“Smells good,” he said.
“It’s making me hungry.” She grinned and sped up to catch the others.
It seemed she had regained her composure after having a little time away from him. Was that what it would be like when their marriage was annulled? Just a little time and she’d be able to go on without him? It was a depressing thought.
13
Walking along the hallway dressed in a nightgown she’d owned at the time of her mother’s death, Frances knew she was dreaming again. The gown had been stored in a chest in the attic, yet her dream-self wore it as a woman grown, and it fit her. Every night since they’d made the decision to return to Indianapolis, the nightmare had come to her. Each time, it got worse, and she could tell tonight’s would be bad.
Wake up. Wake up.
Her dreaming form continued down the hallway toward her father’s office where she heard the familiar voices of Father and William. He was shouting, insisting her father give him something. In the past, the men’s words had never been intelligible, but the repeating dream seemed clearer each night. Would Frances finally understand what they were saying?
She approached the door quietly and pressed her ear to the wood.
“I won’t give it to you,” her father was saying. “It was Ruth’s.”
Great Aunt Ruth? Frances held her breath, so she could hear better.
“You know she meant for me to have it.”
“Idon’tknow that. We both know she left everything to me.”
“What did you tell her to make her change her mind?” Uncle William’s voice had gone deeper, more ominous.
“I didn’t have to tell her anything.” Father’s tone had taken on an edge Frances had rarely heard him use. “She already knew you well enough not to trust you.”
“That’s a lie.”
The sound of loud footsteps approaching the door sent Frances scurrying away. With her heart pounding in her throat, she searched the hallway for some place to hide. She slipped into the darkness of the alcove and took cover behind the statue, praying he wouldn’t see her there. More than once, when she was younger, she’d felt the back of his hand when he hadn’t liked something she’d said or done.
The door flew open so hard it banged against the wall. Her uncle stormed past her, muttering as he went. She’d never been able to make out what he said in previous dreams. Now his words were clear.
“It’s mine, and I’ll have it. You won’t keep it from me, Albert.”
The words were said with such finality that Frances knew her uncle had made his decision to take action at that moment. But how could they prove that to a court? He had killed her father. It was William Lancaster who would pay.
The dream shifted, and Frances was at the dining room table again, holding the letter which would let her pursue her music. Pale and sweating, her father smiled at her with such love it made her heart swell, as much for the look as the papers she held. He’d included his submission letter which they’d returned with their notice of acceptance. The loving words her father had written about Frances had made her flush with pleasure. Then his face contorted with pain, bending over as he clutched his stomach.
Even knowing his death was coming and she could do nothing about it, she scrambled to catch him before he hit the floor. Sobbing, the pages dropped and forgotten, as she clutched her dying father. He’d finally looked at Frances—seenher—and now she was going to lose him again, this time forever.
* * *
When Frances’sfoot kicked Nick’s calf, he decided he had to do something. The train’s double bed was smaller than the one they shared at the Lucky L. It was harder not to sleep too close to each other, especially when she was thrashing around.
“Shh, Frances,” he said in a soft voice like he would use with a child. “It’s all right. I’m here.”
Nick brought his body up behind her, his hands taking hers and holding them to her abdomen. He whispered assurances. Her hands calmed, but her feet continued to move as though she were running. He finally had to bring one leg over her ankles. At first, she struggled against him, but his words must have finally gotten through to her, and she settled down.
She stilled, and he wondered if she’d fallen back to sleep. Her shoulders began to shake. She was crying.
“Aww, Frances.”
Nick shifted, intending to roll her toward him, but he didn’t have to. She turned, pressing her face against his shoulder. He held her while she sobbed. Eventually, she started to hiccup. He could only remember one time when his younger sister had cried so hard she’d gotten them. That’d been a bad case, but this one of Frances’s put his sister’s crying fit to shame.
What was causing these dreams? Going back to Indianapolis must be bringing them on. It was their fourth night on the train, and it was her fourth nightmare. Each night they seemed to get worse. Every morning he’d tried to ask her about them, and every morning she’d refused to tell him.
It took a while, but Frances finally relaxed. Her tears had soaked his flannel shirt. She said nothing, and he didn’t want her to move.
