Abiding Love

by Melody Morgan

  "How is school coming along?" Winnie asked pleasantly.

  "Fine." Irene poured a cup of tea and forced herself to sit down across from her mother. Now that Lydia was out of hearing range, Winnie was bound to scrutinize every detail concerning the children and especially Ross Hollister. She prepared herself for the coming interrogation.

  "And these children? How are you coming along with them?" Winnie stared over the edge of the china cup at her.

  With a sigh, Irene set her cup down. "I've told you all there is to tell, Mother. The children let themselves in"

  "I've been meaning to talk to you about that unlocked door."

  "and I decided to let them stay while I locate a relative. So far there's been no word from anyone."

  "And did the children arrive wearing new shoes and new clothing?" She arched an accusing eyebrow.

  "No."

  "I thought not." Winnie sat back in her chair, folding her hands in her lap. "Irene dear, I think you're becoming attached to these children, and you know that a single widow"

  "I'm not a widow, Mother!" Aghast, the words burst from Irene's mouth.

  "I know. I meant to say single woman," she replied, her voice hushed with memories. "It's just that sometimes I forget." Emotion clogged her throat momentarily. "It was all so perfect for you. I just don't understand why." Winnie's hand closed consolingly over Irene's where it lay clenched on the table.

  "Andrew was such a wonderful man," Winnie went on.

  "Andrew didn't die, Mother. He is alive and well. Somewhere." She didn't know where and furthermore, she no longer cared.

  "I know. But he left you this beautiful house with all this lovely furniture as a testament of his love for you. Surely . . ."

  But the rest of what she had to say fell on deaf ears as Irene stared into the bottom of her teacup. Yes, she thought to herself, he'd left her the house and the furniture, but what she'd never told anyone was that Andrew hadn't bought any of it. She had used the money left to her by her father. Some she had invested, but most of it was spent on the house and the furnishings. They had chosen everything together, buying only the best, keeping their secret so Andrew's pride wouldn't suffer.

  She continued staring at the small heap of broken bits of tea leaves in her cup that so resembled her own crushed feelings when she discovered another of Andrew's secrets. And this one she would hide forever.

  "I've made you sad. I'm sorry," Winnie said, and she truly was. Now was not the time, she conceded silently, to bring up her concern over the appearance of the saloon owner, Mr. Hollister. But eventually she would. It was a mother's duty to look out for her unmarried daughter, and she took that duty very seriously.

  They sat thus for several minutes in silence. Then Winnie rose from her seat. "What do you say we pour another cup and go into the parlor? It sounds like Lydia is building a fire in the stove."

  With cups in hand, they entered the parlor, which glowed softly with lamplight. Orange and yellow firelight shone brightly through the thin sheet of mica in the door of the ornate round stove. Brisk noises of crackling and snapping emanated from it, yet only a meager measure of heat penetrated the cool room.

  ''It won't take long," Lydia said, sweeping up the pieces of bark that had fallen on the floor.

  Jonathan sat on a stool, staring into the flames, his mind obviously lingering on the events of the afternoon.

  Winnie sat in a chair close to the edge of the heat. "Did Howard Gregg put up the stove for you this year?"

  Irene nodded. "We didn't really need it until a few weeks ago. He offered to install it."

  "He's such a reliable man," Winnie said. "Didn't you write that he'd married your friend Emma?"

  "Yes. Almost two months ago."

  Jonathan yawned wide, his face reddening with the warmth of the fire.

  "Come on, Jonathan," Lydia said. "It's time to get ready for bed." She tugged at his arm and, without resisting, he followed her to the kitchen.

  This unusual turn of events didn't escape Irene. There was a subtle change in the boy, and she was sure it was due to Ross Hollister.

  "That girl's quite capable at most everything, isn't she?" Winnie asked, having observed Lydia closely all evening.

  "Yes. She is."

  Setting aside her cup, Winnie rose from her chair. "Well, I quite agree with her, it is definitely time for bed. I can't remember when I've been this tired."

  Crossing the room, she bent and kissed her daughter's cheek. "It's really very good to be here."

  Irene felt a constriction around her heart, not unlike the one she felt surrounding her life. Deep emotional childhood ties to this woman, her mother, jumbled together in confusion with these new feelings of responsibility and budding independence.

  "It's good to have you here, Mother," she replied in a near whisper. "Sleep well."

  When everyone had gone to bed and all was quiet, Irene rose from her seat before the dying fire. She checked the damper in both stoves and climbed the stairs to bed. After donning a warm gown, she pulled the box of novels from beneath her bed and selected one. Then she adjusted the lamp, crawled under a layer of quilts, and opened to a favorite page.

  "The tall dark-eyed young man hurried past," she read silently. "He stopped suddenly in the path, turned, and his eyes met hersthose dark, laughing, magnetic eyes that few women even yet had the power of resisting. . . ."

  Ross entered his room at the inn, closed the door firmly behind him, and locked it out of old habit. In the dark he sank onto the edge of the bed, tired to the bone.

  After leaving Miss Barrett's, he'd gone to the saloon, where it seemed he'd broken up one fight after another. He and Ben had stayed late to clean up the mess, which had been almost as bad as the one the women had made a month or so ago.

  He shrugged out of his coat and hung it on the back of a chair next to the bed, then pulled off his boots. The cold floor penetrated through the warmth of his socks to his feet. Without wasting any time, he divested himself of the rest of his clothing, dropping it on the floor, and crawled beneath the chilled covers.

  His mind tiredly replayed the events of the day with each happening easily slipping by until he got to the part where Jonathan felt a tug on his fishing pole. The sparkle in the boy's eye left little doubt that this had been a high point in his young life.

  Ross smiled remembering his own childhood fishing expeditions. He and Harry had managed to slip away on more than one occasion with a fishing pole after finishing chores or even during school days. Especially during school days, if he remembered correctly. He grinned in the dark.

  He continued thinking about Jonathan, living in a houseful of women without a single man to show him how to bait a hook or gut a fish properly. It just didn't seem right. A boy needed someone to teach him what a woman couldn't. But he knew it wasn't wise to get too involved.

  Like tonight, eating supper in the home of a bunch of strangers, and women to boot. He'd felt completely out of his element. Probably just the way Jonathan felt.

  He smiled, remembering again Jonathan's description of Miss Barrett. Apparently, Jonathan wasn't the only one who had misjudged her. Ross remembered back to that night in the saloon, when it seemed that hell had marched in wearing skirts and high heels. He hadn't noticed her at first, not until he heard a screech and the splintering of glass. When he turned around, there she was, Miss Barrett the schoolteacher, holding a club and standing amidst the pieces of the only mirror the saloon sported. Of course, he hadn't realized she was the schoolteacher until later. And in spite of Jonathan's opinion, she was the prettiest schoolteacher he'd ever seen.

  Tiredness crept over his body, while the warmth he generated became trapped by the heavy wool blankets, causing his eyelids to slide shut.

  Hazily, his mind drifted back to winter days along the Maumee above the dam. He remembered how the ice got thick enough to skate on sometimes as early as Christmas, and even earlier on the canal where the water lay still. He remembered cutting holes in th
e ice like the Indians before them, and fishing until their fingers turned blue and numb.

  Yep, he thought to himself just before dropping off to sleep, those are things a boy ought to know about.

  Chapter Five

  The new month of November had replaced the old one on Irene's calendar just a week earlier, and her mother was still there. So were the children and, with painful regularity, so was Ross Hollister.

  The fishing expeditions had been abandoned with the advent of cold weather and several inches of snow, only to be replaced by rabbit hunting.

  At first Irene had said no, believing the sport was too dangerous for such a young boy. But Jonathan had immediately resumed his defiant attitude toward her and school, forcing her to reconsider. The progress they'd made, while small, was at least better than this regression to running away from school and disappearing for hours. So when Ross had shown up a week ago and asked if Jonathan might accompany him on a hunting trip for just the afternoon, she had reluctantly agreed,

  To be perfectly honest, her reasons for saying no in the first place hadn't been based solely on Jonathan's safety, but partially on her own feelings about Ross Hollister. His presence in her home, even though he never ventured past the kitchen, caused her some discomfort. After all, he did own a saloon, something her mother had never allowed her to forget since the evening she'd arrived.

  And today was no exception.

  "I suppose we'll be eating rabbit or some such wild thing. Again," Winnie said, sniffling slightly while she peeled the onions for the stew.

  "You're catching a cold, Mother."

  "It's only the onions," she replied. But a few moments later she sneezed.

  "There now, you see? Onions don't make you sneeze," Irene said.

  "Oh, posh. I'm fine. I'll let you know when I'm ready for a hot brick for my feet," Winnie said, sniffling again.

  Knowing it was no use arguing with her, Irene took down the teapot from the shelf and brewed some comfrey tea.

  "In case they come home empty-handed," Winnie began, a note of hopefulness in her voice, "do you have something else to put in the stew?" She Sneezed again.

  "We'll worry about that when the time comes." Irene pulled out a chair for her mother. "I want you to sit here and drink this."

  Winnie looked as though she would object, then changed her mind and accepted the seat. She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve just in time to catch the next sneeze.

  "Oh, dear. Perhaps you should warm a brick," she said, sipping her tea. "I don't know what has come over me."

  "I'm sure it's nothing to worry about, but it would be wise to prevent it from getting any worse." Irene took a couple of bricks from the pantry and set them on the stove to heat.

  Lydia finished cutting up the onion and peeled some potatoes. Occasionally, she turned the bricks over until they were warmed through.

  "If those bricks are ready, I'll go up to bed," Winnie said, her nose bright as a radish. "Lydia, would you mind carrying them for me?"

  Wrapping them in a layer of towels, Lydia followed Winnie upstairs.

  With winter coming on, most families expected at least one bout with a cold, so Irene wasn't too concerned. Undoubtedly her mother had just taken a chill, and a few days of bed rest was the perfect prescription.

  The pleasant, sweet smell of cake filled the kitchen and Irene opened the oven door to stick a broom straw into the almost-baked cake to test its doneness. Not quite, she decided when the straw came out sticky. Carefully, she closed the door.

  Lydia appeared in the doorway, inhaling deeply. "Mmmm. Sure smells good in here," she said,

  Lydia had become an invaluable help in the kitchen, and everywhere else for that matter. Irene couldn't imagine how she would ever get along without her when the time came.

  "How's Mother?"

  "Under a pile of blankets so high all you can see is her red nose sticking out." Lydia grinned. "But she says the bricks are too hot and she's afraid they'll burn her feet. And she wants you to make her some tonic out of garlic and honey." Lydia screwed up her face and stuck out her tongue.

  Irene laughed at her. "It's a favorite winter cure-all for Mother. Just make sure you don't catch what she's got."

  Lydia looked aghast. "I won't!" Then she made a face again and shivered.

  During the next hour the tonic was prepared, the cake came out of the oven, the stew bubbled cheerily, and Irene checked on Winnie, who slept, while outside the wind picked up, bringing a smattering of flakes against the kitchen window.

  "I think I'll bring in some firewood," Lydia offered, pulling on her coat. "Who knows when Jonathan will be back. I'll get another pail of water, too."

  But before she touched the doorknob, the door swung open, revealing a smiling Jonathan with Ross only a few steps behind. Suspended between them on a branch were four dead rabbits strung up by their hind legs.

  Irene blanched at the sight.

  "See what we got!" shouted Jonathan. "Four of 'em!"

  "Yes," she managed to say, forcing a weak smile of approval.

  Ross stepped back. "Maybe we'd better stay outside, Jonathan. We don't want to drip blood on Miss Barrett's floor."

  "Oh, yeah, sorry," Jonathan said, backing out the door when the wind swirled snow into the room. "First we'll take off their heads and skins and"

  "Uh," Ross interrupted, glancing at Irene, "I'm not sure the ladies want to hear the details, pal."

  Puzzled, Jonathan looked up at Ross. "Why not?"

  Lydia spoke up with, "Because we're cooks, not hunters."

  "Oh."

  "Let's go before we let all the heat out of the kitchen," Ross urged.

  Irene quickly handed him a pan and knife, averting her eyes like a shy schoolgirl and feeling foolish for doing so. Without a word Ross accepted the offered cleaning tools, his fingers accidentally brushing hers in the process. Since there was nothing more to be said, they headed for the shed out back. Lydia followed as far as the woodpile, filled her arms, and hurried back while Irene held the door for her.

  "I think we may be in for some nasty weather," Irene said, trying to get her mind on something besides the upcoming meal that obviously would include Ross. Closing the door, she opened the woodbox. "If it really starts to snow with that wind, we may not being going out for a few days."

  "Well," Lydia said, dropping the pile of wood into the box and shrugging her shoulders, "I guess we'll have plenty of rabbit to eat."

  "Won't Mother be happy about that?" Irene replied.

  "Maybe we could tell her it's chicken," Lydia said with a twinkle in her eye.

  "She'd never believe it."

  Before long Ross and Jonathan arrived with the meat ready for cooking. Irene took a few of the pieces and started them browning on the stove before adding them to the stew. Lydia packed the rest into a small covered crock to sit outside beneath a heavy metal tub, protected from animals.

  The warmth in the kitchen forced Ross to remove his coat and hang it on the peg alongside Jonathan's as had become his custom after bringing in a mess of fish or a rabbit. If none had been caught, he stayed for only a few minutes, going over the events of their day before he left. He readily admitted that he was always sorry to arrive empty-handed.

  But today had brought a bonus. And he welcomed the opportunity to spend more time in this homey little kitchen.

  "Mmmm, It always smells great in here," he said, rubbing his cold hands together near the stove, feeling warm from the inside and knowing it had nothing to do with the fire.

  "Sure does," Jonathan agreed, plopping down on a chair. "Did you make a cake?"

  "Yes, I did," Irene answered. "I think it's your favorite." She glanced at Lydia for a verifying nod.

  "My own rabbit and my favorite cake!" Jonathan said, beaming happily at everyone.

  She lightly touched the top of Jonathan's head as she passed him to get the plates from the cupboard. He twisted in his seat to smile up at her, and something warm gripped her around the hea
rt.

  "I'm afraid the stew won't be ready for a while, Mr. Hollister," she said, setting four plates on the table.

  "I don't mind," he replied, relaxing against the door frame out of her way. "It's much cozier here than in my room or down at the Keg." He smiled appreciatively. "And the food is a whole lot better, too."

  She moved around the table in that same effortless manner he'd come to associate only with her, setting each dish in its assigned place. A crisp napkin lay neatly folded off to the side. Such a small thing, just an added special touch, yet it spoke loudly to him.

  Feeling his eyes follow her every move, Irene nervously turned her back and reached for the flowered china teapot, placing it in the center of the table.

  "Would you care for a cup of tea, Mr. Hollister?" she asked.

  "Tea?" he asked with surprise. Then, catching himself, he replied, "No, thanks."

  "Oh, I suppose you drink coffee." Andrew had always drunk tea with her, so she hadn't thought to ask.

  He nodded.

  "I'm sorry. I don't have any."

  "That's all right," he said, brushing the air with a lifted hand.

  Silence fell.

  "Mother isn't feeling well," she explained, indicating the four dishes. "I think she's coming down with a cold."

  "I'm sorry to hear that," he said politely.

  "It's probably the weather," she went on, not really knowing what else to say, although her mother's health and the weather were probably bering subjects to this worldly man. Most of the time Jonathan did all the talking and the rest of them listened, but now he said very little while his hand propped up his chin. Irene glanced at him to check for signs of listlessness, a sure indication of an oncoming cold in a child.

  "Looks like it could get worse," Ross offered, as the conversation lagged. He continued to stand near the cook-stove, warming himself and observing her. Occasionally she stirred the stew, her face a little flushed from the heat, and she disappeared into the pantry a few times. It wasn't hard to tell that he made her nervous, and he wasn't even trying. She was nice to be around and he enjoyed her company, nervous or not.