by Karen Kirst
“By wiping down the chalkboard?” she scoffed.
“Sure. I must have wiped down Mrs. Lane’s chalkboard a hundred times. Imagine how shocked I was to find out that she already had a husband. I’d gotten it into my head that I was going to marry her.”
Heather clapped her hands over her mouth to stifle the laughter. “You wanted to marry Mrs. Lane?”
“Mind you, I was six at the time. But I had our future all planned out. I was nearly inconsolable when I discovered she’d squandered my love for that of Mr. Lane.”
“You have me curious,” she said. “How else does an adolescent boy show his love?”
He grasped her hand and lifted her arm above her head, then spun her toward him. Her back bumped into his front, and his opposite arm snaked around her waist.
“He tries to steal a kiss.”
Sterling kissed the sensitive skin at the nape of her neck, and gooseflesh scattered along her arms. His breath was warm against her skin, and her eyelids drifted shut.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs, and they sprang apart.
“She’s sleeping,” Price declared as he emerged into the kitchen. “And the lamps all have oil.”
Sterling leaned his hip against the table and crossed one ankle over the other. “Price, if an adolescent boy had a crush on his schoolteacher, how do you suppose he’d show her?”
“That’s easy. I’d stay behind and offer to clean the chalkboard. I must have cleaned Mrs. Benson’s chalkboard a hundred times in the third grade.”
Heather and Sterling erupted into peals of laughter.
An hour later, she fed the men lunch and set about making pies. Price retired to the parlor and read a book while she worked on supper. Several times she considered asking Price questions about Woodley but couldn’t quite manage to bring up the subject.
After spending time with the ranch hand, she trusted his judgment. If he had a complaint about Otto, that complaint was not to be taken lightly. Otto was the only man the late Mr. Blackwell had let near him. Perhaps he was suffering from ill health. Folks tended to be cranky when they were sick. She reached for the eggs, vowing to ask Sterling later if Otto was ill. They couldn’t afford to lose any more ranch hands.
Otto had spent more than one afternoon resting instead of joining them in the kitchen. She’d asked him a few questions about the accounts, and now she sensed he was avoiding her. Did Otto know something more about Mr. Blackwell’s actions at the end of his life? If so, why would he withhold that information?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Sterling pinched the bridge of his nose and blinked a few times, but the numbers on the ledger all ran together. He yanked open the drapes and stared out the window.
“Coffee?” Heather asked from the doorway.
He turned toward the sound of her voice. “Yes, please.”
She placed a steaming mug on the table and lifted the edge of the book. “How is the accounting?”
“Frustrating.” He indicated a heap of papers. “I want to match the receipts to the ledger, but the paperwork is a mess.”
“Can I help?”
He rubbed a hand over his forehead, his fingers bumping over the deepening lines of stress. “I can’t ask you to take on any more work. You’ve got Price in the house, and you’re cooking for the ranch hands.”
“It’s no bother. Price is upstairs resting. The doc gave him something for the pain, and I think it makes him tired.” She rested her hand on his upper shoulder. “Sit. You look exhausted.”
He turned toward her. A shaft of light from the setting sun caught her hair, turning the strands into molten fire.
Cupping the side of her cheek, he said, “You need to rest more.”
“Then let’s not argue. Let’s work on what needs to be done.”
He appreciated her no-nonsense attitude. “I’ll add more wood to the fire.”
After tossing several logs on the open flame, he stirred the embers and resumed his seat. She took the chair across from him and reached for the stack of receipts. “Most all of these have dates. I’ll arrange them according to months. That will speed up the process. Since most of the losses have taken place in the past two years, we’ll start there.”
He was distracted, and her words drifted over him without really sinking in. She wore a simple calico dress in blue, and the color brought out the ice blue of her eyes. Of all the people he might have been paired with, he was grateful Heather had been chosen. She was unshakable. No matter what had been tossed her way these past few weeks, she’d met each challenge with steadfast determination.
She’d fought illness and bandaged up Price after his accident. She’d taken over the feeding of the men with brisk efficiency. And now, instead of resting, she was assisting him with the frustrating task of sifting through piles of neglected paperwork.
Together they separated the myriad receipts into piles by year over the previous two years. Then they separated each of those years into months. Heather did, indeed, have an affinity for numbers, along with a quick memory, and she rapidly organized her year of paperwork.
Moving at a less efficient pace, he squinted at a date on the corner of a receipt from the feed lot. “Where did you learn accounting?”
“I’m self-taught, mostly. My first year teaching, I was barely ahead of my students. I’d gone to a private school in Maryland when my mother was alive, but the school in Pittsburgh was far more crowded, and the curriculum was less challenging.”
“I still can’t believe you came all the way from Pittsburgh,” he said. “You must have been terrified traveling all this way alone.”
“I was motivated.” She lifted her head from her work and stared out the window. “There weren’t many options in Pittsburgh for a single girl that didn’t involve factory work. I’d see the women leave for the textile mill in the morning, and they’d return late in the evening. The work aged them.”
“Still, traveling halfway across the country was a risk.”
As a man, he’d always been aware of the dangers of traveling alone, but he’d been confident in his abilities to defend himself. She couldn’t have been more than seventeen when she’d made the trip.
Heather rested her chin on her hand. “I’d managed to hide a few pieces of my mother’s jewelry from my aunt and uncle. Selling those pieces helped. I was able to purchase private rooms along the way.”
The idea of her pawning her belongings appalled him. “Were you able to save anything from your family?”
He imagined her as a child, with those enormous, serious eyes.
“Only memories. That’s enough.” She ducked her head once more. “What about you? Do you have family back East?”
“My ma was from back East, and I have family there. A few second cousins. My pa was an orphan. A self-made man. I don’t know much about his childhood.”
“Your father must have led quite a life.”
“I never thought much about it, but you’re right. I suppose that’s why he was hard on Dillon and me. As a man who came from nothing, he didn’t have patience for weakness. My ma wanted something different from her sons. She’d been raised in a more refined culture. My pa would have built a house five times this size, but she considered the show of wealth vulgar.”
“Isn’t it odd, what draws people together?” Heather said thoughtfully. “They must have had something in common.”
“I think my ma enjoyed the return of her status. Everyone suffered after the war. Social groups shifted, and I believe her family lost most of their prestige. In Valentine, she was part of the elite once more. Don’t get me wrong,” he hastened to add. “I don’t mean to criticize.”
“I didn’t think you were.” She rested her palms on the table. “Your parents did a lot of good for the community. Your ma’s parties are legendary.”
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br /> Sterling chuckled, the sound hollow. “Without them, Valentine might have wound up a ghost town like so many other communities that were started with gold.”
“That doesn’t make either of your parents a martyr. I teach history, Sterling. A person doesn’t have to be a great man to be a great leader. Leadership is full of difficult choices. Great leaders are often the people who are willing to make difficult moral choices for the greater good.”
Sterling tipped back his head and studied the rafters stretching across the ceiling. His pa had been ruthless with both his friends and enemies alike. For him, achieving the goal automatically righted whatever wrongs were committed along the way. Sterling had never possessed that same moral ambiguity, and neither had Dillon. Neither of them was willing to sacrifice their integrity for the good of the Blackwell Ranch, and his pa had considered their lack of support a mutiny.
Heather slid a receipt across the table. “I’m starting to see the problem. Nearly half of the entries in this ledger are false. A few dollars here, a few dollars there. Your pa was scaling back the operation at the same time as his expenses were going up, at least according to the numbers in the ledger. But that doesn’t make any sense. If your pa was hiding money, who was he hiding the money from?”
Pain spread through Sterling’s chest. After learning of his father’s stroke, he thought he’d been wrong. The accounts proved different.
“Me. He was hiding the money from me and Dillon. He never wanted us to inherit the ranch.”
“Then why did he leave it to you?”
“Revenge, maybe? He gave us the ranch and handed us a failure at the same time. He was the kind of man who’d take pleasure in that sort of thing.”
“But that’s cruel!” she exclaimed. “He was sick toward the end—perhaps his mind was failing as well as his health.”
“That’s what I thought. That’s what I’d hoped. Perhaps he simply wanted us to prove ourselves. He could hand us the failing ranch, and see if we succeeded or failed.”
“Yes, but what happened to all the money? Your explanation doesn’t account for the missing income. I haven’t added up all the numbers yet, but over two years, the discrepancies will add up to thousands of dollars. That money didn’t simply vanish into thin air.”
“I doubt we’ll ever know,” Sterling said.
She assumed her schoolteacher pose, sitting up straight and pinching her lips together. “That money is the key. If you discover what your pa did with the profits, you might find the key to his motives.”
Sterling stifled a grin. He was coming to enjoy the occasional glimpse of the schoolteacher she sometimes let out. “Maybe.”
The money was gone. For all he knew, his pa had burned the cash in the rubbish pile. For a moment he’d considered that someone else had been responsible, but the ledgers were clearly filled out in his pa’s handwriting. He’d been weakened, but the disappearance of the money was far too methodical for a weak mind. He’d hidden the money carefully, with precision, leaving behind a trail of bread crumbs.
Despite her unhappy upbringing, Heather wanted to believe the best in people. While he appreciated her optimism, he knew his pa. There was every chance his pa had donated the money and died laughing, hoping they’d discover his perfidy.
Heather glared at the ledgers, as though angry with the numbers for failing to cooperate. “I can’t believe you’d simply walk away from this mystery.”
“Sometimes the resolution is worse than the mystery itself,” he said.
He had enough on his mind. Delving into the reasons behind his pa’s possible revenge wasn’t high on his list of priorities.
He glanced at the top of Heather’s head, and his pulse quickened. She was softening toward him. She didn’t love him, and she might never, but he wasn’t giving up.
She didn’t trust the future, but maybe he could convince her to trust in him.
* * *
After two weeks of recovery, Heather was determined to host a fabulous Thanksgiving dinner. Sterling produced two fat turkeys, which were now roasting in the oven, filling the house with a delightful aroma. A light snow blanketed the eves, lending a festive quality to the mood.
The ranch hands arrived first. Ben presented her with a bouquet of evergreens tied at the stems with twine, and awkwardly toted a basket filled with biscuits. He thrust the offerings into Heather’s outstretched hands with a mumbled “thank you for the invitation.” Price had slicked his hair back with copious amounts of pomade, and the strands glimmered in the glow of the kerosene lanterns. The bandages on his left arm had been removed, though his right arm remained wrapped.
Joe was last, the quietest of the bunch. Heather couldn’t recall speaking more than one or two words to the man in the past month. The ranch hand was of average height and build with nothing to distinguish him save for the scar slashing across his cheek. She placed his age near hers, or maybe a little older. He carefully wiped his boots on the rag rug inside the door and offered a greeting.
Next came Seamus’s family. His pa leaned heavily on his cane, his leg not quite healed from the severe break. Mrs. Phillips was quiet and polite, her dress starched and a new lace collar buttoned at her throat.
The Foresters came last. Their two boys, Aiden and Kieran, stopped in the front yard and staged an impromptu snowball fight before their mother urged them inside.
The delicious aroma of dinner wafted through the house, along with freshly baked pies and brewing coffee.
Seating around the table was crowded. They pushed the chairs together and sat elbow to elbow. The linens had been washed and starched, and candles decorated the table between covered dishes. Their soft glow bathed the room with flickering warmth.
Sterling stood and raised his glass. “Dear Lord, as we gather today around this table filled with your bountiful gifts, we thank You for always providing us with what we need, and for occasionally granting us requests for things we don’t really need. On this day, let us be especially thankful for each other. For family and friends who enhance our lives, even when they present us with challenges.”
A murmur of amusement rippled around the table.
He grinned. “Let us join together now in fellowship to celebrate Your love for us, and our love for each other. Amen.”
“Amen,” the table replied in unison.
He bowed at the waist. “I’m thankful you could all join with us today in celebration.”
“Hear, hear!” Mr. Forester lifted his glass. “I’m grateful for the continued health of my family, and for the blessing we’re expecting this spring.” He tipped his gaze toward the ceiling. “I wouldn’t mind a girl this time if You’d be so obliging.”
Laughter and congratulations followed his announcement, then Irene spoke. “I’m grateful for the bountiful harvest, and for good friends and family.”
Too manly to show emotion, each of the ranch hands simply thanked Sterling and Heather for hosting the feast.
When Heather’s turn arrived, she blinked rapidly. “I’m thankful to have such loving friends during these unforeseen circumstances.”
“Hear, hear,” the voices around the table called.
The next twenty minutes passed in a flurry as dishes circled the table and talk and laughter filled the dining room.
Heather stood and plucked the empty butter dish from the table. She excused herself and ducked into the kitchen, retrieving a second butter mold from the ice box. She paused for a moment, letting the wonder of the day envelop her senses. A heavy hand rested on her shoulder.
“Are you all right?” Sterling asked, worry etched across his face. “Are you tired? Feeling ill? I knew this was too much too soon.”
“I’m fine,” she said, her voice full of wonder. “I’m more than fine. I feel amazing. I never imagined I’d have a day like this in my life. Your ma’
s china is beautiful. I’m only terrified I’ll chip one of her plates.”
“She wouldn’t mind. She was always happiest when the house was filled with people. She enjoyed entertaining. We never had a party where someone didn’t break a glass or drop a plate. She always said that was the tax and she didn’t mind paying. Gave her an excuse to buy more. I think entertaining reminded her of growing up.”
“How do you always know the right thing to say?”
His expression turned serious. “Not always.”
“Don’t sell yourself short.”
“You’ve put together a beautiful celebration. You’ve breathed new life into this house, and I’m grateful.”
Her eyes burned. “There you go again.”
Irene stepped into the kitchen. Grateful for the distraction, Heather turned away.
“I’m terribly sorry,” Irene said. “Aiden has spilled. I need a rag.”
“I’ll take care of this,” Sterling replied. “You two have more important things to work on, like the delightful meal you’ve served us today.”
“Heather did the heavy lifting,” Irene said. “You should be very proud. The first time I hosted Thanksgiving, the outside of the turkey was burned, and the inside was raw. I cried in front of my in-laws.”
“Go,” Heather ordered. “Both of you. You’ll give me a big head.”
Despite her protests, her chest filled with pride. Using the same techniques she’d used when she was teaching, she’d planned out the meal on paper, calculating the baking time for each of the dishes and staggering the time each dish spent in the oven. She’d been up since the early hours of the morning, but she wasn’t the least bit tired. Having the house full of people energized her. She’d spent plenty of evenings alone, and she was grateful for the opportunity to entertain her friends—both old and new.
After clearing the table, Kieran and Seamus called for games.
“Can we play Up Jenkins?” the youngest Forester boy, Aiden, asked.
“Absolutely,” Heather said. “I’ll fetch a coin.”
