“And for syrup,” Mariposa added, still confused. What were they talking about?
“Yes, but these aren’t sugar maples. They’re money-making maples.”
“Money-making maples? That’s hard to say.”
“But not hard to sell.” Brant turned to her, his eyes alight. “Do you know what I did at my father’s company?”
She’d tried to pay attention when he talked, but it wasn’t very interesting, so she’d mostly pretended. “It was something to do with merchants and suppliers.”
“That’s right. I’d arrange for products to move along the chain of supply so the manufacturers could broker their items to the stores. Sometimes it was as simple as introducing two gentlemen to each other over lunch and taking a commission. Other times, it was more complicated than that, but the point remains this—right here in front of us are acres and acres of maple, a highly desirable wood for making furniture. I know furniture makers who are looking for new suppliers of wood.”
“And you want to introduce them to the owner of this land?”
“Yes, and I want to be the owner of this land.”
“What . . . what did you say?”
He grinned again. “I want to own this land and sell the lumber. This parcel right here would bring in enough income for us to live like kings until our children were old enough to take care of us. We’d build a nice home right there by the creek, and every morning, we’d wake up to this incredible view.”
He waved his arm around. “Mariposa, this is everything I’ve ever dreamed of—running my own business, living in an incredible location, and having you by my side. I know I made some horrible mistakes before, but you can rest assured, I will do everything in my power to live them down. I love you—I’ve always loved you, and I can’t imagine a day coming when I would ever stop.”
Her heart was thumping wildly. “Just so we’re clear with each other . . .”
“I’ll say it outright this time. Mariposa Granger, will you marry me?”
Her brain turned to cornmeal. She’d been angry with him for so long that she hardly knew what to do with those feelings. True, she’d been working on forgiving him, but she wasn’t quite there yet, and she didn’t know if a person with her temperament could learn how to forgive so quickly. It almost seemed like some sort of religious ritual would have to take place first. Or a week spent in the desert, subsisting on cactus and examining one’s soul.
Then again, she had to be reasonable. He’d made a mistake, but he’d explained and apologized, and there was really nothing more he could do or needed to do—it was all up to her. Who did she want to be? A person who couldn’t let go, who refused to forgive even after every attempt to set things right? Or a person who could move past the hurts and see what lay beneath?
She thought about hemming and hawing. It was so tempting to toy with him, but no—she couldn’t do that. “Yes,” she said, nearly squeaking because her heart was in her throat and it was hard to speak. “Yes, I will. And I’ll live in a house with a creek running nearby, and I’ll support you in this new business, and we’ll talk to each other, won’t we? We’ll tell each other everything.”
“Absolutely everything.” He slid his arm around her waist and pulled her toward him, which was quite easy, actually, because the fabric of the seat was slick and she’d had a hard time not sliding off during the whole ride. Then his lips were on hers, their first real kiss, and she forgot about slippery seats and everything else in the whole world. Why hadn’t they done this two years ago? Her hands took on minds of their own and reached up to grab his collar, holding him closer when he would have pulled away.
He laughed against her lips. “I need to breathe.”
“No, you only think you do. What you really need is to kiss me again.”
“I do?”
“Yes. There’s nothing in the world more important right now.”
“Hmmm. You might be right.” He lowered his head and kissed her again, making the buggy and the horse and everything around them completely disappear.
***
Ellen looked back and forth between the two of them as they stood before her in the front room, brimming over with their news. “You’re acting like I should be surprised by this,” she said dryly.
“Not surprised, exactly, but happy for us,” Mariposa said.
“Well, of course I’m happy for you! This has only been the longest engagement coming in the history of American civilization. I thought my hair would turn entirely gray before it came about. Thank you for saving me a few bottles of hair dye.”
“You’re welcome,” Brant said with a chuckle. “Tomorrow I’d like to take you out and show you the land I intend to buy. I showed it to Mariposa today, and I’m fairly certain that’s why she said yes.”
“I’m not going to marry you too, if that’s what you’re after,” Ellen retorted. “I’ll be perfectly content just to give my approval.”
“Well, we need a little more input than that,” Mariposa said. “You need to choose out the spot for your own house.”
Ellen sat back and blinked. “My own house?”
“That’s right,” Brant said. “There’s acres and acres to choose from—you can live as near to us or as far away as you like—or you can decide not to live on the property at all. It’s entirely up to you, of course, but we want you nearby.”
Ellen nodded slowly. “Of course I’ll be nearby. I can’t imagine anywhere else I’d rather be. I’m just stunned at the idea of having a house of my own, something truly mine that I won’t have to leave unless I want to.”
“I think we’re both experiencing the same kind of shock,” Mariposa told her. “But it’s over now—no more running. And if Mr. Lopez doesn’t agree to our terms, Brant will see him gone. He’s promised me.”
Ellen pressed her lips together, a sure sign that she was holding back her emotions, and nodded. “Thank you, Brant. I have hope that everything will turn out as it should, but knowing you’ll be there if it doesn’t . . . That means a great deal.”
He gave her a smile. “I couldn’t do anything less.”
***
If the train was on time, and if the stage was on time, and if no one had become ill and there had been no freak rainstorms or blizzards, Brant and Mr. Lopez should be arriving any minute. Mariposa paced in front of the mercantile where she’d been told the stage would stop, craning her neck to see up the road, but not even a plume of dust signaled their arrival. Finally, Mrs. Stewart came out of the store, her hands on her hips.
“Miss Granger, you’re going to give yourself a fit if you keep this up. Come have a seat on the porch and rest a minute.”
“Giving myself a fit would at least be keeping myself occupied,” Mariposa said. “Sitting still just seems so . . . still.”
Mrs. Stewart laughed. “Come on,” she urged. “There’s a nice empty bench right here waiting for you.”
Mariposa grudgingly tromped up the steps and sat down. It was nicer to sit on the porch—it was shady, and perhaps even a bit cooler. It didn’t do anything for her nerves, though, and she still jumped and twitched whenever she saw movement down the road.
What if Che had missed the train? What if Brant had misread the telegram announcing Che’s arrival time?
Mariposa was just about to start pacing again when she finally saw the stage approaching. She’d never wanted to run away from anything so badly in her life, but she also wanted to run toward it, her arms outstretched. She didn’t know which inclinations to listen to, so instead, she remained where she was, on the porch, watching as the passengers climbed down from the stage and collected their belongings.
There was Brant, helping an older lady descend the steps. She looked as though she would have toppled without his help, and she patted his arm several times in thanks before she let him go.
Then a tall, olive-skinned man stepped off the stage, his dark hair carefully brushed back and a small mustache on his upper lip—she’d imagined him with a must
ache, and she blinked a few times to make sure it was real. He carried a hat which he moved to place on his head, but he looked up, made eye contact with Mariposa, and they both froze, neither one able to move or perhaps even breathe. The hat dangled from his fingers, forgotten.
After a long moment, Mariposa took one step forward, but that was all she could manage. She didn’t have the strength to do more.
The man standing in the street had her eyes—or perhaps it was better to say, she had his.
This was her father.
“Mariposa,” he whispered, and even over the sounds of the other passengers and the general chaos of the street, she heard him.
She took a stumbling step backward, thankfully landing on the bench, not taking her eyes from him. The thing she’d never dreamed would happen, the impossible, was happening right in front of her, and her emotions were overwhelmed.
Brant was at her side in an instant. “Are you all right? Are you going to faint?”
“I’d like to say no, but I’m not sure,” she replied. “I could very well.”
Brant motioned over her shoulder, and within seconds, Mrs. Stewart was handing her a cool drink. She sipped, noticing that Che Lopez was no longer standing in the middle of the road, but had moved to the base of the steps. She swallowed a few more times, then handed the cup to Brant.
“Hello, Mr. Lopez,” she said, her voice sounding tight and constrained.
“Hello, Miss Granger,” he replied. “I’m sorry that my arrival has caused you so much distress.”
“No, you’re not to feel bad about that. I’m not sure what else could have been done.” She glanced around, noticing that there was still room for him on the bench. “Won’t you please have a seat?”
He nodded, then climbed the steps slowly to the spot she indicated. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to meet you, and Brant informed me of the rules,” he said as he sat. “You have no obligation to me—I know this. I’m also not here to disrupt your life in any way. I just needed to see you with my own eyes at least once.”
“Your eyes . . . I have your eyes,” Mariposa said.
He smiled. “Yes, you do, but you wear them so much more beautifully than I ever could.”
They sat for a few minutes in silence, watching the people go past on the street. Mariposa was numb, wanting to speak and yet not wanting to say the wrong things, afraid of waking from this dream, afraid that it wasn’t a dream.
“Did you love my mother?” she asked at last, needing to get that out of the way first. If he didn’t answer this question correctly, what chance did he have with the others?
He responded without any hesitation at all. “Young lady, I loved your mother more than I thought it was possible to love someone, and that hasn’t changed.” He paused, a smile lighting up his face. “You sure look like her, almost like she did the day we met. There never was another woman for me after I laid eyes on her—she took up my whole world.”
“Even after her death?”
“Even after. All these years, I’ve never wanted anyone else.”
“And . . . have you been happy?” It seemed like such an awkward question, one with an obvious answer, but she had to ask.
“I’ve been as happy as I could be, given the circumstances. I have friends, I travel, I keep myself busy—you could say that I’ve had a good life, despite the unfortunate events there in the middle of it.” He searched her eyes. “And you? Have you been happy?”
“Very. Ellen has taken such good care of me—I’ve wanted for nothing.”
“Ellen,” he said musingly. “She never liked me much. Perhaps Charlotte should have listened to her. Then she’d still be alive.”
“Yes, but Mariposa wouldn’t,” Brant interjected from where he’d been leaning against the side of the store. “We’re sorry to have lost Charlotte, but never sorry to have gained Mariposa.”
“You’re right. The world was blessed the day you were born.” Che smiled again, and Mariposa noticed small dimples in either cheek. “I remember that day so clearly. Your mother handed you to me, and I didn’t even know how to hold your head properly. She had to teach me. And then you looked up at me with those eyes full of wonder, like you could see clear into my soul. I’ve never forgotten that moment.”
“How old was I the last time you saw me?” Mariposa asked. Odd that she’d never thought about it before.
“You were six months old. Not quite crawling, but you definitely wanted to.” He laughed at the memory. “I remember every night when I’d come home—or sometimes, in the early morning—you’d clap your hands when you saw me. I looked forward to that, and if you were asleep when I came in, it was hard not to wake you up just so I could see you.” He paused and wiped his eyes. Mariposa was surprised to discover that her cheeks were wet too—she hadn’t planned to feel so much emotion. “I’m a sinful man, Mariposa, and I’ll never be a saint, but one thing I promise you—I was a good father, and I was a good husband. We had a happy home until that night—Brant says he told you what happened.”
“Yes, he did.” Mariposa took out her handkerchief and blotted her cheeks. “Tell me more about being a good father. What did we do together?”
“We sat together and read stories, and I’d make faces and you’d laugh. At six months, you couldn’t go on walks or play ball with me, but you were an attentive listener, and I’d tell you all about my day. And sometimes I’d sing to you.”
Something tickled in the back of Mariposa’s brain, some wisp of a faint memory. “What songs?” she nearly whispered.
“Oh, just some silly tunes I made up.”
“Please. Sing me one now.”
Che glanced at Brant as though asking if he should comply, then began to sing a simple little lullaby that made the fine hairs on Mariposa’s arms stand up. “I remember,” she said when he finished. “I remember hearing that song when I was very small. But I don’t remember you or your face—just the music. And how I felt.”
“I’m glad you remember something,” Che replied. “You were very young, likely too young to remember anything else.”
“Likely,” Brant agreed, but Mariposa stayed silent, overwhelmed by the moment. She remembered having a father, and what was even more important, she remembered that he’d loved her. That meant more to her than anything else possibly could.
***
“One letter a month, no more and no less,” Che Lopez said, standing outside the mercantile as they waited for the stage that would return him to the train station. He’d stayed in town for three days, which was just long enough to share some stories about his childhood with Mariposa and also stories about those first early months of marriage. He and Ellen had greeted each other civilly and it never did progress beyond that, but Mariposa was grateful for that much.
“And don’t forget that you’re coming to the wedding,” Brant added, shaking Che’s hand.
“November, if I recall,” Che said.
“That’s right. Just enough time to build a simple cabin on my new land.”
“I’ll be here,” Che promised, then turned to Mariposa. “Thank you,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “Thank you for being willing to speak with me, and I promise, I won’t overstep my boundaries. We have so far to go, so many hurdles to overcome, that I wouldn’t dream of setting anything off balance.”
“Thank you,” Mariposa told him. “I appreciate that quite a lot.”
He smiled. “I’m a blessed man to find a daughter after so many years. I’m not about to chase her away now.”
The stage rolled into town and came to a rest in its usual spot, and Che handed his bag up to the driver. Then he turned back to Mariposa. “It’s hard to say goodbye, but I’ll see you in November.”
“Travel safely,” she replied. She had mixed feelings about seeing him go, but mostly, she knew it was time. They both needed to separate and think about everything that had happened so they could prepare to see each other again. If he stayed much longer, one or the other of them
would grow weary and say something unkind—she could see the same spark of fire in his eyes that she had in hers, and tempers were bound to flare up with that much passion in the same family until they grew to know each other better.
He gave her hand a quick squeeze, shook Brant’s hand again, and climbed into the coach. He didn’t lean out and wave like the other passengers did, and that was just as well. Mariposa was having a difficult time as it was maintaining her composure.
She stood there and watched until the coach was out of sight, and then she turned to Brant with a warm smile. “Now, what was this I heard you saying to Mrs. Stewart about choosing the right kind of rug for your parlor?”
“Did I say that? I don’t remember,” Brant replied, pretending ignorance, and she took him by the hand.
“Come on,” she said. “We’ve got some rug shopping to do.” She pulled him into the mercantile and over to the household goods. “We’re going to buy a rug. Our rug, Mr. Fielding. The rug we’ll pace when we have a colicky child, the rug that will warm our feet on cold nights.”
“That’s quite a lot of trust and responsibility to place in a rug. What if it’s not up to the challenge? What if we choose the wrong one?”
“We’ll consider that the first real test of our marriage—combining our rug-choosing abilities to find the perfect fit.” She squeezed his hand. “And then we’ll face the next challenge, and the next—together.”
“Together,” he replied with a grin. “I sure do like the sound of that.” He glanced over his shoulder to make certain they were alone, then tugged her in for a kiss. She’d never thought about being kissed on the household goods aisle of a mercantile, but she had to admit, it really was quite romantic.
Epilogue
“Thank goodness for strong arms to borrow when I have a lot to carry,” Mariposa teased, handing yet another basket to Brant from the back of the wagon. They’d gone all out with their contributions to this barn raising for Martin and Rosalie Davis—she hated to hear of people suffering for any reason, and if there was a way to help, she certainly wouldn’t ignore the need. Martin had been reluctant at first to accept the help, but he’d injured his back, and with an entire town ready to step in, it was rather hard to stay stubborn forever.
Butterfly Kisses Page 6
