Rocky Mountain Redemption

by Lisa J. Flickinger

  Miss Sophie scuttled over to the tall blue-gray woodbin against the far wall and plucked two lengths of wood from the box before opening the door on the Franklin stove. A blast of hot air filled the room.

  Isabelle closed her eyes as the heat enveloped her, encouraging it to chase away the chill of both body and soul.

  Miss Sophie cleared her throat. Twisting a gray curl that had escaped her chignon, she said, “If you don’t mind me asking, is it Preach you’re running from?”

  Isabelle’s gaze flicked to the view of main street outside the window—no sign of him. “Umm, no, well—”

  “I’d be disappointed to hear it was. We’ve seen such a change in him.”

  “We?” Miss Sophie had mentioned she lived alone as her husband had died of a heart attack ten years earlier.

  “The church. Preach has been coming down the mountain on Sundays to share the word with us ever since Mr. Miller, our former pastor, broke his hip falling off his horse.”

  “He’s an actual pastor?” Preach had left that part out when he’d written about how he loved sharing the gospel with the men at the camp and the folks of Stony Creek. No wonder he was disappointed with her.

  “He doesn’t have any formal training, and we don’t pay him. He told us he makes enough money logging. But I’ll tell you, that young man shares with a conviction I haven’t heard in a long time. It’s a real change from what he used to do when he came to town.”

  Isabelle raised an eyebrow.

  Miss Sophie adjusted the lace jabot of her burgundy day-dress before continuing. “Living here, in the center of Main Street, not much escapes my notice. One of the reasons I darted over to tell you the train wouldn’t be arriving until tomorrow.”

  “I’m so grateful you did.” If Sophie hadn’t noticed Isabelle reading the schedule on the train station door and invited her over to warm up, Preach would have found her by now, and she would be headed up the mountain—straight back to Aunt Lou.

  “Preach and some of the other boys from Pollitt’s Lumber would come into town the first Saturday of the month. They caused quite a stir with their rough looks and crude ways. By late evening, they’d be swaying down Main Street calling out insults to each other and roughhousing. They often broke shop windows or damaged wagons with their antics.” Miss Sophie tidied the stack of books resting on parlor table at her elbow. “Those of us who live in Stony Creek learned to stay home on those Saturdays. Milton, he owns the Belt Buckle Saloon, is the only one of us who was thankful for the lumberjacks’ arrival. He makes more money on Saturday nights than on all the others put together.”

  It was hard to imagine Preach, gentle and protective as he was, intoxicated and obnoxious. “So Preach doesn’t come to town on Saturdays anymore?”

  “He still comes with the others, only now he acts as a chaperone. If the boys get too unruly and start breaking up people’s property, he sends them back up the mountain or finds them a place to sleep the drink off. If he can convince one or two, he brings them to church the next morning. The congregation is getting used to snores and snorts from the back pews where Preach deposits them before he gets up to give his sermon.”

  The scenario Miss Sophie portrayed would not happen back home at Grace Church. Rough sorts were not allowed through the imposing white doors of her Seattle neighborhood church. If offenders managed to sneak in, the ushers would promptly march them back out. It was a good thing the ushers couldn’t read the thoughts of those sitting in the pews during a Sunday morning service, or they might have had to escort the entire congregation onto the church lawn. “I’m surprised the church members put up with it.”

  “Granted, it has taken some of them a while to get used to it.” A soft giggle escaped Miss Sophie’s lips, she covered her mouth with gnarled fingers and hunched her shoulders.

  Isabelle couldn’t resist joining Miss Sophie, and the two of them giggled until they laughed.

  It had been so long since Isabelle had found anything amusing, let alone funny, she laughed until she clutched her stomach to keep it from paining. “Miss Sophie, stop, please. All this laughter is making my stomach hurt.”

  Miss Sophie’s eyes sparkled with mischief as she reached across and patted Isabelle’s hand. “A merry heart doeth good like a medicine, young lady, and you look like you could use a spoonful. I know it’s early for lunch, but I’m going to fix you a sandwich. You stay here by the fire.”

  Isabelle placed her tea on the side table, plucked her gloves from her lap, and stood. “Please don’t go to any more trouble—”

  “Sit down, dear.” Miss Sophie swatted the air as she beelined toward the kitchen. “It’s no trouble. I enjoy the company.”

  Isabelle returned her gloves to her lap and rolled her shoulders back. The heat from the fire had finally wormed its way into her bones, and she’d stopped shivering. It was foolish not to have worn extra layers for warmth when she’d set out from the camp with only a few belongings in her carpet bag and a lantern to guide her way down the treacherous road. If she’d been thinking, she could have borrowed Aunt Lou’s overcoat, oversized as it was, and left word it was at the station before boarding the train for home.

  Surely Isabelle would be welcomed home by now. She’d suffered two weeks at the camp. It was long enough for Father to see reason, or perhaps long enough for Mother to convince him of such.

  On the final morning before leaving for the camp, Father had railed about her ungratefulness and shoved papers around his desk while Mother had leaned against his office door frame and cried. It was the last time he’d presented the ultimatum. “You will do as I say, young lady,” he’d shouted, cheeks afire, spittle flying.

  When Isabelle had slowly shaken her head, Mother had gasped and Father had brought his fist down on his desk, rattling the room. “We’ll see about that.” He’d pushed past Mother and left the office. That very evening, he’d driven Isabelle to the logging camp.

  Perhaps if she wrote and asked Mother for her permission to come home and Isabelle didn’t just show up at the door, it would help Father accept her arrival.

  “Here you are.” Miss Sophie placed a porcelain luncheon plate on the table holding a crustless egg salad sandwich and two beet pickles. “I imagine you’ll be heading back up to the camp with Preach. Do you think you’ll come back tomorrow to take the train? I’m not sure why they let you come down today in the first place, all that way without an escort.”

  Isabelle took another bite of the sandwich and a sip of tea to keep the egg from lodging in her throat. She’d only told Miss Sophie she meant to take the train home and not that no one knew she was leaving, or arriving for that matter. “I should let my parents know I’ll be arriving tomorrow. Could I use your telephone?”

  “Oh, child, there are no telephones in town yet, but we are lucky enough to have a telegraph office.”

  A telegram would suffice. A messenger could have the note to her parents’ door within a quarter hour of Isabelle sending it, and if Mother was at home, Isabelle could receive a reply within the same hour. If the answer was yes, she could take a room in town until the morrow and hope Preach or Aunt Lou didn’t find Isabelle before she could board the train.

  “Your parents let you travel alone? A girl your age?”

  What could happen that hadn’t already happened? But her parents didn’t know about that. “I’m sure they’d much rather I had a companion, but that is not possible. I’ll mention to the porter that I’m travelling alone. He’ll see to it I’m not bothered by any strange men who might want to steal a kiss in a tunnel.”

  “Dear me.” Sophie fiddled with her lace jabot once more. “Is that what this world has come to?”

  “I didn’t mean to alarm you. It’s most likely just a myth. Most train travel has proven safe for women traveling alone.” Isabelle smiled, willing Miss Sophie to believe her.

  “I’ll walk you over to the telegraph office. Ellis, my friend Millicent’s son, runs it and the post office, too.”

&nb
sp; “I don’t want to be any more bother,” Isabelle said. “You’ve warmed me up and given me food. I really should be on my way.” Whatever way that might be after Isabelle heard from Mother.

  “Nonsense. I must post the letter I wrote to my sister yesterday. Finish up while I fetch my coat.”

  Isabelle forked the beet pickles into her mouth. Their tangy sweetness bit her tongue before slipping down her throat. Miss Sophie’s pickles rivaled Aunt Lou’s for flavor, but with any luck, that truth wouldn’t be something Isabelle would have the opportunity to share with her aunt.

  A brisk walk down Main Street brought them to a narrow white clapboard structure with a large picture window.

  “Good morning, Miss Sophie.” A slender young man wearing a crisp white shirt, a tie, and a wool vest called out from his seat at a wide table behind the counter running the length of the building. Above his head, the clock ticked to a quarter past nine.

  The hour was early. Isabelle’s mother would be at home.

  As they approached the scuffed counter, Ellis glanced at Isabelle, straightened his spine, and tugged the two points of his vest before stepping to the counter. “Is this young lady a relative? I hadn’t heard you—”

  “Not a relative, a friend.” Out of his sight, Miss Sophie clutched Isabelle’s fingers and squeezed.

  “But…” Ellis drew his heavy brows together and tilted his head. “When did she arrive?”

  Laughter bubbled from Miss Sophie’s throat. “If there’s anyone who knows more about what goes on in this town than I do, it would be you, Ellis. This is my friend, Miss Isabelle Franklin. Isabelle, Mr. Ellis Wherry.”

  Isabelle gave a small curtsy. “It’s so nice to meet you, Mr. Wherry. I was hoping I could send a telegram, please.”

  “Oh, indeed.” Ellis shuffled several papers on his desk before he placed a telegram form and a fountain pen on the counter in front of her.

  Isabelle stared at the bold Western Union letters across the top of the form until they blurred on the page. What should she say? How should she ask? Isabelle could not fulfill Father’s wishes, yet she desperately wanted—no needed—to go home.

  Ellis cleared his throat. “The cost is twenty-five cents, ten words or less.”

  “I—I just need a few moments, if you don’t mind.”

  Lifting both palms outward, Ellis stepped back from the counter. “Take all the time you need. There’s a bench in the corner.”

  “I’ll leave you to your telegram and go pick up the meat I ordered yesterday at the butcher’s.” Miss Sophie placed her letter on the smooth wood of the counter. “Ellis, if you would post this to my sister. Isabelle, come back to the house when you’re finished. I’ll keep the fire stoked.”

  “Thank you,” Isabelle whispered as the door creaked open behind her.

  “So you’re alive. Good to know.”

  Preach. Her stomach lurched. Of course, it had only been a matter of time until he found her. Isabelle swiped at her eyes and rounded to face him.

  “Good morning, Miss Sophie.” Preach nodded to her companion.

  “Good morning, Preach.” Miss Sophie touched Isabelle’s coat sleeve. “I’ll be about my errands now, Isabelle, I’ll see you back at the house when you’re finished.”

  As Miss Sophie left the post office, Isabelle stared at the floor. Where should she begin? It wasn’t fair to make Aunt Lou worry, that was true. Isabelle was sorry she’d left the camp the way she had. That wasn’t true—not after the way Preach had looked at her when Aunt Lou had said what she’d said.

  As she was packing up, Isabelle had rolled the nest Preach had given her inside a spare skirt before stuffing it into her carpet bag, the carpet bag which now sat on the floor inside Miss Sophie’s front door. The nest would serve as a reminder of the kind man. A man she had grown to care for but would have to try and forget.

  “I’m going home.”

  “Your aunt’s beside herself.”

  Isabelle glanced up. Preach’s expression was difficult to read. Were his brows wrinkled because he was worried or because he was angry? “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have left without leaving a note.”

  “You shouldn’t have left. Someone could have brought you to town tomorrow, when the train comes through. It was dangerous, leaving the way you did.”

  She set her jaw. “If I’d asked, Aunt Lou wouldn’t have let me leave.”

  “If you’d asked me, I would have brought you to town. Like I told Lou, you’re not a prisoner.” Preach reached out and took her elbow. The warmth of his fingers pulsed through her coat and up her arm.

  Isabelle wasn’t in visible chains, but if Father had his way, she might as well be.

  Ellis cleared his throat, and Preach dropped his fingers from Isabelle’s elbow.

  “Are you ready to send your telegram?” Ellis asked.

  Preach blinked.

  “I thought I should let my parents know I’d be arriving. I’m not sure…” Isabelle wasn’t sure of anything anymore.

  “Not sure of what?” His gaze searched hers.

  It still carried the look—the look of near disdain it had taken on the moment Aunt Lou had voiced those ugly words the night before. A lump formed in Isabelle’s throat, and she dropped her voice to a whisper. “If they’ll let me come home.”

  “Go ahead and send your telegram,” Preach said. “We’ll have coffee while you’re waiting for a reply.”

  Isabelle stepped to the counter. Ten words would be more than enough.

  Mrs. Emily Franklin

  4589 Northlake Way

  Seattle, Washington

  * * *

  Please, may I come home?

  * * *

  Isabelle

  Ellis took the form and a quarter. As Isabelle and Preach left the post office, the telegraph operator tap tapped the message to her mother.

  Chapter 6

  A brass shop bell brrringed as Preach opened the door and motioned for Isabelle to precede him into the Blue Jay Eating House. After swiping the hat from his head and looking over his shoulder, he followed her. The entrance was steps from the alley, a small alcove on the side of a low brick building behind the druggist’s shop. The arrangement kept the guardians of the town’s business from seeing exactly who was dining with whom.

  Although he frequented May’s place on weekends, Preach had never needed the secrecy before. The discreet entrance would give Isabelle some privacy and prevent an assault by members of the congregation who were convinced Preach would make a fine husband for their daughters. The mothers had been relentless since his return to the camp and his offer to preach at Stony Creek Chapel. It appeared the congregants had more faith in Preach’s ability to walk the narrow path than he did.

  Isabelle’s proximity didn’t help his resolve either. Her flawless skin and pretty brown eyes enticed more than his frequent glances. Although she deserved a better comparison, Isabelle reminded Preach of an actress he’d watched perform in a musical comedy back home. They called her La Favorita, a woman it was best to forget.

  Preach glanced at Isabelle. Her face was empty of the little color it usually owned. She was probably famished from her long hike into Stony Creek, foolish woman. Even if it was necessary for her to leave, there was no need for her to walk the whole way.

  “Well, look who’s in town on a weekday morning.” May’s voice rang out from behind the luncheon counter, where she filled a white mug from the spigot of an oversized nickel coffee urn.

  Three of the men at the counter turned and met Preach’s gaze before taking in Isabelle from head to toe. With eyebrows raised, they returned to their food.

  Preach probably should have taken her to Ming’s Cafe on Main, busy bodies or not. “We’ll have two coffees, May,” he said before tugging a scuffed bentwood chair back from one of the empty tables. He nodded, inviting Isabelle to sit.

  The girl hadn’t said a word since she’d sent the telegram. “You all right?” He took the chair opposite.

  “I�
�m tired. The walk into town was a long one.”

  “Why didn’t you use one of the horses?”

  She widened her eyes into almost a glare. “Ha. I wanted to arrive in one piece. I’ve only ridden on miniature ponies at the fair when I was a young girl.”

  “How’d you get by, not learning to ride?”

  “We’ve always lived in the city. As long as I can remember, we owned a carriage and hired a driver. My father wanted to rise above the humble life he had as a child.”

  Not a country girl. He already knew that.

  “You must be famished,” he said. “Could I buy you an early lunch? I’m sure May can rustle something up. She won’t see a crowd for another two hours.” Preach thrust his chin at Isabelle. “You need to start putting some meat on those bones.”

  Isabelle dropped her gaze to the table before fiddling with a teaspoon next to the plain white sugar bowl.

  What a fool thing to say. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have commented—”

  “On what? Something that’s painfully obvious. I’ve been unwell.” The words were barely above a murmur. “For six months. That’s why my father sent me here. That and…” Isabelle shrugged.

  Aunt Lou had made sure Preach guessed the other reason too. But sending your daughter off to a logging camp to be worked off her feet so she could recuperate? A camp full of men desperate for the company of woman? The plan didn’t make her father sound like a wise man.

  Preach reached out and covered the hand fidgeting with the spoon. Her tapered fingers were soft and surprisingly warm as they stilled beneath his.

  “Here you go, two coffees.”

  Preach withdrew his hand from Isabelle’s as May plunked the cups between them. A splash of liquid from Preach’s mug landed on the tablecloth, and a brown stain bloomed from the base of his mug, marring the bleached whiteness. At twice his age, May wasn’t much to look at with her heavy brows and large features, but she was a stickler for cleanliness. Preach searched May’s face, eyes dark as a storm cloud. What was her problem?