The wind gusted, blew snow down his neck, chilled his fingers holding the iron pot. When they reached the spot at the top of the hill where he always stopped and looked down on the mission buildings below, he glanced over his shoulder. There was nothing to see but stone fireplaces standing sentinel over blackened beams rising from the snow.
He turned and rode on toward his daughter, toward his new life as pastor of the church in Promise. A life without Anne.
Wind whistled around the chimney, rattled the glass panes in the small window. Anne shivered, tucked the covers more closely around Hope and added another piece of wood to the fire.
Mitchel was out there in the storm. Where was he? And Zach and the other men? Were they in the woods where they would have some protection from the howling wind, or out on the plain at the storm’s mercy? Would they be warm enough? Did they have food to eat? What if they lost their way in the blinding snow?
The questions pummeled her. Fear for Mitchel’s safety gnawed at her. What time I am afraid… She was afraid now. She had this insane desire to be out there with him so she would know he was all right.
She walked to the window, stared at the snow plastered against the glass. William said Mitchel had told him the winters in Oregon country were mild. Not this one. This one had weather that put her in mind of the occasional blizzard back east.
What if he didn’t make it home?
She shook her head, felt her long, loose curls, still damp from her bath, brush against her back. Mitchel had no home. But the promise of one. And the one in her heart. That was Mitchel’s home, though he didn’t know it. And didn’t care to have it so. Hope was his only love.
She shivered, walked back to the fireplace to absorb some heat. When had she changed? When had her fear of being hurt again, of suffering the devastating pain of a loved one’s loss, been overcome by her need to love and be loved? When had her desire to stay numb succumbed to her desire to live again? When had she fallen in love with Mitchel Banning?
And with Hope?
She looked at the toddler asleep in the bed, her cheeks rosy with warmth, her soft blond curls framing her adorable face. She could not bear to lose her. But she would. Hope was not hers. Only in her heart. Her foolish, foolish heart. Why couldn’t it have stayed unfeeling? Why must she again suffer the loss of a man and a child she loved?
Because she would rather have Mitchel’s love and Hope for a short time than to live the empty existence that had been her goal before she met Mitchel.
She took a deep breath, inched her shoulders back, raised her chin and clenched her hands. Mitchel’s love and his adorable daughter were worth fighting for. And God hadn’t given her red hair for nothing.
Anne stepped into the small room with a roof that began high on the kitchen fireplace chimney and sloped steeply to the ground. She sniffed and the astringent odor of crushed herbs carried her straight back to her childhood. She wrinkled her nose at Emma and smiled. “It smells like Papa Doc in here.”
Emma laughed, gave a tiny bow of her head. “Thank you. You couldn’t say anything that would please me more.”
She scanned the shelves on the wall filled with crocks and stoppered bottles and rolls of bandages, looked to her sister working with mortar and pestle beneath a hanging oil lamp that spread a golden circle of light on the small table. “So this is your apothecary. Very smart attaching it behind the kitchen fireplace, it’s nice and warm in here.”
“It was Zach’s idea. He’s very clever at coming up with solutions to a need or problems.”
She laughed. “I remember when you didn’t find Zach’s solutions clever. You found them…combative.”
Emma nodded, spooned the crushed herbs in the mortar into a bottle. “I was so focused on the sneering rejections I had suffered at the hands of other men I thought he was disdainful of my doctoring skills, as well. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Are you ready to leave?”
“Yes, Hope is down for her nap. I should return be fore she wakes.”
Anne grabbed her hood, ducked her head against the driving snow and eyed the small ferry on the other side of the slow-flowing river. It looked like a long, floating box with doorways in both ends. Another of Zach’s clever solutions to a need, no doubt. But how did one use it?
She stepped to the anchored post on the riverbank and slid her gaze along the taut rope that fed through the pulley on top. The rope was affixed to iron rings on the corner posts of the ferry. From there it fed through a pulley atop a matching anchor post on the opposite bank and returned. An experimental tug on the bottom loop of the rope brought the ferry away from the far bank. She smiled and tugged the bottom loop, hand over hand, until the near end of the ferry nudged up against the riverbank in front of her.
She lifted the dragging hems of Emma’s too-long dress and stepped through the gaping doorway onto the ferry, felt a dip and hurried to the center of the floating box. River water lapped at the bottom of the hip-high wall, then slipped beneath the ferry and flowed away. A few strong pulls on the top rope brought her across the river. A smile curved her lips at sight of the large bell atop a solid post with an iron arm. The carved sign swinging in the wind on small chains from the iron arm read “Dr. Emma.” A warm feeling settled around her heart. God had granted her sister her dream.
Hope swelled. Perhaps God would grant her dream, as well. He had once. And then Phillip had taken it away. Grief for her lost husband and child rose, a sorrow that would always be a part of her. But she was ready to live again. To dream again. She glanced up through the falling snow to the overcast sky. “I will trust in Thee, God. Thy will be done.” The wind tore the words from her lips.
She grasped the edge of the hood, pulled it forward and ducked her head as she made her way across a large open space, skirted a pile of logs. Small chunks of raw wood littered the ground. She lifted her head, stared at the notched logs that formed the beginning of a cabin. Mitchel’s cabin? Her pulse quickened. Could it be? Right here? Directly across the river from Emma’s and Zach’s home?
Lydia would know. She ducked her head and continued across the space toward the clustered cabins. Emma had said the first cabin on the right belonged to the Hargroves. She hurried to the door and knocked.
“I shall be happy to advance you any amount you need, Widow Simms. Simply tell the merchants to present your accounts to me for payment.”
Anne rose from the chair and smiled across the desk at the portly, gray-haired man. “Thank you, Mr. Hargrove. I will settle my debt with you as soon as I receive a letter from home.”
The man’s bushy eyebrows drew together. “You do understand that banks charge interest on money advanced to their clients, do you not, Widow Simms?”
She nodded, held back a frown at his pontifical tone. “I am well versed in the matters of finance thanks to my mother and my uncle Justin. Their businesses are many and varied. Banking is one of them.” She allowed that information to soak in for a moment, then again smiled at the pompous banker. “Good afternoon, Mr. Hargrove. And please—call me Anne. I find the ‘widow’ appellation wearisome.”
She glanced at Lydia’s bemused expression, gave her a warm smile and stepped outside into the blustery cold.
The next cabin on the right. She repeated Emma’s instructions, hurried on to the next cabin, saw the sign affixed to the logs beside the door—Thomas Swinton, Merchant. Enter.
She opened the door. A small bell rang. She stomped the snow from her boots, stepped inside and closed the door with another tinkling of the bell. Warmth from a fire greeted her. She moved to the shelves along the wall, studied the items displayed.
“May I help you, Anne?”
She turned, smiled as Pamelia Swinton limped toward her. “I am interested in sewing notions.”
Pamelia nodded, smiled. “I thought you might be. Let me show you what we have to offer.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Anne cut the last skirt panel from the green wool, added it to the pile of other skirt pie
ces and eyed the leftover fabric spread out on the floor. If she planned it right, there should be enough left to cut out a bodice and make a dress.
“Me want Papa.”
She looked up at Hope. The toddler’s lower lip was quivering, the packet of buttons she had given her to play with lay on the bed beside her. “Your papa will be home soon, sweetie.” Please, God.
Tears glistened in the toddler’s eyes.
She put down her scissors, rose and snatched Hope’s cloak off the chest against the wall, sat on the bed and pulled it around Hope’s shoulders. “You and I are going outside for a walk.” She tugged the hood in place and tied the ribbons.
“Me see aminals?” Hope’s face brightened.
“As many as we can find.” She laughed, scooped Hope into her arms and headed for the parlor, crossed to the front door, stepped out onto the porch and tapped lightly on Emma’s office door. “I’m taking Hope to the barn, Emma. I’ll be back shortly to help with dinner.”
The sky was overcast, large, fluffy snowflakes drifted lazily through the cold air. “Watch me, Hope.” She waited until a snowflake floated close, stuck out her tongue and caught it.
Hope giggled, clapped her small hands. “Me do it.” She tilted back her head, stuck out her little tongue and leaned backward to catch a snowflake. It landed on her eye. She giggled, stuck out her tongue and tried again…and again…and again.
Anne laughed, kept a firm grip on the squirming toddler and headed for the river. The sharp thunk of an ax biting into wood accompanied the swish and gurgle of the water rushing along the bank. “Look across the river, Hope. Do you see those men working?”
The toddler looked, nodded.
“They are building a cabin for you and your papa. Soon you will have a lovely, snug home. Won’t that be nice?”
“An’ a horsey?”
Anne laughed, hugged Hope close. “I don’t know about a horsey. You will have to ask your papa about that. But we can go see if there is a horsey in the barn.” She turned and headed for the large log barn, careful not to trip over the long skirt of Emma’s gown.
“Piggies!”
“Yes. I hear them.”
“Me wanna see piggies. Piggies do—” Hope made an attempt at a snort.
Anne choked with laughter, leaned against the barn to keep from collapsing in a heap on the ground. “Oh my, Hope. You have to show your Aunt Emma—” Aunt Emma. Only if— She sobered. If it is Your will, God. I put my trust in You.
She straightened, lifted Hope higher on her shoulder. “Let’s go see the pigs. And then we’ll see what animals we will find in the barn.”
“Is she all right? I didn’t harm her by taking her outside this afternoon, did I?” Anne lifted her gaze from Hope to Emma.
“She’s fine, Anne.” Emma released Hope’s tiny wrist and tucked her small arm back under the covers. “What has you worried?”
“She’s sleeping so soundly.” Anne glanced back down at Hope, tucked the covers more closely beneath her tiny chin. “She’s not made a whimper since I put her to bed.”
Emma nodded, yawned. “Well, you’ve no cause to worry. Her sleep is a natural, healthy one.” She grinned at her. “From what Mitchel told me of Hope’s life these past few months, the child has done little but lie in bed. My diagnosis is that you simply wore her out this afternoon, Anne.”
She let out a long sigh. “Well, that’s a relief. I thought perhaps she had turned for the worse, though I could detect no sign of fever.” She looked up at her sister. “I’m sorry, I disturbed your rest, Emma.”
Her sister gave a soft laugh. “I’m a doctor, Annie. I’m accustomed to being awakened at all hours. And to dropping right back to sleep when whatever crisis that prompted the awakening is over. I intend to do that right now.” Emma yawned, headed for the door, looked back. “You should get some sleep, too.”
She smiled and nodded. “I shall. But I want to get more sewing done first.” She glanced down at the green wool fabric draped over the chair by the hearth. She had been working on it every moment she was not caring for Hope. It was already a dress. But there was trimming and hemming to do.
“I guess there are some things more important than sleep. Things like looking your best in a new gown when your beau comes home.”
Emma’s voice held a teasing note. She jerked her gaze up. “Mitchel is not my beau.”
“Not yet. But wait until he sees you in that dress. That is the reason you are working on it so furiously, is it not?” Emma gave her a saucy grin, turned and waltzed out of the room. “Better hurry, Annie. If Zach was right, and the storm did not delay them, the men could be back tomorrow.”
The words floated into the room on Emma’s soft laughter.
Tomorrow. She grabbed up the green wool, picked up her needle and continued stitching the hem of the right sleeve. She would soon be finished with sewing the dress and then she could start adding the trim.
She glanced at the notions she had purchased at Swinton’s store and smiled. The green wool was a sober color and Mitchel might think she had chosen it to replace her ruined widow garment. But he would not be able to mistake the message of the gold metal buttons and the braided gold ribbon trim. Such decorative accoutrements on the new gown would firmly announce that she was no longer in mourning. Her pulse quickened.
If it be Thy will, God. Oh, please let it be Thy will.
She took the last stitch in the sleeve hem, secured the thread and snipped her needle free. Now for the ribbon.
Anne gathered her mass of shiny, red curls into an unruly bun at the crown of her head and secured them with her hair combs. The length of gold ribbon was long enough to wrap twice around the bun, then tie into a bow and let the ends dangle among the wispy curls at the nape of her neck.
She stepped back from the mirror, smoothed her hands over her fitted bodice, felt the raised scar from the carriage accident beneath her fingers. It was getting smaller. She moved her hands down over her small waist and smoothed the front of the long skirt. A smile touched her lips. The gown fit perfectly. She was ready. She stepped into the doorway. “Well?”
“Oh, Annie…” Tears glistened in her sister’s eyes. “It’s so good to see you—” Emma choked off her words, smiled. “You look beautiful. Mitchel will not be able to keep his gaze from you.”
She laughed, did a slow pirouette. “That is my goal. Now, let me—” She frowned, at Emma’s sudden, broad grin. “What is it?”
“The buttons and ribbon trim. Very subtle.”
She wrinkled her nose, grinned. “As long as their message is clear?”
“Oh, it’s clear all right, especially to someone who wants so much for it to be so. And I don’t mean me.” Emma chuckled, rose from the settee and headed for the kitchen.
“Emma!” Anne scooped Hope into her arms and hurried after her sister. “What did you mean about Mitchel? Why do you think he is…interested in the state of my widowhood?”
“Because I am neither blind nor deaf.” Emma pulled on an apron, added wood to the back of the fire, stepped into the pantry and came back out carrying a small slab of bacon and three eggs. “The man could not stop talking about you. And the look in his eyes…” She shook her head. “He’s in love with you, Annie.”
She held the words close in her heart for a moment, then sat Hope on a chair and donned an apron in self-defense. “Why don’t I cook the bacon and eggs, Emma? You needn’t do all the cooking.”
She sliced strips off the slab of bacon and placed them in a spider, pulled hot coals forward with the fire rake and placed the frying pan over them. The bacon sizzled, hot grease popping.
She straightened, stepped back and looked at the fireplace.
“Is something wrong, Annie?”
“Noooo… It’s only— It would certainly be easier on a woman’s back if the hearth could be raised.” She laughed, shook her head and picked up the turning fork to tend the bacon.
“Me want bwead wiff honey.” Hope scrambled to her
knees and stretched her arm out to try and reach the bread in the middle of the table.
Anne dropped the fork and reached for her.
Emma caught hold of her arm, held her back. “When did Hope last complain about pain in her joints, Anne?”
“I don’t remember.” She stared at Hope, raised her gaze to meet the contemplative gleam in Emma’s eyes. Her hopes soared. She tamped them down, forced herself to remember. “I treat her joints every morning and again every night before she goes to bed. And— Oh, Emma—” tears welled, she choked them back “—for the past two days, she hasn’t even whimpered.”
“Hold still, sweetie. I’m almost finished.” Anne smiled at Hope wiggling with impatience on the settee beside her, and stitched the edge of the hood to the head of the stuffed doll she had made. She snipped the thread and handed the toy to the toddler. She would add refinements when Hope went to sleep.
“Look, Emma. Me gots a dolly!” Hope held the doll in the air, then hugged it to her chest.
“My, she’s lovely! You shall have to give your dolly a name.”
Anne rose from the settee, carried the sewing box into the bedroom. She tried not to go to the window, but her defiant feet carried her there.
Dusk had faded to dark. Maybe tomorrow. She swallowed her worry and disappointment and strolled back into the parlor, looked at Emma and saw her concern reflected in her sister’s eyes.
Emma rose, brushed her hands down the sides of her skirt. “I’m going to the apothecary. It might make me feel better to crush and grind some herbs to a powder.”
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