Someone knocked. “There she is now.” Gladys hurried to the door.
Ma entered. “Mr. Johnson.” She nodded at Haydn. Walking closer, she sat by Mr. Keller. “And Mr. Keller. It’s good to see you again, although I wish it was under different circumstances.”
“Is that Gladys your gal?”
Ma nodded, and Mr. Keller nodded with satisfaction. “She’s a good one. I’ve told Haydn to hold on to her.” He coughed and sank back against the pillows.
Ma handed Gladys the medical book. “I’ve marked a few remedies I’ve found work best. Go on, both of you, and look them over, while I visit with Mr. Keller.”
Hugging the tome to her chest, Gladys walked into the kitchen, Haydn following behind. Neither one of them mentioned Mr. Keller’s continued references to a match between the two of them. Keeping her tone brisk, Gladys turned to the first marker. “Here the author’s talking about tea. Tea with honey—we’re already doing that—and lemon.” Her nose wrinkled. Lemons in February were as rare as fourteen hours of daylight. “Also peppermint is a good flavor for the tea. Maybe we can melt peppermint candy in hot tea. I wonder if that would work the same way. Maybe lemon drops, too.” They’d be easier to find than an actual lemon.
Haydn nodded. “Those sound too simple.”
“There’s more.” She turned to the next section that described what to feed their patient. “It does recommend chicken soup. But listen to this. It says to cook it with cayenne pepper. And even to add hot peppers with the vegetables.” She hadn’t cared for green peppers the one time she’d tried them. “I might be able to get hold of some green peppers.”
Haydn shook his head. “Green peppers aren’t hot. It’s talking about chili peppers or something like that. I had some once when I went to Texas. They burned my mouth. Maybe it’s supposed to burn away whatever is troubling his chest.”
“I’ll ask Ma.” Flipping to the last marker, she found the section on steam treatments and scanned the article. “It says oils can make steam more effective, eucalyptus and lavender in particular.” Now, those things Mr. Finnegan probably carried. Some women used oils to add scent to bath soap or to make perfumes.
Gladys made a list of things to look for at the mercantile. She grabbed a pencil to figure out an estimated cost. She should have enough, although it might cut her savings in half.
“I haven’t been able to find Mr. Keller’s money,” Haydn said. “And I didn’t bring that much with me. Will Mr. Finnegan put it on account?”
Gladys covered the total with her hand. “You don’t have to worry about the cost. It’s something I want to do.”
“You really mean that, don’t you?” Surprise stamped Haydn’s face as he sat back. “You’re willing to spend that much money on a man who’s done nothing but yell at you?”
And say you should marry me. Gladys didn’t point that out. “He’s my brother in Christ. He’s someone God loved enough to die for. I figure it’s the least I can do.” She stomped out of the room before he could rile her even more by refusing her money.
Chapter 9
While Haydn waited, he heard Mrs. Polson say good-bye. He whirled on his heels and left the kitchen. Time after time, Gladys tore down his defenses with a simple act or gesture. He had seen the total for the supplies the medical book recommended. He didn’t know where she could get her hands on that kind of money. Add to that all the money she lost by taking off the week to spend with Grandfather.
It was time he accepted her for who she was: a beautiful young woman who loved the Lord and for some reason known only to her and God, loved Grandfather no matter how he acted.
Haydn tossed his suitcase onto the bed and dug out his slim wallet. After his extended stay in Calico, he had spent most of the money he had brought with him. Paying for the last delivery of wood, a delivery Grandfather had insisted they didn’t need, had nearly wiped him out. But what he had left, he would give to Gladys. It was his grandfather who was sick. He counted out the money, not nearly enough, and went back downstairs.
He pushed the money at Gladys. “Take this.”
“You don’t need to do that. I told you—I want to pay for this.” She didn’t touch the money.
“And so do I.” He held out his hand, willing her to accept the money in spite of her earlier rejection.
“Why—so your business with Mr. Keller doesn’t suffer?” He had hurt her.
The words hung between them. Haydn considered telling her the truth—because he’s my grandfather—but his reasons were more complex than that. “Because I love him, too. I’ve grown up thinking of him as a loveless Ebenezer Scrooge of a man. But because of you, I’ve learned to love him, too.” He pressed the money into Gladys’s palm. “Take this from me. Please. Let me have a part in getting him well.”
Gladys chewed her lip. “When you put it like that, what can I say?” A grin replaced her worried look. “And if there’s any extra money, I’ll get more food. Some of your supplies are running low.”
Haydn glanced at the sleeping figure on the sofa. “Can you carry everything by yourself?” He wished he could go down to the mercantile with her, to enjoy a few hours of her company away from the sick man’s bedside.
“I can.” Gladys reached into her pocket and pulled out a change purse. “But why don’t you go ahead? You haven’t been out of this house for days.”
The prospect sorely tempted Haydn, but he decided against it. “You need to do the shopping. You send me for eucalyptus oil and I might come back with castor oil instead.”
“I’ll be back before you know it.”
Gladys didn’t know if it was the steam treatments, the vegetable broth spicy enough to strip green from copper, or the dried-up lemon Mr. Finnegan found for her. But by Sunday Mr. Keller had improved to the point where she and Haydn could leave him alone and go to church together.
She rejoiced that it was Palm Sunday, the beginning of Passion Week. Ruth led her schoolchildren in a reenactment of Jesus’ triumphal entry, waving pine branches instead of palms, and Jesus riding a pony instead of a donkey. Ruth had recruited Gladys’s brother Gordon to hold cue cards for the congregation.
With Gordon’s encouragement, the rafters of the church rang with shouts. “Hallelujah! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord.” Heart lifted in praise and worship, Gladys could hardly believe the same crowd had cried, “Crucify Him!” less than a week later.
On Monday morning, the doctor from Langtry pronounced Mr. Keller well enough to get up if he wanted to. Speaking with Gladys and Haydn in the front parlor, he said, “You’ve done an excellent job, both of you.”
“It was all Miss Polson’s doing.” Haydn reflected the credit back to her.
“All I did was follow the suggestions in my mother’s medical book.” Telltale heat raced into Gladys’s cheeks.
The doctor nodded. “Since I’m not needed here, I’ll go check on a couple of Dr. Devereux’s other patients.”
Gladys’s valise waited under her cloak by the front door. “I’ll say good-bye to Mr. Keller before I leave.” She headed up to his room, where they had moved him earlier when he improved enough to climb the stairs. Knocking on the door, she called, “Mr. Keller?”
“That you, Gladys? Come on in.” Mr. Keller sat up in bed, a pillow at his back. “It’s about time I said thank you for all you’ve done. That young doctor said you had a lot to do with me getting better.”
Gladys sat beside him, hands crossed in her lap. “It was God. I was only His instrument.”
“You healed more than my body, young lady. You healed my heart. This next Sunday is Easter, isn’t it?”
Gladys nodded. “My favorite time of year. I love Christmas, but Jesus’ resurrection completes the story.”
“You may be right.” Mr. Keller patted her hands. “I plan on going to church with Haydn next week. We’ll be looking for you.”
“You will?” Joy spread through Gladys’s body from the inside out. “That’s the best news I’ve had s
ince the first time I came to visit.”
Gladys called the sewing circle together to finish one final project for Mr. Keller. Late Saturday night, she knotted the final stitch on the surprise and wrapped it in plain brown paper with string.
Early Sunday morning, about the same time the women headed to Jesus’ tomb, Gladys put the package in the bottom of a basket and added several of her mother’s hot cross buns in a towel. Ma hugged her. “Have I told you lately how proud I am of you?”
“Too many times.” She returned her mother’s hug. “I’ll see you at church if not before.”
“If they invite you to stay for breakfast, go ahead and eat with them.”
As Gladys headed out the door, her mother said, “He is risen!”
“He is risen indeed!” Gladys returned the greeting then picked her way down the street, a muddy morass from the melted snow. She knocked boldly on Mr. Keller’s front door, none of the fear that had troubled her on her first visit stopping her this time.
She was about to knock a second time when Haydn opened the door, surprise evident on his face. “Gladys! What are you doing here so early?”
She followed him into the parlor. “I come bearing gifts. Ma sent boiled eggs and hot cross buns for your breakfast.”
“That wasn’t necessary.”
“We wanted to.” She continued into the kitchen, where Mr. Keller sat at the table. “Happy Easter, Mr. Keller.” She removed the food from the basket and then lifted the package from the bottom. Feeling suddenly shy, she laid it in front of the old man. “This is for you.”
Mr. Keller smiled. He smiled. “I got a present, and it isn’t even Christmas. Get me some scissors, Haydn, so I can cut the strings. They’re in the drawer next to the silverware.”
He stripped the strings away and unwrapped the brown paper. “It’s a quilt of some kind. That’s a lot of work.”
“A small one. My friends helped me finish it.” Gladys tugged the two top corners and stretched the quilt out, revealing a log cabin design in shades of blue. “You can use it as a lap rug. That way you can always be cozy and warm. I thought you might like it, going out today.”
Haydn bent over it, studying the stitches. “You do amazing work.” He had set the table with three plates. “You will join us for breakfast, won’t you?”
“Gladly.”
Before Gladys could sit, Haydn blocked her chair. “Will you join me in the parlor for a few moments?”
Did he have a gift for her? Gladys’s heart beat faster. She hadn’t brought a gift for him.
Once in the middle of the room, Haydn dropped to one knee. After stumbling back a step, Gladys steadied herself, and Haydn caught hold of her fingertips. “Gladys Polson, you opened my eyes to a love I had never known. How could I help but fall in love with the woman who showed me the love of the Lord every day since I’ve met her? Although I’m not worthy of you, I still dare bare my soul to you. Will you marry me? Be my wife and share my life and my love?”
“Yes. I’ll even follow you back to Topeka, if that is where God leads you.”
The tap of a walking cane announced Mr. Keller, carrying his new quilt. “That won’t be necessary.”
Gladys wondered why Mr. Keller was interrupting this private moment, but she decided she didn’t mind. They waited until he joined them and placed his hands on their arms. “Haydn won’t be going anywhere. He’ll be staying right here and starting a newspaper.” He settled in his chair, and Gladys darted forward to tuck the new quilt around him. “Gladys, I’d like to introduce you to my grandson, Haydn Norman Keller.”
Haydn grinned somewhat sheepishly. “You don’t object to being a Keller and living here with my grandfather?”
Gladys looked from one man to the other, comparing those identical sparkling brown eyes. How had she missed it?
“Gladly. Tomorrow and for the rest of my life.”
“Kiss her, boy.”
And Haydn did.
DARLENE FRANKLIN
Bestselling author Darlene Franklin’s greatest claim to fame is that she writes fulltime from a nursing home. She lives in Oklahoma, near her son and his family, and continues her interests in playing the piano and singing, books, good fellowship, and reality TV in addition to writing. She is an active member of Oklahoma City Christian Fiction Writers, American Christian Fiction Writers, and the Christian Authors Network. She has written over fifty books and more than 250 devotionals. Her historical fiction ranges from the Revolutionary War to World War II, from Texas to Vermont. You can find Darlene online at www.darlenefranklinwrites.com
The Spinster and the Cowboy
by Lena Nelson Dooley
Dedication
This book is dedicated to James Allen Dooley, who married me fifty-one years ago and still loves me. My life has been richer because you have been in it. You are the one person who can come to my office door and interrupt me when I am writing. I love you more every day.
A good man leaveth an inheritance to his children’s children.
PROVERBS 13:22
Prologue
San Francisco, Spring 1894
When the sharp rap on his closed office door roused him, Joshua Dillinger raised his gaze from the legal document he had been studying with intense concentration. He hated distractions, and Charles Ross, his secretary, knew it. Only something of great urgency would cause this interruption.
“Enter.” Joshua realized that his command sounded abrupt, but he wanted to get this interruption over with so he could discern any flaws in the contract that had to be ready for signatures in less than an hour.
Brandishing an envelope, the thin man walked briskly across the rug that swallowed the sound of his footsteps. “This was just delivered by messenger, sir. I have a feeling it’s important.”
He handed the missive to Joshua and hurried out of the room, pulling the door closed behind him. Joshua studied his father’s scratchy scrawl on the front of the letter. He wondered how the post office even knew where to send it. The older Father became, the worse his handwriting grew. If Joshua hadn’t been used to deciphering the letters he received from his dad, he wouldn’t have been able to tell what the address was.
Joshua placed the packet on top of the stack of documents that needed his attention today and turned back to his contract. He returned to the place where he held his finger on the paper, then went back to the beginning of the sentence and started over.
For the next forty-five minutes, he had a hard time keeping his mind on his task. Every few moments, his eyes strayed to the slightly wrinkled envelope. Joshua wondered what it contained, but he had to finish with the contract and send Charles over to the client’s office with it.
After his secretary left with the completed document, Joshua stood and stretched. While he concentrated on a hard task, his muscles became more and more knotted. He rubbed his neck with both hands and rotated his shoulders, trying to loosen them, as he stared out across the bay from his perch most of the way up one of San Francisco’s many hills. Joshua had chosen this office because of its view of the water. Not only could he keep up with the comings and goings of ships, but watching the bay in all kinds of weather proved soothing. He loved this city and once again thanked the Lord for the opportunities that had led him here.
Finally, Joshua turned around and picked up the letter from his father. He hoped it wasn’t bad news. Using the opener with the beautifully carved scrimshaw handle his grandfather gave him when he first opened the law office, he slit the paper and removed the contents—a sheet of paper and an already-opened envelope with papers inside. Father had forwarded a letter he’d received from his best friend, Fred Cunningham. In his included note, his father added his own request that Joshua do what Fred asked of him.
Now curious, Joshua pulled out the other papers. Before he read the words, his memory revisited a time when he was twelve and his family traveled by coach from Texas to Arizona to visit the Cunninghams. Their ranch spread for hundreds of acres from the base of th
e Rincon Mountains toward a tiny town, really not much more than a few huddled buildings surrounded by tall cacti with arms that spread toward the sky. What was the name of those plants? Something that started with an s and sounded foreign to his young ears.
He had enjoyed that trip. The ranch was larger than the one his father owned in Texas. Much of the time, Joshua had accompanied Mr. Cunningham’s nine-year-old daughter on wild rides around the vast acreage. With her brown braids flying in the wind, India could ride better than most of the cowboys. He often wondered about the girl. A few years after that trip, they’d received word that her mother had died. Did her death calm India or make her even wilder? He never heard anything more about them, because soon after that, he left home to study law.
Joshua turned his attention to the message. Fred Cunningham wanted Joshua to go to Arizona and help his daughter run the ranch for a time.
While perusing every piece of paper in the envelope, Joshua discovered that Mr. Cunningham had died almost a year ago. The message shouldn’t have taken so long to reach him, but the man’s lawyer had forgotten to mail it to Joshua’s father until recently. Father had sent it on from Texas.
At first, Joshua decided that he should ignore the appeal. He was a city lawyer, a long way from the young man who grew up on the plains in Texas. He hadn’t ridden a horse in years, preferring to use a buggy in the city. However, throughout the long afternoon, his mind kept returning to the request. Mr. Cunningham had been his father’s best friend, and he wouldn’t have asked something like this if he hadn’t believed that India needed help. How could Joshua refuse?
When he finished work for the day, he stood watching the lights flicker on one by one up and down the hills that spread from his office toward the shoreline. Soon many of them reflected in the water of the bay, sending sparkles that looked like stars in the inky liquid.
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