Authors: When Love Blooms
Robin Lee Hatcher (33 page)
“Why? He’s a good man.”
“It doesn’t matter why.” She turned toward the window a second time.
“It matters to me, Emily.” His hands alighted on her shoulders, and then, before she could shrug him away, he turned her to face him. She couldn’t look him in the eye. “It matters to me because . . . I love you, and I think you love me. I hope you love me.”
She found she could look at him after all. In sheer disbelief. Surely he hadn’t spoken those words. She felt the blood draining from her head. Only his firm grip on her upper arms kept her upright.
“I guess I began to love you the day we arrived in the basin and Joker knocked you down with his big, muddy paws.”
He gave her one of his rare and wonderful grins and her breath caught in her chest, certain she was imagining things, certain she would awaken at any moment and find she’d been dreaming. She couldn’t bear it if that were to happen.
“Emily, I kept my feelings walled up for a lot of years. I’m not quite sure when that wall began to weaken. Probably after Dru started praying for me. Between her and the girls and then you and God, I guess I never stood a chance. The wall had to come down.”
The tears returned, and this time she couldn’t keep them from falling. Gavin caught one with a fingertip, brushed it away.
Don’t
let this be a dream. Please don’t let it be a dream.
“I hurt you, and I’m sorry. More than once I hurt you. My pride wouldn’t let me admit I cared for you. But now I’m asking for your forgiveness. I’m asking for a lifetime of chances to make it up to you. I’m asking you to stay much longer than spring. I’m asking you to stay for a thousand springs. Make another contract with me.” He drew her into his arms. “Marry me, Emily. I don’t want to spend another day apart from you. Marry me. Love me.”
He kissed her then. Softly at first, a butterfly’s breath across her lips. When she inhaled, he deepened his assault in a long, searing kiss that made her senses whirl. She gave herself up to the sensation, matching his embrace with her own. She’d waited a lifetime for this.
Too soon, he lifted his head and stared into her eyes. “Marry me, Emily. Love me.”
Speech evaded her, so she nodded.
“You’ll marry me?”
She nodded again.
“And you love me?”
She found her voice at last, albeit just enough to whisper. “Yes.”
He smiled. “Yes what?”
“I love you, Gavin. I always will.”
Lowering his head for another kiss, he smiled. “That’s a promise I intend to hold you to.”
STANLEY BASIN, JULY 1885
“Ma, they’re here!” Sabrina galloped her horse into the yard. “They’re here!”
Emily lifted her three-month-old son from the cradle that was set in the shade of a tall, leafy tree and waited as the carriage approached. Within moments after rolling to a stop, the entire Branigan clan had spilled out of the vehicle.
Maggie wasted no time in stealing little Nicholas Blake from his mother’s arms. “Oh, Emily. He’s beautiful. And look at how big he is already. Oh, they grow up so fast. Treasure each moment.”
“I do.” Emily smiled, thinking how very many moments she had to treasure.
She watched as Gavin helped Tucker unload satchels and a trunk from the carriage. When he saw her watching, Gavin grinned, and joy caused her heart to skip a beat in response.
“I’ve never seen you so happy,” Maggie said softly. “You’re glowing with it.”
How could she not be happy? God had blessed her in countless ways: Two sweet daughters in Sabrina and Petula; a healthy infant son who was growing by leaps and bounds; and a husband who loved her and never failed to tell her and show her that he did.
A ripple of anticipation flowed through her. She hadn’t yet said anything to Gavin, but she suspected there would be another blessing for the Blake family in a little less than eight months.
Maggie eyed her, then leaned closer. “Lo, children are an heritage of the Lord: and the fruit of the womb is his reward. As arrows are in the hand of a mighty man; so are children of the youth. Happy is the man that hath his quiver full of them.’ ”
“You always could read my thoughts.” She looked at her sister. “But don’t say a word. I’m not sure yet, and I haven’t told Gavin.”
The men and the older Branigan children began carrying the luggage to the new cabin Gavin had built last summer for just such an occasion as a visit from Emily’s family. As she watched them, Emily imagined the future stretching before them. They would have a house filled with children. From Emily, they would learn their numbers and letters and a thirst for knowledge. From Gavin, they would learn a love for the land and a respect for God’s creation. From both of their parents, they would learn a love for the Lord and a love for one another.
She remembered that fateful day, not yet two years before, when she’d read the advertisement for a governess and teacher. She remembered thinking that she wanted to make some sort of difference in the world. In some strange way, she’d felt destined to make a difference.
She thought of the man Gavin had been, so reluctant to love or be loved, so determined not to risk his heart, and she realized she had made a greater difference than she could have imagined when she applied for the job as governess to the Blake children.
Perhaps changing the heart of just one man was the greatest destiny of all.
Dear Reader:
There are many kinds of heroes and heroines, both in fiction and in life. We tend to remember people who do something extraordinary, something above and beyond what mere mortals think we are capable of. But I believe many of the true heroes and heroines of the Western movement were those brave souls — ordinary people like you and me — who came and lived and loved and died without fanfare. Those are the people I like to write about in my historical fiction.
I first met Emily and Gavin in 1990, and it was my delight to get to revisit their love story all these years later. I have a soft spot in my heart for wounded heroes, like Gavin, and take great pleasure in watching them be redeemed by the love of a good woman, like Emily. That’s the unabashed romantic in me.
The Stanley Basin and Sawtooth Valley in the Central Mountains of Idaho contain some of the most spectacular scenery in America. Walled in by four mountain ranges — the Salmon River Mountains, the Boulders, the White Clouds, and the Saw-tooths — winter reigns there for seven to eight months a year, with temperatures often falling to 40 or 50 degrees below zero. Summers are short but delightful. The valleys are carpeted with luscious grasses, sage, and wildflowers. Crystal-clear lakes, gurgling streams, and steaming hot springs are abundant. The Sawtooth Wilderness is home to Bighorn Sheep as well as a host of other wildlife. People who choose to live in this secluded corner of the world must be hardy souls — just as their predecessors were — but their reward is the beauty God has bestowed on the mountains, lakes, and rivers that surround them.
In
When Love Blooms
, I took some “poetic license” regarding the bringing of beef cattle into the basin. The lush grasses growing in the Stanley Basin attracted cattlemen several years before settlers came, but Gavin Blake was still about six or seven years ahead of what research shows as accurate. In the summers of 1881 and 1882, a herd of dairy cattle was brought into the basin, the owner packing milk and butter over the narrow trail into the Yankee Fork Mining District. But the dairy cows failed to thrive as the owner had hoped. Beef cattle were a different story. They were brought into the valley in the late 1880s, and they grew fat on the basin’s grasses, just as Gavin’s cattle did in my story.
As I write this note to readers, I am already at work on my next historical romance, the first of a new series about three young women who find themselves employed in unusual occupations for their day. I hope you’ll enjoy meeting these characters as much as I know I’ll enjoy writing about them.
In the grip of His grace,
Robin Lee Hatcher
www.robinleehatcher.com
COMING SOON
A Vote of Confidence
The Sisters of Bethlehem Springs
by Robin Lee Hatcher
Many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it.
Song of Solomon 8:7
One
IDAHO, MAY 1915
“I cannot think of a worse mayor for Bethlehem Springs than Hiram Tattersall.” Gwen Arlington poured iced tea into a glass and handed it to her sister. “The man is a fool, not to mention his penchant for strong spirits.”
Cleo crossed one booted foot over another on the low table in front of the sofa. “Why don’t you run for office, Gwennie? Not a reason in the world you couldn’t do it.”
“Me?”
“Of course you. There’s nothin’ in the law that says a woman can’t be the mayor of our fair town. You’re a nicer person than Mayor Hopkins, the old coot, and everybody around here knows Tattersall’s an idiot. You couldn’t do worse than either one of them. Folks hereabout like you.” Cleo winked. “Especially the men, pretty as you are.”
Gwen glanced out the window. “Even if I were to run, I wouldn’t want to be elected for my appearance.”
“So don’t let that be why. You got that fancy education burning to be put to use. Why not let folks see that you’re as full of information as a mail-order catalog?”
It was a ridiculous idea. Gwen had no intention of running for mayor. She was content giving piano lessons to the children of Bethlehem Springs and writing the occasional piece for the local newspaper.
Cleo drank the last of her iced tea, lowered her feet to the floor, and leaned forward to set the glass on the table before standing. “I’d best be getting back to the ranch. I’ve got a load of chores still to be done.” She slapped her floppy-brimmed hat onto her head, covering her mop of short, strawberry blonde hair curls. “You think about it. You’d be doing this town a favor. We could use a little forward thinking if you ask me.”
Gwen smiled as she rose from her chair. “Darling Cleo, I could never be as forward thinking as you.”
“Ha!”
Gwen followed her sister to the door.
On the front porch, Cleo stopped long enough to give Gwen a hug and a kiss on the cheek, then descended the steps to where her horse was tethered to the post. She didn’t bother to use the stirrup to mount. She simply grasped the saddle horn and swung into the seat. “You think about it, Gwennie. I’m telling you. It’s the right thing to do. You pray and see if the Lord doesn’t agree with me.” With a tug on the brim of her hat, she twirled her horse away and cantered down the street.
Gwen shook her head, smiling. Sometimes Cleo came up with the most outlandish ideas. Imagine. Gwen Arlington, Mayor of Bethlehem Springs. It was preposterous. Not that she didn’t believe women should serve in public office. She did, and she was glad she lived in a state where women had the right to vote. But she had no political ambitions.
With a sigh, she moved to the porch swing and settled onto the cushioned seat, giving a little push with her feet to start it in motion.
The air smelled of fresh-turned earth and green grass. Central Idaho was enjoying warm weather, although snow could be seen on the mountain peaks to the north and east of Bethlehem Springs.
Gwen loved this small town. She loved her neighbors, the children who came for lessons, the women in her church sewing circle. She loved the long, narrow valley, the river that flowed through it, and the tree-covered mountains that overlooked it all. She loved the sense of the old West and the new century that surrounded her, horses and automobiles, outhouses and indoor plumbing, wood burning stoves and electric lights.
Her mother, Elizabeth, didn’t feel the same about Idaho. She despised everything about it, so much so that after four years of marriage, she’d left her husband and returned to her parents’ home in Hoboken, New Jersey, taking two-year-old Gwen with her.
“Be thankful, Guinevere,” her mother had said on many an occasion over the years, “that your father allowed you to come with me. We’re alike, you and I. We need society and fine culture. Think of the advantages you’ve had that my poor Cleopatra went without. The opera and the theater. Your schooling. You would never be suited to live in that backwater town where your father chose to settle.”
But her mother was wrong. Bethlehem Springs did suit Gwen, a truth she had discovered soon after her arrival in Idaho seven years ago. At the age of twenty-one — and with the reluctant blessing of Elizabeth Arlington — she had come to Idaho to meet the father and sister she couldn’t remember. She hadn’t intended to stay, but in a few short weeks, she’d fallen in love with the area. Her heart felt at home here as it never had in New Jersey.
A frown puckered her forehead. What would happen to Bethlehem Springs if Hiram Tattersall became its mayor?
I would do a better job of it than he would.
But, of course, she had no intention of running for mayor. No intention whatsoever.
Morgan McKinley wanted nothing more than to punch that artificial smile off Harrison Carter’s face.
