Springwater Seasons

by Linda Lael Miller

  “It’s all right, Alma,” she said as tenderly as she could. She’d come west because Michael had summoned her at long last, because she’d had nowhere else to go, her reputation thoroughly spoiled, and she was set on taking hold and making a good life for herself and for the babies. “I’ll provide for them.”

  Alma looked decidedly relieved as she groped for the back of a chair and then lowered herself shakily onto the frayed cushion of the seat. Jessica knew a moment of deep chagrin; yes, she had lost a beloved brother, and with shattering suddenness, but Alma had cherished Victoria, daughter of her long-dead and much idolized brother, Frank. Jessica knew all that from her correspondence with Michael. Alma and her husband had never had children of their own.

  Settled at last, the older woman looked up at Jessica with eyes awash in tears. “You won’t put those poor little darlings into a foundling home, will you?” she asked in a breathless rush. “Why, there are folks right around here who’d take them in. Good people. Gage Calloway told me just the other day—”

  Gage Calloway. Now there was a name Jessica definitely remembered from her brother’s letters. Mr. Calloway had wanted to be mayor of Springwater, and Michael had campaigned against him. He’d responded by using the power of his wealth to destroy her brother, however indirectly.

  Jessica raised a slightly tremulous hand to call a halt to Alma’s discourse. Under other circumstances she might have waxed indignant at the mere suggestion—consign Michael’s children to an orphanage?—but she knew Alma’s emotions were as brittle as her own, and therefore made a sturdy attempt to hold her annoyance in check. They were both doing the best they could under very trying conditions, and there was nothing to be gained by the exchange of harsh and hasty words.

  Jessica straightened her shoulders and smoothed her black sateen skirts, as she generally did whenever she was challenged in any way. “You may rest assured that I will raise those children with as much care and devotion as I would if they were my own.” She paused, then slid her teeth over her lower lip once, in a gesture of suppressed exasperation. Her voice, when she spoke, was almost plaintive. “How could you think for one moment that I would give them up? Those little girls are the only family I have now.” Michael had no doubt told Alma how his and Jessica’s parents had died in a carriage accident, leaving their two small children to be raised by a bachelor uncle who took little interest in the task.

  Alma would not meet Jessica’s gaze—not immediately, in any case—and even though she started at the sound of footsteps on the covered stairs leading to the crude board sidewalk out front, there was an air of profound relief about her, too. She had been spared making a reply and that was probably just as well Michael, no doubt, had described his sister as a spinster, somewhat distant, with no knowledge or particular fondness for babies. The Covington children, being older, had needed an entirely different sort of care.

  Indeed, she did wonder how she was ever going to adjust to Springwater, with its one store, one church, and scattered handful of houses. Without Michael, it had little or no appeal.

  Patting her fair hair to make sure none of it had escaped its pins to tumble untidily down her neck, Jessica put her private reflections aside for the moment at least, crossed the room, and opened the door. The caller, a dark-haired man of imposing height, with eyes the color of malachite, had one fist raised, poised to knock. A chill wind rushed past him to nip at Jessica’s very bones, and yet the sight of him caused a warm wrench, somewhere deep inside, leaving her with a sense of having turned some mysterious spiritual corner.

  Always wary of strangers and equally determined to disguise that fact, Jessica lengthened her spine and did not even attempt a smile. The man’s effect upon her was, she concluded, reason to be extra cautious.

  “Good day,” she said politely, if not warmly, lending the greeting the tone of a question. She might as well have told him “State your business and leave.”

  “Miss Barnes?” His teeth were as white as any she’d ever seen, and he smelled of fresh air and snow and the distant pine trees that covered the foothills.

  She tried to look pleasant, if not exactly glad to see him. These were frontier people, and it was probably considered neighborly to pay a call on any new arrival. “Yes?” she said. She did not step back or invite the visitor inside. This was, after all, a household in mourning and, therefore, seclusion.

  He removed his hat, a rather dapper affair with a round brim and a band of shimmering silver conchos, holding it in both hands. His hair was thick and had a silky gloss to it, Jessica noticed, and she was amazed at herself when she felt an instinctive desire to reach up and flick a lock of it back from his forehead with the ends of her fingers. Her reaction was curious indeed, and she would have been the last person who would presume to explain it.

  “My name is Gage Calloway,” the man announced after clearing his throat once. Even that simple statement sounded eloquent coming from him, but of course it landed on her with all the weight of a derailed freight car. Here, then, was her brother’s enemy. Her enemy, now that Michael was gone.

  “I’m the mayor of Springwater.” He paused, looking pained. “We’re awfully sorry about your brother, Miss Barnes. The townsfolk, I mean. It must have been a real shock to step down from the stage and be told right off that a loved one had passed over… .”

  Jessica’s throat constricted at the memory; it was indeed fresh to the point of rawness, and her eyes stung. A sort of cold fury filled her, mingled with a deep sense of guilt because she knew she had instantly warmed to the man despite all he’d done. Had the visitor been practically anyone else, she would have invited him in, offered him tea, perhaps, and certainly a chair next to the fire. As it was, she simply could not make the necessary effort. “You will forgive us, Mr. Calloway—” she began, fully intending to send him on his way, but before she could complete the sentence, Alma interrupted.

  “Why, Gage, it’s dear of you to come calling,” the other woman said from the doorway of the tiny kitchen, in a voice Jessica would have sworn was fluttery. “Do come in out of the wind. I’ve put some coffee on to brew, and you look frozen straight through.”

  Gage Calloway met Jessica’s unyielding gaze, albeit briefly, and nodded his acceptance of Alma’s invitation. The smile he gave, reserved for Alma, was dazzling. “I wouldn’t mind a few minutes by the fire,” he allowed. “Looks like we’re in for a pretty bad winter.”

  Jessica was left with no viable choice but to step aside, short of spreading both arms and barring his way. Judging by the size of Mr. Calloway, the effort would have been futile as well as ludicrous; he stood over six feet tall, and his shoulders very nearly brushed the door frame. “Yes,” she said in a slightly clipped tone that was more defensive than scornful, “do come in.”

  A smile played at the corners of Calloway’s fine, supple mouth as he entered. His eyes, though solemn with sympathy at the moment, were normally more given to mischief, calculation, and merriment, Jessica ascertained, via some as-yet-unrecognized sense.

  “No one makes better coffee than you do, Miss Alma,” he said, though he was looking straight at Jessica all the while he spoke. “Just don’t tell June-bug McCaffrey I said so. She’s downright prideful about her cooking.”

  Alma made a sound that was part laugh, part twitter; maybe she didn’t know that this man had been Michael’s foe. In fact, it was obvious that she enjoyed Mr. Calloway’s company, even in this time of sorrow. Probably a great many women would, Jessica thought pragmatically; she had to admit that he was a very attractive specimen, scoundrel or not. She, on the other hand, had good reason to dislike him.

  His manner reminded her of her own nemesis, Frederick Covington. He’d been handsome, too. He’d had money and power, just as this man did. He’d also been a devil, and it was likely, given what Michael had said about Mr. Calloway in his editorials, that the two men were the same in that regard, as well.

  When Alma went back into the kitchen, Jessica gestured stiffly to
ward one of the two chairs facing the inadequate brick fireplace. She had to make a home in Springwater for herself and for her nieces, and she needed the good will of the townspeople if the Gazette was to prosper. Therefore, she would be as civil to everyone as possible—including this man, however much it galled her.

  “Sit down, Mr. Calloway,” she urged, with a sort of wry resignation. He moved as gracefully as she imagined an Indian warrior might do, or a panther on the prowl. Inside, she seethed just to think of all the suffering he must have caused her poor brother.

  He smiled as if they had every reason to be friends—it might have been more apt to say he grinned, for the expression was boyish—but hesitated. “After you,” he said.

  Jessica took the second chair, and her quiet rage was pushed aside by a fresh and sorely painful sense of sorrow. Surely Michael and Victoria had sat together on that very hearth many times, planning their happy life in Springwater. They’d dreamed of expanding the weekly newspaper to a daily, of building a spacious home and filling it with children. In more than one letter, Michael had referred to Springwater as “idyllic,” though from what Jessica had seen so far, it was merely a small conglomeration of plain buildings huddled together in the midst of a fierce wilderness, like wild horses trying to find shelter from a high wind.

  The babies had quieted at last, and Jessica almost regretted that, for a little fussing on their part would have given her a reason to excuse herself and leave the entertainment of this unexpected and most unwanted guest to Alma.

  Once Jessica was seated, Calloway took a chair as well, and stared into the fire for a few long moments. She was just beginning to hope he did not intend to make conversation when he turned to her and said, “Your brother was a good man and an asset to the community. We all liked him, and Miss Victoria, too.”

  It was a bold-faced lie, of course. She’d seen Michael’s editorials. This man could not have liked him.

  Jessica felt tears threaten yet again—dear Lord, she was so weary of weeping, for she’d cried more in the past twenty-four hours than in all her life put together—and she did not like for Mr. Calloway, of all people, to be a witness to her weakness. She raised her chin. “Yes,” she agreed. “Michael was a wonderful person, and Victoria was the heart of his life.”

  Alma reappeared just then, bearing a tray set with three cups and a steaming china coffeepot, and Mr. Calloway immediately got to his feet, managing to display proper deference by taking the burden from those small, blue-veined hands in one smooth motion. Jessica felt herself flush slightly—it was as though the floor had suddenly dissolved beneath her feet—and she looked away for a moment in order to recover her composure.

  When she looked back, it was with narrowed eyes. Exhausted by grief and despair, coupled with the long and difficult journey out from Missouri, first by train and then by stagecoach, she felt downright peevish. She wanted to sleep for a month and cry for another month after that.

  There was a small stir, in which Mr. Calloway found and brought over another chair, and Jessica, backbone rigid, observed the rites of hospitality out of the corner of one eye. Surely he would not stay long, she assured herself. He would take himself and the curious electricity that surrounded him away.

  “I suppose you plan to sell the newspaper and go back home,” said the mayor—that he’d triumphed in the election despite Michael’s efforts to oppose him was one more reason not to like him—when what he probably regarded as a decent interval had passed. He looked down into his cup for a long moment, then raised those arresting eyes of his to lock with Jessica’s. “It may be too soon to speak of such matters, ma’am—forgive me if I offend you—but I am prepared to make you a very generous offer on this place. One that should enable both you and Miss Alma to live comfortably for some time.”

  Jessica glanced quickly at Alma, who was watching the snow fall with a wistful expression. It probably would make sense to sell the Gazette, but now, in the face of an actual opportunity, she wanted to hold on to it more fiercely than ever before.

  She raised her eyebrows slightly and stirred her coffee with a tinkling clatter of spoon against porcelain. “I should like,” she announced, surprising even herself by the certainty in her voice, “to keep the Gazette for my nieces.”

  His expression sharpened, but it was only a moment before he had relaxed that spectacular face into a placid mask. Mr. Covington had possessed that same ability, that affinity for easy deceit. Both men were lawyers, members of a profession Jessica deemed only slightly above prostitution.

  Calloway shifted in his chair, revealing only the mildest discomfort; no doubt even that was merely a pretense. Men like him spent their days and nights breaking as many commandments as possible.

  He put his cup and saucer down and, with another glance at Alma, leaned forward a little way, his hands dangling between his knees, his fine round-brimmed hat resting on the floor beside his chair. Alma was still lost in her own thoughts, probably missing home and husband and thinking of household tasks that needed doing.

  Jessica wondered what on earth she was going to do once Alma went back to the ranch. She’d never fed or diapered a baby in her life; indeed, until the twins were four or five, poor little things, she wouldn’t have the first idea what to do with them. Only one thing was certain—she was fresh out of choices.

  Calloway cleared his throat again and lowered his voice. “It has been mentioned that you, being an unmarried woman and all, might not wish to raise your brother’s daughters on your own. I understand you’ve been serving as a governess for some time now, and that you travel a great deal in your work. Therefore—”

  Jessica waited, content to watch him squirm a little and suspecting, with a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, that she knew what he was going to say.

  “I thought you might be willing to consider a formal adoption. My clients are able to offer your nieces a fine home—”

  “Your clients?” She gave the words an edge. One of the babies began to cry and Alma rose, with a sigh, and toddled away to attend to the child. “Why, Mr. Calloway, you gave me the impression this was a condolence call. I suppose next you’re going to tell me that Michael appointed you the executor of his will.”

  Jessica had been guessing, where the will was concerned, but it was plain from Mr. Calloway’s expression that she’d struck her mark. The realization that Michael hadn’t trusted her to serve in that capacity—indeed, that he had put more faith in his worst enemy—was devastating, but she managed to keep up her facade.

  Calloway, meanwhile, had the decency to redden a little along the base of his jaw, but there was a glint of determination in his eyes, too. “Dr. and Mrs. Parrish are good people, Miss Barnes. Upstanding citizens, well-regarded by everyone in town. They have a four-year-old daughter of their own, but Savannah—Mrs. Parrish—well, they’d like more children.”

  A charged silence filled the room, punctuated only by the popping and shifting of the pine logs burning in the grate. The pleasant scents of wood smoke and stout coffee filled the room, and beyond the windows the snow, so quiet and so white, seemed sadly, poignantly magical.

  When she could trust herself to speak in a moderate fashion, Jessica made her reply. “I’m sure your clients are very nice people,” she said in tones measured out as carefully as a length of exceedingly fine cloth. “However, I have no intention of surrendering my brother’s children—my only living blood relations—to anyone, however worthy they might be. If you have completed your business, sir …”

  A muscle tightened in Mr. Calloway’s closely shaven cheek, but he was a lawyer, after all, and he smoothed his features before Jessica could even be sure that he was irritated. “I’m sorry,” he said, glancing in the direction Alma had taken when she left the room. “I was given to understand—”

  Only then did it occur to Jessica, in her grief-addled state, that it had not been Alma alone who had suggested this arrangement, but Michael, too. Perhaps, even on his deathbed, he had been relucta
nt to leave the raising of his daughters to her. That stung even more than the fact that he’d appointed a virtual stranger to see that his last wishes were carried out.

  She was filled with an inestimable and echoing sadness.

  Still, she decided, after a few moments of inward reeling, she must make an effort to be charitable. It was possible that Mr. Calloway meant well, though not very likely. “I’m sure,” she said, in what was almost certainly too abrupt a manner, “that you are only trying to help.” She took a thoughtful sip of her coffee, which had grown cold, and her next words were meant to come as a shock. “I’m planning to run the newspaper myself,” she said. “Provided that Michael left it to me, of course.” She felt safe in assuming that, at least, since Mr. Calloway wouldn’t have offered to buy the business from her if she hadn’t been the rightful owner.

  He looked truly startled, and did not even bother to comment on her statement, yea or nay. “You’re not returning to St. Louis?” he asked. She couldn’t rightly tell whether he was pleased or disappointed by this news, but he was definitely astounded. In all likelihood, she concluded, he did not care one way or the other what she did—why should he?—as long as he got what he wanted. “Your brother told me—”

  “I don’t care what my brother told you,” Jessica lied, a bit pettishly. She wanted very much to know, but she was also weary to the innermost wellsprings of her soul, too weary to pursue the matter further. “I’m staying right here. In Springwater.”

  She had enjoyed her work in St. Louis before the trouble with Mr. Covington, not only because it paid unusually well, but because she was deeply fond of her two charges. In truth, however, the children were growing up fast and would soon go away to their respective boarding schools—Susan’s in Switzerland, Freddy’s in England—where, of course, they would not need a governess. She would have had to leave them soon anyway.