Page 65 of If the Boot Fits

October 20, 1880

The doctor has no explanation for the sickness that plagues me. I can barely rise from my bed. I have no appetite, and what little food I eat runs through me. My head pounds, and I find it difficult to concentrate. Perhaps this is the Lord’s judgment.

October 25, 1880

I am getting worse. Eli spends hours at my side. My sweet Samantha comes and reads to me from her storybook. Clint naps by my side. If it is my time, I will go peacefully and full of gratitude for these precious moments.

October 28, 1880

He came to my room today while Eli was out with the herd and Mrs. Stewart had the children. I thought sentiment had brought him, but there was no softness in his eyes when he sat at my bedside. They glowed with ambition and purpose. He bid me farewell and vowed to watch over our son after I was gone.

His visit has left me unsettled. He and Eli both will be looking out for Clint’s future, but what about Samantha? Regina will offer womanly guidance, I’m sure, but I want so much more for my daughter than my sister can provide. I must make Eli vow to send Samantha back east, to one of the schools I selected for her years ago. Only then will she reach her full potential. If Eli promises, he’ll not go back on his word. He’s too honorable. He won’t want to send her away, but I’ll make him see that it is for the best.

My darling Samantha will achieve all I ever dreamed for her and more.

Samantha turned the page, but there were no more entries. And why should there be? Her mother had died two days later. So weakened, she’d barely been able to squeeze her daughter’s hand as they said their final good-byes. Eyes burning, Samantha reached for the lamp on the side table, turned down the wick, and blew out the flame.

Darkness surrounded her, a darkness that seemed appropriate after all she had just read. She reached for one of her aunt’s knitted throws draped over the back of the settee and cuddled beneath it.

How could Mother have betrayed her husband? The man who trusted her, adored her, and loved her with his entire being? Why was producing a son so vital that she couldn’t feel whole without it? Why hadn’t a daughter been enough?

And what of Clint? He was truly the innocent one in all of this. Samantha could never tell him what she’d learned. Her father, either. It would devastate them. She’d have to carry the secret herself. The legacy of a mother who’d craved earthly success more than her own integrity.

At least she’d made her peace with God before she passed.

Thank you for your abundant mercy and forgiveness, Lord. Give me that same spirit. Help me not to grow embittered toward my mother but to remember her through the lens of grace like Aunt Regina mentioned. None of us are perfect. We all fall short of your glory. Me included. Forgive my pride, my past hardness of heart toward my father, and the anger I feel toward my mother. Create in me a clean heart, too. That I might be an instrument of your grace.

The late hour tugged Samantha toward sleep. A part of her wished she’d never opened that journal. Yet as her mind relaxed, a hazy train of thought began to wind through her brain. The man who fathered Clint might still work at the ranch. Should she try to uncover his identity?

A crash from upstairs brought her eyes open. She listened for her aunt and uncle but heard nothing. Deciding it must not be cause for alarm, she allowed sleep to lure her back into unconsciousness.

Until the acrid smell of smoke penetrated her haze of sleep and jolted her upright.

Fire!

30

Samantha jumped up from the sofa and ran for the stairs, tripping over the shoes she’d removed earlier and nearly colliding with a side table in the process. Relying on habit to guide her through the dark house, she stumbled out of the parlor and raced down the hall to the stairs. A haunting glow writhed along the walls of the second floor, like a menacing demon stalking its prey.

God, help us!

“Aunt Regina! Uncle Obadiah!” Her voice quivered from the sobs welling inside her, but she shoved the weakness aside and sprinted up the stairs. “Aunt Regina! Uncle Obadiah! Wake up!”

By the time she reached the landing, smoke burned her eyes, pouring from the west side of the house. Her room. Had she left a candle lit? Forgotten to trim the lamp? But she hadn’t been in her room since before dinner, and it had still been light.

Then she recalled the crash she’d heard. How long ago? Five minutes? Ten? Thirty? She had no idea how long she’d dozed.

Drawn toward the undulating light and crackling sounds, she inched to her left. Her door stood open. Smoke crawled along the ceiling as it escaped the room. A wave of heat hit her in the face as she rounded the open door and peered into her room. Flames engulfed her bed. Something that looked like a bottle lay in the center of the mattress. Broken glass shimmered in the windowpane. If she hadn’t fallen asleep downstairs . . .

Flames licked up the wall behind the headboard. Wallpaper shriveled and charred. The fire wasn’t out of control yet. She might be able to . . .

Smoke stung her eyes. A cough rattled her chest. She backed away from the bonfire that was her bedroom. She needed to wake her aunt and uncle first. If she tried to fight the blaze and something happened to her, they would perish, too. And all because they’d tried to protect her. She couldn’t let that happen.

Reaching inside the room just enough to grab the door, she slammed it closed, then ran down the hall and barged into her aunt and uncle’s room. “Aunt Regina!”

Why weren’t they waking up?

Smoke clouded the room and clogged her throat. Coughs wracked her as she rushed to her aunt’s side of the bed and grabbed her shoulder. “Aunt Regina, wake up!” Samantha shook her hard enough to skew her sleeping cap.