Winter Hearts (2 page)

The man shook his head, his expression dour. “I got a telegraph just now. The train is stuck in a deep gully, all snowed in. They’re digging it out. Could take weeks.”

“But I’ve got almost no food!” Money he had, plenty of it from working in the gold mines up north the past few years, but what good was money when there was nothing to buy?

“At least you don’t have a family to feed,” another man said. It was Mr. Ingram, who owned a quarter section south of Luke’s. “I’ve got a wife and four daughters over there.” He nodded at the window and the other side of Main Street. “We’re almost out of food too.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Ingram.” Luke felt ashamed complaining when there were children going hungry. Being a tall, muscular man, he could last the winter on very little food, but a child could not.

“You sure about that train?” he asked Fuller again.

“I’m sure,” Fuller told him.

In the street Luke looked up at the sky, which was already darkening to gray. Sometimes they had as much as five days between storms, but not this time. “Storm’s coming back,” he shouted over his shoulder. A stream of men hurried out behind him, making their way home through the snowdrifts before the blizzard made it impossible to see.

Inside the untidy little house, his loneliness wrapped around him like a cold wind. The men in town had their wives, and many had children. At Royal Wilder’s feed store, the two Wilder brothers shared a place, keeping each other company.

Luke hung his coat and put away the food. He picked up the broom and then put it back in its corner. He didn’t feel like sweeping, but the unmade bed drew him toward it. Grandma’s quilt still lay where he had tossed it, in a bundle in the middle of the bed. He pulled it off the bed and shook it to fluff it up again. He smoothed the sheets and blankets, plumped the pillows, and laid the quilt carefully on top. It was surprising how just tidying the bed brightened the house and made it look tidier.

Sitting on the bed, he picked up the envelope on the upside-down tea chest he used as a night table and pulled out the photographs tucked inside. None of the three pictures was framed, but he planned to frame them one day when he had a proper house.

Staring at him was his grandmother dressed in black, wearing her church bonnet and sitting stiffly on a chair. The photograph had been a momentous occasion: the first and only likeness she had ever had taken, and she was already old by then. On her deathbed three years back, she’d pointed at the linen chest across the room and told him in her soft, weak voice to fetch the patchwork quilt.

It was beautiful and full of color: reds, greens, and blues, with brown here and there.
“It’s for your wife. I thought you’d be married by now, but you will be one day.”
She had given him the photograph too, and then she had spoken to his sister while he stood back with the rest of the family, waiting for her to die. Luke leaned down to sniff the quilt. The smell of cedar from Grandma’s linen chest still lingered, taking him back to her bedroom that day. Her death had prompted him to go out to the mines to work in hopes of getting rich. Maybe she would be looking down on him and be proud of him then.

He had loved her dearly.

Feeling his throat tighten as it did when he was upset, he quickly shoved the photograph away and looked at another. Luke and his younger brother stood behind a couch where his four sisters sat lined up. On either side of the couch, a couple of marble pedestals stood bearing big leafy plants. The picture had been taken about ten years ago at a photographic studio in Boston not far from his father’s butcher shop. He looked at the smile on his face and snorted. Life had seemed so full of promise then, even for a man with his inclinations. Back then he’d had no idea how cruel life could be. His sisters were all married now, and one had gone west like him. His brother-in-law had taken over the shop for a few years when his father had taken ill with rheumatic fever and never fully recovered, but Luke’s younger brother would inherit it. He pushed the picture back in the envelope and took out the third.

A handsome man in a very smart suit beamed at him, his stance confident as he stood beside a table adorned with a large vase of flowers. “I hate you, Holland,” he said into the empty house. “I hate you.”

Then he was on his feet at the stove, ready to throw the picture into the flames, but as he had done so many times before, he hesitated and, after a moment, pushed it back into the envelope and returned it to the tea chest where it would remain for another few months before he took it out again.

He crossed the small room and opened a can of oysters, which he ate quickly. The temperature was dropping as the wind howled louder. He’d better do the chores early before it got dark. It was hard enough trying to see in a blizzard, but a blizzard in the dark was impossible. Dragging his coat on again, he opened the door, paused, and took a breath as snowflakes sharp as tiny razor blades hit him in the face. For a moment he closed his eyes, then opened them to near slits as he made his way outside, one hand keeping contact at all times with the house so as not to get lost. Around the back he grabbed the clothesline strung from the house and followed it fifteen feet to the stable. He never used it except to find his way. He had only two shirts, two pairs of trousers, and two suits of flannel underwear, which he hung in the house after he washed them.

Pretty Girl, the chestnut horse he had owned for the past five years, greeted him with a whinny when he entered. “I should move into the stable with you, Pretty Girl. At least I’d have company.” He spent five minutes petting her and talking nonsense to her before hefting a hay bale into her stall. The animal began to eat at once; the only way to stay warm in these temperatures was to eat.

Luke hadn’t bothered to name the cow. If things continued this bad for much longer, he’d have to slaughter her to feed himself. She hadn’t produced milk for the past couple of months anyway. “Here you go, girl.” He brought her a bale of hay and stood rubbing her head for a few minutes while she ate. Then he began to clean up the manure and sweep the stable to keep it habitable for the animals. They’d been outside less often than he had this winter, but they had each other. The chores done, he gave Pretty Girl another pat and kissed her nose before finding his way back to the house.

As night pressed in, Luke opened the hatch on the stove to light the room a little rather than putting a match to the lamp. With only half a jug of lamp oil left, he didn’t want to use it up just sitting and staring at the shadows on the walls. He might as well go to bed soon. There was nothing else to do. Before pulling the piece of burlap sacking over the window, he looked out into the street. Not a light came from anywhere. He couldn’t even see Fuller’s across the street. Everything was blotted out by the whirling snow and screaming wind battering his little house.

It was as if the house was alone on the prairie, isolated on a vast expanse of freezing, white, barren land. He was no different from a gopher or a badger in its burrow, waiting out the winter. He covered the window with the burlap sack and sat in a straight-backed chair beside the stove with his feet up on the other chair. His thoughts drifted back to the photograph of the man he had loved, Holland Endicott. “Get out of my head,” he said out loud. “You’ve long since forgotten me. I want to forget you.”

Chapter Two

I am going to die alone out on the prairie in this storm.

It was a stupid idea to set out from Volga to De Smet. Even though the sky was clear at the time, the storm had started barely an hour into the journey. On horseback it would have taken four hours, but driving a wagon with only one horse to pull him and the wagon’s weight, he knew it would take closer to eight. There was no reason why he couldn’t have stayed at the hotel in Volga; he had plenty of money, but he thought he knew everything.

Sam flicked the whip at the horse’s rear, though he hated using the whip, especially when the animal was already struggling so hard in the freezing, sideways snow. The wagon was heavy, loaded with furniture, pots, and dishes, everything he needed to live on his claim. A heavy canvas tarp protected the contents, but nothing protected him from the elements except the buffalo coat he’d had the sense to buy. The only thing keeping the horse warm was its own sweat.

“Come on, Pip!” he screamed into the wind. He doubted the horse could hear him, but he felt better to make contact with another living thing. Every now and then he stopped the wagon to ensure he was still traveling beside the railway track. The track went all the way to De Smet, and if he veered away from it, he would end up on the wide-open prairie, and then he would die for sure. Right now he stood a small chance of arriving in De Smet alive, but whether his horse would make it was another matter entirely.

It was pitch-dark when he halted the wagon again and got down. He had kept the railway tracks to his right. Holding on to Pip’s bridle so he wouldn’t lose sight of him, he tried to feel for the tracks with his foot. Visibility was down to zero, but the snow lay differently where the tracks ran, and he was able to make them out. Relieved, he turned back to the wagon.

“We’re still on course. We’ll make it to De Smet yet, boy.” Whether they would was debatable, but it made him feel better to say it out loud. The animal kept his head down, eyes closed against the sharp needles of snow.

Sam ran his hands over the horse’s face. The poor thing’s nostrils and mouth were freezing over as its hot breath crystallized in the frigid air. Despite the frigid temperature, the animal’s sides felt hot to the touch.

“If we stop moving for too long, you’ll definitely freeze to death, Pip. I’m sorry I dragged you out in this storm. I should have left you snug in that stable at the hotel at Volga.” He climbed back up onto the board he had laid across the wagon to make a seat, flicked the whip at Pip’s rear, and they set off again into the storm.

One mile blended into the next, and at one point Sam jolted awake without realizing he had drifted off to sleep. That scared the hell out of him. He would die in this temperature if he fell asleep. He’d get snowed over in minutes and not be found until the spring thaw. Driving into a storm was like driving into a porcupine’s butt. All he could see were spines of snow coming at him. It was mesmerizing. To keep himself awake, he began to talk. Maybe Pip would catch a word here and there, and that would help the horse stay awake and keep moving too.

“Come on, Pip. You’re going to be a farm horse. We’ll show Mother and Father that I can make my own way. They think I’ll be back by spring with my tail between my legs, but I won’t. I won’t!”

The wagon tipped forward precariously.

Leaping off, Sam saw that Pip had lost his footing and gone down on his front knees. “Please don’t have a broken leg.” Clucking encouragingly, he grabbed Pip’s bridle and tugged. “Up, boy. Come on. Up!” As the sharp snow chafed at his face, Sam pulled and cheered his horse on. “That’s it; you can do it. Up you get, boy.” He spoke as close to Pip’s ear as he could. After several minutes, the horse struggled to its feet.

Swamped with relief that the horse’s legs were not injured, Sam held on to Pip’s bridle, walking beside him, leading him through the storm. “Good boy, Pip. I can always rely on you.”

Morgan horses were strong and known for their ability to take on any challenge, but at three years old, Pip had been ridden only around the streets of Boston and the beautiful park around Harvard where Sam had studied law for three years.

Afraid of falling asleep again, and wanting to keep the horse’s spirits up, Sam held on to the bridle, struggling through the storm at Pip’s side.

Chapter Three

A knock on the door sent Luke’s heart thudding. Who the hell was out there in this storm? Either it was good or bad—nothing in between. From experience he assumed it was bad. He picked up his rifle and cautiously opened the door a crack.

A blast of icy, frozen pellets and freezing wind slammed into his face. From the darkness a voice said, “Sorry to trouble you, sir, but I’m caught in the storm. I wonder if I can put my horse and wagon in your stable and take shelter.”

The voice was soft, with an edge of desperation. The man must have followed the railroad track into town. Luke’s house was nearest to it. “Who’s with you?” The last thing he wanted was an entire family with little children in his tiny house.

“Just me and my horse.”

Babies or not, he would have let them in, but he was relieved the man was alone. “Wait a minute.”

Quickly he lit the oil lantern, then pulled on his coat and hat and went outside. The storm was blinding, but he could make out a wagon drawn by a shivering bay horse. Holding its bridle, Luke led the animal around the back of the house to the stable. The man opened the doors while Luke led the wagon inside. He closed the doors behind them, dulling the roar of the raging wind, and for a moment they looked at each other. Even in the lamplight he could see the other man was young and sweet-faced.

“You can put your horse in the stall beside Pretty Girl.” He gestured at the stall where Pretty Girl turned her head to the intruders. “Try to get your wagon over by mine.”

After some maneuvering in the small stable, the wagon was stowed out of the way. While the younger man unhitched the horse and led it into the stall with soft words of encouragement, Luke threw a bale of hay down beside it, and the animal began at once to eat.

“Thank you, sir,” the young man said. From his wagon he took a piece of burlap sack and began to rub the lather from the horse’s sides. “That feel better, Pip?” he asked the horse gently. “I’m so sorry I put you through this.”

The way he treated his animals said a lot about a man, and Luke liked what he saw watching this man brush down the horse while talking to it so sweetly.

The young man looked at Luke and smiled. “It’s freezing out there, but Pip is overheated from the work of pulling the wagon through deep snow. I should have stayed put, but I can be overconfident sometimes.”

Luke didn’t respond at once. The cadence of the young man’s voice reminded him of Holland’s, except that Holland was older than this boy and had a deeper tone.