Thanks for all the reviews – really appreciate it. As for those who like the idea of Emma Jane and Michaela meeting up…watch this space!
1865 – Eight Years Later
"You're glowing," Emma Jane said, sitting down in Abigail's living room, "I don't think I've ever seen you looking so radiant."
"I'm the size of a homestead!" Abigail retorted good-naturedly, "I don't think 'radiant' is a word I would use."
"I would," Sully said, appearing in the living room beside them, "I think she looks beautiful, don't you?" He looked questioningly at Emma Jane.
"Definitely," she replied smiling, "Impending motherhood suits you."
"She's never been more beautiful," Sully continued, clearly besotted with the coming birth of his child.
"Sully," Abigail looked at his warningly.
"Oh," he glanced at Emma Jane, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean…"
"It's fine," she waved her hand dismissively, "don't worry about it." He disappeared back outside and Abigail turned sympathetic eyes on her.
"I'm sorry. I keep forgetting how sad it must be for you."
"It's fine, honestly," Emma Jane reassured her, "besides, I'm looking forward to being your baby's favourite aunt." Despite her jolly humour however, she was feeling sensitive regarding Abigail's pregnancy. Not that she begrudged her friend the chance at motherhood at all, having waited all these years, but in the eight years since losing her own baby, Emma Jane had been seemingly unable to conceive. It hadn't been from lack of trying either, she ruefully told herself, thinking of the many mornings, afternoons and evenings she and Hank had spent in bed together. It was seemingly all to no avail however. Every month her monthly came, and every month she sighed heavily and moved on. At twenty-four, she was fast approaching the age of being too old. Abigail, at twenty-six was considered practically ancient to be having a first baby.
"Well, this baby's going to need everybody it can get," Abigail said sorrowfully, stroking her stomach gently, "Seeing as Ma and Pa…" she broke off.
"Still no sign of them mellowing?"
Abigail shook her head, "Eight years!" she declared, "It's been eight years! You would think surely, by now…" she sighed heavily, "they won't even look at me."
Emma Jane grimaced sympathetically. It certainly hadn't been easy for either Abigail or her husband over the preceding years. After their return from Denver, married and ecstatic, they had tried valiantly to win Loren and Maud over, but to no avail. Secretly, Emma Jane thought that Maud was having doubts regarding the wall of silence, and that she would really want to make peace with her daughter, but Loren was steadfast in his refusal to do so. He saw Abigail's actions as a betrayal. Even when Maud had gifted them the land upon which their homestead now stood, Loren had refused to bend.
"Well, we're in the same boat," Emma Jane said, "if I ever become pregnant again, my parents won't want to be involved. They won't even know about it." In all this time, she had never had any further contact with her parents, her brother Thomas being the only one to keep in touch with the occasional letter.
"Look at the pair of us," Abigail laughed, "We're a sorry pair."
"You're right about that," Emma Jane replied. "Cast out by our families, called ungrateful…"
"Selfish…"
"Pig-headed," they both fell about laughing, "Oh dear," Emma Jane wiped away a stray tear of laughter, "Do you know something? Despite all this, I still love being here. I wouldn't change the past eight years for anything."
"Nor me," Abigail admitted, "I certainly wouldn't change the man I married."
"No," Emma Jane echoed, "neither would I."
As she rode home, quite proficiently now, she thought back over everything that had transpired. She and Abigail had become closer than ever, Loren had become more distant, Hank had become more loving, Charlotte had had another baby, a beautiful blond tyke called Brian, who was now six. So many things had changed over the years.
When she pulled Willow up outside the saloon, she found Hank and Jake lazing on the porch watching the world go by.
"Haven't you got better things to do?" she inquired.
"Just keeping an eye on the town," Jake assured her.
"I bet," she replied good-naturedly, tying Willow up, "Might help if someone kept an eye on the bar though."
"Jessica's fine," Hank told her, blowing smoke in her face, "How's Abigail?"
"Very pregnant," Emma Jane laughed, "I swear I won't be surprised if there's more than one baby lurking in there." She stepped into the saloon, greeting the regulars as she went past and then moved behind the bar to allow Jessica to go and try and make some real money. As she started clearing up some of the glasses, Hank came and leant across the bar in front of her.
"You a'right?"
"Of course," she replied brightly, perhaps a little too brightly, "Why shouldn't I be?"
"Just figured you might be a bit upset, what with Abigail pregnant an' all."
"I'm not upset, I'm very happy for her." Emma Jane replied, not lifting her head.
Hank ducked his so that he could catch her eye, "Know you better than that."
She looked up at him, "All right, I suppose I'm a little envious, that's all. But I'm happy for them, for both of them. They've waited a long time for this too."
"But yer still waitin'."
"Thanks for reminding me."
"All I'm sayin' is, don't be gettin' too upset about it. If it's gonna happen, it'll happen."
"Will it?" she looked him square in the face, "Maybe you only get one shot, Hank. Maybe I blew mine all those years ago."
"Then hows comes Charlotte's got three?" he asked, breaking a hole in her logic.
Emma Jane shrugged, "I don't know."
Hank was prevented from saying anything more, although there was plenty he wanted to say, by Horace appearing in the saloon, holding a telegram.
"Hello Horace," Emma Jane greeted him, glad to be able to take her mind off of babies, "What can I do for you?"
"Got a telegram for you," Horace replied, holding it out to her, "I'm really sorry, Emma Jane."
"What for?" She took the telegram from him and read it quickly, "Oh no."
"What is it?" Hank asked, trying to read it upside down.
"It's my sister, Lydia," Emma Jane replied, "She's…dead."
"What?" Hank grabbed the telegram from her, skimmed it quickly and looked back up at her. "Emma Jane. Lydia has died. Request you return home immediately. Thomas." He repeated it.
Emma Jane stood, as if frozen in time. Lydia was dead. Her mean, spiteful, cruel sister was dead. Yet she took no joy from the news. Over the years, Thomas had written and told her of how Lydia and Arthur had two daughters. They would only be four and five and now they had lost their mother.
"What you gonna do?" Hank asked.
"I…I don't know," she replied truthfully, "he asks that I go back to New York but…he doesn't say if that's what my parents want, or…" she trailed off, "I don't know what to do." She looked at Hank, hoping that he could give her an answer, but he only had the answer that was selfish for himself.
SSSSSSSSSSSS
"I think you should go," Abigail told her when Emma Jane relayed what had happened.
"Why?"
"Because this could be your chance to make peace," her friend advised her wisely, "You might never get the opportunity again. Your parents must be so devastated about Lydia."
"Yes, well, she was the perfect child after all," Emma Jane replied sardonically.
"Whatever you think of them, they're still grieving," Abigail said, "I know if Ma and Pa offered me an olive branch…"
"But they haven't offered me anything!" Emma Jane interrupted, "It's Thomas that's asked me to come home, not them."
"Maybe they're too proud."
"Maybe they don't care."
"Maybe not," Abigail acquiesced, "but if you go, at least you can always say you tried."
Emma Jane reckoned that Abigail was right. Were she to refused Thomas's request, it would seem as though she were the sullen one, not willing to bend, even in the wake of such terrible tragedy. When she told her husband this, however, Hank was far from agreeable.
"What you wanna go back there for?" he demanded that evening, "Spent most of the first few months you was here tryin' to avoid goin' back!"
"I know," she tried to placate him, "but it's been eight years and my sister has died. I owe it to my family to pay my respects."
"Don't owe them nothin'," Hank grumbled, turning away from her.
"I'm never going to be able to make things up with Lydia," she told him, "but I can at least try with my parents."
"They said you were dead to them, or don't you remember?"
"Of course I remember. How could I forget?"
"Then why go back?" he turned back to face her, "They don't care about you, Emma Jane, they don't love you." He pulled her into his arms, "I do."
"I know you do," she replied resting her head underneath his chin, "but this is something that I have to do. Please, please try and understand."
He sighed heavily and pulled back to look at her, "Don't want you to go. But guess I couldn't stop you anyhow." He kissed her, "You just make sure you hurry back."
"I promise."
The following morning, dressed in a beautiful blue dress that Thomas had sent her for her birthday the previous year, Emma Jane left the saloon with her belongings and headed for the stagecoach that would take her to Denver. Hank carried her luggage for her and passed it up to the driver, while all around, people wished her well.
"Have a safe journey," Charlotte said.
"I will," she replied, "You look after your Ma, Matthew" she said to Charlotte's eldest, who was now almost fifteen.
"Will do, Miss Emma Jane," he replied with a smile.
"Emma Jane?" she turned to see Abigail walking slowly towards her.
"What are you doing here?" Emma Jane gasped, hugging her gently, "You're supposed to be resting!"
"Couldn't let you go without saying goodbye," Abigail said, "I'm really going to miss you."
"Don't have that baby without me," Emma Jane teased, touching Abigail's stomach briefly, "I want to be here for every gruesome moment."
Abigail smiled, "Then don't be away too long." She hugged her again, then stepped back to allow Hank to hug his wife.
"Wish you weren't goin'," he mumbled into her neck.
"I'll be back before you know it," she promised him, hoping that she wouldn't start to cry, "Just don't be taking in any other posh women while I'm away."
He laughed, "Don't you be pickin' up any wayward men on that train."
"I'll do my best," she hugged him tightly, before climbing into the stage and sitting down. "I'll wire when I get there." Then the stage started to pull away from the town and Emma Jane waved until they turned the corner and she could see them no more. Her heart was heavy, more than she could ever have thought possible. Eight years earlier, when they had pulled into Colorado Springs, she had felt like weeping. Now, pulling out, she felt exactly the same.
Back in town, Hank stood watching where the stage had been, his own heart heavy. Jake came up behind him and clapped him on the back, "You're a free man now."
"Guess so," Hank replied.
"Don't worry, she'll be back."
"I hope so," he replied.
SSSSSSS
As New York drew nearer, Emma Jane's nervousness increased tenfold. With every passing mile of rolling countryside between Denver and New York, she felt a gnawing in the pit of her stomach, wondering what it would be like when she was back home, wondering what kind of reception she would get. Deep down, she also felt a sense of loss for Lydia, despite everything. They had been sisters, and had shared some kind of bond, even if it was one that was practically unrecognisable.
When the train drew into Grand Central Station, Emma Jane lifted her luggage and jumped down onto the platform, her mind instantly travelling back eight years when she had climbed aboard as a stowaway. She had wired Thomas, asking him to meet her, but as she looked around at all the people milling back and forth, she suddenly wondered if she would recognise him at all.
"Emma Jane! Emma Jane!" She turned at the sound of her name and saw a young man running towards her, "Emma Jane, I'm so sorry I'm late!"
"Thomas?" she was so taken aback at the sight of her brother, the spitting image of her father, that for a moment, she stood dumbstruck.
"Of course it's me you idiot," he replied playfully, sweeping her up into a hug, "Who else would it be?"
"Oh, it's so good to see you!" she replied, hugging him back, "It's been so long!"
"Too long," he reminded her, "and I wish we were reunited under better circumstances."
Emma Jane's smile faded, "Yes, me too. How is everyone holding up?"
"Arthur's a mess," Thomas replied grimly, "it's all he can do to function. Mrs Brentwood, Lydia's housekeeper, has been looking after the girls. As for Mother and Father…" he trailed off.
"Do they know I'm coming?"
He looked slightly ashamed, "Uh…no."
"Thomas…"
"I know, I know, I should have told them!" he beseeched her, "but somehow, I just couldn't."
"They won't want to see me," she said miserably, "I should just get back on the train right now."
"Don't be silly," he lifted her case, "I'm sure once they get over the shock, it'll all be fine. Come on, I've got a carriage waiting." He led her out of the station into the hot, New York air and helped her into the waiting carriage. As they moved through the streets, Emma Jane recognised all the old landmarks, the library, the museums, she had visited them all as a child. Even the streets looked the same. As they pulled up in front of their parents house, her sense of doom descended once again.
The house looked as it always had, like every other house in the street, except the curtains were closed, and there was a wreath on the door, indicating to anyone who passed by that there had been a death in the family.
Thomas helped her out of the carriage, paid the driver and led the way up the steps to the front door. He knocked and a few moments later, it was open by Helen, the same maid who had worked at the house for as long as Emma Jane could remember.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, "Miss Emma Jane!"
"Helen," Emma Jane greeted her warmly, "It's good to see you again."
"And you!" Helen returned joyfully, then her smile faded as if she remembered the occasion, "We're all terribly sorry about Miss Lydia."
"Thank you," Emma Jane replied, although she knew they weren't, not really. Lydia had always abused the servants when she had been younger.
"Who's there?" Mr Brown's voice echoed from the top of the stairs.
"It's me, Father," Thomas replied, "and I've brought a visitor."
"This house is in mourning," Mr Brown replied, starting to descend, "Why have you…?" he stopped short at the sight of his daughter.
"Father," she greeted him carefully. He continued to look at her, as if she were a ghost from the past, "Thomas told me about Lydia," she explained hurriedly, "I came as soon as I could. I'm so sorry Father…" she moved forwards to him, but he stepped back.
"What is the meaning of this?" he directed his question to Thomas.
"Father, Emma Jane is our sister, your daughter. I felt she should be here…"
"You had no right!"
"Don't blame Thomas, Father," Emma Jane pleaded, "It was my decision to come."
"You shouldn't have." He replied. "You're not welcome here."
Emma Jane lowered her eyes, "I wanted to pay my respects to Lydia."
"Please Father. Let her stay, at least until the funeral is over." Thomas begged.
Mr Brown sighed heavily. His emotions were too fragile to engage in open warfare. "All right, you can stay until the funeral. I don't have the energy to fight with you." He walked past Emma Jane and into his study, whereupon he closed the door.
"Thank goodness," Thomas let out a shaky breath, "I knew he would let you stay."
"I don't think I've ever seen him looking so terrible," she observed, "He was always so strong, so in command."
"Mother's worse," he told her, "there's some days she doesn't even get out of bed, like today." He gestured upstairs, "Losing Lydia has really been a terrible shock for her."
"I should go and see her," Emma Jane said, reluctant though she was to do so.
"Good luck," Thomas said, "I'll put your things in your room."
Emma Jane slowly began to make her way upstairs to her parents room, every footstep feeling as one taking her closer and closer to enemy lines. She wondered if this was how soldiers felt, walking to certain bloodshed. When she reached the door, she knocked gently and her mother's weak voice told her to enter. Pushing open the door, she realised the room was in partial darkness. Mrs Brown lay in bed, her nightgown pulled up to her chin, her face waxy pale in the dim light.
"Who is it?" she asked weakly.
"It's me, Mother," Emma Jane said, closing the door behind her.
"Lydia?" Mrs Brown asked, a note of panic in her voice.
"No, Mother. It's me, Emma Jane."
"Emma Jane? Come here, let me look at you." Mrs Brown beckoned her over to the bed. Emma Jane stood at the bedside, looking down at her mother. "Give me your hand." She did as requested, "Rough. A worker's hands." She tossed her daughter's hand away.
"I work hard, Mother," Emma Jane said, trying to keep her anger in check.
"In a whorehouse," Mrs Brown spat.
"I came to offer my condolences, Mother," Emma Jane tried to change the subject, "I'm so terribly sorry about Lydia."
"Ha! You weren't fit to clean her boots," Mrs Brown retorted viciously, "You chose your life, Emma Jane. A life of drudgery. A life with a man who uses you as his whore."
"That's not true."
"It is true!" Mrs Brown seemed to come alive, "My Lydia was a sweet, gentle girl. She had a lovely husband and such lovely children…" she started to cry, "those poor babies."
"Father says I can stay until after the funeral."
"I don't want you here."
"Well I'm sorry Mother, but I'm staying," she replied firmly, "and I don't particularly care how you feel about it."
"Insolent, impudent…"
"Speak all you like, Mother. Lydia was my sister and I am here to pay my respects. I shan't be here long and then you need never see me again." With that, Emma Jane swept out of her mother's room and ran downstairs whereupon she came upon Thomas putting on his coat. "You're not leaving me, are you?" she demanded, horrified at the very thought.
"Of course not," he laughed, "I'm going to see Lucy and Sarah. Would you like to come?"
The thought of seeing what kind of children Lydia had produced was too tempting, so, she accompanied Thomas in the carriage to what had been Lydia and Arthur's home. A large house, bearing an uncanny resemblance to the Brown residence and nothing whatsoever like the saloon.
Mrs Brentwood, the housekeeper, let them in and after being introduced to Emma Jane, whom she eyed critically, she led them upstairs to the nursery where Lucy and Sarah were playing. Lucy, the eldest, had hair the colour of burnt amber, exactly like Emma Jane herself. Sarah, on the other hand, was the spitting image of Lydia, right down to her shrewd little eyes.
"Who are you?" she asked, upon spying the stranger with her uncle Thomas.
"I'm Emma Jane," she held out her hand, "I was your Mommy's sister."
"Mommy didn't have a sister," Sarah replied suspiciously.
"Yes she did, and I'm it," Emma Jane replied, "I do like your doll house." It was certainly most impressive and no doubt incredibly expensive.
"Daddy bought it for us," Sarah said.
Emma Jane looked at Lucy, "You must be Lucy." The child nodded, but didn't say anything, "You've got the same hair colour as me."
"Mommy said people with red hair are wicked," Sarah chipped in innocently.
"Did she now?" Emma Jane gritted her teeth. Trust Lydia, "Do you think I'm wicked?"
Sarah thought about it for a moment and then shook her head, "I think you're nice."
"I'm glad about that," Emma Jane grinned at Thomas.
They played with the children for an hour or so, before Thomas suggested they go back to the house for supper.
"Will we see you again?" Sarah demanded.
"Yes, I'll be at the…" Emma Jane checked herself, "I'll be around tomorrow."
"Good," Sarah replied happily.
As she and Thomas left, Emma Jane turned to him, tears in her eyes, "Those poor little girls. Despite my feelings towards Lydia, she has lovely children."
Thomas nodded, "I was surprised too. I think Arthur had a hand in that though."
"Poor Arthur," Emma Jane said, "He's clearly taking it very badly." The whole length of their visit, he had shut himself away and hadn't come out.
"When Lydia fell ill, he fell to pieces," Thomas said. "I think he thought she was going to get better, but the influenza was too strong." He sighed, "All those wasted years."
"Yes," Emma Jane said, "All those wasted years.
SSSSSSSSSS
A few hours later, having made a quick detour to the nearest telegraph office so as to wire Hank, Emma Jane found herself at one of the most difficult family dinners in living memory. Mrs Brown had asked for her dinner on a tray, while Mr Brown had emerged from his study, but seemed reluctant to engage in conversation.
"Has Colorado Springs changed much over the years?" Thomas asked. Emma Jane glared at him, "I mean in the eight years since you've been there."
"It's expanded," she replied.
"I'd love to come and visit."
"You'd be welcome, any time."
"Must we talk about such a place?" Mr Brown said finally, "I've no wish to hear about it."
"I was only inquiring, Father," Thomas replied.
"I saw enough of that place for myself without hearing about it at my own dinner table." Emma Jane sighed. "Do I displease you?" her father asked.
"No, Father," she replied, surprised. "I apologise."
"For what? For breaking your mother's heart? She cried the whole journey back here after we left you in that place."
"That place is my home."
"It's a hovel, that's what it is. Everything you gave up. Everything you had." He looked pointedly at her, "Why was it Lydia and not you?"
"Father!" Thomas exclaimed.
Emma Jane threw her napkin down onto the table and raced out of the room, up the stairs and into her bedroom, whereupon she threw herself onto the bed and sobbed. This had been a huge mistake. She had left Colorado Springs, left Hank for what? To be abused and shouted at and discarded all over again. It had been a lovely notion of Abigail's, that everything could be resolved, but clearly it was not a reality. She ached for Hank, wished he were here to hold her and tell her that everything was going to be ok. She wished she could go to sleep and wake up back in the saloon, instead of in this opulent bedroom. She hated everything it stood for even more now than she had then. Thank goodness Lydia's funeral was to be held tomorrow and then she could finally leave.
SSSSSSSSSS
The following morning, when she awoke, Emma Jane lay in bed staring at the ceiling for a long time before getting up. Today was going to be one hell of a day. Lydia was being buried from St Matthew's Church, a most respectable place. Thomas had told her that most of the cream of New York society were coming to pay their respects, which would mean even more people whispering behind their hands about the prodigal daughter who lived in a pigsty.
Dressed in a simple black dress, Emma Jane made her way downstairs and met with Thomas for a solemn breakfast. They ate little and spoke little, neither knowing how to behave. Mr and Mrs Brown did not appear until later, the latter, clinging onto her husband's arm for support. While they addressed Thomas, they did not acknowledge their younger daughter, and she trailed them out of the house, feeling like a spare part.
The streets were crowded with people all awaiting the funeral cortege. It appeared around the corner, four black horses with plumes led by a man in a top hat. Inside, lay Lydia's coffin, flowers on top of it, followed by another carriage to take the family to St Matthews. Emma Jane wisely kept her own counsel, not wanting to start a fight. She knew what it was like to lose a baby, but not what it was like to lose a child. Their progress to the church was slow, many people pausing to remove their hats and bow their heads. Amongst the murmurs of respect, were also the murmurs from passers by about Emma Jane and her presence with the family group. She was tempted to stand up and yell, "Yes! I am here! This is me!" But dignity restrained her.
"Are you all right, Mother?" she inquired once, but the look she received in return kept her silent for the rest of the journey. At the church, she caught sight of Mrs Brentwood holding Sarah and Lucy by the hands. Arthur was nowhere to be seen.
Upon seeing her, Sarah ran over and grabbed her hand. Despite her surprise, Emma Jane held onto it tightly and accompanied her niece into the service. It was long and tedious, the minister waxing eloquently about God and the resurrection to eternal life. He spoke of how well loved Lydia was, at which point she and Thomas shared a knowing glance. And at the cemetery after, as her sister was lowered into the ground, Emma Jane threw a handful of dirt onto the coffin and made her peace.
"Emma Jane!" A high-pitched female voice reached her ears as the party started to make its way away from the graveside. Emma Jane turned to see Georgina Bowman, a woman in her mid-forties who had never married, and yet thought herself the expert on all things, "Emma Jane Brown, well I never. No-one ever expected to see you in these parts again."
"I suppose not," she humoured her, "However, it's Emma Jane Lawson now, Miss Bowman."
"Oh of course, of course," Georgina waved her hand, "You're a married woman, so I hear tell. Quite a wanton one at that."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Well, we all know the story my dear. You running off and marrying some completely unsuitable man who own a brothel!" she put her hand to her chest, "Society almost had a heart attack."
Mindful of the fact she was still holding Sarah's hand, Emma Jane tried to maintain her composure, "I apologise for having upset society so," she said, "but I've never been happier. New York never was the place for me."
"Yes, but, one must always remember from where one came," Georgina continued, "One must remember one's birthright, and one's manners."
"One has no birthright. Not any more at least."
"Don't say such things!" Georgina chided her, "Your poor Mother has already lost one child!"
"My poor mother cast me out years ago!" Emma Jane informed her, "I only came here to pay my respects to Lydia."
"My dear, there's no need to be so aggressive."
"I'm not being aggressive!" Emma Jane took a deep breath, "If you'll excuse me." With that, she practically dragged Sarah down to where Thomas was standing, "I want to go home, now."
"We're heading there now anyway," he assured her, "Sorry about old Georgina. She…"
"No, I want to go home to Colorado Springs. Now!" She glared at her brother, "Please take me home so I can get my belongings."
"Emma Jane…"
"Thomas, I am sick of this damn place and I want to go home now!" She didn't care who heard her.
"You're going away?" Sarah's little voice floated upwards.
Emma Jane crouched down next to her, "Yes I am."
"I don't want you to go." Tears filled her eyes.
"I'm sorry, but I have to." Emma Jane hardened her heart, "I'll write to you and Lucy though, I promise." Ignoring Sarah's wails, she practically forced Thomas into a carriage back to the house whereupon she ran upstairs and started throwing things into her case. As she dragged it back down, she was stopped at the door by the thunderous face of her father.
"I'm leaving, Father. Just as you wished. You need never hear from me again. In fact, you won't hear from me again."
"Emma Jane…" his voice broke, "Child…"
Emma Jane's mouth dropped open as her father began to cry. So taken aback was she, that she dropped her case and even found herself putting her arms around him, comforting him as he sobbed.
"Lydia's gone," he said.
"And you wish it were me instead," she said.
Mr Brown pulled back and looked at her, "I was closest to Lydia. But you're my daughter too."
"It didn't seem that way. Not when you tried to bribe Hank to sell me back to you."
"I only wanted you home with us."
"I'm sorry you didn't get your wish. But now that I'm dead to you…"
"You are not dead to me, Emma Jane. You will never be dead to me. Lydia is dead. You, are alive."
Emma Jane looked at him, "Then why treat me as if I don't matter? I still love you all, despite everything? When I arrived here you wanted to turn me away."
Mr Brown sighed, "You may not have made the choices I would have wished for you. But you're still my daughter and I love you."
"And Mother?"
He paused, "She may be harder to convince."
"I'm sorry I don't have the time to try."
"Must you leave?"
She nodded, "I want to go home, Father. I miss my friends and I miss my husband, very much."
He smiled at her, "Then go. Go live your life."
Emma Jane hugged him tightly and then climbed into a carriage to take her to the station. As she waited to board the train, thoughts swam around in her head. If ever she had considered it a mistake leaving New York, she knew now that it hadn't been. She belonged in Colorado Springs. She belonged with Hank and Abigail and Charlotte and everyone who cared about her. When she found her seat, she put her head back and closed her eyes, thinking about going home.
SSSSSSSSSSS
The town was eerily quiet when she returned, nearly two weeks since she had left. As the stagecoach rolled into the centre, she noticed that most places were deserted and that the shutters were drawn at Bray's Mercantile. When the stage stopped, she opened the door, climbed out and turned around to identify her luggage to the driver.
"Emma Jane."
She turned to see Hank coming towards her from the saloon and she hurried over to him, allowing him to fold her into his arms and hold her tightly against him.
"I missed you so much," she said, looking up to kiss him, "So, so much."
"Missed you too," he replied, but his eyes were sad.
"Oh it was awful," Emma Jane started, "But then, my Father surprised me completely by telling me…"
"Emma…" he stopped her mid-flow.
"What is it?" she asked, "Come to that, why is everywhere so quiet?"
He looked down at the ground before he could meet her gaze, "Abigail…she went into labour…"
"Oh!" Emma Jane gasped, "Oh she promised to wait! Oh, is it a boy or a girl?"
"A girl, listen…"
"Oh that's wonderful! Oh I have to go and see her! Oh she and Sully must be thrilled! They both really wanted a girl…"
"Emma!" the sharpness in his tone caused her to look wounded, "There were problems."
"Problems?" Emma Jane frowned, "What sort of problems? Hank, is Abigail all right?"
He shook his head, "She and the baby. They both died."
Emma Jane felt as though the world was spinning out of control. It couldn't be. Not Abigail. Not Abigail who was so strong. "No," she gasped, "No, oh no!" Tears filled her eyes and sobs heaved from within her chest, "No…Abigail…." She lurched forward into Hank's arms, feeling as though her heart was breaking. To have been absolved by her father, only to come home to this… "Abigail!" she sobbed.
Hank held her closely to him and, when he felt her legs buckle, lifted her up into his arms and carried her across the deserted street and into the saloon.
TBC – thanks for the reviews!
