by Gina Welborn
Emilia stepped to the edge of the covered porch, shielding her eyes from the late-afternoon sun. Over the ridge came Sheriff McCall on Finn’s brown horse. From here, it looked like the other horse was white with leopardlike dark spots. And the huge man riding it . . .
She dashed to the henhouse. There weren’t going to be enough beans and leftovers to feed them all.
* * *
She didn’t mind sharing a meal with two practical strangers. She didn’t mind sharing a spoon and tin plate of beans, fried egg, and leftover shepherd’s pie with Luci. But permitting a guest to wash the dirty dishes . . .
Emilia stood firm and refused to release the blue enamel mug to the man with as strong a grip on it. “Please, Mr. Gunderson, I can—”
“Jakob,” he insisted with the same twinkle in his blue eyes that he’d had since the moment he’d slid off his odd-colored horse and introduced himself as Jakob Gunderson, but please call me Jakob. Mr. Gunderson is my brother. He tugged on the mug. “I like to help, and I’ll show Luci how to make coffee.”
“We don’t have any grounds.”
“I always carry some in my saddlebag.”
“Just let him do it,” Roch yelled from where he sat on the hearth. He returned to watching the sheriff demonstrate how to clean the rifle.
The sheriff, Emilia noted, never looked away from the gun.
She released the mug. Not because she no longer minded Mr. Gunder—Jakob—cleaning the dinner table and washing dishes. No, this was nothing more than a decision based on pain and suffering. Her neck verily ached from looking up at him. She’d thought Sheriff McCall was tall until Jakob had dismounted his spotted horse. Four, maybe, five inches over six feet. Good heavens, the tip of her head barely reached the middle of his chest, and her boots had inch heels! He’d had to duck and turn sideways to enter the cabin because of the breadth of his shoulders. She’d seen a few stockmen his size. What did he spend his days lifting? Cows? Never had she felt more petite . . . or more tired of arguing her point.
No, she was flat-out tired. Period. Unlike Luci, she hadn’t had a nap. With what little sleep she’d had on the train, the thought of climbing the ladder to the loft tempted her.
Jakob gave Luci the mug. She smiled, muttered her thanks, and intently watched him roll up the sleeves of his blue shirt. Emilia didn’t have to hear her sister sigh to know she’d done so. And to think he had a twin . . .
Emilia looked at the chair she’d occupied before Jakob had started piling three tin plates upon the one he’d used. An hour or so before nightfall, she could sit here to work on her notes for tomorrow . . . and risk falling asleep for all to see. The cabin afforded zero privacy. Before the sheriff returned with Finn’s nearest neighbor, the cabin had felt cozy. Now it felt invaded.
One too many persons crowded.
Emilia grabbed her haversack from the wall hook next to the door. Jakob and Luci could wash the dishes. The sheriff and Roch could clean the gun. She strolled onto the porch. And grimaced. The rocking chair was inside. Fine. She could manage without it. Happy for a moment to herself, she sat on the tree stump Finn had used as a table. If she turned her head, she could easily see through the window into the cabin. From here, though, she also had a prime view of the setting sun above the black mountains.
Orange faded to gold to green and into blue. Magnificent streaks of light with nary a cloud for as far as she could see. The expanse of the sky . . . a distance she could not fathom. And she’d thought Jakob made her feel tiny.
How had Finn felt when he’d surveyed the horizon? Awe at God’s handiwork? Insignificant and alone?
Who am I that God is mindful of such a sinner as me?
He’d written that question twice in his letters. She’d planned on asking what he’d meant, but now? She sniffed and blinked rapidly to dry her eyes. Now was not a time to cry. Now was not the time to grieve. She had work to do. She dug through her haversack to find journal number three and a pencil. The tip?—sharp enough. She rested her haversack against the stump, only to have it fall over, spilling the contents.
Would this day ever end?
She turned to the list of possessions she’d compiled while Sheriff McCall had been fetching Jakob. Barely enough to fill a single column running down the page. More than they’d had in Chicago. Mr. Adams had suggested she sell some things. Once she learned how to make goat cheese, she could barter it and half the weekly production of eggs. Come harvest, she’d have alfalfa and a few cattle to take to auction. Of course, by then she’d know if any were breeding. How long was a cow’s gestational period?
She snatched her ranching journal from the ground. Flipped through the pages. Calving cycles . . . it was here somewhere. She’d copied the information out of The Book of the Farm.
A set of scuffed work boots entered her peripheral vision.
Emilia turned another page. If she ignored Jakob, he’d go away. Ah, here . . .
Cows may be ascertained to be in calf between the fifth and sixth month of gestation, she’d written. She put an asterisk next to the sentence. Since calving occurred in the spring, if any of Finn’s cows were carrying, then—She counted on her fingers April, May, June, July, August. So September, then, would be the earliest she’d know if the herd was growing.
The boots hadn’t moved from the threshold.
She tossed journal number two onto journal number one, then returned her attention to her list of estate items. Harness. Plow. Shovel and rake. Covered wagon. Even though it was a third the size of a Conestoga, she’d need a stool to climb up to the driver’s bench. Every morning she’d have to harness the horse. She’d never be able to do it on her own. Roch would have to help. Unless . . .
She nipped at her bottom lip. If she didn’t need the wagon for the ranch’s sake, it’d be prudent to sell and purchase something more manageable. She drew a question mark behind covered wagon.
“What’s in the journals?”
Emilia looked to Jakob, trying to discern his motive for asking. He seemed genuinely curious. Not that she cared if Jakob Gunderson knew what was in her journals. She didn’t. She had nothing to hide. No secrets. If she said anything, he’d join her out on the porch and they’d have a conversation. He’d tell an amusing story to get her to laugh. When she didn’t, he’d offer a joke. He’d done it enough times during the meal for her to wonder if he felt compelled to set people at ease. More than once, she’d noticed him looking at her as if he sensed she was on the precipice of tears, and his obligation—no, duty—was to rescue her from grief.
Was it such a bad thing?
She glanced through the window. Luci had moved to the living area and was sitting at the sheriff ’s feet, her head resting against his knee. His attention, though, was on whatever Roch was saying. If anyone needed coffee, Sheriff McCall did. No, more than coffee; the haggard man needed sleep . . . and time to grieve his friend’s death.
Emilia pointed at the two journals on the ground. “The top one has notes about things I figured I’d need to know as a rancher’s wife. The other contains historical research I shared with two stockmen while we rode the trolley on the way home from work. They only had a few years of schooling.”
Jakob leaned against the doorframe, his palm resting casually on the hilt of his revolver. “Did you ever think of becoming a teacher?”
“It never interested me,” she said in honesty. “I like—I liked working at the department store. Things arrived from all over the world. When I saw Byzantine textiles, I wanted to know where they came from, so I went to the library to research them.”
He gave her a strange look. Not strange; more like he suddenly saw her in a new light. “Did you find out?”
“Byzantium was the earliest name for Istanbul, Turkey.” She paused as he sat next to her, using the cabin wall as a back support. “Istanbul was founded more than six hundred years before the Common Era. In fact, the country is partially in Europe and partially in Asia.”
“Whoa.” He drew his legs
up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. “I could never figure out what separated Europe and Asia. North America and South America make sense to me because there’s a narrow strip of land almost separating the continents.”
“The Isthmus of Panama.”
He dipped his head just enough to acknowledge he knew what she was talking about.
Emilia tapped her pencil against the journal on her lap. “Because of the sideways S bend, the Isthmus of Panama is the only place in the world where one can see the sun set in the Atlantic and rises in the Pacific.”
“I’d like to see that.” Then his gaze shifted, focusing absently on nothing in particular, a frown growing.
“What is it?” she asked.
“I just realized the farthest south I’ve ever been was Denver.”
“I’d never been out of Chicago until three days ago.”
He was watching her with a curious expression, saying why did you leave the only town you knew for a man you’d never met? His voice was soft. “I’m sorry about Finn.”
Vision blurring, she gave him a weak smile. “Me, too.” She paused until she’d gained control over her emotions. “Thank you.”
“For?”
“Tonight. It was kind of you.”
“Finn would have—” He cleared his throat, then stretched his legs, resting one ankle atop the other. “What’s the dividing line between Europe and Asia?”
“It’s—oh.”
“Oh?”
“I have no idea. I can’t believe I never looked that up.” She grabbed her historical journal, turned to the page she’d last written on, and underneath Burma wrote What divides Europe and Asia?
Luci’s laughter drew Emilia’s gaze to the window. From Roch’s spot there on the hearth, he shrugged yet smiled and continued speaking. The sheriff sat, left arm crossed over his chest, gripping his right arm at the elbow, his fisted right hand partially covering his smile. Someone with gray bags under his eyes should be in bed, not engaging in conversation. Why didn’t he have a wife and children? Surely there was a girl he was courting. Someone he escorted to the theater. Someone he sat next to at church.
His head turned to the window, to where she was sitting. His brow furrowed; his smile died. What are you and Jakob discussing?
Emilia jerked her gaze back to the journal in her lap. She did not know what the sheriff was thinking. He could be wondering nothing. Or anything. Or something more likely to be, Why isn’t she sitting in a fit of tears or laying prostrate on Finn’s grave or packing to return to Chicago? To be sure, he wished for the latter.
She sighed. He could hope whatever he wanted. She wasn’t leaving.
“What’s in the third journal?” Jakob asked, his voice lighthearted yet intent on getting the information he wanted.
Emilia picked a piece of lint off her gray sleeve. “It’s a calendar of sorts. A schedule of what I need to do and when I need to have it done by. It also helps me keep track of my finances. Upon Mr. Adams’s advice, I’ve listed every item in Finn’s estate.” She felt a crease growing between her brows. “How much is Finn’s covered wagon worth?”
“I’d say thirty-five. He bought it last summer.” He leaned toward the threshold. “Hey, Mac, how much you say Finn’s wagon is worth?”
Sheriff McCall stepped onto the threshold. “About twenty-five. He didn’t buy it new.”
Emilia wrote 25 next to wagon. “How difficult is it to drive?”
Jakob and Sheriff McCall exchanged glances before Jakob asked her, “Where are you planning to drive it?”
“Into Helena.” Good heavens, where did they think she was going? She’d wager the sheriff was hoping back to Chicago. “Finn had debts. As his wife, I am obligated to see them paid.”
The sheriff ’s lips pursed, as if he was holding back words.
“You can’t handle a wagon,” Jakob insisted.
“Why can’t she?” Luci stood next to Sheriff McCall, with Roch right behind her. Her fingers curled around the sheriff ’s left hand. “Emme can do anything.”
Roch snorted. “She’s too wea—” The k at the end of the word died under Sheriff McCall’s gaze.
Strangely enough, Luci didn’t counter Roch’s words. Likely she knew he was right. Emilia was too weak to do what she needed to here on the ranch. Today she was. In time, she would be capable of doing more.
She looked to Jakob. “Is it necessary for me to have a vehicle this large, or can I accomplish ranch things with a more manageable wagon? Maybe a buckboard?”
“You’ll need something big enough to haul alfalfa to market.” Jakob turned to the sheriff, who gave a shake of his head. He turned back to Emilia. “Sell the wagon and borrow one when you have a need.”
Borrow? Better to learn how to drive what she owned than put herself at the mercy of others.
“How am I supposed to get into Helena if I don’t have a vehicle?” Emilia held up a hand. “Shh. The question was meant to be rhetorical.” On the line with covered wagon, she wrote, haul alfalfa. The tip of her pencil lingered on the end of the word, something niggling at her mind, something not making sense.
She and Finn had begun exchanging letters last summer. At the time, he’d had three hundred head of free-range cattle. Then came the hard winter. Finn had bemoaned not having hay and not having built corrals.
She looked at Jakob. “Why would Finn buy a wagon last summer for the purpose of hauling alfalfa when he didn’t buy alfalfa seed until last month?” When Jakob didn’t answer, she looked at the sheriff. “What has he been using the wagon for?”
* * *
“What a day.” Luci’s announcement broke the silence in the dark cabin.
“Shh,” Emilia said without opening her eyes. “Go to sleep.”
“I can’t.”
Emilia released a frustrated breath and rolled over on the featherbed. Never in her life had she slept on something so soft. Moonlight streaming through the tiny loft window brightened her sister’s face, making it almost as pale as their cotton nightgowns.
“Why can’t you sleep?” she whispered.
Luci sighed. “He’s so beautiful.”
“The sheriff?”
Luci gave her a strange look. “No, Jakob Gunderson.”
Emilia blinked. Jakob? Why would Luci be thinking about him, considering she’d spent most of the evening latched onto Sheriff McCall? Any words she’d exchanged with Jakob had been minimal. No matter how many times Emilia had caught Luci staring at the man and given her a silent command to stop, Luci had gone back to doing it again. Even if Jakob were bathed, shaved, and smelled nothing of sweat and manure, Emilia wouldn’t describe him as beautiful. To be fair, he was handsome, charming, nice to talk to, and, considering the way he’d insisted upon washing the dishes, gallant.
Impressive, Jakob was.
Beautiful?
What hung in the gallery across the street from Spiegel was beautiful. Landscapes. Portraits. Fruit. Flowers. How many lunch breaks had she sacrificed to spend twenty minutes in the gallery? Too many. Not enough.
Emilia rubbed her tired eyes. “Beauty is not enough reason to marry someone.”
Silence lingered inside the cabin. But outside—
She turned her head toward the sound. The voices were too faint for her to discern who spoke. They’d all still be trying to figure out why Finn had bought the covered wagon last summer if the sheriff hadn’t ordered everyone to bed. Was he trying to hide something? What did he know about Finn that he wasn’t telling her? There had to be something. She had not imagined the look of dread on his face after she’d first asked what Finn had been using the wagon for.
Just when she’d started to believe—hope, really—that her sister had fallen asleep, Luci said, “What is?”
Emilia looked at her sister. “What is what?”
“What is enough of a reason to marry someone?”
“Strength of character. Common values.” She shivered, then adjusted the quilt to recover them. Tomorrow nigh
t it might be wiser to move the featherbed and straw mattress in front of the hearth. “Oh, and love,” she hastened to add. It ought to have been the first reason she’d given; it was why their parents had married.
Luci’s brow furrowed. “Only three reasons?”
Emilia released a tired breath. There were more reasons, some less desperate than others, but it was late, it’d been a long day, and more than anything she wanted to sleep. “Can we talk about this tomorrow?”
“I suppose.” Luci rolled onto her back. She stared at the ceiling, her eyes not closing, and released a loud sigh that clearly conveyed I’ll do what you asked, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to be happy doing it.
Emilia softly chuckled. “Thank you.” She rolled onto her back, closed her eyes, and adjusted the quilt, drawing it and the luxurious sheets up to her chin. How had Finn afforded such nice bedding?
Between what little remained in the cupboard and the root cellar, they had a week’s worth of food. Then they’d have to live on eggs and goat milk and whatever her seven dollars could buy. Considering the amount of milk the goats produced, she ought to try making cheese. And butter. The Helena library should have a recipe book. Or she could ask Mrs. Palmer when she returned the tin lunch pail. Yes, that was what she’d do tomorrow after attending to the proxy and the list of creditors. Of course, in the morning, before she left for City Hall, she needed to feed the sow and the goats and let out the chickens to graze. Roch could check on the herd and—
“Emme?”
“Yes?”
“You told Da you were marrying Finn because it was convenient.” Luci paused. “If convenience was enough of a reason to marry him, you should marry Sheriff McCall. He said that, out here, a good woman was worth more than her weight in gold.”
Emilia turned her head just enough to see her sister was studying her face. “Are you being serious?”
Luci nodded vigorously. “You’re not much of a widow, so you shouldn’t have to wait a year before marrying again like Mrs. Palmer said you did.”
Mrs. Palmer’s exact words had been, You should not feel obligated to wait a year before marrying again. Not that Emilia would correct her sister’s memory. “Sheriff McCall was Finn’s closest friend.”
