Robin Lee Hatcher (24 page)

Several days later, the high country was still in the frigid grip of winter. But the threat of new snow had disappeared, and in its place came clear blue skies and a bright yellow sun, a sun that gave little warmth but brightened the parlor and kitchen of the Lucky Strike ranch house.

While Emily was busy with the butter churn — a task she had mastered under Dru’s careful tutelage — Sabrina read to Pet-ula from a children’s storybook. “ ‘Many years ago there lived an emperor who cared so much for fine clothes that he spent all his money upon them.’ ”

“What’s an emperor?” Petula asked.

“Like a king. Right, Miss Harris?”

“Yes, that’s right, Brina. An emperor is like a king.”

Sabrina continued, “ ‘He gave no thought to his soldiers nor to the affairs of his empire.’ ”

“That’s selfish. Who’d want a king like that?”

“I don’t know. Probably nobody, but that’s how the story goes. Now just listen.”

Emily smiled to herself, enjoying their sisterly banter, and glanced through the small glass window in the over-and-over to see how the cream was doing. Dru had taught her to watch for the little grains of butter — about as big as number six shot — which would tell her it was time to add water. Seeing them, she opened the cover, threw in some cold water, and continued churning.

“ ‘He had a new coat for every hour of the day and spent most of his time riding through the streets that everyone might see his handsome clothes.’ ”

“He’d need lots and lots of coats to keep warm if he was riding through the streets in Challis in the winter.”

“Pet, quit interrupting the story.” Sabrina’s voice rose in frustration.

“I don’t like it anyway. The king’s stupid.” Petula slid off of her chair and came into the kitchen. “Miss Harris?”

“Yes, Pet.”

“Are there really places in the world where it never snows? Where it’s like summer all the time? Mr. Stubs says there is, but I didn’t believe him.”

“He was telling you the truth.”

“Have you ever been someplace like that?”

“No. I’ve only read about them in books. But I’ve talked to people who’ve been to such places.”

“Can you imagine, Pet?” Sabrina came to stand beside her little sister. “A place where it never snows. No sleighs to fall out of and break your arm.”

Emily shook her head, silently warning them not to fight, then carefully poured the buttermilk from the churn into a large pitcher.

“Can we have some, Miss Harris?” Sabrina asked, eyeing her favorite drink.

“Help yourself.”

While Sabrina got down two cups and filled them with buttermilk, Emily dumped a large quantity of clean, cold water in with the butter to wash it, then turned the churn and tipped the water out. The muscles across her shoulders complained, but she ignored them. She wasn’t finished yet. She would have to rest later.

Maggie wouldn’t believe Emily could churn butter, not even if she saw it with her own eyes. Somehow Emily had avoided learning how to do many household chores while growing up. She wondered now if Maggie had sheltered her just a little too much when she was young. Someone had done the laundry and churned butter and baked bread, back before the Branigans could afford to hire a cook and a maid, but it hadn’t been Emily.

No wonder Gavin had thought she wouldn’t last. She probably wouldn’t have if Dru hadn’t been so patient with her.

Emily emptied the contents of the churn onto the butter worker, a shallow wooden trough with a fluted roller that moved up and down the channel when the handle was turned. She poured generous amounts of water over the butter as she worked it, squeezing the moisture off with the roller, making sure the butter was washed clean.

In her memory, she heard Dru’s warning: “
If it’s not absolutely
clean
,
the butter will never keep
.”

When she was certain there was no milk left in the butter, Emily salted and worked it some more, then flung it in handfuls into an earthenware crock. After pounding the salted mixture again, she rammed it hard with a wooden tool.

Again she heard Dru’s voice: “
You must drive out all the water
and air
,
Emily
,
so the butter won’t go rancid
.”

Satisfaction flowed over her. She’d remembered everything Dru had told her. Perhaps it was silly to feel so proud — women had been churning cream into butter for centuries — but this was the first time she’d done it all by herself, without any supervision, and it felt good.

One more proof that, despite Gavin Blake’s thoughts to the contrary, she
was
cut out for this place. If not in the beginning, then now.

She was washing the worktable when a knock sounded at the front door. She could guess who it was. Patrick. Another storm had kept him away for a time, but this day’s clear skies had guaranteed he would call upon her again.

“Good day to you, lass,” he said to Sabrina when she opened the door. He pulled off his hat with one hand, his other arm behind his back. His gaze flicked to Emily and Petula in the kitchen. “And how is that arm, Pet? You’ve been much on my mind.”

“It’s getting better. Still hurts but not as bad as before.”

“And you’re not giving Miss Harris any trouble, minding the doctor and all?”

Petula frowned. “I’ve been good. Haven’t I, Miss Harris?”

“Yes, indeed. You’ve been very good, Pet. Both of you have.”

“Well then, it’s glad I am to hear it, for I’ve brought along some new friends for you and your sister.” Patrick drew his arms from behind his back, producing the two porcelain-faced dolls he held in his hands.

Sabrina’s eyes went wide with awe. “Those are for us?”

“Aye. That they are.” He handed both dolls to Sabrina. “Take one to your sister now.”

“Thank you, Mr. O’Donnell.” Sabrina clutched the figures to her chest and carried them to the kitchen. In a moment, she and Petula were seated on the floor, both of them holding a doll in their laps.

Patrick’s gaze returned to Emily. ”It’s good to see you. Sure and you’re looking lovely today.”

She swept loose strands of hair off her forehead with the back of one hand. “There’s that blarney you’re so famous for.” She smiled. “I was churning butter earlier. We were nearly out.”

Patrick walked across the room. “Best time for that is in summer when the grass is lush and green. It’s hard to get much milk from a cow in the dead of winter.”

She felt slighted, although there was no reason for it. Dru had told her the exact same thing.

“You should be sitting in a garden filled with spring flowers, rather than churning butter.” He took hold of her hand and raised it to his lips. “Once we’re married, you’ll not have to do such things again.”

Emily opened her mouth to respond but was interrupted by Sabrina’s voice.

“Married?”

She turned toward the corner of the kitchen where the girls sat with their new dolls. The stricken expression on Sabrina’s face told her she’d been mistaken not to tell them sooner. If not for Petula’s accident . . . No, that wasn’t what had kept her silent this long. It had been her own indecision. It had been the feelings she had for their father, feelings that rightfully belonged to her fiancé.

She withdrew her hand from Patrick and walked toward the children. After a moment’s hesitation, she pulled a chair from the table and sat on it, her hands folded in her lap. “Yes, Brina. It’s true. Mr. O’Donnell and I are to be married. But it won’t be until the summer. I’m going to be staying right here with you until then. I . . . I didn’t tell you before this because it seemed too soon. There have been enough . . . changes lately without you worrying that I’m going away too.”

“Does Pa know?”

“Yes. He knows.”

“And he’s going to
let
you marry Mr. O’Donnell? He’s going to
let
you leave us?” With a betrayed cry, she jumped to her feet, ran to the bedroom, and slammed the door behind her.

Emily’s breath caught in her throat. Why hadn’t Patrick guarded his tongue? Why hadn’t she talked to the children sooner about her plans?

“Miss Harris?”

She blinked back tears. “What is it, Pet?”

“You won’t really go away. You’re gonna stay with us, aren’t you?”

“For now, I’ll stay. But when I — ”

“Don’t you love us?” Petula’s voice broke as she asked the question.

“Oh, Pet . . .” Emily slipped from the chair, kneeling on the floor and drawing the child into as close an embrace as her splinted arm allowed. “Of course I love you. I love you very, very much. And I won’t be far away at all. Remember how quickly we can get to Mr. O’Donnell’s house in the sleigh?”

“It’s still too far.” Petula sniffed. “Will you . . . will you go with us to the basin? Ma always . . . always liked it there.”

“Summer is a long way off,” she whispered so only the child could hear. “Let’s talk about it then.”

Petula sniffed again.

“Why don’t you go see if Brina’s okay?” She gave Petula another squeeze, and then held her away so she could look in her eyes. “Tell your sister that I didn’t mean to hurt either of you by keeping a secret.”

Petula nodded and started to walk away. Then she stopped and looked back. “Maybe we can change your mind before summer. Ma always said we shouldn’t never give up hope.” She gave Emily a woeful smile, then hurried to join her sister in their bedroom.

Emily drew a deep breath as she rose to her feet. “Seems I made a mess of things.”

“I thought you would have told them by now.”

“I meant to.”

He came toward her. “Why didn’t you?”

She shrugged. “There just never seemed to be a right time.” It was a poor excuse, and she knew it.

“Well, at least Gavin knew before this.”

She remembered the night she’d told Gavin she was engaged to Patrick. She remembered him pulling her to her feet and into his arms. She remembered his mouth upon hers and the devastating emotions that had swirled through her, that swirled through her even today. And she remembered his words that had cut like a knife: “
Patrick has the means to give you everything money can buy
.
But is that enough
,
Miss Harris
?”

A shiver ran up her spine.

Patrick drew her into his arms. “I love you, Emily Harris, and there’s no mistaking that I do. I’d have everyone in the territory knowing it too. I’m sorry the news has upset the lasses, but I’m not sorry that we can talk about it plainly now. You’ll see. It will all be for the best.”

She accepted his kiss, but inside her a storm was brewing.

Twenty-Four

Gavin spent four days with Jess. When another storm blew through, they holed up in a line shack, but once clear skies returned, they rounded up the cattle from the gullies and foothills and started them back toward home. There was little grazing to be found for now, even along the hillsides where the wind often blew the snow away.

Once the herd was under way, Gavin told Jess to take the dogs and the cattle on without him. He was going to make sure they hadn’t left any cows behind. But cattle weren’t the real reason he was reluctant to go home. He needed some time to himself. Time to think. His head was a mass of confusion. Nothing much made sense to him these days.

When he and Charlie Porter first settled in this long, narrow valley, they’d built four line shacks at the farthest corners of their grazing land. In comparison with the mammoth ranches he’d seen in Wyoming and Montana, the Lucky Strike wasn’t very big, but it still covered more acres than could be effectively managed from the ranch compound in the worst of winter weather.

The line shack Gavin rode toward that day was at the northeast end of the range, miles from Challis, miles from the ranch house, far enough from just about everything but the wind and the snow and the trees. He reached the shelter as daylight began to fade.

This particular line shack was built up against the mountain, the backside of it dug into the southern slope. The back wall and part of each of the two side walls were formed by earth. The remainder was made of logs chinked with mud. Inside there was a cot, a table, and one chair, plus a small stove for cooking and heating.

Gavin didn’t remove his coat when he first entered the shelter. It would be a while before the fire took the chill off the room. It never would be truly warm, no matter how hot the fire, but it was better than outdoors and for that he was thankful.

It was while he heated beans in a pan for his dinner that he thought of her again. No surprise. It happened all the time. He couldn’t escape thoughts of Emily, not even out on the range.

It was unfair of him to accuse her of marrying Patrick for his money. As much as he wanted to return to the belief that she was selfish and willful, like his mother, he knew it wasn’t true. She’d proven him wrong in a hundred different ways since the afternoon when they met in that Boise hotel. She was a young woman — a beautiful woman — who worked hard, loved Dru’s girls, and kept her word.

He sank onto the cot and covered his head with his hands.

He’d never wanted a wife. He’d never wanted to end up like his father, a man broken in spirit by the deceptions of a woman. He’d never wanted to see a child thrown away by the very person who should love and care for him the most. He’d been content to go through life on his own, making friends but never risking his heart.

But something inside him had changed. The changes had started with Charlie and Dru, seeing them as they were, loving, faithful, true. More changes had come when his heart had been stolen by two little girls. And then had come Emily. It was as if she’d broken through to a place inside him that no one had found before, and now he didn’t know how to close up the barrier again. He didn’t even know that he should.

The smell of scorched beans drew him back to his feet. With a towel around the handle, he pulled the pan from the stove and carried it outside where he dropped it in the snow. A hiss rose with the steam. He stood there, listening to the sound and feeling like his heart was as burned as the beans in that pan.

God, if you’re out there, if you hear me the way Dru always said
you could, show me what to do.