Lone Star Book Blog Tour: In Honor’s Defense by Karen Witemeyer (excerpt & giveaway)

Prologue, Part Two
From In Honor’s Defense
By Karen Witemeyer

Click to read part one of the Prologue on the Lone Star Lit Book Blog Tour

St. Louis, Missouri
1895

Miss Damaris Baxter,

I write with a heavy heart to inform you of your brother’s untimely death. Douglas Baxter was found drowned in Lake Madison on March 7, 1895.

     A small cry escaped Damaris. Her brother drowned? It couldn’t be. Douglas had been athletic and strong, good at nearly every sport, including swimming. How vividly she recalled the summer after she turned five, when he’d taken it upon himself to teach all of the youngest Baxter siblings to swim. She’d been too young to do much more than cry and cling to him, but by the end of the summer, he’d had them all paddling across the swimming hole unaided—­her included. How could he have drowned?

     “Are you all right, miss?” Anna turned from where she’d been adjusting the blanket on Aunt Bertha’s lap, the older woman snoring softly in her rocker by the window.

     “It’s my brother Douglas. He’s . . . They found him . . .” She couldn’t say it. Couldn’t make it real.

     Anna’s eyes softened in sympathy. “I’m so sorry. Should I wake the missus?”

     Damaris shook her head. “No. Not yet.” She needed time to compose herself, to get a grip on her emotions before she broke the news to her aunt. And what about her mother? Had she been informed? Surely a letter of this sort would be sent to the deceased’s parents. So why had this one come to her?

     Blinking back the mist from her eyes, Damaris refocused on the letter.

The cause of death was determined to be accidental. A true tragedy, ending the life of a man in his prime. You have my most sincere condolences.

     Damaris dropped her gaze to the signature—­Ronald Mullins, Esquire. A lawyer? She would have expected notification to come from a minister or friend. She’d never heard the name Ronald Mullins, nor did she recall any mention of him in the letters Douglas had written to Mother.

Mr. Douglas Baxter named you, Miss Damaris Baxter, guardian of his son, Nathaniel. You have also been named trustee of the boy’s estate, including the bank funds and property left behind by Mr. Baxter. I will provide you with a copy of all relevant documents when you come to claim the child.

I place myself at your disposal, Miss Baxter. I stand ready to assist you in any way that might prove helpful during your time of mourning.

Sincerely,
Ronald P. Mullins, Esquire

     Douglas had chosen her? Damaris could barely find the strength to blink through the paralysis of shock. He’d entrusted Nathaniel’s care to the baby sister he barely knew. Why not their parents or Bartholomew? Bart was only a year younger than Douglas and had children close in age to Nathaniel. He seemed the logical choice. Yet Douglas had chosen her. Perhaps because she had no attachments to hinder or distract her. Of all their siblings, she was the only one with no family to keep her rooted in St. Louis. She was free to leave at any time, free to devote herself fully to Nathaniel’s care.

     Or maybe . . . Damaris caught her breath. Maybe the choice had belonged to Nathaniel. The idea kicked her heart into a rapid rhythm. What if Nathaniel had remembered his aunt Maris and requested that she be named his guardian?

     To be chosen for herself—­it was the secret desire of her heart. To be important to someone. More than a glorified servant who fetched and carried and entertained at her aunt’s whim. To be wanted truly for herself. Seen instead of invisible. Valued instead of tolerated.

     “I must pack.” Damaris jumped up from the sofa with such speed that her forgotten basket of needlework threads toppled to the floor along with her embroidery hoop.

     A snuffling sound echoed from the window as Aunt Bertha stirred. “Damaris? Why are you fluttering about, girl? You know I dislike being disturbed during my afternoon respites. Clumsy child,” she chided as her gaze landed on the upturned basket and contents spilled across the carpet. “Clean up your mess, then bring me one of my tonics. I can’t have my nerves overset.”

     Anna hurried over to help right the sewing basket. Damaris smiled her thanks but didn’t stay to help. She had trunks to fill, railroad schedules to check, and a nephew who needed her.

     “Sorry, Aunt Bertha. I don’t have time to fetch your tonic. I’m moving to Texas.”