Lone Star Cinderella Read online

  Chapter Three

  The writings of Jane Turner enthralled Melody. The woman’s meticulous documentation of the comings and goings of all who had passed through the doors of the stagecoach house during the 1870s was astonishing. Melody wasn’t sure how long Jane had continued her documenting—since she was reading as fast as she could but still had several journals to go—but she was having a wonderful time getting to know Jane and her son.

  There were holes in the story, though, Melody quickly realized before heading off to bed to finally try and get some sleep. The number one question was what was Jane’s husband doing while she and her son ran the stagecoach house? She hardly ever mentioned him—Melody had calculated he would be Seth’s great-great-great-great-great-grandfather—seven generations! Oakley was his name, and she knew this was the man who had won the place in a poker game. So she was all the more curious as to why barely a mention of him made it into Jane’s writings.

  In the end, Melody had gone to sleep well after midnight with more questions than answers. She woke early to the sound of rain and with a burning desire to plunge back into the journals. The historian inside of her was engaged completely.

  Loving the sound of rain, she put on a pot of coffee and then opened the front door and lifted the windows on the front porch. There couldn’t be a better mixture to read to than the fresh scent of rain and coffee combined. It was just a lovely, lovely day. There was a sense of anticipation, and she even felt a little bit of intrigue for what she might find out today. Maybe it was just the history teacher in her…as silly as it sounded, she even felt a bit of Indiana Jones nostalgia—not that she was about to find anything nearly as exciting as in the movie. Escape in a book adventure was the best she could ever hope for. And something about these journals excited her as much or more than her Sam Bass research.

  Taking a deep breath of the damp fresh air, she strode back to the kitchen ready for business. She poured her coffee, stirred in a heavy dose of cream and a heavier dose of sugar, made herself a quick peanut butter sandwich then settled into her chair at the kitchen table. She’d moved all the journals there the night before after her legs cramped from sitting on the pine floors for several hours. She’d just started reading when the ringing of the telephone jolted her from the past and into the present.

  Ty. Her palms dampened as she stared at the phone. Was it her brother?

  Maybe she just wouldn’t answer it—it was a horrible thing to think but there it was. She might just be a rotten person, and a rotten person just wouldn’t answer the phone.

  For the last few days, she’d been inaccessible because the phone lines hadn’t been switched. She’d felt an amazing sense of relief realizing that while she had no phone service her brother couldn’t reach her. For four days now she hadn’t had to worry about him calling, hadn’t had to worry about his demands for money. Oh, she’d thought of him, but she hadn’t been overwhelmed by him. Her research had helped, too, just like she’d hoped. But now, with the ringing of the phone, she realized how much that particular detail had helped.

  Guilt crawled over her like the clinging poison oak vines that grew on the fence outside, choking her with its tenacity. She lived on a teacher’s salary with a very frugal lifestyle, in part because of her brother’s continual bouts with drug addiction. His addictions had been a financial drain on her parents, and now on her own life. Not talking to him was the coward’s way out. But then, obviously, she was a coward.

  When she’d taken the job here in this remote little town, she’d hoped distance from him would help. She’d hoped her moving would somehow change things. But she’d been wrong. She’d not been able to tell him no and had continued to pay his debts. He was her brother. Her only close living relative, and standing up to him or watching him suffer was just a hard thing to do. Especially knowing that when she tried it he blew a gasket and flew off the handle.

  But, you just stood up to Seth Turner, his scowling expression and all…Yes, she had. The phone continued to ring and she knew without a doubt that it was Ty on the other end. He would let it ring on and on. Maybe she could stand up to Ty this time…he had to stop using. He had to.

  The ringing seemed to grow louder and more insistent as she crossed the room. Taking a deep breath, she reached for the phone. Her hand shook. Thoughts of Ty always did this to her. She reminded herself that she felt like a doormat being used and abused by his life choices. Out of control.

  Ty was thirty years old and had been in and out of trouble for most of his life. Reckless, selfish and he had an unbelievable sense of entitlement. And that would be why he was calling her, because he couldn’t make his rent payments. For her, living with his addictions had become like a revolving door. Her parents had tried repeatedly to help him and had spent money they couldn’t afford in their attempt to help him.

  How could it be that he was eighteen months older than her, yet he seemed younger? How could two people raised by the same parents be so different?

  She bit her lip. How many times had she asked herself these questions? “Enough times.” She closed her eyes, stilled her soul for the sound of his voice—she loved her brother but she hated the life he lived…the life that bled into hers and held her captive.

  “Hello.”

  “Where have you been?”

  She stilled her heart against his accusatory tone. “I’ve been moving.”

  “You move out of that hick town?”

  “No,” she said. “I’m still here. Just in a different place.”

  He snorted. “I’m glad you have options. My landlord of this dump I’m in is giving me a hard time again ’cause I didn’t get your check yet.”

  He hadn’t gotten it because she hadn’t sent it. This was his only reason for ever calling her, and he didn’t even ask anymore. Just expected that she would send him the money. Her hand hurt from her death grip on the phone, and she gave herself a silent pep talk.

  Deep down she knew she couldn’t continue to support him and his addiction. But there was the promise—she pushed it out of her head. He’d chosen this irresponsible lifestyle. He was not a child and he didn’t want to change. “Ty, I’m not going to send you any money.” The words startled her, even knowing they needed to be said. “I asked you to admit yourself into the county rehab when I sent the last check. Remember, I said that if you didn’t it would be my last check—”

  “Oh, yeah, what am I supposed to do?” he shouted. “Huh? Live on the street?”

  She closed her eyes praying for answers she knew weren’t going to come. God just didn’t seem to care about this part of her life. It was upsetting. “You know I love you, Ty. But,” she lost her voice as anger and despair warred inside of her. The phone shook as her hand began to tremble. This man was her brother—the brother who’d used their parents over and over again. Just like he had to her for the last three years! Just like he would continue to do if she didn’t change something. “…but I can’t keep doing this—”

  “Odee, I lost my job, have a heart. It’ll just be until I get my feet on the ground.”

  She hated when he used the nickname. He’d given it to her when they were toddlers and it reminded her of a time when she thought her big brother could do no wrong. A time before adolescence, when choices were easy.

  Tears burned her eyes and tightened her throat. “Me sending you money isn’t going to help you. You need help, and I don’t know what else to do but say no,” the last word was a whisper, that tore out of her. “I’m s-sorry—”

  “Sorry! You call yourself a Christian—you hypocrite. If you loved me you’d help me,” he shouted and spun off into a string of profanity.

  “I don’t have to listen to this,” Melody said, realizing it was the truth. Angered and humiliated, she slammed the phone down as the tears started. She felt so helpless, and she hated it. And she felt so torn by what she was supposed to do. As a Christian, was this the right way for her to handle this?

  Her eyes burning, she headed toward
the bathroom to wash her face. When she walked out into the hall she found Seth standing in the open front doorway. The look on his face told her that he’d heard at least some of her conversation and there was absolutely no doubt that he knew the dampness on her face was tears…

  The last thing Seth expected when he’d walked onto the porch was to overhear a personal telephone conversation between Melody and someone he’d instantly disliked.

  “H-hello,” she said, trying unsuccessfully to brush away her tears.

  “Hi,” he said, uncertain how to proceed. On the one hand, he hadn’t liked the sound of the one-sided conversation or the fact that it left her in tears. On the other hand, he was reminding himself that it wasn’t his business. He pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d drop in.” It was lame but the only thing he had.

  She remained frozen in the hallway. “Have you been standing there very long?”

  He nodded, seeing humiliation in her eyes and hating that his presence might cause her to feel that. “A few minutes. Do you want me to go? This a bad time?” Stupid question.

  She looked away, brushing her cheeks again. Her shoulders lifted as she took what he figured was a fortifying breath. His gut twisted watching her. When she looked back she gave a tiny smile that didn’t reach her eyes and shook her head.

  He didn’t believe her for one minute and wanted to tell her not to put on a brave front for him. Instead he watched her brow crinkle as she made an effort not to look upset. He felt like an intruder as she finally moved toward him.

  “I guess you’ve come to ask me to leave again?”

  There was none of the spunk that he’d witnessed the day before, and he missed it. Even though he wanted her off the property, there was no way he could ask her to leave when she looked so shaken. “No. I haven’t changed my mind about you being here and what your research could do to my peace of mind—”

  “It wouldn’t cause problems.”

  “Yes,” he said, without force, not wanting to stress her out more. “It could. But, I’ve decided that I’ll read those journals again for myself.”

  She looked confused. “You want to take the journals?”

  “No. That’s not what I meant.”

  “You want to read them with me?”

  More than he wanted to admit. “Yes.” The smile that exploded across her face startled him and took his breath.

  “I think that’s a wonderful idea. Please, come in.” She stepped back to give him room to enter. “I—I could actually use the company—I mean I would love to share—I mean…I started reading the journals last night, and they’re really fascinating! But I do have some questions.”

  He was totally blown away by how swiftly the light came into her eyes, chasing away most of the shadows. Looking at her he felt bad about having an ulterior reason for wanting to read with her.

  He paused just inside the doorway, unsure if he should proceed now. The stagecoach house had a straight shot from the front door to the back door. The hall walls were lined with old black-and-white photos of people from the past. Seth had always been drawn to them. He glanced at them now as he tried to figure out whether he should go or stay.

  “These photos intrigue me,” Melody said, nodding toward one of the pictures near the kitchen door. “This one especially.” It was of a woman who’d probably never had her photo taken before and may have never had it taken again.

  “I never thought she looked very happy to be in the picture,” he said, moving to stand beside Melody, knowing he wasn’t going anywhere—at least not for a little while. He stared closely at the picture. “Growing up, when I’d look at all these shots I wondered why none of them were smiling.” He gave her a rueful glance. “I was too young to realize that to them seeing a camera was a monumental and serious thing.”

  “I know,” Melody said, her voice as soft as the delicate floral scent she was wearing. “It was such a different world.”

  She touched the glass with her fingertips, leaning in slightly, as if trying to figure out what the woman was thinking. Seth was wondering what she was thinking. More intrigued by Melody than ever, he couldn’t help but wonder who had been on the other end of that phone conversation and how much of it he’d missed. He had a feeling right now she was using him and the pictures as a diversion to take her mind off the upsetting call. He was sure that it was still on her mind. Again, he told himself it was none of his business, but that didn’t stop him from wondering.

  “Do you have any idea who this is?”

  As she asked the question, she looked up at him and caught him staring at her. Momentarily Seth lost his train of thought. “Um. No.” He forced his attention back to the pictures. “Some of the other photos have captions written on the back. Someone went through and transcribed what is written on the actual photo onto the frame backing.”

  “I saw that.” She gave him a sheepish smile. “Sorry, I peeked. I’m hoping that as I read the journals I learn more about some of them. I thought this was Jane Turner who wrote the journal I’m reading, but I’m not sure.”

  “She isn’t my grandma Turner. We don’t know who she is, but we’ve always wondered.”

  Melody studied her again. “She looks like she has a story to tell, doesn’t she?”

  Seth smiled. “I’ve always thought so.”

  Melody smiled, too, then led the way into the living room—it was a disaster. Seth stopped in the doorway and whistled at what he saw. The couch that had been positioned in the middle of the room was shoved against the wall along with the chair and coffee table. It had to be in order to make room for the mass of papers and books that covered the open floor space.

  Melody spun at his whistle. “Oh, it’s okay. I know it looks like a mess, but it really isn’t. I know exactly where everything is.”

  He chuckled, partly because she just looked so cute standing there in the middle of the chaos. “Sure you do.”

  She gave a strangled laugh and turned pink. “I do. You don’t believe me?”

  He did and would have told her except he’d lost his voice. No doubt about it, he was attracted to Melody Chandler. And he was well aware that his attraction could mean problems.

  “See,” she stepped over a stack of books and pointed at them. “These are books on treasures and legends. This stack of papers are printouts of Hill Country-specific lost treasures. This one is Sam Bass-specific and these are—”

  He was more stunned that she was talking so much than by the mess. Holding up a hand to halt her, he said, “I believe you.” The gesture made her smile again, and knowing he’d prompted that smile made him feel unbelievably good.

  “Sorry, it’s just easier to have things categorized and laid open like this for easy access.”

  “I understand. I think.” His grin widened.

  She crossed her arms and studied him. “I know your type. Your desk is probably spotless. Isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, it is.”

  A shy twinkle came into her eyes. “Then come into the kitchen and sit with your back to this room so it doesn’t bother you. See, I was already working in here.”

  He followed her to the table that was stacked with the familiar journals from the chest. He took a cane-backed chair facing the messy living room—it got him a raised eyebrow. “I’m living dangerously,” he said, enjoying the teasing going on between them.

  They stared at each other for a moment, and then Melody took the seat across from him. She was nervous…he made her nervous. Everyone made her nervous, if her usual quietness and introversion was any indication.

  “I would offer you something to drink, but I wouldn’t advise doing so here at the table. These are too valuable to chance a spill.”

  “First you call me a neat freak, and now you’re calling me clumsy.” He cocked his brow and watched her turn beet-red.

  “No! I just meant, well, I’m not drinking here either.”

  “So just because you’re messy and clumsy, y
ou think I am?”

  She chuckled, and it did his heart good to hear it. Any of the shadows that had been left from the telephone conversation had disappeared. He wasn’t sure what he was doing, but all he knew was this soft-spoken woman didn’t need to look sad…or stressed like she’d looked earlier.

  She pulled a leather-bound journal closer to her. “These are really interesting. Did you know that Doc Holliday was reported to have stopped here?”

  He nodded. “Yeah, I knew that. He was on his way from Dallas heading toward Colorado.”

  “So you really have read these?”

  “Yes, a long time ago, but that story was also one of my great-great-great-great-great-grandfather’s favorite campfire stories. He loved a good campfire story, and they’ve been passed down through the years.”

  Her eyes grew big. “How could you not think this place has historical value?”

  “I never said I didn’t think it had historical value. All I said was I own it, and I don’t want it overrun with outsiders. I have special memories of my own here, and I don’t care to share them with the world.”

  She bit her lip, studying him hard. “I just don’t get you.”

  He laughed. “Hey, you’re the history teacher. We see things differently. I think the world will do just fine without one more stagecoach house with a plaque nailed to it.”

  She was looking cutely perturbed at his statement when the phone rang. One ring was all it took for her to pale.

  Even if he hadn’t seen her earlier he’d have known something was wrong. On the second ring, she glanced across the room at the phone.

  “You want me to get that?”

  “No, um, I’ll get it.” She picked up the cordless phone and looked at the digital face. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll take this…out. In the other room.” She hurried from the kitchen and headed down the hall.