Homecoming. Jill Marie Landis

then he reminded himself that rescued captives weren’t valuable stock. They may have been white at one time, but they’d been taken by the Texans’ worst enemies. They’d gone Comanch’.

      And now, thanks to his mother, he was taking one of them home.

      Hattie led the way, guiding the silent young woman along beside her. Joe hurried to catch up with them. He held the hall door open for them to pass, steeled himself to face the folks gathered outside. He didn’t notice just how close he was to the girl until the fringe on her sleeves brushed against his pant leg.

      As he expected, a hush fell over the crowd as soon as his mother and the captive girl stepped outside. He shut the door a little too hard behind them, and the young woman visibly started. Her huge eyes went wide, but she recovered quickly, shooting a cold glare in his direction.

      “Sorry,” he mumbled.

      If she understood, she gave no sign.

      She stared at her toes as they headed across the wide covered porch outside the hall and stepped out into the sunlight. The day was heating up. As Joe shoved his hat on his head, he was tempted to run his finger around the neck of his shirt, to pull the fabric away from his overly warm skin.

      As before, no one in the crowd made any attempt to speak to them, but when they reached the buckboard, he noticed a tall, cultured-looking man approaching from the direction of the church. There was a calm, assured confidence about the stranger as his long, even stride ate up the distance between them.

      Joe motioned to the girl that she should step onto the wheel and into the wagon. She did so gracefully and without hesitation. He wondered at her easy acquiescence, then figured that she relished being unbound and removed from the hideous scene and stench inside the hall and didn’t want to risk being returned because of rebellion.

      The fringed hem of her doeskin dress hiked up to reveal her calves and ankles as she climbed aboard the wagon. When Joe caught himself staring at her bare legs, he quickly looked away.

      His mother waited patiently beside him, ready to climb onto the seat next to the girl. But as Joe took Hattie’s hand, the newcomer walked up and introduced himself.

      “I’m Reverend Brand McCormick, the new minister here in Glory. Captain Dye told me that you’ve offered to take one of the rescued captives into your home.” He glanced up at the girl seated in the wagon. Unmoving, she stared straight ahead, her fingers knotted together in her lap. If her injured wrists hurt at all, she gave no sign.

      Joe reckoned the fact that the minister was new to Glory explained why he was so cordial. Jesse obviously hadn’t told the man everything about Hattie Ellenberg.

      When the preacher offered his hand in greeting, Joe stared at it before finally accepting.

      “I’m Joe Ellenberg. And this is my mother, Hattie.”

      Hattie turned to face the new preacher squarely. Reverend McCormick didn’t react. He merely nodded and smiled.

      “Mrs. Ellenberg. It’s good to finally meet you. I hope you’ll join us for Sunday services soon.”

      Hattie didn’t immediately respond, and Joe realized she was shocked speechless by the minister’s invitation.

      “The last minister made it clear my mother wasn’t welcome among the good folks of Glory anymore,” Joe informed him coolly.

      Hattie lightly touched Joe’s arm. “Not today, Joe,” she whispered. “Let it go.”

      Reverend McCormick’s smile dimmed but quickly returned. He slowly nodded in understanding.

      “I’m not the old minister, Mrs. Ellenberg. Everyone is welcome to attend services. We hope you’ll join us.”

      As the man talked softly to Hattie, assuring her that the doors of his church were always open to her, Joe glanced up at the girl on the high-sprung buckboard seat. She remained stiff as a poker, her back ramrod straight as she stared off into the distance. Her profile was elegantly cut, her features delicate, her lips full.

      He couldn’t help but wonder what she was thinking. She certainly showed no elation at having been rescued. She showed no emotion whatsoever.

      There was an aloofness, an intense pride in the way she continued to ignore them all and stare out at the gently rolling plain beyond the edge of town. Something stubborn and determined and silent that convinced Joe she was not to be trusted.

       Chapter Five

       J oe no more knew what the girl was thinking when they reached the ranch than when she’d stepped into the wagon, but he’d been aware of her presence all the way home.

      How could he not? What with her sitting there all stiff and silent beside him, her shoulder occasionally bumping against his, his shirtsleeve brushing her bare arm with every sway and bounce of the buckboard.

      Having her wedged between him and Hattie, the miles along the rough, dry road seemed endless. His mind was so burdened with worry over what might happen while she was living beneath their roof that it was all he could do to keep the wagon wheels in the well-worn ruts.

      Relieved when he finally guided the horses through the main gate of the Rocking e, he pulled up near the front of the house, set the brake and tied the reins.

      Though the girl never reacted, his mother had prattled on and on throughout the entire trip home. She’d commented on the budding spring wildflowers, the roads that cut across the open plain toward other ranches and homesteads, the need for rain. She chatted without encouragement or response.

      His mother’s enthusiasm was unsettling. Joe couldn’t remember the last time he’s seen her so pleased. For her sake, he hoped she hadn’t just brought another round of endless heartache home.

      He nudged the girl to draw her attention. She jumped when his elbow connected with her arm and turned wide, startled eyes his way.

      Their gazes locked. Wariness and suspicion crackled between them, nearly as visible as lightning.

      “Help her down, Joe.” Hattie seemed anxious to get the girl inside.

      He climbed down and offered his hand. When the girl ignored him and climbed down unaided, he felt a tug of relief deep in his gut. Without knowing why, he was thankful for not having to touch her.

      Hattie came around the wagon, gently took the girl by the arm. The hound, asleep on the porch, must have sensed movement, for he roused himself and got up to greet them. He was a few yards away when he got a whiff of the newcomer, whimpered and ran around to the back of the house.

      The mutt had been worthless before the raid—which was how he got his name—but since then, he’d been deaf as a post and blind in one eye.

      Hattie looked to Joe. “What’s got into him, I wonder?”

      “Caught the scent of Comanche.” He purposely avoided looking at the girl.

      “After you unhitch the wagon, would you set some water on to boil for me, Joe? I want to get her cleaned up first thing.”

      Her words brought him up short. Practical and efficient, his mother would naturally want to jump right in and scrub the girl down. That meant extra work for her. Not to mention extra work for him that he didn’t need.

      “What if she doesn’t want to bathe?” He looked the girl over from head to toe, taking in her matted hair, her bloody clothes.

      Hattie gave him a look he knew all too well. She wasn’t going to budge or argue. She lowered her voice but lifted her chin. Her eyes were shadowed with remembrance.

      “She’ll be willing to shed these bloody things. She won’t want to be reminded of what happened to her yesterday. And she will bathe.”

      Joe noted the girl’s rigid stance and squared shoulders. Her posture would do a queen proud. Perhaps his mother was wrong. Maybe the girl wore her bloodstained clothes