He swiveled on his heel and went back inside. For the second time, his gaze swept the room.
There was as much dust in this bedchamber as everywhere else in the house. Preston was used to taking care of himself, but he wouldn’t want to tackle the care and cleaning of this big house on his own. He had other work to do. So it seemed to him that the first thing he needed to do was hire a housekeeper.
His stomach growled.
“And a cook,” he said aloud.
He believed the man on the road would even now be spreading the news that Owen Chandler’s relative had arrived in Chickadee Creek. Maybe some enterprising woman had already decided to apply for a job with him. Most townsfolk would know the condition the house was in and assume he needed help.
“And they would be right.”
The two main roads that made up Chickadee Creek were not straight, the way the streets were in Boise City. These meandered, one of them running parallel to the creek, the other slicing across it. Thus, the homes and buildings were a bit at odds with each other, one facing a little this way, the next a little that. They weren’t built close together either. There was plenty of space between most of them. On his way to the Chandler mansion from the boardinghouse, he’d passed a church and a small schoolhouse, two saloons, a smithy, a doctor’s office, a restaurant, and a post office. There was more of the town than he’d seen thus far, but he didn’t bother to explore it after leaving his new home. Instead, he went straight to the Chickadee Creek General Store.
The rail-thin man behind the counter on the right side of the deep but narrow building had gray hair and a short beard. A pair of wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. He peered over them as Preston approached.
“Afternoon, sir,” Preston said.
“Afternoon.”
“I’m new in town.” He held out his hand. “Preston Chandler.”
“Chandler?” Bushy gray brows arched as he shook the proffered hand.
Preston nodded. “Yes.”
“Well, I’ll be.” Now his eyes narrowed. “You plannin’ to stay?”
“Yes, I am. And as you can imagine, Mr.—” He broke off, waiting for a name.
“Harris. Alexander Harris.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Harris. As I was saying, the Chandler house isn’t in the best of shape at the moment. It needs a thorough cleaning and someone who’s able to keep it that way once it’s done. I was hoping you might be able to recommend someone.”
“To clean your house one time?”
“Actually, I’d like someone permanent, if possible. A housekeeper who could oversee any other employees I decide to hire.”
Alexander Harris rubbed his chin. “Well . . .” He lifted his eyes toward the ceiling, as if he might find the answer there. After a short while, he looked at Preston again. “I suppose the Widow Mason might be interested. Her daughter up and got married a couple months back, so she’s got nobody at home to look after. Good, respectable woman, she is. Yes, sir. I reckon she might be the woman you’re lookin’ for.”
“And where might I find the Widow Mason?”
“As a matter of fact, she’s crossin’ the street right now. I see her through the windows there.” He pointed.
Preston turned in time to see the door open and a woman in a large black hat enter the store. She was older than him, but not as old as the name “Widow Mason” led him to expect. He’d guess her to be less than fifty years of age, perhaps not much more than forty.
“Miz Mason,” Alexander said, “this here gentleman is wanting to talk to you.”
The woman stopped and gave Preston a curious look. Then she turned back to the storekeeper and held out a slip of paper. “I need a few things, Mr. Harris, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”
“Not at all. Not at all.” Alexander bustled away.
The Widow Mason turned toward Preston once again.
“Ma’am.” He touched the brim of his hat. “I’m Preston Chandler.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Chandler.” She stood straight, shoulders back, head lifted. She was a tiny thing. Not even five feet tall and weighing in at under a hundred pounds, he was sure. But there was strength in her eyes and possibly steel in her backbone.
He cleared his throat. “I’m in need of a housekeeper for the Chandler place, and Mr. Harris thought you might be interested in the position.”
“Oh, he did, did he?” She glanced over her shoulder. When her gaze returned to Preston, she said, “I might be.”
He released a breath and smiled. “That’s very good news.”
“Shall we go have a look and see if we might come to an arrangement?”
“Now?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Now’s as good a time as any.”
No nonsense. He liked that about her.
“Yes. Of course.” He glanced behind him. “Thanks for your help, Mr. Harris.”
“Weren’t no trouble at all,” the proprietor called. “Miz Mason, I’ll have your things ready when you come back.”
Cora
May 1895
Cora awoke with a start, still clutching the violin case close to her chest. It took a moment to realize the rocking of the passenger car had ceased. The train must have stopped at another station. She wasn’t sure how long they’d been there.
She straightened on the seat. Her eyes felt gritty, and she longed for a basin of cool water so she could splash her face and wash away the travel grime. She wouldn’t mind something to eat, either, but she was afraid to get off the train. She didn’t want to be seen. Not until she was farther away from New York City. Her father had friends in many places. Cities like Atlanta and Chicago and San Francisco. She wanted to go where he couldn’t find her, where he wouldn’t think to look for her.
How far away is that? Where is that place?
Tucked in a purse beneath her corset was the majority of the money she’d managed to bring with her. And sewn into the lining of her traveling skirt was the jewelry given to her by Grandmother Ruth. God bless her maid, Millie, for helping with those tricks. Neither would have occurred to her. She’d never had to worry about pickpockets and thieves. For that matter, she’d never given a thought to money. Whenever she traveled, there’d been servants to care for her and her father’s wealth to protect her.
She glanced out the window.
Things were going to be different from now on. She would have to be wise. She would have to think for herself. There wouldn’t be a man making the decisions for her or planning in advance. Which was what she wanted. Which was why she was on this train headed west.
She’d left the diamond ring Duncan gave her on the dresser in her bedchamber, along with a simple note of goodbye. He wouldn’t, she was certain, be upset when he read it. Perhaps he would mind the loss of the income he’d counted on, but he wouldn’t miss her. He would simply find another daughter of a wealthy man, another woman to ignore while he carried on his affairs.
I’m on my own. Her heart fluttered wildly. She was both happy and terrified by the thought.
She imagined her father opening the letter she’d left for him and Mother. The tops of his ears would turn bright red, and his eyes would bulge as his mouth flattened into a thin line. His fury would be almost uncontrollable.
Poor Mother.
Cora closed her eyes, feeling a moment of shame. Father would vent his anger on Mother. Could Cora have done something to warn her, to shield her? No. There was nothing she could have done. If her mother had had the least inkling of what Cora intended to do, she would have gone straight to her husband with the information. That was the sort of wife she was. It wouldn’t have occurred to her to do anything that displeased him or contradicted his wishes.
Opening her eyes again, Cora saw a middle-aged woman enter the passenger car, holding the handle of a carpetbag with both hands. She looked even more tired than Cora felt. Cora offered a brief smile of encouragement.
“May I join you?” the woman asked.
&
nbsp; “Of course.” She drew her feet back to make room.
The woman put her bag on the seat and slid it up close to the window. Then she sat beside it. “Gracious. The car is warm, isn’t it?”
“Yes. It is.”
“I’m Mabel Johnson.”
“A pleasure. My name is Co—” She stopped. Should she give her real name or make one up? And why hadn’t she thought of this before? But now it was too late. She couldn’t think of a different name. “Cora Anderson,” she finished, thankful that the woman didn’t seem to notice her hesitation.
“Are you traveling alone?” Mabel looked down the aisle, as if expecting to see someone returning to sit beside Cora.
“Yes, I’m alone.”
“I hate traveling alone. The hours pass so slowly without someone to talk to.”
Cora hid a smile. She suspected Mabel Johnson had no trouble meeting others, then filling the silence. Not if their own meeting was any indication. “Where are you going, Mrs. Johnson?”
“It’s Miss Johnson, and I’m headed home to Denver. Are you going that far?”
She wasn’t sure, but she nodded.
“Have you been to Denver before?”
“No, I haven’t. But I’ve heard that the Rocky Mountains are spectacular.”
“Yes, indeed, they are. One of God’s masterpieces. Wait until you see them.”
Cora heard the conductor calling for all to get aboard and felt some tension leave her shoulders. She’d made it through another station. “I look forward to it.”
“Are you a teacher?”
“A teacher?”
Mabel’s gaze went to the violin case. “I thought perhaps you give music lessons.”
“No.” She smiled. “But I love to play.”
“If you aren’t going to teach, are you going out West to get married?”
Cora shook her head. “No.” Somehow she contained a shudder.
Mabel leaned slightly forward as if to encourage Cora to say more.
But what could she say? She didn’t know where she was going, let alone what she would do once she got there. Oh, she should have thought this through. All she’d wanted to do was escape. She hadn’t considered what she might find on the other end of her race to freedom. Panic tightened her throat.
The train jerked, then began to chug forward. Thankfully, Mabel Johnson seemed to leave her curiosity at the station. She ceased to ask questions and instead launched into a story about her sister who was a teacher in a small town in the mountains of Colorado.
Cora was thankful for the distraction. For a little while, she could push away her more troubled thoughts.
Chapter 6
For the difficult months of Jacob’s decline, Liam had remained connected to his church in California via streamed services, devotional podcasts, and a Facebook group. The habit stayed with him after his retreat to Chickadee Creek. It seemed enough as he wrestled with his emotions—the grief, the anger, the odd feeling of betrayal at being left brotherless.
But for some reason, when he awakened on Sunday morning, he knew he wanted to sit in a church with other followers of Christ. Grace Witherstone had invited him to visit the town’s small community church almost every time he’d been in the mercantile. Today, he decided to take her up on it. His church in Los Angeles was a megachurch. The one he’d seen in Chickadee Creek probably wouldn’t hold more than two hundred people. Three hundred if they were packed in like sardines. Quite a change from a sanctuary that held thousands in a single service, but one he was suddenly looking forward to.
He showered and dressed, then fixed himself a quick breakfast. Afterward, while sipping a second cup of coffee, he watched Chipper race through the trees, chasing birds and other small forest creatures.
“All right, boy,” he called at last. “I’ll be late if I don’t go now.”
The dog came to him at once and, at his master’s hand signal, trotted inside.
“Be good.” Liam grabbed his truck keys off the table inside the doorway. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
Chipper lay down with a groan, head resting on paws. His eyes called Liam a traitor for leaving him on his own.
The drive into town took mere minutes, and before he knew it, he was pulling into the gravel parking lot beside the church. Other cars and trucks were there before him. A few people on the main road walked in the direction of the white clapboard building. He pulled the keys from the ignition and got out of the truck. As he neared the entrance, he saw Grace from the general store standing on the stoop, greeting others as they arrived. She grinned widely when she saw him.
“Mr. Chandler, as I live and breathe!” she exclaimed. “You came at last.”
He returned her smile. “Yes, ma’am. Here I am.”
“Can’t tell you how pleased I am to see you.” She took his hand and drew him into the vestibule. “Reverend Oswald, look who’s here. This is Liam Chandler.”
The pastor, who stood near the entrance to the sanctuary, smiled and nodded. “Welcome, Mr. Chandler. We’re glad you’ve joined us.”
“Thanks. It’s good to be here.”
Grace excused herself and moved into the sanctuary.
“I’ve been meaning to—” The reverend’s words were cut short by several chords played on the organ. He glanced toward the front of the church. “Sorry. That’s my wife’s way of telling me I’d best take my place.” His gaze returned to Liam. “But I hope we’ll have a chance to talk soon.”
“I’d like that,” Liam answered, realizing the words were true.
All of these months, he’d basically isolated himself, wanting to be alone with his grief and anger. Pretty much the only people he’d met in this mountain community were Grace Witherstone at the mercantile and Fred Bishop at the gas station. And as of yesterday, Rosemary Townsend and her great-niece at the antique store. Remembering Chelsea brought a smile to his lips as he made his way to the back row of padded chairs.
Just as he found his place, the congregation rose to sing. The words of the worship song were displayed on a screen above the altar area, but it was one he knew well, so he didn’t need to read the lyrics. Halfway through the second chorus, he closed his eyes and mouth and listened to the other voices filling the small sanctuary. This was why God had drawn him there this morning, he thought. He could sing along with others while streaming a church service, but it wasn’t the same as being in their midst, as hearing other voices raised in a song of praise.
Not forsaking our own assembling together, as is the habit of some . . .
The snippet of Scripture was distinct in his mind and heart, and he knew beyond doubt that the Holy Spirit had spoken the words to him. Conviction tightened his chest. It was one thing to withdraw from his work in California while he sought to find his way after Jacob’s death. It was another entirely to withdraw from the body of Christ.
He recalled something a youth pastor had said many years before: “You can be a Christian without going to church, but you won’t be a healthy one.”
He opened his eyes to look at those in the rows ahead of him. Sorry, Lord, he mouthed before joining the singing once again.
* * *
Grace Fellowship, Chelsea’s church on the outskirts of Spokane, was surrounded by subdivisions full of couples and families. Even so, the congregation wasn’t large. That was one reason she’d chosen it after moving away from Hadley Station. She didn’t like crowds or tight spaces. They made her anxious. A small gathering of believers was much more to her liking.
Chickadee Creek Community Church reminded Chelsea somewhat of Grace Fellowship. A simple wooden cross, draped with a length of purple fabric, hung high above the altar area. Colorful banners bearing words from the Bible dotted the walls between the windows on either side of the sanctuary. Simple. Warm. Friendly. Exactly what she needed.
While the pastor preached, Chelsea’s gaze went to the landscape beyond the nearby window. Late-morning sunlight filtered down through the pines and danced upon
the water in the creek. Beyond the gurgling stream and tall trees sat an open meadow full of wheat-colored grass turned gold by the sun. The scene was as soothing as the pastor’s voice, and Chelsea said a silent prayer of thanks to God. For bringing her to this small town. For Grandpa John sending her. For Aunt Rosemary wanting her. For a time of peace when she might regroup and find her way again.
The congregation rose to sing another worship song. Then the pastor spoke a final prayer, and the service was over. People rose from their chairs. They clustered in small groups in the aisles, hardly moving. Conversations started all around, voices rising to be heard above the others.
Chelsea glanced over her shoulder. Could she and her great-aunt escape before too many introductions ensued? Her head still swam with the names of the people she’d met on the way in.
Before she could bring her gaze back to Aunt Rosemary, she saw a familiar face. Liam Chandler was shaking hands with an elderly man on the opposite side of the sanctuary.
“Well, look who’s here,” Aunt Rosemary said. “It’s our new friend. The movie star.”
Liam turned in that moment, and their gazes met. He smiled.
How had she not recognized him the first moment he entered the antique shop? He looked every bit the handsome hero that he was on film, even in his casual attire.
She thought of a school friend, Shelby Webster. Chelsea’s father hadn’t allowed his children to spend much time away from their home. He’d begrudgingly allowed them to attend school, but going over to anybody’s house was forbidden. Still, Chelsea had managed to see, just the one time, the movie star and musician posters on Shelby’s bedroom walls. “Aren’t they dreamy?” her friend had asked with a giggle.
Dreamy, indeed. Chelsea couldn’t help wondering how many teenaged girls had posters of Liam Chandler on their bedroom walls.
Embarrassed by her thoughts, she turned toward Aunt Rosemary. “It’s time I got you home.”
“Yes. I’m feeling a bit tired. It’ll be good to put my leg up.”
Make You Feel My Love Page 6