She thought she’d put the past away, but this proved her wrong.
Mother patted her hand. “I’m going to pray about the matter.” She bowed her head. “Our Father in heaven, You have given us everything we need for life and godliness.Everything. Although we sometimes overlook that promise. Dear Father, Addie struggles with the pain of her losses. Only You can heal that wound. Please guide her into Your way. In the precious name of Your son, Jesus Christ. Amen.”
As always, Addie was encouraged and blessed by Mother’s prayer.
“Now, let’s join the others.” Mother stepped toward the door.
Addie gathered their belongings and followed.
A glance around the room revealed Nash’s absence. Her shoulders relaxed. It would be easier if they avoided each other for the rest of the trip.
He must have felt the same way, for he didn’t join them for the meal. And when they went to the coach, he held the horses, keeping them from racing down the trail. Addie helped Mother to climb inside. Then she followed without assistance from anyone.
The four passengers clung to worn leather straps as the coach jerked into motion. None of them spoke. Even Mr. Bertrand’s complaining was almost nonexistent.
Mile after mile, they bounced and swayed. Addie’s head fell to her chest, only for her to be jolted awake at another body-shaking rough spot on the trail.
They reached the first way station. She would have stayed in her corner, except Mother murmured that she needed to use the outhouse, and Addie climbed her weary way down to help her.
She would not look toward Nash. She wasn’t ready to. His absence at breakfast had informed her that he wasn’t either. Yet, as they returned to the coach, she couldn’t stop herself from sweeping her gaze over the horses. Only to see if they were ready to go, of course. Her attention stalled at Nash, who again held the horses.
He shifted and slowly turned in her direction. Their gazes crashed. His full of?—
Her own anger and confusion blinded her. If she had to guess, she’d say the same things burned from his eyes.
He was Morton Sturm’s son.
The fact blocked every other thought, and she tore her gaze away, returned to the coach, plunked in the corner, and closed her eyes. An action that did nothing to block her thoughts. Just as keeping her eyes closed for the next hour also failed to make it impossible to think.
Nash was Morton Sturm’s son. Son of a murderer.
The words went round and round in her head. Son of a murderer.
The coach bounced hard enough to jar her from her seat and forced her to open her eyes.
Not that eyes open or closed made any difference. The same thought raced through her head with hobnailed boots.
Son of a murderer. Son of a murderer. Son of?—
She jerked back against the leather seat. He would have been fourteen at that time. He said they’d left his father before that. At fourteen, she’d considered herself quite grown up. After all, she’d dealt with things that forced her to mature. In hindsight, she was a child and thought as a child.
Nash, too, had been forced to grow up at a young age. He’d moved, changed his name, and started work for Gib Jarvis.
Son of a murderer? Or innocent victim?
Which was it? Could it be both?
The words rattled in her head in time to the bouncing and swaying of the coach.
The horn sounded. They were approaching another way station. Again, she would have chosen to stay inside,hiding from Nash and reality. But Mother again said she needed to go out.
Addie paused on her way back to glance at Nash where he stood at the front of the horses, holding them in preparation for the continuation of the journey. Something that hadn’t seemed necessary earlier.
Again, he shifted so his eyes met hers. And darted away before she read anything in them. The set of his jaw and his pulled-down lips said everything she needed to know.
He had taken her coldness, her shock to mean judgment.
Did it? Certainly, to a degree, but the words continued to race through her head. Son of a murderer.
