Cassidy

by Lori Wick

  “How’s Cassie?” Trace asked when the buggy stopped in the yard.

  “Cassie’s fine,” that lady answered and asked, “How’s Trace?”

  “I’m doing well,” Trace said, switching to the first person, holding his hand out to help her down.

  “Thank you,” Cassidy said before looking up at him and asking about his morning. Cassidy was always interested in others, and they answered because it was so obvious that her heart was genuine.

  “We were on the range for a while, but both of us had work waiting for us in the barn.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Brad is working on a saddle. I had a wagon part that needed fixing, and I forgot to get it to Stillwell’s yesterday. So I’m stuck trying to work around it today.”

  “You don’t have your own forge, do you?” Cassidy realized.

  “No. We live close enough to town that we just use the livery.”

  “Is that the reason?”

  “Yes. Bart Carlisle—he’s another five miles out, and he does his own.”

  “Would you know how to do the work if you had your own forge?”

  “Enough to get by,” Trace said, starting to smile at her intense look. “But I’m no expert.”

  “Am I being mocked?” she asked lightly, having caught his eye, her head tipped in challenge.

  “No,” Trace denied with wide eyes, not the least believable.

  Cassidy, working not to smile, started toward the house but stopped when Trace spoke.

  “I think you forgot something,” Trace said as he started to reach for the parcel on the seat.

  Cassidy had seen Meg come to the porch and suddenly moved so Trace’s body blocked Meg from seeing her face. Trace looked down at the small blonde in surprise.

  “Leave it for Brad,” she whispered. “It’s a secret for Meg.”

  Trace smiled at her tone and the way she went instantly back to what she was doing.

  “Thank you, Trace,” she said in her normal voice, smiling at him in complete innocence and stepping around him to head to the house.

  “You’re welcome,” Trace said, knowing he would have to stay put for a few minutes or Meg would want to know what he was chuckling about.

  “This is my favorite fabric,” Cassidy said, fingering the yellow-patterned calico in the baby quilt the women were making.

  “I like that one too, but the green is my favorite.”

  “What is it this week?” Cassidy suddenly asked.

  “A boy,” Meg answered with a smile. “Mitchell James.”

  “Wasn’t it Bethany Mayann last week?”

  “It was, but that was seven entire days ago, Cass. A lot can run through your mind.”

  Cassidy laughed about this for a while, but when she looked at her friend, Meg’s eyes were serious.

  “Have you talked to anyone else about your secret?” the expectant woman asked.

  “No,” Cassidy replied quietly. “Rylan is next. I only just mentioned that I wanted to talk to him when I picked up the buggy. We’ll have to find a place to make that possible.”

  “Did he ask you any questions?”

  “No. It wasn’t the place for that.”

  “I’ll keep praying for you,” Meg said, and Cassidy thanked her.

  Cassidy had lived in Token Creek less than a year, but the women had become friends almost upon their first meeting. Something in each of the women reached out to the other, and little by little they talked about all aspects of their lives. It took a few months for Cassidy to tell all, but she eventually shared some painful facts about her family.

  Meg was the soul of discretion, but Cassie’s background wasn’t a matter she could relate to—she hailed from a wonderful Christian home. She was a good listener, though, and believed with all her heart that God, with His own plan and in His own time, would take care of Cassidy and her family.

  “Right there!” Meg exclaimed as she pointed, having watched Cassidy do an amazing number of even stitches at one time. “How did you do that?”

  “Like this.” Cassidy shifted so Meg could watch for a moment. Meg was a good seamstress, but Cassidy was excellent. And it seemed to come naturally for her.

  “You try,” Cassidy urged the older woman, and then watched Meg’s needle move.

  “How was that?” Meg asked, looking for approval.

  “Much better. You’re just one short of mine.” Cassidy had done a swift count.

  Meg looked very pleased about this and also relaxed about her ability. The conversation shifted to Jeanette and Brad’s mother until it was time to make supper.

  “How was the sewing?” Trace asked when he came in much later and found Cassidy setting the table.

  “We’re almost finished with the quilt.”

  “What will you work on next?” Trace asked, realizing how long Cassidy had been coming out on Wednesday afternoons.

  Cassidy smiled and said, “Probably baby clothes.”

  Trace laughed a little. It should have been obvious to him but hadn’t been until just that moment.

  “Trace,” Meg called from the kitchen, “is Brad coming in?”

  “Not for a few minutes. Is there something I can do?”

  Trace went that way without being asked, and Cassidy wondered if Meg knew how special that was. Both men were swift to help her, and she knew it wasn’t only about the pregnancy.

  Most of the men in the church family were unerringly polite. This was not true of all the men of Token Creek—some of them were downright rude, which probably explained why the men of the church family stood out to Cassidy.

  “How’s it going?” Brad asked as he entered the dining room, having come from the direction of the front door. Cassidy realized she’d been staring into space.

  “Fine. Trace is in the kitchen. Meg needed something.”

  If Cassidy expected him to head that way, she was wrong. He hesitated, and his voice dropped.

  “How did the nightgown turn out?”

  “Very well,” she answered with a smile. “Did you find it?”

  Brad could only nod as Meg came from the kitchen.

  “Oh, Brad, I didn’t hear you.”

  “Hi,” he said with a smile before bending to kiss her. “I came in from the front.”

  “Supper is almost on.”

  “I’ll get washed up.”

  Meg watched her husband walk away, and Cassidy watched Meg.

  “What’s the matter?” the visitor asked.

  “I don’t know. I feel like he’s not telling me something.”

  “From that short interchange?” Cassidy asked, hoping her face and voice would not give Brad away.

  Meg shrugged. “I’m probably just imagining things.”

  The women went back to work on the meal and the table, and Cassidy was relieved. Brad was most certainly up to something, and Cassidy would rather bite her tongue than spoil the surprise.

  For the first part of the journey back to town, Trace and Cassidy were quiet. On Wednesday nights Trace always tied his horse to the back of Cassidy’s buggy and saw her back to town. Tonight was no different, except for the quiet. The four had talked nonstop over supper, but at the moment the couple headed back to town had nothing to share. Not until Cassidy sighed did Trace comment.

  “Contented sigh or a tired sigh?”

  “Did I sigh?” Cassidy asked with a frown.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Oh.”

  Trace waited, but Cassidy didn’t share. He looked down at her profile and knew she was thinking. Not for several seconds did she look at him.

  “Tired, I think,” she answered, as though the question were brand new.

  “You work hard,” Trace said, wondering if that was all there was to it.

  “Not today.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that. I think a break in routine can be just as tiring as work.”

  Cassidy thought about this. She always slept very well on Wednesday nights.

  “I thin
k you might be right,” Cassidy said in wonder. “I am more tired on Wednesdays.”

  “Do you think you’ll still come to the ranch?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “To sew with Meg—because it makes you so tired.”

  Cassidy turned her head, her mouth open in surprise, and caught the teasing glint in his eye. Not bothering to answer, she tried to hide her smile as she turned back to the front.

  Trace did not keep at her. They were still a little quiet on the ride in, but it was comfortable. Once in town, Trace headed directly to the livery, and after helping Cassidy to the ground, took care of the buggy and horse. That done, his horse’s reins in hand, they began the walk to Cassidy’s store.

  “How busy are you this week?” Cassidy remembered to ask.

  “About normal, I think. Why do you ask?”

  “I just wondered if you’re coming back into town to study with Pastor Rylan and the other men.”

  “Actually I am planning on it. We’re getting together Friday night. It’s been a few weeks since we’ve been able to meet, and that’s the first night we can fit it in.”

  They were at the side of Cassidy’s shop now, at the outside stairway that led to her door. Cassidy stopped and looked up at him.

  “Sounds great.”

  “You know, Cass,” Trace said, his head tipped a little to study her. “You’re always happy for others.”

  “Oh,” Cassidy said, frowning a little. “I guess I am, but what made you say that?”

  “I don’t know. I just thought of it.”

  Cassidy smiled, remembering yet another thing she liked about Trace Holden. He was good at sharing his thoughts.

  Trace only smiled back at the small blonde, urged her indoors, and told her he’d see her Sunday.

  Cassidy wasted no time, knowing he had to ride all the way home, in slipping into her small upstairs apartment. She lit a lantern even though it was still light and thought about why she felt a mixture of weariness and restlessness.

  Not only did Cassidy make and mend clothing, she also sewed quilts and displayed them in the window of her shop. They sold at a fairly fast rate, and she was nearly always working on one. Tonight would be a perfect time to get in some extra stitching, but for some reason her heart wasn’t in it.

  Opting to just sit by the window and watch the sun go down, Cassidy sat in her most comfortable chair and thought back on the day.

  “What’s this?” Meg stopped by the bed much later that night, her long-sleeved nightgown already in place.

  Brad peeked out from the newspaper he’d been reading and tried not to look pleased.

  “What does it look like?” he asked.

  Meg picked up the thin garment and held it up for inspection. Knowing Cassidy’s work by heart, she wasn’t long in catching on.

  “Did you have Cassidy make this?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Just about squealing in delight, Meg swiftly changed into the new nightgown and looked down at herself.

  “It’s so light and soft.”

  Brad only smiled at her expression and watched her closely. He caught it the moment she frowned.

  “It’s very sheer,” Meg decided.

  “Is that a problem?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Meg,” Brad spoke gently to his wife, “you’re too warm at night, and you never leave the bedroom without your robe.”

  Looking down at herself, Meg studied the sleeveless design, V neck, and the way the garment stopped just below her knees. In truth she hadn’t felt so cool all day.

  Without speaking, she climbed into bed and put her arms around her husband. Kissing him softly, she said, “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” Brad said, and kissed her right back.

  Meg looked into his eyes. “I wondered what you were up to.”

  Brad smiled. “I can’t get away with much these days.”

  “It all shows on your face.”

  “What’s showing on my face right now?” Brad asked, pulling her a little closer.

  Meg smiled without answering and kissed her husband again.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “GOOD MORNING, JEANETTE,” RYLAN said quietly.

  “Good morning, Rylan. Come in,” Jeanette invited. The big man stepped inside her elegant home early Thursday morning. “Thanks for coming,” the woman continued. “She’s in a bad way.”

  Rylan only nodded, having been through this before, and followed Jeanette to the conservatory. At times, Theta Holden grew agitated. She didn’t cry out or fight against Jeanette and Heather, but she shifted in her seat often and worried the padded arms of the chair. At times tears would roll down her face. The first time it happened, just two years earlier, Jeanette stood helpless and cried with her, but in time she learned to send for Rylan. His deep, calm voice had a settling effect on her sister, and if he was available, he was always willing to come.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Holden. Your sister tells me you’re not feeling the best this morning.”

  Jeanette, listening from the edge of the room, thanked God for her pastor. He did not make foolish or inane statements. It might have been tempting to tell Theta that he’d just happened to stop by, but instead told her he’d been sent for.

  “I’d like to tell you what I read in my Bible this week,” Rylan said, having taken a seat across from her and opened his Bible. “It’s from the second chapter of Proverbs, and I love the promises I read here.

  “Starting in verse three, it says, ‘Yea, if thou criest after knowledge, and liftest up thy voice for understanding; if thou seekest her as silver, and searchest for her as for hidden treasures; then shalt thou understand the fear of the Lord, and find the knowledge of God. For the Lord giveth wisdom; out of his mouth cometh knowledge and understanding. He layeth up sound wisdom for the righteous; he is a buckler to them that walk uprightly. He keepeth the paths of judgment, and preserveth the way of his saints. Then shalt thou understand righteousness, and judgment, and equity; yea, every good path.'”

  Rylan raised his head and saw that Theta was very still. She seemed to be listening. He didn’t elaborate on what he’d read but began to sing softly, his voice a rich bass. He sang an old hymn about the love and faithfulness of God. He then prayed for Theta, asking God to bless her and keep her thoughts on Him. When he looked up, she was asleep. Rylan studied her pale skin and graying hair for a moment and then made his way quietly from the room.

  “That’s never happened before,” he said to Jeanette when they were out of earshot.

  “Her eyes closed right after you began to pray,” Jeanette said, just as surprised as Rylan. “I was watching all the time, and I think she was ready to sleep right after your song.”

  Rylan smiled a little. “It’s usually my sermons that put folks to sleep.”

  Jeanette laughed and saw him to the door.

  “Thanks, Rylan,” Jeanette spoke warmly. “I have to be at the shop, and I hated to leave her in that state.”

  “It’s my pleasure, Jeanette,” he said. “Let me know how she does the rest of the day.” This said, Rylan took his leave. This was not a morning at the livery, and he had a sermon to finish.

  Chandler Di Fiore opened the bank with ten minutes to spare, knowing he had some work on his desk that needed attention.

  His teller, Mr. Falcone, would be along shortly, and Chandler hoped to get a few things done before the streets grew noisy. The days were warmer now, and the door and windows were opened mid-morning and remained that way all day. Chandler did his best work when it was quiet.

  “Good morning.” Mr. Falcone, appearing suddenly, greeted his employer.

  “Hello, Ed,” Chandler said in return. “I think we’re in for another warm one.”

  “I hope so. I’m still working to drive the memory of winter away.”

  Chandler smiled but didn’t comment. His teller was a fine employee, but the cup was always half empty, never half full. Chandler, putting everything
from his mind except the paperwork on his desk, managed to accomplish quite a bit before the first distraction. And that was a good thing because it was Abi Pfister, and she was not there on bank business.

  “I’ve come, Mr. Di Fiore,” she announced, stepping up to his desk, pencil and paper in hand. “I’m ready for your story.”

  Chandler welcomed the eccentric older woman, one of Token Creek’s many characters, and sat down again once she’d taken a seat. It was common knowledge that Abi Pfister was writing a book, and not just any book, but a book on Token Creek and all its inhabitants, past and present. The book was to include details and events that she alone claimed to know. Few thought she would actually accomplish this because she interrupted most of her interviews with stories she had already recorded. She’d come to see Chandler twice about the details of his life, never quite getting them down.

  “Now,” Abi began, her work on her book very important to her. “Exactly how long have you been in Token Creek?”

  “Four years.”

  “Exactly?” Abi pressed.

  “It was four years in May.”

  Abi wrote and then looked at him again, her hat a bit askew but suiting her nonetheless.

  “And you hail from where?”

  “Boston.”

  “You were born there?”

  “I was.”

  Abi speared him with a look just then, certain she was being laughed at, but Chandler’s face gave nothing away. She bent back over her paper and continued with her questions.

  “And your fiancée’s name is Cassidy Norton, correct?”

  “I’m not engaged to Miss Norton or anyone else,” Chandler said, his voice not changing, even though he was surprised.

  Abi looked up at him. “But Heller at the sawmill said that you and Cassidy were engaged.”

  “Were you getting Heller’s story or mine?”

  Again, Chandler’s voice did not alter, but Abi knew she was being rebuked. Her eyes narrowed, and Chandler steeled himself for the moment she stood and stormed out of the bank. It surprised him when she sat back a little and her face changed to thoughtfulness.

  “No fiancée?” she said quietly.

  “No.”