by Jo Noelle
Hugh’s smile faded. “It’s all I do believe in.” With those words, he left, and Julianne felt suddenly alone.
Chapter 5
Hugh Fontaine
Hugh sat atop the buckboard for a moment, staring at the closed door, feeling though he was surrounded by clear mountain air, he didn’t have a whiff to breathe. Maybe if he could stand by her a moment longer, or even just see her through kitchen window, his heart would stop pounding like it was trying to escape his chest.
Involuntarily, he shifted forward, ready to stand. For a second, he considered rapping on the door and asking permission to court her, but he regained his senses and settled back onto the seat, reluctantly guiding his horses down the road.
He knew she was a life-changer. But not for him.
He looked over his shoulder and stared at the rough wooden chapel fading into the early evening behind him. He knew where she was. If he were to stop by church in a day or two, he’d see her, but that was the last place he wanted to go.
There was a time in his life—long, long ago—when he’d looked forward to the peace of worship each week, sitting in the dark wooden pews or kneeling on the padded cushions where he’d have conversations with his Lord and listen for His voice from the scriptures.
Between the boy who loved the Lord and the man Hugh had become were too many winding roads. No, Julianne was not for him. Her life, past and future, followed a straight path.
Hugh worked out her future in his mind as he drove back downhill to the opposite side of Bachelor. She’d be a teacher, but just for a short time because one day she’d marry and live in a clapboard house. She’d hang clothes on the line and chase children through the yard. She’d organize the charity bazaar and take meals to widows.
Try as he might, he couldn’t imagine himself the husband in that domestic scene. No, he wouldn’t come looking for this young woman again. Loss trickled through his mind and soaked his chest.
His buckboard rumbled over the path back to the south side of town where he stopped before the long log cabin that made up his saloon. It stood at the mouth of the canyon that opened into the park where Bachelor huddled. Though there were several saloons in Creede, Hugh’s was the only one in Bachelor, making his business very profitable. He had prided himself on his choice to open his business here. It stood between the mines and the makeshift homes of the miners. Of the men who passed by each day, many stopped to leave coins in exchange for liquid relief from sore muscles, tired bodies, or lonely lives. Tonight, he felt a speck of regret.
He shook that thought away and surveyed his land and business. The cowpoke, his arms folded and looking dangerous, stood in front of the supply door at the far end.
Hugh ran the back of his hand across his eyes and opened them to see the rough cowboy staring straight at him. The man’s hands fell and rested on his hips above the silver handles of his six-shooters as if to forbid Hugh’s entrance. Light flashed, and in the next blink, the wrangler was gone. In his place stood Buck, the man Hugh employed to guard his inventory.
Bizarre. That was the word for his whole afternoon. Hugh couldn’t understand an angel saving his life at the card game, yet he was sure that was just what had happened. Realizing he wasn’t worth heaven’s notice, he surmised that he was a means to an end—maybe he had to live to save that young woman.
Sister Esther often said, “Heaven’s messages might come on angels’ wings, but mortals supply the elbow grease.”
But why him? And why hadn’t anyone passed by her before he got there? It was the only road between Bachelor and Creede, and should have seen a steady stream of folks going both ways.
Perhaps he was an important part of the event and not just a convenient lackey. Was he supposed to meet her? Maybe she could be… No. Enough. Means to an end—that’s all.
Hugh jumped from the wagon and set the brake against the back wheel. He nodded to Buck, who cradled a Henry rifle across his arm as Hugh approached, then began unloading his goods. The ringing sound of the whiskey bottles rattling in the boxes had always sounded like music and money to Hugh, but today it sounded hollow.
Just an hour ago, he’d driven his wagon right past his saloon, and hadn’t pointed it out to Miss Parker. Why was that? He knew why—shame. He’d become what his mother had tried to keep him far away from. She had sacrificed so much for him to have a different life.
There were few choices for earning a living in this town—being a miner, supplying a miner, or burying a miner. He chose the middle. For now, he supplied them with spirits and the distraction of cards.
A month or three down the road, he’d have enough money squirreled away to build a larger building. The upstairs would have rooms to rent. He wouldn’t get involved with what went on above stairs—he’d just rent the rooms.
Hugh knew where his mother’s money had come from, the money that paid his tuition, room and board, bought him clothes, and kept him at schools far away from her life. He was ashamed of her work, but never of her. Her choices had been made out of desperation and love. She’d sent letters every month, as had he. She wrote of her hopes for him. He also knew he was creating his future with a saloon, and she’d be disappointed.
Julianne’s face filled his mind. He could use her example of courage to move him in a different direction. His mind raced with possibilities. Instead of a saloon, he could open a mercantile. A year later, he could buy some property and build a house. Another year to furnish it. Then ask her—
His heart slammed down on that pipe dream with a twist and an ache. She deserves better than the son of a riverboat queen, a man who supplies liquor to miners, and gambles to rob others of their hard-earned cash. Hugh hauled in another box of whiskey and concentrated on the brittle sounds.
Chapter 6
Julianne Parker
Of the ten thousand people who called the east or west Willow Creek areas home, only twenty people and a handful of children filed into the church on Sunday morning. Millie introduced Julianne to the families and women who were sitting near their bench. She couldn’t remember a single name since she’d looked toward the door each time it opened, hoping to see Mr. Fontaine walk in. He had no excuse not to come—he certainly had known where the church was nearly a week ago when he’d dropped her here. She flattered herself that he might come just to see her. But the minutes passed, and it was apparent that he wouldn’t be attending.
It wasn’t that she was expecting to be romanced. Fact was, she didn’t know exactly what that included, should it ever happen. For a moment, she indulged in recalling her first sight of Mr. Fontaine, which sent a lightning bolt through her from head to toe. Her memory continued to assess his features as she had every evening since. Julianne opened her book of Psalms to take her mind off the situation. The letters and verses seemed to blur, and her eyes couldn’t focus on the words. Her mind was miles away and a few days back. His bright eyes more green than spring. A mischievous smile. Muscular shoulders and arms and legs.
Oh, drat. Another commandment, and in church no less.
Maybe she should consider his Christian traits. Hugh was brave. He hadn’t known exactly what he would find and had stopped to help her anyway. He was kind. Although he could have made a bad situation worse, he was gentlemanly. He had a keen sense of humor. His conversation was intelligent.
Julianne shook her mental thoughts. Yes, he was all those things, and he had not chosen to come back for a visit to renew his acquaintance with her. Although the sting of it traveled deep, she reminded herself that her parents had proven their lack of confidence in her either procuring her own suitor and even her marriageability. She must accept the fact—she was not desirable.
Julianne refused to slump at that realization. With her decision to leave her father’s home, Julianne had committed to live with purpose. She turned her attention back to the leather-bound book of scriptures her parents had given her and read until the worship started.
In the center of the aisle at the front of the church, st
ood a beautiful lectern, seemingly out of place in the rough building. Smooth lines of delicately carved molding that resembled thorny vines outlined the shape of a cross on the face of it. On the flat tabletop sat a large Holy Bible. When Reverend Bing stood behind the lectern, he opened the book and Julianne sighed, her heart full. This was the same. Amidst all the newness and fear of the unknown, this was known, and so was she.
She had to believe the Lord had a plan for her. She didn’t know what it was, but this was the test of her faith—to wait on the Lord, to sacrifice her impatience.
Julianne sat in the front pew with Millie and felt hope buoy her up as Reverend Bing spoke the words from Isaiah forty-one. The words slipped through the cracks in her doubt like they were keenly designed just for her—be not afraid, I am with thee, I will strengthen thee and help thee.
When the service finished, Millie introduced Julianne to the rest of the women in attendance. She concentrated on their names, the shape of their faces, and the people who were in their family. She rehearsed their names in her head and listened for the names of the women she’d met earlier as they were greeting one another.
She answered the same questions over and again. “Yes, I’m staying with Millie.”
“I’m originally from Chicago.”
“I plan to be a teacher.”
“I’m so happy to make your acquaintance.” And she knew it was true.
The men pushed the pews to the wall and set a quilting frame in their place. Millie drew a neatly folded pile of cloth from behind the lectern, which was then nailed to the quilting frames while the benches were pushed back to each side of the frame.
The few children gathered in the corner of the room or sat on the floor near their mothers’ benches, or under the stretched quilt. Julianne’s heart squeezed. She longed to be a mother and gather her little ones to her. To have tiny fingers wrapped securely around her own. Or to have bright, trusting eyes sleep without fear because their mother’s arms held them close to her heart. To brush their downy hair from their faces and revel in the pillowy softness of their pink cheeks. She wondered what it would be like to stand beside a husband and together share the joy of a family.
She studied the quilt, thinking about a proverb of her grandmother’s. “Each stitch you sew on Sunday, you’ll pluck out with your nose in heaven.”
Maybe it was worry that Millie saw in Julianne’s face. Or it could have been that Millie sensed her unspoken question about the quilt. Either way, she said, “Many of our small flock come to town only one day a week, for church, often leaving their homes at sun-up to be here. These all be poor folk. They can’t give offerings the way you might be used to, so we needn’t pass a plate. But they can give through their needle or their knife.”
Millie inclined her head toward the window where Julianne saw the men gathered, carving and whittling on narrow boards. Julianne also saw a boy near eleven or so and distinctively dressed in trousers with one pant leg missing just below his knee. Callum must have known he was there because he waved and called him over.
Millie’s voice drew her attention back to the quilt. “We sell the lecterns and quilts in Denver to support our congregation here. Come sit with us.” She gestured to two empty seats. “We call this Praise and Pray.”
As the quilting began, Millie recited the Lord’s Prayer. The women could comment or sit silently pondering, but each took a turn to add to the worship.
Edna, a small dark-haired woman next to Julianne, said, “In the tenth chapter of Luke, it says, ‘And into whatsoever house you enter, first say, Peace be to this house.’” Edna worked her needle up and down, up and down through several stitches before pulling it through. The other women sat silently, anticipating that Edna’s comment wasn’t complete.
Then she added, “I like to think that these quilts are filled our faith, and the people who buy them take a blessing into their home. I push my needle and say to them from me ‘Peace be unto their house.’” Several soft “amens” followed.
Julianne was surprised when the women traded seats, taking turns sitting next to her and conversing quietly. It was a grand welcome to share private moments with each of them, getting to know them personally.
After an hour, the men returned to set the room to rights, and the women put away the quilt. The whole congregation moved outside. A gentle breeze stirred the air and rustled through the aspen leaves, harmonizing with the slosh and gurgle of the river bumbling over rocks. Peace filled Julianne.
A simple potluck dinner was shared. Some had brought loaves. Other’s shared cheese or jam or smoked fish. Never had fellowship felt so personal. Her soul was alive with love and gratitude.
Her eyes often strayed from the adults’ conversation to watch the children gather and play as they too enjoyed the added companions that Sunday brought. One of the older girls held a long willow branch that had almost been completely stripped of twigs, turning it around and around as children jumped over it. When a child missed, they became the holder and the game began again.
“May I have a turn?” Julianne asked.
“Yes, but you have to turn first,” the girl replied, and Julianne stepped forward to take the branch. She bent forward and skimmed just the leafy end along the dirt. She was grateful and a little dizzy when a child finally missed.
Julianne handed off the branch and looked toward the adults. No one paid particular attention to the game, and Julianne stepped in to jump with the children. She began counting the number of jumps that were made over the stick as she and her childhood friends had done.
She chanted, “…Twenty, twenty-one…” Then a child missed and the game started over. Again, she chanted the numbers. This time, she called out seventeen before there was a miss.
“Was that more or less than last time?” a freckled little girl beside her asked.
Julianne was surprised by the question. The child seemed to be ten or eleven, but she couldn’t count?
“It was fewer,” she answered. “Let’s count again.”
The child counted to ten with her, then her voice fell away as Julianne counted to twenty-seven. “That was the most we’ve done,” Julianne remarked. She felt as if her legs were jelly. She was a little short of breath and stepped away as the children continued their play.
A few feet from her, one child sat with stick in hand, drawing circle after circle in the dirt in front of her crossed legs. When she’d filled up the space, she wiped her hand across the surface, sending dust into the air, and started again. The circles gave way to wavy lines and even bold slashes in every direction—always followed by a quick erasing swipe.
Julianne approached the girl and knelt beside her. “What are you making?”
The girl stood, holding the stick behind her skirts. She looked down and swished her foot to erase the remaining circle, and then the stick fell to the ground.
Julianne tried again. “It seemed to be very important business. Perhaps I could help?”
“I was trying to write.”
“That’s wonderful.” Julianne clasped her hands to her chest. “Can we do it together?”
The child dropped the stick to the ground. “I don’t know how.” Her head hung in sorrow and her bottom lip pouted.
“I can do that part, and you can follow up after me. Now, to find a perfect writing stick for myself.” Julianne turned in a slow circle. “A stick. A stick. Hmm. Where did you get your fine stick?” She picked it up and examined it with keen interest.
The girl looked up past the brim of her bonnet, her eyes searching Julianne’s face. Finally, she answered, “I’ll show you.” She took Julianne’s hand and led her near the stream.
When Julianne chose a stick from the riverbank, she sat on a boulder, removing the knife from her boot. “A proper writing quill should have a fine point,” she said as she whittled four strokes off the end. “Shall I sharpen yours too?”
The girl smiled and passed Julianne her stick. When it was ready, Julianne asked, “Will you tell
me your name? Then I can write the first sentence about you.”
The child’s eyes widened, and a smile brightened her elfish face. “Ruby, because I’m my daddy’s jewel.” Ruby took Julianne by the fingers and lead her back toward the meeting house.
Her tiny hand felt as tender to Julianne as was the trusting heart of the child. Oh, how Julianne thrilled to bring words to this little one.
Julianne turned to the child. “Shall we make that the first thing we write? Ruby is Daddy’s jewel.”
Julianne wrote the words, saying them aloud. Ruby watched with rapt attention. On the second time, Ruby’s voice joined her own as the letters were formed. This time when she finished, she helped Ruby guide her stick over the letters.
Ruby finished the wobbly Y and dropped the stick—this time from joy. “My name.” She pointed at the dirt with obvious pride. Her eyes sparkled with achievement.
Julianne clapped. “Well done. Do you want me to help you find your parents?”
“I’m writing my name right now” was all Ruby said as she returned to serious work.
Before Julianne moved away, she marveled at the determination on the girl’s face, her tongue curled around the corner of her upper lip as she traced in the dirt.
After they cleaned up the dinner, Julianne watched the young boy in the tattered pants. He hadn’t been in the chapel for the service, and even now he hung around the edges, not joining in with the other children or the adults.
“Who is that?” she asked.
“His name is Willie. You’ll get to know him. He’s a hard worker,” Millie replied.
Several small groups formed. Julianne heard whispers about someone being abducted or missing. She recalled Hugh warning her that he wouldn’t leave her to walk alone. Not knowing anyone well enough to join the conversations, only bits of information reached her. Who was missing? When? What was being done?
She tucked her thoughts away to ask Millie about it later.
