Make You Feel My Love

by Robin Lee Hatcher

  “Will it—” She broke off, swallowed, then began again. “Will it be terribly expensive?”

  He looked at her again. “No. I don’t think it will be terribly expensive. And I assure you, we will treat it with the utmost care while it’s with us.” He left the violin and case and moved to a computer. “Let me get you a receipt. But first, I’ll need your contact information.” As he spoke, he slid a pad of paper toward her. On the paper were spaces for her name, address, and phone number.

  “Of course.” She picked up a pen and wrote down the requested information.

  When she was done, George Frost looked at the paper and entered everything into the computer. “I noticed there is a tear in the lining of the case. Would you like us to repair it as well?”

  “Yes. Thank you. Whatever’s needed.” Her pulse quickened. Was she being unfair to Aunt Rosemary? She’d told Chelsea not to worry about the cost, that it was part of her gift. Still . . .

  George Frost put the printed receipt on the counter. “May I ask you: do you play the violin?”

  “No. But I’ve wanted to learn ever since I was in junior high. Now that I have my own violin, I plan to take lessons. I’m not too old to learn. At least I hope not.”

  “Extraordinary,” he said softly, turning once more toward the instrument on the worktable.

  Chelsea took a couple of steps back while folding the receipt and slipping it into the back pocket of her shorts.

  “We’ll call you before we do any actual work,” George Frost said as he moved toward the violin.

  Chelsea had the feeling he’d already forgotten her.

  Cora

  October 1895

  An autumn chill entered the stagecoach as the horses climbed higher into the mountains. Cora, the lone passenger, held tightly to a strap, hoping to keep herself from being thrown to the floor or to the opposite side of the coach. If traveling by rail seemed wearisome, traveling by coach seemed deadly.

  Maybe I should go home?

  She’d had the same thought many times over the past five months since first boarding a train in New York. Months that tested her in ways she hadn’t anticipated. Months that made her long for the life of privilege she’d taken for granted. It shamed her when she remembered how little she’d noticed the service of others. The baths drawn for her. The bed made for her. The clothes laid out for her. The maid, Millie, who brought her breakfast in bed and helped dress her hair.

  A wheel dropped into a rut, jerking the coach sideways, then rocking it back again. Cora’s shoulder smacked into the side of the compartment, and she cried out in alarm. Although the window was covered, she’d peeked beyond the leather curtain earlier and knew they traveled a treacherous road with a sharp drop-off on one side. Would she die in these mountains before reaching her destination?

  Chickadee Creek, Idaho. That’s where she was headed. At last. After spending the past five months in Colorado with Mabel Johnson—the stranger on the train who had turned into her mentor and dearest friend—Cora had obtained her teaching certificate. And now, thanks to Mabel’s niece who lived in Idaho, Cora had obtained a position in Chickadee Creek. Even knowing it was true, it still seemed impossible. Not so long ago, she’d had no hope of anything but living out her life with a man she didn’t love and who didn’t love her. Now she was going to make a life of her own choosing.

  As a schoolgirl, Cora had loved her studies, but she hadn’t given any thought to what those studies might do for her. She’d certainly never thought they might lead to her becoming a teacher herself. Women of her class weren’t supposed to work. Young women like Cora Anderson were supposed to marry well and have babies, to hostess fashionable dinner parties and attend operas, to travel to Europe, to play the piano or the flute or the violin, to do needlepoint, to paint pictures.

  Cora had attended many dinner parties and more than a few operas in recent years. She’d traveled to Europe with her parents twice. She was accomplished on the violin and loved to paint with watercolors. She abhorred needlepoint work but—this thought made her smile wryly—learning to use a needle and thread had helped with the mending she now needed to do.

  She glanced down at the hem of her gown. The patch might not be obvious to everyone, but it seemed all too noticeable to her. A year ago, she might have had Millie give the dress away rather than mend it. How frivolous of her. How ungrateful for what she’d had.

  “God will look out for you, Cora.” Mabel Johnson’s words whispered in her memory. “Trust Him always. Seek His face. He will show you the way.”

  Cora hadn’t known, of course, when she’d seen a weary fellow traveler getting onto the train five months before, that they were destined to become friends, let alone that Mabel would take her under her wing and become a guiding force in her life.

  Mabel knew a lost soul when she saw one.

  The memory was bittersweet. It had been hard to leave Colorado, to say goodbye to Mabel. Necessary but hard. Harder even than leaving her childhood home and her own mother. And that realization made her sad. Sad for herself. Sad for her mother. Maybe even sad for her father.

  The coach slowed and banked to the left. The driver shouted something at the horses. Cora dared to lift the edge of the leather curtain. The last time she’d looked outside, the hillsides had been covered in grass and sagebrush. Now they moved through a forest of tall pine trees. The interior of the coach felt even colder than before, as if the sun had no reach in this place.

  Don’t think that way. It’s going to be lovely in Chickadee Creek. Remember the photograph of the schoolhouse. You’re going to make a wonderful and . . . and safe life for yourself.

  Safe.

  The word reverberated in her chest. She couldn’t help it. Even after all these months and despite the thousands of miles she’d traveled, she didn’t feel safe. She was still afraid her father would find her and force her to marry Duncan or another man like him.

  “Miss?” The driver’s voice came to her above the noise of the creaking coach and the rattle of harness. “Miss, we’re coming into Chickadee Creek.”

  Drawing a breath, she loosened her grip on the strap. When the coach slowed even more, she lowered her hand and tried to straighten her clothing. She didn’t want everything to look askew when she disembarked. Chickadee Creek was to be her new home, hopefully for many years to come. She wanted to start off by making a good impression.

  Preston

  October 1895

  Preston stood on the boardwalk outside the general store. In lieu of the mayor, who was away from Chickadee Creek until November, he’d been called upon to welcome the new teacher to town. It wasn’t as if he didn’t have other places to be. But there he was, waiting for some old-maid schoolmarm to get off the stagecoach.

  I should’ve refused when I was asked to do it.

  He sighed as he checked his pocket watch. The coach was running late. No surprise there. In the months Preston had called Chickadee Creek home, he couldn’t remember when it had ever arrived according to the schedule posted on the wall of the mercantile.

  Before he could put the watch back into his pocket, the stagecoach rolled into view. Good. He could welcome the teacher, show her the schoolhouse, then drop her at her living quarters. And if he had his way, he would do so in record time.

  The coach stopped in front of Preston. The driver stepped onto the wheel, then hopped to the ground. He then came around, opened the door of the coach, and offered his hand to the lady inside.

  Preston felt his jaw go slack when a vision in golden brown leaned into view. Her dark hair was topped with a hat the same color as her gown. He was no expert on women’s dresses, but he thought it must be the height of fashion. Probably too fashionable for a place like Chickadee Creek, where clothing tended to be more practical than decorative. Definitely too fashionable for the spinster schoolmarm he’d imagined.

  The driver reached to take hold of her arm at the elbow. As she stepped to the ground—holding a carpetbag in one hand and a vi
olin case in the other—her gaze met Preston’s, and he forgot everything else. He’d noticed already that she was pretty, but he hadn’t expected those eyes. Large dark-brown pools surrounded by thick black lashes. Extraordinary.

  He swallowed hard.

  “Thank you,” she said to the driver.

  “My pleasure, miss. I’ll get your trunk.” The man bent his hat brim before heading to the back of the coach.

  Preston stepped off the boardwalk. “Miss Anderson?” He wondered if she would give him a different name, if Cora Anderson had missed the stagecoach or changed her mind about coming to this small community. This woman wasn’t anything like the schoolmarm he’d pictured in his mind for the past week.

  “Yes.” She looked at him again, expectancy in her gaze.

  “I’m Preston Chandler. Welcome to Chickadee Creek.”

  “Thank you. It’s a pleasure to be here.”

  The stagecoach driver dropped a large, battered trunk on the ground near Cora. “There you go, miss.”

  She thanked him again, and he moved away.

  Preston reached for the trunk. When he lifted it, he was surprised that it wasn’t heavier. Cora Anderson looked as if she would be the type to travel with dozens of gowns and shoes. Again, she was nothing like he’d expected.

  “If you’ll come with me, I’ll show you the schoolhouse and then to your living quarters.”

  “Thank you,” she said once again.

  It wasn’t far to the schoolhouse, and they walked in silence. Preston noticed that Cora took in her surroundings, looking from one side of the winding street to the other. Perhaps she was memorizing the location of every shop and business. Perhaps she was wishing she could get back onto the stagecoach and return to the comfort of some home far away.

  Suddenly she stopped. Preston took two more steps before realizing she wasn’t beside him. He stopped, too, and turned to look at her. She smiled, her eyes not on him but on the schoolhouse beyond him.

  “Oh my,” she breathed.

  The school was an ordinary white-clapboard building with a half-dozen windows and a small bell tower with a rope dangling down to the side of the door. As far as Preston could tell, it looked like hundreds of other schoolhouses throughout the country. But the expression on Cora’s face said she saw something much more than that, although he wasn’t sure what.

  “I’ve got the key,” Preston said. “I’ll show you inside.”

  She nodded.

  He set the trunk on the ground, and she put her carpetbag and violin case on top of it. For a moment, he considered offering a hand to help her climb the steps. It would be the gentlemanly thing to do. But instinct stopped him. He had the feeling she would rather make her own way.

  “I’ll get the door.” Taking the key from his pocket, he climbed the steps. After unlocking the door, he opened it, then looked behind him.

  Cora still stood in the street, her gaze taking in not only the schoolhouse but also the terrain that surrounded it.

  Preston cleared his throat.

  “I’m sorry.” Holding her skirt out of the way, she quickly climbed the steps, stopping in the doorway to look at him. “You must have other things to do than to wait on me, Mr. Chandler. I won’t delay you much longer.”

  “No problem, Miss Anderson.” But that wasn’t the truth. It was a problem. He had work to do. Still, he didn’t want to rush away as originally planned.

  She stepped inside and walked toward the front of the room. Her gloved fingers touched the dust-covered teacher’s desk. A chalkboard took up the entire wall beyond it, and a large globe rested in a stand in the left corner. A woodstove sat in the corner on the right. Judging by the student desks taking up the better portion of the room, Preston guessed they were prepared for twenty or thirty students.

  Cora returned to the door. “I’m ready to be shown to my lodgings.” She held out a hand, palm up.

  It took him a moment to realize what she wanted. When he did, he gave her the key. As her fingers closed around it, another smile blossomed on her lips, and it seemed to Preston that the cool room warmed by at least ten degrees.

  Liam's Journal

  Dad called yesterday. He’s thinking about selling off some more of the land up here. I hate the idea, although I can’t give him much of a reason. I don’t need any of it.

  I’ve got 20 acres where my house is. What would I need with the lots he wants to sell in town or the property on the other side of the river? When that old ranch sells, the land will become another one of those upscale communities with houses way beyond the price the people who’ve lived in the area for years could afford. It’s happening everywhere, but I hate to see it happen here. All those people fleeing the big cities. Trouble is they seem to want to change this area into another big city.

  It bugs me that Dad’s going to sell, but who am I to tell him not to? I’ve got my acreage and a nice house. Is it because I’m a Chandler that I resist the idea of letting go? Dad never seemed too caught up in how he inherited so much land in the Boise Basin. I guess by the time it came to him, it was less than half as much as it once was. But it’s still a lot.

  I wonder why he didn’t sell it before now.

  Liam's Journal

  A while back, I wrote that Jacob wanted me to be more real. I’ve been thinking about that a lot. What it means to be “real.” It’s easier to do in the mountains of Idaho than it was in Hollywood. Not that I want to blame the industry or my chosen career for my behavior. I’ve had a choice how to act. I’ve had the choice to be more true to myself.

  More true to God.

  There. That’s what I needed to write. More true to God.

  I’ve laid low a lot all these years. Does everybody know I’m a Christian? Not hardly. I’ve followed Kurt’s advice. I’ve kept the “God talk” to myself. Wouldn’t want anybody to dismiss considering me for a movie because of my faith. Yes, I’ve been a member of a church in LA. A good, Bible-teaching church. But how much beyond that have I gone in living my Christianity? Have I found myself a mentor or become part of a group of men who will hold me accountable? Short answer: no. Why? Because then I might have to grow. Because out of principle, I might have to turn down some of those roles I accepted. Somebody might ask, “Do you think that’s what God wants you to do?”

  If somebody asked me that in the past, I would have answered with something like, “If God opens a door, who am I not to walk through it?”

  But who says all of those doors were opened by God?

  Jacob asked me that one night. I ignored him. I wish I hadn’t.

  Another thing I wished we’d talked about: Chickadee Creek. We’ve had family here for over 150 years, but I don’t know near enough about those roots. The lady at the antique store knows more than I do. Probably more than Dad does. Whenever we came up to the cabin as kids, Dad would mention things here and there. But never much. Funny how it never occurred to me to ask more. Jacob did. Jacob was always more curious about stuff than I was.

  I’m more curious now. But to be completely honest (that’s what a journal’s for, right?), my new curiosity may have more to do with an attractive redhead. I can’t seem to stop thinking about her. And it isn’t just because she’s pretty, although she is that. But I’ve known plenty of beautiful women. I’ve dated plenty of beautiful women.

  No, there’s something else about Chelsea Spencer that makes me think I’d like to get to know her. Then again, would that be smart? I haven’t figured out what’s next in my life. I don’t feel like God’s told me if I’m to stay here or go back to LA.

  But it wouldn’t have to be romantic. A man can still have friends, even while he’s working through stuff. Right?

  Wish I could bounce all of this off Jacob. Even when we were little kids, he seemed to figure things out faster than me.

  Lord Jesus, I miss my brother. I know he’s with You and is without pain and sorrow. But I still miss him.

  Chapter 8

  “My girl? Whatever is the matte
r?”

  Chelsea blinked as she looked toward her great-aunt.

  “Who was that on the phone, dear?”

  “George Frost. The man from the music store.”

  “Well, it’s about time he called.” Aunt Rosemary gave Chelsea a hard look, then straightened away from the back of the chair. “Is something wrong with the violin?”

  The past three days had gone by at a snail’s pace. Chelsea had worried that the violin couldn’t be repaired, despite what she’d been told when she left the instrument at the store in Boise. She’d worried about the cost of repairs, if they were possible. She’d been tempted to drive down to the city and take it back, whether or not it could ever be played again.

  But Mr. Frost hadn’t said anything about repairs on the phone just now.

  “No.” She shook her head, as if trying to shake away her confusion. “He said . . . Aunt Rosemary, he said it’s a valuable instrument. Very valuable.”

  “My goodness gracious.”

  “Perhaps twenty thousand or more.” Chelsea sank onto the chair opposite her great-aunt. “He also said there was a piece of paper inside the lining. It gives the first name of the owner. The violin was a gift for her birthday.” She drew a breath, trying to hide the disappointment growing inside of her. “If it’s that valuable, it must have been brought to your shop by accident. The person who sold it or gave it must not have known its worth. If we know who the rightful owner is, we’ll have to return it.”

  “If they’re still around. Remember, whoever owned it may have left the area. Maybe that’s why they brought the violin to the shop. They were getting rid of things they no longer wanted.”

  “Maybe,” Chelsea whispered. For three days she’d believed the violin was hers. For three days, she’d imagined learning to play it. She’d even dared to dream she might become at least somewhat proficient, that she would be able to create beautiful music with it.