How could he know which woman would be the best choice to raise his children? He’d obviously not been wise to move Fayth from the Denver city lifestyle where she was raised. Even before she learned she was with child, she’d lamented how his ranch duties kept them from traveling. The entertainments Gunnison offered were too backward for her high-society tastes. Chad thought seeing a stage play or musicale a few times a year was often enough. Fayth pined for an outing every month. When Lance came along, she’d felt even more trapped. Each month of her second pregnancy, he’d watched the baby bump grow and his beloved wife’s spirit wither.
Frowning, he stabbed a finger on the pink paper. “Miss Redmond includes the things she likes about a ranch but mentions nothing related to the expected chores, and she lives in Springfield, Illinois. As the state capitol, the city probably offers social events just like in Denver that Gunnison City doesn’t.” Repeating the previous oversight with Fayth was not an option. He touched the light-colored paper and skimmed a fingertip over the graceful handwriting. “Miss Carmichael is aware of household chores, at least, and lives closer. Plus she didn’t stink up her letter with smelly perfume, which shows a sensible side.”
“Lord knows, ranchers need to be sensible.” Caroline laced her hands on the table in front of her.
The details he mentioned had nothing to do with their potential compatibility. He dropped into his chair and noted the mischief dancing in her eyes. “I know you, Caro, and you have an opinion. Which woman should I choose?”
“Oh no, I won’t fall into that trap.” Grinning, she shook her head. “The choice is yours to make, dear brother.” Linking an arm through his, she pressed her head to his shoulder. “But if you were listening to what you just said, you already know.”
Again, Caro was right. He sagged back with relief and kissed the top of her brunette head. “Thanks, sis. I’ll sure miss you.” Clearing his throat, he stacked the letters then stood and used his calf to push back the chair. After a deep breath to calm his thoughts, he turned, bent over, and extended his hands like claws. “Who’s ready for a big tickle before pajamas and a story?” As he lumbered across the floor, he swung his arms. The nighttime routine was the only thing remaining from his married life.
“Me.” Grinning, Lance jumped up then dodged away from his father’s approach.
“Me, too.” Guinie ran forward and wrapped arms and legs about her dad’s leg.
After yet another invented rendition of the escapades of King Arthur and Knights of the Round Table, Chad brushed his lips over his son’s forehead. Continuing the storytelling honored Fayth’s infatuation with Camelot. He tucked the blue patchwork quilt under Lance’s chin before turning toward the other bed.
Guinie lay with her arms outstretched and her mouth open, rasping a quiet snore. Her favorite rag doll lay next to her lax hand.
This child was an active sleeper, tossing and turning. He jammed the edge of the yellow butterfly quilt under the straw mattress, stretching to repeat the action on the far side. Most nights, the tuck kept her from falling to the floor. He turned the knob on the oil lamp until only the slightest glow of a flame remained then tiptoed out of the bedroom, easing the door almost closed. Weariness pulled at his muscles, but he still had an important task to complete.
Ten minutes later in the dining room, he sipped at much-needed coffee and reviewed what he’d written.
Caroline sat on the settee with a shawl covering her shoulders, reading.
Flames flickering in the fireplace danced shadows across the rag carpet.
Chad slumped in the chair. Finding the wording for the rebuffing letter was easy compared to what now faced him. He reached for a fresh sheet of paper from the box of stationery and dipped the pen nib in the inkwell. Then he stopped.
Should he write asking for more details about her life or her expectations? He jumped to his feet, stalked to the desk, and grabbed The Old Farmer’s Almanac then counted off the days on the calendar. Another set of letters back and forth would take between eight to twelve days, depending on when he next drove to town. Then he’d have to send money for a train ticket, followed by her travel. Plus, she might need time to sell belongings. Caroline’s train trip north was set for November twenty-first. Too long.
Back at the table, he set pen to paper, scrawling bold letters across the page. When he wrote the word grateful, he slammed down the pen and crumpled the paper into a ball. The next attempt sounded as business-like as if he was ordering ewes and rams. That paper ball almost reached the fireplace.
When the fourth one landed, Caroline looked up and met his gaze, her brows tight.
“I can’t find the right words.”
“You will, Chad. Think of the reasons why you made your choice, and the words will come.”
For five minutes, he did nothing but write. Then he leaned back and reread the letter, swallowing the last of his cold coffee. He’d never win a prize for romance, but all the facts were stated in print. Now, he had to count on her seeing the offer for what it was—a partnership to help two lonely people get on with life.
Chapter Three
The train swerved around a curve, tossing Vika against the side wall. Bracing her feet against the sway, she gripped the well-worn letter and lowered her hand to her lap. Through the window, she spotted even more evergreen trees angling upward from the steep mountainside tracks. True, she’d gazed upon mountains in museum landscape paintings, but she’d never seen them this close. Nor had she realized how very tall they were. When the train started to climb in altitude south of Denver, she switched to a seat where she couldna see the steep drop off beside the tracks. The uncomfortable ear-popping wasn’t as bad as on the earlier leg of the journey from Lincoln.
The clackety-clack of the wheels reassured her, and she again studied the letter. No matter how many times she re-read the words, she couldna discover any bit of excitement in Chad’s agreement to the match. His straight-forward word choice held no nuanced hint of his mood as he penned the short missive. She’d done her best to match his tone, but keeping her response short felt awkward and almost business-like. She hoped he wasn’t too upset about her arriving two weeks later than he preferred. But she saw no value in leaving the furniture behind in the apartment, knowing Mister Zeleny would use it to his advantage. So, she stayed a few more days to sell it.
A stab of guilt hit. Should she have told him about bringing her dear little Biscuit? Nay, who wouldn’t love her sweet dog? Poor Biscuit had to ride in the freight car, and she hoped she fared well. The railroad line required animals to travel in secure containers. Vika bought a woven basket for the trip and lined it with Biscuit’s favorite blanket. At the last moment, she’d dragged the silken scarf from her neck and tossed it inside to comfort her pet.
A rush of cool air swirled into the passenger car followed by the slam of the rear door.
“Gunnison City in ten minutes, folks.” The conductor sauntered down the aisle. He stopped at the pot-bellied stove in the front corner and warmed his hands a few inches above the flat surface. “Storm predicted for tonight moving down from the north. Might drop four to five inches.”
He probably doesn’t mean rain. Even wearing her heaviest coat over the jacket of her suit, Vika shivered. For the umpteenth time, she hoped Biscuit was warm enough in the freight car. As soon as she settled into the ranch house, she’d either sew a flannel, long-sleeved chemise or add flannel linings to her dress bodices and sleeves to help combat the unaccustomed chill. Maybe she’d knit a vest to wear under her dress. Biscuit would need a sweater, too. After folding the letter, she tucked it in her reticule, skimming gloved fingers over Birk’s thick wallet. Though she split her savings into two locations amidst her belongings, she’d never before carried around this much money. Her mouth dried. The thought of losing any of her wealth…
The train wheels slowed in direct contrast to her increased heartrate. Pressing close to the wall, she watched out the window for the first sight of her new home. Gone were
the mountains and ahead stretched a flat valley floor. Indistinct shapes grew, forming into buildings. Brakes hissed, and the train slowed more but no’ enough for her to get a sense of the city’s size. Definitely smaller than Lincoln and the vast majority of buildings were only single story.
Screeching brakes halted the train in front of the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad depot, a squat building compared to Denver’s grand terminal. At the sudden stop, she jolted forward then settled back against the padded seat. This, the third day of travel, left her weary to the bones. Seats in the first-class car reclined, allowing passengers the best position to sleep. Unfortunately, her nervousness over meeting the man who was to become her husband kept her awake long past midnight.
Vika glanced toward the depot, wondering where her new family waited. If only she’d been awake at the last stop, she would have taken a few minutes to freshen up. She lifted a hand to the bun at the nape of her neck and re-secured the tortoiseshell combs, somewhat holding in place the bulk of her wavy hair.
Along the side of the structure stood a circle of men, smoking and laughing. Two crouched low, tossing dice along the platform and against the wall. One man lifted his cap, revealing a head of reddish curls, and glanced over his shoulder at his comrades.
Gasping, she leaned her forehead against the window. Her heart stuttered. Roy MacFie? The man in question jumped to his feet and accepted a hearty handshake from another. Unshapely clothes of poorer quality than she’d ever seen him wear covered his tall form. Thick, unruly whiskers grew along his jaw.
The group shifted positions.
Sitting back, she lost sight of the person she thought was her ex-beau. Roy MacFie, the selfish, thoughtless bum, set out for the gold fields six years earlier and sent her no’ one single letter in all this time.
“Miss?”
Someone tapped on her shoulder. Vika jerked then blinked toward the conductor waiting in the aisle. “Beg pardon, sir?”
“Gunnison City is your stop, isn’t it? Passengers need to disembark before the train continues on.”
“Yes, ’tis.” Nodding, she shoved to her feet then grabbed the seat back to steady herself. The stovepipe split into two, blurred, and then straightened back to one. Hunger gnawed her insides from her irregular diet over the travel days.
“Careful now.” He cupped her elbow. “Elevation is more than two thousand feet higher here than in Denver. Takes a bit of getting used to, breathing wise.”
She forced a laugh. “And Denver was thousands of feet higher than my hometown.”
“Stay close to the buildings as you leave the depot…in case you need support in catching your breath.” He peered into her face, his spectacles slipping down his nose. “You got someone meeting you?” He stretched toward the rack over the opposite window for her luggage.
“I do.” She accepted the carpetbag holding her knitting and smiled. “Thank you for asking.” After a last glance at where she’d sat, she nodded toward the man and walked down the aisle, glad to stretch her legs after the almost-twelve-hour overnight trip. She gripped the proffered hand of another train employee, who guided her down the steps. Cold air slapped her face, and she shivered then turned up her collar. All around her, conversations buzzed. Passengers greeted waiting folks, the crowd shifting in constant motion. She tensed. Why dinna her intended step forward?
After scooting away from the steps, she scanned the area and focused on a tall man with a wide-brimmed hat shading his face. He stood against the depot wall, away from the crush of people, with a small child clasping both of his large hands. His height and bulk dwarfed the wee ones. A thick coat hung unbuttoned from broad shoulders. From the angle of his body, she assumed he looked in her direction, but she couldna be sure. Lifting the front of her skirts, she took slow steps, inching her way through the crowd until she stood only a few feet away and tipped back her head. She gazed into the darkest eyes she’d ever seen. “Mister Rutherford?”
He nodded. “Miss Carmichael?”
The relief of arriving and making the anticipated connection tumbled her stomach. “I am pleased to be making yer acquaintance.” Seeing no offer of a handshake greeting, she dropped a shallow curtsey then glanced at the wide-eyed children now pressed against their father’s legs. “Oh, and the wee bairns. What be their names?” Smiling, she glanced upward to see his dark brows slam into a frown. Reviewing what she’d said, she realized in her excitement, she lapsed into her native brogue. “Sorry, I meant children.”
Mister Rutherford shook his left hand. “My son is Lance, and he’s five years old.” Then he wiggled his right hand. “My daughter is Guinie, and she’s three.” He crouched down to their level and glanced between them. “Children, here is the woman I told you about. Miss Carmichael has come to live with us.”
“No, Daddy! Want Auntie Caro.” Guinie shook her head then buried her face in her father’s neck.
Vika stiffened. Never in her thoughts of her new life had she worried about having to win over the children…only their father. Hoping for a friendlier reception, she looked toward the boy who stared with an unflinching, brown-eyed gaze. “Making new friends is hard.” She glanced at the father who patted his daughter’s back and wished the right words sprang from her lips. But she was so tired and hungry she couldna think straight. From a distance, she heard a faint yip and turned toward the back of the train. Biscuit. Of course. “I brought a surprise I think ye’ll like.”
Mister Rutherford straightened. “We’d best collect your luggage. Come along, children.” He urged them forward.
She was left staring at the backs of the three people who looked like a self-contained unit. Did room exist for her in any of their hearts? Shoulders drooping, she trudged behind them, wishing for a strong arm to lean on. On the platform near the freight car rested the trunk holding all her clothes, accessories, and valuables. Next to it were two wooden crates packed with kitchen items, linens, blankets, and her mother’s porcelain tea set. On top of the crates sat the wicker basket holding her beloved pet.
The baggage clerk lifted a hand. “Ah, Miss Vika. She’s been whimpering the last few miles.” He lowered the basket to the platform and worked to loosen the rope knot.
“Thank you, Mister Frederick, for all your good attention.” She reached into her reticule and pulled out a dime for his tip. Maybe extravagant but the clerk took good care of her Biscuit. Then she leaned down to drop her carpetbag before lifting the lid with one hand and slipping the other into the slim opening to grab Biscuit’s collar. “Calm down. I’m here.” Once she was sure the dog wouldn’t escape, she slid in her other hand to collect the leather leash and clipped it on. With a shove, she flicked back the lid.
Biscuit jumped out then shook herself before running her nose along the platform boards.
“What in blue blazes is that thing?” Frowning, Mister Rutherford pointed.
“She’s my dog, Biscuit.” Vika hurried to the platform edge and let her pet run down the four steps to the dirt to take care of her needs.
“You wrote nothing about bringing a pet.” He scoffed and waved a hand in the air. “And a scrawny mutt, at that.”
Her stomach rolled. How could he make such a snap judgment? Biscuit was the perfect size to be cuddled, and Vika drew comfort from having her near.
After a moment, Biscuit hopped back to the platform then trotted toward the children, tail wagging like a flag in a stiff wind.
Both children looked at the dog then glanced at their father’s frown.
Would the presence of this surprise pet invalidate their agreement? Tiredness swamped her. “Ye never wrote that I couldna.” Needing the comfort of a warm being who loved her, she scooped up the dog, hugged Biscuit to her bosom, and kissed her furry head between her pointed ears. “Actually, ye never wrote much of anything.” As soon as she spoke, she regretted her snappy tone. “I apologize.”
He swung an arm toward the luggage. “Are these three yours?”
All she could muster was a single
nod.
“Lance, take Guinie’s hand and stay here with Miss Carmichael.”
The boy did as he was told but said nothing.
Vika wondered at their unusual silence. They acted nothing like the children she saw during church services.
Using an easy move, he swung it onto his shoulder then looked at his children. Without waiting for an answer, he strode to the back of the platform and jogged down the steps to a wagon parked nearby. On the third trip, he accepted help with the trunk from the baggage clerk then he returned to collect his children. “We’re expected at the church. Afterward, we need to head back to the ranch.”
Church? He meant to marry right this moment? “Sir, I, uh, wonder—” What had she expected would happen? All her time and energy had gone toward selling her possessions then packing. She lifted her gaze to the nearby buildings, scanning the business names. Everything was new and strange, and she felt almost dizzy with the changes.
Had she thought she’d stay in a boardinghouse and he’d come to town to court her? Using the train ticket was the same as accepting his written proposal. A lump tightened her throat. She knew the stipulation of their agreement…but she hoped for more.
His boot tapped the boards. “Wonder what, Miss Carmichael? You’ve traveled here to get married, so let’s meet with the reverend.”
In her mind, she finished his sentence, and get this wedding over with. Fighting tears, she glanced from him to his staring, too-silent children. Sighing, she rubbed fingers across her aching forehead. “My supper last night was a single apple grabbed while overseeing the transfer of my luggage and Biscuit from one train to another. I’m no’ a person who sleeps well on moving trains. When I finally slept, I missed the morning’s five o’clock stop in Buena Vista. Please, might we first go to a restaurant somewhere so I can eat a wee something and have a cup of tea?”
Hands on hips, he whooshed out a breath and dropped his chin. Then he swept his hat from his head, shoved a hand through dark, tousled hair, and approached.
A Vow for Christmas Page 2
