by Vivi Holt
“I love it. It’s enormous, which of course is completely wasted on me, but I adore being out in the countryside with the woods all around me and the mountains veering skyward only a hundred feet from my front door. Do you know, only the other morning I walked outside to see a herd of deer grazing in my garden? They stared at me as if I were nothing to be afraid of at all, and went back to feeding with barely a look in my direction.”
“Who would’ve thought that old Mrs. Cuthbert would leave the farmhouse to the school, like that?” mused Estelle. “She was a cranky old thing all the years I knew her – never had any children of her own, and kept to herself after Mr. Cuthbert died. I do declare, I wonder now if perhaps she had a softer heart than any of us realized when she was alive.” She stood and lumbered to the kitchen, returning shortly with a plate of shortcake doused liberally in cream and strawberry preserves.
Margaret’s eyes gleamed. “Oh my, Estelle, you have outdone yourself. I never get such luxuries as this – you do spoil us.”
“Well, my dear, at my age you have to do something to entice young folks to visit, or it’d get mighty lonely.” Estelle chuckled, serving slices of cake onto plates and handing them around.
Cammie stood to take the offered plate and kissed Estelle’s cheek, “You know that’s not true, Aunt Estelle – I’d visit you even if all you served was bread and water. Though I’m glad it’s not.”
***
Margaret cinched her scarf more tightly around her neck and shivered as her boots crunched through the icy snow. Cutter’s Creek’s main street sparkled in the sunlight with snowdrifts pushed up against storefronts and house walls. Juniper and hemlock branches drooped under the weight of the white powder, and icicles hung from the eaves. Her breath burst from her mouth in white clouds as she struggled along, careful not to lose her footing.
When she pushed open the mercantile door, a bell above the doorway announced her arrival. She stamped snow from her boots and unwound her scarf to greet Abigail Smith. “Abigail, it’s good to see you. How’s Jasper Jr.? Last time I came in, he had a cold.”
“Why, hello there, Meg. Junior is doin’ just fine now, thanks for askin’. Still got a bit of a cough, but nothin’ some chicken broth and gruel won’t fix.”
The bell rang again, and Margaret turned to discover Mrs. Agatha Waverley tapping her boots on the welcome mat.
“Mornin’, Abi. Mornin’, Meg. What a day.” Agatha had a habit of grumbling first thing to get it out of the way, so she could deal with the more important matters of conversation over the rest of the day.
“Good morning, Mrs. Waverley. It’s lovely to see you on this fine day.” Margaret removed her gloves with a tug at each fingertip and smiled at the older lady. She strode to the counter and began perusing the wares behind it, calculating in her head the supplies she’d need to get through the week.
Mrs. Waverly nodded and followed Abigail, who was stacking a new supply of brooms in a corner of the store. “Did you hear about the incident over at the school?” she whispered conspiratorially with a dip of her head.
Margaret’s ears pricked at the mention of the school. She listened closely, her eyes still focused on a barrel of red-and-white striped candy.
“No, I did not, but I’m sure you’ll tell me all about it,” sighed Abigail as she pushed the last of the brooms into place. She hurried back to the counter to wait on Margaret, who was running her fingers over a bolt of blue and tan calico. “I’m so sorry to keep you waiting, Meg. Have you decided yet what you’ll need?”
“Yes please. I’ll have a pound of flour, a half-dozen of your wonderful eggs, and a half-pound of butter, thank you kindly.”
Abigail began wrapping the items in brown paper.
But Mrs. Waverly had followed her like an eager pup. “As you know, Mr. Waverley checks on the schoolhouse regular-like through the winter months, since no one else seems to feel the responsibility.” Here she paused with a meaningful look at Margaret.
Margaret gasped in surprise and turned to face her as Abigail flushed red.
“Well, he went by the schoolhouse yesterday and noticed smoke a-comin’ from the chimney. Well now, he says to hisself, ain’t no one supposed to be in there, how come there’s smoke a-comin’ from the chimney?” She grinned with delight at her story
Margaret and Abigail exchanged an annoyed glance. “Is that so?” asked Abigail, drumming her fingernails against the countertop.
“Yep. And when he went inside, do you know what he found?”
“I do not. Pray tell.”
“Three younguns were in there! Holed up nice and cozy-like, with scraps o’ food and a fire burnin’ in the fireplace. Can you believe it?”
Margaret frowned. The children all knew they weren’t allowed to play in the schoolhouse over the winter break. She couldn’t imagine who from her small class would have broken that rule. “Whose children were they?” she asked.
“Oh, just some of them orphan wretches what rolled into town in the fall.”
“Orphans?” Margaret arched an eyebrow in consternation. “I’m not sure I know who you mean.”
“You know,” explained Abigail, “those poor dears who came in the wagon in late September. They had no parents, if I remember rightly – died on the trail comin’ west.”
Margaret’s forehead creased in concentration. “Oh yes, those orphans. I’ve seen them around town, but they’ve never come to school. How many are there again? And where do they live?” Suddenly she was desperate to find out all about them – sympathy burned in her chest over their plight.
Mrs. Waverley chewed on her lip while she counted in her head. “Six of ‘em, I think. When they got here, no one could take ‘em all in at once, so six different families around town agreed to take one each.”
“Then why are three of them camping out in the schoolhouse?” asked Margaret.
Abigail frowned. “My understandin’ is they keep runnin’ away to be together.”
“Oh dear, it’s all so heartbreaking,” cried Margaret. “Surely there’s something we can do to help.”
“I don’t know what.” Mrs. Waverly seemed satisfied that her news had created a disturbance.
“Well, I can’t say that I do either,” Margaret replied, “but the good Lord wouldn’t want them to suffer any more than they have already. I’ll pray on it. And perhaps you could too?”
“Of course we will,” added Abigail, nudging Mrs. Waverley’s forearm where it rested on the counter.
“Yes, yes, of course we’ll pray,” Mrs. Waverley said, then muttered, “though I do think the good Lord’s provided the little ingrates with lovin’ Christian homes already.”
“Good day to you, Abigail, Agatha.” Margaret nodded, placing her groceries into the basket she’d carried with her. She fixed her scarf and donned her gloves, waved goodbye to the ladies and marched from the store.
How could she have failed to find out more about the six orphans when they arrived? The school would have just been opened in September. Granted, there was a week around that time when she’d had a stomach bug and kept to her room five days straight; Camilla had brought her soup and built her a fire each evening. She vaguely remembered hearing about their arrival only once she’d recovered. No wonder she never saw much of them herself.
Her heart ached for the children whose lives had been thrown into such disarray. To lose one’s parents at such a young age would be devastating for them. She should know – she’d lost hers, one soon after the other, at the tender age of fourteen. Ten years later the pain of it still stabbed through her heart whenever she remembered them.
Since she’d left her small sleigh and her sorrel mare Bessie at the Todds’, she decided to walk by the schoolhouse on her way home. She wanted to see how much the children had disrupted the tidy, ordered room she’d left behind in the fall before collecting Bessie for the drive home. The schoolhouse was a small slatted timber construction close to the edge of town, just past the chapel.
It wasn’t long before she saw the shingles on its sloped roof and the snowdrifts pressed against the square windowpanes. She glanced at the chimney, but it sat cold and smokeless.
Inside, all was still and quiet. She scanned the room, taking in the empty desks and blank blackboard. The room was frigid, and she shivered, pulling her coat tighter around herself. It didn’t look as though the children had caused any damage or left anything behind. In fact, apart from some new ash in the fireplace, no one would know they’d been here if they hadn’t been caught in the act.
A bang at the back door startled her. She dropped her basket and ran to fling it open. Three children between five and ten years old were scampering through the snow and around the schoolhouse. The smallest, a boy, glanced back at her over his shoulder with fear in his eyes. She smiled and waved him over, but he turned and ran after the others. Frowning, she stood watching them with her hands on her hips.
She heard the jingle of sleigh bells and a shout from the street, and hurried to see what had happened. A man stood on the road beside a shining sleigh, watching the children run past the chapel and disappear around the bend in the road. She trudged through the snow toward the man, recognizing him as she drew closer. It was Heath Moore, one of Cutters Creek’s more prominent ranchers. “Good morning, Mr. Moore. Is everything okay?”
His stormy eyes fell on her, noticing her for the first time. As she approached his frown dissipated and he removed his hat to nod a greeting. “Miss Hutchins, what a pleasure. I’m afraid I almost ran over those children. You should advise them not to dart out onto the road like that – they could’ve been badly hurt. I’m just glad I saw them in time.”
“Oh dear. I’m so sorry, Mr. Moore, but unfortunately I have no control over them. They’ve been hiding in the schoolhouse, and I startled them when I arrived. I’m grateful to you for your care in this matter.”
His eyebrows arched in surprise. “Oh, I apologize. I thought they must have been your students.”
“I’m afraid not. Although I do believe I need a word with their guardians about their activities. No doubt they should be starting classes in January.” She studied his face, noting his chiseled cheekbones, perfectly-groomed dark, wavy hair, and piercing eyes.
Margaret felt her cheeks flush. He was staring at her, and she felt awkward under his gaze. It was well known around town that he’d had his proposal refused by Charlotte Brown several years earlier. Since then, she’d seen him escorting Beatrice, the youngest of the Honeywell sisters, to church and events a few times, though not lately.
He smiled. “That sounds like a fine idea. Will I be seeing you at church on Sunday?”
Her heart thudded. “Yes. I’ll see you then, Mr. Moore.”
“Please, call me Heath.” He nodded and climbed into the sleigh.
“See you then … Heath.” She smiled. “And I’m Margaret, but my friends call me Meg.”
“I’ll see you on Sunday, Meg.” He clicked his tongue twice and lifted the reins. The horses leaped forward, pulling the sleigh after them and setting the bells that lined the traces jingling once more.
Margaret stood and watched the sleigh disappear from sight, then trudged back to the schoolhouse for her basket. She’d best get back to the Todds’ to harness Bessie for the drive home, since it would soon be nightfall. She hated getting caught out on a dark winter’s night.
Chapter Two
Heath leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as the sleigh slipped over the thick snow, leaving shallow parallel tracks in its wake.
The ranch house rose up out of the white landscape in the distance – a two-story smudge of dark timber and shingles in a seemingly endless expanse of white, dotted only by the occasional fir tree and the pale backs of his herd scattered throughout the snow-packed fields. Behind it, two large barns and a bunkhouse squatted on the edge of the valley.
He’d cleared a forest of trees to establish his ranch, and the hard work was beginning to pay off. Over the past five years, his original stock of a hundred Charolais heifers and a dozen bulls had grown into a five-hundred-strong herd. The muscular, pale-colored breed was unusual in these parts and good for beef production. He was betting everything he had on them.
He sighed and pushed his hat back on his head to survey the land that stretched around him on all sides. All of it belonged to him. He’d taken the money his father had left him when he died and invested all of it into this property, this dream of his. He hoped and prayed it would become a fruitful investment.
A few years earlier when he was just getting started, he’d thought he would share his dream with Charlotte Beaufort. But she’d turned him down to marry Harry Brown. He’d been hurt at first, but then realized she was better off where she was. He’d liked her, but she’d made him sweat. He couldn’t seem to put a full sentence together when he was around her.
He wanted to find someone who didn’t make him break out in hives when they spoke. Someone he could be himself around, who made him feel at ease in his own skin. His family back in Chicago had been close-knit throughout his childhood, and having grown up with six sisters, he missed female companionship.. When he moved west in search of adventure and opportunity, he hadn’t realized just how much he’d miss them all. His housekeeper Mrs. Smythe was the only woman in his life now, and though he enjoyed her company, he was lonely and longed for a wife to share his journey.
His thoughts drifted to Margaret Hutchins. He’d never had much to do with her before. But when he saw her earlier outside the schoolhouse, her cheeks flushed and her hair floating in wisps around her face, she’d caught his attention. Her dark eyes had drawn him in and he’d felt for a moment as if he’d known her a long time. Which, of course, he hadn’t. Still, the feeling stuck with him.
Perhaps he should stop by the old Cuthbert place and see her sometime. Women like her were rare as hen’s teeth in these parts. And hadn’t he heard she was from Chicago as well? The thought sent a thrill through him. They might at least have that in common – and perhaps more.
A tortured bellow broke through his reverie, and he scanned the fields to his left. A fence post was down. His eyes followed the tangle of barbed wire to a steer caught in the fence. The creature lay on its side, the barbs digging into its pale flesh, staining its hide red. It struggled to stand, but the wire pulled it back and it bellowed again. The herd milled around, sniffing at the tangled animal, in danger of becoming entangled themselves.
He frowned and pulled the horse to a halt, parking the sleigh on the side of the track. He leaped from the sleigh and ran quickly to the steer’s side. “Whoa there … steady, boy. What’ve you gotten yourself into, huh? Trying to push your way through my fence, were you? Now look what’s happened.”
He patted the animal’s neck as he squatted in the snow beside it with a sigh, ran his fingers over his beard and pondered what to do. He didn’t have his tools with him, and the wire was too tangled to work the beast free without them. He’d have to head back to the ranch to get wire cutters and pliers, as well as some help.
He stood straight, chased off the spectators and hurried back to his sleigh. There was no time to waste.
***
Heath and Joe Baker rode side by side on two fresh horses whose warm breath punctuated the still, cold air with snorts of steam. Joe hummed as they rode, and Heath smiled to himself. He’d hired Joe two months earlier as a ranch hand, and so far the man was turning out to be a godsend. Joe was easy going, never lost his cool, and often sang while he worked. The other cowboys had taken to calling him “the Bard.”
“How are you settling in?” asked Heath.
“I’m likin’ it pretty well, I guess. Colder’n Texas, that’s fer sure.” Joe had come up from the west Texas high plains.
“Cutter’s Creek’s a good place to live, I think you’ll find,” continued Heath. “I’ve grown to like it myself, but I’ve been here five years now.”
“Yeah, I think I’ll like it here too. Only thing is, ain’t many
womenfolk ’round the place – for marryin’, ya know. Same as in west Texas.”
“Are you looking to marry, then?” asked Heath, one eyebrow cocked.
“S’pose I am. I’m gettin’ on in years, and I always wanted a family. I’m thinkin’ of lookin’ in the paper, y’know – get me one of them mail-order brides?”
“A mail-order bride, huh? Hmmm … I never really thought of doing that. Maybe I should send for one myself.”
Joe grinned. “Ya thinkin’ of marryin’ too, boss?”
“I don’t know. I tried to some years back, but she didn’t want me. I haven’t really attempted it since. Seems like an awful lot of trouble and drama, and I don’t know if I have the patience.”
“Maybe so,” Joe replied, “but it’s s’posed to be worth it in the end.”
Margaret’s face flashed across Heath’s mind, and his eyes narrowed. “You might be right about that,” he said. No matter which way he looked at it, he couldn’t shake the loneliness he’d felt in recent years. His thoughts kept returning to the home he’d left behind in Chicago, the large and happy family, the bedlam and neverending adventure of it – he wanted that again. He missed the camaraderie, the companionship, the noise. He loved Cutter’s Creek and his ranch, but he longed to build a happy home like the one he’d left behind, full of laughter, love and children.
When they reached the steer, it was even worse off than when Heath had left it only a half-hour earlier. The two men dismounted and tied their horses to a fence post, taking the tools they’d need with them. Joe held the wire free of the steer’s neck, the pliers straining in his gloved hands. Heath snipped through the wire and it pinged away to the ground. The animal flew into a panic, pawing at the air with its hooves and bellowing loudly. Other steers snorted and shook their heads nearby, bawling in sympathy.
“Pipe down!” ordered Heath, pressing firmly against the animal. It lay back again, its breathing labored. He pulled on a long piece of wire and found it wound around two of the creature’s legs, where it had cut through the flesh and exposed the bone. He grimaced. “This doesn’t look good.”