An Outlaw's Redemption

Chapter Two

Summer 1847

An aroma of freshly baked bread wafted throughout the home. It was a scent Weston Barlow never grew tired of; it meant one of his mother's delicious meals was being prepared. She often baked for the single men in the town, the widowers, the minister, and really anyone that didn't have the time or the foresight to do it for themselves. In fact, she had become quite good at it. So good that she made a living for herself and her son through her cooking. Abigail Barlow was a kind woman with gentle eyes. Her raven hair and ivory skin made her a target of affection by many of her male costumers. Though she was never interested in any of them. There was only one man she would ever love.

Roy Barlow.

Her husband...she had told their son that he had abandoned them, but truthfully, he was in prison. Convicted of robbery and murder. She knew the robbery was true, but the murder story she just couldn't believe; still, she was much too ashamed to tell her son the truth. Thinking it better for him to simply believe his father had run out on them than to bear the weight of knowing his father was a convicted killer...an outlaw.

It hadn't always been this way. Why didn't Roy just let her work? She was doing so now, and it was fine. Though Roy was insistent; a man's duty was to provide for his family and the woman was to take care of the household and children. Roy was far too old fashion minded in that affair, Abigail believed. Though none of that truly mattered now. She was a good, God-fearing woman, the daughter of a minister. She could not bear to be married to a man that clearly disobeyed the Lord's commandments, no matter how much she loved him. If the murder accusations were true, her husband had broken at least three that she knew of: thou shalt not kill, thou shalt not steal, and thou shalt not covet.

How could she raise her son to fear the Lord and be an upstanding person if his own father did not uphold to those values? She wished so much that she had not journeyed West. She missed her family, and she had not seen them since her wedding over seventeen years ago. Occasionally, she would get a letter, but like so many families that traveled West on the Oregon Trail, she knew coming this many thousands of miles away from Boston it was highly unlikely that she would ever see them again. The rattle of tin shifted her thoughts as she turned to see her fifteen-year-old son sneaking off with a piece of her freshly baked bread.

"Weston Grant Barlow!"

He stopped in his tracks and sheepishly grinned at his mother; hiding the bread behind his back, "Yes, ma'am?"

Her features softened, "I charge a hug per slice."

With his boyish charm, he offered her a smile which made his baby-like round cheeks seem even more full as he neared her with his arms opened wide, "With prices like that I can manage to pay for whole loaf."

As he embraced her, he inhaled a deep breath of her perfume; its light feminine scent made his heart grow warm. There was just something so comforting about his mother's fragrance that she applied one drop behind each ear. There was something different about her hug today, however; his brow furrowed as he looked at his mother. Even at fifteen, he was at least a foot above her petite height. His mother was dainty, though nothing about her was fragile. She would put up a fight if necessary, and she could still wallop him if she had a mind to or if he tested her.

"Is everything alright, momma?" he questioned as his eyes searched hers.

She nodded, "Oh, yes. I'm just a little weary today. Why don't you sit at the table, and I'll fetch you over some warm bread, butter, and a glass of my apple cider; would you like that?"

With her dismissal of trouble, he agreed to the snack and eagerly sat. She offered him that soft smile she was known for and returned a few moments later with his snack just as the bell rang that hung on her front door.