My Hands Hold My Story (Rough Draft)

Chapter Twenty-Four

The day passed at a snail's pace. I couldn't focus on my sewing, the pieces of fabric resting in my lap more often than being worked in my hands. However, when I opened a book, the words failed to hold my attention.

Had the man been found and locked up? Was the posse still searching for him?

Simon remained on the porch with me, though I know there were several times Cordelia suggested he do something else. Remy returned to his work with the horse in the corral, but every time I glanced up, he was watching me.

It was clear the attack in town had unsettled the men in my life, perhaps more than it had frightened me.

As I shifted on the porch step, trying to get comfortable on the hardwood, I felt something in pocket. Reaching down, I pulled out my letter to my friend Nora. The whole point in my going to town had been to send it, and I hadn't done it!

Maybe it was just my nerves being high strung, but it struck me as the most hilarious thing I had ever done. At the same time, though, it was a sober reminder and any urge to laugh vanished.

Slowly, the sun began to sink below the horizon. Though a part of me knew I ought to have gone inside to help prepare the evening meal, but I didn't make a move. My book rested on my lap as I stared at the road.

When Susan came out to tell us supper was ready, Father still hadn't returned from town and I had managed to work myself into a nervous state of worry. Where was Father? He hadn't run into trouble on the way home, had he? What if the robber was still out there?

Water dripping from his face and neck where he'd washed and hadn't dried completely, Remy came from the barn. He held his hand out to me, and then waited for me to put my hand in his. Once I did, he helped me up from where I had been sitting on the porch step.

I didn't miss the way Simon rolled his eyes as he holstered his gun and stood up. My brother went in ahead of us.

Remy rubbed the back of my hand with his thumb as he guided me to the front door. The meal was on the table, but there was no stream rising from any of the dishes. How long had Cordelia and Susan had the meal ready?

On the floor, Sam's little face was bright red and tears were running down his face. I could only guess that he was the reason we had been gathered to eat.

Taking Father's place at the head of the table, Simon offered a prayer before reaching for the first dish. His face gave nothing away as he passed it to Susan on his right. Everyone seemed subdued as they put food on their plates.

Cordelia, especially, kept glancing at the door as though she expected to see my father come through it at any moment. It was, to be honest, the first shred of concern I'd ever seen her have for Father. Did she have some kind of affection for him, then?

Of us all, Remy, Simon, and the children were the only ones who ate without pause. I could only manage a few bites of the cold, glue-like mashed potatoes. My stomach was twisting inside me.

Because of where I was sitting, I saw the front door open first. Father, exhaustion hanging on him like a coat, entered. It was only when Anna, who was right behind him, pushed the door closed that Cordelia twisted around.

Pushing her chair back, Cordelia rose with surprising swiftness and she rushed to Father. She grabbed his arm, and because her back was to me, I didn't know what she was saying. When I glanced at Susan, though, the girl was rolling her eyes in a way that made me guess my stepmother was being just as overdramatic.

Remy reached over and squeezed my hand, almost as though he wished to reassure me. What was being said that he felt it necessary to do so? Or was I simply over thinking the matter?