Debra Holland (7 page)

Helga Mueller trudged up the street toting two large wicker baskets containing the fragrant bread she baked every day for the mercantile. Apple-cheeked with thick graying-blond hair pulled into a coronet, the plump woman arrived, stopped to catch her breath, and greeted Harriet in German-accented broken English. “Iss a beutiful morning, Miss Stanton. Your foos besser iss?”

“Yes, much better, Mrs. Mueller. I’m able to walk now.”

“Das iss goot.”

“Thank you so much for the strudel you sent me. I certainly enjoyed it.”

The woman beamed. “Haffy am I to hear zhat.” She gave Harriet a motherly pat on the shoulder before climbing the steps and opening the door to the mercantile. The smell of the yeasty bread followed her through the entrance.

The rosebush beside the stairs that Harriet had coaxed Mr. Cobb to plant last autumn had just yesterday burst forth with three velvety red flowers. Their sweet scent stirred Harriet’s longing for a garden of her own, full of every kind of flower. In her dreams, a white picket fence with climbing red roses surrounded her little house. She had only to walk by Dr. and Mrs. Cameron’s house on the outskirts of town to see her vision a reality. Mrs. Cameron had already promised Harriet cuttings from her lavish yard, whenever she wanted them.

Further down the road, Harriet saw Ant emerge from Widow Murphy’s house. He looked toward the mercantile, paused, then clapped his hat on his head and strode toward her.

The power of Anthony Gordon’s presence filled the street. He wore a black shirt, vest, and pants, and a black hat shaded his features. His long stride covered the distance between them. He walked with a wide swing of the hips, as if he owned the town; one of his hands hovered above his gunbelt, seeming ready to draw at the least sign of provocation.

Early shoppers stopped to watch his progress, turning their heads to track him. Ceasing to pump water, Pepe mopped his face with a red kerchief and stared, mouth agape. Red Charlie stopped his hammer mid-swing to nod at Ant. Mrs. Norton and Mrs. Arden leaned their heads together, no doubt discussing the man.

Some of the initial fear she’d felt upon seeing him reappeared, and she shivered. Even in the morning sunlight, Harriet imagined ominous shadows surrounding him. She searched his angular face, trying to read his mood from his expression. His dark eyes showed no hint of the twinkle she’d seen before, nor did his mouth quirk into a crooked smile of greeting. Within herself she shrank back, although she didn’t allow her expression to betray her apprehension.

He halted. Dust puffed around his worn black boots. Touching the brim of his hat, he said, “Good morning, Miss Stanton.”

His gravelly voice sounded unused this morning. He probably hadn’t dared say a word to Mrs. Murphy for fear of starting a conversation, during which the woman would unloose all the criticisms she harbored about the world of Sweetwater Springs. Once someone wound up the widow, she could spew for hours. Few dared provoke her. Harriet kept her contact with the woman to as little as possible. She wasn’t sure even Ant’s formidable presence would stay Widow Murphy’s bitter tongue.

He stared at her boot-encased feet. “Ankle better?”

“Almost as good as new,” she exaggerated.

He leaned over and plucked the bag from her lap. As he hefted the burlap sack, his eyebrow peaked, and his eyes softened with humor. “What do you have in here? Rocks?”

“Provisions.” Relief relaxed her spine. He wasn’t angry with her.

“Expect we’ll be gone for a week, do you?”

“Just lunch,” Harriet said with pretend matter-of-factness. “Man of your size must need some feeding. I kept a hungry elephant in mind when I packed the food.”

He grinned. Three lines bracketed each side of his mouth. “Hope your generous...provisions will fit in my saddle bags.”

“I’ll just wait here for you,” she said sweetly.

Ant lowered the sack to the step next to her. “Best not tote this around. Might strain my back. I’ll wait until I have Shadow saddled up. He can do the work.”

“Mr. Cobb is lending me his horse, Brown Boy. He’s a brown gelding with a white front foreleg. Usually Mack keeps him in the last stall.”

“I’ll saddle him up for you.”

Ant sauntered back up the street. As before, he drew all eyes, but this time he didn’t seem so menacing. Maybe because he had more of a spring in his step. He sauntered toward the livery stable and disappeared inside.

Only a few minutes passed before Ant reappeared. He led both horses toward her, halting at the foot of the steps. Handing her the reins, he reached for the bag and rummaged around inside. He pulled out the jar holding the lemonade. One of his hands spanned the sides of the glass. “Plan on being thirsty, do you?”

Harriet wrinkled her nose at him. She’d needed both hands and some muscle to lift that jar.

“What else is in here?” He pulled out the paper package of oatmeal cookies, tied into a neat string bundle.

“Oatmeal cookies. Mrs. Cobb made them last night.”

He removed two larger paper-wrapped packages. “And these?”

“Ham sandwiches.”

“Must be awfully big sandwiches.”

“I made ten.”

“Ten.” Ant’s jaw dropped; he looked like a Christmas nutcracker.

She couldn’t help but laugh at the resemblance.

He grinned; his eyebrow lifted in a wicked peak. “Guess we won’t go hungry.” He tucked the food into the saddlebags. Then he reached over to give her a hand up.

Harriet slid her hand into his calloused palm. He folded his fingers around hers, easing her to her feet. Warmth flooded into her palm, flowing throughout her body. Her cheeks flushed; she hoped he didn’t notice.

Ant held Brown Boy, while Harriet placed her good foot in the stirrup and mounted, compressing her lips to keep an exclamation of pain locked away. Once in the saddle, she pretended all was well, reaching down and petting the horse’s neck.

Ant mounted and led the way out of town. They rode in silence, although Harriet occasionally waved at anyone who stopped to watch the two of them together. At the base of the mountain, Ant urged Shadow ahead on the narrow trail. They rode through strands of fragrant ponderosa pine and shivery aspen. Hidden birds called, and a snowshoe hare, wearing its summer gray coat, hopped across her path. Brown Boy tossed his head but continued his plodding walk.

Several hours later, they crossed a stream to reach a clearing. Two lean-tos, the wood still unweathered, propped up a rickety old cabin, with an outhouse crouched a few steps away. The drying pelts of different animals were nailed to the eaves of a shed to stretch and dry out. Harriet averted her eyes, glancing over to where a straggly vegetable garden sprouted on one side of the house.

A gaggle of barefoot girls poured out the door, all dressed in faded, too-small frocks and patched aprons. But their faces shone with cleanliness, and all had their fair hair neatly braided in two long tails. Their blue eyes showed eager curiosity, although they remained silent. The oldest carried a toddler on her hip. “Ma,” she shrilled. “Comp’ny.”

Harriet counted five stair-stepping daughters plus the little one. Three of them looked old enough to attend school.

A woman appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on her apron. Like her children, she had blond hair, although her braid wrapped around her head several times. She glanced warily at Ant, then Harriet. The sight of another woman must have reassured her, for she relaxed and smiled, showing a trace of prettiness in her careworn face.

Harriet leaned forward. “I’m Miss Stanton, the school teacher.” She waved a hand at Ant. “This is Mr. Anthony Gordon. He’s looking for his nephew, David.”

The woman looked amused. “As you can see, we have only girls here. I’m Mrs. Swensen.”

Ant shifted in his saddle. “Have you seen a nine-year old boy around?” He pulled out the photograph and held it out.

The next oldest girl darted forward and looked at it. “No, sir.” She stepped back.

Mrs. Swensen waved at her daughter. “Inga’s my rambler. Can’t keep her inside unless it’s raining or snowing. The rest of us stay close to home. My man might know, but he’s hunting.”

Ant returned the photograph to his pocket. “Thank you.”

Inga scrunched her face, obviously thinking. “I’ll keep a lookout for ya.”

“Have a care,” he warned.

The girl frowned, clearly uncertain of his meaning.

“If you do see David, don’t approach him or, especially, his Pa. He’s not … fond of little girls. You come find me, instead. They’ll know at the livery stable where I am.”

Ant looked at Harriet, one eyebrow peaked in inquiry.

She answered his unspoken question. “Yes, that’s a good idea. Mack Taylor usually knows everyone’s business. Everyone with a horse, that is.”

Ant touched his hat. “Thank you, Miss Inga.” He fished in his pocket and tossed her a silver coin, which she caught. “That’s for your trouble.” He snuck at quick look at Mrs. Swensen. “I’m hiring her, if that’s all right with you?”

The girl giggled, glanced at the coin, then at her mother, who smiled back at her, nodding in approval.

Although Harriet would have liked to dismount so she looked less imposing, she didn’t dare put weight on her ankle unless she had to. Not after her fib to Ant about being able to walk. “Mrs. Swensen, the other reason I’m here is to invite your daughters to attend school.”

The woman’s face lost her smile, and she rubbed her hands down her apron. “My man, he’s Swedish. He…”

I’ll bet he doesn’t believe in education for women
. Harriet felt anger burn in her stomach at the thought.

Mrs. Swensen glanced at her daughters. “He’s proud. Stubborn. Thinks they shouldn’t go to school unless they have shoes. Nice dresses, too. I teach them their letters, though. Inga, she’s nine and can read and cipher.”

Harriet thought rapidly. She knew Pamela Carter and Samantha Thompson would be willing to donate their girls’ out grown clothes. “I know some mothers whose daughters have outgrown their dresses and shoes. We could bring them to you.”

The woman twisted her hands in her apron. “We don’t like to be beholden.” She shook her head. “My man, he won’t stand for it.”

Harriet understood how some people had difficulty with taking charity, yet she wanted these girls in her schoolroom come autumn.

The older girls didn’t say anything, but Harriet could see the pleading in their eyes as they glanced from their mother to her.

Somehow, she had to make the woman think she wasn’t accepting charity. “Actually, Mrs. Swensen, if your husband could see his way through to send the girls to school, I would appreciate it. Most of my pupils are boys. Must be something about our spring water in the valley that makes for more boys being born. You know how girls,” she smiled at the children, “especially pretty ones, have a civilizing influence on boys. Having your girls in my classroom would make my job a whole lot easier. So you can see, I’d be beholden to you.”

Ant sent her a sardonic glance; his eyebrow crooked, and a corner of his mouth pulled up.

Mrs. Swensen didn’t appear convinced.

What else can I come up with?
“I think Pamela Carter would be downright grateful to you. Her five-year-old, Lizzy, almost died a year ago. She’s very frail. And there’s no other girl her age. Lizzy starts school next term.”
True.
“I know Mrs. Carter worries about her not having friends.”
Not true. Everyone adores Lizzy.
“She can’t always play the more boisterous games.”
Partly true
. “Someone she could play quietly with would be a blessing and would ease Mrs. Carter’s mind.”

Mrs. Swensen’s tight expression eased. “I’d like to think we could help her. My Krista is about her age.”

“That’s settled then. Sometime this summer, we’ll pay you a visit again and bring clothes and shoes.”

Ant nodded farewell and turned Shadow toward the path that led up the mountain.

Harriet waved goodbye at everyone and had to smile at the enthusiastic way the girls echoed her. A surge of optimism flooded through her. Somehow, she knew the older children would be sitting in her schoolhouse when the next term began.

As Ant passed her, his face impassive, Harriet caught a look of sadness in his eyes, and her good spirits dimmed. She’d gotten what she’d wanted—new pupils. But Ant hadn’t found his nephew.

CHAPTER FIVE

Ant rode up the path, his senses alert. He listened to the breeze through the trees, the sounds of birds, and an occasional chittering red squirrel that ran overhead, and then jumped from branch to branch. Most of all, he listened to the clip clop of the horse behind him, the rhythmic beat a reassurance that the schoolmarm was doing all right. From time to time he twisted to look back at her—just checking up. Each time he turned, she rewarded him with a sweet smile.

That smile always tugged at him, but Ant tried not to let his thoughts dwell on her, instead focusing on his need to find his nephew. Were Lewis and David in this area, as he’d heard months ago?

Ant had to contain the impatience urging him to go faster. Speed would only tire the horses, and perhaps stress his little schoolteacher. He took a deep breath of the pine-scented air. They’d get to the next place when they got there. Another hour, more or less, wouldn’t make a difference.