by Kit Morgan
“Mr. Van Cleet?” Calvin prompted. “About Mr. Branson?”
Ma’s eyes narrowed. “What about him?”
Calvin’s hands went to his hips. “He’s gone, Ma.” He kicked the dirt and waited for his mother to blast him. He’d just have to take it like a man.
“And where did he go?”
Cyrus looked at her, then Calvin. “I probably shouldn’t say this, but he left to take care of some family business. He didn’t say where, but I’m assuming Baltimore.”
“What’s the family business?” Harlan asked.
“Never mind about that,” Cyrus said. “What I will share with you is that he was in love with that pretty little gal of yours. He fell hard and fast – much like I did for Polly when we were young.”
“Then why did he leave?” Ma asked incredulously.
Cyrus shrugged. “Mr. MacDonald told him he couldn’t make a woman fall in love with him. Sound advice. C.J. made up his mind that if Rufi wanted him to court her, he would. But … if she felt she couldn’t leave her family, he wasn’t going to stand in her way.”
The look Ma gave Calvin could have bored holes through his head. “He said that?” She took a deep, slow breath. “What else did he say, Mr. Van Cleet?”
“He told me he did ask if she’d wait for him …”
“Ohhhh, tarnation!” Calvin groaned.
“Calvin …,” Ma said in her sharpest I-told-you-so voice.
“I know, I know!” He held both hands up. “I’ll fix it. I done drove him off before Rufi had a chance to realize what was more important.”
“Oh, you didn’t run him off,” Cyrus said.
Calvin felt faint. “Wha?”
“He cared enough about Rufi to let things be. For now.”
Three sets of eyes fixed on him. “For now?” Harlan said. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“The boy hasn’t given up. But as to what he’s going to do, or when, I couldn’t say.”
“And he told you this?” Ma asked.
“No, but I used to be just like him. He reminds me a lot of myself at that age. I didn’t give up.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not taking any chances.” Ma walked over to Calvin. “You and your brother fix this, you hear me?”
“Yes, Ma,” Calvin stuck his hands in his pockets as Harlan and Ma headed for the mercantile, where the stage was just pulling up.
“What are you going to do, son?” Cyrus asked.
“I have no idea, Mr. Van Cleet. I wish I did.”
Cyrus glanced around, then motioned him closer. “Maybe you need a little help,” he hissed.
Calvin met the man’s bright blue eyes and nodded. “I need a lot of help to fix this mess.”
“Then let me speak to the Cookes and MacDonalds. They tend to be good at this sort of thing.”
“Would ya? They could write me, maybe give me some advice?”
Cyrus chuckled. “Oh, they can do more than that. Trust me.”
Rufi boarded the stagecoach, a forced smile on her face. She didn’t want to upset the others, or let them know how upset she was. They had a long journey ahead. Calvin, she noticed, had climbed up alongside Willie the driver. The coward. Harlan sat across from her next to Ma, who was wedged between him and Benjamin. Each of them had a child in their lap. For once she didn’t, but she knew that wouldn’t last.
Charity and Bella climbed in with the remaining children and seated themselves with Rufi, setting Truly on her lap without even asking. “We go home!” the toddler said happily.
“That’s right.” Rufi smiled at Alastair and Hugh, who had big smiles on their faces. None of the children were fussing over leaving. Not even when it meant being crammed together in the stagecoach. If only she were as happy. The coach lurched forward and she watched the residents waving them off: the old doctor and his wife, the miracle-worker doc and his. The Dunnigans, the Mulligans, Mr. Van Cleet, a few others she didn’t recognize. August and Penelope Bennett, whose “rooster” Melvale had carted off to who knows where.
At this point she didn’t care. She just wanted to get home and pick up where she left off with her life. That’s what everyone else wanted, wasn’t it?
But she didn’t really want that, did she? Yet all this time she thought she did.
She felt so torn. She’d threatened Calvin with leaving, but could she go through with it? She had a small amount of money she’d earned from making dresses and hats with Bella and Ma, but was it enough to start elsewhere? And if she left, would the family welcome her back if she couldn’t make it on her own?
You’re still angry, you have to get over it, she thought. But how was she going to get over C.J.? And what about the regret? If only she knew where he went – she could write him, tell him how she felt (now that she’d figured it out) and apologize. He didn’t come between her and her family. She almost wished he had. But in the end, she knew how that would have turned out. Calvin would start another fight and she’d leave for the wrong reason – anger, not love.
Love. Funny how it was different for everyone. For her it wasn’t some magical feeling of sparks and heat and whatever else foolish women described. It was safety, protection, knowing someone had her back. It was looking out for the other person, providing for them selflessly. It meant survival. In the Weaver family, one could not survive without love.
She thought of Ma’s rule of three. “You have to love the person, you have to like them and you have to be in love with them,” she’d say. She’d known she liked C.J., loved him even, but only recently realized she was in love with him. That a person could fall in love so quickly, quietly and have their heart spirited away in the blink of an eye – well, she’d thought that was fantasy before. But not anymore.
But what did it matter now? She’d never see C.J. again. As soon as a several days passed without seeing him in town, she’d inquired of Mr. Van Cleet. He’d told her he went home to Baltimore. That was all she needed to hear. Baltimore was a big city – there was no way for her to contact him. That meant he didn’t want to see her again. He was done. And it was her fault.
Lord, she prayed. Preachers say You’re a gentleman, that You don’t push Yourself onto us. All I can say is thank You, because when I push You away, You don’t really go anywhere. You’re still right with me. If only C.J. was the same. But I pushed him away and he’s gone. What a fool I’ve been …
Rufi turned to the window and did her best not to let her family see her tears.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Nowhere, Washington Territory, six weeks later …
Duncan Cooke disembarked from their coach, then helped his wife out. She glanced around the tiny town. “It is about the same size as Clear Creek.”
“I dare say, you’re right.” He spied the sheriff’s office in front of them. “Well, that’s as good a place as any to start, wouldn’t you say?”
“Oui. If anyone knows where the Weavers live, it should be the sheriff.”
“If I’d been smart, I’d have asked Tom where their farm was before we left Clear Creek.” He looked up at their driver. “We’ll find their location while you see to the horses. Come, dear, let’s find the sheriff.”
They stepped onto the boardwalk as their private coach pulled away. They knew they’d have to spend the night in town – it was too late in the day to make it to the Weavers’. “Do you think our news will upset them?” Cozette asked.
“Probably, but there’s nothing to be done about it. At least they’ll know.” They reached the office but found the door locked. “Crumbs. Now what?”
“If you’re looking for Sheriff Riley, he’s at the mercantile.”
Duncan and Cozette turned to find a well-dressed older woman standing behind them. She spoke with a southern drawl and was looking at them as if they were unwanted spots on a teapot. “Thank you, dear lady.”
“You’re not from around here, are you?” she said accusingly.
“No.” He offered Cozette his arm. “Now if you’ll excus
e us …”
“I can show you where it is.” She was smiling now. “It’s no trouble.”
“Very well.” He motioned to the street. They followed her almost to the other end of town and noticed a few side streets with buildings of various sizes. “Actually, this is bigger than Clear Creek,” he said to Cozette.
“Clear Creek?” the woman said. “I’ve heard of that place.”
Cozette smiled. “Have you?”
“Yes. Oh, but where are my manners? I’m Nellie Davis. One of our deputies used to tell folks stories about that place.”
“Did he, now?” Duncan winked at his wife.
“It was probably a bunch of hogwash if you ask me,” the woman went on. “I’m sure some of it was true, but Tom Turner was prone to exaggerate.”
“Ah,” Duncan said with raised eyebrows as they stopped in front of the mercantile. “Here we are. Thank you so much.”
She preceded them up the steps. “All this nonsense about royals, dukes and duchesses. What did Tom think we are, a bunch of simpletons?”
“I can’t imagine,” Duncan said as they followed her inside.
“Well, there he is,” Mrs. Davis said. “Spencer, these folks are looking for you.”
A handsome man with thick brown hair and light green eyes turned away from the counter. “I’ll be with you in a moment, folks.” He turned back to the storekeeper, who shoved his glasses up his nose and continued wrapping something in brown paper. “Okay, Matthew, out with it.”
Matthew swallowed hard and looked at Mrs. Davis. “Um … maybe now isn’t a good time to tell you.”
“Why not?” Mrs. Davis yelped. “Land sakes, don’t keep a body in suspense! What’s your big news?”
The sheriff nodded sagely. “Yeah, Matthew, I see yer point.”
Matthew shook his head, then nodded at Duncan and Cozette. “Best take care of these strangers.”
The sheriff turned to face them. “Oh, yeah. Howdy, folks – what can I do for ya?”
“We’re looking for the Weaver farm,” Duncan said. “Could you be so kind as to direct us?”
Sheriff Riley looked them up and down. “Yer not from ‘round her, are you?”
Duncan smiled. “No.”
“What do you want with the Weavers?” the sheriff asked.
“Personal business. Can you help us with directions?”
Sheriff Riley studied them a moment, saying nothing.
Duncan walked over to him. “Perhaps introductions are in order? Then at least you’ll know who’s looking for them?”
“That would be nice. Sheriff Spencer Riley, at your service.” He offered his hand.
Duncan shook it. “The Duke and Duchess of Stantham, at yours.”
Mrs. Davis gasped. “What?!”
The man behind the counter rolled his eyes. “Why do you sound so surprised?” He smiled at them. “You’re Duncan and Cozette Cooke?”
Cozette smiled back. “Indeed.”
“I’m Matthew Quinn. Um … I’ll be right back. Charlo-o-otte!” He ran down a hall and disappeared.
Sheriff Riley started opened mouthed at them. “The Duncan Cooke? Tom’s Duncan Cooke?”
“In the flesh,” Duncan said. “We have a few more in our party – they’re taking care of our horses and seeing to our accommodations for the night. We hope to leave for the Weaver farm tomorrow but … embarrassingly, we have no map.”
Matthew the storekeeper returned with a woman in tow. “Tom’s stories are true,” he said to her out the corner of his mouth.
She stared at them. “Cookes? You mean … a real duke and duchess? Here in Nowhere?” She had the same Southern drawl as Mrs. Davis. Perhaps they were related.
“Yes, yes,” Mrs. Davis said. “Now stop gawking, Charlotte – go make some tea or something.”
“Good idea.” The younger woman hurried back down the hall.
Speaking of relations … Duncan pointed to Spencer. “You have a brother – Clayton, right?”
“Sure do.” Spencer grinned. “Has Tom told you stories about us?”
Duncan grinned. “He most certainly has.”
Spencer and Matthew’s eyes rounded. “Good or bad?” Matthew asked warily.
“All good,” Cozette said.
Mrs. Davis fanned herself. “All?”
“Oh yes,” she said. “But he didn’t have time to tell us many. We had to leave town.”
“Quite right,” Duncan said. “We must return to England but we need to take care of some belated business with the Weavers first. Now about those directions?”
“Oh yeah,” Spencer said. “Just head south out of town. After a good five hours, you’ll come to the Gundersons’ stage stop. You can break there, unless you want to try to make it in one day. It’s another five hours in a straight line to the Weavers’ from there. There’ll be a lane that leads off the main road to their farm. Right, Matthew?”
“Right. They’re cousins of mine.”
Charlotte returned to the storefront carrying a tea tray. “Good thing I had the kettle on the stove. Tea?”
Duncan exchanged a look with Cozette, who shrugged. “Very well, a cup would be nice,” he said.
They spent the next twenty minutes sipping tea and chatting with the sheriff and others when the mercantile doors opened. “EEK!” Mrs. Davis cried.
“Oh, don’t worry, he’s quite safe,” Duncan assured.
“He’s wearing a dress!” she screeched.
Dallan sighed. “I’ve taken care o’ the horses, Yer Grace.” He bowed with a flourish.
Duncan did his best not to roll his eyes. Dallan couldn’t stand enclosed spaces for long, so he’d offered to act as coachman for the journey. He was also wearing his Scottish plaid and his weapons, as he was more comfortable in such attire. His looking the fierce warrior he was, meant an occasional commotion. Thankfully, this time only Mrs. Davis was affected. “Thank you, Mr. MacDonald, that will be all.”
“You’re the … the …” Matthew snapped his fingers a few times. “… the Scotsman Tom Turner talked about.”
“It seems Sheriff Tom has talked a lot,” Cozette commented.
Duncan glanced at Dallan. “Not enough to cause anyone trouble, I’m sure.” He set his cup and saucer on the tray. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, we have things to do before we leave for the Weavers’ tomorrow. It was a pleasure meeting you all.”
Spencer and the others said their goodbyes as the trio made their way outside. “One of us must have to have a little talk with Mr. Turner,” Duncan said when they reached the street.
“The lad’s a good storyteller, I give him that,” Dallan said.
“So long as he doesn’t tell the wrong stories.”
“Aye,” Dallan agreed. “Now let’s get to the hotel. My poor wife is tired and hungry.”
Duncan looked at Cozette. “So is mine.” He took her arm, gave her hand a pat and escorted her to the hotel. The sooner they got their business done, the sooner they could go home.
Rufi hauled another crate of apples off the back of the wagon and carried it to the barn. “Here you go, Ma.”
“Put it over there with the rest of the reds, child. I’ll sort them as soon as I’m done with these pie apples.”
Rufi wiped her brow with a rag. It was hot already and they’d only been at it a few hours. Harvest time was hard work, and the heat only made it harder. If she could sneak down to the creek later, she would.
“Rufi?” Charity called as she approached. “Benjamin and Calvin want you to bring the wagon to the north orchards next. Daniel will go with you. He said they filled most of the baskets and crates already.”
“All right.” She stuffed the rag back into her apron pocket and scanned the barnyard for Daniel. He’d brought in half the load before running to use the privy.
Charity handed her a basket. “Here – I fixed you all a snack.”
“Thank you.” Rufi took it and searched the barnyard again. “You should take the children to the creek
later and make mud pies.”
“I was thinking of it.” Charity shaded her eyes as she left the barn. “Samijo!”
Samijo came running. “Here – sorry it took so long.” She placed a wrapped bundle in the basket.
“What’s that?” Rufi asked.
“Oatmeal cookies. The men will wolf those sandwiches down in no time – make sure you get one.”
Rufi sighed. “That’s all right, I’m not hungry.”
Samijo glanced at Charity and back. “Eat, for Heaven’s sake. I swear you’re wasting away.”
Rufi looked at herself. She had lost weight since their return from Clear Creek, but was it any wonder? Who knew heartbreak could be such an good and effective diet? But she was past “good” and had moved on to “gaunt.”
“She’s right, you know,” Charity said. “Please eat something.”
Rufi managed a half-hearted smile. “I will.”
“Promise?” Samijo said.
Rufi sighed again. “Promise.” She caught sight of Daniel heading for the wagon. He stopped in the middle of the barnyard and stared down the lane. “What’s he looking at?” She started across the yard but saw nothing. “What is it?” she called.
He shook his head. “Thought I heard a wagon comin’. Guess I was wrong …”
Rufi’s heart leaped in her chest. For days she’d thought she heard a wagon, only to be disappointed by her own imagination. She didn’t bother looking past the house this time. “We’d better go. Charity and Samijo gave us some food for everyone.”
“Good, I’m starvin’!” He climbed up one side of the wagon as Rufi climbed the other. They settled on the wagon seat and Rufi picked up the reins. “Giddup!” The horses started off.
They had just entered the orchard when they heard Charity shout, “Stop!”
Rufi brought the team to a halt. “What is it now?” She twisted around to look.
“Who’s that?” Daniel asked when he did the same.
“Oh my …,” Rufi squeaked as tears stung her eyes. That was no normal wagon. That was the duke and duchess’ private coach. Could it be?