by Amelia Rose
“There’s been an accident… in town,” he stammered through chattering teeth. He took another drink, then continued. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but it’s your little friend. She was hurt, and nearly froze to death before anyone found her.”
Moira’s hand shook on the coffeepot so forcefully that Pryor jumped up to take it from her. He helped her to sit in a straight-backed chair, guiding her down until she was comfortable before asking more.
“You mean Gretchen?” he demanded. “What happened?”
“I don’t rightly know, something to do with the train. She got knocked in the head so hard, it sent her flyin’, and, of course, she took the chill before that old Jorgenson thought to see what was takin’ her so long. They’ve got her back in the shop and in the bed, but the old man’s real worried about her. He said I’d best ride out here to let you know.”
Moira looked at Pryor pleadingly, but he pressed his lips together in a thin line and looked to the blackness outside the windows as if he could somehow read this sky at this time of day. He looked grim, fear for his wife and child etched across his rugged features, but he finally nodded.
“I suppose it’ll be safe, so long as we don’t let you catch your chill, too. Perhaps if you lie in the wagon and cover up good, you’ll be warm enough. Gather a few stones from the cellar—ones the size of your hand, at least,” he said, demonstrating with his outstretched fingers. “—and put them on the stove to get hot. I’ll wrap them in flannel and pack them around you once you’re settled in the straw.” He squeezed her hand reassuringly. “I’ve got to feed the animals before I can hitch the team, so don’t move too fast. Remember to pack some food stuffs and your other dress in case we must stay, and if you’ve got a bone to make a pot of hot broth, that will help warm her more than anything.”
As scared as she was for her dear maid, Moira couldn’t help but smile at Pryor as he pointed Jacobs to sit by the fire and take all the time he needed in getting warm. He put on his coat and pulled his hat down low over his ears, then headed to the barn. Moira hesitated to speak to Mr. Jacobs; she was still learning the customs of this new frontier, in this new country, but in her brother’s house—Lord Brennan, that is—she would never have spoken to a man without her brother or her lady’s maid present. It wasn’t done. Not knowing how Pryor felt about such things, or Mr. Jacobs, for that matter, she didn’t want to take a chance on offending anyone even though it was eating her up inside to know about Gretchen.
Pryor must have worked as quickly as she had because he was back inside in a moment’s time, loading her parcels into the wagon. Next, he returned for the quilts from their bed, using them to create a cocoon that would hold Moira and their unborn baby during the nearly three-hour ride to town. When everything was loaded, he thanked Jacobs for all his trouble and bid him stay in the cabin as long as he had need.
“I’ll admit it, I’m frozen through and through,” he said sheepishly. “I tell you what. If it’s all the same to you, I’ll stay and keep warm for a while, then feed and water your animals later on this the afternoon before heading out.”
“Of course, you’re more than welcome here. There’s plenty in the pantry to eat, help yourself to anything—”
“Oh, I wouldn’t hear of it,” Mr. Jacobs interrupted. “I brought my own pack. The warm fire and a roof will be plenty in trade for the work. Go, see to the girl and don’t worry about your chores.”
Pryor and Moira thanked him and climbed down the porch steps to the waiting wagon. Pryor helped his wife up in the back, then pulled himself up behind her to help her get settled in the straw. He hollowed out a burrow in the dry bedding, making a nest for her to lie down in before tucking the hot stones around her. He placed one last stone against her feet, then covered her with one more blanket to trap the heat for the long journey.
“Are you comfortable?” he asked as he stepped over the wagon box to his seat. He laughed when he heard her muffled reply, her voice barely distinguishable beneath the many layers keeping her warm.
Pryor flicked the reins and called out to his confused horses, urging them forward in the direction of the sunrise. The wagon rolled across the frozen ground for hours, jostled this way and that by grooves in the dirt that had been formed by heavy rains before freezing into ripples in the ice. Moira had to put a hand out more than once to keep herself from being tossed too heavily, and each time her skin came in contact with the icy air, she wondered again if her husband was warm enough to keep going.
She knew he wore the great coat he’d brought with him from the east, and it was supposed to be suited to this kind of winter. But beneath, he wore the clothes she’d stitched for him during this first year they were married. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust her needlework, knowing full well that much of what passed for her education in Brennan Castle had been ladies’ tasks. Instead, it was that she was painfully aware that her “ladies’ tasks,” that were well-suited to the life of a noble lady back in Ireland, were hardly an education to see her through the reality of the wilds of Montana. She knew almost nothing of being a homesteader’s wife, and had to learn nearly everything through her many mistakes, whether in the kitchen, at her sewing, or any of the other dozens of chores that had to be done with care on the farm.
Cooking had been the biggest trial. Not only was it a skill that she completely lacked, the foods here were so strange. The festive treats for parties and banquets were gone, replaced by hearty foods that stored well for the winter and kept one’s strength up for grueling labor. But as useless as her hands were for the task, Pryor was content to eat the meals she put before him, smiling sometimes even as he struggled to swallow a forkful.
Lord, just keep him warm on this journey. That I ask for him, not for my own sake, she prayed silently beneath the quilts before chiding herself. Of course, ‘tis easy to pray for someone to be warm when you’re not out there feeling the chill yourself. She nestled a little farther into the warm stray, and spent the rest of the trip praying for Gretchen to be safe.
Chapter Three
“Gretchen? Gretchen, dear? Can you hear me?” Moira asked for the tenth time that night. They’d arrived in town and it had taken all of Pryor’s strength to keep Moira from jumping from the still-moving wagon in her haste to see to her maid. She’d run across the frozen road toward the general store, and he’d twice seen her feet nearly slide out from under her, surprised that she managed to catch herself so quickly.
Gretchen’s eyes fluttered lightly, and a low moan escaped her otherwise still form. She’d been nearly lifeless when two men from the newly built tavern had carried her in under Jorgenson’s directions, and little had changed about her appearance since last night. Moira clutched her hand, dismayed to discover it was still ice cold, regardless of the blankets and warm bricks they’d placed around her throughout the morning. She threw off her own shawl and crawled beneath the covers, wrapping the younger girl in her arms and willing her to warm up.
“Gretchen, I’m here. I’m going to care for you, dearest,” she said softly as she pressed her hand to the young woman’s forehead to feel for signs of fever setting in. She brushed Gretchen’s hair back from her forehead with a gentle touch to inspect the frightening bruise that began above her eye and disappeared in the soft tendrils of red hair above her ear.
Moira was instantly transported back home to Brennan to one summer a few years ago. She herself had been laid up in bed and had to be nursed back from the brink of death. It was not but a typical childhood illness, but it was enough to drain her of all will and energy and it was weeks before she’d felt like herself again.
It was Gretchen who had cared for her night and day, warming her when she was frozen to her bones from fever, bathing her when the fever broke and the sweat poured out of her. Gretchen had fed her by spoon when she was too weak to feed herself, making sure she drank enough and holding her head to the cup when she was too weak to do so.
The young woman in this very bed had risked contagion herself, kno
wing that her station in life had meant there would most likely be no one to care for her so tenderly should she fall ill in the same way. It shamed Moira now, the callous way she’d rarely ever thought to see to her sick or injured household staff, always aware that someone in the galley would care for them. Now was the time to make amends.
“Gretchen, I’m here,” Moira repeated softly, holding the covers closer to the maid’s chin and rubbing her upper arms briskly to warm her. “Please tell me you hear me. Please, Gretchen, can you wake and talk to me?”
The maid tried again to open her eyes and managed to moan only slightly more loudly than before. “That’s okay, you rest. I’ll be here ‘til you wake, and I’ll see to it that you get well.” Moira rested her cheek against Gretchen’s forehead to feel again for fever, then rose from the bed and began to prepare the broth from the beef bone she’d brought with her. She put the pot to boil, then swapped out the stones beneath the covers with a new set from the fire.
“Is she any better?” Pryor asked, coming in from the cold with more firewood. He shook the snow from his jacket and stomped his boots in the doorway, careful to brush the fallen snow out the door as quickly as he could to keep the warmth in.
“She moved a little and made a sound when I spoke to her. ‘Tis better than she could do when we first arrived. But here, warm yourself, husband,” Moira said, holding out a hot cup of coffee and taking Pryor’s wet mittens. She placed another warm stone inside each mitten and stood it on end on the floor in front of the fire, trying to speed the drying.
“That’s a good sign. But the blow to her head is far more troublesome than the cold. Her color is far better than before, at least she’s not blue anymore now that you’ve gotten her warm.”
“I agree. I could take a horsewhip to Jorgenson for leaving her in her wet clothes!” She heard Pryor’s sharp intake of breath and turned to see the scandalized look of horror on his face. “Oh, don’t be daft, husband. I didn’t mean he should undress her! But there’s plenty ‘o women in town now that the new tavern is opened. Surely one of the ladies could have been called upon to trouble herself to save a girl’s life!”
Pryor stifled a sound for as long as he could, but, finally, he couldn’t hold it in. He roared with laughter, throwing his head back and grabbing his sides as he continued to laugh, unable to speak and barely able to catch his breath. Moira simply stared, shocked, watching him with wide eyes and waiting for him to tell her what he found so amusing. It took her husband a few moments to recover himself enough to answer.
“Dearest, I’m so sorry, I never thought there would be any need in telling you. Those… ‘ladies’ you mentioned… they’re not exactly ladies.” He waited for her to respond, or react in some way, but, instead, she continued to watch his face for an explanation. She finally shook her head and looked at him, perplexed. “I mean, Moira… they’re, well…”
Pryor looked around the small room to be sure that no one was within earshot, despite the fact that they were alone, save for Gretchen. He cast a glance in the maid’s direction to make sure she hadn’t awoken, then leaned close and whispered his explanation in his wife’s ear.
Moira sat up straight, a deep pink blush flooding her cheeks. She looked at Pryor, horrified at the news. “No! That can naw be! Here, in New Hope? Women of… questionable reputation?” she asked, also sneaking a glance at Gretchen to make sure the young woman hadn’t heard. Pryor nodded.
“I hate to say this, but it’s kind of expected of a woman who travels all this way unaccompanied, and without intention. Not that anyone suspected it of you, of course!” he said quickly, realizing his mistake. His own wife had traveled from Ireland by way of New York harbor with Gretchen, otherwise all on her own, with the sole purpose of staking her own homesteading claim. It had never crossed Moira’s mind that anyone might question her morals for such a decision. They may question her sanity, of course, for even a man who made such a journey to arrive at a harsh, yet beautiful place like Montana had to be a little on the strange side.
“Are you sure?” she asked quietly, ducking her head. “No one thought less of me for coming to Montana such as I did?”
Pryor shook his head, denying it vehemently. “Not for a second. Of course, you were here such a short time before you agreed to be married, and there was that matter of the false contract your uncle pledged. Everyone in New Hope simply thought you’d arrived to be my wife, which is a perfectly respectable reason to travel.”
Moira smiled sheepishly, remembering their first meeting. It had felt far from respectable, but it was she who had first thought that Pryor was the ill-mannered, poorly-bred cad. He had shown up at the train depot in worn clothes and boots, grouchy from having waited all day and ordered her to come with him, leaving Gretchen behind. The mystery behind a signed marriage contract in her name wasn’t solved for some time, but he’d quickly proven himself to be far from ill-mannered or brutish.
“I’m glad I stayed,” she answered in a soft voice. “I’m ever so glad of it.”
It was Pryor’s turn to blush. He reached for his wife’s hand and kissed her fingertips, giving them a gentle squeeze before releasing her hand. Nearby, Gretchen stirred lightly, her eyes sliding open halfway. Moira jumped up from her position beside the girl’s body and looked at her.
“Gretchen? Dearest, can you answer me?” she pleaded.
“Wha—” The girl struggled to open her eyes, looking around the room sluggishly as she moved her head slowly. “My lady? You’re here… what has happened?”
“Oh, Gretchen! I was so afeared! You were hurt, you’ve hit your head. But you’re safe now, and I’ll see to it that you are well soon!” Moira smiled and brushed at the tears of relief that pooled in her shining blue eyes.
“You can naw trouble yourself, my lady,” she began in a hushed, weak voice, but Moira shook her head.
“Aye, but I can, and you can naw stop me!” she replied, smiling broadly, happier than she’d felt in ages. “I’m to take care of you until you’re all better again. And I won’t hear a word of protest.”
Pryor was relieved at the girl’s awakening, but still bemused by her insistence on calling his wife “my lady.” True, she was of noble birth and Gretchen had been her ladies’ maid, but it was Moira herself who had put that behind her in exchange for life on the frontier, even after her brother, Lord Brennan, had traveled all the way to New Hope to assure her that she was safe again and could come home. She’d chosen to stay and to marry Pryor with her brother’s blessing, knowing it would mean an end to being waited on and pampered.
He strove to make her life as happy and fulfilling as possible, but there was no denying that the life of a homesteader—and, therefore, that of his wife, too—was filled with hard work and determined perseverance. He’d personally known several men who couldn’t take the extreme climate, the strict requirements to settle their claims, and truthfully, who couldn’t take the loneliness and isolation. Pryor was certainly not the first man to write off for a wife, agreeing to marry a stranger in exchange for having someone to talk to, to build a family with.
“Whatever were you doing on the platform, dear?” Moira asked Gretchen, pulling Pryor from his thoughts. They waited while Gretchen struggled to remember, her brow furrowing before she winced in pain.
“There was a letter…” she began, trying to recall the events that led to her injuries. “I had dropped a letter…”
“You decided to take on a speeding train over a piece of mail?” Pryor chided jokingly. “That must have been one important correspondence to make it worth this.” He gestured to the bruise on her head.
“That’s it!” Gretchen answered with slightly more gusto, her eyes brightening by a fraction. “It was important! It was Mr. Russell’s post to the agency.”
Moira and Pryor exchanged a fearful glance, trying to mask their worry before looking back at Gretchen. “And did his post… were you able to save his letter?” Moira asked, hedging around the question.
> “Oh, yes, miss! I climbed the mail pole when I couldn’t lower the rope. It had frozen solid, and my fingers couldn’t get purchase on the knot. I had just managed to put Mr. Russell’s post in the opening at the top of the bag when the train came upon me.”
“And you were hit on the head?” Pryor asked.
“Yes, sir, I turned to look just as the hook went for the bag. I tried moving out of the way, but it got me here,” she answered, lifting her arm weakly and half pointing to her forehead.
“Oh, you poor, poor dear! You were so brave to try to save his post, but you should naw have put yourself in harm’s way!” Moira pressed Gretchen’s hand to her lips for a brief kiss and gave her a reassuring smile.
“No, miss, I know too well how important a post it is. If it had not made the train, it would be another month before he could send it, and another month before it would arrive there. He’d be waiting past springtime for the matter to be resolved. Poor Mr. Russell, I had to try, for his sake.”
“Well, it’s sent now, and we’ll no more speak of it. He’s already so superstitious, he’ll take it as a bad omen, I fear. Now you get some rest, I’ve put some broth on and I will feed you some hot soup as soon as it’s ready!”
Chapter Four
Gretchen recovered over the course of the next few days under Moira’s careful nursing. By the end of the week, she was back working in the shop, albeit moving a bit more slowly than usual and keeping her feet on the ground, as Jorgenson had ordered her to stay off the ladder until she was well. Moira bade her goodbye and returned to the farm when Pryor made the trip into town to retrieve her.
“And how is she doing?” Pryor asked when he flicked the reins to head home. The sun finally shone, such as it was in wintertime, and the light and little bit of heat it provided at that time of year was a welcome change from the dreariness of the storms they’d suffered.