Abiding Love

by Melody Morgan

  When he reached the small ravine behind his home, he tripped and tumbled a short distance down the hill like a dark snowball. Righting himself, and feeling less threatened when he spotted the smoke rising from the kitchen chimney, he continued on. His pace was a little slower and his spirits a lot lower.

  Instead of going to the back door, Jonathan went behind the shed to sit on a rock, his back to the wooden boards.

  Why had that rotten David Peters ruined his perfect day? And why did he want to call Miss Barrett awful names? What had she done that was so bad?

  He leaned his head against the shed and closed his eyes. Thinking made his head hurt, so he just sat there with the pale sun hanging low in the sky, casting almost no warmth on his sore face.

  He wasn't sure how long he'd been there when he heard Lydia's voice and Miss Barrett's laughter.

  With a sigh of resignation, he stood up. Either he had to run away again or he had to go out and meet them. And since he shivered with the cold already, he decided to get it over with and go in where it was warm.

  He walked around the end of the shed past a dense growth of wild grape vines and stood in the road, waiting.

  Irene saw the dejected droop of the little boy's head and shoulders. As she came closer, the bruises on his face stood out like measles on a baby. Her step quickened until she could grasp him by the shoulders.

  "Jonathan!" She lightly touched the bruised spot on his cheek. "What happened to you? Who did this?"

  Jonathan screwed up his mouth and worked his chin in an effort to keep from crying. It didn't really hurt all that much, but the care and concern on her face had a strange effect on his emotions. If he said one word, he'd break down and cry like a baby.

  Kneeling in the snow until her face was at his level, Irene surveyed the damage. His nose didn't appear swollen, so she felt sure it hadn't been broken. But by morning one eye would be a bright purple.

  "Tell her, Jonathan," Lydia entreated. "Who hit you?"

  He glanced at his sister, then at Miss Barrett. Did she really care? She looked as though she did.

  "David," he finally answered.

  "David Peters?" Irene asked. She'd never considered David a violent child. "Why?"

  Would she think he started it? "Because," he replied.

  Lydia peered into his eyes. "Tell us why, Jonathan. Did you say something to make him mad?"

  "No! He did! He called Miss Barrett a hussy and I got so mad I hit him. Then he knocked me down." It was all still so fresh that he started crying. He couldn't help it,

  Irene rocked back slightly on her heels when he uttered the word "hussy," and a small gasp escaped her. That wasn't a child's word. Neither boy probably even realized what they'd said, but Irene knew its import. People were talking.

  Gathering her wits about her, she held Jonathan close to comfort him. "Let's go inside where it's warm," she said softly to camouflage her shaking voice. "You're shivering."

  He clung to her skirts as she put her arm protectively around his small shoulders.

  As they walked through the back door, Winnie gasped at the sight of Jonathan's bruises. "Lord in Heaven!" She shot a questioning look at Irene.

  "There was a fight at the school," she said simply.

  "Well, I can see that, for goodness sake." Bending down she scrutinized Jonathan's face, touching it here and there for reassurance that there were no broken bones. "Umm."

  Straightening, Winnie fixed her daughter with a stare. "I believe we can remedy those scrapes, but the bruises will take some time."

  Irene had the uncanny feeling that her mother had just looked into Jonathan's eyes and read the entire sequence of events. With every intention of avoiding the coming questions, she busied herself helping Jonathan off with his coat. Then she removed her own.

  "If only I had my herb bag with me . . ." Winnie began, frowning over the misfortune of leaving it at home. But how was she to know when she left Cincinnati that there would be children at Irene's house? And scrapping children at that.

  With a cloth and warm water, Irene cleansed Jonathan's face, encouraging him to hold on just a little longer whenever he winced at her ministrations.

  Over Jonathan's head, Winnie asked, "Are you going to tell me what happened?"

  "This is hardly the time, Mother." She continued dabbing gently without lifting her eyes from her work.

  "I'd say it's exactly the right time."

  Irene leveled a look at her mother. She would not discuss this now and subject the children to further evidence of her difficulty in agreeing with her mother on anything.

  "All right," Winnie said, her tone placating.

  With that settled, Irene returned to caring for Jonathan. He sat completely still with his eyes closed, no longer flinching when she touched him.

  She bit her lip, thinking of how he'd defended her honor. It was her fault this had happened. If she hadn't been so stubborn, she would have seen where her behavior was leading. But no, she'd allowed her better judgment to be clouded by a romantic heart and a contest of wills with her mother.

  And Jonathan had been the one to pay.

  Perhaps Lydia would feel the repercussions next.

  No, she vowed silently, she would not allow that to happen. Nor would she allow anyone else to make her decisions for her. This was her life, and she would make the choices from now on.

  Chapter Ten

  Thanksgiving had come and gone, leaving Christmas only weeks away. Normally, this time of early winter held nothing but cheer and warm thoughts of home for Irene.

  But not this year.

  She had tried convincing Winnie to spend the holidays with Janie or Mary Ellen or Rosie, to no avail.

  Winnie wasn't budging. And she made that quite clear.

  Even so, life moved along on a fairly even keel, with Irene's days filled with teaching and preparations for the Christmas play, while her evenings were spent keeping Jonathan busy.

  Not seeing Ross had caused a few complaints at first, but the cold weather hadn't exactly been conducive for any of them to be out and about anyway. But as the days and weekends passed, Jonathan began pressuring Irene with questionsquestions she felt hard-put to answer.

  How could a little boy understand the difficulties adults placed upon each other, not to mention on children? So instead of being completely honest, she evaded the issue by saying that Ross was probably too busy.

  Occupying Lydia's time had been easily remedied. Winnie decided the girl ought to know her stitches and set about giving Lydia lessons on plain muslins. Next she could work on pillow slips, if she improved. She turned out to be an avid pupil, and Winnie took more pleasure in the lessons than she'd anticipated.

  But Jonathan proved to be another matter.

  Drills in arithmetic and selected readings were hardly substitutes for an evening with Ross.

  Tonight happened to be such an evening.

  With her patience dwindling, Irene put down the book she'd been reading aloud. Jonathan lumped himself in the corner of the settee, pulling at a loose thread on his shirt front.

  "Jonathan, you're not listening," she said quietly.

  "I know." He puckered his lips, showing his boredom.

  Winnie tossed a quick glance his way as her fingers flew through her stitching. "If you'd sit up straight, your ears might work better."

  With skepticism in his eyes, he looked to Irene for verification of that statement, but she only smiled. He went back to pulling the thread.

  Outside the wind increased, setting up a fierce howling around the corners of the house and making the wood in the parlor stove suddenly burst into a spasm of energetic snapping and crackling. Everyone sat at attention for a few moments, then resumed what they'd been doing.

  "It sounds like a cold one tonight," Winnie said, tucking her skirt closer around her.

  "Yes, it certainly does," Irene answered, her head tilted to listen to the pounding of the wind.

  Lydia laid aside her work and added a few ch
unks of wood to the stove.

  Then the pounding began again. And again.

  Winnie laid her mending in her lap and looked to Irene. "I believe someone . . ." she began.

  But Irene was already up and on her way to the back of the house, where a lamp burned low on the kitchen table. Within seconds the others followed, peering over and around her as she opened the kitchen door to reveal Ross with the wind tearing at his hat. Frigid air rushed into the room, swirling around Irene's skirts.

  "I'm sorry to bother you, but"

  "Oh! Come in, come in!" Irene called, stepping aside and closing the door as soon as he'd entered.

  "Thanks," he said, smiling his gratitude. "It's worse out there than I expected when I left the saloon." His ears were so damn cold he feared they might fall off. He cupped a gloved hand over the left one in a futile effort to warm it.

  "Here. Take off your coat and gloves." Irene extended her hand to take them. "Stand by the stove and get warm." She hung the coat on a peg, laid the gloves on the table, and lifted a lid to stoke up the dying fire.

  When he held his hands over the stove, Irene saw that they were red in spite of the gloves he'd worn, almost as red as the tips of his ears.

  Sidling up beside Ross, Jonathan said, "I'll bet it's cold enough to freeze to death out there."

  Ross shuddered. "You're right about that." To Irene he said, "I hate to disturb you like this, but I wasn't sure I could make it to the inn without losing a few toes and fingers." He grinned to lighten his words a little, but he knew it was true. As it was, there wasn't much feeling left in his little toes now. He tried wiggling them to get some circulation going.

  "You're not disturbing us," Irene replied, looking up at him as she dropped a piece of wood into the stove. She left the lid off so the heat could come directly into the room instead of going up the chimney.

  "Well, I wasn't sure . . ."

  Irene glanced away, poking at the wood and sending tiny sparks up into the room. She knew his unsaid words referred to her avoidance of him over the past few weeks.

  When Ross had passed the house in daytime, she'd made sure Jonathan was busy elsewhere. And twice she'd changed her mind about going to town, just so their paths wouldn't cross.

  Winnie cleared her throat. "I guess I'll make some tea since you've got that fire hot enough to burn the house down."

  "Ross doesn't drink tea, Mother."

  Winnie stared first at Irene, then at Ross. "Well, we haven't got anything stronger."

  Irene's face reddened. "I only meant he drinks coffee, not tea."

  With a polite shuffle of his frozen feet, Ross interjected, "Actually, a hot cup of anything sounds pretty good right now."

  Winnie lifted a knowing eyebrow at Irene and plunked the kettle down on the stove.

  "I'll get the cups," Irene said, turning, but Lydia already had them set out. Instead, she turned up the lamp and sat at the table, her eyes suddenly fastened on the back of Ross's dark brown shirt. His shoulders were straight and wide, as though strong enough to carry any burden placed there. He still wore his hat, the same one he always did, with the battered brim slightly curled up on one side. Then he turned, surprising her, and she averted her gaze.

  "This sure feels great." He rubbed his hands together behind his back near the heat. Watching her, he said, "Thanks again."

  Jonathan dragged a chair over to Ross. "Gee, we're sure glad you stopped. We wouldn't want you to freeze to death out there, would we, Miss Barrett?"

  "No. No, of course we wouldn't," she replied, feeling more uncomfortable now than the first time he'd come to her kitchen door almost two months ago.

  With his presence so completely rifling the room, her decision to keep a permanent distance between them wavered. The smell of wet wool from his coat hung in the air,

  along with a hint of shaving cologne, familiar because of him yet unlike any that Andrew had worn. With a concentrated effort, she forced a vision of Jonathan's bruised face to flash through her memory, reminding herself of the reason for her decision to avoid Ross in the first place.

  Yet she could no more disregard Ross than the sturdy, warm, cast-iron stove behind him.

  Winnie bustled around the kitchen and around Ross as though he were an inanimate object, preparing the tea and replacing the lid on the stove.

  "It's hot enough in here," she declared, restoring the lifter to its place with a clang. Then she poured a cup of barely steeped tea and indicated that he could sit down now.

  "Thank you," he said, wrapping his hands as well as he could around the small china cup.

  "Is it snowing hard, Ross?" Jonathan asked, leaning on the back of Ross's chair.

  "Not yet. Just mostly wind." He took a long sip. "A north wind that will likely bring a lot of snow."

  "Me'n Lydia ain't never seen so much snow before. Have we, Lydia?"

  With her gaze narrowed, Lydia replied, "Have never seen."

  "That's what I said."

  "No, you didn't." Lydia didn't look away.

  Puzzled and a little irate, Jonathan raised his voice. "I did, too!"

  Intercepting, Irene spoke up, "We'll talk about it later, Jonathan. Lydia, would you see if there's any cake left?"

  "None for me," Ross said, raising his hand. "I'll be on my way as soon as I finish this." He directed a smile at Irene. "I think I've thawed out enough to make it just fine." He gulped down the last of the hot tea and rose from his chair.

  "How come you have to go?" Jonathan asked.

  ''The longer I stay, the longer I want to stay." His glance met Irene's.

  She blushed; he didn't.

  "Well, that's all right. I want you to stay a long time," Jonathan said, sticking to Ross like a burr in a sock.

  Smiling, Ross pulled on his coat, then ruffled Jonathan's hair. "I have to get going before it gets any worse out there, pal."

  At the door, Ross turned. His eyes held Irene's. "I appreciate your sharing the warmth of your kitchen." He tipped his head. "Good night."

  With her emotions in a tumult, Irene watched the door close behind him.

  "Hmmph! I suppose he thinks we're some kind of way station, where he can just come and go as he pleases," Winnie said with a flip of her hand.

  Irene had the definite urge to roll her eyes heavenward, but refrained. Instead, she began getting Jonathan ready for bed.

  "Cold!" Winnie went on. "I'm sure it must be colder in the mountains where he says he mines gold. Hmmph! What does he do out there when he needs to get warm?"

  Irene poured a bucket of warm water from the reservoir into the round tub in front of the stove. "I'm sure I don't know, Mother."

  "I'll bet I do!" Winnie muttered under her breath as she left the kitchen.

  Too busy with nighttime chores to allow her emotions to surface, Irene set them aside until later, when she could scrutinize them in private. Perhaps then she wouldn't feel so vulnerable.

  The next day, Ross stood in the upstairs room over the saloon with a smattering of snow pellets clinking against the only window. Even though he was inside, his breath hung frosty in the air. Outside, the cloud-filtered light made little impression in the dim attic, even though it was two o'clock in the afternoon.

  Surrounding him lay a legacy of clutter, most of it unusable. Dozens of broken crates, pictures of nudes in broken frames, ropes, and an old round heating stove with a cracked door lay stacked or in piles around the room.

  Glancing around, he visualized a warm stove, a large bed, and a table with a lamp. It was all he would really need.

  After last night's walk in the cold, he'd come ton decision; he'd had enough of living at the inn. As he crossed the attic room toward the rear and descended the stairs to the back of the saloon, he figured that with Howard's help he could be moved in within a few weeks. He decided to pay a visit to the mercantile.

  Inside the store, Ross looked down a long, dimly lit aisle with a counter on one side and fabrics, sewing notions, and other household goods on the othe
r.

  "Howard?" Ross called, leaning over the counter.

  Howard poked his head around the doorway of the adjoining room, which held an assortment of small farm implements and hardware.

  "Hello, Ross," he answered, smiling warmly. "Just tidying up a bit since not many folks are out and about in this weather." He brushed his hands on his apron. "What can I do for you?"

  "Well, I've been thinking for quite some time about"

  "Howard?" Emma Cregg called from the back of the store. "Howard? Are you here?" She rounded a corner and walked down the long aisle when she saw the silhouette of the two men against the large glass windows. With just a few more steps, she clearly made out the face of Ross Hollister.

  "Oh, excuse me," she said to her husband. "I didn't know you were busy."

  Ross removed his battered hat. "Mrs. Gregg." He nodded.

  Emma returned the nod with an almost imperceptible smile and moved to stand beside her husband's elbow, grasping it safely with one hand.

  Patting her hand protectively, Howard gave her his attention.

  "I only came by to get a little thread for the dress I'm working on," she said shyly, turning to a counter display of sewing paraphernalia. "Don't let me interrupt."

  Howard looked at Ross, encouraging him to continue.

  "Well, I was thinking about getting some bedroom furniture for the room over the saloon. Nothing fancy, just serviceable. And a good heating stove."

  Shocked, Emma dropped the tin she'd been fingering, blessing her stars that the lid hadn't come off. She stooped to pick it up, trying to hide her crimson cheeks. Mortified, her ears burned with the blatant advertising of Mr. Hollister's new line of business, and right there in her presence! So Clara hadn't been wrong after all.

  Quickly, she replaced the tin, grabbed the wrong color of thread, and rushed out the door without even a farewell to Howard.

  Heading east, she started up the hill toward the railroad tracks, then made a right turn. Continuing on, she passed her own street barely aware that she skirted the piles of dung almost hidden in the snow. She didn't stop until reaching Clara's front door, where she pounded unceremoniously before it opened.