by Karen Kirst
“He’s just a photographer,” Sterling said. “Probably looking for Indians or buffalo. Something exciting to sell to the newspapers back East.”
“Are you certain?”
Sterling sighed. “Heather, we can’t shut the door every time someone comes down the drive because we’re afraid. That would lead to a long and lonely life.”
Her jaw lifted to the stubborn set he’d become familiar with over the past few weeks. “I have a right to be cautious. You can’t tell me how to feel.”
“I know.” He caught her upper arms. “I’m sorry. Why don’t you put on some coffee? We might as well find out what he wants.”
She collapsed into his arms and he savored the feel of her. Sterling took a deep breath and clamped down on the aching need that had seized his heart. He wanted to hold her and protect her.
There was always the chance she’d come to resent him, and he’d wind up with a broken heart. He no longer cared.
“I used to dream that I was alone,” she said. “And that I’d be alone forever, and I could hardly bare the knowledge.”
He brushed his hand over her soft hair. “It’s going to be all right. Whatever happens, we’ll face the future together.”
She rubbed her cheek against the fabric of his shirt. “I don’t have those dreams anymore.”
A sense of longing filled him. He didn’t want to burden her with his feelings, not yet. She was too fragile, too vulnerable. The future was too uncertain.
Twenty minutes later the two men were seated in the parlor, and Heather brought out a tray with the silver coffee service and cups. Rigidly polite, she set down the tray and poured each man a cup, dutifully inquiring about cream and sugar before taking her own. Introductions were given all around, with a few polite words about the weather and the happenings in town.
Mr. Thompson took a sip and offered a wide grin. “That’s mighty fine coffee, Mrs. Blackwell.”
“Thank you,” she replied, one hand repeatedly smoothing her skirts over her knees.
Sterling scowled. He didn’t appreciate the man’s lazy charm. “What brings you out this far, Mr. Thompson?”
“Please. Call me Beauregard. I was given to believe you had discovered a child?”
A chill snaked down Sterling’s spine. He sensed the wind had shifted. The storm clouds were forming.
Heather’s cup rattled against the saucer. “She’s taking a walk with one of our employees.”
Sterling placed his hand over Heather’s. She flipped her wrist, and he threaded their fingers together.
“I’m a reporter from the Butte Gazette,” Mr. Thompson declared. “You might not recall me, but I saw you once before, Mr. Blackwell. A few weeks ago, you came into our offices inquiring about a baby.”
The grip on Sterling’s hand tightened. “I did. Have you discovered any new information?”
“Not as yet.” The reporter sipped his coffee, his movements annoyingly exact. “Didn’t you find the circumstances odd? Disreputable, even?”
“Yes,” Sterling replied. “That’s why I contacted the law in cities as far away as San Francisco. The local sheriff was informed. He’s been in touch with neighboring towns, as well. We exhausted all avenues of inquiry.”
“I don’t question your thoroughness.”
Heather visibly relaxed, and Sterling rubbed the palm of her hand with this thumb.
“Then why are you here?” Heather demanded.
“One of our reporters did a little digging after you left, but he didn’t find anything. I never did like that fellow. I always thought he gave up on a good story too easily.”
“I see,” Heather said, her voice thick with tension. “But you didn’t give up.”
“I couldn’t let it go,” the reporter continued. “A baby in the Wells Fargo deliveries is quite a story. And I said to myself, I said, Beauregard, I’d like to do a story about that child.”
Heather half stood. “No. She’s an innocent. She’s not a story to be exploited in order to sell more newspapers.”
“Hear me out.” Mr. Thompson set down his coffee cup. He sat up straighter and tugged on the edges of his coat. “The two of you say the child’s past before she arrived was a mystery, and I’m inclined to believe you.”
Sterling’s hackles rose. “How magnanimous of you.”
“I’m a journalist as well as a photographer. The two professions blend together nicely. I did some digging. Even in these barely civilized lands, there are procedures. Butte is large, but maybe not quite large enough to hide an orphaned child.”
Sterling rested his arm across the back of the settee and let his hand sit protectively on Heather’s shoulder. “Then you don’t know anything?”
“I picked up the mystery where you left off, Mr. Blackwell.”
“How so?”
The man was toying with them, skirting around whatever information he’d discovered. Sterling didn’t appreciate this drawn-out buildup.
“We did an initial story in the newspaper a few days ago, and we put out a request for information from the public. I interviewed the family Mrs. Blackwell stayed with over the summer. They mentioned you’d been there as well, Mr. Blackwell.”
Heather caught his gaze. “You spoke with the Mitchells?”
“Yes.”
“Helen never mentioned anything in her letters.”
Aware of their curious audience, Sterling said, “I spoke with her husband.”
Heather pursed her lips. This was not the time to explain that he’d believed her, but he’d known others would inquire. He wanted to warn the Mitchells.
Mr. Thompson retrieved a pad of paper filled with notes from the leather satchel at his side. “You were quite thorough in your investigations, Mr. Blackwell, particularly for a layman. I followed up on all your inquiries and came to much the same conclusion.”
“Then you know we exhausted all possibilities.”
“Not all of them. You’re good, Mr. Blackwell, but not quite as thorough as a trained reporter.”
Heather scooted closer and rested her hand on Sterling’s knee. “What are you saying, Mr. Thompson?”
“I continued to follow the trail.”
She made a sound of frustration. “Are you being deliberating provoking? What did you discover?”
Mr. Thompson took an infuriatingly slow sip of coffee. “A female child arrived in Butte the day before Grace arrived in Valentine. The child traveled from Ohio with a nanny. The hotel manager recalls the nanny staying the night and leaving early the next morning, without the child. He also recalls seeing a gentleman meet with the woman.”
“What does that prove? You don’t even know if the child was Gracie.”
“Surely you want to prove your innocence, Mrs. Blackwell?” Mr. Thompson lifted his voice in question.
“Innocence of what? I’m not the one at fault,” Heather insisted. “Whoever abandoned Gracie doesn’t deserve her. If they wanted her back, they had plenty of time to find her.”
“And you’re not concerned there’s something more sinister at play?”
“Of course not,” Sterling said. “We checked with the authorities. We checked the newspapers.”
“If it puts your mind at ease, none of my sources have discovered a missing child. I think her abandonment was purposeful. The question I keep circling back to is why. Why were you and Mrs. Blackwell chosen? That’s the mystery.”
“Clearly this is fishing expedition,” Sterling said. “You wouldn’t be here if you’d found her parents.”
“I did not.”
His words only increased the tension tightening the muscles along Sterling’s shoulders. “You didn’t travel all this way to tell us that you didn’t discover anything. Why are you really here?”
“I’m running the story in Ohio. I�
�ve contacted the newspapers in the larger cities, and they’re willing to assist. Everyone is interested in your mail-order baby. Children sell newspapers, after all. Since the only reports of a lone, female child of the proper age in Butte lead back to Ohio, that seemed the logical place to start. A picture of the child and more information would be helpful.”
Heather stood and crossed to the window. “Then you’ll do so without my cooperation.”
“Mrs. Blackwell. This story will run with or without your consent,” Mr. Thompson said with an infuriating note of condescension threading through his voice. “How you and Mr. Blackwell are represented depends, in large part, on your cooperation.”
“I will not be blackmailed by you. I’m not fooled. You don’t want what’s best for Gracie, you want a story that gets your name in the papers. I’ve already made my decision. The story will run without my consent.”
“Not even a photograph?”
“You’re not welcome in my home, and you’re not welcome to take pictures of my child.”
Sterling stood and approached Heather. He rested his hands on her shoulders. “Mr. Thompson, I need a moment alone with my wife. Perhaps you’d better check on your animals. It’s getting dark. If you’d like to stay the evening, there’s room in the bunkhouse.”
His hospitality only went so far. Heather was clearly agitated, and he didn’t want the man in the main house overnight.
“Thank you for your kindness,” the reporter said. “I’ll take you up on your offer. Perhaps you’ll feel differently about the story in the morning.”
Sterling showed the man to the door. Mr. Thompson glanced over his shoulder to where Heather was keeping vigil in the parlor.
“This story isn’t going away,” the reporter said. “Clearly Mrs. Blackwell is attached to the child. There’s every chance she will be celebrated by our readers for her willingness to care for Gracie under such unusual circumstances. I can bend the story into a romantic yarn. You’ll both be known as the child’s savior from coast to coast if I have any say.”
“Or you’ll unearth a myriad of folks willing to exploit the child for their own gain. I’m not a fool, Mr. Thompson. I’m aware of what happens when a story like this is written in the papers.”
“It’s out of my hands, Mr. Blackwell.”
“Because you won’t let it die. I’ll remind you again, I’m not a fool. You don’t care about the child. You care about selling newspapers.”
“If you have nothing to fear from the truth, you’ll let me write my story, and you’ll cooperate.”
“I’ll speak with you in the morning.”
“I’m not the enemy, Mr. Blackwell.”
“We’ll see about that, won’t we?”
Upon his return to the parlor, Heather threw herself into Sterling’s embrace. “They can’t take her. They just can’t.”
“It’s going to be all right,” he said, willing truth into his words. They were about to open a Pandora’s box. “Nothing has happened yet. There’s no reason to suppose anything will come of his story now.”
“What if they find the person who abandoned Gracie, and the authorities want to give her back?”
He brushed the hair from her forehead and murmured soothing words against her temple. “No one has come looking for her yet, and they know exactly where she is. Someone dropped her off at that train depot. They listed your name and my name as the parents, and they didn’t look back. Beauregard Thompson can run that story in every newspaper from here to the Atlantic Ocean, but there’s no reason to think anything will come of it.”
“Are you certain?”
“If she has other relatives, shouldn’t we try one last time to find them? What if someone is worried about her?”
“But we did try. We contacted everyone we could think of already.”
“Then we have nothing to worry about.”
“I can’t lose her, Sterling. I couldn’t bear it. How hard should we search? How will we ever truly know that she’s safe with us forever?”
“I know,” he whispered against the soft hair of her temple. “I know.”
His stomach clenched. The wheels had been set in motion, and there was nothing either of them could do to halt the coming storm. Despite his words of assurance, there was every chance the story might reveal information that would change all their lives.
He’d been uneasy all along, and the reporter had only confirmed his greatest fears. If they discovered a safe and loving home with heretofore unknown relatives, he’d be forced to abide by what was best for the babe.
If that happened, Heather would never forgive him, and he’d lose her forever.
* * *
The noise from outside the window startled Heather. She flipped back the parlor curtains and discovered two dozen sheep milling around the front yard in the thin thread of light snaking over the horizon. The animals scuffed around the scraggly chokeberry bushes, nibbling on the dry leaves clinging to the slender branches.
She ascended the stairs and knocked on Sterling’s door. He’d come in late the previous evening. One of the ranch hands had heard coyotes, and they’d kept a close watch on the herd.
Sterling appeared, bleary-eyed, pulling his suspenders over his union suit. There was something primitive about the sight of his bare throat, and her mouth went dry.
“The sheep are loose in the yard.”
He brushed past her and padded down the landing. He pulled aside the lace curtains and peered onto the lawn. “What in the name of little green apples?”
“How long do you suppose they’ve been loose?” she asked.
“A while. I came home after midnight. We were all tired. Someone must have left the gate open.”
“I’ll get dressed and start breakfast,” Heather said. “I don’t think we’ll make church this morning.”
“I’m sorry. I can have Price take you into town. He won’t be much help here.”
“I’d rather help you. We can’t afford to lose any stock.”
He was exhausted, and she sensed a chink in the armor of his optimism. The past week had been fraught with setbacks. He was tired and cranky, and he needed her support now. He’d assisted her through her sickness, and she owed him.
Fifteen minutes later the two of them met in the kitchen. The men in the bunkhouse had been alerted to the commotion, and they had mustered on the back porch.
Heather waved them inside. “You’d best sit for breakfast first. It’s going to be a long morning.”
The men scraped their boots before stepping inside. They took their usual seats around the kitchen table and passed around the plates. Gracie approached Price and tugged on his shirtsleeve. He lifted her onto his lap with an indulgent smile. While recuperating from his burns, Price had grown comfortable with the little girl and she with him.
Heather beat one and a half dozen eggs in a large bowl before cutting strips of bacon. The kitchen was soon filled with the mouthwatering aromas of brewing coffee and biscuits baking in the oven.
Sterling set a stack of biscuits in the center of the table. “Where is Otto?”
“He wasn’t feeling well again this morning.”
Heather and Sterling exchanged a glance.
“Should we call the doc?” she asked.
“He’s an ornery old cuss.” Joe leaned toward Price and spoke quietly. “I’ll be glad to spend the afternoon without him.”
Price caught Heather staring and gave a quick shake of his head. “I think he’s feeling his age. Keeps his room as hot as a sauna. He’s gone through two buckets of coal this past week.”
“He can’t hardly walk up the hill without stopping for a rest,” Joe said.
A knock sounded, and Heather opened the back door to Seamus.
The boy jerked his thumb over his shoulder
. “How come you’re keeping the sheep on the lawn?”
“They got loose this morning.” Sterling ruffled the boy’s hair, the overly long tresses mussed by his hat. “We’ve got to herd them back into the pasture. You want to help?”
“Sure thing.” The boy edged toward the table. “You got extra breakfast fixings?”
“Absolutely.” Heather pulled out a chair. “Otto isn’t feeling well today. You can have his seat.”
She heaped a generous serving of eggs onto Seamus’s plate, and he attacked the food with gusto.
Price chuckled. “You got a hollow leg, boy?”
“I must. I can eat more than my pa some days.”
The ranch hands laughed. The men finished their meals and scraped their plates into the rubbish bin.
Price had difficulty maneuvering with his bandaged arm, and muttered darkly, “I’m about as useful as a frying pan made out of wood.”
Heather wiped her hands on the edges of her apron. “Why don’t you sit with Gracie this morning, and I’ll keep track of the gate while the men round up the sheep.”
“I can’t do that, ma’am. You shouldn’t be out in this weather.”
“In truth, you’d be doing me a favor. I’m getting cabin fever all cooped up inside. Gracie minds you just fine. You can ring the bell when she needs to be changed.”
Price hesitated, and Sterling nudged him.
“Don’t argue with the lady,” Sterling said. “I have to live with her.”
“If you insist.” Price shrugged.
Grateful to be doing something different from cooking or laundry for a while, Heather quickly bundled up, wrapping a scarf around her neck and tugging a wool hat over her ears. The sheep bleated as they passed.
She took her station near the gate and waited. Sterling whistled, and Rocky went to work. The dog nipped at the animals’ heels, herding them toward the pasture gate. The men formed a half circle around the bulk of the sheep, urging them forward and turning them back when fugitives slipped past Rocky.
Joe dived for one of the escaping sheep and caught his hands in the thick wool coat. His feet went out from under him, and the animal dragged him several yards before he let go. Sitting up with his legs stretched before him, Joe slapped his hat against his thigh.
