Snowfall

by J. Kathleen Cheney

  The driver stopped his vehicle near the front porch, then got out and held open the door for her. Lourdes gathered her skirts and stepped out onto the fine flagstone walkway that led up to the house. White dahlias bloomed along the edge of the porch. Several chairs set on the porch showed that it was a regular gathering place. A smaller rocking chair sat there too, a hint that Lourdes would be running into children. She would enjoy that. She loved children.

  The driver walked up the steps to the house ahead of Lourdes and knocked on the front door. A young woman opened the door, a girl with dark hair and fair skin. No sooner had she opened her mouth to greet them than she squeaked as her skirts were batted aside. A boy of three or four pushed his way past the fabric blockade and dashed out onto the porch. A smear of red paint ran across his cheek, and his chestnut hair was splattered with yellow. His shirt must, at some point, have been white. He waved merrily at Lourdes and ran off toward the stables. A piebald dog of indeterminate breed pursued the child.

  The young woman sighed dramatically and checked her skirts for stray paint. "I swear, that boy!" She turned to the driver, who simply grinned as if he saw unruly children every day, thanked him by name, and then turned to Lourdes. "You must be Mrs. Medina. Please come inside. Mrs. O'Donnell is up with the baby, but she'll be out in a minute."

  Ah, a baby. Lourdes followed the young woman inside, feeling a pang of jealousy. The girl instructed the driver where to put Lourdes' trunks--in a guest bedroom down a hallway to one side of the main rooms. The driver went back out, and the girl told Lourdes, "I'm Mrs. Sanders, assistant to the cook here. She'll be…"

  The sound of crying distracted the young woman and she glanced behind her toward the source of the sound. "If you'll excuse me, I'll be back in a moment."

  She dashed off, leaving Lourdes alone in the large front room. It was a sitting room, a warm and cheery spot with photographs in silver frames set out on the mantel. Lourdes surveyed her surroundings, the silence interrupted only when the driver went past in the hallway with one of her trunks. Then she heard footsteps clicking down the stairwell that rose next to the entry hallway.

  Imogen O'Donnell came into the sitting room a moment later. "Mrs. Medina, I apologize for keeping you waiting. I was trying to get Amelia to sleep, and it seems my son was busy painting Lizzie Sanders, so we've been corralling children for the last few minutes."

  "Painting her?" Lourdes asked, unable to resist.

  "Like an Indian," Imogen said. "War paint. His father read him a book with pictures, I'm afraid, and he's wanted to be an Indian ever since."

  "Can I assume the little girl doesn't share his interest?"

  "No," Imogen said in a dry voice. "She's not quite a year old yet, so his interests aren't hers."

  "I saw him run off to the stables," Lourdes said. "Is that permitted?"

  Imogen nodded her head. "He's perfectly safe there. He's just gone to hunt his father."

  It was odd that she'd allow a small child unwatched in the stables. Horses could do damage if startled. Lourdes had always been cautious with Rosa. "I see."

  Disapproval must have shown on her face, because Imogen shook her head. "You might have doubts, but Patrick is special and the horses all know it. They would never harm him."

  Every mother thought her son was special. "Of course."

  Imogen smiled. "Now, Mrs. Medina, have you eaten lunch? And did you get a chance to visit Finn's farm?"

  "The hotel did kindly serve me lunch while arrangements were being made, but I haven't gotten to visit Mr. Finnegan's farm yet." She still had a desire to give the man a piece of her mind. She wanted an explanation.

  "Then perhaps you'd permit me to accompany you once you're settled in? I'd like to go over and talk with him myself."

  It sounded like she wanted to give Finn a piece of her mind as well.

  ***

  Imogen O'Donnell drove an old-fashioned buggy, which one of the stable hands had already rigged up. She settled on the seat and waited while the young man helped Lourdes up next to her. Once she was seated, Imogen flicked the reins and the horse started walking them past the stables. "If you like, we can do a full tour once we get back," she offered.

  "I would like that," Lourdes said.

  Imogen shot a look at her face as the horse sped up to a trot, taking them out of the stable yard and up the drive that led back out to the road. "That's a lovely shawl. I was admiring it earlier."

  Lourdes pulled her embroidered shawl closer about her shoulders. She'd worn it for this outing, hoping to bring some color to her gray cavalry-twill suit--the scarf's black fabric was covered with roses embroidered in bright crimson and rose. Lourdes had taken it to mass with her to cover her hair, and was grateful she had. It had escaped the destruction in her hotel room. "My abuela--my grandmother--loved her needlework and made this for me before I married. I should perhaps be upset that the scarf my husband bought me was ruined, but I am honestly more grateful to have this one safe."

  "I must say, you seem far less upset than I would be in the same situation."

  It was a blunt comment, but since the woman had taken her in, Lourdes didn't mind. "I see no point in being irritated when I can do nothing about it. It's unlikely the house detective will learn who destroyed my property, so being angry would hurt no one but me."

  "A wise outlook, I suppose," Imogen said. They'd driven a short distance down the main road and she pointed out another drive. "That's his land," she said. "I usually walk over, or ride, but since it's your first visit, I thought driving would be better."

  It was within walking distance, but Lourdes appreciated Imogen's thoughtfulness. She'd had a late night and a difficult morning, and didn't want to get dusty and footsore atop that. "You're very considerate."

  Imogen turned the buggy onto the drive. "May I ask a personal question?"

  Lourdes put one hand on her hat as a brisk breeze tried to steal it. "Certainly."

  Imogen half turned in her seat. "Did Finn do anything that would lead others to think he had…intentions toward you? Other than eating dinner with you, I mean."

  Apparently Imogen suspected Miss Doherty as well. Lourdes answered carefully. "We visited a couple of private parties last night and came across Miss Doherty at one of them. She seemed displeased, although he assured me he's not betrothed to her."

  A house came into view past a rise in the land, a large stone house that must date from the middle of the previous century. There were two stables to the north of the house and a handful of outbuildings. It was a well-kept place, like the O'Donnell farm.

  Several hands were out in the paddock with the foals, and one came running up to take the buggy's reins when they reached the stable yard. Imogen handed them over to him with a warning that she didn't know how long they would be. She turned back to Lourdes. "I'd like to have a word with Finn first, if you don't mind."

  Lourdes nodded. She probably didn't need to give Finn a piece of her mind after all. Imogen seemed quite vexed. "I'll see if I can find my horse."

  Imogen pointed discreetly at an older man. "Mr. Reid can help you."

  Lourdes thanked her and headed that way. The man was quick to point out a group of mares on the far side of the paddock south of the one where the hands worked with the foals. Lourdes stepped up onto the railing and gazed at Nevada for a moment. The mare looked content, which was a relief. She called Nevada's name, and the mare came ambling in her direction.

  Mr. Reid had gone over to yell at one of the hands in the next paddock, so Lourdes took off her glove and scratched beneath Nevada's forelock. "I missed you," she told the mare. "I'm happy you're safe."

  Nevada nickered and tossed her head. Another pair of mares, both chestnut, approached, probably thinking that Lourdes had treats. No food, she thought at the duo, and they turned their attention to something else. Nevada stayed with her.

  The mare seemed to be adjusting to her new herd. It was a lowering thought. Lourdes had come all this way to rescue her horse, but
her horse didn't actually need her. The other mares in the paddock were from the group she'd been sold with, and Nevada seemed content to stay with them.

  Safe, Lourdes thought at her. Safe here.

  Nevada nickered again. Her ears pricked up, and she gazed at something behind Lourdes. Lourdes glanced over her shoulder in time to see a large horse walking loose through the stable yard.

  She considered clambering over the fence, thinking it would be safer on Nevada's side with the mares. But none of the hands nearby seemed alarmed. Lourdes dropped to the ground, set her back against the fence rail, and eyed the horse warily. It was a dark chestnut with a white mane and tail--a liver chestnut--probably a thoroughbred. A quick glance told her she must be looking at a gelding. He was eighteen hands or so, far larger than those her family bred back in Texas. They'd bred for agility and brains. This horse was more likely bred for speed, with a deep chest and long, powerful legs.

  He stepped closer. He didn't even wear a halter, so she had no way to get hold of him. He was sweated but not lathered, possibly just back from being ridden, although he didn't show any marks from a saddle or tack. He wasn't shoed either. Were there wild horses in this part of the country? Stay back, Lourdes told him.

  He pawed at the soft earth of the stable yard. No.

  Lourdes felt her mouth fall open. He'd answered her. It wasn't a simple refusal; he'd used a word. Horses didn't make words, not even the smartest of them.

  He wasn't a horse. He looked like a horse, but there was something else inside that horse body, something closer to a human. She'd once read a story to Rosa where boys had been turned into swans, but she didn't recall ever reading of a man being turned into a horse.

  No one else in the stable yard seemed to have heard the horse-creature's response. Nevada acted interested in the newcomer, but not in the way she would be with a stallion. The mare merely watched him with alert eyes, ears forward as if waiting for command.

  "What are you?" Lourdes whispered.

  He came closer, close enough that his oat-scented breath puffed across her cheek. I am myself.

  Her breath arrested, Lourdes gazed up into the horse's warm eyes. His mane was the color of cream, exactly the shade of Finn's unusual hair. That could not be a coincidence. "Finn?" she whispered.

  She could swear the horse chuckled in response. He turned away and walked to the stables, not incidentally displaying the fact that he wasn't a gelding after all. Lourdes watched the horse disappear through the main doors of the stable, too startled to follow. Or perhaps she was too frightened. She wasn't sure. None of this made sense.

  A moment or an hour later she saw that Imogen O'Donnell was striding toward her. "The maid told me Finn was home," Imogen said in an annoyed tone, "but he's kept me waiting in the sitting room all this time. I think he's hiding from me."

  The resemblance between the two of them was simply too strong. "You are his daughter, aren't you?" Lourdes managed. "He must be a good deal older than he looks."

  Imogen glanced over at the hands in the next paddock, then back. "People in town don't know," she whispered, a clear admission. "I would appreciate it if you didn't say anything."

  The woman before her had to be at least her age, perhaps a couple of years older. That meant Finn must be nearing fifty, Lourdes realized, at the very youngest. And his mother was only now forcing him to marry? She tugged her glove back on as she mulled that over. "How old is he?"

  Imogen licked her lips. "I don't actually know."

  And Lourdes thought that was an honest answer, if evasive. It wouldn't be unusual for a man to refuse to admit his age. Her own father had lied about his age for the last two decades of his life. "And your grandmother is requiring that he marry? I'm surprised a man so set in his ways would give in."

  "He made a bargain with her," Imogen said with a helpless shrug. "He can't go back on his word."

  It wasn't won't; it was can't. She'd said that as if it were an integral part of his nature. Lourdes opened her mouth to ask Imogen what her father was, but spotted Finn himself walking out of the shadows of the stables, so she shut her mouth.

  Lourdes watched him as he came closer. He wore a pair of twilled trousers and a collarless white shirt, the top button unbuttoned. His tweed vest and casual garb made her suspect he'd been out riding. His white hair was tousled and looked damp. There was no mark to show where the burn on his cheek had been, a miraculous healing. He looked far too young to be Imogen's father, and far too human to be a horse.

  "Mrs. Medina, what a surprise," he said with laughter in his eyes. "I had decided you weren't coming after all."

  Had she spoken to him just a few minutes ago? Perhaps she'd imagined the whole incident.

  "Where have you been?" Imogen snapped at him, crossing her arms over her chest.

  "I took the horse out for a run," he said, on the defensive. "A chance to get some exercise. Clears the head." He smiled down at Lourdes then. "Did you find your mare well, Mrs. Medina?"

  Lourdes didn't get an answer out before Imogen stepped back in. "What exactly have you done, Finn? Have you not heard about the destruction of her room at the hotel? Most of her clothes were ruined."

  Imogen maintained a cool tone throughout, but Lourdes could tell the woman was furious. Poor Finn.

  Finn turned to Lourdes. "What happened, Mrs. Medina? Were you hurt?"

  "I am uninjured," she said. "I was at breakfast when it happened."

  "I hope you didn't lose anything irreplaceable," he said mildly. "Did the hotel detective have any idea who did it?"

  "No one saw anything, I'm afraid."

  Imogen opened the silk ties of her handbag and withdrew the tattered rose-colored scarf; Lourdes hadn't even noticed that she'd taken it. Imogen waved it in front of Finn's face. "I think you know who did this, and why."

  Finn turned back to Lourdes. "I am sorry, Mrs. Medina, for drawing unwelcome attention to you."

  He'd said as much the previous evening. "You've already explained that the woman has no legal claim on you, no matter what she thinks."

  "She thinks that because there's no competition," he said. "So are you offering yourself as a candidate?"

  "For your wife?" she asked. "I…"

  "Your wife?" Imogen repeated, her dark eyes flicking between the two of them. "Are you serious?"

  They both turned to look at her. Lourdes suspected that Finn was offended because his daughter dared to question his judgment. She couldn't help feeling offended herself at being dismissed outright.

  "I meant no insult to you, Mrs. Medina," Imogen told her quickly, "but you don't know what sort of trouble you'd be getting into. How much did you really learn about him over the course of a simple dinner?"

  Imogen had ignored her father's annoyance, so her dismissal of Lourdes as a potential bride probably wasn't a slight after all. Instead she seemed to be casting Finn as a poor choice for a potential husband.

  "And the rest of the night," Finn inserted smoothly. "I didn't get back here until well after dawn. And I must say, Mrs. Medina, that your hotel room wasn't cold at all when I was there."

  Imogen crossed her arms over her chest again, angry now. "You promised…"

  Without warning, the rail behind Lourdes broke with a loud crack, the two halves falling down into the soft earth of the paddock with a thud. That did draw the attention of the stable hands.

  "Control your temper, child," Finn snapped.

  "I thought we'd agreed that you would behave while in town," Imogen said. "No despoiling virgins or breaking marriages."

  Finn crossed his arms over his chest, equally mulish now. "Mrs. Medina is neither a virgin to be despoiled nor is she married."

  Lourdes had begun to feel like a ball being batted back and forth in a game of lawn tennis. Would they continue to fight over her if she walked away? While Finn hadn't actually lied about the events of that morning, he made clear implications. And he'd done it to vex Imogen, not her. Clearly his daughter didn't trust him. That didn't
speak well of him, did it?

  "You don't hear Mrs. Medina complaining, do you?" he added.

  Imogen turned to her with such an expectant expression on her face that Lourdes couldn't help it. She laughed. She covered her mouth with her hand quickly, but couldn't stop the sound from spilling out.

  At that, Finn grinned broadly. "See? She's a good sport."

  Lourdes held up one hand, hoping to get a word in edgewise. Imogen shut her mouth, swallowing whatever retort she had prepared. "Mr. Finnegan did not make unwelcome advances toward me," Lourdes said firmly. "He's teasing you."

  That was, strictly speaking, true. His advances hadn't been unwelcome. And he was teasing his daughter. Imogen looked away, her lips pressed together and a faint hint of pink staining her pale cheeks.

  "Are you sure you wouldn't consider it, Mrs. Medina?" Finn asked. "You're far more likeable than that bitch Brighid."

  He was waiting for her to say no, to protest his use of foul language in front of a lady, or to complain about…something. She could tell that from his brittle look. It occurred to her that he wasn't happy at all. His daughter's distrust must sting him, and being forced into a marriage he clearly didn't want must make him feel particularly helpless. Poor man.

  And then she nearly laughed again. It was ridiculous to feel sorry for him. He was a man, in control of his own life and fortunes. Women were rarely so lucky. "By when do you need my decision, sir?"

  A gleam entered his eyes. "I must be married by midnight on Friday."

  His mother had set a specific date and time? How overly dramatic. "I'll decide before then."

  Imogen pinched the bridge of her nose.

  Finn ignored his daughter completely. "Will you stay for dinner, Mrs. Medina?"

  Lourdes briefly considered asking Mrs. O'Donnell to excuse her, but after all the woman had done for her, it would be unforgivable. "I have a previous engagement. Perhaps another time?"

  "Lunch tomorrow, then?" Finn asked, taking her right hand in both of his. "My cook is excellent and would love the chance to prepare something special."