"Kurt!" Rachel shot her younger son a reproving look. "It's not polite for a boy to comment on how a woman smells. And you need to address your new teacher as Mrs. Whitcomb:"
Kurt's mouth pulled to one side. "Yes, ma'am;' he said quietly, watching Molly with curiosity and not just a little mischief.
Still wary of the gleam in the boy's eyes, Molly gave her soon-tobe-student a hesitant smile. When sunlight hit the boy's red hair, the rays turned it an autumn blaze color, reminding her of fall in the Smoky Mountains.
Mitchell hunched over the back of the seat beside his brother. "Mama, can we go by Uncle James's office first?"
"We'll wait to go by Uncle James's office until a little later. First we're going to show Mrs. Whitcomb some of Timber Ridge and take her by the mercantile:" Rachel gave the reins a whip and guided the wagon down the wide rain-rutted road. She glanced at Molly beside her. "That way you can pick up any incidentals you might need. Then we'll meet James and go see the school building, if you'd like:"
"That sounds wonderful to me. Thank you. And if you have other errands you need to take care of, I'm happy to ride along"
With a nod, Rachel indicated for Molly to look upward. At first Molly thought she was simply motioning to the mountains; then she spotted a hawk soaring above in the cloudless blue. The bird swayed from side to side, its wings seemingly motionless at this distance and its telling screech drifting downward.
They rounded a curve and Molly shielded her eyes from the sun, continuing to watch. "What must it be like to experience that kind of freedom? That kind of perspective on the world?"
Rachel sighed beside her. "I've often thought that very same thing. In early evening, I'll sit on the front porch and watch the elk and deer graze alongside the meadow. Life here can be hard, and painful at times. But there's also such beauty and joy to be found. And I've learned ... in all my long years"-her expression hinted at humor-"that those things often go hand in hand:"
Watching the hawk until it disappeared over a ridge, Molly prayed that what Rachel said was true. That along with the bad in her life, with all the mistakes she'd made, there might also come some good.
"Sheriff, you got a minute?"
James looked up from his paperwork to see one of his deputies. "Sure, Willis. Grab a chair." Dean Willis straddled the chair opposite his desk, and James checked his pocket watch. Rachel, Molly, and the boys were supposed to stop by sometime. Rachel hadn't said exactly when, but he hoped they could have lunch together.
"Couple of things happened yesterday afternoon, Sheriff. We got another complaint from a worker out at the resort, and then there was a run-in over at Clara's Cafe:" The deputy frowned, as if knowing James wouldn't like the news. "Between a group of miners and some of those ... newcomers.
James leaned forward in his chair, suppressing a sigh. Willis always referred to the Italian immigrants as newcomers. Willis didn't harbor any prejudice, James knew. It was simply the deputy's way of making a distinction between the townsfolk and other groups of people new to Timber Ridge. "Does the complaint from Tolliver's place involve the same man from two weeks ago?"
Willis shook his head. "Different man, last name of Moretti. But the same complaint. Says the working conditions aren't safe. Want me to talk to Tolliver about it, sir?"
James considered his exchanges with Brandon Tolliver recently and shook his head. "No, I probably need to speak with him myself on this one. But do some checking around for me first. See what you can find out about the worker-what his specific complaint is, if it's founded. And if he and Tolliver have had words recently. But do it quietly, Willis, without an audience:" James angled a look, making sure the younger man understood what he was saying.
Willis touched two fingers to his brow. "Understood, boss. And about the cafe ... Workers from the resort, some newcom-" He paused. "Some Italian men stopped by to eat late yesterday. Clara said she was fine with serving them. You know Clara. If someone's hungry, she'll feed 'em."
James nodded.
`Anyway, Clara says she was serving them when some miners-she didn't recognize the men-walked up and told the fellows they had to leave. That their kind wasn't served there. Scuffle broke out, tables got overturned, and some dishes were broken. Clara doesn't care about the dishes, but she's afraid her regular patrons might start staying away if something like that happens again. I tried to track down the names of the miners, but people said they hadn't seen them before:'
Sighing, James stood and walked to the front window. "Doesn't matter who they are" Used to be, he knew every face that passed on the boardwalk outside, and the families that went along with them. But not anymore. "Finding those men isn't going to make this go away." He blew out a breath. "Make sure our office pays Clara back for the cost of anything she lost. I'll stop by there later to let her know we'll be keeping an eye out for her:"
Once Willis had left, James started in on the paperwork covering his desk, the part of his job he liked least. But every few minutes, he found his attention returning to the window, and his thoughts returning to Molly Whitcomb.
Unbidden, a realization rose inside him, and he stared at the quill in his grip. Perhaps part of the reason he had doubts about her was due to his strong attraction to her. She carried herself with quiet grace and confidence, which only made the vulnerability she tried so hard to mask that much more intriguing.
He knew better than to encourage the thoughts he was entertaining. Nothing would, or could, come from them. Still, he would've swornbased on a feeling he'd gotten from their first meeting in Sulfur Falls, and again on the cliff-that she'd felt a spark of something for him too.
Drawing his focus back, he pulled out a report from the territory's Governing Office in Denver. But after reading the first paragraph four times and still retaining nothing, he grabbed his hat and took the long way to Clara's Cafe, welcoming the chance to walk.
His thoughts returned to the two incidents Willis had reported. Timber Ridge was growing, changing, and not all for the better. It was his job to keep people safe, and yet each day he felt that responsibility moving further and further beyond his grasp.
He stopped by Mayor Davenport's office, but the man wasn't in. He rarely was.
"Would you like to leave him a message, Sheriff?" Davenport's secretary asked.
James declined. News of Molly Whitcomb's widow status was something he needed to tell the mayor in person.
He continued toward Clara's, as he did most days about this time. Making himself available to townsfolk helped keep his thumb on the pulse of Timber Ridge. He hadn't gone two blocks when he heard his name being called.
"Sheriff McPherson!" Mrs. Mattie Moorehead, wife to one of the more senior town council members, waved to him from across the street. "We have a question for you!"
James smiled to himself, already having a good idea as to what that question would be. Especially when he saw Mrs. Frances Hines following, hot on her sister's heels. "Yes, ma'am?" He acknowledged Mrs. Hines, who arrived three steps behind Mrs. Moorehead and slightly out of breath. "How are you two ladies today?"
"We're fine, Sheriff." Smiling between huffs, Mrs. Hines elbowed her way in front of her older sister and squeezed his arm affectionately. Both women were old enough to be his mother and had treated him like a son since the first day he'd taken office. "We're discussing whether my cherry pie would best be served at the upcoming-"
"Frances!" Mrs. Moorehead shot her sister a reproving look and took hold of James's other arm. "We were discussing whether my gingerbread cake"-her smile held as much confection as did her ribbon-winning dessert-"would be best for the upcoming celebration. Or whether the town might indeed prefer something with a little more ... tart to it:" Brow raised, the older sister gave the younger a dismissive glance.
Mrs. Hines pulled James closer. "My cherry pie is not tart, Mattie Moorehead! It's sweet and-"
"Gingerbread is far more fitting for the occasion, Frances. And you well know that it's .."
James loo
ked between the two women. Seems the debate over which cake or pie would be the "official" dessert for the celebration of Colorado's statehood still wasn't settled. A celebration that would occur only if President Grant didn't veto the statehood bill as the presidents before him had.
Mayor Davenport had it on trusted authority that the territory's proposal to be granted statehood would pass this time, and the town had been planning the celebration for weeks. The entire community was expected to turn out for the event.
"Ladies.. " He slipped an arm around each of their shoulders, immediately silencing their bickering. "I've had the privilege of tasting both of your desserts and believe I can state with full authority that both cherry and gingerbread would be well received. In fact;' he continued, sensing Mrs. Moorehead's protest, "I believe they're both necessary in order to make this celebration complete."
The sisters stared up, attentive.
"After all, cherry pie is noted as having been one of President Washington's favorites."
Mrs. Hines beamed up at him.
"And President Lincoln enjoyed gingerbread better than most anything else."
Mrs. Moorehead squared her thin shoulders and managed a smile at her sister. "Well, I guess we could have both. And-" she sniffed-"I have the perfect lace tablecloth for the occasion"
"I have a lace tablecloth too, Mattie. One from Grandmother, and I-"
James made a hasty exit, leaving the ladies dickering over which cloth would be used. He continued on, mulling over the changes facing Timber Ridge.
Statehood had its advantages. But in his experience, whenever you gained something, you gave up something in return. It was that way with business, and with people.
"Sheriff McPherson!"
He spotted Dr. Brookston hailing him from a side street and slowed his pace. "How are you, Brookston?"
Rand Brookston ran to catch up with him. "I'm well. Doing better now that I've gotten this:" He waved a sheet of paper.
Guessing what it was, James felt a sense of satisfaction.
"I'm sure I have you to thank for this, Sheriff."
"It was your plan, Doctor, and it's a good one. All I did was present it to the town council. They agreed with you and gave it full backing."
Brookston shook James's hand. "We both know the mayor wasn't too favorable toward the idea. It was due to your influence that this passed so quickly, and I appreciate your support. Improving the health of families in Timber Ridge is something I'm committed to, Sheriff. And mandating physical examinations for all the schoolchildren is an important first step in that:"
"Well, you've got not only my support, but the town council's. And if there's anything else you need, let me know and I'll do my best to get it for you."
"I'd like to solicit the new teacher's support in this too-as soon as she gets into town:"
James nodded. "I think that's a good idea, and she arrived yesterday. I'll encourage her to get in touch with you this week:'
"Excellent" Brookston nodded. "I'd appreciate that. I've found it helps students feel more comfortable if their teacher takes the lead in getting her examination first. Especially since most of these children have never visited a doctor:"
I can't see why Dr. Whitcomb would have a problem with that. And I'll go you one further." James clapped Brookston on the shoulder, grateful the man had chosen to come to Timber Ridge a year ago. "If you need the sheriff to get his examination too, tell me where and when and I'll be there:"
Brookston grinned. "How about next Tuesday morning at nine oclock in my office?"
"Done:" James laughed. `And I'll bring Mitchell and Kurt with me too:'
`And, ah ... what about their mother? She's been feeling well lately, I hope:'
If James wasn't mistaken, he detected a note of interest in Rand Brookston's voice. One beyond a physician's normal curiosity. "She's doing very well. Thanks for asking:"
Brookston fingered the black leather bag in his grip. "If she wanted to come along, that'd be fine too. Not for an examination, of course. But to accompany her sons. Unless she needed an examination, then I'd be happy to provide whatever care she requires:"
James smiled. "I'll be sure and pass that along:" He liked Brookston and would welcome the man's interest in his sister, if Rachel were open to it. But Brookston being a doctor wouldn't help his chances any. Quite the opposite, in fact. Which was odd, in one sense, given that their own father had been a physician.
As he continued down the boardwalk, James recognized the recurring direction of his thoughts and couldn't decide which bothered him morethe fact that he found himself so attracted to a woman who'd recently lost her husband, which just seemed wrong, or that, try as he might, he couldn't shake the feeling there was more to Dr. Molly Whitcomb than met the eye. Far more than she wanted him to see.
8
olly stole glimpses beside her as Rachel negotiated the wagon's path through town. Rachel Boyd seemed the perfect blend of grace and beauty, ensconced in a spirit of steel. Rachel hadn't said how her husband, Thomas, had died, and Molly didn't feel at liberty to ask. But it was odd that both James and Rachel had used the phrase "was killed."
Just ahead, wagons clogged the main thoroughfare into town, many stuffed full with families and furniture, trunks and stoves, with chairs and barrels tied onto the sides.
"Each day it seems more families arrive;' Rachel said softly, her brow furrowing.
"Is it mining that brings them here?"
"The lure of silver is part of it. That and Brandon Tolliver-you met him yesterday-who's building a resort on the outskirts of town. A hot springs resort. He's hiring immigrants to do the work:"
From Rachel's tone, Molly sensed she didn't approve of Tolliver's actions. She'd read about the hot springs in this region and about their touted curatives. "Do you think the resort will be a good thing for Timber Ridge?"
"In the long run, yes." Rachel waved another wagon on through. "If the town-and my brother-can survive its being built."
None-too-subtle accusation colored Rachel's tone, and Molly decided not to delve any further.
The streets of Timber Ridge were bustling, and when men and women saw Rachel, they either tipped their hats or waved. But Molly noticed that when they spotted her, they stopped what they were doing and stared. Mothers whispered to children and the children's eyes grew round.
Rachel giggled. "Welcome to Timber Ridge, Molly. I'll give it until suppertime for the whole town to know you've arrived:"
Molly did her best to smile and appear confident and teacherlike as they passed. And by the time they reached the end of the street, she'd counted fourteen children. All of them of school age. She realized then that she hadn't inquired as to how many children she would be teaching. Not that it would have had any bearing on the situation.
"There's Uncle James!" Kurt leaned over the seat, waving big as the world. "I see him! Uncle James!"
"Uncle James!" Mitchell called with no less enthusiasm.
Enjoying the boys' reactions, Molly spotted James down the streetspeaking with a Negro gentleman. James shook the man's hand and smiled, and Molly couldn't help but have the same reaction, witnessing the exchange. That boded well for the direction of this town, and hopefully for the school.
There was no doubt how much Mitchell and Kurt adored their uncle, but it was the smile that lit James's face when he saw the boys that told her even more. As did the number of people who greeted James as he strode toward the wagon. Men and women alike, on the boardwalk and in the street. It soon became clear that James McPherson could no more choose not to lead than he could choose not to breathe.
"Hey, fellas!" James gave each boy's head a good rub. The brothers squirmed, but not out of his reach, Molly noticed. "Did you two get the stalls mucked this morning?"
"Yes, sir;" they answered in unison.
"All right, then. You've earned this:" Reaching into his pocket, James threw Rachel a wink. "You take this to Mr. Mullins"-he pressed a coin into Mitchell's hand, then one
into Kurt's-"and ask him to give you each the biggest sugar stick in the store:"
"Thanks, Uncle James!" Mitchell catapulted off the side of the wagon and headed down the boardwalk. "Come on, Kurt!"
But Kurt lingered, edging closer to his uncle. "I used the pitchfork too, Uncle James, just like you showed me. Then I put it back on the hook:'
"That's real good, son:' James drew the boy close, and Kurt's little arms came around his neck. "You're a fine boy, you know that? And you're making a right fine rancher too. I'm sure your papa's mighty proud of you:'
Beaming, Kurt nodded, his smile going a little wobbly.
James swung him over the side of the wagon, taking him extra high as he went, then patted the seat of the boy's pants. "Now run catch up with your brother, and make sure you choose the sugar stick you want:"
"Yes, sir! Thank you, Uncle James!"
The boy flew down the street, his short legs taking him faster than Molly would've imagined. He was adorable, hungry for a man's attention, and missing his father. And her heart went out to him, despite his mischievous gleam.
James came around to her side of the wagon. "Good day, ladies:" He touched the brim of his hat, his gaze taking in Molly. "You look nice this afternoon. And rested. I hope you slept well. The bed in that room's a touch on the soft side:"
"I slept very well-after I stopped seeing the ravine every time I closed my eyes. Thank you, Sheriff." Despite their pact to use first names, Molly considered it best to keep some formality between them in public settings. She took his subtle smile as agreement. "My grandmother had a feather bed a lot like-"
"Thief!! Get back here with that!" somebody yelled from down the street.
Heads turned and from her perch on the wagon seat, Molly spotted a thin dark-haired boy running pell-mell toward them, something tucked in the crook of his arm. Too late, the boy spied James and skidded, trying to alter his course.
James caught him easily and held him by the arm. "Whoa, there, son.
The boy wriggled in his grip, glancing back over his shoulder every few seconds. "Per favore, signore, mi lasci andare! Un tipo mi sta inse- guendo: e arrabbiato! Ha imbrogliato me e la miafamiglia."
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