A Family Found (14 page)

Tate felt his face flush with discomfort, yet he couldn't lower his eyes.

She picked up his hands in hers. “How was the afflicted man to answer? He'd grown accustomed to his situation. Saying yes to Jesus would involve a huge change in his accustomed way of being. Could he risk an unknown future? What might be expected of him were he to be healed?” She paused, letting the questions hang in the air. “Isn't that the issue for you, Tate? Do you want to be made whole? Do you want to leave behind the injuries of the past and see the myriad ways God is working in your life? Or do you prefer to remain imprisoned by doubts and blame-seeking?” She gripped his hands tightly. “No one can answer those questions but you. As for the man in the pool of Bethsaida?” She dropped his hands and smiled, blessing him with the affection in her eyes. “Jesus healed him. Jesus made him whole.”

After she left, Tate remained in his office, pondering what she had revealed. In the end, what stayed with him was the unlikely outcome, both for her and for the man lying beside the pool. Jesus could make them both whole.

How he ultimately answered her questions would impact not only his own life, but the lives of his sons. He sighed and moved to the window where she'd stood gazing at the distant peaks. He remained there for long minutes lost in his thoughts. The heart of the matter was this: Did he have the courage and the will to face her questions?

* * *

Two days later when Sophie had left after her session with the boys, Tate came across Marcus sprawled in front of the fireplace, Minnie resting beside him. In front of him was a thick volume. So engrossed was the boy that he failed to notice Tate's approach. “Whatever you're reading must be very interesting,” he observed.

Marcus sat up quickly, shoving the book away, his face red with guilt. “It's all right.”

“May I look at it? Perhaps you'll tell me what you find so fascinating.”

Marcus hung his head. Finally, with a shrug, he retrieved the book and held it out for his father to take.

Tate looked at the title spelled out in gilt letters.
Holy Bible.
With a roiling stomach, he realized that what he did at this moment might forever alter his relationship with his son.

Minnie sat up on her hind legs, and Marcus threw his arms around the dog as if to enlist an ally. “Don't blame Miss Sophie. She didn't give it to me.”

Tate winced. “I didn't say she did. But you are interested nevertheless?”

“It is one of the great books of all time. I should read it. Many poets and even Shakespeare use biblical references.”

“No doubt it does have literary value.”

“Papa, it's full of exciting stories. I already learned about Noah at the Tylers', but did you know a man named Abraham took his son to a mountain to be sacrificed to God? That was scary.”

Tate choked back a sarcastic retort. It was exactly that kind of subject matter that made him skeptical of the Good Book. “What did you learn from such a story?”

“That people should put God first and then He will be merciful. He was testing Abraham's obedience and faith.”

Put God first?
“You realize the Bible is an account not only of history but of a belief system.”

“Yes.” Marcus hung his head, but when he looked up, his voice was tinged with defiance. “We don't talk about God, do we? Why not?”

Why not?
Tate's life experience hadn't exactly made him predisposed to entertain a God of love. “It's complicated.”

“I wish we could talk about God. He teaches lots of important stuff, it seems to me.” Marcus stood up and held out his hand. “May I please have the book back? I would like your permission to continue reading it.”

He had never seen Marcus so willing to challenge him, at least in such a mature manner. Between Sophie and Marcus, Tate had the distinct impression he was being sent a message. “Two conditions. You may read it only after you've finished the lessons Miss Sophie has set for you. Second, if you have questions about any of the stories, you are to discuss them with me.”

“Thank you, Papa.”

As Tate left the room, he shook his head, wondering when he'd lost control. But he knew—when Sophie came. Sophie, who had revealed a past that put his fantasies about her in even greater jeopardy. Charlie Devane. Even the way she'd said his name spoke of the depth of her love for him. How could he hope to compete with such a paragon?

Late that afternoon he watched a rider approach, slip from the saddle and stride toward the house. When Tate hurried outside, he was dumbfounded to see his cousin Robert Hurlburt approaching, his face grim. “Robert, what on earth? You look as if you've been leading a cavalry charge.” He clapped a hand on the older man's shoulder. “Please, come inside and let me fetch you something to drink.”

“How I wish this was a social call, but as soon as you can be ready, we need to ride to Sophie's. I presume you know the way.”

“I do, but whatever occasions the haste?”

“I have come to fetch her. We must leave for Denver in the morning. Her father is gravely ill. The family has sent for her.”

Tate's knees nearly buckled. The death of a mother and a sweetheart to be endured, and now this. Sophie's faith would be tested yet again, just as Abraham's had been. He gathered himself. “Of course, we'll go. While you refresh yourself, I'll prepare to leave posthaste. Is Sophie expecting such news?”

“She has been informed of her father's earlier stroke, but doesn't know of this latest life-threatening stroke. The family is praying she will arrive as soon as possible. I have booked her a train ticket, but there is no time to lose.”

It was nearly dark when they rode to the cabin. Tate couldn't help thinking that Sophie's life, too, was about to fall into darkness. What would become of her faith now?

* * *

Roused from her reading just before bedtime by approaching horses, Sophie grabbed the rifle and stood inside the door. Beauty's guard-dog stance reinforced her unease. Then she heard men's voices. Not Grizzly this time. Others. Strangers or friends? When she heard the thud of heavy footsteps on the porch, she shouldered her weapon. A loud knock followed. “Who's there?” she cried out with as much courage as she could muster.

“Tate and a friend.”

She lowered the gun and cautiously opened the door a crack. Tate filled the line of her vision, but when he stepped aside, her mouth fell open. What was Robert Hurlburt doing here? Propping the rifle by the door, she stood aside to allow the two men to enter. Beauty went to Tate, her tail wagging. Sophie stared at Robert. His normally erect posture sagged and his bearded face was drawn. Suddenly she knew. Bad news from Kansas. There could be no other reason for this unexpected nocturnal visit. “Robert?” She didn't even recognize her own tremulous voice. “Why...why are you here?”

She felt Tate's arm around her, just as her legs started to give way. He ushered her to a chair and knelt at her side, holding her hand. Robert pulled up another chair and sat facing her. “It's your father, dear.”

She stifled a wrenching sob. “Is he...?” She couldn't complete the thought.

“He's alive, but he's had a massive stroke. Your family has sent for you.”

The silent scream rending her chest was surely audible, yet neither man flinched. Frantically she looked from one to the other. “But when? How?”

The compassion in Robert's eyes compelled her to look at him. “I will come for you in the morning and we will make our way to Denver. I've made a railroad reservation for you three days hence. While Dr. Kellogg urges haste, he is hopeful you will arrive in time.”

In time. In time?
The words battered her soul. Andrew Montgomery—her precious father, who had never done anything but care for her and love her. A world without him in it seemed unimaginable. Charlie and now Papa? Lost in memory, it was only the comforting grip of Tate's hand on hers that restored her to the present. She got to her feet, her eyes scanning the room. “There is so much to do. I must be about my preparations.”

Tate placed both hands on her shoulders. “Sophie, all you need to do is pack. Beauty can return home with me. The boys will enjoy looking after her in your absence. Curly or Pancho will check on the cabin while you're away. Please clear your mind of any worries about this place.”

“And Belle?”

“I'll send word to her.”

Robert stood. “I'll call for you at sunrise. Effie will be waiting to greet you in Denver. Meanwhile, she sends you her love.”

Such kindness on all sides was her undoing. The tears she'd valiantly tried to withhold burst forth in a hiccuping rush. Dimly she was aware that Tate had gathered her to him and that she was dampening the front of his shirt. That concern evaporated with the onslaught of her grief. Brave, undaunted, independent Sophie? That persona had collapsed under the weight of her worry. Right now, her only shred of comfort came from the shelter of Tate's embrace.

Chapter Eleven

A
nd so it was that a few days later Sophie found herself staring out the window of a passenger train heading east across the vast open spaces of Kansas. With every muscle tensed in a vain effort to speed the locomotive toward her destination, the passing landscape held little interest. Would she arrive in time to spend precious hours with her beloved father? Or would she be too late? She prayed not. The ride down to Denver had been both an emotional and physical challenge, and only Effie's soothing ministrations after they arrived had renewed Sophie's energy sufficiently for her to undertake the remainder of the trip. Now, in diabolical concert with the rhythmic clanging of wheels on rails, questions pecked relentlessly at her brain:
Should I ever have left Cottonwood Falls? Was I selfish to follow my dream rather than concerning myself with my family's needs? Can Pa forgive my absence? Will I be able to forgive myself?

A debilitating dread sapped her energy, energy that would be sorely needed when she arrived. Her brothers and sisters-in-law had borne the brunt of her father's incapacitation. Now perhaps she could lend a helping hand, God willing. But the thought of saying a final goodbye? Unbearable.

Only the breeze blowing through the open window kept her from expiring in the beastly heat. Laying her head back and closing her eyes, she tried to capture the majestic Colorado peaks, the melody of icy stream water, the fragrance of fresh mountain air. She must've dozed off, because she was suddenly awakened by the sound of her book falling to the floor. Retrieving it, she held it to her chest, cherishing the memory of Tate's thoughtfulness.

He had joined Robert and her in the ride across the park to the point where the descent began. The three had dismounted briefly to exchange farewells. Tate had drawn her aside and thrust a small volume into her hands. In the early-morning light she had made out the title—William Wordsworth's
Lyrical Ballads
. When she'd looked at him inquiringly, with one finger he'd traced the line of her jaw and said in a low tone, “So you don't forget the mountains—or us. I've marked a passage or two in the ‘Tintern Abbey' poem.” Then, as if he'd revealed too much, he took a step back and studied the lightening eastern horizon. “You'd best be on your way. I wish you well on your journey.”

“Thank you.”

“There's one more thing.” He cleared his throat. “The boys wanted me to ask if you're coming back.”

In that moment, she saw the raw hope in his eyes. Yet, in honesty, she could make no such promise. Instead, she'd lowered her head and whispered, “I don't know, Tate. I...I don't know.”

A mournful train whistle punctuated her reminiscence, bringing her back to the reality of the looming decisions threatening to overwhelm her. As she had often done since leaving Estes Park, she opened the book of poems and turned to the first passage Tate had marked.

Once again

Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,

That on a wild secluded scene impress

Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect

The landscape with the quiet of the sky.

In the margin he had written “May the memory of the beauty and wonder of nature bless you.”

With care she closed the volume and grasped it tightly, a kind of lifeline. She bowed her head in recognition of a truth. Perhaps this was as close as Tate could come to prayer. Yet it was, for her, just that—a prayer.

* * *

Six days had elapsed since Sophie's departure, time marked by Toby's daily question at breakfast: “When is Miss Sophie coming back?” Tate tried to remain optimistic, but could ill afford to give the boys false hope. He'd carefully explained to them the reason for her sudden departure. Toby had accepted the explanation, but Marcus was more perceptive. This morning he had asked Tate to follow him into the library alcove. There he proudly opened the Latin primer that had arrived earlier in the week. “I'm getting some of this, Papa, but without Miss Sophie, it's really hard. She is coming back, isn't she?”

“I hope so.”

Slowly closing the book, Marcus sighed. “She might stay in Kansas.” It wasn't a question. “Her family is there. They may need her. She likes it here, I know, but she has no family in Estes Park.” He shrugged in resignation. “Except for us.”

Tate was at a loss for words. He could neither encourage that line of Marcus's thinking nor deny it. Sophie had become far more than a tutor to the boys and, if he was honest, far more than a friend to him. If she failed to come back? It didn't bear contemplating. Yet if she did return, what would that mean? Was he prepared to think of her as family as Marcus obviously did? “We'll have to wait and see. For this afternoon, how about riding over to her cabin to check on things.”

“Can Beauty come with us? She's probably missing home.”

“Good idea.”

Later as the two trotted down the road, Tate marveled. Marcus was not an outdoorsman and often rejected offers to go riding. Today, though, he'd accepted with alacrity. As soon as they arrived at the cabin, they went to work airing it out. Then with Beauty following closely behind, Marcus helped stack firewood and joined Tate in sweeping and dusting. All the while Tate did his best to avoid looking at the sampler on the wall and its words of challenge: “Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.” He didn't want to think about the questions that message raised for him. Was there really a God he could trust? As for his own understanding, was his confidence in his abilities and decisions justified...or arrogant?

Marcus pulled him from his introspection. “Toby and I had fun the nights we stayed here,” he volunteered as he pushed a broom around.

“Despite the flood?”

“I knew we'd be safe with Miss Sophie.”

Safe.
Tate wondered if Marcus had ever felt that with his own mother.

“If she comes back, Papa, it won't be for a while, right?”

A lonely pang shot through Tate. “No, son. It will take time for her to settle her affairs.”

“I miss her.”

All the way home, Tate's chest was tight. The very thing he'd worried about had happened—had been happening all along. Nor had he been powerless to stop it. He could've done something. But, just like his sons, he was captivated by Sophie. And he wanted more.

When they arrived home, Tate was surprised to see Joe Harper's gelding tied to the hitching post. After suggesting to Marcus that he brush Beauty, Tate headed for the house. Bertie told him Joe was waiting in his office. Tate hung up his hat and entered the room. “Harper, good to see you.”

After shaking hands, they both sat down. Joe nodded in the direction of Tate's desk, where several letters were stacked. “Thought I'd bring those along.”

“You didn't need to.”

“I know. But I wanted to talk to you about that citified crowd over at Lord Dunraven's place. Some bigwig who owns a London newspaper is summering up here and has gotten wind of Belle and Sophie's plan to climb Longs Peak. Scuttlebutt has it that now editors from papers all around Colorado and beyond may send reporters and photographers up here, and that to a man, they are hoping for a failure, no doubt so they can ridicule the women.” He leaned forward. “I've done everything in my power to get Belle to drop the idea, but she's determined. Perhaps you can persuade Sophie to give up their summit ambitions.”

Tate knew Sophie. An attempt to dissuade her from any goal to which she had set her mind would be doomed. “I don't have that kind of influence, Joe. What she does in regard to scaling Longs is her business.” Even as the words left his mouth, frustration mounted—frustration with the idiots who would set women up as sources of ridicule, with Sophie for being so reckless and headstrong and with his own helplessness in the matter. “At the moment, of course, she is in Kansas with her dying father. Whether she returns is a matter of speculation.”

“Rest assured, we would all like her to come back, Tate. She's a delightful young woman, which—” he winked “—surely has not escaped your notice. Belle is very fond of her. But I shudder to think what might happen if their Longs Peak climb results in a journalistic frenzy. Belle claims she and Sophie have discussed what they might be up against, but...” He lifted his hands in consternation.

Tate frowned. “They may think they know how to handle the attention they will attract, but I don't have a good feeling about this.”

“Nor do I.” Harper stood. “Those of us with their best interests at heart will have to be vigilant.” The two men, preoccupied by their concern, walked in silence to the front door. There Harper spoke again. “The personal letter on your desk has a Denver postmark. Maybe it brings news about Sophie.”

After his neighbor rode off for home, Tate stood in his office, staring at the mail lying on his desk. He picked up his letter opener and slit the top envelope. One sheet of paper fell out. Dread mixed with eagerness as he unfolded it and quickly assured himself of Sophie's signature.

Dear Tate,

When I arrived at the Hurlburts', a telegram had come saying Papa was weak, but hanging on to life. I will not know until I get to Kansas what the future may hold for me. I miss the boys and hope it will be possible for me to return and continue tutoring them. Time will tell. I have also written Belle Harper with this news of my indefinite stay. Whether it happens this year or next, I have told her not to give up on our plans to climb Longs Peak. I send the boys my love and ask you to be patient with me.

Patient? Easier said than done when all he wanted to do was follow her to Kansas and make sure she returned with him to the mountains she loved. And to somehow dissuade her from the perilous trek up Longs.

* * *

At last. As the train slowed for her stop, Sophie blew the dust off her hat before putting it on. For the past hour, she had reveled in the sight of her beloved Flint Hills, her heart pounding in anticipation. And there! Tears flooded her eyes when she spotted her brother Caleb standing on the platform, with Lily beside him. How she had missed her family. She clenched the handle of her reticule.
Dear God, what news have they brought?

Assisted by the porter, she climbed down from the train and was immediately engulfed. “Sophie, dear,” Lily whispered, while Caleb held her by the shoulders studying her intently.

“Colorado seems to agree with you,” he said.

She looked from one to the other, scarcely able to believe they stood before her. “I'm so relieved to be here.” Then gathering her courage, she asked the question that had plagued her throughout her journey. “Pa? How is he?”

“Eager to see you,” Caleb answered solemnly. “Come along now. I'll gather your bags and we'll talk along the way.”

Sitting between the two on the buggy seat, Sophie scanned the familiar countryside, so different from the Rockies. With each turn of the wheels, not only did her concern for her father increase, but so did the sudden, spontaneous ache of Charlie's loss. This stony land had been her beloved's workshop...once.

Caleb spoke just loudly enough to be heard over the road noise. “There is no way for me to soften the blow, Sophie. Pa is near the end. He goes in and out of consciousness. Aunt Lavinia and Rose are with him now, and when he's not working, Seth hardly leaves the bedside.”

Sophie grabbed her brother's knee in an effort to hold herself upright. “I should've been here.”

Lily placed an arm around Sophie's shoulders. “Please don't blame yourself. My father has assured us that medically there was nothing any of us could have done to prevent this last stroke. None of us ever knows what a day will bring, yet there is consolation in knowing that God is with us everywhere, even in the valley of the shadow of death.”

It was as if only with those words had the finality of her father's situation hit Sophie. She sagged into her sister-in-law's comforting embrace and let her pent-up tears flow. As they neared Cottonwood Falls, Sophie straightened, willing herself not to look at Charlie's courthouse building, wiped her streaked face with a handkerchief and found her courage. “All right. That's enough of that. Tell me what I must do, how I can help.”

For the rest of the trip to the Montgomery ranch, Lily outlined the schedule of care aimed at making Andrew comfortable. “Your father hasn't much time, Sophie, but I know at some point he will be aware of your presence. Having all his children surrounding his bed should soothe his agitation.”

“We've arranged for you to stay in your old room,” Caleb added, “so you can be in the house with Pa. We are taking Rose and Seth's boys home with us for a few days.”

“I hate to inconvenience anyone.”

Lily smiled. “Our girls are excited about the prospect of having their cousins come for a visit.” Her smile faded. “Given the circumstances, it's probably best that Alf and Andy are away during this time.”

When the buggy rolled to a stop in front of the house, nostalgia nearly overcame Sophie—for gardens planted together, chess games contested, stories told around a winter's fire. Rose came running toward her, followed by Seth, and hugged her close. “Dear girl, what a joy to see you, despite these sad circumstances.”

Then her tall, broad-shouldered brother took her fingers in his work-roughened hands. “I don't have words, sister.” When Sophie looked into his warm, hazel eyes, she saw the quiet heartache in them.

Sophie studied the sturdy limestone house with its riotous flower beds surrounding the deep porch. “There's no place like home, is there?” she asked without expecting an answer.

“Come freshen up,” Rose said, “and then I'll take you to your father. Lavinia is sitting with him currently.” Lavinia, Lily and Rose's aunt, was a wonder—the grand Saint Louis society woman had been transformed by family into a Flint Hills fixture.