Her attention flickered to Charlie and back. “And … is there a Mr. McAdams?”
Kizzie stifled a sigh and offered a smile much brighter than the lump gathering in her throat suggested. “Well, there is, but he's my daddy.”
Her eyes flickered wide for only a second, and if Kizzie hadn't been paying such close attention, she may not have noticed. “So forgive me, but am I right in understanding that you have never had a husband?”
Kizzie drew in a deep breath. How she'd hoped it would take longer than a day for her reputation to come to light in a new place. “Yes ma'am, you are, but God's seen fit to put me on the straight and narrow despite my wrong choices, so I aim to move forward in a way to please Him, if I can.”
The rush of shame flooded from Kizzie's boots all the way to her hairline, as if she stood right back in front of her mama and daddy, hoping love would overcome prejudice. But at that moment, she knew the truth.
“I see.” The woman's gaze held Kizzie's almost as if her eyes delved into Kizzie's soul, trying to dig up something broken. Well, she'd find a whole lot, but hopefully, she'd see a woman trying to do right too.
God would accept her in her brokenness. He already had.
And a few other people who knew forgiveness might accept her too.
But finding a good and decent man with a good and decent family to take her just as she was? Well, that was as likely as finding white wildflowers in a snowstorm.
She closed off the dream and tucked it far back into her heart, where impossible dreams were kept.
Yes, impossible.
Chapter 12
ACRASH SHOOKKIZZIE FROMstaring out the window into the night as she nursed Charlie. At the sudden interruption, his drowsy suckling took on new vigor for only another minute before he drifted back into contented slumber despite the sudden shouts coming from downstairs.
Kizzie buffered Charlie in the middle of the bed, surrounded by the lush blankets, her attention dropping to the little pocket watch she'd laid on the bedstead.
Two o'clock.
The shouts erupted louder followed by another crash, but Charlie slept on, so Kizzie grabbed her robe and started for the door. On the threshold, her attention landed on one of her travel bags.
The herbs Nella gave her.
Kizzie took a ginger root wrapped in a thick cloth and ran from the room. Following the sounds, she rounded one of the hallways only to hear a string of expletives coming from the nearest room.
“He—he ain't never talked like that, Mr. Lewis,” came a young voice. Case, perhaps? “I promise you.”
“Marty, it's me. Noah,” Mr. Lewis’ familiar voice followed, calm and warm and much gentler than when he'd been trying to talk over a storm. “We're home.”
Kizzie peered around the doorframe to find a group of three men around the bed where Marty lay, red-faced, with one hand gripping Mr. Lewis’ arm and the other grasping the air. A string of unintelligible words erupted from him before he screamed, “The horses. I can't find ’em.” He jerked Noah forward. “Who hit me? I've been hit. The horses ran over my legs.”
A flash of memory pierced through her of her uncle coming to after his wagon overturned. He'd been unconscious for days, not hours, but the confusion and fight looked the same. What had Mama done? Said?
Kizzie stepped into the room, her movement catching the attention of all three men, but she held Marty's gaze. “You're safe, Marty. Right now, you are safe.”
The man's dark eyes widened as he stared. “Am I dead?”
Kizzie's body shook a little as she attempted to calm him. Could Marty prove as unpredictable as her daddy on a drunk? Could he be as violent? The white-knuckled grip he had on Mr. Lewis’ arm suggested a strength beneath his lean frame. She drew in a breath, but three men were nearby to help, and God had placed her here. In this moment.
She had Marty's attention, so she drew closer. Whatever she was doing seemed to be working at least to calm him a little. Maybe the fact he had no idea who she was helped. Mama used to say the “startled factor” could work magic sometimes. She'd used it quite a bit on Daddy's hard head, not to mention while raising nine young'uns.
“No, you ain't dead.” She kept her voice soft, her words slow. “You hit your head somethin’ fierce out in the snowstorm, and Mr. Lewis brung you here till you are fit again.”
“I ain't … I ain't dead,” he echoed, releasing his grip on Mr. Lewis’ arm and relaxing back into the pillows.
“No, sir. You just bumped your head when you fell from the carriage.”
He flinched, his fists tightening on the blanket at his waist. “The ghost carriage.”
