When he’d hugged her before heading out, she’d raised up on her toes and whispered in his ear. Her floral scent wafted around him, and her words sank deep into his heart. “You’re a fine man, Sam Houston Hart. I hope you find what you’re looking for out West and trust you’ll return when you’re ready. You’ll be in my prayers, son.” She’d brushed a kiss on his cheek and stepped back to stand beside Pa, ever the supportive wife and mother.
Houston gripped the arms of her favorite chair, the fabric smooth against his work-roughened hands, and gazed around the room. Nothing had been moved, although she’d passed on eleven years before. Her presence seemed to linger in her parlor.
He closed his eyes, remembering her lovely voice and how she’d sung one song after another to him when he’d waged his battle with measles as a boy. She’d had a way of making him feel like he was special. And what had he done? Headed off to California, where he’d been when she passed on.
He picked up the framed photograph sitting on the round table beside her chair, taken not long before he’d left. His parents stood side by side, unsmiling, but his mother’s eyes appeared to shine. It was all he could do to force the words out of his throat, which had grown thick. “Good-bye, Mother. I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you, but I’m back now. I’m not sure I’m ready for what lies ahead, but I’m committed to making this work. I just hope Pa comes around.”
The door handle jiggled, and his father entered. “I heard voices. What are you doing in here, son?”
“Thinking of Mother.”
“Good place to do it.” He lowered himself into the large green armchair, the only man-sized piece of furniture in the room. She’d had it made especially for Pa, all six feet four inches of him. Everyone looked up to his father, especially Houston, who at five feet, ten inches was the shortest of the Hart brothers. Another way he didn’t measure up.
Houston set the frame back on the table. “The news of her passing was such a shock. If I’d known she was ailing…”
Pa stared at the image of the woman he’d loved with a Texas-sized love. “It wouldn’t have made any difference. The Lord was merciful and took her quickly.”
“Even so, I wish I could have done something, but I was so far away.”
“You did.” He opened the small drawer in the table, pulled out a piece of paper, and unfolded it. “You sent this.”
Pa had kept his telegram? The sentimental action seemed quite unlike him. “It was the least I could do. I loved her.”
His father stared at the telegrapher’s swirled handwriting, stark black against the white page. “She knew you’d come back. I reckon she had more faith than I did. But here you are.” He folded the telegram, returned it to the drawer, and closed it with a bang, causing the strings of Mother’s pianoforte to vibrate.
Pa pinned him with a piercing gaze. “Travis told you the terms of the inheritance, didn’t he? You have to get yourself hitched by year’s end.”
“He did.”
“Good.” Pa stood. “There will be plenty of single gals at the barbeque come Friday. You’ll recognize a few, but there are new fillies in the corral. I expect to see you on the dance floor that night getting acquainted.”
The orders had begun already, had they? It appeared Pa was as iron-fisted as ever. “I’ll meet them.” But he wouldn’t dance with a lady unless he wanted to.
An image of Coralee in a sapphire-colored gown, ringlets swinging as he swept her around the floor years ago, flashed before him. She’d been light on her feet and prettier than a field of Texas bluebonnets.
Houston shoved the memory aside. Miss Coralee Culpepper was the last woman he would take in his arms Friday night—or anytime, for that matter.
Chapter Two
It’s a beautiful summer’s day, Daddy, with plenty of sunshine, so it’s sure to be hot.” Coralee stood at the open window of Beauregard Culpepper’s second-story bedroom in the family’s white clapboard ranch house and reported the sights below, as she did every morning. “There are two scissor-tailed flycatchers having a disagreement.” Surely he could hear the birds’ sharp, squeaky calls, provided sounds were able to penetrate the fog he lived in. She wasn’t sure, but she persisted in talking to him even though he’d ceased to respond with intelligible words.
In years past, when her father still recognized her and wasn’t yet bedridden, he’d spent hours sitting at this very window bird-watching. He’d taught her the names of the various species he spotted in their backyard. Some referred to the long-tailed birds currently waging a territorial battle as birds of paradise. No matter what they were called, they were best known for their long tails. She liked the splash of salmon-pink beneath their wings, a sharp contrast to their gray bodies and black wings.
If only Daddy had more color. His pallor of late troubled her. She’d have to mention it to Travis Hart when he came for his weekly visit. The kindly doctor was sure to have some idea what was behind her father’s pasty complexion and what she could do about it.