Reluctant Brides Collection

by Cathy Marie Hake

  Angie shuffled to the cellar door and knocked loudly on the wall. “Hans? It’s me.” She stepped down the stairs. “How are things coming?”

  Bending over the last of the refuse pile, Hans straightened, his smile intact. “This is the last of it, Miss Angie,” he said. “I made a little pile over there by the stairs so you can decide if you want to save any of those things.”

  “Uh—that’s fine, Hans.” She swallowed again and tried to sound natural. “It looks wonderful down here.” Gingerly she moved down the stairs to check out the stack of bent iron and scored wood beside the bottom step. A few minutes later she straightened. “Move these things to the barn,” she said, pointing to a bent plow handle and a bucket handle. “The rest you can bury or burn.”

  She started to climb the stairs then turned back. “Would you mind doing the same thing in the tack room? It’s not as bad as this was, but it’s really dusty, and there are some old harnesses and things that need to be thrown out.”

  Hans’s gray head bobbed. “Of course, Miss Angie. I’ll start on it when I finish here”—he glanced around—“tomorrow or the next day.”

  “Thank you, Hans,” she said mechanically and moved up the stairs. She wanted to give him something that would keep him busy away from the house. The tack room would be worth at least one afternoon, maybe two.

  Two hours before suppertime, Judy climbed to the attic. She came to supper with dust balls in her hair and cobwebs in her eyebrows. Laughing, Angie pointed to the washbasin beside the back door. “Help yourself, child,” she said. “You need it more than your daddy and Barry tonight.”

  At that moment Hans appeared in the same dust-covered condition.

  Saundra’s gentle laughter came from where she set the table. A flood of German followed, and Hans chuckled.

  Angie kept her back turned to the pair, her chin down, as she dabbed Judy’s braids with a damp cloth. What were they saying? The foreign tongue had taken on a sinister sound. Now that she thought about it, had Hans’s coming here been such a coincidence? He and Saundra sure did seem friendly.

  Wait a minute, Angie, she told herself. You were the one who brought Saundra here. That Saundra would know a former hand from this very ranch is stretching things until they snap. She hung the cloth on the rack beside the basin.

  “That’s better,” she said, patting Judy’s damp head. “Please set out the forks and spoons while I fill the mugs with coffee, hon. Lane and Barry will be freezing. Hans looks cold, too. The cellar isn’t heated.”

  “What about me?” Judy said, turning big eyes on Angie. “I’ve been in the—”

  Angie’s elbow in the girl’s side stopped the sentence. Lowered eyebrows and a frown brought up an understanding pucker to Judy’s face. The girl clamped her lips and reached for Barry’s enamel mug on the table. She handed it to Angie.

  “I’ll give you half a cup with lots of milk,” Angie told her. “It won’t hurt this once.” She glanced at Hans and Saundra who were checking out the creamed chipped beef simmering on the stove. They hadn’t seemed to hear Judy’s blurted-out statement.

  Moving around the table with the coffeepot, Angie filled cups. Her side vision kept track of the German couple beside the stove. What were they whispering? Even if she could hear them, she wouldn’t understand a word.

  Barry burst in the door, letting in an icy draft. Lane filled the doorway behind him. The men rushed inside, and Lane closed the door.

  Lane pulled off his gloves. “Smells like snow out there. We put up the rope to the barn just in case.”

  “There’s plenty of split firewood,” Barry added, shedding his sheepskin coat, “thanks to the hard work of Hans and me.” He hung his coat on a peg. “What’s cooking?” he asked, moving to the stove. Hans immediately stepped back and found his seat, leaving the spot beside Saundra open.

  Angie watched the older man’s quick movement. His face was set. Whatever he felt about Barry’s attention to Saundra, Hans wasn’t giving it away. His face was almost too still.

  Angie moved to her seat. “I told Hans he ought to work at cleaning out the tack room when he has time in the afternoons. Is that all right, Lane?”

  He looked at her for ten seconds before answering. “Fine,” he said, as though half hearing. “It needs cleaning, no mistake.” His eyes turned toward Angie for a long minute, and she suddenly felt heat rising from her neck to her cheeks. Then he picked up his coffee and took a small sip. Sighing, he set it down. “Just how I like it,” he said, “hot and strong. Nice going, Angie.”

  Angie moved her fork half an inch to the right then pushed it back beside her plate. “Saundra made the coffee, Lane. Not me.”

  “Oh! Sorry for giving your compliment to someone else, Saundra,” he said, smiling at the woman at the other end of the table. “Nice coffee.”

  Angie tried not to stare at him, but she couldn’t help sneaking a few glances. She hadn’t heard him talk so much at the table for years. She touched her brow, a definite headache coming on.

  That evening an exhausted Judy climbed the stairs to go to bed twenty minutes earlier than usual. Lane went up with her. Barry and Hans bundled themselves in coats and hats, their scarves about their faces, and headed for the barn. The cold had sapped everyone’s energy. With the gloom of night coming on so early now, bed seemed like the best place to be.

  Angie and Saundra lingered by the fireplace. Reaching into her needlepoint sewing bag, Saundra held up Judy’s gown to show its wide sleeves and gathered skirt to its full effect.

  Angie clasped her hands. “Saundra! Judy’s going to have heart failure when she sees it. It’s the loveliest thing she’s owned since she was four years old.”

  Saundra smiled, her face glowing in the firelight. “I can’t wait to see her face.” Folding the dress in her lap, Saundra said, “You know, Judy’s the dearest child I’ve ever known. She’s so full of life and so terrifyingly honest.” She chuckled softly then murmured, “I’d love to have her for a daughter.”

  Angie’s face stiffened. She looked down to watch her hands pleating her skirt. “Saundra—”

  “Yes?” Those beautiful blond eyebrows lifted slightly.

  Angie licked her lips and forced herself to go on. “Has Lane said anything to you about marriage?”

  “Marriage? Not yet.” Perfect lips curved into a dreamy smile. “He’ll get around to it in time. No man could write those letters and not be thinking of marriage.” With precise care she laid the dress over her arm and stood. “I’m going to iron this and hang it in my closet until Christmas. I can’t bear to fold it into a package. Is that all right with you, Angie?”

  “Oh—yes, fine,” Angie murmured. “Thanks for being so good to Judy, Saundra. She loves you.”

  Saundra patted the cloth dripping from her arm. “And I love her,” she said with a soft smile.

  Angie felt a fleeting impulse to tell Saundra the truth, but the next moment the German woman was gone. Angie didn’t have the heart to follow her to the kitchen to tell the awful tale. If Lane ever found out what Angie had done to get Saundra out here, he would tan her hide and hang it out to dry.

  Chapter 17

  The next afternoon Hans finished cleaning the cellar and climbed the steps for the last time. Angie was rinsing the scrubbing board and washbasin on the back porch when he passed her.

  “The job is finished,” he said, beaming at her. Angie turned toward him, her face still.

  “Thank you, Hans,” she said quietly. “I’m sure Lane will be glad to have you working in the barn now.”

  His expression slowly changed to concern. “Is something wrong, Miss Angie? Has Hans done something bad?”

  He said it so anxiously that Angie almost laughed. This man must be an actor or something. “Not at all, Hans. You’ve been a real help. I don’t know how we would have made it through this winter without you.”

  “God sent me,” he said softly, nodding. “I know He did.” With a short good-bye he struck out toward the barn,
back straight, stout legs pumping, a man with a reason for going to his destination.

  Quickly Angie propped the scrubbing board inside the washtub and pulled open the back door. The cellar door stood slightly ajar like the open mouth of a sleeping giant.

  Lighting a lantern, she stepped inside and pulled the door shut behind her. Saundra had gone upstairs to rest awhile. Tired of searching, Judy lay on their bed with Angie’s copy of Ivanhoe, the only novel in the house. Angie had a few minutes to herself. She intended to make the most of it.

  The cellar was transformed. Even the walls were free of dust. The room smelled of fresh lime that Hans had sprinkled on the floor. Holding the lantern high, Angie pulled a folded page from her deep skirt pocket and flipped it open. Finding the right combination of shapes seemed impossible. In seconds her eyes blurred. She couldn’t tell one stone from another.

  Her arm grew tired of holding the lantern so she set it on a nearby shelf, squinted in the dimness, and kept searching. She held the paper up so that it caught a feeble ray of light from the lantern. Foot by foot she held the tracing up to the wall, seeking a match for the fist-sized shapes drawn there.

  The cellar seemed like a logical place to look for the gold. The letter had said deep inside the bowels of the house. The cellar would definitely match that. And the cellar had no windows so it was always dark. That would make it easier to hide something. Who in the world would ever pass the time studying the stonework in the walls of a dusty, gloomy cellar? No one except crazy Angie.

  Her feet grew cold. Her eyes grew weary.

  Not watching behind her, she tripped over a small shovel propped against the wall and dropped the paper. It fluttered toward the center of the room and landed in a pool of lantern light. Angie bent over to retrieve it and suddenly dropped to her knees.

  She reached out to swivel the paper a little and bent closer. There it was! The disjointed spider web had lain at her feet all the time.

  She pried at the stones with her fingers but got nowhere. After thirty years of lying underfoot, they may as well have been one unit. Those stones wouldn’t budge without a pick or shovel and a man’s strength.

  “Angie?” Saundra’s muffled voice came from overhead. “Angie?”

  Angie folded the paper and stowed it in her pocket. She picked up a jar of peaches from the shelf, lifted the lantern handle, and climbed the stairs. “Here I am,” she called.

  Angie let the peaches speak for her when she reached the kitchen.

  “Would you like me to make some cobbler tonight?” Saundra asked, eyeing the jar. “A cobbler would taste good with the pork roast we’re having.”

  Angie nodded and handed her the jar. “I’m a little tired, Saundra. This was a long washday. Would you mind if I rest half an hour or so?”

  “Don’t even ask that!” Saundra told her, setting the peaches on the table. “Supper is all but finished. I’ll mix up the cobbler in no time at all.”

  “Thanks, Saundra,” Angie said, already in motion toward the stairs. Her head was reeling, and her eyes ached. She wanted to cry and shout at the same time. Wouldn’t Judy be excited when she heard about it?

  When Angie reached her room, Judy lay on her pillow, the heavy book dropped to the bed beside her. Angie eased onto the quilt and lay back with a deep sigh. Maybe telling Judy wasn’t the thing to do. The child was so excitable; she’d surely give away the secret.

  Angie let her eyes drift closed. Maybe she should tell Lane the whole story. If only she could get him alone without the others knowing about it. Before she realized it, she fell asleep and didn’t wake until she felt Judy’s hand on her shoulder.

  “Angie? Do you want to come down for supper?” the child asked. “You’ve been sleeping a long time.”

  Angie sat up, her chin sagging against her chest. She pushed hair off her face. “I’ll be right there. Just give me a minute to wake up.” Disgruntled, she stood and shoved her feet into her stiff shoes. So much for talking to Lane. With supper already on the table, the evening was all but over. He’d probably play a game of checkers and turn in after that. She couldn’t follow him into his room to talk to him, could she?

  Running fingers upward toward her bun to smooth a few stray ringlets, she headed to the stairs. Her chat with Lane would have to wait. But how could it? Christmas was less than seventy hours away.

  The next day was December 23, and Saundra and Angie met in the kitchen before dawn. They planned to make pies and sticky buns all that morning and apple strudel in the afternoon. They’d spend Christmas Eve making pies and cleaning the turkey Lane would butcher for them that morning.

  “I hope the men don’t mind coffee and biscuits for breakfast,” Angie said, pulling the wooden flour bin from under the counter. She felt so strange, as though she were watching herself from a high window, as though she were only acting like Angie McDonald. The real Angie was bouncing up and down on tiptoe and begging for a chance to catch Lane alone so they could talk.

  Saundra waited for her to finish dipping out flour and then reached for the bin. “Christmas dinner will make up for the small meals today and tomorrow,” she said.

  Adding saleratus and salt to flour in a bowl, Angie looked up to see Judy stumble into the kitchen, half asleep and wearing a woolen robe, her braids like twisted strands of barbed wire. Judy was never at her best in the morning.

  “What brings you out so early?” Angie asked her.

  “I want to help with the sticky buns,” Judy said, sitting at the table, chin on hand.

  Angie barely suppressed a grin. “We could use two extra hands—once you dress and comb your hair.”

  Judy made a sleepy, pouty face and slid out of the chair. A moment later they heard her door thump overhead. Ten minutes later Judy raced back into the room wearing a brown dress that was badly in need of ironing. Her hair hung in twin zigzag braids. The three ladies worked feverishly for the next two hours then set breakfast on the table.

  After the meal Lane stood and reached for his coat. Angie dipped her floury hands in the washbasin and grabbed a towel. She had her cape around her before the door closed behind him.

  “Lane?” she called, closing the door firmly. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

  At the bottom of the steps he turned. “What’s wrong?” he asked, concerned. “What’s happened?”

  She moved closer. “I need to tell you something. Let’s move away from the house. I don’t want anyone else to hear.”

  Still watching her, a crease between his brows, he waited for her to join him, and they moved toward the lane. The wind had a bite that wouldn’t let them linger too long.

  Angie pulled the cape around her and wished she’d taken time to put on her coat as well. “Judy and I discovered something I think you should know about.” She told him about the suede packet, the letter, and the diagram. “Judy and I have been scouring the house to find a pattern that matched the rubbing on that paper.”

  He shifted his feet. “This sounds like one of Judy’s fairy tales.”

  “Well, I think I found the place,” Angie told him. “I was looking at the stonework in the cellar, and I think I found the pattern on the floor. Only I’ll need help to dig up the stones. They’re packed in tight.”

  Lane drew in a breath and let it out in a white cloud that drifted over Angie’s head. “I’ll come in later, and we’ll have a go at it.”

  She handed him the folded paper. “Here is the pattern. It’s about three feet from the wall next to the shelf full of peach jars. You’ll see it. I’ll leave a lantern for you on the shelf inside the kitchen door.”

  She shivered. “We’ll have to make up some kind of excuse for your being down there. I really don’t want Hans or Saundra to know about it.”

  “Why not?”

  She shivered again. “I think Hans was the ranch hand mentioned in the letter. I think he came here to find the gold himself.”

  “You don’t say!” He tugged down the left flap on his wool hat. “Angie, you
’re knocking me off balance with all this.” He gazed at the sky for a moment and looked back at her. “I’ll help the men with the chores and then set them to mucking out the stalls. That should take them most of the morning.”

  Angie turned toward the house. “I’m freezing! I’ll see you later!” She set off at a trot, her teeth set against the chattering she felt coming on.

  “Whew! It’s cold out there!” she gasped, blinking at the rush of heat that hit her inside the kitchen. With the cookstove going full throttle, the change in temperatures was dramatic.

  “What were you talking to Daddy about?” Judy asked. She had a rolling pin in her hands and a lump of flattened bread dough in front of her on the floured table. “Why did you go outside to talk to him?”

  Angie slipped off her cape. “Children shouldn’t ask questions this close to Christmas,” she said, a mysterious lilt to her voice. Hanging the cape on its hook, she stepped up to the table. “Now let’s see—where was I?” She briefly washed her hands, carefully dried them, then dipped them in the flour bowl and squeezed off a lump of dough.

  When Saundra left the room a few minutes later, Angie whispered to Judy, “Don’t ask any more questions. Your dad is coming in to dig in the cellar later on this morning. I think I found the pattern down there. We don’t want anyone else to know.”

  Nodding wisely, a smile tugging at her mouth, Judy mouthed the words “all right” and sprinkled brown sugar over the wide band of dough before her on the table. Angie slid a bowl of raisins over to her then reached for a lantern and a match.

  Around ten o’clock Lane came inside, his cheeks pink, his nose red. Without a word he picked up the lantern and matches Angie had left on the shelf near the back door. He opened the cellar door and disappeared. It happened so smoothly and fast that Saundra didn’t see him. She was facing the stove stirring a small pot of dried apples and raisins simmering in brown sugar syrup—the filling for her strudel.

  Angie checked the last pan of sticky buns in the oven and decided to leave them in five minutes longer. With a feed sack dishcloth, Judy rubbed at hardened lumps of dried dough that stuck to the tabletop like glue. The girl sent Angie an excited smile and received a warning scowl in return.