A Family Found (6 page)

While Beauty lounged on the porch steps, Sophie daubed paint and sang “Amazing Grace” as she worked. After finishing with the first chair, she sat back on her heels and wiped her brow. There was something satisfying about seeing results from her efforts. With that thought, though, came a sadder one, prompted by the hymn she'd been singing. Without Charlie, she, too, needed to be found and restored through grace. Although the sharp, physical pang of grief hit her less often than it once had, there were times when Charlie seemed so present with her that she felt as if she could reach out and touch him. Like now. Sophie dabbed at the tears forming in her eyes. She gazed at the mountains, vibrant in the afternoon sun.
Charlie, dear, are you someplace that is as wonderful for you as this is for me? I hope so.

She shook her head, knowing that following Charlie into the maze of her emotions was not helpful. He was gone. Not that she would ever forget him, but it was time to move on, time to be thankful she had once known love and to carve a new identity for herself here. Now. She picked up the paintbrush and bent to her task with renewed vigor. So intent was she on her work that she failed to hear the hoofbeats until horse and rider were nearly to her yard. Looking up, she was surprised to see Tate Lockwood dismounting and then mortified that he would find her in her tomboy getup. There was nothing to do but stand up and extend her hand. “Tate.” He stood in front of her, his face impassive. “Forgive my appearance. I was not expecting visitors.”

He held her hand while she squirmed under his slow examination. For a moment, she thought he might be about to laugh. But he didn't. “I thought I'd stop by to see your progress on the cabin. Nice chairs,” he said, turning to survey her handiwork.

“I expect to spend a great amount of time out here this summer, that is, when I'm not in the mountains. Belle Harper and I have grand adventures planned.”

He studied her closely. “Not...”

“Yes, Longs Peak, our ultimate ambition.”

“I know you're not short on determination, but that's a feat rarely performed even by the hardiest of men.”

“Granted.” She set down the paintbrush before adding, “Notwithstanding my appearance today, Belle and I are not men.”

“You certainly are not,” he said with what could be construed as a glimmer of appreciation.

“Pardon my manners. Please do come in and have a cup of tea and a slice of the pound cake I made this morning.”

“Don't mind if I do.”

While she busied herself at the stove, putting on the kettle for tea, she was aware of his scrutiny of the cabin's interior. “Quite a transformation. It's downright habitable.”

“I owe much of my progress to the Tylers and Harpers. They were a huge help.”

“Most of the valley folk are good that way.”

“But not all?” She set them each a plate of cake on the table, then turned back to check the kettle.

He straddled a chair and sat down. “Not all. For a time Lord Dunraven's agent was intent on buying up the valley and forcing out the settlers.”

“Dear me.” Sophie took a seat across from him. “I had heard of Lord Dunraven's presence and the establishment of his hotel and hunting preserve, of course, but I had no idea his ambition was so pervasive.”

“It was. However, it seems to be dissipating in recent months. Perhaps he's lost interest in his toy.”

“The hotel may well be a good addition to the area, but riding roughshod over the settlers? I can't abide that.”

“All the more reason for some of the rest of us to buy up land he may have his eye on. It's not just an aesthetic matter. It also involves water and grazing rights. In fact, I have just come from looking over some land I intend to purchase. Being so close, I figured I'd check on how you're doing.”

“I'm thriving. The next project is planting flowers and vegetables.”

“In between your mountaineering and gardening, I hope you'll have time for this.” He reached in his pocket and withdrew a leather-bound volume. “It's
The American
by a new writer named Henry James. I would like to know what you think of it.”

Dare she hope that in this remote place Tate Lockwood might be someone with whom she could discuss literature? “How thoughtful of you. I shall devour it with interest. Thank you.” She leafed through the book, then turned to Tate. “Your Marcus seems to be quite a bookworm.”

“He is. Prying him out of the house is difficult. However, you managed nicely on Wednesday.”

There was an odd note in his tone, almost as if he begrudged her the time playing with the boys in the snow. “It took a few minutes, but Marcus eventually seemed to enjoy himself. With Toby, of course, there's no problem. He was born to play.” She chuckled. “And I forgot I'm a grown woman. Snow angels, for goodness' sake.”

He took a sip of the tea Sophie had poured him. “I scarcely know what to do with them.”

“Perhaps the best advice I can offer is for you to remember your own boyhood—what you liked to do, what your passions were...”

“I had two and two only. Books and my dog.”

Again she sensed bitterness in his voice. “There you are. That's a fine start. Marcus loves to read and Toby enjoys animals.”

“Speaking of which, you were right to advocate for the dogs.”

“The dogs?”

“Yes. I imagine you wondered why the boys didn't already have one.”

She blushed. “I did. I'm sorry if I created a problem for you.”

“Actually, you solved it. Tomorrow I'm taking the boys to visit a family with a litter of collie pups.”

“That's wonderful.”

“But one pup won't do. If the boys can't even agree on a name, I figure we need two dogs.”

“Brilliant. It might be hard for Toby to share ‘Buster' with Marcus. What does he want to call his? Aeschylus?” Then the man actually laughed. The sound filled the room and penetrated her heart. “Would it be presumptuous to ask if I might call again sometime in the next week or so to meet these two canine wonders?”

“The boys will insist on it.”

“I'll look forward to coming, perhaps on Wednesday again.”

Tate swigged down the rest of his tea, then stood. Sophie rose, as well. A sudden awkward silence hung between them. “I appreciate your coming by,” she said just as he uttered a thank-you for the tea and cake. He added, “I hope I didn't disturb you.”

“Not at all.” She trailed him to the door.

He clapped his hat on his head before pausing on her porch. “Beautiful view.”

“It inspires me.”

“It has that power.” He faced her. “Good day, Sophie. I'll tell the boys to expect you Wednesday.” He made his way down the steps and mounted his horse.

She waited as he paused for a moment, studying her before finally lifting his hand, and then riding off toward home.

She looked down at herself. A paint splotch covered one knee and the bandanna had slipped back on her head. She was a fright. A tomboy spectacle serving tea to a gentleman. What must Tate think of her? She bore little resemblance to the well-bred women he was accustomed to in the East, but at least she hoped she would never prove as faithless as his ex-wife.

Another thought stopped her in her tracks. Why should she care?

* * *

Sophie Montgomery was the most puzzling woman he had ever encountered, Tate thought as he galloped toward home. Highly intelligent and spirited, she nevertheless had little appreciation for propriety or decorum. There she stood, her face smudged with paint, sawdust covering her shirt, and her hair pulled back with a bandanna that looked as if it had survived several buffalo hunts, and wearing—of all things—breeches. It was one thing for her to wear bloomers beneath her skirt on the grueling journey up from Denver, but quite another for her to wear trousers as a matter of course. Yet he suspected that scandalizing the neighbors—or him—was the farthest thing from her mind.

Recalling his first sight of her today, he chuckled. He'd stifled his laughter when he came up on the porch to greet her. Momentarily, she'd seemed oblivious to her unseemly attire. Then her expression had changed as embarrassment swept over her. She was not a woman whose face concealed her thoughts. Rather than the artificial coquettishness of most women, she seemed not to care about others' opinions of her. Open and honest, she lived in the moment.

Wednesday. The boys would be excited about her visit. At least Toby would. Who knew what excited Marcus, if anything? Tate hoped the acquisition of his own dog would help bring his older son out of the gray place to which he'd retreated ever since Ramona had packed up and left. It was hard not to pin his hopes on the unsuspecting canine. Or on Sophie or anyone else who could move the boy. Rejection, rather than affection, characterized his son's behavior toward him. He'd tried to be understanding. How hurt Marcus must've been by his mother.

Sadly, Marcus reminded him far too much of himself. In the mansion of his boyhood, Tate had been more decorative than cherished, more rejected than loved, and starved, not for rich food, but for normalcy. Books taught him about others and the world, and Buck schooled him about acceptance and love. He wanted more, much more, for Marcus.

He shouldn't pin his hopes on others, but he prayed the tutor would arrive soon. Surely the young man could appeal to Marcus and engage his considerable intellect, while at the same time helping Toby become more disciplined in his studies. Tate slowed to a trot, recognizing his own shortcomings. Nothing in his past had prepared him for being a model father to his sons, yet he had no more sacred obligation.

Chapter Five

“S
o what do you think?” Belle Harper sprawled atop a boulder the size of a small building Saturday afternoon.

Sophie leaned back, propped on her arms with her legs dangling from the rocky ledge, and laughed aloud. “It's magnificent.” The endless sky stretched in cerulean splendor above the distant snowy peaks. Pure air filled her lungs, and she felt alive in a way she hadn't in a very long time.

“You didn't do badly for your first hike. Not as much huffing and puffing as some, but then, you've had time to acclimate to the altitude.”

“How high are we now?”

“About ten thousand feet.” Belle gestured toward Longs Peak. “That's over fourteen thousand, and I'm told the last two thousand feet are treacherous. Above the tree line, boulders abound, so some difficult rock climbing is involved. It's by no means impossible for women to reach the summit, although men try to dissuade the ‘fairer sex' from the attempt. Yet a couple of our sisters have achieved the feat. I want us to join their number.”

“I'm game, although I'll need considerably more experience. When might we attempt the ascent?”

“Depending on your conditioning, I'm guessing early-to mid-September. Weather is a factor. Early snow would knock us out.”

“Some will deem us crazy to attempt it.”

Belle shoved back her hat and turned to study Sophie. “What do you think?”

The prospect was fraught with uncertainty and danger, but Sophie didn't hesitate. “It would be the most exciting, exhilarating thing I've ever done.”

“Let others doubt or mock us. That will just fuel our determination.” Belle opened her canteen and took a sip. “Once or twice a week, then, we'll tackle the mountains. Flattop Peak is next.”

“I'd welcome the challenge.” As she uttered the words, Sophie understood why she was so open to Belle's direction. On today's hike, there had been long minutes when her mind was so focused on the trail she hadn't once thought about Charlie. Yet paradoxically, now touching the pockmarked surface of the rock beneath her fingers, she felt as if she were that much closer to heaven, closer to Charlie.

“Ready to start back?”

Sophie levered herself to her feet. Beyond lay the valley floor, dotted with small settlements. In the distance, the imposing lodge of Lord Dunraven reminded her of Tate's concern for preserving the area. He was right. Such a beautiful place was not meant to be the province of a single individual. She shivered with excitement, knowing how much she wanted to be part of Estes Park's future. She spread her arms as if to encompass the valley. “Look, Belle. Is there any better place on earth?”

“Not in my mind.”

Trailing Belle down the mountain, she concentrated on noticing each smell—juniper, pine, spruce—and each animal—the chattering chipmunk, a soaring eagle, the lone doe poised by a small pool. Before she knew it, she was singing to herself and considering the hymn's lyrics.

All things bright and beautiful,

All creatures great and small,

All things wise and wonderful,

The Lord God made them all.

Could it be that here in this mountain paradise she could regain her unquestioning faith? What would Charlie want for her? There was really no question. She knew that difficult and painful though it was, he would want her to embrace life, to climb out of the valley of her gloom and ascend to unknown heights.

* * *

What in the world had he done? Any serenity Tate had known within his home had vanished with the arrival of two rambunctious pups. Toby's Buster skittered through the house nipping at his master's legs and yipping excitedly, only quieting when he fell, exhausted, into the dog bed the boys had made of old blankets. Marcus's female was only minimally more sedate and thankfully felt no need to establish supremacy over her brother. When Tate asked Marcus what he'd decided to name his collie, his son had shrugged and said, “These things can't be rushed. The name
has
to be right. In many cultures, a name has great significance, you know.”

Tate stood at the window of his office, aware he should be working instead of watching the road for Sophie Montgomery. Marcus had seemed more lighthearted than usual this morning, and Toby had dogged Bertie about the refreshments before retiring to the back porch to brush Buster's lush coat. Granted, the boys had few visitors, but was Sophie that much of a novelty? Occasionally they attended community suppers, which afforded Marcus and Toby the opportunity to mingle with others their age. Toby knew no strangers, while Marcus tended to stand on the sidelines until another boy made an overture. Had Marcus always been so shy and reserved? Tate cast his mind back. Although quiet, he'd also been a thoughtful, charming little boy. Sensitive. Therein lay the problem, no doubt. Marcus had reacted far more viscerally to Ramona's disappearance than had Toby, who tended to live in the present, while Marcus brooded on the past. Tate shook his head in disgust. He, who could open mines, negotiate with bankers and parlay minerals into wealth, was helpless to deal with his own troubled son.

A flash of color caught his eye. Sophie rode up the road, her red jacket clashing with her copper curls. She sat easily, clearly long accustomed to riding. Living on a ranch had obviously equipped her for pursuits many women disdained. Ramona. Yes, disdain would've been her reaction to someone like Sophie. He hated it when his thoughts conjured his ex-wife from his subconscious. She was out of his life, and he had to move on.

He straightened his suspenders and put on his coat before walking to the front door, where Toby already waited with a grin on his face, Buster right behind him. Even Marcus had closed the book he was reading and stood by the fireplace, his expression expectant, if guarded.

Before she could knock, Tate opened the door to Sophie, who entered with a smile, pulling off her gloves. “What a beautiful day!” she exclaimed, but before she could go on, Toby scooped up his dog and held it out to her. “See, miss? It's Buster.”

Tate started to admonish the boy for speaking up before Sophie had even removed her jacket, but she winked and he fell silent. “Oh, Toby, he's adorable. May I hold him?”

Tate helped her out of her jacket as she balanced the puppy against her chest, cooing softly to the animal. “Aren't you a sturdy little fellow? A ‘Buster,' indeed.”

Toby peeked around the door. “Where's Beauty?”

Sophie smiled. “At home. I wanted your pups to be the center of attention.” She entered the living room and nodded at Marcus. “And what of your dog?”

“Sleeping. I'll get her in a minute.”

“Have you named her?”

He clasped his hands nervously before answering softly. “I thought maybe you could help me.” He swallowed and then went on. “It has to be just the right name.”

“I understand. A name marks one forever.”

“I like your name.
Sophie.
Are you wise?”

She laughed. “Not always. It's a difficult name to live up to, but I try.”

Tate watched their exchange. Sophie had somehow gained enough of the boy's confidence for him to trust her to offer suggestions for his dog's name.

Toby pulled on Sophie's skirt. “Wanna play checkers?”

Marcus looked menacingly at his brother. “We're gonna name my dog.”

Tate stepped forward. “Before that, wouldn't it be courteous to invite our guest to sit down?”

“Please sit,” Marcus mumbled.

“Here's a chair,” Toby offered.

Sophie sent Tate an amused glance before moving to the chair and sitting, still clutching Buster. “Thank you, gentlemen.”

“Gentlemen. She called us ‘gentlemen.'” Toby giggled.

Bertie entered the room with a tray laden with a plate of cookies, cups and a teapot, and milk for the boys. “Good afternoon, Miss Sophie. I hope you favor sugar cookies.”

“I do, indeed.”

When they were sitting down with their refreshments, Tate found himself at a loss for words. What could he possibly talk about with her? Did it matter? She was here for the boys.

She settled her cup in her lap and turned to him. “I've been reading in the Denver papers, just delivered, about silver discoveries west of here. That should lure even more settlers to Colorado, I should think.”

“We've only seen the first of the influx. I'm in no position to complain about westward expansion since I myself have profited from leaving the East to make my own way.”

“That can't have been easy.”

“The hardest part was leaving my family behind, but mining camps are wild places, not fit for a lady.” He caught himself before saying anything about Ramona.

Sophie covered the awkward silence. “It will be exciting to be part of Colorado's future.”

Future?
“Does that mean you're planning to stay? You haven't been here long nor have you endured a high country winter.”

She smiled impishly. “Why, Mr. Lockwood, I do believe you are trying to discourage me.”

“Not ‘discourage,' but perhaps protect you from yourself.”

“I appreciate the impulse and I'm not unacquainted with the dangers, but in just this short time, the mountains have worked their magic on me.”

Magic?
What was the woman thinking? It took much more than fairy dust to survive a brutal winter up there.

Marcus had slipped out while they were talking and now returned with his yawning brown-and-white dog. “Here.” Marcus held out the pup. Sophie set down her cup on a side table and embraced the animal, who promptly licked her face.

“What a charmer,” she said.

Marcus blushed. Toby and Buster drew near and sat at Sophie's feet. “Are you finished with your cookies? Tell me when to set up the checkerboard.”

Marcus bristled, and Tate knew it was time to intervene. “Toby, let's you and me play a few games and give Sophie and Marcus time to discuss names.”

Sophie shot him a grateful smile. “Marcus, why don't we sit at the library table by the bookshelves? We might need to do some research before you feel right about what to call your dog.”

Tate concentrated on the checkers while also trying to eavesdrop on Sophie and Marcus's conversation.

“I don't want a boring name like Queenie or Lady.”

“How do you feel about historical or literary names?”

“Like what?”

Toby jumped Tate's black marker and muttered, “Pay attention, Papa.”

He was paying attention, all right, but not to the game.

“Well, there are historical names like Cleopatra, Betsy Ross—”

“No. What do you mean literary names?”

“Perhaps from Greek mythology or Shakespeare.”

Toby kicked Tate under the table. “Please, Papa.”

“Oh, you mean like Athena and Juno or Juliet?”

“Exactly.”

“It's your turn.” Tate made a move and then strained for his older son's voice.

“Wait! I have an idea, Miss Sophie. Your name means
wisdom
, right? I want my dog to be wise, too.” His brow furrowed in concentration. “What about Minerva?”

“Minerva is a strong name. You could call her Minnie sometimes if you'd like.”

“Minnie...” The boy seemed to be testing the word. “Yes. I like it.” He shoved his chair back and carried the puppy to his brother and father. “My collie has a special name, the same as the Roman goddess of wisdom. Minerva.” The pup in his arms looked up at him and seemed to nod her head.

“A fitting name for such a fine animal,” Tate said.

“Minerva! That's not as good as Buster,” Toby announced.

“It's not a competition.” Sophie moved to Marcus's side and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Each dog is unique and deserves a unique name.”

With that one statement, Sophie calmed the boys and secured peace. After that, she played two checkers games with Toby and two with Marcus. Tate chuckled to himself watching them vie for her attention. Sooner than he liked she announced her departure.

“Are you gonna come again?” Toby asked as she donned her jacket.

“When I receive an invitation,” she said.

Tate hesitated, his stomach in a knot. Courtesy suggested he should follow up on that remark. He couldn't. It would never do for her to become a fixture in his sons' lives. He was grateful for the time she'd given them, but there was too much likelihood of hurt if they became overly attached to her.

Yet after she'd left, Toby sulked by the fireplace, desultorily stroking Buster. Marcus, cradling Minnie, hunched over a book on mythology he'd extracted from the shelf. With a restlessness he was unable to tame, Tate paced the room until finally he grabbed his coat and hat and headed for the barn, where he hoped lulling sounds and familiar, earthy odors would quiet his racing heart.

* * *

When she entered her cabin later that afternoon, Sophie was greeted by a delighted Beauty as well as by the enticing aroma of the ham and beans she'd left simmering in the Dutch oven before visiting the Lockwoods. After checking the fire pit, she brought in fresh wood before removing her hat and jacket. Even though the weather was still wintry for May, she'd found the ride home invigorating and had worked up a healthy appetite. As the renewed fire warmed the room, she washed her hands and was preparing to dish up some supper when Beauty bristled and stalked to the door, where she stood on guard. “What's the matter, Beauty?”

When the dog didn't stir, Sophie moved stealthily to the loaded rifle. She would not make the mistake again of opening the door without knowledge of her caller's identity. Leaning against the door, she called out, “Who's there?” just as a voice boomed, “Open up, missy. It's me. Grizzly.”

Limp with relief, she opened the door. “Please come in.”

Looking more like his namesake bear than a man, Grizzly entered with his dog, Sarge, and stood eyeing the weapon in her hands. “Good fer you, missy. Can't get too comfortable here.” Then he turned his gaze to the stove. “Smells like I'm just in time for dinner.” Without waiting for an invitation, he continued, “Don't mind if I do.”