group, the comforter when their father was killed. They were all different, but Heath was different in a way that he couldn’t put his finger on.
He was quieter, calmer, more physically affectionate than just a brief embrace or a light kiss. Sometimes Jarrod thought it was because Heath was lost in the middle of his siblings—not old enough for anyone to look up to but not young enough to be petted. He, more than the rest of them, had found it necessary to carve out his own unique niche in the family.
“Heath is absolutely right!” Jarrod said now. “It was a terrible thing for all of us—a tragedy for Wally and Jenny—but it’s done. Blaming ourselves—or each other—won’t change what happened.”
Victoria’s fingers clutched the arms that surrounded her, the comfort they provided besmirched by the guilt in her soul. She’d always been honest with her children—with all of them except Heath. In many ways, he’d been the closest to her heart. Not that she loved him more than the others—no, she loved all her children equally. But her love for Jarrod, Nick, Audra, and Gene had been there from the moment they were placed in her arms. For Heath, it had been necessary to deliberately cultivate that mother’s love—and she had succeeded.
After awhile, breakfast proceeded in silence, and everyone went his own way. She was coming downstairs later to speak with Silas about dinner when Jarrod stepped out of the study. “Mother, do you feel up to talking?”
“I thought you’d gone.”
“I wanted a chance to speak with you alone.”
“Jarrod, I told you—there’s nothing to discuss.”
“I think there is. I’ve thought for a long time that there was something weighing on you besides Father’s death—and this business with the Miles.”
“It’s my business.”
“Mother, who is Leah Thompson?”
All strength and feeling drained from her body, and she would have fallen to the floor if Jarrod hadn’t caught her and carried her into the study. He laid her gently on the settee and covered her with an afghan.
“How—how do you know about her?” she asked unwillingly.
“I found a letter in Father’s desk—a letter to a Rachel Caulfield in Providence, Rhode Island. I recognized the name on the letter I brought you soon after Father died. And the letter that came two days ago was from Providence.”
“You read the letter?”
“Yes, and there were some receipts for bank drafts. He’d been sending money to her for years.”
“But you—you asked about—Leah.” Even the name was distasteful.
“The receipts were in an envelope marked with the name Leah Thompson.”
“Burn them.”
“Why?”
“Burn them.” She sat up and put her feet on the floor. “I don’t wish to have this discussion with you again.”
“Mother. . .”
“I’m sure you have business in Stockton, Jarrod. I’ll see you tonight at dinner.”
She went upstairs cursing herself for not having gone through Tom’s desk after his death. But then, she hadn’t considered that he might have any evidence of his indiscretion. Life was uncertain—he knew that better than anyone. So she hadn’t thought that he might leave anything behind to raise questions. Apparently, she’d been wrong.
Sitting down at the small secretary, she extracted Dr. King’s letter from a hidden compartment at the back of a drawer and read it for perhaps the dozenth time. Leah Thompson was being cared for beyond the hopes of most people in her situation. She was also dying. Six months. Six months, and it would all be over forever.
One more bank draft on the first of August—it would be the last, and her obligation would be fulfilled. She would make the amount larger this time and designate the extra for a proper burial—a marker even. And then it would be over. No one would ever know. Heath would never know. She and Silas and Wally and Jenny would die and take the secret with them. The Barkley name would continue on unscathed.
Dear Dr. King,
I did not know Rachel Caulfield, nor do I know Leah
Thompson. They were, I believe, acquaintances of my husband’s family from a
time before we were married and for whom he felt responsible. Therefore, you can
understand that I do not feel I can offer Miss Thompson the hospitality of my
home during her last illness.
I am enclosing a bank draft for her expenses, including
an amount which I feel will provide any extra comforts you deem appropriate, as
well as accord her the dignity of a proper burial. Should more funds be required, you may, of course, contact me
with a detailed account.
She was about to sign her name when there was a knock at
her door. “Come in, Silas,” she called, expecting the mid-morning coffee and
roll he’d begun to bring her since Tom’s death.
But it was not Silas—it was Heath. “Mother, am I disturbing you?”
“Of course not, darling, but I thought you were out with Nick.”
He smiled softly—that tender, lopsided smile that, on Tom Barkley’s lips, had stolen her heart so many years ago. “I was worried about you.”
“You shouldn’t be. I’m all right.”
He came into the room and sat down without invitation. His mother had always been a stickler for convention—he knew that a young man didn’t sit in the presence of a lady without her leave—but he couldn’t wait for that.
“You did what you had to do, Mother.”
“I know that.”
“Audra could be down the hill with Father.”
She shuddered. “I know that, too.”
“We’ve got to put it behind us.”
“Yes, of course, Heath. We’ll do just that. We’ll be all right.”
He glanced away, but her image stayed in his mind. His beautiful mother who could ride and rope with the best of them, who was equally at home seated on a corral fence or in the most elegant drawing room, who wore riding clothes or a ball gown with the same grace and style. He loved her deeply, and the thought of her hurting made him ache.
His eyes lingered on the family picture they’d had taken just before Tom Barkley’s death. They were an odd mixture—he, Audra, and Gene had inherited their father’s light hair and coloring, while Jarrod and Nick had dark hair like their mother’s before it turned white. Jarrod alone had their mother’s blue eyes, and the others had dark eyes like Tom Barkley.
Except for him—his eyes were neither blue nor brown—they were greenish-gray. He’d never questioned it before now—before that night of the party—but since then—since then he couldn’t get it out of his mind. Not after what Wally Miles had said.
He swallowed twice. “Mother—Mother, I need to ask you something.”
The small stirring of fear soon became a wave of terror as she heard his next words.
“Mother, what did Wally Miles mean? Who was he talking about when he said the other one—what is he but a mistake?”
Victoria’s hand rose automatically, her stiff, scarred fingers clutching her throat. Heath opened his mouth to apologize for upsetting her, but the words wouldn’t come. He’d been right. There was more to Wally’s words than the heat of the moment.
“He—he didn’t mean anything.” Her voice was thin, wispy, unconvincing.
“Who was he talking about, Mother? Jarrod—Nick—Gene—me?”
She shook her head.
“He meant me, didn’t he?”
Her eyes filled with tears. “No—no.”
“I have to know, Mother.”
She shook her head again. This time her obvious agony smote him.
“I’m sorry.” He rose and went to the door, pausing as he opened it. “But I’ll ask you again.”
She could have borne Nick’s tumultuous anger and the inevitable slamming of the door that reverberated throughout the house. But the soft words and softer click of the latch thundered mercilessly in her ears and set her heart pounding.
How long will it be until he asks again? How many times
can I refuse to answer him? And when I can no longer refuse, what will I say?
She looked down at the letter awaiting her signature. Six
months. It would be over in six months. But did she have that much time?
* * * * * * * *
Everyone seemed in better spirits at dinner, but Victoria had little appetite. She’d come late—unheard of for her—and Heath had risen to seat her gently, his hand resting briefly on her slender shoulder. Jarrod spoke about his upcoming trip to the state capital to testify once again about the railroad’s questionable claims in the valley. Nick growled that their guns at Semple’s farm had spoken louder and done more good. Audra agreed with him, but Heath allowed that he wasn’t anxious to participate in a similar conference anytime soon.
“That’s not Tom Barkley’s son talking!” Audra retorted.
Heath glanced up. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t stand up to the railroad again—just that I didn’t want to. There’s gotta be a better way than killin’ and bein’ killed.”
“Heath’s right,” Jarrod said quickly. “Father would say the same thing.”
Audra flushed and turned her attention to the potato soufflé. The conversation took a more pleasant turn, and the meal ended peacefully.
“You be wantin’ coffee in the library, Miz Barkley?” Silas asked gently.
She nodded and rose. Jarrod rounded the table and offered her his arm, and the others followed them from the dining room. While Nick and Heath played pool, Jarrod occupied himself at his father’s desk. Victoria wondered if he’d followed her orders to burn the papers relating to Leah Thompson.
“Mother? Mother, you’re not listening.”
She startled. “What is it, Audra?”
“I asked if you’d help me alter that blue dress for Amanda. She’s always loved it, and it’s too small in the bodice for me now. But she’s shorter than I am.”
Heath leaned on his pool stick as Nick lined up a shot. “Told ya not to eat like a cowhand ‘less you’re gonna work like one.”
She stuck out her tongue at him. “Hush up, Heath Barkley!”
He winked at her. “Nobody wants my advice these days.”
She smiled, showing her deep dimples. “Just wait ‘til it’s asked for! Mother. . .”
“I’ll be happy to help you, Audra. Amanda will need to try it on though.”
“I’ll invite her for the weekend then.”
“All right.”
Nick made his shot and stepped back. “Let’s see you beat that one, little brother!”
“All you gotta do is watch.” Heath grinned, moving in for the kill.
Victoria felt as if someone were twisting her heart between strips of rawhide. Her children were all close, despite the age difference, but Heath and Nick had a special bond because they shared the responsibility for running the ranch. Nick had always been the boss because of the four year age difference and because Tom had treated him that way. But she knew that he depended heavily on Heath’s judgment and insight. Would that change if they knew the truth?
Nick sighed as Heath did indeed take the game. He hung his stick in the rack and wandered over to the credenza. “Mother, you want a sherry?”
“A small one.”
“What do you want, Jarrod? Audra?”
“What about me?” Heath asked in mock pique.
“You can get your own,” Nick growled good-naturedly. “I swear, boy, if I didn’t know better, I’d say Father won you in a poker game! You got the touch!”
Heath’s eyes locked with Victoria’s. “Well, I’ve wondered that myself a time or two.”
Victoria rose hastily. “I’m going up. Goodnight.”
“But your sherry, Mother. . .” Nick held out the glass.
“Goodnight.”
“Now what got into her?” Nick asked no one in particular. “I thought things might be lightening up a little around here.”
“I’m worried about her,” Audra said shakily. “She’s almost like she was right after Father died.”
Jarrod blotted the letter he’d just signed. “Be patient with her.”
Nick shrugged. “Sure, Jarrod.”
* * * * * * * *
Victoria stood at the window looking over the back garden. Tom had laid it out for her, and she’d tended it, taking as much satisfaction in raising her roses as in raising her children. Lately, though, she’d neglected it. Silas had chided her about it just the other day.
“Good ta be out in th’ sun and God’s good earth, Miz
Barkley,” he’d said. “Good for anythin’ ailin’ th’ soul.”
“If one has a soul,” she’d replied almost sharply.
“You got a soul, Miz Barkley,” he said quietly. “Beat up
some right now, but ‘s gonna be all right.”
“Do you remember those bugs that got in my roses when
Gene was a baby? I lost every bloom that year. And there was more—the leaves
had black spots all over them.”
“Bushes came back.”
“Some didn’t. You helped me dig them up and burn them
down near the creek.”
“Yes’m.”
“I couldn’t cure them, and I can’t cure myself.”
“One of ‘em you say was gone, I say different. I says it
gonna come back, and it did. You come back, too. I be right ‘bout that bush,
and I be right ‘bout you, too, Miz Barkley.”
She wandered back to the desk where the unsigned letter
still waited. It was a lie, of course, but Dr. King wouldn’t know that. He’d
take the money and use it—wisely, she hoped. But what he’d said about Leah’s
partial recovery disturbed her. Tom had said she hadn’t known she had a baby,
but a woman couldn’t forget something like that. Did she remember now? Did she
wonder where that baby was?
Victoria remembered how hard it had been to think of her babies out there on the hill. Sometimes, when the winter wind whistled around the house, she ached to cuddle them warmly in her arms. Sometimes it almost made her crazy to think of them alone in the cold and the rain. Sometimes she could almost hear them crying—especially Liam who, unlike the other two, had been alive and with her for awhile.
Who was Leah after all? Was it with her eyes that Heath looked at the world—at his family—at her, the woman he called Mother? What was it about her that had wooed Tom—even transiently? Certainly she hadn’t deserved what her brother had done to her—no woman deserved that.
Then she thought unwillingly of Evan Miles. Any chance—however small—that he’d had to fulfill the promise of his life was shattered by a single blast from his own rifle, and she had done it. Now she was being asked to give Leah Thompson a chance, not to live but rather to die in the comforting presence of someone who loved her. It was unthinkable—to tell Heath the truth, to bring Leah here—it was beyond the wildest possibility!
But she was thinking of it—she couldn’t help herself. And why? An act of contrition? Of redemption? Tom had already shattered the family by dying, but they’d begun to pick up the pieces. Could she in good conscience chance destroying them completely?
Chapter
8: A Shadow of Things to Come
Heath found her in the garden the next morning. “Silas
said he ran you out of the kitchen.”
She glanced up. “He’s been after me about this garden for several days now.”
“You always took a lotta pride in it.”
“It took me six months to get your father to turn the soil for it. He said a rose garden wasn’t exactly what he had in mind to cultivate when he came out here.”
Heath chuckled and hunkered down beside his mother. “Not too surprising he did it anyway.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Oh, he was always giving you what you wanted.”
“Not always.”
“No?”
“No.”
He lifted her to her feet, and they walked to the stone bench to sit down. “I figured he owed you a lot.”
She sighed. “Not really. We made the choice together to come out here, and it took both of us working to build all this.” She looked around. “I never minded the work.”
“But you never counted on him dyin’ and leaving you with all the responsibility.”
“You and Nick run the ranch, and Jarrod takes care of everything else. I’m pretty useless these days.”
“I wouldn’t say that. Reckon being our mother counts for something.”
She shrugged, not meeting his eyes.
“Father wasn’t always right about things.”
“You don’t think so?”
“Jarrod knows it, and so does Nick—even though he’s not about to admit it. Audra and Gene—well, they still think he’s perfect, but that’ll change.”
“Should it?”
“Nobody’s perfect, Ma.” He grinned. “I come pretty close, but. . .”
She pushed him affectionately. “Don’t call me Ma! You know I hate that!”
He stood up, laughing. “Yeah, well, I just thought I’d check on you. Nick sent me back for those traps—found another calf on the north ridge—bear got to him.”
“You’d better get back then. You know how Nick hates to wait on anything.”
He bent down and kissed her cheek. “Yeah. See you tonight.”
“See you tonight.”
She watched him lope off toward the barn, his stride almost identical to that of his father—long, easy, and purposeful. He was Tom Barkley’s son—more like him in many ways that his brothers. And yet, he had a softer side that wasn’t like Tom—and not really like her.
Tom had taken her for granted, and most of the time, her children took her for granted, too. All except for Heath. He was always doing things like he’d just done—checking on her, making it a point to let her know she was special. Oh, Jarrod called her Lovely Lady, and Nick referred to her as Duchess, but when Heath teased her and called her Ma—that was sweeter in her ears than all the rest.
Ambition and a passion for justice were Jarrod’s defining character traits. Nick took his satisfaction from being in charge and seeing the yearly profits increase under his management. Audra, while still slightly self-centered, was developing humanitarian leanings since beginning her volunteer work at the orphanage. And Gene—well, Gene would do well at whatever profession he finally embraced—that is, as soon as he decided what it would be.
But Heath, on the other hand, was an enigma in many ways. Even as a little boy he’d been happiest when they were all together as a family. He’d held his own against Nick and Jarrod, and he’d doted protectively on his younger siblings. He never seemed to want anything for himself except just being in the center of his family.
For awhile she’d thought he might follow Jarrod into the law, but when it was time to make the decision about going on to the University, Tom and Nick had assumed he’d choose the ranch over higher education—and he’d acquiesced. Sometimes she wondered if he’d done it willingly or out of obligation, but he’d seemed contented.
Contented. That was the word that described him best. Would knowing about Leah Thompson change that forever?
* * * * * * * *
In the empty study, Heath wrestled the family Bible from
the shelf beneath a side table and unfastened its brass lock. He’d seen his
mother writing in it after his father died. Now he turned to the middle and let
his eyes wander over her precise script.
Born January 5, 1821
He sucked in his breath. He’d known she’d been bitter, but
to see that anger in words. . . He loved his mother deeply, but he didn’t
always understand her. Sometimes he thought he was the only one of the family
who knew she had a dark side hidden away from them.
He’d always known it. Sometimes, even before Father died,
he’d see her coming back from the small cemetery down the hill with more anger
than sorrow in her eyes. Sometimes when Father made a careless remark that
seemed to belittle her, he’d read the hurt in the tight line of her lips.
Sometimes, when they’d all be together, laughing, talking, playing games, he’d
watch her walk to the window and stare out in silence, and he knew she was far
removed from them. But he didn’t know why.
Now there was suspicion stirring in him, and he didn’t
like how it made him feel. He’d always considered himself the luckiest kid
alive—he was a Barkley and all that it meant. Now he was beginning to wonder
what it really did mean.
Turning the pages carefully, he found the section marked
“Births”.
Jarrod Thomas Barkley
March 1, 1841
Liam Edward Barkley
September 18, 1842
Nicholas Jonathan Barkley
February 21, 1844
Born and Died December 10, 1847
Daughter
Born and Died December 11, 1850
Matthew Heath Barkley
November 17, 1850
His hand froze. Had his mother made a mistake? The dates
had to be wrong—and yet, he knew how old he was—twenty-five.
Wally Miles’ words rang in his ears. “The other one—what
is he but a mistake?” Is this what he’d meant?
Heath closed the Bible and put it back where it belonged,
then slipped noiselessly out of the house.
* * * * * * * *
Coming toward the kitchen, Victoria caught
sight of Heath leaving the house. She frowned. He’d gone toward the barn when
he left her. Why. . .suddenly she felt as if she’d been kicked in the stomach.
Dropping her gardening tools, she hurried through the kitchen and into the
study. Jarrod’s desk, however, looked untouched. But panic-stricken, she began
to go through the drawers until she found what she was looking for—a large
envelope marked with Leah Thompson’s name—it was empty. Had Jarrod burned the
contents—or had Heath found it them?
She looked around uncertainly. Surely
Jarrod had burned everything, and yet—yet why would he not have burned the
envelope? She closed her eyes briefly, then opened them. The Bible! Oh, dear
god, the family pages! She’d kept them meticulously—too meticulously. Had he
checked them? Had he noticed. . .
But she couldn’t tell if it had been
touched or not. Her limbs sodden with fear, she dragged herself to her room and
fell across the bed.
* * * * * * * *
In the days to come, Heath gave no sign that anything was
amiss, but she was sure he knew she was watching him. And in her desk, the
letter to Dr. Jeremiah King lay unsigned.
* * * * * * * *
She might have left things alone if it hadn’t been for Jarrod’s trip to Strawberry. He hadn’t told her that was where he was going, just that he was going to check on one or two of the mines. “No one’s been there since Father was killed, and the reports from the superintendents don’t always tell the complete story.”
He was gone for a week. Arriving back home one day shortly after lunch, he asked her to join him in the study.
“Are we alone in the house?”
She nodded, knowing without a doubt what was coming.
“Mother, I have to ask you about Strawberry.”
Victoria slumped onto the settee. “You went to Strawberry?” she managed to murmur.
Jarrod brought her a glass of sherry and sat beside her. “Father was there for a long time. I didn’t remember.”
“He—he was injured—and couldn’t come home.”
“I found someone who remembered Leah Thompson.”
“Why?” Her voice rose wildly. “Why couldn’t you leave it alone, Jarrod? I asked you to leave it alone!”
He took her hands and held them tightly between his own. “Because whatever happened in Strawberry has come back to haunt you. It’s tearing you apart,” he said quietly. “Mother, you’ve got to let me help you.”
“How did you know to go there?”
“Father had made some notes—Strawberry, Rachel Caulfield.
. .Matt Simmons.”
“Martha Simmons.”
“Matt’s wife?”
“That’s right.”
“Not Matt?”
“He’s dead.”
“I—I see.”
“Father killed him.”
“No! No, he didn’t—he just. . .”
“Father was responsible for his death.”
“How dare you judge him!” For one brief, horrifying instant, Victoria considered raking her fingernails across Jarrod’s face.
“I’m not judging him, Mother. I want to understand.”
“What did Martha Simmons tell you?”
“That Matt had a younger sister named Leah—and that Father—that she became pregnant with Father’s child. She said that her husband beat Leah senseless, expecting her to lose the baby, but she didn’t.”
“What else?”
“She said that a widow, Rachel Caulfield, cared for Leah until the baby was born and then sent for Father. Later, she took Leah back East.”
Victoria sat in stony silence.
“Mother—is it true?”
After a moment, she nodded curtly. “It’s true.”
“Then the letter from R. Caulfield that came addressed to Father just after his death concerned Leah Thompson and her baby. And the other letter—the one that came recently addressed to you—it was from Providence, too.”
“Yes.”
“So Father paid for her care all those years. Is she still alive?”
“She—yes, she’s still alive.”
Jarrod leaned closer to his mother. “And the baby? Father’s child? Where is he?”
Both of them turned sharply at the sound of a soft step from the foyer. Heath stood in the door, his hat hanging loosely in his hands.
“I think he’s here,” he said quietly. “Am I right, Mother?”
Chapter 10: Holding On. . .Letting Go
Later Victoria would recall how Heath and Jarrod seemed to exchange places almost without sound or movement. She heard the doors of the study snap shut and the sound of her own hoarse breathing—and finally, Heath’s quiet voice asking again, “Am I right, Mother?”
She couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe—couldn’t look at him.
He put one finger under her chin and lifted her face. “Mother, it’s all right.”
Her face was anguished. “No—no.”
His arms enfolded her, pulling her close to him, pillowing her head on his broad chest. “Mother.”
* * * * * * * *
The room had grown dark by the time the truth was out—most of the truth anyway. She’d had to stop so many times to regain control of her voice—to search for the words to explain the deception. And yet, he seemed to need no real explanation as he sat there holding her hands and blotting her tears. There was no reproach in his eyes nor in his voice as he comforted her and encouraged her to go on with the story.
Finally he said, “Is that all of it?”
She shook her head. “Leah Thompson—your mother—is still alive.”
“You’re my mother.” He kissed her forehead.
“She’s dying. The doctor at the hospital where she’s been for several years has written to ask if there’s any family with whom she might spend her last days.”
It was only then that his face hardened. “No.”
“I—I don’t understand.”
“Is she being well taken care of?”
“Quite well, I believe.”
“Then it’s nothing to me—to us.”
“Heath, I. . .”
“I’ve known it wasn’t just Father’s death and what happened with Evan Miles. I’ve watched this eatin’ at you for a long time. It’s time to let it go.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Don’t you see, darling? I’ve had everything—your father, you—I’ve had a life. She hasn’t.”
“That’s not your fault.”
“Surely you don’t blame your father for. . .”
“No, Mother, I don’t blame him for being human. What I blame him for is puttin’ the burden on you—makin’ you suffer for what he did.”
“You’ve got to believe that I love you.”
“I know that. But it couldn’t have been easy.”
She looked away. “No. No, it wasn’t. But then—after awhile—I just didn’t think of it anymore. You were mine—my son.”
“And that’s how I want it to stay.”
“Jarrod knows now. What about the others?”
“I don’t want them to know. I don’t want anyone to know.” He went to the credenza and poured himself a drink, downing it in one swallow. “Pappy’ll keep his mouth shut.”
“Heath, it would make no difference. . .”
“It might.”
“No—no, not to Nick and Gene and Audra—or Jarrod. They’re your family.”
He poured himself another drink. “Family’s always been what counted with me—and not just this one. Not just because we were Barkleys and had money and a fine home. It was the rest of it—bein’ together, workin’ together—lovin’ each other.”
“You’ve all been well-loved.”
“I was mad at Father for getting’ himself killed, ya know. For makin’ things change.”
“So was I. I think I still am—a little.”
“Me, too.” He turned around. “But we still had you, and I started understandin’ that you were the one who—you made us a family, not Father.”
Her eyes widened. “What—what do you mean?”
“It was always you, Mother. You were always here when he wasn’t. We always came first with you.”
“Your father loved you very much.”
“Sure, I know, but we were just part of all this.” He swept the room with his arm. “The Barkley holdings—the ranch, the mines, all of it.”
“You’re not being fair to him.”
“He wasn’t fair to you.”
“I—never felt that way.”
“Didn’t you?”
“Sometimes—maybe sometimes, I. . .”
“And then he got himself killed, but it wasn’t over, was it? He left you this—his dirty little secret.”
“Don’t, Heath!” She began to weep again.
He had her in his arms in an instant. “I’m sorry, Mother. It tears me up to see you hurtin’ like this!” He rocked her almost as if she were the child and he the parent. “You said she was dyin’—so there’s an end to it.”
“Is there ever an end to a lie unless one tells the truth?” she managed to ask.
He stared at her. “I’m Heath Barkley—that’s all the truth I need.”
Heath saw his mother to her room and turned toward the solitude of his own, but Jarrod caught him in the hall. “Heath, we need to talk.”
“Nothin’ ta talk about, Pappy.”
“I think there is. In your room or the study?”
Heath shrugged. “In the study, I guess.”
They sat facing each other across their father’s desk in silence until Jarrod realized that his position was a barrier to any open communication. He pulled the chair from behind and near Heath’s. “I’ll have my say, and then you can have yours.”
Heath shrugged again. “Go ahead.”
“You’re my brother. Nothing on this green earth could ever change that. What father did. . .”
Heath’s mouth twitched. “The sins of the fathers.”
“That’s not how I see this.”
“It’s tearin’ Mother to pieces. I can’t stand that.”
“Nor can I. What do you think we should do about it?”
“Did she tell you that the doctor in Providence wants to send Leah Thompson here to die?”
“We didn’t get that far. Suppose you enlighten me.”
Heath told the story in a few terse sentences. “She’s nothin’ to me—to any of us.”
“Apparently Father felt responsible for her—he’s been paying for her care all these years.”
“Reckon he owed her that much.”
“I’d agree with that.”
“But that don’t mean we gotta bring her here—it’d be like rubbin’ salt in the wounds.”
“From what I’ve seen of Mother’s response to all this, she’s definitely wounded—but not by what Father did.”
“What then?”
“Hating her—hating Leah. Wondering what Father saw in her.”
“She didn’t say she hated her.”
“She didn’t have to. Not that I blame her, you understand.”
“A lotta women wouldn’t have taken in someone like me.”
“Our mother isn’t like most women, Heath.”
Heath’s expression softened. “No. No, she’s not.”
“I’m not a doctor, but I think Mother’s malady is guilt pure and simple.”
“She’s not guilty of anything!”
“Only of hate—envy—unforgiveness. I have a feeling that she never forgave Father for being unfaithful to her. I remember when you were a little boy—before Audra and Gene were born—it was like they were two polite strangers sharing a house. I suppose they shared a bed—more or less.”
“Well, there’s Audra and Gene.”
“Audra’s six years younger than you are. I’m not sure that’s an accident of nature.”
“Aren’t we gettin’ a little full of ourselves—discussin’ them like this? Don’t seem fit somehow.”
“Well, maybe you’re right,” Jarrod conceded softly. “But I don’t think Mother’s going to get any better until she faces what’s really bothering her.”
“I thought that’s what she just did.”
“It was a start.”
Heath rose. “I told her I didn’t want the woman here. She’s not my mother. And I don’t want the others to know.”
“I think they should.”
“Why?”
“For one thing because Audra and Gene still talk about Father like he was a god. We know different, but. . .”
“They will, too, someday.”
“Don’t get me wrong, Heath, I loved Father—and I respected him. But I didn’t always agree with him. Neither did Nick. Neither, for that matter, did you.”
“Mother was the one who kept us together.”
“Yes, she was. I wondered if anyone thought that but me.”
“I figured it out after Father died.”
“Well, maybe she needs to know—really know—how important she is to this family. Maybe this would be a chance for her to. . .”
“Play the Lady Bountiful who took in her husband’s. . .”
“Heath!”
The younger man pressed his knuckles to his eyes. “I didn’t mean that, Jarrod. You know I didn’t.”
“I know. You’re hurting, too.”
“My family’s important to me, Jarrod—it’s the most important thing in the world! I don’t want to feel like I’m outside it lookin’ in and wishin’ I could be part of it again.”
“Look, Heath, it’s got to be your decision. But consider this—this family has a lot of unfinished business to take care of. What happened with Evan Miles just stirred everything up again. I think we’re all angry about something—maybe at Father—I don’t know. But I think we’ve got to admit it and take care of it together—as a family.”
Heath stood up. “That all?”
“Sure, that’s all.” Jarrod sighed and sat back in his chair and watched Heath walk out of the room.
* * * * * * * *
Victoria spent a sleepless night, only falling into a light sleep just before dawn. When she missed breakfast, Silas brought up coffee and toast and told her that everyone had gone. “Miss Audra, she say she goin’ ta Stockton ta see Miss Amanda and be back for dinner.”
“Thank you, Silas.”
“And Mr. Nick and Mr. Heath, they say they won’t be in for lunch, so ain’t no need for you ta come down ‘fore you wants.”
She nodded and picked up a slice of thick, buttered toast.
Silas stood unmoving.
“Is there anything else, Silas?”
He smiled. “Yes’m, there is. Mr. Tom, he brought me out here and give me a place ta live and work ta do, and I think the world ‘n all of him, you know that.”
“Yes.”
“But Miz Barkley, he gone now—and you still here. While he’s here, you do what you think he wants. And maybe he don’t wants what’s right all th’ time neither.”
“Do you mean Heath?” she asked hesitantly.
“No’m, I sure don’t mean that boy! Why, th’ family wouldn’t be th’ same without him! Maybe he started out Mr. Tom’s, but he got to be yours—now he’s all yours, him and the rest. And you gots ta do what you wants now, Miz Barkley. Time for you ta think about y’self for a change. I knows I be right ‘bout that.”
“The thing is, Silas—I don’t know if what I want is the right thing.”
“Sure, it be th’ right thing, Mrs. Barkley. You a strong woman—a good woman. You gotta do what’s in your heart.”
She eyed him speculatively. “Silas, how much do you know about. . .”
He shook his head and held up his hand as if to stop the flow of her words. “I don’t know nothin’, Miz Barkley. Nothin’ but what I sees ‘round here.”
She laughed a little then. “Silas it was a lucky day for all of us when my husband brought you to the Valley.”
He turned to the door. “You takes your time this mornin’, Miz Barkley. You just takes your time.”
* * * * * * * *
She finished her coffee and toast, then went to her desk. Taking out another sheet of monogrammed stationery, she began to write.
Dear Dr. King:
As I write this, I’m still not sure that our home is the
appropriate place for Miss Thompson to spend her final days. However, I am sure
that I have long owed her the consideration of a visit. Therefore, I am making
plans to travel from Stockton to Providence and will wire you the date of my arrival.
Sincerely,
Victoria Barkley
“I can’t live out
the rest of my life like this,” she said aloud. “I can’t.”
She told Heath first.
“Why, Mother?”
“It’s something I have to do.”
“For Father?”
“For myself.”
“Not if you don’t want it.”
He hesitated. “You’re my mother,” he said softly.
“Never question that for a single moment!”
“If she came—I don’t know how I’d—how I’d treat her.”
“Maybe it’s not necessary to bring her here. It’s a long trip, after all, and she’s very ill. But perhaps you should go with me—see her one time.”
He shook his head. “I can’t.”
“All right. I understand.”
“What about the others? What’ll you tell them about going?”
“I still have family back East—some cousins.”
“Jarrod says they—Nick, Audra, Gene—oughta know.”
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know. Reckon I’m a little scared about how they’d feel.”
“Toward you?”
“And Father.”
“I see.”
“Jarrod says the whole family’s needin’ to move on. He says knowin’ all this might help.”
“It has to be your decision.”
“Yeah, that’s what he said.”
“Heath—are we all right—you and I?”
He looked at her from beneath hooded eyes and smiled slightly. “Sure. Sure we are—Ma.”
She tried not to smile. “How many times do I have do tell you—don’t call me Ma!”
* * * * * * * *
He didn’t tell her what he’d decided, but one by one he told the story privately to his siblings—including Gene who’d come home for the weekend. Their reactions were mixed—shock, disbelief—and the inevitable anger at their father. But without exception, they assured him of his place in their hearts.
She knew he’d told them because they came to her then—one by one. Audra wept, and Gene did a little, too, begging her not to tell the others that he hadn’t been a man.
“On the contrary, Gene,” she murmured, holding her youngest tightly, “a man isn’t afraid to show what he feels.”
Nick, typically, came with raised voice and raw emotion. “How could he do it to you?” he demanded. “How?”
“What’s between a man and woman is just that—between them,” she said firmly. “The important thing is that we have your brother. We have Heath.”
* * * * * * * *
The family discussion that followed was emotional and at times heated. “Wally Miles kept the secret for twenty-five years,” Victoria explained. “Until the security of his own family was threatened—until his son was involved. Then it just came out. He couldn’t help himself.”
“Yeah, well, he shoulda kept his mouth shut!” Nick barked.
“Oh, Nick, listen to yourself!” his mother said. “How many times have you spoken in anger—the way you’re doing now?”
“I never said anything like that!”
Jarrod smiled thinly. “Well, brother Nick, you never had anything like that to say, now did you?”
“I just keep thinking that if I’d never gone outside with Evan. . .” began Audra tearfully.
Victoria put up her hands. “Stop it, all of you! You went outside, Audra, and Heath hit him, and I killed him. It’s done.”
“To save me!” Audra protested.
“Yes, to save you—not to destroy my family!”
“Mother, you didn’t do that,” Heath said gently. “We’re all right.”
She shook her head. “You won’t be all right until I am. I killed Evan, but I didn’t hate him—I wasn’t even angry with him at that moment. But I’ve been angry at your father for twenty-five years—more so since he died. And I’ve hated Leah Thompson for as long. Both of those emotions are just as damning as murder. If I’m ever going to find peace about Evan, then I have to make peace with Tom Barkley—and with her, too.”
Jarrod crossed the room and kissed her cheek. “Bravo, Mother!”
Nick, his back to the room, turned slightly. “Yeah,” he murmured tiredly, “what he said.”
“We have to forgive both of them—and ourselves,” Victoria continued. “What they did is no worse than what we’ve felt—however strange that may sound. I’m going to Providence—and what I’m taking with me inside. . .” she touched her heart briefly, “. . .I don’t want to bring back.”
* * * * * * * *
On the morning she was to leave, she came downstairs to find Heath, dressed for travel, standing in the hall beside his valise. “Well,” he said with the lop-sided grin, “reckon I can’t let a pretty lady make such a long trip by herself.”
* * * * * * * *
Her first glimpse of Heath had brought the single word,
“Tom”, to her lips.
Victoria knelt beside her. “This is Tom’s son,” she
murmured. “And yours.”
“My baby?” Leah asked haltingly.
“Yes.”
A single tear slipped from the corner of Leah’s eye. “My
baby.”
She’d stood the trip to California well, accompanied by a
nurse from the hospital willing to relocate and continue Leah’s care. To Dr.
Howard Merar, whose assistance they would need in the coming months, they said
only that she was an acquaintance to whom the family owed a debt of gratitude.
Her sunlit room became the place to which they all
gravitated each day. From the
beginning, Audra made it her personal responsibility to arrange Leah’s hair
every morning and to make sure that the delicate dressing gowns—selected by
Victoria—were always fresh and ready to wear.
Jarrod read aloud to her the poetry that he’d grown to
love in school and for whom no one else showed a particular affinity. Nick made
her laugh with childish delight by bringing the latest litter of kittens from
the barn—and once, even a newborn foal. Gene came home from school three times
and charmed her with his exuberant boyish presence.
Her gentle spirit brought an unexpected measure of peace
into their home and healing to their hearts. She asked nothing of them,
but—receiving their full measure of tender devotion—in turn gave them all that
she possessed of affection and trust.
Even as Leah’s frail body grew weaker, Victoria’s spirit
became stronger. She could look on the woman with compassion—and thank her
honestly for the gift of her son. Little by little, her anger at Tom Barkley
faded. Perhaps, she thought, this opportunity to heal was, after all, his
greatest legacy to his family.
It was in the last difficult days that Heath came into
his own. Howard Merar provided medicine to alleviate as much of Leah’s pain as
possible—but it was only Heath who could sit beside her hour after hour,
bathing her face, stroking her arm, a silent witness to her patient suffering.
And it was Heath who shared her final moments one crisp
sunny morning. They were all waiting as he stepped out of Leah’s room into the
hall. “Well,” he said quietly, “she saw me into the world, so I reckon it’s
only fittin’ that I saw her out of it.”
* * * * * * * *
They buried Leah Thompson down the hill where Tom and the babies rested. Jarrod, Nick, Heath, and Gene carried her coffin and lowered it into the new grave. The day was cold but calm, and the sun cast its warmth around the small group gathered on the hillside.
As a family, they had decided to forego the services of a
minister. Instead, each of them had chosen a particular passage of scripture to
read aloud. Victoria took her turn last.
Stepping apart slightly, she accepted the Bible that Heath placed in her
hands and, turning to the page she’d marked, began to read from the book of
Hebrews.
Let brotherly love continue.
She paused and glanced at her children as they stood
together with their arms linked. Never, she thought, had she loved them more
than at this moment. Then, smiling serenely, she continued on.
Be not forgetful to entertain strangers:
for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.
THE END