by Amanda Cabot
Catherine had smiled when she found pansies blooming in a corner of her garden three days earlier. They’d been the last flowers Mama had planted before she’d become so ill, and they’d seeded themselves, their cheerful blooms brightening Catherine’s day. She had smiled that day, and she’d smiled again today as she dug up a plant, knowing where it belonged.
When she reached the grave, Catherine knelt beside what the minister had called Mama’s final resting place. Mama wasn’t here. Catherine knew that, just as she knew her mother couldn’t hear her. But that didn’t stop her from whispering.
“I’m so confused, Mama. I don’t know what to do about Austin and the way he makes me feel. I told Rachel that he’s my friend, and he is, but the truth is, I’ve never had a friend like him. I think about him all the time. That never happened with Nate.”
Catherine traced the letters carved into the headstone. “Did you know that Nate wanted to court me? I never talked about it, because I was afraid something would go wrong, and it did. He turned out not to be the man I thought he was. Austin’s different. When he smiles at me, my heart races. When I see that distant look in his eyes, all I can think about is helping him overcome whatever it is that’s making him so sad. Mama, I care about him in ways I never cared about Nate. Is this love?”
There was no answer, but Catherine hadn’t expected one. She might not know whether what she felt was love, but there was one thing she did know: Austin was hiding something from her. There were times when she felt as if he was on the verge of telling her whatever it was, but then he’d draw back. He had secrets, and that worried her almost as much as her feelings for him, for Mama had told her that if a man and a woman truly loved each other, they would harbor no secrets. How could Catherine even consider loving a man who wasn’t honest with her?
She closed her eyes, wishing there were someone who could advise her. And then she realized that there was. Mama might not be here, but there was One who was. Slowly, she bowed her head.
“Come see, Miss Whitfield.” Hannah’s voice carried across the hallway. “There’s a strange woman in the cemetery. She looks lonely.”
Catherine entered what was now Hannah’s room and looked out the window. When she had agreed that Hannah could live with her, Catherine had decided she should stay in the guest room. Not only was it less crowded than Mama’s room, but it was also closer to Catherine’s. If Hannah had a nightmare or needed her, Catherine would hear her cry out.
One glance was all it took to confirm Hannah’s words. A black-clad woman, her face obscured by a heavy mourning veil, was moving slowly through the cemetery, pausing at each of the gravestones to read the inscriptions. She was a stranger—Catherine was certain of that, for there had been no recent deaths in Cimarron Creek—and yet something about the way the woman moved seemed familiar. Who could she be? There was an easy way to answer that question.
“I want you to stay here,” Catherine told Hannah. “I’ll see if I can help the lady.”
And so, only a day since she had prayed at her mother’s grave site, Catherine headed back to the cemetery.
“Good afternoon,” she said when she reached the woman. “Can I help you?”
The stranger, who was two or three inches shorter than Catherine, wore traditional mourning clothes, a black gown trimmed in black, a black veil covering her head and face. Though the garments were well tailored, they bore traces of dust, making Catherine suspect the woman had arrived on the stagecoach an hour or so ago. She could distinguish little of the woman’s features through the thick veil, but a stray hair on her sleeve told Catherine that the stranger was a blonde.
The woman shook her head. “It’s kind of you to offer, but I don’t think anyone can help.” Her voice was pleasant and well modulated, the voice of an educated woman. Though that combined with the style of her clothing led Catherine to believe she was from a city rather than one of the neighboring towns, it did not answer the question of why she was in Cimarron Creek. The last person who’d come to the town unannounced had been Lydia, and the cemetery had most definitely not been her destination.
“I came to visit . . .” The woman hesitated. “Friends,” she said at last. “It seems they’ve died, so there’s no reason to stay.”
The despair in the stranger’s voice made Catherine’s heart clench. This woman sounded the way she had felt when Mama had died, so bereft that she could barely think. Catherine had been fortunate that Lydia and Aunt Bertha had helped her through those terrible first few days, but this woman appeared to be alone.
“You’ll need a place to spend the night,” Catherine told the stranger. “The next stagecoach doesn’t come until tomorrow morning. That’s the eastbound one. The westbound arrives in the afternoon.” When the woman said nothing, perhaps because she was overwhelmed by the combination of her loss and being stranded here, Catherine continued. “Cimarron Creek has no hotel, but you’re welcome to stay with me.”
Still, there was no response. “Oh, I’ve forgotten my manners. I’m Catherine Whitfield. The town’s schoolteacher.”
The woman nodded and extended her hand, her gesture as graceful as her walk had been. “I’m pleased to meet you, Miss Whitfield. I’m Grace Sims, and I’d be grateful for a room.” As she gripped Catherine’s hand, pressing it between both of hers as if she were drawing strength from it, she said, “My husband passed away recently. I came to Cimarron Creek, because I’d hoped to find a home here. Now . . .” She let the words trail off.
Catherine took a deep breath, exhaling slowly as thoughts swirled through her mind. When she’d walked through her backyard and into the cemetery, her only thought had been to help this woman find the grave she sought, but hearing Grace Sims’s story had changed everything. Catherine nodded. It might be impulsive, but what she was about to propose felt right.
“You’re welcome to stay with me as long as you’d like,” she said. “If you decide to remain in Cimarron Creek, you don’t need to be in a hurry to find your own home.”
“That’s more than generous of you.” Catherine saw the woman’s relief reflected in the angle of her shoulders. They no longer looked as if they were carrying an immense burden. “Thank you, but I’m not sure I should impose.”
“It wouldn’t be an imposition,” Catherine insisted, “though I need to warn you that one of my pupils boards with me during the week. She’s a very sweet little girl, but if you’re not used to six-year-olds, her exuberance can be overwhelming.” There was no need to tell Mrs. Sims that that exuberance was a welcome change from the Hannah who had first entered the schoolhouse.
Mrs. Sims released Catherine’s hand and took a step backward. “A child. I see. I’m not sure that would be a good idea.”
“Don’t you like children, Mrs. Sims?”
“Indeed I do. The problem is, they often don’t like me.” Slowly, she raised her veil.
14
You gonna set it the way you did Roger’s arm?”
Austin gave his head a little shake as his hands carefully examined the calf’s leg. “It’s not broken, thankfully. It’s a sprain. No need to set that. It will get better on its own.”
When Seth had reported that his father had heard coyotes howling, Austin had wasted no time saddling a horse. Even if the coyotes proved to be nothing more than a figment of Boone’s imagination, the result of too much time at the Silver Spur, Austin needed to check the cattle. He and Seth were now a half hour’s ride from the ranch house, and while they’d seen no evidence of coyotes, they’d found a calf limping. To the boy’s immense delight, Austin had allowed him to lasso the animal and had shown him how he’d made sure that the calf had not sustained a fracture.
“That’s good. Casts don’t work for range animals,” he told Seth. “Even if I tried one, this little guy would probably chew it off.”
“You’re not gonna shoot him, are you?” The faint trembling of Seth’s lower lip made Austin suspect that the boy had seen his father kill more than one animal.
Seth nodded, his relief evident.
Austin glanced up at Seth. The boy was watching him wide-eyed, as if Austin were some kind of hero. He wasn’t. He was a man who’d deceived a woman he cared about, and that was far from heroic.
Austin hated pretending to Catherine that he had no experience with broken bones. Perhaps he should have remained silent and let Catherine set Roger Henderson’s arm, but he couldn’t risk the boy’s losing use of his arm if the bones were aligned incorrectly.
Book learning was one thing, but nothing beat practical experience. That had been one of the first lessons Austin had learned at medical school. Though Catherine had an excellent book, it was not enough. That was why students worked with experienced doctors to learn the proper techniques. That was why Austin had taken over setting Roger’s arm.
He wanted to tell Catherine the truth, but he couldn’t until he was certain Enright was no longer a threat and until he had somehow managed to allay her fears of physicians.
“I wish I could do that,” Seth said as Austin finished checking the calf’s leg. “You make it look easy.”
Had he done that in the schoolroom? It was too late to change anything, but Austin hoped he hadn’t made Roger’s cast look easy. Catherine was an intelligent woman who wouldn’t believe the story of beginner’s luck if the evidence pointed to a different explanation.
“It’s all a matter of practice.” And Austin had had plenty of that. He signaled to Seth to release the calf’s hind legs, then watched while it struggled to its feet and limped back toward the herd. At least one thing had gone right today: the calf was already limping less than it had been when they arrived.
“So, what did you learn in school today?” he asked, deliberately changing the subject.
“Lots.”
Catherine stared at Grace Sims’s face, trying not to wince at the badly pitted and scarred skin. No wonder she worried about children’s reaction if she removed her veil.
“Smallpox?” That was the only thing Catherine could imagine causing such disfigurement. The woman, whom Catherine guessed to be in her midthirties, had golden blonde hair. Though she would have expected blue eyes with that hair, Mrs. Sims’s were an unusual shade of green. Were it not for the scarring, she might have been a beautiful woman, but there was no question that few would look beyond the scars.
Mrs. Sims nodded. “The doctor said I was the worst case he’d seen. He claimed it was more severe because I was an adult.” Though Catherine wondered whether her doctor had been as incompetent as Cimarron Creek’s, she said nothing, merely listened as the woman continued to speak.
“I was fortunate that Douglas didn’t mind the scars. Douglas was my husband,” Mrs. Sims explained as tears filled her eyes. “He reminded me that our marriage vows said ‘in sickness and in health,’ and that he loved me no matter what my face looked like. And he did. I never once saw him wince when he looked at me, but he was also realistic. That’s why he encouraged me to wear a veil when I went outside. He said it would make both me and others more comfortable, and he was right. My life was as normal as it could be until he became ill and . . .” She bit her lip in an obvious attempt to control her emotions.
“Died.” Catherine completed the sentence.
“Yes. Last month. Afterward, there was no reason for me to stay in San Antonio.”
That answered two of Catherine’s unspoken questions. She had wondered where the woman had called home and why she had left.
“So you came here only to discover that your friends had died too.” And that was strange. If they were friends, why hadn’t Mrs. Sims been aware of their deaths? If the deaths had been recent, Catherine could understand the confusion, but there had been no funerals in the last few months.
She looked directly at Grace Sims. Though the scarring was extensive and would appear repulsive to many, the more Catherine talked to her, the easier she found it to ignore the scars and focus on the woman behind them.
“Who were your friends? Perhaps they still have family here.” As the town’s schoolteacher, not to mention part of the founding families, Catherine knew everyone who lived in the area.
Mrs. Sims drew her veil back over her face as she said, “They don’t. They were the last of their line.”
Catherine mulled over the recent deaths. Mrs. Sims might be speaking of the Saylors. Both of them had died of yellow fever last summer, along with their only son. Catherine recalled Travis saying it was a shame the foreman couldn’t afford to buy the ranch, but the heirs—very distant cousins who lived in Nebraska Territory—had insisted on a high price, and it had remained neglected for a few months until Austin bought it.
“I’m the last of my family. My mother died last year.” Catherine wasn’t sure why she’d said that. Perhaps she’d wanted Mrs. Sims to know that she understood loss.
“It’s never easy to lose a parent.” Mrs. Sims cleared her throat. “Are you certain it’ll be all right for me to stay with you for a day or two while I figure out what to do next?”
“I’m sure.” Catherine glanced at her watch, surprised at how long she had remained in the cemetery talking to Mrs. Sims. Hannah would be wondering what was keeping her. “Let me show you to my house. Then we’ll send for your luggage.”
“I don’t know how to thank you, Miss Whitfield.”
Catherine gave her a warm smile, wanting this woman who was all alone to feel welcome here. “You can start by calling me Catherine.”
“Only if you’ll call me Grace.”
When they reached the house, Hannah came barreling out the front door. “You brought the lady home! I’m glad. She looked lonely.”
“Where are your manners, Hannah?” Catherine frowned at the girl who was normally better behaved.
“I’m sorry.” She hung her head in what Catherine hoped was not feigned regret.
Catherine turned to the visitor. “Grace, this is Hannah Goddard. She spends the week with me. Hannah, Mrs. Sims will be staying with us for a while. Now, let’s go inside.” She held the door so Grace could enter, then followed, leaving Hannah to trail behind. The veiled woman moved confidently, her gait tickling the edges of Catherine’s memory. Something about Grace Sims seemed familiar, and yet she was certain she had never before seen this woman.
Once indoors, Catherine led the way to the only unused bedroom. “This will be your room,” she told Grace as she opened the door.
“It’s very pretty.” The slight hitch in her voice told Catherine she realized this was no ordinary guest room.
“It used to be my mother’s.”
Grace turned so she was facing Catherine. “Are you sure you want me to stay here?”
“Yes.” The reply was immediate. Though she was not normally impulsive, Catherine’s instincts told her she had made the right decision and that she could trust Grace. “Supper will be ready in half an hour.” She studied her guest for a second, wondering how she could eat while wearing a veil. “You don’t need to wear your veil indoors.”
“What about Hannah?”
“I’ll talk to her.”
Catherine crossed the short hallway and entered Hannah’s room. “Mrs. Sims left her trunk at the mercantile. I’d like you to ask Mr. Whitfield to have it sent here.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Hannah reached for her bonnet.
“There’s one more thing. Mrs. Sims was very sick, and now her face is not smooth like yours or mine. I don’t want you to be surprised when you see her. It’s also something I don’t want you to mention to anyone. We don’t want people gossiping about her, do we?”
“No, ma’am.”
Though Catherine had thought Hannah might wrinkle her nose at the idea of a less than perfect complexion, she tipped her head to one side as she asked, “Is the lady scarred?”
“Yes. She had smallpox, and that sometimes happens.”
Hannah nodded,
as if she had experience with the dread disease. “My papa could make her pretty again.”
It was another of her imaginings. Catherine shook her head slowly. “Your father can do many things, but I don’t believe that’s one of them.”
As Hannah opened her mouth to protest, her eyes widened in what appeared to be alarm, and she lifted her hand to her face, pinching her lips together. When she removed her hand, she whispered, “I forgot.”
“The least you can do is let me prepare the meals,” Grace said as she and Catherine settled into matching chairs in the parlor. The supper dishes were finished, and Hannah had gone to bed, leaving the women alone.
“I don’t want to sound as if I’m bragging, but I’m a good cook. That’s how I met Douglas. I was working at a hotel in San Antonio when I saw his advertisement in a newspaper. He needed a cook and a companion for his wife.”
Grace looked up from the tatting that had her fingers moving as quickly as her tongue. “You seem surprised. What I didn’t mention before was that Douglas was twenty years older than me. His wife’s rheumatism became so severe that she could no longer care for the house. That’s when he hired me.”
A small smile crossed Grace’s face. “They were the kindest people I’ve ever met—almost like parents to me—and when Marjorie died, Douglas said it wouldn’t be proper for me to remain unless we were married, so he sent for a minister. Almost before I knew what was happening, I was Mrs. Douglas Sims. We learned later that we were married the same day that General Lee surrendered at Appomattox.”
Catherine didn’t know which surprised her most, the fact that Grace had married a man so much older or the way words seemed to pour from her. In all her life, Catherine had met only one other person who talked like that: Great-Aunt Bertha, a woman who’d been famous for her monologues.
