by Cat Cahill
“Miss Grant?” he asked in a low, sweet voice that made Ivy think of the Mississippi River, lolling along without worry.
“Yes,” she said, her voice higher than normal. “Although I suppose I’m Mrs. Chisholm now.” She laughed, uncertain and nervous, and wished she could take it back and start over with something much less silly.
A quick smile lightened his face before disappearing again. He replaced his hat. “I’m Andrew Chisholm.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said, wincing at the awkwardness. “This is Oliver and Sarah.”
He inspected the children, returning a shy smile Sarah gave him, and Ivy’s heart lifted. She’d worried most about how he and the children might take to each other.
“I have a wagon waiting,” he said, nodding toward the edge of the platform.
Ivy and the children stepped aside to allow him to take their trunk, and then followed him across the platform. Two women watched them intently. Ivy nodded a greeting to them as they approached. They each nodded in return, but didn’t smile. And just as Ivy passed, one began to whisper to the other.
Ivy gripped the children’s hands tighter and dodged a small boy who ran across the platform. Oliver looked after him hopefully, while Sarah tugged at her sleeve. Ivy leaned down. “What is it, Sarah?”
“Those people are looking at us,” she said, her eyes curious as she stared past Ivy toward the depot.
And certain enough, when Ivy followed Sarah’s line of vision, she spotted a man and a woman who were watching them. The woman was speaking to her companion, who shook his head and frowned after them.
Unease crept its way up Ivy’s spine. She shrugged it away. They were likely curious, that was all. It was a small town, and she was new. Of course they’d want to know who she was and why she was here. Perhaps Mr. Chisholm didn’t get into town often. That would explain why her presence was a surprise to the townsfolk.
Yes, that had to be it.
They stepped off the platform where a plain working wagon and two carriages sat waiting. Beyond the carriages, a path led past the depot and up a slight hill to the largest, most beautiful building Ivy had ever seen. Behind it, the imposing mountains rose to the sky, snow still clinging to some of the peaks. “Children, look up the hill.”
Oliver and Sarah did as she asked.
“What is that?” Oliver asked just as Sarah squealed, “It’s a castle!”
“It’s the Crest Stone Hotel,” Mr. Chisholm said. He pointed to the nearest carriage. “That’s waiting to take folks up the hill.”
“Can we go?” Sarah asked, her eyes rounder than the wheels on the wagon.
“Not today,” Ivy said. “Mr. Chisholm is taking us to our new home.” It felt strange referring to the man she’d already married by his formal name, and yet he hadn’t indicated she oughtn’t. And even if he did, calling a man she’d only just met by his Christian name felt so forward. None of the manners Mama had taught her over the years seemed to apply in a situation such as this.
Mr. Chisholm lifted Sarah into the wagon. He turned to help Oliver, but the boy had already tossed the food basket in and scrambled up over the wheel himself. There was nowhere for the children to sit except in the wagon box itself, but they didn’t seem to mind. Oliver had already made himself comfortable against a full burlap sack, and Sarah sat at the very back, her doll’s head just peeking over the top of the wagon box.
Mr. Chisholm took the carpetbag from Ivy and set it against the trunk. Then he held out a hand to help her into the wagon seat. He didn’t wear gloves, and when Ivy accepted his hand, she could feel the callouses scratch against her own thin gloves, the ones Mama had colored with tea to hide years of use. His deep blue eyes caught hers as she climbed into the seat. Her heart tripped at how handsome he was, but there was something else there, too, some deep emotion that belied his pleasant demeanor.
Mr. Chisholm held her hand just a beat longer than needed. He seemed to want to say something, his jaw working until finally, he spoke. “I’m glad you came.”
She smiled at him, uncertain what to say in response, but it didn’t matter. Before she could have formed a sentence, he’d already come around to the other side of the wagon and taken the seat beside her. As he drew on a pair of thick gloves and took the lines in his hands, Ivy was acutely aware of how little space sat between them. She distracted herself with turning to check on the children and then lifting her chin to take in the small, but bustling town.
Everything here appeared new, as if one day an entire group of people woke up and decided to build shops and homes and offices on an otherwise empty stretch of valley floor. Not that Ivy could blame them—this was truly the most beautiful place she’d ever seen in her life. She was used to flat land, fields of wheat and corn that stretched out like the sea to the horizon. The land here was something out of a storybook. It was hard to look away.
But when she did, she saw eyes. It was disconcerting, how many people watched them as they passed. She glanced at Mr. Chisholm. His jaw was clenched, but that was the only hint indicating he either noticed or cared that the townsfolk were so interested in them.
“I suppose they don’t often see new people,” she said lightly as they reached the edge of town.
Mr. Chisholm directed the mules to turn left, away from the snow-covered mountains and toward a smaller range that seemed as if it had been watching over this valley for thousands of years. “They do,” he said shortly.
Ivy pressed her hands against the wooden bench seat and turned to glance back at the children—and the curious town. Why had they stared at her so, if they were used to new folks arriving regularly? A ribbon of dread began to unravel inside her as she realized no one had given them a second glance until Mr. Chisholm had arrived. It had to be that they were surprised to see him meeting a woman alone with two children—particularly if he hadn’t told anyone about their marriage—and they were merely intrigued.
As they traveled eastward toward the low, darker mountains, Ivy resolved to remain optimistic about their new life here. Nestled between these two great mountain ranges, they could start anew without the specter of Mr. St. Clair.
Chapter Four
Andrew stood uncomfortably inside the front door of the house as Ivy and the children wandered through the rooms. He hadn’t noticed it before, but now all he could see was the dust and dirt and generally unkempt look of the place. How had he let it get into such a state?
“Aunty Ivy,” the little girl—Sarah, he remembered—tugged at her aunt’s dress. “This house is dirty.”
Andrew cringed at the child’s assessment. She wasn’t wrong.
“It’s nothing that can’t be easily rectified,” his new wife said. “And you must understand that Mr. Chisholm has lived here alone for some time. It’s hard to keep up with the demands of farmwork and a house with no help.”
She shot him another kind smile. He’d lost track of how many times she’d smiled at him since he’d picked her up at the depot. They were like tiny rays of sunshine, melting him from the inside out. When he saw her at the depot, the first thing he’d noticed had been that smile. And then the dark hair that sat swooped up in some complicated style under a simple hat, skin that looked so smooth and warm, and brown eyes flecked with green. But it was that smile that nearly undid him. No one had smiled at him like that since Mary.
The guilt crept in again. How could he be thinking such things about a woman who was not Mary? Certainly, he was wedded to Miss Grant now, but that didn’t need to mean anything more than having someone here to help. Someone to talk to. Someone to—
“Mr. Chisholm?” His wife looked at him now, her head tilted a bit to the side and curiosity tracing every feature of her face, as if she’d give her last penny to know his thoughts.
“Yes, I’m sorry, Miss Grant. Mrs. Chisholm, I mean.” He moved across the small parlor as warmth bloomed across his face.
“You may call me Ivy,” she said in a soft voice.
He
busied himself with wiping the dust off one of Mary’s little knickknacks, this one a small blue and white china vase. “Ivy,” he repeated, testing the name before turning to face her. He supposed it was necessary. He could hardly go about calling his own wife Mrs. Chisholm.
“Oliver had a question for you,” she said, that soft smile somehow brightening her face and the entire room at the same time.
“Could I go see the barn, Mr. Chisholm?” The boy stole looks at the front door. His antsiness to get outside reminded Andrew of himself. Oliver would likely enjoy learning to help out with the animals and the planting, and Andrew would be grateful for the help.
“Andrew,” he said. “That’s my name.”
“Andrew, sir,” the boy said with a furrowed brow, as if he couldn’t get used to the idea.
“I’m going to call you Uncle Andrew,” little Sarah announced. “Because if you’re married to Aunt Ivy, you have to be an uncle. It’s a rule.”
Ivy’s face went a pleasing shade of pink, but Andrew nodded seriously. “That’s correct.”
“Uncle Andrew,” Oliver said, seemingly more at ease with the title. “May I go see the barn?”
Andrew nodded. “Watch the rooster. He’s an ornery one.”
“Me too!” Sarah ran after her brother, that little doll clutched to her side.
The second the children were out the door—and he was alone with Ivy—Andrew wished they’d come back. He paced across the room, toward the door that led to the kitchen. “You found the kitchen, I suppose.”
She nodded.
“Let me know if you need anything in the way of supplies.”
“I don’t mind driving into town myself. I can handle a wagon,” she said, her hands clasped before her.
“No, absolutely not.” The force behind his words made her eyes go wide, and she took a step backward. “It isn’t safe,” he amended. “There’s a mining encampment just to the northeast of here, at the base of the mountains. The men there go to and from Crest Stone. It wouldn’t be safe for you to wander about alone.”
She nodded, even though he could see the fear etched into her face. She probably didn’t have to worry about such things in Illinois. “All right, I’ll make a list then,” she said.
“Let me know if you find anything else you might need in town.”
She raised her eyes, a hopeful look brightening the green in them. “Might we go to church services on Sunday? I saw a small church as we were leaving town.”
Andrew blinked at her. He hadn’t stepped foot into a church in years. When Mary was alive, there wasn’t one nearby. And lately, he couldn’t have withstood the stares that would have accompanied him entering the doors. “I suppose so,” he found himself saying against his better judgment. “Depending on whether the work is done,” he amended. The work was never done.
But Ivy nodded, smiling at him again as if he’d said it was a certainty. He wondered if she’d still smile if she knew why everyone in town stared at them so.
He cleared his throat and moved to the door on the far side of the room. “This is a bedroom. There is another off the kitchen . . .” He trailed off as Ivy looked away, another pink blush rising in her cheeks. Andrew looked at his hand on the doorknob and wished he’d said nothing about bedrooms.
“Would it be all right if . . .” Ivy squeezed her hands together, almost as if that would make the right words come out.
“It’s fine,” he said abruptly. “I’ll bed down in the barn.” An unexpected disappointment curled from within him, and Andrew snuffed it out before it could rise. As pretty as Ivy was, to think such things about her would betray Mary.
“Oh, no, I won’t stand for that. I’m happy sleeping with the children. They’ll likely need comforting in a new place, anyway.” Only the barest trace of embarrassment remained in Ivy’s cheeks as she graced him with that sweet smile again.
After Andrew moved her trunk to the front bedroom, he left her to unpack and stepped outside with a promise to check on the children. He drew a deep breath of cool air. The snow had melted and the days had begun warming, but the cold still lingered. Mary had been taken by the weather here, by the wildflowers that would soon begin to grow, the funny silver-green sagebrush, and the way the snow never melted from the peaks of the Sangre de Cristos. He wondered what Ivy thought of it all.
He moved across the wide space between the house and the barn. If he remembered Mary, he would be fine and Ivy would remain safe. Once she heard the talk in town, she’d want nothing to do with him anyway. From her letter, it had seemed as if she were of the same mind he was, wanting a partnership in which she’d contribute half the work in exchange for a home in which to live with these children. She’d not once mentioned anything about love. Those endearing blushes and the smiles she’d given him had made him forget that for a moment, but out here, with the crisp air and the gently rolling land to bring him to his senses, it was easier to remember.
Andrew paused by the wall of the barn, listening to the children talk to the mules he’d turned out in the corral when they arrived home. It was bittersweet hearing their voices. He’d built the house with an extra bedroom for the children he’d planned to have with Mary. But that dream had never come to fruition.
He leaned against the wall. He couldn’t keep Ivy from town forever. He should tell her about what had happened to Mary to head off the gossip she might hear there. Just the thought of speaking it out loud splintered his heart. Would she want to leave when she heard? He wouldn’t blame her.
It was Thursday. He ought to take her to services on Sunday, as she wanted, even if he could think of nothing more uncomfortable. That gave him two and a half days to tell her.
He’d figure out how later.
Chapter Five
Ivy held tight to her hat as the wagon rolled over a large rut in the road. They’d just reached Crest Stone on Sunday morning, and the town seemed to still be asleep. It was quite the difference from when she’d arrived, when people moved up and down the wooden board sidewalks that looked freshly cut, and hammers and shouts echoed against the buildings. The sun sat just above the low, dark Wet Mountains to the east, casting every building with gold light.
Oliver and Sarah crouched in the wagon box, pointing out items of interest to each other, and Ivy hoped their Sunday clothes weren’t already smudged with dirt from the wagon. Andrew had been quiet for most of the ride, and it seemed something weighed on his mind. Ivy had snuck glances at him, mostly in amazement at the fine figure he cut in his suit. It was a deep gray, and he’d traded his work-worn hat for a black one he wore tipped back on his head as he drove the mules. The morning sunlight that bathed the town in brilliance caught the gold in Andrew’s hair too, creating an effect from which Ivy found it hard to draw her eyes.
Inside the simple church building, they settled themselves along a bench near the back. Try as she might to pay attention to the minister’s words, Ivy found her gaze drawn to her husband in between reminding Oliver and Sarah to sit still. Andrew had looked uneasy the moment they’d set foot inside the church, pressing his lips into a thin line and insisting they sit near the door. Yet he seemed to know all the words to the hymns, which meant he was no stranger to Sunday services.
She had more questions now than she did before she arrived, not the least of which was why various members of the congregation kept turning back to catch a glimpse of them. No matter how many times she told herself it was because she and the children were new to town, or because Andrew was impossibly handsome, that uneasy feeling she’d had in her stomach on Thursday grew. If they were curious about her or admiring Andrew, they would smile, or at least nod in a friendly manner. But these were puzzled and concerned looks, as if they couldn’t believe what they saw.
Ivy checked her hat and smoothed down the hair that sat beneath it, before running a hand down her nicest bodice and skirt. Everything seemed in place. The children looked slightly rumpled, but no more so than any of the other children in the congregation.
What confounded these people so much, then?
She glanced again at Andrew as the minister spoke on the story of Jonah and the whale. He kept his eyes forward, focused on the minister, and not acknowledging a single person who looked his way. Were these stares the reason he’d been so quiet on their ride into town? More than once since Thursday night, he’d approached her, seemingly with something important to say, only to ask if she’d found the matches or if she and the children had enough hooks for their clothing.
When the service ended, Andrew moved swiftly toward the door. It took more than a moment for Ivy to gather the children, find Sarah’s doll under the seat, and remind Oliver to tuck in his shirt. People chattered around them, moving past them slowly toward the door where Andrew waited.
“The other side, too, Oliver,” Ivy said.
The boy huffed and set about tucking in the rest of his shirt.
“. . . married?” The word caught Ivy’s ear as she watched Oliver.
“It appears to be so.”
Ivy looked up, and there, behind a larger man waiting on his wife, stood two women. They were about the age of Ivy’s mother, and they kept glancing in her direction as they spoke.
“Do you suppose she knows?” the shorter one said to her friend, the words reaching Ivy’s ears as the woman looked directly at her.
A flush crept up Ivy’s face, and she looked away as she pretended not to hear. And yet her heart pounded as she wondered what the words meant. They were clearly discussing her.
She couldn’t hear the other woman’s response over the larger man’s laughter, but she caught the end of the shorter woman’s reply. “ . . . what happened to his wife.”
The two women cast her one more glance before moving away toward the door. Ivy watched them, a million more questions spinning through her mind. They both nodded politely at Andrew, as if they hadn’t only just been gossiping about Ivy. And about him.
“Come along, now.” Ivy nudged the children out of the bench, Oliver still wrestling with one tail of his shirt.
