by Cat Cahill
Ivy rolled up the cloth that had held their lunch while Andrew settled himself on the ground against the fallen tree trunk. He was quiet as he watched the children play, and just looking at the way his eyes crinkled now and the sunbeams lightening his hair made her think of just a little while ago, when he’d clutched her to him and she’d caught that look in his eye.
Her cheeks warmed as she fussed unnecessarily with the roll of cloth in her hand. What had that meant? Or did it mean anything at all? And what did it matter, considering he wouldn’t tell her the one thing she wanted to know?
Maggie’s advice replayed through Ivy’s mind as she set the cloth down and leaned back against the trunk too. Perhaps he would be more inclined to open up to her if she told him about Mr. St. Clair. She pressed her bare hands into the pine needle-covered ground for strength. “Andrew?”
“Hmm?” He turned lazy eyes toward her, and just looking at him brought back every thought and feeling she’d had when they’d tumbled to the ground.
The heat began to rise in her face again, and she looked away on the pretense of keeping an eye on Oliver and Sarah, who were racing around and between the trees now. “The children have an uncle, an Edward St. Clair of Chicago.”
Andrew sat up when she paused, all traces of laziness gone from his face, as if he knew she were about to tell him something important.
Ivy fingered a lone piece of grass that had dared to grow up in the midst of the needle-strewn carpet. “He wanted to bring them to Chicago and raise them.” She stopped again, uncertain how to proceed.
“But you’d already given them a home?” he finally asked.
Ivy nodded, plucking the blade of grass. “My family and I. I come from a large family, I’m not sure if I told you that. Mama and Papa were more than happy to take in Lucy and Noble’s children.” She glanced at him to find him smiling at her.
“It sounds as if it would have been a good place for them to grow up.”
“It would have . . .” The grass snapped in Ivy’s hand and she crumpled her fingers around it as the fear that had arrived with Mr. St. Clair’s letter wound its way through her again. She drew in a deep breath. They were safe here, she reminded herself.
“What happened?” Andrew’s eyebrows were drawn into a concerned expression.
Ivy swallowed. “My sister married a good man, but the rest of his family . . . The St. Clairs take what they want with little regard for anyone else. It’s how they grew their business. It’s likely why they’re so well off. They’re also not particularly kind.” She was putting it nicely. She couldn’t imagine Oliver and Sarah growing up with the St. Clairs, not after what Lucy had told her about them. And especially not with what Lucy had told her about Edward St. Clair after his visit. He’d been endlessly cruel to Noble, to friends, to servants, to strangers, all his life. Ivy shuddered, remembering some of the stories Lucy had heard from Noble. She didn’t dare imagine how he’d treat a wife or children. “He wouldn’t have stopped at anything to take them. Their childhood wouldn’t have been joyful,” she said, hoping Andrew would understand.
He nodded, a serious expression on his face as he turned to watch Sarah chasing her older brother. “And that’s why they had to leave?”
“Yes,” Ivy said, noticing he’d said “they” and not “you.” A deep embarrassment rose through her as she remembered Mr. St. Clair’s assumption she would marry him. It was such a horrible thought that she couldn’t imagine saying it out loud. Why had he chosen her? What had she done that made him assume she’d agree to marry him? “I was the only one free to care for them. My family didn’t have the funds for me to simply take the children somewhere else. My friend Maggie—the one who visited the other day—found her husband through a marriage newspaper, and that was the only way out I could think of. And when I saw your advertisement, living in the same valley Maggie had come to and also wanting a marriage by proxy, I took it as a sign from God.”
Andrew was watching her again, and she wondered if she should tell him about what else Mr. St. Clair had demanded. But that white-hot shame flooded through her again, and she couldn’t have spoken the words out loud whether she wanted to or not. What if he believed she’d done something to encourage Mr. St. Clair’s attentions? What she had told him would have to suffice. It didn’t matter anyhow—they’d never see Mr. St. Clair again.
“You are incredibly brave, Ivy Chisholm,” Andrew said, sitting up straighter.
His words melted the embarrassment away and replaced it with a comfortable warmth. He’d used his name as her surname. Which was her name now, but it was the first time he’d spoken it aloud.
“He doesn’t know where you’ve gone?” Andrew asked.
“No. I told no one except my family and the judge I visited in another town to be married.” Ivy hoped it was enough. It had to be enough.
“I went to Cañon City.” Andrew’s eyes were cast toward the ground. “To get the marriage license,” he added.
Sarah shouted, drawing Ivy’s attention away from the questions she wanted to ask him. Oliver had collected a stack of pinecones and placed her doll on the top. She seemed appeased, and Ivy returned her gaze to Andrew, only to find him watching the children also. A smile sat on his face, and joy lit Ivy up inside. He truly liked Oliver and Sarah. Here she’d been so worried he might not care for having children around, and now it seemed he’d taken to them more than he had to her. It was fine, she told herself. It was far more important they grew up with a man who cared for them than it was that she find love. Yet the thought left her feeling bereft inside, as if she’d lost something she’d never really had.
“You went to Cañon City?” Ivy finally replied, trying to pick up the conversation where they’d left it.
“Yes.” Andrew drew a leg up, looking more relaxed than she’d ever seen him. “To sign the marriage license.” He paused, seemingly lost in thought, before continuing. “Did you know this past Sunday is the first I’ve been to a church in . . . well, probably over two years.” At her questioning face, he continued, “There wasn’t a church in Crest Stone when Mary and I first arrived. And then when there was, she wasn’t here, and I . . .”
His eyes grew cloudy and Ivy could tell the thought pained him. She reached out and laid a hand on his arm. It felt natural, and she didn’t think twice about it until he looked down at her hand. “I’m sorry about Mary.”
He covered her hand with his own, warm and calloused from work. “Thank you. You know, no one ever said that to me.”
Ivy’s heart ached. When Lucy and Noble had passed, it seemed the entire town offered their condolences. Friends of her mother had brought food, girls she’d known since childhood had come to visit, the men had ensured her father wasn’t left alone too often. Even drunken Mr. Etter—the one who’d taken away Maggie’s employment and caused her to leave Plainfield—had brought a basket of tinned food from his shop. She couldn’t imagine losing someone she loved with no one else around who cared.
“That’s terrible,” she said. “You deserved better.”
He grimaced. “I don’t know that I did.” And with that, he drew his hand away and stood before moving toward the children.
Ivy drew her legs up and wrapped her arms around them, a million different thoughts racing through her mind. Why did he keep pushing her away? And why did she want him not to, especially when she still didn’t know what had happened to Mary? Why wouldn’t he tell her?
Chapter Ten
Andrew spent more time in the barn that evening after taking care of the animals. He’d sent Oliver in early, claiming the boy needed more rest after their excursion into the mountains, when really it was Andrew who needed time alone. He worked steadily, cutting wood, fitting it together, nailing, sanding. The work was good. It kept him out of the parlor, where he wanted desperately to be, and it gave him time to think.
The sun had long set by the time he emerged from the barn. And instead of making his way toward the well, he turned instead and went ar
ound the barn toward a little copse of trees that stood where the land rose just slightly. There, just before the pines and a smattering of early bellflowers barely visible in the light of the half moon, Mary rested with a simple wooden marker.
Andrew ran his hand over the marker. He’d fashioned it himself, only days after her passing. He remembered nothing about its creation, only that he was so numb it was impossible to feel anything. It was holding up well, at least.
He sank to his knees. It was silent around him. There was no wind, no sounds from the barn, not even the chirping or calling of any insects or night birds. The silence pressed in on him, and his heart seemed to squeeze until he forced out the words. “I’m sorry, Mary.”
It wasn’t the first time he’d said those words to her in the past year and a half. He’d apologized again and again for the accident, and yet it never made the guilt ease. But this time, he was apologizing for something else—for the way he’d acted with Ivy earlier. And for the thoughts that had come unbidden into his mind.
He was weak. That was the only explanation. She was beautiful and kind and he had no right at all to hold her hand the way he had. It wasn’t right.
Andrew gripped the smooth wood grave marker and resolved to do better. He owed it to Mary. And he certainly owed it to Ivy. She came here to keep those children safe, not to put herself into danger.
“I went to church,” he said. There was no answer, of course, but somehow saying it out loud made him feel as if she were there. “And I taught Oliver how to saddle the mule. He’s a smart boy, and he’s good with animals.”
A bit of wind rustled the grasses around him. Andrew told her more, about the funny things Sarah said, about the picnic, about the crops this year. He didn’t speak about Ivy, and yet, as he knelt there going on and on, he couldn’t help but wonder what was wrong with him.
Most men wouldn’t be out here in the dark, talking to the dead when there was a real, live woman in the house nearby who would be more than happy to talk with him.
Andrew stood, wishing Mary could speak to him. What would she say? Would she agree it was his fault? Or would she tell him to go inside?
He ran a hand through his hair, sighing in frustration. There were no easy answers.
All he knew was that it was getting harder to err on the side of caution.
Chapter Eleven
Ivy couldn’t have been more surprised when Andrew suggested they spend a few hours in town after church services on a Sunday in late June. She packed a light meal before they left that morning, which they enjoyed near Silver Creek after services before strolling back into town.
The stares had continued each Sunday they’d come to church, though they’d slowly diminished. During church, Ivy had caught more than one person looking at her and Andrew, and now, walking back into town together, she felt eyes on her again. She pressed her shoulders back and pretended not to notice. Even after a month of being his wife, he still hadn’t answered her question about Mary. And, to her dismay, he’d returned to spending more time in the barn each evening. She’d hoped that after he’d taken her hand that afternoon in the mountains, things might change between them. But nothing had. He still gazed at her with a darkened look in his eyes, one that made her stomach feel as if it might fly right on out of her body, yet he made no move to grow any closer to her.
Oliver caught sight of a small group of children playing in an open area between the hardware store and what appeared to be a schoolhouse. He looked up at her with pleading eyes.
“Go on,” she said. “Take your sister and keep an eye on her.”
Even with the added responsibility of Sarah, Oliver grinned and raced toward the children with his sister on his heels.
“Are you certain?” Andrew asked. He wasn’t looking at the children so much as he was watching the adults who stood in front of the hardware store.
Ivy scrunched up her forehead and scanned the men outside the store. “Why? Is it dangerous?” None of them looked particularly malevolent. In fact, half looked like they’d just come from church, while the others appeared to be ranchers or townsfolk holding purchases from the store.
Andrew shook his head, and that was when Ivy spotted the women. Two of them, standing alongside the hardware store. They must have had children among those who were playing, but their eyes were on Ivy and Andrew.
Frustrated, Ivy drew in a breath. If only he’d tell her what it was about Mary’s death that made people stare at them. “I doubt a hard stare or two will put the children in danger,” she said in an icier tone than she’d meant. “They need playmates.”
Andrew didn’t speak for a moment. And then he nodded. “You’re right. It’ll be good for them.” He slapped his hat against his thigh before replacing it on his head. “I need to make a trip into the hardware store. Perhaps you’d prefer looking about the mercantile? You could choose some fabric.”
Her irritation momentarily forgotten, Ivy agreed. She wanted to make another shirt for Andrew, and both Sarah and Oliver would need new clothing before long.
Ivy took one last glance at the children playing happily with the other boys and girls before passing the hardware store and finding the Crest Stone Mercantile and General Store not too far away. The building looked as if it had been a farmhouse before it was a shop, and when she stepped inside, Ivy immediately felt a pang of homesickness. While the store looked nothing like the one at home, many of the items inside were the same. There was a corner filled with tools and shovels and other outdoor equipment. Shiny glass bottles filled with tonics and medicines sat on shelves next to her. A selection of hairbrushes and various combs and other pretty items for hair waited nearby. One aisle was all tinned food. A small selection of children’s toys was on display, and Ivy felt herself drawn to it. She’d never had need to purchase anything for children before, but looking at the tops and dolls and little animal figures, she could just imagine Oliver and Sarah enjoying them.
Leaving the toys behind, Ivy wandered toward the rear of the shop, where the counter was located. Finding an open space between a barrel of flour and a smaller barrel brimming with striped candy, Ivy waited for the blonde woman behind the counter to finish helping a young man clad in working clothes, complete with streaks of dirt. A few other customers perused the items on the shelves and against the walls, but otherwise the store was empty. Ivy supposed most folks did their shopping on days other than the Lord’s day. She certainly had, at home, when it was easier to do so.
“Good afternoon,” the woman said, and Ivy turned to find her ready to help. “I’m Caroline Drexel. I don’t believe we’ve met before?”
To Mrs. Drexel’s credit, if she recognized Ivy, she didn’t say so. Ivy returned her friendly smile. “I’m Ivy Chisholm. My husband has a homestead east of town.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Mrs. Drexel said. “Did you want to place an order?”
Ivy shook her head. “I was hoping you might have some fabrics. I need to make some clothing.”
“We do. I had my husband move it to another room.” She leaned forward just a little, and said in a low voice, “The men kept touching it and it was getting filthy.”
Ivy had to repress a giggle at the thought of grown men unable to resist running their hands over poplins and muslins.
“Tell me what you’d like to make, and I’ll fetch you some options.”
Ivy described the shirts and dresses she was hoping to make, and Mrs. Drexel returned with bolt after bolt of fabric. It had been so long since Ivy had chosen something new for herself or anyone else. Her skirts at home had almost always been altered from ones that Lucy had passed down to her. She’d reworked old clothing for her younger siblings and for Luke, too, pulling seams and taking in hems, sometimes adding a ruffle or pleats for the girls or new buttons for the boys.
“They’re all so beautiful,” she said, looking at the new fabric with reverence.
Mrs. Drexel seemed to sense Ivy was overwhelmed with the decision. “This blu
e would be nice for shirts for your husband and son. And I’m partial to the brown calico for a little girl.”
Ivy nodded, unable to correct Mrs. Drexel’s assumption that the children were hers. With the decision made, Mrs. Drexel set about cutting the fabric, pausing only to accept payment and wrap up a small item for another customer.
Alone in the store, with only the sound of the scissors cutting through the calico, the plan Ivy had hatched and quickly discarded when Maggie came to visit pressed on the corners of her mind. Andrew hadn’t been forthcoming, and it was past time Ivy knew the truth. She watched Mrs. Drexel fold the calico and tried to figure out how to place her question into words.
But Mrs. Drexel spoke first. “I believe I did see your family at services this morning. How do you find our little church? As you can see, we only have the one.”
“Oh, I like it just fine,” Ivy replied, clasping her hands behind her as Caroline began to measure the blue fabric. “Mrs. Drexel, I . . .” She trailed off, unable still to find the right words for the awkward question.
“Please call me Caroline,” the other woman said with a warm smile.
“Caroline,” Ivy repeated, her nerves lessening some. “You may call me Ivy, of course.”
There was a pause, during which Caroline remeasured the fabric she’d unwound. When she picked up the scissors again, she asked, “Did you have a question?”
Ivy pressed her lips together for courage. She wanted to know, didn’t she? “As you’re likely aware, I’ve only just married my husband. It was . . . an arrangement . . .”
“Mail order?” Caroline asked with a slight smile. “I’m familiar with the concept. Two of my dear friends had the idea to start a paper locally. They have it printed in Cañon City and send it to multiple cities back East. They’ve had a fair amount of success with it. And many men here and in Cañon City have found happy marriages.”
Ivy nodded, though she said nothing about the happy marriage. She wouldn’t call hers unhappy . . . more like confused. One moment Andrew held her hand and looked at her as if she were the only woman in the world, and the next, he’d grow distant and secretive.