A Borrowed Dream

by Amanda Cabot

  As the last surviving member of the first generation, Aunt Bertha had been a fixture in Cimarron Creek until her death last fall. Though some had grumbled about Aunt Bertha’s tendency to monopolize conversations, Catherine had never minded, for she’d recognized her great-aunt’s innate kindness and had always enjoyed her company. The sorrow she had felt about her passing had begun to fade, replaced by regret that Aunt Bertha had died without being reunited with her daughter.

  Now was not the time to be thinking of Joan Henderson. Catherine returned her focus to her guest. Grace had raised so many subjects that Catherine wasn’t certain where to start her response. When in doubt, Mama had always said, start at the beginning. And so Catherine did.

  “I don’t expect you to cook. You’re a guest here.”

  Grace’s fingers continued to fly as she plied the shuttle and the fine thread. “Then let me rephrase my offer. I enjoy preparing meals and would like a way to repay your kindness. Think of it this way, Catherine: you would be doing me a favor if you’d allow me to cook for you. Please don’t say no.”

  Phrased like that, it became an offer Catherine could not refuse. She smiled, remembering the wonderful meals Mama had made. Even if Grace’s were not as good, they would still be an improvement over Catherine’s culinary efforts. “Thank you, Grace. I accept your offer with pleasure.”

  The woman nodded as she released thread from the tatting shuttle. “I’ll start with breakfast tomorrow. What time would you like to eat?” When they’d settled that, Grace examined the doily she was making and said, “You’ve probably noticed that I enjoy tatting. What’s your favorite pastime?”

  “Reading,” Catherine said without hesitation. She had once heard that Thomas Jefferson claimed he could not live without books. She agreed.

  Grace smiled as if she’d expected the response. “No wonder you’re a teacher. I confess that I don’t read many books, but I enjoy magazines. I brought several that might interest you.”

  Laying her tatting aside, she rose and disappeared into her room for a few seconds, returning with three magazines. “I probably shouldn’t admit it, but I yawned when I looked at the bed. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll retire for the evening. The journey was more tiring than I’d expected.”

  Catherine bade her guest good night, then picked up one of the magazines. Unlike Grace, she was not ready for bed. She was leafing through the magazine, glancing at an occasional page, when she spotted a small boxed advertisement. It wasn’t the type of thing she normally read, and yet it caught her eye. She read the announcement once, then again, her smile turning into a Cheshire Cat grin as the words registered. What an opportunity!

  The next day Catherine was as anxious as her pupils for lunchtime to arrive. She’d considered talking to Seth during the morning recess but had decided to wait for lunch and the greater privacy it would afford them. While she thought the boy would be excited by her proposal, there was always the possibility that he would not, and in that case, she wanted no one to overhear them.

  The change in Seth since he’d started working for Austin had been dramatic. Not only had he gained self-confidence, but his drawing had also improved. Even without formal training, there was no ignoring his talent. The advertisement Catherine had found could be the opportunity Seth needed to have his talent recognized.

  At last! “All right, boys and girls. It’s lunchtime.” She took a step toward Seth’s desk and smiled at him, hoping to dispel any alarm he might feel as she said, “Would you stay for a moment?”

  When the rest of the students had left, he approached her desk, his expression clearly alarmed. “Is something wrong, Miss Whitfield?”

  “No, not at all.” Catherine pulled the magazine that had caught her attention from her bag and opened it to the page she’d marked. “I wanted you to see this.”

  He read the announcement, then looked up at her, wonder shining from his eyes. “An art contest?”

  “Yes. I thought you might want to enter it.”

  “Do you really think my drawings are good enough?” All traces of self-confidence had vanished, and he was once again the insecure boy who’d first entered her schoolroom.

  “I do. You’re very talented, Seth.”

  He looked at her for a second, then dropped his gaze to the floor. “Pa won’t like the idea.”

  Though Catherine knew Boone had discouraged his son’s artistic endeavors, she thought he might approve of this. “It doesn’t cost anything to enter, and if you win, the prize is five dollars.” If Boone was as motivated by money as she believed, surely he would be impressed by the possibility of his son winning such a substantial sum.

  “I don’t know, Miss Whitfield. Pa thinks drawing is a waste of time.”

  Catherine hated the way Seth’s shoulders slumped. For a moment he had been enthusiastic until the reality of his father’s disapproval had intruded.

  “I don’t want you to get in trouble with your father.” She had seen the results of Boone’s anger all too often. Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea.

  “That wouldn’t be anything new.” Seth was silent for a moment, clearly weighing his excitement over the possibility of winning the contest against the probability of his father’s wrath. He clenched his fists and stared out the window, then looked back at Catherine. “I want to enter. I want to see if anyone other than you and Mr. Goddard likes my drawings.”

  Seth returned to his desk and pulled half a dozen sheets of paper from his satchel. “Which one should I send?”

  Catherine studied each of the drawings, her attention continuing to be caught by one in particular. “This one,” she said, pointing to one that showed Austin kneeling beside a calf, examining the calf’s leg. “Your pictures of the ranch are excellent, but I think the judges will like the fact that you have a person and an animal in this one as well as background. That gives it more interest.”

  Seth nodded. “It’s my favorite too.” The smile that had lit his face as he looked at the drawing faded. “Pa doesn’t have to know I’m entering, does he?”

  Catherine shook her head. “You don’t need his permission to enter, but you need an address so they can return your drawing when the contest is over and notify you if you win. You can use my address, but you need to use your own name. When you fill out the form, write ‘Seth Dalton care of Miss Catherine Whitfield.’”

  While she didn’t like the deception, she wanted Seth to have a chance. Surely it would be all right.

  “Did you have a good week?” If he lived to be a hundred, Austin didn’t think he’d ever forget the thrill of having Hannah run from the schoolhouse and fling herself into his arms. It happened every Friday afternoon, and every Friday her spontaneous gesture touched him as much as it had the week before. It was good—so very good—to see his daughter happy again.

  “Oh yes, Papa. It was the best.”

  Austin bit back a smile at the realization that she said the same thing every week.

  “Lots of things happened.” Hannah began to regale him with stories of the boys catching frogs in the creek and how Roger used one of Rebecca’s hairpins to scratch under his cast. “She was so mad. She said he wasn’t supposed to do that.”

  Austin doubted the boy had done any harm. “Arms itch when they’re healing.”

  “That’s what Miss Whitfield said. She wasn’t mad at Roger.” Hannah took a breath, then grinned at her father. “The most exciting thing is that a nice lady came to live with Miss Whitfield and me.”

  Austin blinked in surprise. Catherine hadn’t mentioned expecting a visitor when he’d seen her Monday morning. “Who is she?”

  “Her name is Mrs. Sims. She’s a very good cook. Even better than Mrs. Moore. But, Papa, it’s so sad.” Hannah’s smile turned upside down. “Miss Whitfield said I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone about it, but the lady’s face is ugly.”

  Like many children, his daughter had always been quick to judge others by their appearance. “Not everyone can be beautiful on
the outside. It sounds as if Mrs. Sims is beautiful on the inside. That’s more important.”

  Hannah shook her head. “I think she was beautiful once, but now she has scars all over her face. Miss Whitfield said they were from smallpox.”

  Austin had seen the ravages smallpox could inflict and had no trouble imagining the woman’s scars. He also understood why Catherine had cautioned Hannah not to speak of them. Both adults and children could be cruel to a disfigured person. That was the reason he had become a plastic surgeon, to spare people the humiliation of being taunted about something beyond their control.

  Scooting across the bench until she was next to him, Hannah turned beseeching eyes on Austin. “Can you help her? She has to wear a veil when she goes outside. It must be hot.”

  There was only one answer. As much as he hated the idea of anyone being scarred, as much as he wanted to help this woman, he could not.

  “No, Hannah, I can’t help her. I’m a rancher now, remember?”

  Hannah pinched her lips between her thumb and forefinger, then nodded. “I remember,” she said as she released them. “I remember.”

  15

  Lydia!” Catherine smiled as her friend entered the kitchen and laid one of her confectionary boxes on the table. “I didn’t expect you.” Breakfast was over, and Grace had returned to her room to don her mourning veil, leaving Catherine to savor a second cup of coffee before they left for church. Normally Lydia and Travis met Catherine in front of the church, but for some reason Lydia had changed the routine today, perhaps because she shared Catherine’s eagerness for them to be together. Though Grace had quickly become more than a boarder, Catherine missed Lydia.

  “I couldn’t wait another hour,” Lydia said as she hugged Catherine. “I haven’t seen you in over a week, and from everything I’ve heard, it’s been quite a week. Travis picked the worst time to attend a lawyers’ meeting.”

  “Did you enjoy your time in Dallas?” This trip was Lydia’s first visit to the city, and she’d been looking forward to it. She had told Catherine she planned to visit every confectionary in the town, looking for new flavors to offer Cimarron Creek’s residents.

  “Yes, but . . .”

  “Were you ill?” Though Lydia claimed to be as healthy as a horse, Catherine had worried about her traveling while she was expecting a child.

  Lydia shook her head. “Fortunately, no. I seem to be past morning sickness. Now I just feel fat.” She laid her hand on her waist.

  “You don’t look fat.”

  “That’s because I let out the seams in my dresses. Another month and I won’t be able to do that.” Lydia looked as if the prospect pleased her.

  “Then what was wrong with Dallas?”

  Wrinkling her nose, Lydia said, “You’ll probably think I’m crazy, but I was disappointed in all the shops I visited. Some were larger than Cimarron Sweets with fancier furnishings, but I didn’t like any of them as much as mine. I didn’t even find any new candy varieties to try.”

  Catherine smiled. “I’m not surprised. I’ve always thought Cimarron Sweets was the perfect candy store.”

  “Not that you’re biased, being my friend.” Lydia hugged Catherine again. “But I didn’t come here to talk about me. Opal said that the town is buzzing with the story that you took in a stranger. She said something exciting happens every time Travis and I go away. Last time it was Austin’s arrival, now this woman.”

  “You probably know that her name is Grace Sims.” When Lydia nodded, Catherine continued. “So far folks have been more accepting of Grace than they were of you, because she’s not a Yankee. She’s a very kind widow from San Antonio.”

  Lydia’s expression said she’d already heard that story. “And she’s still in deep mourning, so she wears a veil everywhere. That’s part of what’s causing the gossip, or so Opal tells me. The other part is that she’s staying here. Some folks are even speculating that she’s a distant relative.”

  “If you’re speaking of me, that’s always possible, isn’t it? We’re all daughters of Eve.” Grace had entered the room so quietly that neither Catherine nor Lydia had heard her until she spoke.

  Her face concealed by the heavy veil, she approached Lydia, extending her hand. “I’m Grace Sims, and you must be Lydia Whitfield. Catherine has told me so much about you.”

  Instead of shaking her hand, Lydia pulled the box from the table and handed it to her. “I hope you like fudge, because I thought a pound might be a good way to welcome you to Cimarron Creek.”

  “Thank you. That’s very kind of you.”

  Lydia glanced at her watch. “Travis will be here in a minute or two to escort us to church and then to dinner with Aunt Mary and Uncle Charles.”

  When Grace made no response, Catherine turned to Lydia. “Grace says she doesn’t want to join us for dinner despite my best efforts to convince her otherwise. Maybe you’ll have more success.” Even though Grace ate the midday meal alone when Catherine was at school, it seemed wrong for her to have a solitary Sunday dinner.

  Lydia winked at the woman she’d just met. “You must have heard what a poor cook Aunt Mary is.”

  “Nonsense. It’s simply that it’s difficult to eat while wearing a veil.” And Grace would not remove it, even for Lydia. While she had accepted the fact that Hannah would see her without the veil, she had been adamant that no one else in Cimarron Creek should see her face.

  Grace shrugged. “Besides, if I stay home, I can prepare something special for Catherine’s supper. Based on what I’ve heard, she’ll appreciate it.”

  As everyone chuckled, Catherine felt her heart expand with joy. This was the first time she’d heard Grace refer to this house as her home. Perhaps she should have been affronted that a woman she’d known for less than a week used such a familiar term, but Catherine was not affronted. To the contrary, she was delighted. It felt so right to have Grace living here, filling empty spaces in both the house itself and in Catherine’s heart. She would never take Mama’s place—no one could—but Grace had found a place of her own.

  “There’s something odd about that woman you’ve taken in, Catherine,” Aunt Mary announced as she passed the bowl of chicken and dumplings to her. “It seems she ought to have accepted my invitation. That’s common courtesy.”

  As Catherine had expected, Grace had been the center of attention after church, with most of the congregation lingering so they could be introduced to her. Aunt Mary and Uncle Charles had been among the first, and while Uncle Charles had been uncharacteristically silent, Aunt Mary had insisted that Grace join them for the midday meal.

  “Her husband died only last month. She’s still in deep mourning.” Catherine repeated the excuse Grace had given when Aunt Mary had badgered her.

  “You’re in mourning too, but you don’t hide behind a veil. I tell you, Catherine, you need to be careful. What if she turns out to be some kind of criminal?” Aunt Mary, clearly miffed by Grace’s refusal, was on one of her tirades.

  “Have you seen her face?”

  “Of course she has.” Lydia answered for Catherine. “Mrs. Sims lives with Catherine. I doubt she wears her veil all the time.”

  Catherine tried to smile at her aunt. “Grace Sims is no criminal. She’s a very nice woman.”

  But Aunt Mary was not convinced. “Appearances can deceive,” she told Catherine before she turned to Travis. “I think you ought to check her story. We can’t be too careful. After all, Catherine is a single woman living alone. And then there’s the little girl. What’s her name?”

  “Hannah.” Catherine laid down her fork and looked directly at her aunt. “Grace is no threat to either of us.”

  “That remains to be seen. Right, Travis?”

  Travis simply nodded and changed the subject by complimenting Aunt Mary on the dumplings. To Catherine’s surprise, Aunt Mary did not pursue the investigation, and the rest of the meal was pleasant, filled with stories of Lydia and Travis’s time in Dallas. Still, the idea that anyone distrusted Grace
bothered Catherine.

  “You’re not really going to investigate Grace, are you?” she asked the man who was both her cousin and the town’s sheriff an hour later. Today, in addition to Lydia, Travis was accompanying her back home.

  Though she’d expected Travis to deny that he’d even considered the possibility, he did not. “It wouldn’t hurt,” he said firmly. “All it means are a couple telegrams.”

  Lydia squeezed her husband’s arm. “Travis is a firm believer in the truth setting us free. You want to know the truth, don’t you, Catherine?”

  “Yes, but it feels dishonest—as if I don’t trust her. And I do.”

  “So do I, but I’m the sheriff, and as such I have a responsibility to the town and to you.”

  Lydia chimed in. “As Travis said, it can’t hurt to be sure. You need to be careful, especially now that you have Hannah living with you.” She was silent for a moment before she added, “I only talked to her for a few minutes, but I agree with Aunt Mary that there’s something odd about Mrs. Sims. She’s a stranger in town, and yet she reminds me of someone. If only I knew who, I might feel better. As it is, I’m a little worried about you.”

  Tucker tipped his head back, emptying the glass, then ordered another shot of whiskey. Another drink, another dead end. If he took a drink for each dead end, he’d be drunk as a skunk in no time, but what was a man to do? He couldn’t go back to Philadelphia without the doctor, not if he expected to see the sun rise again once Enright heard that he’d failed.

  He’d been so sure about this lead. Everything sounded right. New doctor in town. Came from Philadelphia. No wife in sight, but a little girl living with him. That sure as shootin’ sounded like Dr. Austin Goddard. Tucker had hightailed it to the small town in western Pennsylvania that the new doc called home, sure that luck was shining on him. But it wasn’t. The doc turned out to have red hair, not yellow. The whelp was too young to be Hannah Goddard, and the wife was still alive. Seems she was staying in Philadelphia with her dying mother.