Lorinda couldn’t do anything except return her smile.
By the time the boxes were empty, Lorinda had more clothing than she’d ever owned. And a pile of things for the baby spread around her. Tears filled her eyes. She tried to blink them away. No one in her family had ever let her cry about anything. But these were tears of joy, and she’d never experienced them before.
Stella got up and came to where she sat. “Out here in the west, we take care of each other.”
The hug from Stella matched the ones she’d received from Mrs. Oleson. Her life was a mess, but for the first time in her adult life, she had two friends. She was pretty sure they couldn’t have gone through all the terrible things she had.
She hoped she could keep her secrets hidden from them, so they would keep liking her.
Chapter 7
Franklin was no closer to an answer to his problem than he was when he first clapped eyes on Lorinda Sullivan beside her burning cabin. He stood in his office staring into the evening duskiness, his hands clasped tight behind his back. A bright moon gave the snow a pearly sheen, and stars twinkled in the cloudless, inky sky.
His circuit of the nearby ranches hadn’t given him even the glimmer of an idea about what to do with the woman. At each house, the rancher had agreed with him about the need to stay alert and try to find the arsonist. And the wives opened their hearts to Mrs. Sullivan’s plight, gathering all kinds of things the woman needed. He almost had to bite his tongue to keep from blurting his desire to get her away from his house as quickly as possible. His emotions churned, feeling a tug toward the beautiful blonde, then erecting a barrier against those feelings.
He didn’t dare trust another woman. A second betrayal might put him in the grave. The first one almost did.
Each visit took so long that Franklin hadn’t made it back in time to attend church in Breckenridge. Probably a good thing. He wouldn’t have been able to concentrate on Brian Nelson’s sermon, even though the preacher usually kept his attention as he unfolded the truths of scripture.
Mrs. Oleson and their guest had already finished eating Sunday dinner before Franklin returned to the ranch. The housekeeper kept some food on the stove’s warming shelf, so he hadn’t gone hungry. At least Mrs. Sullivan was resting while he ate dinner. But although she was absent in person, she wasn’t absent from his thoughts, no matter how hard he tried to shake her away. After the lonely meal, he kept himself busy in the barn, only coming in for supper.
His housekeeper had fixed sandwiches using the left-over roast from the noon meal. Even though he always liked roast beef sandwiches, for some reason today, his tasted like straw and almost stuck in his throat. Maybe it was because he had so much on his mind. He really couldn’t remember taking a single bite, even though only bread crumbs remained on his plate when he left the table.
When he asked Mrs. Sullivan if he could talk with her in his office, she bristled, then agreed.
What is taking her so long?
As if in answer to his unspoken question, a tentative knock sounded on his door. He hurried over to jerk it open.
Franklin had tried to keep his eyes from straying toward the woman during the meal. Now she stood in front of him, in a dress that fit her far better than the one Mrs. Oleson had loaned her. The material brought out the rich blue of her eyes. He’d never seen her lovelier. For a moment, he couldn’t tear his gaze away from her. With unwavering tenacity, she studied him as well. The thin mountain air was even harder to breathe until he finally escaped from the magnetic pull of her eyes that were bluer than the spring sky.
He stepped back. “Please... ” He gestured toward the two upholstered chairs near the window. “Come in. Have a seat.”
After she perched daintily upon one, he dropped into the other. He cast around his mind, trying to decide how to start their conversation. A clear question settled in her eyes.
“How...are you feeling?” Why couldn’t I come up with a better question for her?
She settled deeper into the chair. “I’m...fine.”
Evidently, she felt as uncomfortable as he did. He’d never imagined having a conversation like this with any woman.
“Good...good.” I sound like an idiot.
He was a successful rancher who was respected by many people living in the area. He could do this. “I thought we needed to discuss...things.”
She nodded. “All right.” The sound so tentative it was almost a whisper.
As he studied her, he wondered if she’d been taking good care of herself. Besides the burden she carried, she was far too thin. He didn’t remember her arms being that skinny when they took her husband’s body to bury it. She’d raised the heavy rifle with a show of strength almost equal to a man. Had she been eating right? With no one to encourage her during the long winter months, had she just barely managed to get along?
“I didn’t check while we were up at your place. Did you run low on provisions?”
His question must have bothered her, because she winced.
“No.” Her voice was soft. Musical. “You had the provisions brought down here.”
He nodded. “I know, but I didn’t check to see how much was left.”
She gave him a tentative smile that didn’t reach her eyes, and her neck stiffened. “Enough to help pay for my being here.”
That comment sent a knife through his gut. Did she really think he wanted her to pay? Maybe his remaining aloof from her gave her that impression.
“You don’t owe me anything.” The words felt good to him.
“I don’t want to be a burden on anyone.” She rearranged her skirt around her limbs and clasped her hands together so tight her knuckles matched the snow outside the window.
“You’re not a burden.” But wouldn’t the things he wanted to say to her reinforce that thought in her mind?
“Then why did you want to talk to me?”
A simple question. He wished he had a simple answer.
“I just wanted to know what...you want to happen in your life.” He stopped himself before he added now that your husband’s dead and your cabin’s gone. Why could he talk to his men and make perfect sense, and this little slip of a woman had him babbling like an idiot?
Tears trembled on her lower lashes. “I wish I knew.” She sat there staring down at the floor before glancing up at him. “At least with all the things your neighbors brought me, I have clothing for me...and my child. But I don’t have a home.”
Although he didn’t think it was a good idea, he had to ask, “Do you want my men and me to rebuild your cabin for you?”
That question must have surprised her. Her eyes cut toward him, a startled expression in them. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” Finally, she released her tight grip on her hands, and one waved toward the mountain behind him. “I must keep the land as an inheritance for my child, but after this last six months, I don’t think staying on the mountain with a baby is the right thing for me to do.”
He couldn’t disagree with her assessment of the situation. This discussion was going nowhere fast. “We don’t have to decide anything tonight.” He stood and tried to give her a pleasant smile. “If you think of anything else you want to do, just let me know.”
She quickly arose from the chair, then stood none too steadily. “I’ll do that.”
Without thought, he raised his hand to help her, then noticed her spine was straight as one of the aspen trees on her property. He figured she wouldn’t welcome his touch, and that was fine with him.
As she exited the room, he couldn’t help noticing the sway of her slim hips as she walked away carrying a vulnerability that beckoned his protective nature.
Once again, Franklin arose long before dawn. Not because he had plans that necessitated the early morning, but because he was tired of losing the fight with his covers while tossing and turning most of the night. He went out to the stable and started mucking out the stalls. Anything to keep himself busy.
He wanted to help Mrs. Sullivan, and somethin
g about her tugged at his heart. But he didn’t dare let her inside his wall of defense. He’d loved one woman and that didn’t end well.
Miriam had professed her love for him right up until the day, two weeks before their wedding, when she ran off with his best friend Marvin Pratt. The three of them had grown up on ranches here in Summit County. Marvin was the son of Franklin’s father’s foreman. The three of them had been together for years before Franklin asked Miriam to be his wife.
He thought Marvin was happy for them. He laughed and agreed when asked to be the best man.
Miriam wanted a big wedding, so she and her mother sent away for special materials and other doodads while he waited anxiously to make her his wife. He’d shared his heart’s deepest dreams with Marvin, and they’d had interesting conversations about them. Up until that cataclysmic day.
Marvin was the one who told him what was happening. How he’d always been jealous of all the things Franklin had. How he wanted them, too. How he’d wooed Franklin’s bride right out from under his nose. Then they climbed into a new carriage and rode away, trampling Franklin’s heart beneath the horse’s hooves as he watched them stop to kiss passionately right before they were out of sight.
I’ll never, ever trust a woman or have a man for a best friend again. Those words spoken aloud that day had become his litany, even after his parents were killed in the wreck of a runaway wagon, and he became sole owner of the ranch.
Rand Morgan was the closest friend he had now, but he’d never let Rand invade his heart as Marvin had. They helped each other and watched each other’s backs, but didn’t share the deep secrets of their hearts.
Remaining aloof from all the women who let him know they were interested in him was easy...until now. That’s why he had to come up with a way to help Mrs. Sullivan find a new home that would be good for her and her child. It would be too easy for him to fall for a woman like her, despite his decision not to.
When he leaned the pitchfork against the wall and started pushing the last wheelbarrow full of the soiled hay toward the doorway, his stomach growled. He suddenly realized the cold was seeping inside his heavy coat and gloves. After dumping this load, he’d head to the house. Mrs. Oleson probably had breakfast ready by now. At least, she’d have hot coffee for him.
He ran his soles across the wrought iron boot scraper beside the back door before entering the mud room. When he hung up his coat and pulled off his gloves, he blew his warm breath on his fingers, then stepped into the toasty kitchen.
“I wondered where you were.” Mrs. Oleson leaned over to remove cinnamon rolls from the oven.
The sweet, spicy smell made his stomach rumble even more. “You made my favorite.”
“I thought you could use some encouragement.” She set the hot pie tin on a trivet. “I heard you moving around a lot last night. Did you sleep at all?”
“Not much.” He knew her room was right above his. Maybe that hadn’t been such a good idea, but she’d been in that room when his parents were alive, and he didn’t want to make her move.
“Worrying about our guest?”
His housekeeper was much too astute.
“Maybe.”
She lifted the speckled, graniteware coffeepot from the stove using a folded kitchen towel. “Have you found a solution to the situation?”
He sat down at the table while she poured the dark, steaming brew into a large mug. “Not yet.”
Franklin really wished he would soon. He hated all the uncomfortable memories that had bombarded his mind.
She returned the pot to its warm perch, then brought a plate filled with crisp bacon strips to the table. “I have an idea that might work.”
He helped himself to several pieces. “What idea?”
“Lorinda needs something to keep her busy. It’ll make it easier for her to come to grips with all her troubles. She needs to feel useful.” After pouring herself a cup of coffee, Mrs. Oleson joined him at the table.
He took a large bite from the last strip of bacon he’d put on his plate. Chewing it gave him time to mull over what she said. He couldn’t think of anything Mrs. Sullivan could do to feel useful.
When he hadn’t made any comment, his housekeeper leaned her arms on the table and curled her fingers around the warm cup. “You are always wanting to hire someone to help me.”
“And you keep being insulted by my suggestions.” He laughed.
“It’s not that I can’t do the work anymore, but you could offer her a smaller salary and room and board to go with it. Then she wouldn’t feel as though she’s a charity case.”
The words touched a chord in his spirit. Not many people around these parts wanted charity, but when they helped each other, everything was all right. “She’s not physically able to do much. I was really surprised by how thin the woman has become. I don’t think she ate as much as she should have during the winter.”
A knowing glint flitted through his housekeeper’s gaze and quickly vanished. He wondered what that meant.
“I’m not saying to work the woman to death, but I can find plenty for her to do to feel useful without taxing her too much.” Mrs. Oleson took a sip of her coffee.
He appreciated her idea about helping the Sullivan woman this way. Maybe after a while, she would be able to stand on her own two feet. He couldn’t help hoping that time would come sooner, rather than later. He’d seen the woman’s stubborn streak of pride. She might see through their suggestion and not accept. But that wouldn’t be a bad thing. Would it?
Chapter 8
Lorinda sat beside the kitchen table, peeling potatoes for the stew Mrs. Oleson was preparing for tonight’s supper. The last two weeks had rushed by while the wonderful woman stirring the pot on the stove helped keep Lorinda’s mind off all her losses. Teaching her to knit, something she had always wanted to do. Helping her sew a few things for herself and for the baby. Giving her tasks that were easy for her to complete.
It had to have been Mrs. Oleson’s idea to offer her a job with room and board as part of her pay. Franklin Vine never would’ve come up with that idea by himself. He kept himself aloof from Lorinda, not saying ten words a day to her. But she didn’t really care, did she? She and her baby would have a home, and with her not needing to spend much of the money he paid her, she could save for their future. Someday, that money, along with the value of the two pokes of gold she had hidden in her room, would give the two of them a start somewhere else. Of course, she didn’t want to settle too far from the property they owned, but maybe she could find a job and a place to stay in Breckenridge, Dillon, or Frisco. Keystone or Silverthorne would be farther than she wanted to go.
Mrs. Oleson turned toward her. “How are you doing with those potatoes?”
“Almost finished.” She picked up the last vegetable. “Only one more.”
The housekeeper wiped her hands on her apron as she came toward the table. “You finished those quickly. I’ll have to set them in water until it’s time to add them to the stew. Potatoes don’t take as long to cook as the carrots do.”
After dropping the peeling, cut in one long curling ribbon, into the bucket for the pigs, Lorinda quickly quartered the potato. “All done.” She stood and reached for the filled crockery bowl on the table.
“Here. Let me get that for you.” Mrs. Oleson set the potatoes on the cabinet and poured water from a large pitcher into the bowl.
“Why do you do that?” Lorinda peeked around the other woman’s shoulder. “Put them in water, I mean.”
“So they’ll stay crisp and don’t turn dark.”
“I never knew that. Mine always had black on them if I didn’t use them right away.”
So much Lorinda hadn’t learned about keeping house and cooking. But Mrs. Oleson was patient, teaching her as they worked together. She wondered what the older woman would do if she were to give her a big hug. Her mother had died a long time ago, and she yearned for a motherly touch.
“I’m glad to see you looking better, dear.”
Mrs. Oleson smiled at her. “I worried about you when you first came. You hadn’t been eating as much as you should have. I could tell.”
Lorinda nodded. “Sometimes, it wasn’t worth the effort when I wasn’t feeling so good.” She tried not to dwell on that awful time when she was alone for so long. “Of course, I did have good days when I cooked up a storm. I stored the leftovers in the snowbank, and they would last for days. But nothing tasted as good as what I’ve had here on the ranch.”
She put her hands on the sides of her waist and stretched her tired back. The baby grew heavier every day. She patted her swollen belly, and the baby tapped the same place from the inside. Such a wonder to get used to.
“Let’s make something special to go with this stew. I brought some dried apples up from the root cellar earlier this morning. They’ve been simmering with raisins while I worked. How would you like an apple and raisin pie?” Mrs. Oleson set a mixing bowl on the table and gave Lorinda a measuring cup. “We need two cups of flour, full to the top.”
After Lorinda followed the directions, the older woman sprinkled a pinch of salt into the flour.
“I love apple pies, but we hardly ever had them. We didn’t get much fruit in the winter.” Lorinda went to the stove and lifted the lid to take a sniff. “Besides, no one ever taught me how to make crust, so I just stirred up some biscuit dough, added sugar, and plopped it on the top of the apples in the pan. I never cooked them ahead of time either. And I never thought about adding raisins. Of course, we didn’t have those very often.”
She hoped Mrs. Oleson didn’t pity her because of her upbringing. At least, the older woman didn’t know the worst of it, and she never would.
“Here’s the best way to make a flaky crust.” While she demonstrated, Lorinda watched everything the woman did, trying to commit it to memory. Besides the flour and salt, Mrs. Oleson added lard, cutting it into the mixture using two table knives, the same way Lorinda did for the biscuits. And she sprinkled in the cold water, a little at a time, while stirring the dough.
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