by Jane Porter
“I have a derringer. My father gave it to me before my last trip abroad.” She glanced up, her brown eyes briefly searching his. “I understand it’s a very good gun.”
“Have you ever used it?”
“When I first received it. Father had me practice loading and shooting, but it’s been awhile. Do you think I should practice again?”
“Yes, I do.” He would have said more but her heel stuck in a muddy patch and he waited while she gathered her hem higher and extracted her foot.
“Then I will,” she answered, once she’d worked her shoe free. “Thank you for the reminder.”
He had to bite his tongue when she paused again to draw her heavy gown up to keep it from trailing in the mud. And then he couldn’t remain silent any longer. “Is it always this soggy?”
She dropped his arm to use both hands to lift her skirt higher, allowing her to take longer steps. “We’re near the creek, which is good for fresh water, but it does tend to turn much of the field into a bog.”
“What about mosquitos?”
“Plenty of those this summer.”
“Any flooding?”
“Not since I’ve been here, and I’ve been told the creek isn’t the issue. It’s the Yellowstone in June.” She darted another look up at him. “But June is months from now, so there is plenty of time to come up with a plan should the river flood.”
He said nothing, not reassured.
She sighed. “I’ve a new house, and I’m grateful it’s solid and structurally sound. The door is heavy. The windows don’t rattle. I’m quite comfortable, I promise.”
Sinclair nearly rolled his eyes. There was no way she was comfortable, but it was late, and they were both tired, and it was time he returned home to feed and water his livestock.
The lantern spilled light onto the small covered porch as they climbed the two wooden steps, shoes thudding on the boards.
She dropped her heavy skirts and opened the door before turning to face him. “Thank you for seeing me home.” Her beautiful face tilted up, her dark eyes luminous in the lantern’s golden light. “You’ve always been good to me.” She hesitated. “Thank you for being my friend even when I don’t deserve the kindness.”
“Every human being deserves kindness.”
“You know what I’m saying.”
“The scriptures teach us to forgive.”
“Does that mean you’ve forgiven me?”
“No. But I will. One day.”
“Thank you.” Her lips quivered. “Good night.”
“Good night,” he answered gruffly, his fingers tightening around the lantern handle to keep himself from reaching for her, touching her, tracing the elegant curve of her cheek, the arch of her eyebrow, the firmness of her small chin. It wasn’t just her beauty he’d missed. He missed her.
He missed her laugh and the way the light danced in her eyes when she smiled. He missed the twitch of her lips when she was amused, and how her jaw firmed when she was angry. She was beautiful and fierce and fragile. Everything he’d ever wanted. Everything he thought he needed. And, even though years had passed, he still responded to her.
During the drive home tonight, her warmth and scent had teased him. He’d fought the urge to draw her closer and, when the buggy hit a rock or pothole and she’d spill sideways, her shoulder and hip brushing his, he’d want to hold her there, next to him. Instead, he’d hold his breath, fingers tightening on the leather reins and remind himself that she wasn’t honest. That she wasn’t true. He had to constantly remind himself that she wasn’t his McKenna, nor had she ever been.
That would kill his desire for a little bit.
Until the next time they were jostled and she was thrown against him.
Sinclair was just about to climb up into his buggy when he glanced back at the cabin. It was still dark, no light yet shining inside, or curl of smoke coming from the chimney.
He hesitated, watching the chimney more closely.
Was she all right?
Had he allowed her to walk into a cabin that wasn’t empty?
A gentleman would have entered the cabin first, checking the interior, ensuring that all was as it should be. Why had he left her, without knowing she was safe?
Sinclair turned around, sprinting across the filed. He crossed the porch in one swift step, and shoved at her door. The heavy door hadn’t been locked yet and crashed open. McKenna let out a cry.
“McKenna?” He flashed the lantern around the dark room, trying to find her.
“What’s wrong?”
He turned to the right, the light falling on her where she sat at a small table pushed up against the wall. Her eyes shone, overly bright. She’d either been crying, or trying not to cry, and he felt another pinch in his chest. “Why are you sitting in the dark?”
She tried to rise but sank back down onto her stool. “Is that why you broke down my door? Because it’s dark in here?” Her voice cracked. “Sin, you scared me half to death!”
“I didn’t break your door. It just banged loudly.”
“You better not have broken it—”
“It’s not broken.” He held the lantern up, the yellow light streaming, revealing the simple bed, the stacked trunks serving as a wardrobe, and then the table and chair where McKenna sat now.
There wasn’t much else, and the interior was Spartan but clean. The only hint of luxury was the thick quilt on the log bed, the large squares a mix of jeweled velvets and black wool, as if she’d taken her old dresses and coats and torn them apart. Perhaps she had. “Why is your fire not lit?” he asked.
She rose, reaching for the ribbons beneath her chin. “I didn’t trust leaving it burning while I was gone.”
“It’d be safe in your stove.”
“I don’t have one yet,” she answered carelessly, untying the bow, and then easing off her bonnet. As she placed her bonnet on the table, she gestured to her fireplace filled with iron hooks and a tripod. “But I’m managing as you can see.”
“You’re cooking over the fire?” he asked incredulously.
Years ago, when his mother and father had first married, his mother had used their hearth as both stove and source of heat, but that was twenty-five years ago. He couldn’t imagine her preparing meals without her beloved cast iron range.
“It’s been an adventure,” she said. “Some recipes are more successful than others.”
It boggled his mind that McKenna was living like a starving immigrant. “Ridiculous. You should have a stove. I’ll speak to—”
“Please don’t. I had the one they were going to install here, put into the school so the children can stay warm when the weather changes. I want the classroom to be comfortable. They won’t learn if they’re miserable.”
“They built a school without a proper stove?”
“There was one, but it was small, and I was worried about the cold. I would rather be able to keep the children safe, should there be another storm like last year’s.” Her voice was less steady. “This way I could keep them with me. Not have to send them home.”
“That was an anomaly, one of the worst storms in history.”
“But hundreds of people died last year, most of them children.”
“And a dozen teachers.”
“Not that many I think but, yes, teachers died, too, so you understand my concern.”
“I appreciate your commitment to the children, but if you freeze to death in your cabin, you’ll be of no use to anyone.” His hard jaw eased. “If you won’t let me speak to the school board, will you allow me to purchase a stove on your behalf—”
“Sin. Please.” Her voice dropped, deepening. “It’s not… proper. It’s not a gift I can accept.”
“But I’m not giving it to you. It’s for the house. It’ll stay here with the house for future teachers long after you’re gone.”
He could see she was struggling with the offer as she tugged off her left glove. Her hands weren’t steady, her voice wasn’t steady, and she’d bee
n fighting tears when he barged in.
She wasn’t happy, and she could say she was fine, but he knew better. He knew this wasn’t the life for her, and if he cared for her—which he did—then he’d get her out of Paradise Valley and back into society.
She needed society. She needed people. She wasn’t cut out for the grueling winters and intense isolation.
“I don’t want people to talk,” she said hoarsely. “I can struggle with cooking better than I can the alienation.” Her brow creased as she worked at her right glove. “The isolation has been the worst. I try not to think about it. I’m aware of my role in this. But I do need people to one day… forgive… me. And they won’t, not if they think you’re buying me things, or giving me gifts.” The glove came off and she looked up at him, her eyes meeting his, her expression earnest. “Does that make sense?”
He swallowed hard, counting to five, and then ten. She’d just validated everything he’d been thinking. She couldn’t stay here. She didn’t belong here. He had to do something about this.
He needed to find her a rich man who could give her the life she wanted. Men became millionaires in the mines, whether here or in Nevada or California. These newly wealthy men would want a beautiful wife, and her past wouldn’t trouble them. They’d take her west to San Francisco and build her a mansion on Nob Hill and she’d be the jewel of the city’s crown.
It was where she belonged. It was the life she was best suited for. He knew without question she’d be happier there then in the middle of wilderness.
But until then, she was here, and in need of a practical education.
Spotting her kerosene lantern on the mantle, he crossed the floor, searched through the small knickknacks on the mantle for the matches, and found the small tin tucked behind the lantern.
He struck the match and lit the lantern for her. “You don’t think they will talk now?” He turned to face her. “After I’ve taken you home?”
She grew still. “Do you think anyone knows?”
“I don’t know, but all it takes is one person looking out the window and the gossip begins.”
“You should have said something before we left the Brambles.”
“It crossed my mind but I was more concerned about your physical safety at that point of time.”
“You’re awfully preoccupied about my safety.”
“I am. I don’t think you should be out here. I’m disgusted that the school board hired you—”
“Disgusted?”
“Have you seen the women in this valley? They are thin and worn, weathered from work and cold. This is not the life for you. You were not raised on the plains or the prairie. You haven’t been taught how to hunt or cook, sew or do laundry.”
“I can do needlework.”
“Embroidery.”
“I’ve repaired my gowns, Sinclair. I can replace buttons and stitch a hem. It takes a needle and thread and a little bit of patience, which clearly you do not have.”
“Were there no teaching positions in St. Louis? You couldn’t go to Denver? Why choose a school that’s in the middle of nowhere? You don’t have a clue how to survive here.”
“It’s none of your business. I’m not your responsibility, or your problem, and it might surprise you to discover that I have a brain, and it’s a very good one. I’m fully aware of the dangers living out here. No one has to tell me about wild animals as I hear them every night when I’m in bed. I’ve lived in the city and I’ve seen men at their worst—raucous and aggressive, and lecherous from drink. I know what bad men do. I am in my current situation because of a man… and I’m not talking about the man who compromised me, but the man who fathered me. I understand that he was disappointed in me. I am disappointed in me. But turning his back on me? Putting me on the streets?” She shook her head, furious, and indignant. “That is no way to handle a problem, much less a member of your family. And you’re not helping, either.”
She pointed to the door. “So go, and stop frightening me with all the horrible things that could happen. Yes, this is new for me. Yes, it’s intimidating. But I am going to make this work. I am going to prove everyone—including you—wrong. Good night.”
*
Shivering, McKenna climbed into bed, covers pulled up to her chin. Her father loved technology and every new innovation had found its way into his mines and his homes. She’d grown up with light and warmth and what she wouldn’t give to have gas and electricity here, never mind plumbing.
What she wouldn’t give for running water and a proper toilet. Her father had the most lovely copper tanks and porcelain bowls installed in the bathrooms at the house on Fifth Avenue. She’d her very own suite there—a sitting room, a bedroom, and an adjacent bathroom with endless hot water for long luxurious soaks in the gorgeous claw-footed tub. She hadn’t appreciated those hot baths, and beautiful sinks and modern toilets until now. She hadn’t appreciated a lot of things until now.
Exhaling, McKenna drew her covers higher and nestled into her pillow, trying to relax, but everything inside of her was still a knotted mess.
Driving home with Sinclair had made her want to weep. Being near him had been bewildering—at times, wonderful, at others, terrible, and even now it struck her as more bitter than sweet.
She’d forgotten his impact, and how intensely he made her feel. She’d met him in primary school, when they were both students at the new, small public school in downtown Butte. He was four years older so they weren’t friends, but he had a sister her age, Johanna, and she and Johanna didn’t play together, but they knew each other, and sometimes at recess or lunch, McKenna would join Johanna and the other girls at the edge of the field to watch the older boys play football and baseball. Johanna was very proud that her big brother Sinclair was the best athlete at their school. He was so good that one of the male teachers told Mrs. Douglas that Sinclair should try to travel to Chicago and meet with the coaches putting together those new professional teams. Johanna told the little girls listening that her mother let the teacher have it, because Sinclair was needed at home and the teacher wasn’t to encourage her only son to go chasing after impractical dreams. Even though Mrs. Douglas squashed the teacher, all the girls were impressed by the notion that Sinclair was that good.
Sinclair was that good.
Eyes closed, McKenna scooted lower beneath her covers, sleepy, dreamy. From the time she was just a girl, Sinclair had fascinated McKenna, and not just because he was an exceptional athlete, but he was genuinely kind and one of the most handsome boys at their school, which made him popular. It was impossible not to respond to him, which was probably why he was promoted every year into the next grade even though he couldn’t read. The teachers and principal just looked the other way, not wanting to penalize Sinclair when he showed up every day with his winning smile, and put in the effort, and was respectful to everyone.
But that all changed when McKenna was in sixth grade. Their school got a new principal, and the principal wasn’t about to let students advance if they couldn’t pass basic subjects, and Sinclair was one of the students the principal held up as examples of Butte’s failed education.
To make his point, he assigned younger students to tutor the older ones, and McKenna, an outstanding student, was assigned to Sinclair to help improve his reading.
“I’m sorry,” McKenna had whispered when Sinclair sat down in her classroom, forced to cram his big body into a desk for eleven year olds.
“Not your fault,” he’d answered. “Besides, I’d rather it be you than someone else. Johanna says you are always helping everyone with hard subjects, so at least I know you’re a good teacher.”
She’d opened the books the principal had given her for their first lesson. It was a reading primer that the “babies” used in Kindergarten and first grade. She was mortified that she was to make Sinclair read this out loud, to her. She understood the principal was making a point, shaming Sinclair publically for being a dunce.
But he wasn’t a dunce. He was
the hero of the whole school.
McKenna remembered how her eyes had filled with tears as he slowly, carefully read the childish story about a six-year-old boy and his dog, and how the dog followed the boy to school every day.
Reading wasn’t easy for Sinclair, but he got through that first juvenile story without mistakes. Tomorrow he would return to her to read the next story to her, and so on and so on until he had proven himself.
She had hated those lessons, hating it even more when Mr. Betts entered the class to stand behind them as Sinclair read aloud, because that was when he’d get nervous, and struggle, and then Mr. Betts would ridicule him before the entire class.
Four months later, Sinclair’s father died in the mines, and he abruptly left school.
McKenna remembered almost being happy for him because he didn’t have to endure Mr. Betts’ ridicule any longer.
But she had also missed him, and she’d wanted to ask Johanna about him, but she felt guilty because Mr. Douglas was dead, and he’d died from something in her father’s mine, and now Sinclair was going to work in the same copper mine, too.
A month after he’d left school, Johanna had given her a note from Sinclair asking if McKenna had any books that he could maybe read, because Mr. Betts was right. Only dunces couldn’t read and he wasn’t a dunce.
McKenna had spent a whole day trying to figure out what book to send to him and she ended up taking the popular Horatio Alger novel, Ragged Dick, off her father’s shelf in the library. She’d wrapped it up in one of her handkerchiefs and taken it to school and asked Johanna to give it to Sinclair.
She’d heard nothing from him for months and then the book came back wrapped in brown paper with a note, thanking her and asking if there was maybe another Alger novel he could read.
She’d sent the second book in the series, Fame and Fortune, in another of her handkerchiefs along with a note asking him to be careful in his work because she knew the mines were dangerous.
He’d answered with a simple note. McKenna, Thank you for your concern. I work hard and try to be safe. Your friend, Sin Douglas
Months passed, and the book came back. He’d turned seventeen and she was thirteen and he was ready for another story, if she had one she could recommend. She sent the third Alger on her father’s shelf, Rough and Ready.