Bound

By Roberta Olsen Major

Ben has secrets he's been keeping from Bess since the day they met. Stubborn and interfering, she wasn't his kind of woman back in Virginia. But here in Texas, things are different. She's sharp as lightning. He's grumbling like thunder. Together, they make one hell of a storm! With a title like BOUND, Roberta Olsen Major wants to be sure she has your attention! But don't let the cover fool you; Bess is the one in the corset, not the shackles! Texas, 1852. BESS MURPHY, an outspoken, bigger-than-life actress with a traveling theater troupe, just can't say no to anyone in trouble, even if it means heaping more of the same on her own plate. BEN ELLIOTT has the law after him, and Bess is determined to rescue him … whether he wants her to or not!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9781590880012

Book preview

What They Are Saying About Bound

A thoroughly entertaining romance with an unflagging social conscience.

Romantic Times, July 2001

**** four stars

"I just finished Roberta Olsen Major’s BOUND and am mourning the book's end: I wanted the story to go on and on. The characters are so completely well-drawn, the story engaging, the setting and history is flawless.

I'm not normally a fan of historical romance, but this is one that doesn't drone on and on with the author's proud display of research. Enough to make it real, but without the truckload of dry, historical facts that slog a story down. Bess Murphy and Ben Elliott are a hoot, and their reluctance to fall in love with each other is smooth and natural—no forced relationship scenes here. Flawed but charming, the couple engages the reader from the start.

—Anne Carter, author of

STARCROSSED HEARTS

and IN TOO DEEP

...I really, really enjoyed BOUND. It was like Louis L’Amour, only with a woman.

—a male reader from Texas

...you know how I know that I have really liked a book? When I am done, I feel a twinge of regret that my time with these characters is over. And that's how I felt when I closed [BOUND].

—an East Coast reader

It was a really good story, with so many twists and turns, and such a wonderful command of language ...

—a reader from Maryland

Historical novels are my favorites and [the author has] combined this with adventure, romance, a big social message and very interesting characters.

—a reader from Vermont

[BOUND] is a great book—and wait until you read both TIES and PIECRUST PROMISES. More of those same folks! They're every bit as well crafted and entertaining.

—an advance reader from Iowa

Bound

Roberta Olsen Major

A Wings ePress, Inc.

Historical Romance

Edited by: Lorraine Stephens

Copy Edited by: Sara V. Olds

Senior Editor: Sara V. Olds

Executive Editor: Lorraine Stephens

Cover Artist: Pam Ripling

All rights reserved

NAMES, CHARACTERS AND incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Wings ePress Books

Copyright © 2001 by Roberta Olsen Major

ISBN 1-59088-001-3

Previously Published ISBN 1-58697-110-7

Published by Wings ePress, Inc.

Wings ePress Inc.

3000 N. Rock Road

Newton, KS  67114

Dedication

This book is dedicated with special thanks to John D. and Annette S. Olsen for both moral and technical support,

and in memory of my grandmother,

Roberta Audrey Wilson.

Prologue

Williams Trace, Texas

August 1852

It drew its fair share of attention as it jolted down the middle of the dry, rutted stretch that the folks of Williams Trace referred to, with misplaced pride, as Main Street.

It wasn’t just the wagon, though it looked enough like a peddler’s wagon that it briefly stirred up the hopes of a few of the stalwart ladies of Williams Trace, who were tired to death of the slim pickings to be had at Charley Fugg’s mercantile. A second look dismissed that happy thought. No clanking pans, strings of spices, or other interesting gewgaws adorned the tall wooden panels or little frame top, and the paint on the sides was faded and peeling.

Nor was it the woman on the wagon box, though in other circumstances, truth to tell, she was used to receiving more than her fair share of attention, and of the admiring kind. Here in Williams Trace, though, she was just another mosquito-bitten, over-heated, straggled-hair woman with four younguns, passing through at the hottest time of the day, in the hottest week of the hottest summer anybody in Williams Trace could remember in more than a decade.

No, what drew folks’ eyes was the fact that she didn’t have a man alongside her.

Only the bravest of women, or the most foolish, traveled this deep into Texas without a man.

Not that these Texians were biased. They were proud of their women, the whole strong, tall, sturdy lot of them. Why, a Texian woman could build a homestead single handed while fending off a band of marauders of the red or unwashed kind, and still serve up a hot supper to her man and younguns at the end of the day. She could give birth in the morning and be back in the fields by noon. She could out-hunt, out-shoot, and out-swear any of her weak eastern sisters.

But the fact of the matter was that, as tough as a Texian woman could be, even she didn’t travel this mosquito infested stretch of river country without some kind of man alongside her or, at the very least, a well-oiled shotgun. Not if she could help it.

So maybe this woman had a shotgun.

One

HOW WILL WE FIND HIM? Edgar asked, his voice as flat as the miles and miles they’d covered to get to this humid hellhole. Will there be a directory at the church?

Honey, Bess said as she tipped her hat back a notch to try to catch a hint of breeze, It’s a small town. I don’t even know if they’ll have a church, but we’ll find your father. Don’t you worry. The good thing about a small town is that everybody knows everybody else’s business. That’s also the bad thing about a small town, she thought grimly. There was no breeze, so she settled her hat low on her forehead again.

Will Father be glad to see us? Johanna muttered. Or will we just be in the way?

Johanna Wells! Bess shot a look at the fourteen-year old beauty next to her, and sighed. Bess prided herself on her memory, but she didn’t recollect fourteen being quite this trying. Of course, maybe two decades’ perspective was influencing her recollections.

Ruthie’s bare feet were swinging and Stephen was bouncing on his bottom as the two peeped out of the wagon back to give Williams Trace a look-see.

It appeared to be a nice little town as far as Bess could tell, with a store and, yes, a church, and planked walkways, and a partially finished schoolhouse. The faces were friendly looking, both black and white, and Bess wished she’d stopped to tidy up a little before boldly parading the children right through the middle of it. She handed the reins to Johanna long enough to do up a couple of buttons at the front of her shirtwaist. No sense in spilling her assets.

Help you, ma’am? The man wore his air of authority with as much comfort as he did his gunbelt. Bess figured him to be the sheriff, or whatever passed for the law in this speck of civilization.

Why, thank you, sir. She looked suddenly not quite so like a sweaty, tired, mosquito-bitten female, but more like a statuesque gentlewoman on a pleasure drive. We’re looking for Reverend Addison Wells. Perhaps you know him?

He’s our father, Edgar offered.

Why, that rascal, the man said as he ran the back of his hand through the neatly trimmed greying whiskers on his chin. He never told us his family was coming!

Bess was surprised at the relief washing through her. Addison was here! I’m afraid he doesn’t know, she said. This will be a...surprise.

Here, the man said, appraising her as he spoke, why don’t you all drive down to Miz Farmer’s little place on the corner? She has cool drinks for sale, and a comfortable place to sit. Rooms to let, if you need them. She looked a mite warm, this ginger-haired stranger with a bosom designed to encourage impure thoughts in the most saintly of men, of which he did not number himself. Fancy the Reverend with an armful like this! It was always the quiet ones....

I’ll send my boy over to Wells’ land and he can meet up with you at Nellie’s. Wells don’t have a cabin up yet; he’ll want to put you all up here in town until his claim is habitable. If you don’t mind my saying so, and here the man’s grin turned slightly rakish, you look like a good strong woman, ma’am. I think you’ll get along here just fine.

Most of what he said buzzed through Bess’s ears like a cloud of mosquitoes, pricking just enough to leave an itch too minor to bother scratching at.

She was hot, and the children deserved something cool to drink, and maybe she could get cleaned up a little before reuniting Addison with his children. No question but that that was going to be a scene worthy of Richard King’s traveling players. But would the bill of fare be tragedy or melodrama? She was strongly betting on the latter.

You’re very kind, she murmured.

Milt Caldwell, he said, extending his hand, which Bess took and shook firmly. I’m the sheriff here in Williams Trace. Now you run along to Nellie’s and she’ll take good care of you. Tipping his hat, he turned and culled his son out from a group of children in front of the mercantile.

REV’REND WELLS! REV’REND Wells!

The sheriff’s son was ten, Edgar’s age, and Addison never saw him without feeling a tug at his heartstrings. If only he could get the cabin up and find someone to hold it for him so he could collect his dear wife and children! He was a solitary man by nature, and unused to this backbreaking labor, but he missed the sweet cacophony of his family.

Rev’rend Wells, Timmy said, interrupting his reverie, the wagon came right into Williams Trace. They drove right in and asked after you, and Pa sent me to get you.

Slow down, son, Addison said, wiping his head with a once-white handkerchief, and resettling his limp hat on his head. What wagon? Who has been inquiring after me?

Your woman, Timmy said. Your kids.

Addison’s heart gave a great thump of disbelief, and then flooded with warmth and dizziness. My wife here? With the children? Why, how did she manage such a thing? As quick as he spoke he was scrambling for Job and climbing, in undignified haste, onto the mule’s back. Where are they, boy?

Miz Farmer’s place, Timmy said, Addison’s excitement spreading to the boy as fast as river bottom fever. I’ll race ya! And the boy dug into the sides of his mule, which took off with an indignant snort.

MIZ FARMER—CALL ME Nellie, dearie. Everyone does.—was almost as short as ten-year-old Edgar, and as wide as she was tall, with a dollop of hair twisted to the back of her head like a cinnamon bun. She settled the children with lemonade—Got the lemons in from the port at Galveston, and wasn’t that a day for celebrating?—and led Bess to a back room—Where you can wash the miles away before the Reverend gets here.

Nellie set down a pitcher of fresh water and a clean drying cloth. You won’t have time for a real bath, Miz Wells, but a sponging will make you feel fresh as a spring rain. She smiled broadly and pulled the door shut behind her on her way out.

Bess poured the water in the basin and stuck her face right down in it, then came up snorting when Nellie’s words sank in. Did Nellie think—? No, surely not. She shook her head.

By the time she’d washed up, smoothed her ginger curls into a knot at the nape of her neck, and changed into a cotton frock that, though wrinkled, was clean and cool, she was beginning to feel more like herself. Most days this was a good thing, but today she wasn’t so sure.

She was taking one little peek at her wavy reflection in the glass when she heard a commotion up front. Not one to dither, she gave the plank door a shove and let herself out of Nellie’s back room.

Addison, never husky, had grown even thinner. He was as red as a California sunset and his yellow hair, once the color of butter, had lightened almost to white from too much sun.

This she noted as the children engulfed him. It brought a lump to Bess’s throat to see them all together again. When he’d caressed each of the four heads and kissed all eight cheeks more than once, he turned to her with an expression so alive with joy that Bess suddenly wanted to turn tail and run. His eyes skimmed over her, barely registering, and looked past her in search of another face.

Bess walked over to him then, and touched his arm with fingers gone cold. I’m sorry, Addison. There’s only me with the children.

Addison looked back at Bess, his eyes devoid of comprehension, then, shaking the children off him like fleas off a dog, he took a few steps toward the back room.

Bess caught his hand, tugged him around to face her. Addison, she said, Emma is not here. Emma...died in childbed. I’ve brought the children.

For just a moment longer, Addison’s eyes were still clear and filled with hope, and then, as understanding came, grief rolled across his face like a bank of thunderheads. A dry sob caught him in the throat. He choked on it as his grey eyes filled with tears, which spilled down his thin, sunburnt cheeks.

It was enough to remind the children of their own still-fresh grief. Johanna was the first to move to her father, reaching for his hand until he turned to her. Ruthie and Stephen wailed and butted against their big sister and father like orphaned calves until they were drawn into the embrace. It was Johanna who reached to pull Edgar into their huddle of mourning.

Miz—Miz Wells? Nellie’s chipper voice had faltered.

No, said Bess around a painful tightness in her throat. No, I’m Bess Murphy, the children’s aunt. Their mother—Mrs. Wells—my sister— She faltered and, knowing when she was licked, didn’t try to continue.

MUCH LATER, WHEN THE children had been bedded down in one of Nellie Farmer’s rent rooms, and Addison had had an opportunity to modulate his sorrow, he and Bess sat down together, mugs of Nellie’s warm tea pressed sympathetically into their hands.

What am I to do without her? Addison asked, his voice as dull as a Sunday sermon. How can I care for the children when I don’t even have the cabin walls put up? What was Clarice thinking in sending them to me like this?

Bess set her mug down. The tragedy had been played; time for the melodrama. Addison, Clarice didn’t send the children to you.

Then, how—?

I brought them. Emma would have wanted them with their father. And, as for your cabin walls, well, I’m sure we can all pitch in and get the work done quickly now that there are so many hands to help. The children need to get settled as quickly as possible—

You brought them? There was a flash of something in Addison’s eyes that made Bess uneasy. What exactly do you mean, you brought them?

I collected them from Clarice in Virginia and brought them. Bess’s voice was laced with the impatience that was never far from the surface whenever she tried to talk to this man. And, no offense to your sister, Addison, none too soon. She was treating Stephen like a little pet monkey, and had Johanna’s head so turned around I thought I’d never get it straight. As for Edgar, why—

Addison’s grey eyes blazed. He raked thin fingers through his untidy hair; they trembled. He inhaled, then let it out slowly, like a smoker savoring the last of a good cigar. Allow me to summarize. You took them away from the security of my sister’s home, loaded them in your rattletrap wagon, and brought them here—to this hellhole of mosquitoes, mud, and air so thick with damp it’s a wonder we can breathe it at all. Have I got that right, Elizabeth?

Bess tossed her head in a show of bravado, but it was strictly a show. I knew Emma would want—

Do not— Addison’s voice sliced through her words like a hot knife through cold butter. —speak of my Emma as if you knew her wishes better than I. She was my wife! He wrestled for a long moment, as with an angel, until the blaze in his eyes had settled down into a smolder. Thank you, he said at last, for doing what you thought best. The children will wish to thank you personally before you go.

Go? Bess’s hazel eyes widened. I don’t intend to go, Addison. I mean to stay and help.

Addison suddenly seemed to have difficulty breathing. He tried to sip his tea, found he couldn’t keep his hand from shaking, and carefully set the mug down on the planked table between them. Williams Trace is a small town, Elizabeth. There aren’t any theaters here in which you can display yourself. The ladies of Williams Trace see to their families and to their Christian duty. You would stick out like a sore thumb. This I know, for I have two of them. He looked down at his bruised fingers, preferring their mangled appearance to what he knew he’d find on the face of his sister-in-law.

Bess was suffused with a mighty heat of anger. She stood up so fast her chair tipped over, and she marched around the table like a militiaman to tower over her brother-in-law. I am an actress, Addison Wells, and a damn fine one. I assure you, I can act like the other ladies of Williams Trace well enough to stay here and see to my sister’s children.

They don’t need you. Addison didn’t look up.

Like hell they don’t! Bess was so furious she wanted to box his ears. Instead, she picked up his mug and flung it against a wall, where it broke, unspectacularly, into three big chunks.

That is not, Addison said softly as he stood, how the ladies of Williams Trace act. Good night, Elizabeth.

She watched him go, just barely resisting the urge to throw Nellie’s coffeepot at his head.

Addison Wells had a thing or two yet to learn about Elizabeth Murphy, she thought, her jaw squaring. Emma had been a willow, graceful and bending. Bess was an oak, and she would not be moved.

Two

Bess was more tired than she realized. When her head touched the feather pillow on Nellie Farmer’s spare bed, she only struggled for a moment, then succumbed to its seductive softness.

And she slept the sleep of the righteous—or perhaps more accurately—the dead.

It was a cheerful voice calling out for tea in the common room that woke her some time later.

Bess rolled over.

My mouth feels like the bottom of a birdcage, she thought. I wonder what time it is. Through slitted eyes, she caught sight of sunshine leaking through the oiled papers over the window. It’s late.

She floundered her way out of the too-comfortable bed and groped for her silk wrapper. It was in a heap on the floor, where she’d shucked off her clothes the night before. Struggling into it, she caught a glimpse of herself in the room’s small mirror. A crease along one cheek and a dent in her forehead testified to how soundly she’d slept. Her ginger curls were flattened on one side and frizzing with the wild abandon of a two-bit whore on the other.

Well, it’s nice to know I look as fresh as I feel, she muttered.

Someone tapped on the door.

Bess snugged the sash of her wrapper. Yes?

It’s Nellie, dear.

Come on in, Nellie dear.

Nellie’s pleasant face peeped around the edge of the planked door. Just beyond her, Bess could see a trio of ladies sitting at the table she and Addison had argued at the night before. All their heads were craned toward the open door, though Bess was glad to see that Nellie’s girth afforded her a modicum of privacy.

It’s coming on to noon, Nellie said. Will you want breakfast or dinner?

What Bess wanted was a mouth full of whiskey, and maybe a bottle of something stronger to wash it down with, but, mindful of the trio of interested ladies and Addison’s parting shot, she said, What I’d like more than either is to wash my hair. She tried to fluff out the flat side. It was hopeless. She reached to smooth the frizzy side, but gave that up, too.

Nellie laughed. The air here is a tad soggy, Miss Murphy, and no mistake. That hair of yours will have a mind of its own.

My hair always has a mind of its own, Bess said. I hope the children haven’t been a bother to you. I never meant to sleep this late.

Oh, Reverend Wells came and collected them at first light, Nellie said. He said we hadn’t ought to wake you as you had a long journey ahead of you and you needed your rest.

Bess’s jaw squared. He did, did he? Well, he was mistaken.

Nellie smoothed a strand of hair into the roll at the back of her head. You mean to stay, then?

Of course I do. Those children are all I have left of my sister.

Nellie nodded. That’s what I figured you’d say. Mind, it’s not my way to push my nose in, but I tried to tell the Reverend that I’d be surprised to see the backside of you any time soon.

You’re a masterful judge of character, Nellie Farmer.

Nellie’s smile was as broad as her hips. That I am, Miss Murphy, and no mistake.

Bess took the time to do a thorough wash before making the acquaintance of the trio of ladies in the next room.

They like to stop in for my cookies, Nellie confided. I’m the only one with a sweet tooth big enough to keep baking in this heat. Though there are days, she added, when it’s so blamed hot I wonder why I don’t just set the pans out on the walkway and cook them there.

Bess chuckled, determined to be charming.

The minister’s wife, Verna Louise Galway, a very proper matron with no visible signs of a sense of humor, was a tough audience. Outspoken Eunice Caldwell, the sheriff’s wife, was quite possibly tougher.

Bess had them both in the palm of her hand in a matter of minutes.

But Bonnie Applegate, wife of Williams Trace’s doctor, with her cloud of black hair and beautiful face, watched Bess with a knowing twinkle in her eye.

That one’s got secrets of her own. The thought came to Bess as she shook Bonnie Applegate’s hand in parting. She’d allowed herself to be charmed, but Bess could tell it had had nothing to do with her own performance. This one was sharp. I’m going to have to be extra careful around her.

IT WAS MID-AFTERNOON by the time Bess had thanked Nellie and headed her wagon out of Williams Trace.

The air was as thick as Emma’s plum preserves—You’ll get used to it, Nellie had said. It just takes a day or two!"

Bess paused to wipe her face with her handkerchief—And at least you won’t get stuck in the mud on your way out to the Reverend’s place, Nellie had added as she’d handed Bess a basket of cookies. That’s a blessing. We haven’t had a rain in more than two weeks, so the ground ought to be just firm enough to bear up the weight of your wagon. Good luck, dear.

It’s plenty green around here, Bess thought, determined to think about something besides the heat. Everywhere she looked she saw a carpet of green things growing. Even Addison ought to be able to bring in a crop of something with land this rich. She willed herself to relax, though it was hard going. Addison, she suspected, would not be glad to see her.

The creak of the wagon, the steady sound of Mercutio and Malvolio’s hooves, the constant whine of insects punctuated by birdcall, were lulling.

It wasn’t long before she heard the unsteady whack of an ax in unskilled hands, followed by the crash of disturbed underbrush.

Hello! Bess called as she rounded a stand of trees. Johanna? Edgar! Ruthie? Stephen? It’s Aunt Bess! The ground was muddy under the wheels of her wagon, but two weeks of no rain kept her from getting stuck in it. Not a generous land, this.

Aunt Bess! Ruthie’s welcoming shriek preceded her skinny shape by just a few moments. Father said you were going back to California!

Bess caught Ruthie’s hands and pulled her up for a hug. Your father doesn’t know everything.

The boys were next. Stephen tugged away from Edgar and flung himself into Bess’s waiting arms. Father chopped down a tree, he said. It fell on me.

Bess could already tell from holding him that he wasn’t injured, but she shot a look at Addison, who had just emerged. Addison’s face was a study in dismay. Johanna’s face, on the other hand, was alight with welcome.

Miss Farmer sent cookies. Bess kept her voice bland. She thought you all might be hungry.

The climate appeared to be no kinder to Addison, for all his time adjusting to it. He was drenched in sweat, his color unnaturally high.

I have a jug of lemonade, too. Where shall I put my team?

I’ll take care of them, Aunt Bess, Edgar offered.

He unhitched Mercutio and Malvolio from the wagon. The two mules were happy enough to graze on a patch of green next to a poorly cleared area. The start of Addison’s unsteady-looking cabin crouched nearby, like some wounded animal ready to collapse at the first sign of a predator.

Bess took the first cup of lemonade to Addison while the children set to work on Nellie’s basket of cookies.

He accepted the cup warily, but wasted no time in draining it. I didn’t realize it was so late, he said as Bess filled the cup again. We haven’t eaten since breakfast.

You need help, Bess said frankly. My help.

Addison flinched.

Don’t be so stubborn, Addison! Surely you can see you need me here until they settle?

At that, Addison relaxed a fraction. Until they settle, he agreed. Much as it pains me to say so, you are right in this one matter, Elizabeth.

THE TWO ADULTS ESTABLISHED what truce they could for the sake of the children—aided by as much distance as possible. If Bess was tapping extra nails from Charley Fugg’s mercantile into the cabin’s rickety walls, Addison was off in the thicket tagging trees to be hewn down. If Bess was scrubbing clothes and children, Addison was back off in the thicket inexpertly hacking down the previously tagged trees.

They gathered at meals, cooked badly by Bess until Johanna took over, and prayed over by Addison until it was all Bess could do to keep from upending the pot over his devoutly bowed head.

She took the two youngest children, as well as Johanna, back into Williams Trace each evening to stay with her at Nellie’s. Addison and Edgar braved the unfinished cabin, from which neither fear of mosquitoes nor imminent wall collapse could pry them.

We’d get done with it faster if we all stayed out here, Bess said on the morning of their fourth day together.

Absolutely not. Addison didn’t even look up from pouring coffee into his mug.

I don’t see what you’re so all-fired set against, Bess said. We waste a good lot of hours carrying ourselves back and forth from Nellie’s.

You’re an unmarried female, Addison said as he set the pot back over the coals, with a reputation to maintain.

The ladies of Williams Trace like me just fine, Bess snapped.

And I do not wish to be compromised into a situation we would both find unpleasant to the extreme. He took a cautious sip from his mug, and grimaced.

Bess jutted her chin out. Meaning what?

The faint twinkle in Addison’s eye caught her by surprise. Meaning that, with you staying on to help settle the children, the good citizens of Williams Trace are, for the most part, certainly expecting us to marry.

Bess couldn’t prevent the flash of horror that crossed her face.

Addison chuckled. I think it best we go on as we have been, don’t you?

Damn right, Bess said. No question.

EDGAR AND I WILL COME into Williams Trace tomorrow morning and have breakfast at Miss Farmer’s before church, Addison said later. If you don’t wish to attend—

I’ll be there, Bess said crossly.

She badly wanted to deck herself out in her emerald green sateen and feathers just to spite him.

The next morning, after washing up, she pulled out her too-warm, dark blue skirt and jacket. Nellie had kindly pressed a white shirtwaist to crispness for her the night before. She buttoned it to the throat, feeling like she was about to strangle, then smoothed her frizzing hair into a knot at the nape of her neck.

May I use some of your paint? Johanna asked as Bess reached for a pot of lip color.

Bess snatched her hand back as if the pot had sprouted teeth and snapped at her. The ladies of Williams Trace don’t use paint.

Johanna thought about this for a long minute. Are we ladies of Williams Trace now, Aunt Bess?

Bess couldn’t stifle her sigh. I’m afraid so.

She and Addison sat like bookends at church, with the children between them as buffers. Reverend Galway was a vigorous, if uninspiring, speaker, and the choir brought tears to her eyes. Unfortunately, they were tears of pain. Bess kept reminding herself that she’d endure anything for Emma’s children, but there were moments during that long meeting where it was touch and go. All in all, she was glad to escape the building when the service finally ended.

So fortunate your sister was able to bring the children out and lend you a hand in your time of need, Eunice Caldwell said to Addison outside.

Elizabeth is such a dear, Verna Louise Galway added. I’m sure she’s of enormous help to you.

Bess