Whispers on the Wind (A Prairie Hearts Novel Book 5)

by Caroline Fyffe

  “You must mean Mr. Wade. Yes, we’ve met. He’s quite pleasant, and I agree with you about him being interesting.”

  Roberta’s gaze snapped up from her teacup. “Where did you meet? I was under the impression he’d just arrived.”

  “Beth told Thom about him. So when I got off my shift, we walked out to the meadow where he’s camping. To say hello and welcome him to town. I think Thom also wanted to check him out, see what kind of man he seemed to be. Tabitha went along as well.”

  “Tabitha? Why?” The serenity Roberta had been feeling vanished, replaced by the usual apprehensions. “I feel totally responsible for my unmarried niece. I don’t know what my sister was thinking to allow her to move west alone. I have enough worries of my own without having to concern myself over her daughter, as well as mine. Marigold may be older, but she doesn’t have the sense of a scarecrow. She’s placed me in a very difficult position. Sometimes I wonder how—”

  “Mother!” Hannah laughed. “What’re you talking about? Tabitha is her own woman. Not only did she travel here by herself, she managed to get an entire building built on time and under budget. She certainly doesn’t need you to look out for her welfare.” Hannah took a sip of her tea, her lashes blinking with agitation. “She’d be shocked if she knew you thought that. Uncle Frank doesn’t feel like you, does he? Did Aunt Marigold specifically ask you to watch over her?”

  Roberta counted to ten. The last thing she wanted tonight was an argument with Hannah.

  “Mother?”

  With a sharp click, she set her cup on the saucer none too gently, letting Hannah know she didn’t appreciate being questioned.

  “Of course Marigold didn’t ask, she didn’t have to. I’m sure once she learned Tabitha had set her mind to go, and wouldn’t be stopped, she influenced her to pick Logan Meadows, knowing Frank and I were here to keep an eye out. And I have, quietly, in the background. I just meant that as a spinster she could easily be the target of any unscrupulous man.” Like Janet. “Especially if they are charming and interesting.” Like Mr. Wade.

  Hannah snapped straight. “By unscrupulous man, I hope you’re not referring to Mr. Wade! His long hair and leather clothes have nothing to do with what kind of a man he is. And what does he have to do with Tabitha anyway? I wholeheartedly pray cousin Tabitha never, ever hears you say that word.”

  “What word?”

  “Spinster! That would be cruel. And as my mother, I know you’re not that!”

  “I didn’t insinuate anything about Mr. Wade. I merely mentioned that I worry about my niece—as any aunt would.”

  Hannah’s face clouded over.

  “Do you think me so heartless to call her a spinster to her face?”

  “I surely hope not.”

  “Well, thank you for that at least. Facts are facts,” Roberta went on. “Tabitha will be twenty-nine years old next week. She’s unmarried. That makes her a spinster. I’m not the one who makes the rules, Hannah, but you seem to think I do by that expression on your face.” She sighed loudly and stood. “I guess I’ll go to bed. I can’t seem to say anything right.”

  The door opened and Thom stepped inside. His gaze went from Hannah to Roberta and back again. He slowly removed his hat and hung it on the hall tree, then unbuttoned his coat and did the same with that. “Problems?”

  “Not at all, my brave, honorable son-in-law,” Roberta said, feeling hurt.

  “Mother was just getting up to refill our cups,” Hannah said, her expression full of regret. “But I’d like her to sit back down. She’s spent the evening at the Silky Hen and I’m sure she is worn out.” Hannah stood and with a gentle touch to her arm, sat Roberta back down. “I’m sorry if I was harsh. I didn’t mean to be,” Hannah said, looking into her eyes. She picked up the tray and started for the kitchen. “There’s plenty of hot water, Thom, if you’d like some.”

  “Indeed I would, Hannah.” He came forward and eased down into the chair opposite Roberta.

  If she wanted to keep the peace, Roberta would say nothing more about Tabitha. But her thoughts wandered back to Mr. Wade. Who was he, really? A drifter? That could mean anything. He did wear a gun, and was cut from a rough cloth, but sometimes opposites could attract. Especially if he was planning on making Logan Meadows his home. There was no harm in finding out.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  After a visit to the bathhouse, where Hunter bathed, shaved again, and clipped his nails, and then a leisurely hour spent over a breakfast of fried eggs, bacon, and a basketful of hot, crumbly biscuits at Nana’s Place, he set out for the bookshop. He wasn’t completely illiterate, but needed to advance his learning so he could read the accounts book of the Bright Nugget, as well as other business dealings that may arise. As embarrassing as the admission of his ineptness would be to an accomplished woman like Miss Canterbury, he needed to make sure she knew the book was for him, and not a gift. Thorp had been a stickler for the truth. Misleading others was tantamount to lying to their face. Hunter had only to suffer once the long, disappointed stare from his adoptive father to know no truer words had ever been spoken. “A man’s good word is his most vital possession, Hunter. Don’t ever forget it.”

  Hunter might not have much, but he’d not trade his integrity for anything. Even if he were just a wagon-trail boss, saddle tramp, or hired gun.

  Not so true anymore. You’re the half owner of a saloon.

  He arrived at Storybook Lodge as the door opened and Miss Canterbury stepped outside lugging a tall, blue-and-yellow sign. The board declared the place open for business. Once her surprise at seeing him faded, she smiled, bringing a gentle lightness to her eyes and a splash of color to her cheeks. He gently extracted the cumbersome object from her hands.

  “Thank you, Mr. Wade. That thing is weighty.”

  “Good morning.” Hunter glanced around the boardwalk, the sounds of the stream running beside the building making him raise his voice. “Where would you like this?”

  She pointed, and then fluffed the folds of her brown skirt. “Right there, thank you so kindly. I wish I’d had the forethought to have my carpenter make that albatross half the size it is now. Every morning and evening, I begrudgingly think that very same thing.” She laughed, glancing up the street and then back at him. “Although, I do suppose moving it around is good for the constitution.”

  “True enough. Once we reach our age, seems the more we move, the better. I know that’s true for me.”

  Her eyes widened, and he hoped he hadn’t offended her.

  He patted his stomach, thinking he’d better watch himself, or living in town would turn him soft like most of the merchants he’d come across over the years. But it certainly wasn’t true looking at Miss Canterbury. She had the willowy stature of a girl, even though she must be in her late twenties.

  She stepped into her shop, waving for him to follow. He removed his hat and gazed around, warm air from a fire in her stove welcoming him.

  She clasped her hands in front of her skirt. “You’re an early bird.”

  Several freestanding shelves in the middle of the room held an array of books, as did more shelves built on the walls. “I’ve never been one to waste my working hours. Besides, it’s not early. Half the day is almost over.”

  “At ten in the morning?”

  “It is when I awaken at four. Rain or shine.”

  She gaped at him, and then laughed. “Four! I can’t even imagine. But if that is the case, you’re correct about the time. I have a habit of reading late into the evening. If a novel catches my interest, I won’t be able to put it down for hours. Sometimes I’ll read until three, which makes rising at seven a challenge. I guess I’m just falling asleep when you’re getting up.”

  He pulled a volume from a shelf and turned it over in his hands. He didn’t understand someone reading that much. “Spending that much time with a book seems a waste. I’d rather live my life than whittle it away in a story.”

  This time her lips flattened out to a firm line. She
brushed at an invisible something on her sleeve. “What is it you do for a living, Mr. Wade?” she asked, her tone not quite that of the cheerful bird of a moment ago. He wondered if he’d said something to displease her. “What gets you up so early before the sunrise?”

  He meandered over to the wall of books, wondering what he should say. He glanced at the spines. Kendall Martin was his next stop. He shouldn’t mention anything about the Bright Nugget until all had been settled—especially since she didn’t seem too fond of the saloon. Judging by her expression now, and her comment last night about what type of men enjoy wine, women, and song, it wasn’t difficult to believe she was a bit uptight.

  “For most my life, I’ve been a guide, bringing wagon trains over the Oregon Trail. Since the transcontinental railroad slowed demand considerably, I make my way doing a little of this and a little of that.”

  “A wagon master? How exciting!” She hurried to the opposite wall, beneath a sign overtop which he read to himself, Lending Lib-b-ary. She ran her fingers across the titles until she found what she was looking for and pulled out a book.

  “This was published in late 1870 and features actual accounts of the early pioneers’ migration on that exact route. I’ve read it four times myself and it’s one of my favorites.” She enfolded the book into her embrace, her eyes shining. “I’m sure you have some fascinating stories to tell.”

  Is fascinating the same as heartbreaking? He’d seen more death than any one man should. However, she made a good point. He’d also experienced more sunrises, seas of grazing buffalo, night skies so full of stars they didn’t look real, unfettered exuberance when reaching a destination alive, and the like, than most men could claim. She was absolutely correct. “I guess I do.”

  “You must share a few before you leave Logan Meadows. There’re several families who have had personal experiences with the western overland route. I’m sure they’d love to speak with you. Hear what you have to say.”

  I’m no public speaker. I’m not interested in sharing my past like a circus show.

  She slipped the book back into its slot. “For now, how can I help you? Is it the reader you came in for?”

  That and clearing up the misunderstanding about who it’s for. He nodded.

  “Wonderful, then follow me right over here.” She took a small blue book off her back shelf and opened it several pages in.

  There was a sketch of a black-and-white kitten that covered the whole page. Cat. My cat. The cat. His cat. Her cat. Black cat. Wh-wh-white cat.

  He shook his head. “I’m beyond that. I can read all those words.” Almost.

  “The book is for you, Mr. Wade? Not a child?”

  “That’s right. I didn’t want to say so in front of that gossipy woman you warned me about. Didn’t want the news spread all over town”—the town I’ll soon be living in—“that I’m somewhat illiterate. I grew up traveling back and forth on the trail. The man who raised me had no learning, but would solicit the help of any kind woman along the way who could instruct me for a time. I never had any formal teaching, but I’m pretty good with my sums. Adding and subtracting. After your warning about Miss Fairington, I thought it best I keep that small fact to myself. I don’t feel good about deceiving you, but I stand by my reasons.”

  “I understand completely.”

  He shook his head, then glanced back at the picture of the cat, the book still resting open in her hands.

  “I think that’s very admirable of you,” she said. “Desiring to further your education.”

  Even though she was a bit judgmental on drinking and gambling, and she whiled away too many hours reading that could be put to better use, he couldn’t deny she was quite pretty. He wondered why a woman like herself hadn’t married. “Would you have something a bit more advanced?”

  “Of course!”

  She pulled out another and opened it to the middle.

  He gazed at the page. It had been years since he’d been tutored. This was going to be more difficult than he’d first thought.

  “Mr. Wade?”

  Embarrassed, he shook his head, then pointed to the page. “The only words I know here are, the, but, look, and eat.” Disappointment pushed away his humiliation. I really need to be able to go over the accounts. Reading is a necessity. “I wonder if you might have some time to work with me? Just to get me started?”

  She blinked, and her mouth opened a small amount as she thought over his statement. “You would progress much more quickly if I were close at hand to help with difficult words. Sounding out syllables takes time and practice, and can be discouraging.”

  Was she trying to convince herself?

  “I’ve only been open a few months and I’m still working on finding ways to get townspeople interested in my wares. What I’m trying to say is, I have all the time in the world to help you.” She pointed to a comfortable-looking chair by the window. “You could sit right there.”

  Footsteps on the boardwalk drew Hunter’s glance to the window. Roberta Brown, the comely waitress from the restaurant, reached for the doorknob and entered. As she looked between him and Tabitha, her smile slowly disappeared.

  “Aunt Roberta.” Tabitha hurried to the door. She hugged the woman, and then stood back. “This is a nice surprise.”

  They’re related. I’ve got a lot to learn about this town.

  “It’s—a surprise—to me—too, dear.”

  The jerky sentence was a contradiction to the lively conversations he’d had with her over supper last night. She’d seemed eager to talk, but he’d learned over the years that older widows didn’t need much encouragement, which made him wary.

  “Mr. Wade,” she said, her tone much different from the last time they’d talked.

  “Mrs. Brown.”

  “Did you come in to visit, Aunt Roberta, or are you looking for a novel to help pass the night?”

  He understood long nights. Self-conscious, Hunter turned and strolled to the back of the room, tipping his head to better try to read the spines.

  “I have a copy of The Scarlet Letter in the lending library that you might enjoy.”

  “No, ah . . .”

  “If that’s not to your tastes, what about Uncle Tom’s Cabin? Or The Legend of Sleepy Hollow? Both are very good.”

  Hunter listened to Tabitha’s quick footsteps as he kept his head down. “Here, this is what I was looking for. The American Woman’s Home. It has ideas on healthful cookery, home decorations, gardening, illnesses, and much, much more. It’s a wealth of information! I’ve only had a quick look, but I think you’d like it very much.”

  He could hear the woman’s sputters without even looking.

  “No, no, Tabitha. I came in to invite you to Sunday supper. I was afraid if I let it go, I’d forget, and the weekend is almost here.”

  “How thoughtful of you,” Tabitha replied. “I’d love to come. What can I bring?”

  He looked over his shoulder to see Roberta mouthing something to Tabitha, a none-too-pleasant frown on her face. Her eyes darted to him and then back to Tabitha. She’s talking about me.

  The woman blinked and straightened. “Just yourself. Hannah and I have everything covered. Say, six o’clock?”

  “Thank you,” Tabitha replied. “I’ll be there.”

  He waited for Roberta to turn and leave, but she didn’t. Instead she said, “Just out of curiosity, what are the two of you talking about?”

  He caught Tabitha’s glance toward him. She snatched up several more books and covered the beginner volume in her arms. “Mr. Wade is looking for something to read. He hasn’t yet made a decision. I’m assisting him.”

  Roberta tipped her head to one side, as if weighing that answer. Her eyes narrowed when she glanced down at his .45 Colt and then up into his eyes. “In that case, I’ll let the two of you get back to work. I’ll see you on Sunday, dear.” With perfectly ladylike posture, she turned and left the store, disappearing out of sight after passing the window.

  Hunter
watched her leave, feeling something wasn’t right. “I appreciate you keeping my secret,” he said tersely. “By the time men reach my age, most can read, write, and do sums quite well. I’m a bit sensitive about my lack of education.”

  Tabitha smiled. “Sounds like all you need is some practice.”

  He stepped toward the door, securing the hat dangling in his fingertips back onto his head. “I don’t think your aunt likes me very much.” He didn’t appreciate the disapproval he’d sensed from Roberta. She’d been friendly enough before. The reversal didn’t sit well, and he felt the need of some cool air on his face.

  “Why would you say that? Of course she does.” Tabitha lifted the books she still held. “Aren’t you going to make a decision?”

  “I’ll come back later if I find some time. I have some pressing business I need to attend to before any more of my day gets away.”

  At his hard tone, she searched his face, but her smile never faltered. “Whatever suits you, Mr. Wade. You know where to find me.”

  What suited him was for others to stop judging him by the way he looked. Roberta Brown, in particular. He’d had his fill of overly righteous women. He could spot ’em a mile away. As his thoughts turned from aunt to niece, he wondered if the apple fell far from the tree.

  Mr. Wade glanced over his shoulder at her once before following in Aunt Roberta’s footsteps. Tabitha fingered the book in her hands, acknowledging to herself that she’d enjoyed the encounter with Mr. Wade more than she’d like to admit. Straightening her spine, she set the primer back on the shelf and gave the book a little pat.

  So, she wasn’t as immune to the opposite sex, at least not this particular man, as she liked to think. She went to the door and looked out on the town. A tickle in her stomach, feeling very much like butterflies, made her lips tilt up. Was this what it felt like to have a crush? She’d never had one, but she rather liked the feeling.