by Amanda Cabot
Those were practical reasons, the same kind of reasons the citizens of Easton gave Celia when they urged her to find another husband. But the heart didn’t always listen to practicality. “I can think of a few reasons. Your mother might have loved your father so much that she couldn’t imagine loving anyone else. And if she was protecting you, which I think she was, she wouldn’t have wanted to go through the shame of a divorce or having him declared dead, because either case would have required her to admit that he’d left you.” When Mark said nothing, Celia continued. “Another possibility is that her marriage was unhappy. If she believed it had been a mistake, she might not have wanted to risk repeating it.”
Mark’s eyes closed briefly, the tightening of his lips giving Celia the impression that he hadn’t considered any of the scenes she’d painted.
“It might have been none of those,” she said softly. “Maybe she didn’t believe the men who courted her would be good fathers. I can’t speak for your mother, but I know that I would rather have Emma grow up without a father than with a bad one.”
He sighed, and Celia sensed that she’d touched a sensitive cord.
“There’s only one way I’ll learn the truth,” Mark said at last. “I have to find the hermit.” His gaze met hers. Though his brow was no longer furrowed, his expression was intense. “I hope you’re right. I hope the truth will set me free.”
7
“It’s too nice a day to be cooped up indoors.” Celia slid Aaron’s hands into the mittens, tugging until the cuffs covered his wrists. In just a few minutes, she’d have both children bundled into their winter clothes. While it was true that Emma and Aaron would enjoy the outing, Celia’s motives were purely selfish. With Emma ensconced in the high-sided wagon and Aaron trotting alongside it, she hoped she would be able to breathe again. When the door had closed behind Mark this morning, a lump had lodged in her throat, making breathing and swallowing painful. She hoped fresh air would dissolve it.
“Cold.” Aaron swung his arms back and forth, seemingly entertained by his frosty breath. Though the day was cold, the clear sky told Celia that the sun would soon warm the air. Aaron would do what he always did when they took an excursion: run as fast as his short legs would permit, then race back, bend over the wagon, and tell Emma everything he’d seen. For her part, Emma would coo at him, occasionally punctuating her gibberish with pumps of her mittened fists, all the while staring at Aaron, as if to ensure that he understood her.
The children were carefree; Celia was not. She was worried, and so was Mark. He’d attempted to make light of it this morning, but he had been unable to hide the concern in his eyes. Today he’d meet the hermit. Today he’d learn whether the old man was his father or simply an eccentric former miner. And, if Celia’s prayers were answered, today Mark would relinquish his anger at his parents and—more importantly—at God. Though she’d been praying almost constantly since she had wakened, Celia still worried that Mark was not ready to open his heart. It was in the Lord’s hands now. Celia knew that. That was one of the reasons she had brought the children outside, so she would be surrounded by the beauty of God’s creation.
“I pull.” Aaron tugged at her skirt to get her attention. When she nodded, he engaged in another of his routines, gripping the wagon’s handle and yanking. Though he accomplished little, Aaron seemed to enjoy the exercise, and Emma never failed to giggle at the sight of her playmate pretending to be a horse.
Celia smiled indulgently at the children. She had been right in coming outside. The fresh air and Aaron’s antics had helped her put aside her worries, leaving her able to breathe freely.
She glanced down the street, smiling again when she saw Bertha emerging from the parsonage. “Good morning.”
“It is, isn’t it?” Bertha tickled Emma’s chin, then reached out to give Aaron a hug. When he took a step backward before extending his right hand, the minister’s wife raised an eyebrow. “What’s this?”
“I’m afraid it’s something he learned from Mark. Ever since he saw him shake Doc’s hand, Aaron wants to shake hands with everyone.”
“How sweet.” Solemnly, Bertha let the boy shake her hand, her lips twitching ever so slightly when he gave her hand a vigorous pumping. “Were you heading somewhere special?” she asked after Aaron released her hand and returned to chattering at Emma.
“I needed fresh air, and I thought Aaron might want to play on the swings.” Though Celia’s front porch boasted a swing, it was more suited to courting couples than exuberant youngsters. Fortunately, the school yard held three simple board and rope swings, one of them close enough to the ground for Aaron’s short legs.
As a gust of wind threatened Bertha’s hat, she tightened the ribbons. “May I join you? I was on my way to the store for a few more items for Thanksgiving, but there’s no rush.”
Celia waited until Aaron was happily swinging before she turned to Bertha. The parson’s wife had lifted Emma out of the wagon and was cooing to her as she cradled her in her arms. “I meant to tell you that I’m planning to bring oyster pudding as well as pound cake.”
“Oysters?” Bertha raised an eyebrow. “That’ll be a treat for us, but are you sure? They’re very dear.”
“The oysters were a gift.” Celia pursed her lips, remembering the way they’d been presented. “From Frank,” she added.
“I see.” Though she adjusted Emma’s hood so that only her eyes and nose were exposed, Bertha did not seem affected by the cold. Her green eyes sparkled with mirth, and her smile was as warm as a summer day. “I’m not surprised. Didn’t I tell you he was courting you?”
It was futile to deny the truth. Even though the oysters had been a less than romantic gift, there was no ignoring the fact that Frank had presented them as a token of his affection. “The problem is, I don’t want to be courted.” By him. Though Bertha was a dear friend, Celia was not about to admit that her views on remarriage were changing, thanks to Mark.
“I know you’re still grieving for Josef,” Bertha said as she placed Emma back in the wagon, tucking the heavy blanket around her legs. “Your grief is natural, but you need to think about your future and Emma’s.”
It was a familiar refrain. Celia looked at Aaron. He wouldn’t be happy about leaving the swing, but it was time the rest of them began to move. “I am thinking about the future,” Celia said as she motioned to Aaron. “It’s true that I still miss Josef. I imagine a part of me always will. He was a good man, and I wish he hadn’t died so young. Most of all, I wish he’d been able to watch our daughter grow up.”
Celia sighed. “Sometimes I ache, knowing that Josef suffered through the three babies we lost but never got to see Emma.” She laid a hand on Emma’s head, reassuring herself that this precious child with her father’s curly hair was safe. “There are painful times,” she said softly, “but it’s not like it was at first. The horrible feeling of emptiness that filled me for so many months is gone.”
Bertha’s smile was radiant. “That’s healing,” the minister’s wife said simply. “I’m thankful you’ve found it.”
If only Mark could too.
“What do you think, Charcoal? It can’t be much farther, can it?” Others might call it a sign of madness, but as he’d crisscrossed the country looking for his father, Mark had grown accustomed to talking to his horse. Charcoal didn’t seem to mind, and it kept Mark’s voice from growing hoarse with disuse. The gelding neighed, as if agreeing with him. The road had long since ended, but the path that Doc had indicated on his map was visible, thanks to the footprints in the snow. Though the main street of Easton was clear, the trees here kept the sun from reaching the ground and melting the snow. Fortunately for Mark, someone—probably the hermit himself—had passed this way since the last storm.
Mark gripped the reins. He was almost there. The sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach told him the moment of reckoning was close. The problem was, he wasn’t ready. Perhaps he never would be. He’d thought about Celia’s words—oh, how
he’d thought about them—but he wasn’t convinced that anything good had come from his father’s desertion, anything other than meeting Celia. Mark had to admit that life had been decidedly pleasant since he’d arrived in Easton, but that wasn’t enough to make up for all the years without a father.
Celia would probably say that God didn’t promise to even the score; all he promised was that something good would happen. The question was, would it be enough? Would his reunion with his father—if the hermit was indeed his father—heal the festering wounds Mark carried? He’d soon know.
“C’mon, Charcoal.” An unexpected sense of urgency filled Mark. “We’ve got to find the hermit. The cabin must be close.”
When he reached the small clearing, Mark reined in Charcoal and stared at what Doc had called a cabin. Perhaps it had been a cabin at one time, but now the best Mark could say was that it was a tumbledown shack. The roof was pocked with holes, and large chunks of chinking were missing from the log walls, making it barely habitable. It was clear that whoever was living here hadn’t made a fortune in mining or ranching or any of the other things he’d attempted.
Mark swallowed deeply. Though he’d tried not to form expectations that might be dashed, when he’d thought of his father, he had not pictured a man living in poverty. He wanted to convince himself that this was not the cabin Doc had meant, that there was another, more prosperous one in the next clearing, but he couldn’t. Doc had made it clear that there was only one cabin in these woods.
The smoke rising from the chimney told Mark someone was home or not far away. In minutes, perhaps only seconds, he would know whether his journey had ended and whether the old hermit was his father. Resolutely, he flicked the reins, urging Charcoal forward.
“Anyone home?” he called when he’d looped the reins over a branch.
Mark waited, wondering if he should climb the two steps and knock on the door. He was about to shout again when the door opened, revealing a man in a faded flannel shirt and worn coveralls. As the man emerged from the shadows of the house, Mark’s heart stopped. There was no doubt about it. He’d found his father. Though the man looked older than the fifty-five Mark knew him to be, there was no mistaking his resemblance to the wedding portrait. This man was an aged version of the one who’d smiled at his bride twenty-seven years ago.
The man took a step toward him, and as he did Mark saw the confusion on his face. “Who are you?” he demanded, his voice harsh with apparent anger at being disturbed.
Mark opened his mouth to speak, but no words would come. He had waited for this moment for more than two years, and now that it had arrived, he couldn’t form a single word. This tall, slightly stooped, gray-haired man was his father.
His father took another step forward, then stopped abruptly as blood drained from his face and the gray eyes so like Mark’s own clouded. “Abe?” The name was little more than a whisper. “Abe?” The man shook his head. “You cain’t be. Abe’s dead.”
It took a moment for the words to register. When they did, Mark gasped and stumbled back a step, suddenly aware of the frigid air, the scent of pine trees, and the sound of Charcoal’s soft snorting. It was the same day it had been a minute ago. Nothing had changed, and yet everything had. “Abe’s dead,” the man had said. His father was gone, and with him Mark’s dream of reconciliation. Whoever he was, this man who looked so much like Pa wasn’t his father. His father was dead.
The man who was not Abe Williams cocked his head to one side. “Who are you?”
“I’m Mark Williams, Abe’s son.” At least the anguish inside Mark wasn’t reflected in his voice. “Who are you?” Charcoal neighed, as if echoing the question.
The man took another step forward, standing at the edge of the top step and peering down at Mark. “Mark, you say? I reckon that’s the name Abe gave his son. What’re you doin’ here?”
Chasing a dream, but Mark wouldn’t admit that. “I’ve been looking for my father.”
The man shook his head. Mark noticed that, while the hermit’s hair was longer than fashionable and appeared to have been chopped with no regard for symmetry, it was clean. “’Fraid you’re too late. Abe done got himself killed back ten years or so.”
A clump of snow tumbled from the evergreen closest to the cabin, crumbling as it landed. One moment it was a firm ball, the next nothing more than scattered flakes. Mark took a deep breath, trying to calm his thoughts. One moment he’d thought he’d found his father, the next his dreams had shattered.
The hermit’s words made sense, for the letters had stopped in ’72. What made no sense was the presence of this man who looked so much like his father. But his father had no family—or so Mark had believed. “Who are you?” Mark repeated the question.
“Lionel Williams. Abe was my brother.” The man scratched his head. “I reckon that makes you my nephew.”
If the resemblance hadn’t been so strong, Mark would have thought the man was lying, but as Ma used to say, blood will tell, and blood told Mark that the man was truthful. “I didn’t know Pa had a brother.”
The man coughed. “I ain’t surprised. Grace never did like me. Claimed I was a bad influence.” He coughed again. “C’mon in. Cain’t stand around outside all day. A man’ll catch his death of cold.”
He swung around and stepped back into the house, leaving Mark to follow him. An uncle, Mark thought as he entered the cabin. I have an uncle. While questions whirled through his brain, his eyes assessed the shack, noting that the interior was as dilapidated as the exterior. The floorboards had shrunk, leaving gaps that allowed cold to seep inside, and the sole window hung askew, letting in the frigid air. A small table flanked by two chairs and a bed built into one wall were the only furnishings, while an iron stove served as both heat and a cooking surface.
Though the room was modest in size, Mark noted that it was clean, and whatever was cooking smelled delicious. Perhaps the cabin’s condition was not the result of poverty but of an inability to perform the needed work. Lionel moved slowly, and the persistent cough could indicate a serious illness. That might have been why he’d summoned Doc.
“So, boy, how did you find me?” the man asked when he’d shuffled to the table and settled onto one of the chairs. “I didn’t figure anybody be lookin’ for me or Abe. We been gone a long time.”
Mark pulled the other chair out and positioned it closer to the door. Though Lionel appeared to crave the stove’s warmth, he wasn’t cold. “I’ve been looking for my father for two years,” he said, “ever since Ma died.”
Lionel looked up, his eyes darkening. “Grace died? How’d it happen?”
“She just keeled over one day. Doc said she had a bad heart, but that was the first I heard of it.” One of the ladies in town had claimed Ma had died of a broken heart, that she’d never gotten over losing her husband. When he’d found the letters, their envelopes worn from frequent handling, Mark had suspected the woman knew something he hadn’t.
“I’m sorry for your loss.” The words were conventional, the voice brusque. Lionel tipped his head toward the stove. “Pour yourself a cup of coffee. It ain’t bad. Made it fresh this morning.” When Mark hesitated, he added, “You might get me one too. These old bones don’t move as good as they used to.”
When Lionel had taken several swallows, Mark leaned forward. He wasn’t here to drink coffee but to have his questions answered. Though this man wasn’t Pa, he had known him better than anyone. “Will you tell me about my father, how he lived and how he . . .” Mark stopped, not wanting to pronounce the final word.
Lionel had no such compunctions. “Died,” he said flatly. “I reckon I can do that. It shore is peculiar, sittin’ here with you. Makes me think Abe’s still alive.” He tipped the cup to his mouth and drank deeply. “Now, where should I start?”
“Ma used to say the beginning was a good place.”
Lionel’s chuckle turned into a coughing spasm. When it ended, he looked back at Mark. “You already know Abe was my brother. Used to c
all him Squirt on account of him being short. He was five years younger than me. Took him awhile to catch up, but he finally did. Wound up the same height. Some folks figured us for twins.” Leaning back in his chair, Lionel smiled at the memory. “I reckon we was twins in some ways, like being born with itchy feet. All folks had to do was tell either one of us about a new place, and we was on our way. It shore was good, travelin’ together. Ain’t nothin’ in life that beats explorin’ a new place.” He closed his eyes, and Mark wondered if he was trying to relive a particular adventure. As the smile faded, Lionel looked at Mark. “It’s in the blood, but I reckon you know that. That’s what brung you all the way to Wyoming Territory.”
Mark shook his head. “I came because I was looking for Pa. I’ve got to admit that I saw some beautiful places along the way, and there were times when I enjoyed the adventure, but the traveling life’s not for me. I’m ready to settle down.” As he turned away from his uncle’s piercing gaze, Mark pictured Celia in the kitchen, an apron protecting her dress, her face smudged with flour, her lips curved in the sweetest of smiles as she looked down at her daughter. Nothing he had seen, not even the majestic mountains nor the harsh beauty of the high plains, could compare to that.
“Abe thought the same thing. That’s why he married your ma. It didn’t last long, though. I reckon it was less than a year. Then he felt the west wind blow, and he was itchin’ to go again.” Lionel held out his empty cup in a silent request for a refill. As Mark headed to the stove, his uncle continued. “I tell you, boy, your pa and me had some fine times. We never did find that pot of gold, and there was times when our stomachs was empty, but by and large, him and me had a good life.” He took a slug of coffee, then leaned back in the chair, a smile wreathing his face. “As long as I live, I don’t reckon I’ll forget that day near Santa Fe . . .” His voice trailed off, and the smile tipped upside down.