A Heart's Gift

by Lena Nelson Dooley

  While Thomas quickly dismounted, Franklin rushed to her side. He slipped his arms under Mrs. Sullivan and lifted her against his chest. “You get the rifle and come in. I’m going to find some place to lay her down. Shock must’ve been too much for her.”

  It had been a long time since he’d been close to a woman, and he’d never cradled one in his arms like this. Feelings he thought he’d killed long ago threatened to break free, but he stuffed them far down inside, closing and locking the door. Franklin didn’t need this kind of complication in his ordered life. But the warmth of her body nestled against his chest made him feel off balance. After he entered the house, he glanced around the room.

  The cabin was well-built and showed a woman’s touch. Franklin’s quick perusal soon revealed the absence of a bed in the first room, so he paced across the floor toward the other door. After placing the rifle on the table in the main room, Thomas came and opened the door for Franklin, who gently deposited the woman on the bed covered with a colorful quilt.

  “See if you can find some water for her to drink.” Mulling over what to do now, Franklin stared down at the woman.

  Thomas returned and handed him the tin cup.

  “Stay here with me. Can’t have any impropriety attached to her name...or in her thoughts.”

  Lorinda fluttered her eyelids, trying to decide where she was and what happened. Two strange men stood beside her bed. Reality crashed in on her. Mike wasn’t coming home…ever. Tears spilled down her cheeks while she tried to sit up. She quickly swiped them away.

  “Here, let me help you.” The gentle voice came from the tall rancher who had pronounced the death knell outside. His arm slid behind her back and lifted her away from the bed until she could sit on the side.

  He hunkered close beside her. “Mrs. Sullivan, we need to bury your husband. Where would you like us to dig his grave?”

  His gently-spoken words took a moment to sink in. Grave? Lorinda had never thought about such a thing. She knew people died all the time, but not Mike. He was such a young man...so strong and virile.

  She glanced at Mr. Vine, then away. “I don’t know.” Lorinda slowly rose to her feet, and he stood, too.

  “If it’s all right. with you, I’ll let Thomas choose a place. Maybe under one of the trees.” The rancher led the way into the main room of the cabin.

  Lorinda followed almost in a daze. “That’s fine with me.”

  Her legs still felt shaky. The news had hit her hard. She’d never fainted in her life. Not even when the pain from the beatings Pa gave her overwhelmed her. She settled into the rocking chair Mike made for her last birthday. The motion of the chair added to her feelings of unease, so she stopped it.

  After his foreman left the room, Franklin Vine stood by one window and moved aside the gingham curtains to look out. Lorinda had chosen the red color to cheer up the cabin, but it wasn’t helping today. The pall of her sorrow made the air in the room almost too heavy to breathe.

  The man turned and strode back into the bedroom and returned with the cup of water. Mike’s cup. The thought caused a hitch in her heart and almost led to another sob.

  “Here...” Mr. Vine thrust the cup toward her. “...drink this.”

  Obediently, she took the cold metal in her hands and lifted it to her lips. The water did taste good in her dry throat. While she drank, a thought hit her like a steam engine. What if it wasn’t Mike?

  “I haven’t seen the body.” She hesitated when the man frowned. “I have to be sure it’s my husband.”

  His frown deepened until his strong brows dipped almost hiding his eyes. “He was pretty beaten up, and we didn’t find him right away.” He paused as if he were gathering his thoughts. “I think you’d rather remember him the way he was the last time you saw him.” He shoved his hand into the front pocket of his denim trousers and quickly drew it out. “He had this on him.” When he thrust his hand toward her, a gold pocket watch lay in his open palm.

  Lorinda picked it up and flipped open the cover to read the inscription inside. To Mike from Lorinda. She closed the cover and clutched it in her right hand, remembering how proud she’d been when she gave it to her husband on their first anniversary. And Mike had been just as proud. So this really is him. Her moment of hope evaporated taking most of her fragile strength with it.

  “How did he die?” She almost hesitated to ask. Did she really want to know what horror befell her husband?

  “We’re not sure...” He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand again. “No way to tell.”

  Numbness settled so deeply inside her that she didn’t think she’d ever feel anything again.

  “I’ve been thinking about what needs to happen now.” Like a caged animal, the rancher walked toward the stove, then back while he talked. “I’ve decided the best thing would be for you to come back to the homestead. I have a housekeeper who would be glad to have you there. You don’t need to stay here alone.”

  He has decided? Another man who wanted to tell her what to do. Just like Pa... Just like Mike. Well, he wouldn’t get away with it. She didn’t have to obey him. Lorinda stood and pulled herself to her full height before facing him. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  His eyes widened. Obviously, he’d expected her to be compliant.

  “Before Mike left, he bought plenty of supplies to last through the winter. I’ll be just fine.” She lifted her chin at the end of the last statement, hoping it would show her determination.

  “You’ll be snowed in before long. Besides, you’ll need people around you while you grieve. Maybe you could go stay with your family. I’d be glad to make sure you have a way to get there.” His eyes held sympathy as they bored into hers.

  Lorinda turned away from his intense gaze. “I. Have. No. Family.” She bit out the words one at a time, and they fell like stones against the hard floor.

  Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw the man rub the bridge of his nose between two fingers of one hand. Lorinda looked him full in the face and was surprised that pain had drawn his eyes into a squint, and his mouth tightened before he relaxed. Perhaps he had a headache.

  “Can you tell me anything about my husband’s death?” She was glad she got all the words out without sobbing.

  “Not really. We don’t know exactly what day he was killed.” When his foreman opened the front door and came in, Mr. Vine looked relieved.

  “I’ve found a good spot.” Thomas Walker took off his hat and held it in front of his waist. “If it’s all right with you, Ma’am, we’ll bury him under the large aspen tree to the west of the dugout. The one that stands off to itself.”

  Lorinda nodded. Any place was fine with her. At least she didn’t need to think about choosing a spot anymore.

  “If the ground’s frozen too hard, we’ll use some of your wood for a fire to soften it, if that’s all right with you, Ma’am.” The tall rancher didn’t move until she nodded.

  Burying her husband took far longer than Lorinda ever dreamed it would. While the two men dug in the ground they thawed, she sat in the rocking chair by the stove remembering all the good times with Mike. She didn’t want to think about the hard times. The pain from her loss was too intense.

  Memories assailed her–Mike when he came for her and carried her away from her father’s house while he was passed out drunk on the bed. Tall, strong, and handsome, Mike had earned her trust. He took her to the next town where he had a preacher ready to marry them. After that, they’d ridden across country for over a week, camping at night until they reached the Rocky Mountains.

  Lorinda had never seen anything so majestic. They’d spied the hazy purple peaks that reached to the cloudy sky for three days before they reached the foothills. The stop in Denver had only taken a couple of days while Mike bought all they needed to prospect for gold. As they climbed up the rugged roads, then the tiny trails, toward the gold mine Mike had discovered, she’d been happy, loving this man who’d brought sunshine into her meager existence.

>   Tears continued to stream down her face, and she dabbed them away with the damp handkerchief she pulled from her pocket.

  Their first home had been the dugout, where all her provisions for winter now resided. They’d worked side by side felling trees, then building the cabin. Even though Mike was bossy, she’d loved him with all her heart, reveling in the freedom from the pain that had filled her life before.

  By the time the rancher and his foreman returned to the house, tears had soaked every thread of the handkerchief she twisted in her hands. She looked up as they came through the door.

  “Ma’am, we’re ready to say a few words over the grave. Would you like to join us?” Once again, Mr. Vine’s voice sounded calm and soothing. No man in her life had ever spoken to her as he did.

  Lorinda patted her eyes, but the sodden cotton couldn’t hold another tear. Mr. Vine reached into his pocket and pulled out a bandanna that had been ironed into a neat compact square. He unfolded it and handed it to her.

  Franklin stood behind the crude cross Thomas made out of a limb and a leather thong he had in his saddlebags. His foreman and Mrs. Sullivan were on opposite sides of the new mound of dirt. Both stared at the ground. Franklin cleared his throat.

  “‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me.”’ The words he’d often read poured from his mouth as if he had spent time memorizing them. Thank you, Lord, for bringing them to mind.

  Mrs. Sullivan’s quiet sob pierced his heart. How he wished he could somehow comfort the forlorn woman. If only she’d let them take her away from this lonely mountain.

  ‘“Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.”’ Franklin searched his memory for the next words, but nothing came. This woman needed all the comfort he could give her. ‘“And I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”’

  Thomas murmured a quiet “Amen,” and another sob wrenched from Mrs. Sullivan. Slowly, she sank to her knees on the cold, wet ground and buried her face in her hands. Her shoulders shook, but no other sound escaped her.

  A tiny crack slithered down the hard shell Franklin had built around his heart. If only things were different. If only...

  He didn’t like revisiting the hurt he’d sustained when his intended ran off with his best friend. Franklin hadn’t trusted anyone since that pivotal time. And he never let himself feel any emotion. This broken woman demanded nothing of him, but something inside him wanted to take away her pain. If she wouldn’t accept the help he offered, he needed to get away from her as quickly as possible.

  Lorinda felt the rancher’s presence before he spoke a word. Probably hunkering beside her as he had in the bedroom after she fainted.

  “Mrs. Sullivan, I’d feel a lot better if you’d come home with us. You wouldn’t have to stay long, but I don’t want to leave you here alone.”

  She lifted her head and turned to stare into eyes so dark, they were almost black. The intensity of his gaze pierced all the way to her soul. She reached one hand to the ground to steady herself as she started to stand.

  Mr. Vine must have anticipated her move because he rose with the sleekness of the panthers that roamed these mountains. He gently pulled her to her feet, then stepped back.

  Lorinda lowered her head and concentrated on his cowboy boots. “Thank you, Mr. Vine, but I’ll be all right. I don’t want to leave our land.” She pointed toward the newly-turned dirt. “Or my husband.”

  Even though Lorinda meant every word she said, when she watched the two men head back down the trail, a feeling of desolation washed over her almost sweeping her away... A cumbersome loneliness settled in her heart like one of the many boulders lining the trail. She stood beside the mound that covered her husband’s body until no more hoofbeats echoed off the rocks.

  “Mike, why did you leave me behind?” A wealth of meaning accompanied the thundering words as she stalked back into the cabin, pulling the door closed behind her.

  She looked at everything with new eyes. Her world had just been torn asunder. This was her home, not hers and Mike’s. She touched his jacket that still hung on the peg beside the door, lifting the sleeve and breathing in his essence. One day, she’d pack his things away , but not right now. The need for her surroundings to stay the same engulfed her.

  Mike had been her whole world. She’d stayed on the mountain whenever Mike went to Breckenridge. She didn’t want to chance being seen by her father or uncle if they came this way looking for her. Mike always brought her whatever she asked for, and she was satisfied to work on their happy home.

  She’d never felt this strong need to be around other people, and she was too stubborn to change her mind about going to the Rocking V even though her solitude made her soul ache.

  “How will I ever make it through the winter?” She spoke the words out loud, because for that moment she needed to feel as if she were talking to someone.

  Life should be more than just sustenance, but that’s all she could see in her bleak, lonely future.

  Chapter 3

  March, 1894

  Franklin Vine’s attention was shanghaied from the book-work on the desk in front of him to that time right after the first snowfall when he took Sullivan’s body up the mountain to his wife. Almost every day since, her tortured expression broke into his thoughts at some time or another. More than once, he’d even sent one of the hands up to check on her, but she always insisted she was fine. Then the heavy snows made the trail impassable.

  Since he’d had the men cut enough wood to last her through the winter and then some, he knew he didn’t have to worry about her. But that didn’t stop his uneasy feeling. When he and Thomas had been up there, he’d even checked the dugout she’d mentioned. Plenty of supplies for a couple of people reached the earthen ceiling. Being alone in a cabin for so many months caused more than one man to go a little loco. What would it do to a grieving young widow? He’d never been able to understand what made women tick.

  As Franklin turned back toward his desk, he glanced over the wall of shelves lined with leather-bound volumes. If he knew he would spend the winter cut off in a cabin alone, he’d have made sure he had plenty of books to read. He couldn’t remember seeing any in the Sullivan cabin, but he hadn’t been looking for books. He hoped she had some packed away in a trunk. Or maybe, like many of the settlers, she couldn’t read. If she couldn’t, what would she do to while away the long hours...days...weeks in isolation?

  Why did this widow weigh so heavily on him? She was really no concern of his, but maybe the Lord kept bringing her to mind because she didn’t have a protector. Surely God didn’t want him to step into the breach, but who else was there? She’d said she had no family, and something about the way she said it made him think that wasn’t all that needed to be said about her past. But if she had family somewhere, why would she stay on the remote mountain alone?

  Franklin forced his thoughts back to the lists and figures on the pages of the ledger. The ranch finances were in good shape, and he should feel satisfied. Instead, restlessness ate at him, making him want to jump up and pace. But pacing wouldn’t balance the books. Neither would it provide any kind of assistance to Mrs. Sullivan.

  He worked his way through three separate accounts before the sound of a horse’s hooves thundered closer and closer to the house. Might as well see what was going on. He laid his pen beside the capped inkwell before he stood and stretched the kinks from his shoulder then headed toward the front door.

  Thomas pulled his lathered horse to a stop beside the hitching post outside the picket fence. The one Mariam insisted on. Franklin shook his head. Why was he thinking about her now? For years he’d been able to keep her locked in the dark dungeon of his mind, but since holding the Sullivan woman in his arms, memories of Mariam often intruded as well. He should have the men pull up that blasted picket fence. Anything to purge her from his thoughts.

  Franklin stood on the porch and frowned as he watched Thomas jump off his mount. Steam rose i
nto the frigid air from the lathering sweat coating parts of the horse. His foreman must have ridden fast a long ways for the horse to be in that condition. Thomas loved good horseflesh, and Franklin had never seen his horse in this condition. Must really be some emergency.

  “Boss, there’s a fire!” Thomas stomped up the flagstone walkway and placed one booted foot on the bottom step. He stared straight into Franklin’s face, waiting for his response.

  The dreaded word made Franklin’s heartbeat race. Uncontrolled fire was never good, especially on a large ranch, even if the spring thaw was just starting. Enough dry trees and brush stuck up out of the dwindling blanket of snow that a small fire could quickly turn into a blazing inferno.

  “Where?” He glanced around, trying to see the smoke.

  Thomas took a heaving breath. “Up the mountain, near where we buried Sullivan.”

  Once again, Mrs. Sullivan’s face swam before him, tears tracking down her pale cheeks. “Do you think it could be the cabin?”

  Thomas nodded. “Looks like it, but we can’t tell for sure from here. Whatever it is, that woman’ll need help.”

  “Hitch up the wagon and load it with barrels of rainwater, buckets, and blankets. Round up some of the hands on the way. Maybe we can keep the flames from spreading. Plenty of snow up there, too. We can throw that on the fire, if need be.” Franklin pulled the front door of the ranch house closed before stepping off the porch.

  “I’ll get right on it.” Thomas shot the words over his shoulder as he barreled toward the barn.

  “I’m going on up the mountain.” Franklin scurried after him.

  Lorinda awakened from another bad dream, a scream stuck in her throat. The dreams came far too often. But this one was different. It was filled with smoky air. She peered into the darkness, wondering how long it would be before dawn. She felt as if she’d been sleeping for hours. The smell of smoke gagged her, too strong to be a dream. She had banked the coals last night, and she’d need to add kindling and stir them up to get the stove going.