A View Most Glorious

by Regina Scott

  Her mother’s lips were a tight line, but she marched herself to the wooden ladder, gathered her skirts with one hand, and began climbing.

  “Have someone bring up my valise as well,” she instructed Cora. “I must change for the night.”

  Waldo shook his head as she disappeared into the loft. “She can change into nightclothes if she wants, but I’d sleep in my clothes if I were you. Nights can get cold the closer you get to the mountain. Best to wear as many layers as possible.”

  “Thank you, Waldo,” Cora said. She headed for the packs, where they lay near the stalls.

  “Coraline!”

  Her mother’s scream had Cora and Waldo running for the ladder. The older man reached it first and scrambled up. Cora had to go more carefully with her skirts. When she came out at the top, she found her mother trembling in a vast bowl of hay.

  “Something moved,” she said, voice shaking. “I saw it.”

  “Probably mice,” Waldo explained. “We’re not the only ones seeking a warm, soft bed.”

  “I can’t . . . I won’t . . .” Her mother drew in a deep breath and gathered her dignity. “Mr. Vance, surely there are other accommodations.”

  “I suspect you could sleep in the house, ma’am, but you’d likely be sharing a bed with Henry’s granddaughters. I understand they’re staying the night too. And, of course, I’m not sure you could persuade the little boys to sleep elsewhere.”

  Her mother closed her eyes, as if the choice were too dear.

  “I’ll stay up, Mother,” Cora said. “Keep the mice away from you.”

  She sighed as she opened her eyes. “That is very kind of you, dear, even if I wouldn’t be in this predicament except for my love for you. No, you need your sleep as well. I should be the one to stay awake. You may go, Mr. Vance.”

  He shifted on the hay. “I’ll bring up the bedding. But I’m sleeping up here too, ma’am.”

  She turned her back on him.

  He moved closer to Cora, the hay rustling under him. “If you come partway down the ladder, miss, I’ll bring over the bedding. But I won’t touch her things.”

  “The bedding would be very helpful,” Cora assured him.

  Winston climbed the ladder just as she had finished spreading the blankets—one over a pile of hay, one ready to curl up in. He waded to their sides.

  “What’s this I hear about you refusing to sleep, my love?” he asked her mother, who had remained standing.

  “There are vermin in this barn, Mr. Winston,” she informed him. “I would not sleep a wink knowing I might be accosted at any moment. I will remain vigilant and alert you and Cora should I see one approach.”

  Cora had a vision of her mother crowing like a rooster every few hours. She caught Winston’s eye, and he straightened his spine.

  “I cannot allow such a sacrifice. You will sleep between me and Coraline. We will shield you.”

  “Mr. Winston,” her mother protested. “That is entirely too intimate. What will our daughter think of such behavior?”

  “I think Winston is very clever and very dear,” Cora said, coming to kiss her stepfather on the cheek. “Now, please, Mother, come to bed. We’ll all need our rest if we’re to continue the journey tomorrow.”

  Cora, her mother, and her stepfather were huddled together when Nathan climbed to the loft an hour later. Someone was already snoring.

  “What do you bet it’s the mother?” Waldo asked, stretching out on the other side of the loft with Nathan.

  “I don’t care if it’s all three of them,” Nathan said, lying back on the soft hay. He tugged his wool blanket closer. “I need my sleep, and so do you.”

  A grunt was his only answer. He was drifting off to sleep when Waldo spoke again.

  “Henry says you’re thinking about marrying her.”

  That woke him up. “Henry is wrong. I’m just the guide, the hired help.”

  “You could be more,” Waldo mused. “You were once.”

  “That was years ago. You know I have no interest in going back to that life.”

  “Sure. We have it good out by the lake.” The hay whispered as Waldo must have turned. “But a wife, children. I want that happiness for you.”

  The blanket was like lead over him. “I know you miss yours, Waldo, and I’m sorry for your loss. But you of all people know the dangers of living as we do.”

  “I know the dangers of living alone too,” he retorted. “If you hadn’t happened upon me after that falling tree near took my leg off, you can’t make me believe I would have survived. The good Lord put you right where I needed you most.”

  “Where we needed each other,” Nathan amended. “And I will be forever grateful for your friendship. I wouldn’t have made it the first year without your guidance. Now, get some sleep. We have a long way to go tomorrow, and based on today, I’m guessing a dozen complaints a mile.”

  He woke as dawn’s fingers reached through the gaps between the logs to caress the hay and those sleeping on it. Rising quietly, he slipped his blanket over his shoulder and moved toward the ladder. Someone snorted in a dream. Definitely the mother. He grinned as he glanced that way.

  Cora lay on her side, golden lashes fanning her cheeks, knees curled up. Her mother had all but torn the blanket from her. Even as he watched, she gave a little shiver and hugged her knees tighter. He didn’t stop to think. He waded to her side and draped his blanket over her slender form. She sighed and burrowed deeper into the warmth. A smile lifted her pink lips. Bet they were a lot softer than that blanket.

  He turned away and forced himself to the ladder.

  On the floor, he retrieved the worn book from his pack, gave Honoré some more oats, then headed out into the light.

  Pearly beams slanted through the trees on the hillside and sent shadows fleeing across the fields. The cool, crisp air brushed his cheeks as he approached the firepit. Beyond the trees around the edge of the yard, the Mashel River rushed on its way down the valley. Closer to hand, Henry’s spring gurgled a greeting. In a few moments, Henry and his family would wake to go about their day. This was the only moment he’d have to himself until after the sun set again.

  He laid the book down on a stump, bent to rekindle the fire from last night, and added two more logs. As the blaze crackled and warmth spread, he opened his Bible.

  Bless the Lord, O my soul, and all that is within me, bless his holy name.

  Yes, there was always reason to praise him. That clear blue sky, the soft breeze that brought the scent of ripening wheat. The mist yesterday that had wet every surface, giving all of creation a drink. The breath in his lungs. The strength in his body.

  Purpose. Hope.

  Peace.

  Thank you.

  At the sound of footsteps, he turned his gaze toward the barn. Cora was moving in his direction. Her navy riding skirts were rumpled and speckled with hay. More hay stuck out of her hair. She smiled at him as if she didn’t notice. Or didn’t care.

  “Good morning, Nathan. May I call you Nathan? It seems unreasonably formal to use our last names when we’ll be spending so much time together.”

  He slipped his Bible down beside his leg. “I thought your mother preferred unreasonable formality.”

  She tossed her head, and some of the hay fluttered to the ground. “I am not my mother.”

  That was clear enough. He’d admired how easily she’d conversed with Henry and his family last night. She’d been alert, engaged, and interested, while her mother had sat straight and mostly silent, as if resenting having to deal with people she chose to see as different.

  “You can call me Nathan,” he allowed. “But I’ll only call you Cora when your mother isn’t around.”

  “Coward,” she teased.

  “Survivor,” he countered. “I value my head, and your mother is too good at taking it off.”

  She sank onto the stump beside his. “What are you doing out here so early?”

  If he told her the truth, would she think he was posturin
g? He decided to try. “I was praying.”

  She frowned. “It can’t be Sunday again. We haven’t been gone so long.”

  “Who says you only pray on a Sunday?”

  She opened her mouth, then closed it and cocked her head as if considering the matter from a different angle. “I suppose you could pray on other days. We say grace over meals, after all.”

  He nodded toward the barn. “Your mother never prayed with you before bed when you were little?”

  “I suppose she did, when I was very young. But when she married her second husband, that stopped. I was never sure why. Did your mother pray with you?”

  “She did, until I went to Seattle for college. I grew out of practice for a while, but being out here, it comes naturally. How can you look at that and not turn to praise?” He gestured toward the south.

  She swirled and gasped. Rainier sat, as proud and upright as Mrs. Winston, her white skirts trimmed by the green of fir at the hem.

  “Just a few more days, Cora,” he murmured. “And you’ll be standing at the top with a view most glorious. Tell me you won’t pray in thanks then.”

  12

  Sitting on the stump, the air cool and the fire glowing, Cora was warmer than when she’d woken wrapped in a wool blanket in the hay. The man beside her had something to do with that. This was what she’d been missing. Sitting, talking, sharing. She and Mimi did that often. With him it was deeper and richer. Another time, she would have tried to analyze why. Now, for once in her life, she just wanted to sit and breathe.

  And what an intriguing concept, that he prayed even when it wasn’t Sunday and not in any sort of gathering. She’d seen a book in his hands as she’d approached. The Bible perhaps? She’d never known a man other than a minister who consulted that book on a regular basis. Perhaps she should give it a try.

  “What were you reading?” she asked.

  He pulled the book back into his lap. “Psalms.”

  His deep voice held a surprising hesitancy. She could not understand why.

  “And what do you like about Psalms?” she asked.

  His hand smoothed the leather, worn and curling over the edge of the pages. The spine was cracked, as if he’d opened the book too many times or with great passion. “There’s a cadence to them, a story. They mean more than the mere words on the page.”

  Cora cupped her chin with her hand and rested her elbow on her knee. “Fascinating. Which is your favorite?”

  He regarded her. “Why do you want to know?”

  Cora dropped her arm and straightened. “Friends show interest in each other’s activities.”

  He nodded. “You’re being polite. One of those rules of society.”

  She frowned. “I’m sure it isn’t just a rule. It’s what people do.”

  “And that makes it a rule.” He rose, tucking the book under his arm. “And because I remember the rules too, I’ll beg your pardon and excuse myself to see what’s for breakfast.”

  He strode for the house, where smoke was beginning to rise from the chimney.

  Impossible man! Just when she thought they were becoming attuned, he broke the harmony. Was he determined to be nothing more than a guide?

  With a shake of her head, she went to see how her mother was faring.

  Sally made cornmeal mush with honey for breakfast. Cora thought her mother might refuse the simple fare, but she smiled her thanks as Sally handed her the bowl. Despite her fears, her mother had slept through the night, and she and Cora had taken turns combing and pinning up each other’s hair and brushing off their riding habits.

  “Just because we’re journeying through the wilderness doesn’t mean we cannot look our best,” her mother had insisted.

  She was just as gracious when they took their leave of Henry, Sally, and their family that morning. “Thank you for hosting us.”

  “It is a pleasure,” Henry assured her.

  Sally pressed a long-toothed wooden comb into Cora’s hands. “The Boston men leave something on the summit to show they were there. Leave this. It will say a lady has been there.”

  Cora fingered the polished cedar, carved with a leaping salmon. “I’ll do it. Thank you. I hope when women are given the vote, all women will have that right.”

  Sally nodded. “All men as well.”

  “Agreed,” Cora said.

  The entire family waved them out of the yard, and the children ran as far as the fence would allow.

  Nathan followed the hillside back to where they’d descended, then led them up a slow rise into Eatonville. Clapboard and log buildings clung to either side of the main street, wagons and horses moving among them.

  “A hotel, Mr. Hardee,” her mother declared, glancing around. “And a second! Why could we not have stayed in those?”

  “Because they are overpriced and overbooked,” Nathan informed her, gaze on the dusty road curving through the town. “You didn’t like the possibility of sharing your bed with mice, I heard. You’d like less sharing it with a logger or miner.”

  She snapped her mouth shut, but her glare could have set his hair on fire.

  Besides the two hotels, Cora spotted a general store, blacksmith, post office, and feed stable. She made sure to wave at anyone she passed. When her story appeared in the newspapers, they’d remember they’d seen her and think about what she represented.

  On the other side of the little town, a wooden bridge spanned the Mashel River. The horses and mules clattered across. Almost immediately, another ridge rose, thick with fir, cedar, and hemlock. The way was rough enough that they went single file. Cora ended up behind Waldo, with her mother and Winston right after and Nathan bringing up the rear. She could only conclude he preferred his solitary place.

  She would have liked nothing better than to urge Blaze to the top, but soon all the horses slowed. Then even the sure-footed mules balked. From the back of the line came a deep squeak that did indeed sound like a duck. Quack protesting, perhaps?

  “Halt!” Nathan called, and Cora reined in Blaze. Waldo stopped Bud and Sparky. Glancing back, she saw that Winston and her mother had followed suit.

  “Dismount,” Nathan ordered. “We’ll walk the rest of the way to the top.”

  “I do not recall joining the infantry,” her mother complained, but she allowed Winston to hand her down.

  Cora slid out of the sidesaddle and took Blaze’s reins in hand. Up they went, the air scented with rich fir and dry cedar. She thought her mother might comment, but she was soon breathing so heavily she did not seem disposed to speak.

  Winston was worse. When Cora looked back again, her stepfather’s face was gray, his breath came in rasps, and he stumbled.

  “Could we rest?” she called to Nathan.

  “Not until we reach the top,” he called back. “It’s not safe.”

  On they struggled up the long and twisting road. The rattle of stones behind her warned that Winston continued to stumble. He would never allow her to support him. He had that much pride, at least. She was wracking her brain for a way to stage a rescue when she heard Nathan’s voice directly behind her.

  “I want your advice on the next stage, sir,” he said. Glancing behind, she saw that he had brushed so close to her stepfather on the narrow trail, his horse trailing behind, that Winston had to put a hand on his arm. “If you’d be so good as to listen to my plan, I’d appreciate it.”

  Cora met Nathan’s gaze, and he gave her a nod. Once more feeling warmed, she faced front again.

  Winston made it to the top of the hill, Nathan at his side, rambling on about timetables and chimneys and lake trout, of all things.

  They came out into a high valley, where a creek bubbled down a stony draw. Nathan called a halt to rest the horses and mules, who lowered their heads to the water gratefully. Cora dismounted and splashed water on her hands and her face.

  “I can’t see the mountain,” she said as Nathan squatted beside her.

  “Nor will you until we reach my cabin,” he told her, large
hands scooping up the clear, cool water. “The foothills are closing in.”

  She saw what he meant when they started down a short while later. The forest on either side of the road was so close and so thick that light struggled to penetrate. Nathan moved up to ride beside her through the gloom. Small things scurried away from their approach, ferns rustling with their passage. A droning buzz sounded by her ear a moment before she felt a prick. She swatted her neck.

  “Mosquitoes,” Nathan said. “Keep moving, and speak little.”

  “Another excuse not to converse with me?” Cora accused, waving a cluster away from Blaze’s head.

  “No,” he said. “An excuse not to get bitten.” He slapped his cheek.

  “Is there nothing to be done about this scourge?” her mother complained. Cora glanced back in time to see her mother strike herself on the side of the nose. Cora quickly faced front again.

  “Waldo,” Nathan barked. “Pick up the pace.”

  “Hyack!” Waldo called, and Bud and Sparky broke into a trot.

  Her mother found more to complain about when they rode through Elbe later that morning. They had been paralleling the Nisqually River for some time, the gray waters visible through the trees. Now the way opened up to show weathered board buildings clustered around a bridge south. The silty waters of the river rushed by faster than the men lounging in front of the log post office.

  “Two more hotels, Mr. Winston,” her mother fumed, even as Cora waved to those fellows too.

  This time, Nathan did not respond.

  Instead of taking the bridge, he led them on a road through the little hamlet. Cora pulled her compass out from the pocket in her riding habit. Due east now.

  Toward the mountain.

  The road veered away from the river, until it was only a murmur in the distance. The way was flatter in the valley, and they could ride two abreast again. But the going was rougher. In places, stumps stuck up like guardians, a reminder that the forest had been breached only recently.

  Unfortunately, as the day warmed, Winston’s face turned from gray to red, and he mopped his forehead under his broad-brimmed hat more times than Cora could like.