A Treasure Concealed (3 page)

Caeden nodded but said nothing more. He hoped they might pass the remaining miles in silence, but it wasn't to be. Carver continued with his comments and questions.

“So you mentioned your ma's faith. Is she a woman of God?”

“She was.” Caeden's hands tightened on the reins. “She's dead now.”

“Gone to glory,” Carver murmured. “Bless her soul. And how is it with your own soul, Mr. Thibault?”

The question took him by surprise, but he kept his expression as emotionless as possible. “Call me Caeden. My soul is . . . well, I'm not sure how to answer that question. My mother taught me to have faith in God, but . . .” He fell silent. Caeden wanted no part of a conversation that exposed his anger toward God.

“But?” Henry prodded.

“But she's gone now.”

“And so's your faith? Is that it?”

Caeden turned to face the older man. For some reason he found himself wanting to discuss the matter with this stranger. It was almost as if a spring had been unplugged and water was gushing out without restraint.

“Something like that. It's hard to have faith in God when He clearly allowed my father to inflict such misery on the family. The hard truth is, my father was an abusive and hateful man, and drink only made him worse. My mother encouraged me to have faith that God would deliver us, but He never did. My mother died heartbroken. My father followed her two years later—last year, in fact. Given Mother's faith and my father's lack thereof, I feel rather confident she will not have to face him in eternity.”

“She must have loved him a good bit to keep hopin' he'd change,” Henry said. “You can't beat havin' a woman who believes in you.”

“Well, her beliefs in my father and in God did her little good. The way I see it, she was disappointed by both. It was an utter waste of her time and life.”

Henry surprised him by laughing. “With women you can
never tell for sure what they're thinkin', but I'm bettin'
she
didn't think it was a waste of time or of her life.”

Not knowing how to respond, Caeden fell silent. To his surprise, Carver said nothing more either. They rode in silence, and Caeden began to relax. He studied the scenery around him, noting the rolling hills and occasional open valleys. A small river twisted back and forth alongside the road for most of the way. Occasionally they saw another person. It seemed a wonderful country to lose himself in.

They stopped a couple times to water the animals and stretch, then resumed their travel with Henry sometimes whistling, sometimes humming. Caeden thought him a strange fellow, but amiable enough. From time to time Henry pointed out a cabin or some other place of interest, but otherwise they didn't talk, and that was just fine by Caeden.

After some time, Henry spoke. “My place is just over the hill this side and to the west of Yogo City. Ain't much of a city since the gold seemed to play out. But I'm of a mind that there's still plenty to be had, and I figure as soon as I hit the mother lode, folks will flock back to find their fortunes as well.”

“You're that sure there's a big strike to be made?”

Caeden's question seemed to give the older man pause. Finally Carver spoke up. “I've always figured that a big strike is comin' my way. I feel it in my bones. I know the Good Lord has a fortune for me out there—somewhere. Just don't know for certain where it might be. But when I do find it, I'm gonna use the money to give Nyola a proper home and the doctorin' help she needs.”

“You mentioned she wasn't feeling well. Is it serious?”

Carver nodded. “The doctor says she's dyin'. He don't give her long.”

“What's wrong, if you don't mind my asking?”

The old man shook his head. “In all the places we've been, doctors can't rightly say or agree. Some think it's a weakness in her heart. Some think it's a cancer. She has pain and faints a lot and grows weaker by the day.” His voice had taken on a sorrowful tone, and Caeden regretted having posed such personal questions.

“Perhaps one of the bigger cities might have doctors with a deeper understanding of her condition. Have you thought to take her back east?”

“Thought about it. Truth is, I think Nyola's given up.” He shook his head, and the look of sadness in his eyes, a deep defeated sorrow, reminded Caeden of his mother.

“I am sorry. I know that can't be easy for you or your daughter.”

Henry gave a sigh, then straightened. “Em is tough as nails—stronger than anybody else I know. She keeps me goin'. She and the Good Lord.”

Caeden didn't understand how the man could call the Lord good after all he'd just explained.

“Well, we're here. You can pitch your tent wherever you like. If the weather's bad, you can stay in the cabin. We ain't got but one bedroom, but if it's stormin', you and I can bed down in the front room, and Emmy and her ma can sleep in the bedroom.”

“I'm sure the tent will suffice.” Caeden could see the cabin just ahead of them. Smoke trickled out of a small flue on the roof. From the size of the cabin, Caeden surmised he might have more room in his tent. “I've slept out in some fearful storms, and the tent has served me well. You needn't worry.” He continued to study the cabin. At least it had a couple of windows and looked to be fairly solid in its log construction.

“Well, the offer stands just the same. Wouldn't feel right otherwise.”

Caeden nodded and followed Carver to the far side of the
cabin. He had no idea of what awaited them, but he found the old man had returned to his happy-go-lucky countenance. Henry was even humming a tune as he jumped down from the wagon.

“Em's fixing venison stew tonight, and with any luck at all she'll have made us some bread puddin'. It's my favorite. Yes, sir, I think you're in for a real treat,” Carver added. “Why don't you deposit your things, and I'll go stake out your horse to graze. You can just go on up to the cabin and let Em know who you are and why you've come. She won't mind at all.”

B
ecause of the heat of the day and the dirt caking her face and clothes, Emily decided to treat herself to a tepid bath. Her father was going to be in Utica until late, and her mother was once again sleeping. The evening belonged to her.

The small tub they used for bathing was barely large enough to submerge herself, but Emily had learned how to make the most of it. By drawing her knees to just under her chin, she could soak her entire body. At least the lower half.

Leaning her head back, Emily relished the way the water cooled her. This was a luxury she didn't indulge in very often, given the amount of work it took to haul in enough water. Of course, that didn't mean they were filthy people. During the summer Emily made sure to daily wash her mother's weak body. A bed bath always made Mama feel better, even if just for a few minutes. And while her father had never been one to keep all that clean, he was occasionally known to take time out during his hunt for gold to enjoy a dip in the river.

I wish I could just shed my clothes and frolic in the river like the men
around here.
Emily smiled at the thought. Many had
been the time that she'd had to avert her eyes to keep from seeing far more than she'd bargained for. Up and down the Judith River, a person could see most any kind of spectacle imaginable.

With a small bowl Emily scooped water and poured it over her head. She had taken down her long brown hair with the intention of washing it and letting it dry throughout the evening. She repeatedly poured water over herself until her hair was thoroughly saturated, then took up her one and only bar of rose-scented soap and began to lather her hair and body. How wonderful to smell of something other than animals and sweat.

The scent made her favorite daydream come to life as she pictured a home with a fine picket fence and rosebushes. Emily could see herself, dressed in a simple but feminine fashion, tending to her roses. She thought of how neighbors would stop on their walks to bid her good morning and ask about her husband and children.

Why, they are all doing just fine,
Emily imagined herself saying.
My littlest one just turned two, and the doctor tells me I'm expecting again
.
She would smile as the neighbor gave congratulations and commented that having six children would make for a nice-sized family. Emily always thought of having six children. Perhaps even more. She often fancied a family of three boys and three girls, with the oldest two boys and the youngest two girls. The other two would be one of each—perhaps even twins.

And their house would be large and airy with a huge yard and a place to garden. There would be plenty of rooms—at least four bedrooms, so there would be no need to put more than two children in a room. Of course, that wouldn't figure right with three of each gender. She shrugged. As long as she was dreaming, perhaps she should have eight children and make
it an even number of each. It didn't cost any more to dream up eight than six. Dreams were after all . . . free.

Reluctantly she opened her eyes and let the beautiful dreams fade away. The small cabin seemed to close in on her. The air was warm and stale, and the room was far from beautiful. It was, as her father called it, “mostly adequate.” Realizing time had gotten away from her, Emily knew she needed to put an end to her bath. When her father did finally arrive home, he'd be starved.

She stood and picked up the nearby pitcher to pour clean rinse water over her hair and body, then stepped from the tub. A rough towel served for drying off. With laundry to wash, Emily dressed only in her clean chemise, hoping to remain as cool as possible for as long as possible. Her wet hair trailed down her back, dampening the thin material to her skin. She gathered her dirty clothes, picked up a bar of lye soap, and deposited both in the water.

The tub water would serve to wash her dirty chemise and a few other things that she'd saved for such an occasion. Laundry was another thing that didn't get done as often as Emily would have liked. Other chores over the last few weeks had taken over most of her free time. Between seeing to her mother, tending the garden, cow, and chickens, as well as cooking, cleaning, and occasionally helping her father pan for gold, Emily found laundry to be an extravagance.

She let the clothes soak and the lye soap soften while she went to get supper started. She stoked up the fire in the stove, regretting the added warmth it would give the house. If not for the laundry she needed to tend to, she might have gone outside to set up a cook fire. But time was getting away from her. Emily checked the venison stew she planned for supper. Giving it a big whiff, she was relieved to find it hadn't yet gone bad. She put
it on the stove and gave it a quick stir before turning to mix up a quick pan of corn bread. After slipping the corn bread into the oven, Emily went back to the washtub. Thankfully she'd washed her father's extra shirt the day before. She had only her few things—chemise, stockings, and skirt.

She began scrubbing her things with the strong lye soap. No sweet scent of roses for her clothes, for even while there remained a scent of that precious soap in the water, the lye would soon erase any trace.

“When I have a home of my own, I shall have one of those wringer washing machines,” she announced while doing her best to squeeze the water from her newly washed clothes. She draped the wet things across a small line that her father had secured for her in the corner of the cabin. Given the warm Montana air, she knew they'd be dry in no time at all. Meanwhile she would wear her other skirt and one of Mother's old blouses. She had just gathered the pieces from her trunk when the cabin door opened without warning.

Clutching the skirt and blouse to her, Emily looked up to meet the gaze of the most beautiful eyes she'd ever seen. The serious but handsome face they belonged to remained fixed on her face. Emily all but forgot her state of undress. She found it impossible to speak. The stranger continued to stare as if transfixed. Who was he? Why had he come?

All at once he turned away. “Excuse me.” He called over his shoulder. “You must be Emily. Your father told me to just come on in. I'm sorry if I frightened you.”

“I am . . . Emily.” Her voice sounded strange in her ears. “And you are?”

“Caeden Thibault.”

He remained with his back toward her, and only then did Emily remember her situation. “Oh my!” She hurried into the
bedroom and pulled the door closed behind her. Her breath caught in her throat at the thought of what Mr. Thibault must think of her. Not only that, but to appear before a complete stranger in nothing but one's undergarments was more than a bit unnerving. Emily wasn't at all certain she could even face him again.

With shaking hands she secured her corset. Since Mama had fallen ill and Emily's workload had been so heavy, she never pulled the lacings all that tight, but in her state of mind, she seemed to have uncanny strength and flexibility. The corset cinched tight, further accentuating her small waist. Emily tied off the laces and drew in a breath. There wasn't time to even give her attire much thought. She pulled on her blouse and did up the back buttons as best she could. Next she stepped into her skirt and could barely make her fingers work to secure the hooks and eyes. Mama remained asleep; otherwise, she might have seen how disturbed Emily was by this strange turn of events. She had done such a good job of keeping herself hidden from the eyes of men, but now one very handsome man had seen almost all of her there was to see.

“Em? Where'd you get to?” her father called from the front room.

She felt her face grow hot. “I'll be right out, Pa.” Emily swallowed the lump in her throat. There was little she could do about her embarrassment. She took up her mother's hairbrush and hurried to put her wet hair in some semblance of order. Braiding it into a single plait, Emily tried to think of how she would face the stranger.

“Caeden Thibault,” she murmured. Who was he, and why was he here?

Her hands once again shook so hard it was difficult to secure her braid with a short piece of red ribbon. “This is silly,” she
chided herself. “It was a simple mistake, and with the dim light and the clothes I held, I'm sure it wasn't all that immodest.”

But she wasn't convinced. With her hair complete, Emily glanced at the heavy coat and canvas pants she'd deposited near the end of her parents' bed. She had hoped to give both a good brushing off before donning them again, and she hadn't had any intention of wearing them that evening. Of course, she hadn't figured they'd have company, nor that there would be any reason for her to hide her appearance. If anyone had ventured to come over that evening, she would have hidden herself away with Mama or else taken refuge in the bedroom to redress at that time. Now, however, she was about to face Mr. Thibault again.

“Well, there's no fooling him now.”

Without concern for stockings or shoes, Emily squared her shoulders and decided the time had come to face the music. She reminded herself that she'd done nothing wrong, but it was hard to shake the feeling that she had.

She opened the door to find her father had already set up the chessboard and was telling Mr. Thibault about his exploits when they'd lived in Bozeman.

“Oh, there you are, Emmy.” He looked at her a moment as if seeing her for the first time. “I haven't seen you dressed so . . . nice in a long while.”

She felt herself flush again and turned her back to her father. “Would you mind doing up the rest of my buttons?”

“Not at all.” He made quick work of it, then turned her to face him and planted a kiss on her cheek. Motioning to their guest, he said, “This is Mr. Caeden Thibault. He's a government geologist. They pay him to study rocks and such. Can you even imagine it?”

Emily forced herself to turn from her father to face Mr.
Thibault. He wore the same serious expression, but there seemed to be just a hint of amusement in those lovely brown eyes.

“Mr. Thibault.” She gave a nod and hoped that might be the end of the introductions, but the man got to his feet and gave her a slight bow.

“Miss Carver, it is a pleasure to meet you.” His lips curled just a bit in a smile.

“We don't stand on formalities around here,” Emily's father declared. “No, sirree. Why, Emmy, I see that you're not even wearing shoes and stockings.”

I was wearing a whole lot less a few minutes ago
. “It's too hot.”

Her father totally surprised her by turning back to Thibault. “Em usually wears a lot of heavy clothes to disguise her appearance. It's useful for keeping the young men in line. Most folks around here don't know Emmy's young, much less pretty. Some don't even know she's a girl.”

“I wouldn't think that any amount of clothes could hide that.” His gaze traveled the length of her before he looked again into her eyes.

Emily found it hard to draw a breath and wished she hadn't laced the corset so tight. She finally found her voice. “I've started supper. Should be ready in another half hour.”

“That's fine, Em. You'll find a stack of supplies in the corner. Mr. Thibault figures to be around for a while doing his studies, and seeing as how he plans to eat with us, he's donated to our stores.” He didn't wait for her response. “We're gonna play us a game of chess while you see to supper. Mr. Thibault here reckons himself to be pretty good at it.” Her father paused after making his first move. “Em doesn't do too bad herself. She's got a quick mind and can move fast when she sees her position being threatened.”

Thibault coughed but gave a nod. Emily could only imagine what he was thinking. She hadn't moved all that fast earlier. At least not until her senses returned and she realized her situation. Goodness, but how embarrassing to have to deal with that memory day in and day out for however long Mr. Thibault decided to stay.

She hurried to the stove and checked the corn bread. Next she gave the stew a stir, then replaced the lid. Uncertain what else she could do to busy herself, Emily decided to put away the store goods. She was pleased to find sugar, flour, vanilla, and cornmeal, just as she'd requested from her father. Along with this, however, were a great many canned goods, a sack of beans, a smaller sack of oatmeal, flour, sugar, and salt, and a ham. No doubt these were Mr. Thibault's contributions. Well, at least they wouldn't starve anytime soon.

Her father had nailed several wooden crates to the kitchen wall, and these acted as cupboard space for food and dishes. With her mother sick, Emily had arranged the kitchen to suit herself. She liked things orderly. Baking supplies went together in one crate and canned goods in another. Once these items were tucked away, Emily went to work making a bread pudding. She needed to use up what little milk she'd gotten from Bonnie-Belle, their one and only real money-making possession.

Bonnie-Belle was good for breeding, and Emily's father always arranged for a calf out of her each year. Emily was never quite sure how he managed this, for breeding cost good money, but once a year her father would take her off into the “tall and uncut” as he called it, and roughly nine months later Bonnie-Belle was a mother again. Once the baby was weaned, Emily's father would take the calf to market and bring back much-needed supplies. It had kept them going the last six years. That and Emily's ability to garden. The chickens were a fairly new
idea of Emily's. She'd been offered four sitting hens in trade when they lived in Bozeman. After a man's wife died, Emily had watched his children until his mother could travel to be with them. In return, he'd given her the chickens, plus three worn-out quilts from which Emily made rag rugs. She hadn't been sorry for the trade.

Taking up some dried bread she'd been saving, Emily continued to wonder about Mr. Thibault. Her father said he was a geologist. The thought intrigued Emily. In her youth she'd attended school, albeit not on any regular basis given her father's propensity for moving them around the country. However, Emily enjoyed learning, and she determined early on to read everything she could get her hands on. She always prayed that one day they would live where there was a library, and when they did, she intended to spend her every free moment there. Books were a way to experience things she might never otherwise know, and for Emily that list was quite long. Perhaps Mr. Thibault had brought some books with him and she might be allowed to borrow them. The thought excited her.