Birdie flopped back in her chair, throwing her head back in a fake swoon.
On a huff, Jo turned and crossed her arms across her bosom. “Now, don’t tell me. Let me see if I can guess. You’ve run away, that is a given, of course.” After a heavy sigh, Jo smoothed out the invisible wrinkles of her apron front and then leaned her hands on the back of a kitchen chair, tilted her head up, and closed her eyes.
Birdie closed her eyes, too. She’d been the recipient of Jo’s so-called psychic powers before. A smirk twitched at her lips as her friend presumed to astound her with her extrasensory powers of perception. After a few moments of silence, Jo prophesied in a quavery, hypnotic voice, saying, “A tall, handsome, dark man…his name…his name begins with a C. Sounds like horny….no….no, Corney…Horn-from-hell…no…Cornell. His name is Cornell.
“Cornell no-kiss. No, won’t-kiss. No, Norquist. Cornell Norquist.
“He has a proposition he wants to make to you. He made it to the wrong woman.
“No…wait…not the wrong woman—he proposed to your mother.” Jo threw up her arms. “Congratulations, she answered yes for you.”
Jo’s spot on, or very close to spot on, assessment of her predicament sent Birdie on a quest to find a distraction. “You were eavesdropping, I bet, when I was talking to Buck.” She popped up out of her chair to smell the fresh baked pies. Rhubarb. She closed her eyes again. Her favorite. “Got anything cool to drink?”
Birdie wasn’t much of a cook, but then she rarely performed that particular skill. It wasn’t that she couldn’t cook; Petra taught her and Jo how to make pies, cakes, bread, biscuits, stews, and soups right here is this kitchen. Shoot, if she really wanted to, Birdie could cook up a storm. Maybe she wouldn’t be as good as her friend Jo, but she could pass muster if need be.
She didn’t figure she’d need cooking skills—she wasn’t going to get married…period. All she really needed was a tin of beans. No skills needed to open a tin.
Jo shuddered and came out of her trance. She walked to the ice-chest beneath the counter to retrieve a frosty pewter pitcher of liquid. Returning to the table, she plopped down and poured Birdie and herself a tall glass of the cold lemonade. After shoving Birdie’s glass toward the place at the table where she’d been sitting, Jo started to fan her face with her apron.
Birdie took her seat, her eyes on the cool drink. The ride out to the hot spring from Baker City left her parched, but before she could allow herself to quench her thirst, she felt compelled to make clear her complaint.
“Mama didn’t exactly say yes for me, but she might as well have.” She took a long cool drink of her lemonade, allowing the citrusy coolness to moisten her tongue, teeth, and throat. Then another drink to be certain she’d doused all the dry places in her mouth and gullet. “Ahhh, thank you,” she said. “I might live now.”
Birdie wrapped her hands around the cool glass, took a deep breath, unable to wait a minute longer to empty the full load of her budget. “Mama told the big jerk I was being coy. Can you imagine? I’ve never been coy in my whole entire life. I wouldn’t know how.”
Greedily, she took two more swallows of her drink, nearly draining it, and smacked her lips. “I told Corney flat out…no…I would not marry him if he were the last man on this earth. I also told him I didn’t think he really wanted to marry me, it’s just his papa and my papa thought it would be a good match, like breeding livestock.”
Jo nodded and took several swallows of her drink. She released a sigh before giving her assessment. “Mules, two mules. No, wait, you can’t breed mules to mules, can you?” Jo snickered. She put her glass to her lips and then set the glass down on the table and covered her mouth with her hand.
Birdie, in the middle of taking a drink, choked on a giggle and then shot lemonade out her nose. Chuckling to herself, Jo patted Birdie on the back and then refilled their glasses.
Outraged by her parent’s insistence she wed someone she despised, Birdie felt unloved and adrift. Although it pleased her Jo could see the absurdity of her predicament, her mule analogy stung a bit.
Birdie was never one to keep her problems to herself, and she hated it when Jo had secrets, secrets she, for whatever reason, decided not to share. The last couple of times Birdie visited, she’d become acutely aware Jo purposefully deleted from their conversations personal confidences—it wasn’t her imagination.
A faraway look in her silver eyes, Birdie sensed her friend had, once again, drifted off. She’d gone silent. A wistful little sigh escaped her lips, and her shoulders drooped. Before, Birdie thought the look on her face one of resignation or perhaps grief. They all missed Petra something fierce. But Birdie now suspected something other than grief, something more problematic, had her friend tied up in a coil of hopelessness.
As the silence yawned between them, Birdie finished off her second glass of lemonade. Keeping her eyes down to the yellow section of lemon in the bottom of the glass, she asked, “So, are you ready to talk?”
Jo blinked a couple of times, her eyes shifting first down to her hands and then to Birdie’s face. Dismissively she shook of her head, mumbled a protest, and then said, “I don’t have anything to talk about.”
Birdie fought against her inclination to grab her friend by the shoulders and shake her. “Oh, pooh. You can’t fool me, Petra Josephine Buxton. There’s something going on with you. I don’t mean problems with Buck or Van. I’m concerned about you. I can see for myself the business is bad. There’s something going on with you.” Putting her hand over Jo’s, Birdie pinned her down with her gaze. “I know you’ve been keeping something from me—and I bet from your dad and Van, too. Don’t you think it’s time you let me in on whatever’s going on in that silly, martyr-brain of yours? I’m your best friend. We’re practically sisters, Jo. You know I won’t tell a soul.”
Taking a deep breath, Jo removed a long, white envelope from her apron pocket and hesitated. She unfolded it and laid it on the table. Birdie read the address at the corner of the envelope. Ira Jones, Superintendent of the Cherry Grove Ascension School for Girls.
“This is from the Cherry Grove Ascension School. It’s over by La Grande, isn’t it? I remember you mentioning you’d like to teach there.”
Opening the letter, Birdie quickly read the letter through. Then after reading it again, her hand flew out to reach across the table and take Jo’s hand to give it a tug. “This is wonderful, Jo. They want you to come teach at their girls’ school. The letter says you’ll be allotted private living quarters on school grounds, along with a monthly stipend. This is wonderful.
“Why aren’t you dancing on the table? Why do you look sad? Aren’t you excited? This is good news. Why haven’t you told anyone?”
Jo slowly rose from the table, moving as someone three times her age, even groaning. “I can’t leave. I have to decline the position, Birdie. I can’t leave Dad and Van, I can’t. Who would cook? Who would clean the cabins and take care of the guests? I don’t know what made me send in my application in the first place. I must’ve been out of my mind to think I could leave here.”
Never one to hold back her opinion, Birdie sprang out of her chair sputtering and full of fire. “That has to be the stupidest thing you’ve ever said. You worked hard to get your teaching certificate. Uncle Buxton encouraged you to get it. I remember him being the first one to say you should try. And your mama, Petra, she wanted you to be a teacher. She was so proud of you the day you received your certification. I remember, as sick as she was, she glowed with pride. She even baked you a big cake, and we all celebrated.
“What the heck is the matter with you? Of course, you have to take the position. Private living quarters…a place of your own, maybe a little house, Jo? A little house all your own.”
Shaking her head, Jo turned to face her. “With Gabe gone, I can’t. I can’t leave Dad and Van, especially not now—not with everything falling apart. You heard what Dad said out there, all the cancelations. We’re in such trouble here, Birdie. It
would be too much.”
They both heard the sounds of a carriage pulling up to the front porch. Before they reached the open front door, they heard Buck shout out, “Gabe’s home.”
Birdie hung back as Jo flew past her out the door into her brother’s arms.
Her mind spinning wildly, Birdie began to tremble. It couldn’t be. No. Gabriel—home?
One quick glance out the screen door confirmed her worst fears. He looked good. A brown suede Stetson hat set off to an angle over one blond brow, his brown eyes crinkling up at the corners, grinning, his white teeth showing—he stole her breath, stopped her heart. His face tanned, broad shoulders Birdie recognized the same old Gabriel she’d known and loved from childhood but cautioned herself to remember everything had changed. He wasn’t the same. He’d found success, made a life for himself in the big city of Portland, and was no longer a country boy. He’d seen the big city and conquered it. And she, his little sister’s playmate, remained the chubby, silly little girl he’d allowed to tag along— silly little girl all the Buxtons had taken in as their adopted sibling.
For three long years, ever since he’d left, Birdie had dreamt of this moment, the moment Gabriel Buxton would return. But it wasn’t supposed to be like this. No. In her fantasy homecoming, she appeared coiffed and composed, alluringly fresh, sophisticated…all grown up. Not covered in dust and sweat, smelling like a horse, looking like something a whirlwind had spit out, her hair tangled in a thousand knots. And her dress, this old gingham thing was at least one size too small for her.
In her dreams, Gabriel Buxton—poor thing—stared into her big, brown eyes and instantly fell victim to her charms and became hopelessly enslaved by her beauty.
Birdie slumped back into the shadows until she felt the rocking chair at her back. As if Petra still sat there, the chair rocked forward, the toe of the chair gouging her in the back of the ankle. Her reflexes kicked in, and she hopped forward, nearly tumbling out the screen door. Her heart racing, pounding, she raked her fingers through her hair in an attempt to comb order into her unruly curls and cursed fate and circumstance.
Wouldn’t you know Gabriel would arrive on the day she looked her worst? She asked the fates, why couldn’t he have arrived tomorrow? Tomorrow she’d wear a clean dress, not this old red-and-white-checked thing. The sleeves were too tight around the armholes, or her arms were too fat. Either way, she was a disaster. The stitches were coming undone on the side seams. Her bosoms were too…too plump. Mother had ordered her to throw the dress out. She couldn’t do it. She’d worn this dress the first time Gabriel asked her for a dance at her sixteenth birthday party. They’d danced a waltz. That night she’d found heaven in Gabriel’s arms. They’d walked out into the garden, and he’d kissed her. No, she could never throw this dress away, not ever.
Beyond Gabriel, she discovered there were two women with him. Unable to look away, she caught herself from stumbling backward with one hand on the doorsill. He turned from Uncle Buxton and helped one of the ladies from the buggy—the matronly one, the one prattling on about the spectacular view of the mountains, the enticing beauty of the hot spring, the sheer vastness of all the open space around them. Even covered in a fine film of dust, she appeared lovely, with the smoothest, creamiest, rosiest complexion Birdie had ever seen. The dove-gray traveling dress she wore fit to perfection. And upon her snow-white coil of hair, she wore a jaunty black bowler hat that sported a white feather on one side. Gabriel introduced her to Jo, her name barely registering with Birdie. “Mrs. Adella Millican.”
Then the other woman, the younger of the two, captured Birdie’s attention. This one she recognized as the real threat, a younger version of the matron. She sat poised on the edge of the buggy seat, graciously waiting for Gabriel to assist her from the carriage like a princess, her head high and proud with a serene, self-confident smile on her lips that made Birdie want to slap her.
Everything about the young woman bespoke of breeding and polish. Her hazel eyes remained fastened on Gabriel. The beauty offered a prideful lift of her chin as Gabriel turned to her, and she offered him her hand, a hand encased in fine white kid. He took her hand, holding it carefully, as he offered her his assistance to alight from the buggy.
Gabriel introduced the young woman to Jo. “Everyone, meet my fiancée, Miss Edditha Millican.”
Birdie’s stomach turned over, did a little flip, and then landed ker-splat in the basement of her belly.
The young woman held out her gloved hand and offered Jo a two-fingered handshake. Her voice when she spoke resonated in soft, melodious, practiced, round tones, “I’m pleased to meet you, Josephine. I had asked Gabriel to describe you to me, but his description didn’t do you justice. You’re absolutely beautiful. You could have stepped right out of a painting by Renoir, or Reynolds. Your hair, it’s a lovely shade of brown. It reminds me of something…something pleasant, marzipan, yes, I think marzipan.”
Birdie heard Jo give a surprising, and under the circumstances, witty response. “Everyone says it’s the color of raw sugar, but marzipan sounds better, more delicious. Siblings often don’t appreciate one another’s attributes. Our opinions are often jaded by too much familiarity.”
At the sound of Gabe’s masculine chuckle, Birdie went weak in the knees. It felt like there was a hopping toad jumping around in her stomach, bumping against her heart. She broke out in a clammy sweat that pooled beneath her breasts and on her upper lip.
Above the sound of her own thudding heartbeat, she heard the beauty simper and say, “As an only child, I’ll have to take your word on it. I always thought it would be fun to have a brother—a big brother, not a little brother to torture me with snakes and bugs.”
“Oh, big brothers do that too,” Jo said, her eyes dancing with delight and giving Birdie further cause for dismay and an unwelcome pang of jealousy.
When Uncle Buxton began to fall all over himself to make the two ladies welcome, Birdie feared she might throw up, or faint, or both.
Bending a little at the waist, he offered the young woman a slight bow. “Edditha, what a beautiful name—fiancée? Gabe didn’t tell us about you. I look forward to getting acquainted.”
Turning back to the matron, he said, “What a pleasure it is to welcome you both to Hoyt’s Hot Spring, ladies. I wish we’d known you were coming. We would’ve ordered a band, maybe thrown a parade.”
“Mr. Buxton,” the matron said, “I assure you the explosion in the canyon and ensuing burst of dust and debris gave us sufficient welcome.”
Her response sent Buck into whoops, as well as Gabriel. Van managed a lopsided grin, and Jo smiled. The smile, genuine, lit up Jo’s face and replaced the signs of fatigue.
Staying inside, with the screen door between her and the gathering on the porch, Birdie couldn’t help but snort in disdain. She found the entire scene the most sickening farce she’d ever witnessed.
Of course, she realized right off her problem—jealousy—jealousy had her green with envy over the younger woman’s clothes, her complexion, her hair, her hat. The girl could have stepped right out of the pages of the Ladies’ Home Journal. Her traveling costume, the color of a shaded, woodland meadow, soured Birdie’s stomach. Birdie would sacrifice her fingers and toes to have a hat, a green-velvet boat hat with a silk hydrangea of lavender blue to adorn the crown.
While taking in all this finery, Birdie hadn’t noticed Gabriel had finished his introductions and turned to her. Too late, she finally became aware the conversation had stopped; all eyes turned on her.
She stood blinded by his smile and his wonderful eyes, eyes which looked upon her with warmth but never desire. He’d never looked upon her the way she wanted, but she took comfort in the knowledge the smile he gave her was for her and her alone.
Her heart slid down into the deep recesses of her being, going down hard, sitting there cold and alone with all hope gone. She could never win his heart now, not with the beauty he’d brought home to stand beside her in comparison. Sadly, t
he grin he bestowed upon her she recognized as the one he used on a childhood friend. It would never be more. She could never compete with…with…my God, she realized she couldn’t remember the young woman’s name. Ah, well, it didn’t really matter. Whatever her name, Gabriel had obviously been ensnared by her charms. And what man in his right mind wouldn’t be happy to surrender his heart to this woman, this gorgeous, poised, polished beauty.
Opening the screen door, Gabe declared, “Curly-Birdie, I hadn’t expected to find you hiding in the shadows.”
Holding up his hands, he mocked her with his words of astonishment as he said, “No, don’t tell me, let me guess, you’ve run way from home.”
She wanted to kick him in the shins when he doubled over laughing, slapping his thigh with one hand and pointing at her with the other. The way he laughed, all out, it sounded wonderful, familiar, and it stung her pride. When he lifted his dancing, mocking, brown-eyed gaze to her, she wanted to die.
Only Gabriel Buxton could send her into a tailspin and make her heart beat like a war drum. One look from him could turn her knees to water. Seeing his face, the face of a Greek god, with a strong, noble nose, square chin, and manly jaw, stole her breath. And under his rakish Stetson hat, he had a thick thatch of hair, all golden, kissed by the sun, and she longed to run her fingers through it, feel it, smell it. The name Gabriel suited him because he was an angel, but not the feathery, fluffy kind. No, he was the kind of angel who could throw lightning and make the earth tremble. At least, so Birdie always thought.
The second his hands landed on her shoulders, she went limp with ecstasy. Struck speechless, she allowed him to draw her into his broad chest for a hug. She hated this power he had over her.
He murmured in her ear, his breath warm, tickling her hair. “Still the same little Curly-Birdie-Alice. You haven’t changed a bit.”
She wanted to scream, Yes I have, can’t you see? I’ve changed. I’m a woman now, full grown and I love you. I love you like a woman can love a man. I can certainly love you better than the delicate little flower you’ve dragged home for inspection.
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