West Winds of Wyoming

by Caroline Fyffe

  “No need for that,” Charlie said, giving the shopkeeper a reproving look. He picked up Sarah, who was still startled by the clerk’s action.

  Mrs. Logan hurried over. Charlie set the whimpering girl down and Mrs. Logan took her by the hand. “As much as I hate to admit it, Miss Fairington is correct, Sarah. You know you’re not allowed to play in the flour. Now put the stick people back so we can go. Good day to you, Mr. Rose.”

  “Goodbye,” Charlie replied as she went out the door. Sarah ran to catch up. A pinch of loneliness threatened his mood.

  He went to the counter and looked at the candies behind on the shelf, thinking he’d like to buy a dozen of each for his little girl. Instead he said, “I’ll take two scoops of peppermints, please.”

  Miss Fairington filled his request and set the small white bag on the counter.

  “Can I open an account? I’m new to town but I plan on staying.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t have the authority to approve that.”

  He fished a dime out of his pocket. “Is this enough?”

  She traced her finger down a list of items, stopping near the bottom. “Yes. One moment, you have two pennies coming back.” She punched a couple of keys on the cash register and the drawer at the bottom popped open. She gathered the coins and handed them to him. “I’ll tell Maude that you’re interested in an account. She’ll take care of the rest.”

  “Thank you.”

  Beth Fairington smiled, reminding him of a viper. “Hope to see you again, Mr. Rose.”

  Charlie settled his hat on his head and went out the door. He took one of the peppermints from the bag and popped it into his mouth, thinking about Maddie being in school. Her first day and he’d missed it. Oh well. As long as she was happy, so was he. He’d make their lives right, somehow. If it was the last thing he did.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Worn to a frazzle, Brenna took the stairs at Mr. Hutton’s house quietly, carrying a get-well card the children had made and a jar of her strawberry jam, her none-too-secret good deed of the day, to further sweeten him up. She was exhausted. Felt like a twelve-team wagon had used her as a road. A room filled with excited children was a dangerous place, she now knew all too well.

  Heat warmed her face remembering all the times they had stumped her—her response was that she’d have the answer by the next day. Writing them all down was a job in itself. She hoped Mr. Hutton felt well enough to read the questions over and give her the answers. If he didn’t, she didn’t know what she would do.

  She stopped at the front door. She gave a gentle knock, just in case Mr. Hutton might be asleep.

  “Come in.” Mr. Hutton’s voice sounded stronger.

  She pulled up short when she entered and found him settled in the chair instead of in his bed. An oil lamp burned on the table beside him. A book was open in his lap and a cup of tea on the table. She hadn’t realized how much she’d been anticipating this meeting until a surge of happiness jostled her heart. “You feel better. I didn’t expect to find you up.”

  He nodded. “Don’t know how much better I feel, but I needed to get out of that bed for a little while.”

  He’d donned a shirt and pants. Pinky-white calamine lotion covered his face and his hair needed a good scrubbing. The two days’ growth of whiskers hid his strong, attractive chin.

  He smiled. “How did your day go, Mrs. Lane?”

  Was he eager to see her?

  She glanced about, taking in the tidied up living room. Through the doorway to the kitchen, she spied the drain board stacked with dishes that had already been washed. In his bedroom the bed looked neat and things put away. She lifted an eyebrow.

  “Mrs. Hollyhock,” he said in explanation to her silent question. “I finally got her to go home. Please, if she inquires about me, tell her I’m better.”

  Brenna laughed, sinking into the chair opposite him. The horsehair cushion welcomed her aching back, tired after standing for the whole day.

  “She forced me to gargle with warm water laced with cayenne pepper to draw out the infection. I tried to tell her I had the measles, not strep throat, but she wouldn’t listen.”

  “Once Violet gets an idea into her head, there’s no way to stop her. I don’t think anything I say will persuade her away—but I’ll try.”

  “Thank you. That’s all I ask.”

  Mr. Hutton’s eager face lifted Brenna’s mood. She wasn’t quite sure how the day had passed, except that it had in a blink of an eye. She handed him the get-well card.

  His mouth crooked up when he unfolded the paper. Dry calamine flakes floated down into his lap. He brushed them away as he read the card. “This is nice. Thank you.”

  Even in his infirmity, he was a handsome man. Broad of shoulder and thick of arm. On top of all that, he was educated, intellectual, and mannered. She glanced away to gather her nerves.

  “Please, don’t keep me in suspense any longer,” he said.

  “The day went well—I think. We read from the readers in the morning, practiced writing words and simple sentences after that, and played a game of Duck Duck Goose.”

  “Duck Duck Goose?” His smile faded and his eyes went dark.

  “Yes. We had a good twenty minutes until lunchtime with nothing to do. When Penny suggested the game, all the students agreed that’s what they wanted to do.” And I was wholeheartedly relieved.

  Mr. Hutton glanced away, his mouth firm. Her idea of the perfect solution to the problem did not please him at all. “Games should be saved for recess on rainy days.”

  Brenna’s emotions welled up. She’d done her best for hours to be cheerful and use the time well. She’d struggled to answer every question tossed her way. Twenty minutes of a game wasn’t worth a dressing down. “I didn’t think one game would hurt.”

  He waited so long to respond she knew he thought otherwise. “It won’t. But if you add that time to other wasted moments, a child’s education could be squandered away. We don’t want that to happen. Now . . . tell me more.”

  She didn’t want to. Surely he’d find more things to criticize. Even the watercolor portrait hanging on the wall, of the staunch-looking woman with the narrow face and close-set eyes, looked more disapproving than ever. “Are you sure you’re feeling up to it? You look a little peaked. Maybe you better get back into bed.”

  “That’s the calamine lotion. What did you do after the lunch break?”

  All Brenna wanted to do was go home and relax, where no one would ask her questions she couldn’t answer. She still had an hour’s worth of mending and some baking before she could go to bed. And since she hadn’t had an opportunity to do a secret good deed today—she decided that the strawberry jam didn’t count, not when she now begrudged it—she vowed to do two tomorrow. “We read aloud some more, this time from the history book.”

  “Did you work in the math books like my schedule instructed?”

  Brenna swallowed and her heart beat double time. What can I say that won’t be a lie?

  “Mrs. Lane?” He sat forward. “Are you feeling all right?”

  “Yes. And actually, no. I mean, I’m fine, but we didn’t use the books. I thought some review on the blackboard would be good. The children worked in pairs to solve addition problems. As long as they got the correct answers, they were allowed to do another problem. The older students helped the younger and the session ending up being quite fun.”

  Mr. Hutton’s mouth pulled down at the dreaded word. “School is not supposed to be fun.”

  The frown on his face reminded her of Mr. Pender, the teacher from her childhood who had been so frightening. Grouchy ol’ Mr. Pender re-embodied as a young man—who would have thought.

  “Mrs. Lane,” he said slowly, as if struggling for the right words to make her understand. “For this to work, you need to follow my instructions. It’s important. School isn’t just a time for play. No need to entertain. The students don’t even have to like you.”

  “But I like them.”

>   He held up a hand to shush her. “The children need to be challenged. If not, their minds grow stagnant. They may as well stay home on the farm and clean a stall.”

  What? Brenna’s ire lifted its head. She was tired, cranky, and hungry. Penny was seeing to supper and she needed to get back to her own home to help. What did he expect of her? She was doing her best. She’d told him she didn’t want the responsibility and that she didn’t have any experience. Heck, she’d struggled to get through school herself. The interesting eyes that had intrigued her from the very first day they’d met now sent a ripple of anger shooting through her heart.

  “Please don’t get upset.” His eyes searched her face. “I can see you’re taking this personally. I’m not criticizing you.”

  The heck you’re not!

  “If the students think every day is a play day, they’re never going to want to be serious when you ask them to buckle down.”

  “It’s the first day, Mr. Hutton.”

  He held his hand to his forehead and closed his eyes. “Still, Mrs. Lane.”

  Compassion cooled her anger. He was still a very sick man. She needed to remember that. He’d waited up for her, to hear how her day went. That should count for something. She should not be angry. “You’re feeling weak. Let me help you back to your room.”

  He smiled, loosening more flakes of dried lotion from his face. “No, no. I’m fine. Just a little shooting pain. Now, where were we?”

  You were holding my feet to the fire and watching me squirm.

  “Did you have any problems? Or troublemakers?”

  One. Stevie had decided to play hooky on the first day—darn that boy of hers—but she wouldn’t tell Mr. Hutton that. No use looking for trouble when enough was sure to find the lad on its own. “No problems.” Three trout pulled fresh from the stream is not an excuse to miss school.

  She leaned forward and handed him the list of questions from that day. “If you could, please, I’ll need these answered before tomorrow morning. I’d appreciate it.”

  He glanced at the list. “Of course.”

  “Fine then. If there isn’t anything else you need, I’ll be going.” She glanced about, noting again his papers on the table, books and a cup. Her stomach growled softly, reminding her that she was famished. “Your supper?”

  “I had some of the soup you brought over not long ago. Thank you again for that.” He sounded contrite. Like he wanted to make up. She wasn’t quite ready for that.

  “Penny made it.”

  “Please tell Penny it’s very good and I appreciate her sharing such a fine dish with me.”

  “I will.” The jar of strawberry jam still clutched in her hands felt like an albatross around her neck. “Oh, I almost forgot. I brought you over some jam I put up last month.”

  “That was kind of you.”

  She shrugged, still feeling hurt over the unfair interrogation. “It’s good on toast.”

  She stood and headed into the kitchen. As she opened the cabinet door, the corner of a paper stuck halfway out of the drawer below caught her attention. The creased paper looked important, like an official document. Surely, Mr. Hutton hadn’t meant to squash it in there like that. Perhaps Mrs. Hollyhock was accidently at fault, as she’d tidied up. Intent on righting the wrong, Brenna opened the drawer, her hand halting midair.

  The manure-stained paper! The unlucky relationship-wrecker that had started the whole mess with Mr. Hutton in the first place. The large, bold type was impossible not to read: OFFICIAL MARRIAGE CERTIFICATE OF THE STATE OF PENNSYLVANIA.

  Of their own volition, her eyes skimmed down the page and stopped on the date. November 20, 1879—three years ago. Brenna stifled a gasp. Mr. Hutton, with his lovely hazel eyes, tempting broad shoulders and strong, manly chin, was married! To a Miss Helen Boyd. She noted the September birthday listed, year eighteen fifty-one. The same one she’d read on Mr. Hutton’s application. She’d remembered because hers was the same month, only a year earlier.

  A surge of sadness filled her. A large dark-green stain covered a good portion of the upper left-hand corner, but the names were mostly visible, leaving no doubt in Brenna’s mind who the document belonged to.

  Wife? But where was she?

  With a shaky hand, she pulled the drawer open a tad bit farther but stopped when she noticed a stack of letters, the post on top addressed to Gregory Hutton, Logan Meadows, Wyoming Territory. The sender was listed as H. Hutton, Poppyville, Pennsylvania.

  Well, that answers my question quite nicely. Poppyville, Pennsylvania.

  “Mrs. Lane?”

  “Yes. I’ll be right there.”

  Her voice sounded clogged. She pushed her emotions aside and set the jar of jam on the shelf, closing the cabinet door with a shaky hand. Careful not to make any noise, she quickly tucked away the document and slid the drawer closed. Returning to the front room, she took in Mr. Hutton’s feverish eyes and struggled against the crushing weight of disappointment that pushed in on her from all sides. He doesn’t mean anything to me. “I’ll check back with you in a couple of hours before I go to bed.”

  “I assure you, there’s no need for that, Mrs. Lane.”

  “I assure you there is, Mr. Hutton, and I won’t hear another word about it. I want you to get well as soon as you can—so you can take back your class and I can go back to my mending.”

  She hadn’t meant to sound so cross, but cross she was. Hoodwinked, although he hadn’t done one single thing to encourage her, and if she were truthful, he’d done the exact opposite. “And I assure you, I need that list of questions answered before class tomorrow. I hope you’ll be able to return them to me this evening so I won’t worry.”

  Brenna said goodbye. She hurried across to her own house and was met by the familiar scents of bread baking, the clove-studded apple Jane had made and hung in the living room, and the boys’ clothes after a hard day of play. All the things that would have brought her comfort yesterday left her cold. Loneliness gripped her heart and pain stabbed behind her eyes.

  She smiled at the children sprinkled through the rooms but headed for her bedroom. Stevie sat on the couch, book in hand, as if she wouldn’t even notice he’d missed school today. She didn’t have the energy to address the situation now. “I’ll be out in a moment, dears.” Her hand rested on the glass doorknob. “I just have to slip off my boots and freshen up. Is supper ready?”

  “Yes, Mama,” Jane and Penny called back in unison. “And the table is set,” Jane added.

  Such good girls. “Wonderful. I can’t wait to hear what you thought of the day.” Brenna closed the door to her bedroom with a soft click, then leaned against the wood for support. I’ve been pinning my hopes on Mr. Hutton. What a silly nilly I’ve been. What would he want with a dumb peasant like me?

  The hated, ugly nickname had the power to drop her to her knees. Her pa’s angry, red face rushed into Brenna’s mind. “You’ll never amount to a half-bent clover, girl. Yer useless to me. Use your head. Why didn’t God send me a son to hilp me work in the mine. Least then, he’d be worth something.”

  Mr. Hutton’s disapproving expression. The forgotten math books. Her years of struggle, heartbreak, and loneliness all welled up within her heart until she thought it would burst. Sliding down the door to the floor, Brenna covered her ears with her hands, trying to block out her father’s mocking laughter. Why had she taken on such responsibility? She should have known she couldn’t do it. That she’d mess it up. And she had.

  There was a soft knock on the door. “Mother, is anything wrong?”

  Brenna quickly wiped her eyes with the hem of her dress and made sure her voice wasn’t shaky before she responded. “I’m fine, sweetheart. I’ll be right out.” She worked to make her voice sound cheerful. “We have so much to talk about.”

  “We sure do, Mama.” Jane had joined her older sister on the opposite side of the door. “School was fun. I liked everything you did.”

  Fun. Don’t let Mr. Hutton hear that word.
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  After she climbed to her feet, Brenna squared her shoulders. This was just one tiny, little setback in the bumpy road of life. She’d faced bigger problems than this. Mr. Hutton had a wife in Pennsylvania to nurse him. Brenna would do what she could, but that was all. She’d not worry about his health, his supper, his soaring temperature. She’d put that man across the road where he belonged—at the bottom of her priority list.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Morning,” Nell called to Gabe and Jake. The hands on loan from the Broken Horn rode toward the ranch yard. It had been four days since she and Seth had made the decision to round up the wild horses, and each day the sun peeking over the far mountain range filled her with hope. “I see you have everything you need,” she said, gesturing to their bedrolls on the backs of their saddles, stock whips lashed to the pommels and faces full of excitement. Dog trotted off the porch and out to meet them, barking, whining, and wagging his tail.

  She lifted her coffee cup and took a drink. This wild herd just might be the thing to get the ranch back on track. Surely there would be some three- and four-year-olds in the group, which they could use for the army order that hung over their heads. But more than that, there would be broodmares and fillies they could add to their breeding stock. The thought was heady and boosted her mood even more.

  At the hitching rail Gabe and Jake swung their legs over the backs of their saddles and stepped off their horses. Each had a long rifle in a leather scabbard on the saddle and a six-gun strapped to his leg.

  “Thanks for coming. We couldn’t do this without your help.”

  “We ain’t done nothin’ yet, Nell,” Jake drawled. “I’d wait to see what happens before you go singing our praises. That’s a lot of country up there. Finding that herd will be like finding a penny at the bottom of Grant’s quarry.”

  She’d not let him spoil her good mood. “You may be right. Charlie only has a vague recollection where he spotted them. But from here on out, we’re thinking positive. We’ll find those horses and bring ’em in.”