by Carla Kelly
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Sarah M. Eden is the author of multiple historical romances, including Longing for Home and Whitney Award finalists Seeking Persephone and Courting Miss Lancaster. Combining her obsession with history and affinity for tender love stories, Sarah loves crafting witty characters and heartfelt romances. She has twice served as the Master of Ceremonies for the LDStorymakers Writers Conference and acted as the Writer in Residence at the Northwest Writers Retreat. Sarah is represented by Pam van Hylckama Vlieg at Foreword Literary Agency.
Chapter One
Susannah stepped out of the cottage where she lived alone. Pulling a pair of gloves out of her apron pocket, she gritted her teeth as she put them on, steeling herself for the long and painful walk ahead. She wrapped one of Wesley’s large bandana handkerchiefs around each hand, picked up the enamelware milk jugs, and set off down the lane.
By the time she got to the fence that divided the upper and middle pastures, she had to stop and set her burdens down. As she flexed her hands, Sweetie, a fawn-like calf and the solo resident of the middle pasture, came over to see her.
“Don’t you stare at me with those big, sad eyes,” Susannah said. “The milk isn’t for you. You can thank Mama Brown for that. She’s lined up customers for every day of the week.”
As she picked up the jugs and continued, Sweetie followed on the other side of the fence. “That’s a hard-hearted woman,” Susannah told the calf. “‘You’ve got to go back to your own place and get on with your life,’ she said to me. So I told her, ‘I don’t have a life anymore.’ And I don’t. I don’t have a husband. I don’t have any money, and I’m stuck here in Arizona Territory, a place thirty years behind times. It’s 1890, for heaven’s sake, and here I am, walking a mile to town every day carrying these stupid—”
Susannah set the milk cans down again and stared at Sweetie as an idea started to form in her mind. The heifer was four months old. Two gallons of milk wouldn’t be too much of a burden for her to carry. Susannah just needed something to make a set of saddlebags. She picked up her skirts and ran back toward the house.
“Don’t go away,” she called over her shoulder. “I’ll be back.”
Slamming through the front door, she ran through the kitchen-parlor-dining room, into the bedroom, and pulled down the ladder that went to the loft. After scrambling up, she hefted the cases of Wesley’s books out of the way. Behind them was the battered trunk that had served as her hope chest when she’d married a little over a year ago.
Susannah opened the trunk. She didn’t pause to touch the rosebuds she’d embroidered on the chambray nightgown for her wedding night. Nor did her gaze linger on the wedding picture stashed between dishtowels and bed linens. She dug to the bottom, unearthing the quilt Ivy Patterson had given her. Though Susannah liked the bright reds, blues and pinks in the nine-patch quilt, she had never liked Ivy Patterson, so she smiled grimly as she pulled it out and tossed it over the loft railing. She slammed the lid shut and moved the boxes of books back in front of the trunk then headed to the ladder to climb down.
At the top of the ladder, she paused. Reaching over, she opened one of the boxes and took out a slim volume, all she had left of her dead husband. She traced the embossed letters as her lips formed the words of the title: Hidden Spring, Poems by Wesley R. Brown. On impulse, she slipped the book into the pocket of her apron and finished her descent.
She grabbed the quilt and sewing box then went to work at the kitchen table. With the aid of a spool of carpet thread, a stout needle, and a pair of scissors, she folded and stitched the quilt into a crude and colorful set of panniers so that when it would hang over Sweetie’s back, each side would have separate pockets for two one-gallon milk cans.
“I think this will work,” she announced to the empty room. “If I walk beside her and hold it on her back, it should be fine.”
She put her sewing things away and picked up the saddlebag, but she had hardly gotten out the door before the thought hit her that she should have some way of leading Sweetie. Instead of heading to the pasture, Susannah went to the lean-to behind the house. Half of the shed was used as a milking parlor. The other half was for storing garden implements and grain.
After pulling open one of the double doors, Susannah waited a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim interior before scanning the tools and tack hanging on the wall. There it was— a halter with a rope attached. She grabbed it off its nail and thought to put some grain in the bottom of a bucket. Then she ran to the pasture, where an unsuspecting Sweetie was cropping grass.
Susannah let herself in the gate and hung the quilt on it. “Halter first,” she instructed herself, shaking the bucket. “Here, Sweetie. Want some nice oats?”
The calf came willingly, brushing her damp muzzle on Susannah’s arm as she investigated the intriguing sound from the pail.
Susannah set the oats on the ground, and while Sweetie’s tongue was busy scraping up the tasty morsels, worked to undo the buckle. Bending over Sweetie’s head as the calf pushed the empty bucket along the grass, Susannah managed to put the halter on and get it fastened.
She stood back and examined her handiwork, breathing hard from the exertion. The halter didn’t look quite right. The ring to which the rope attached was on the side instead of the bottom, and she had never seen an extra loop stick out like this one did, but when she pulled on the rope, the calf responded, and that was good enough for now.
“Come on, girl.” Susannah led the heifer to the gate, where she hung the quilt over Sweetie’s back. The calf’s only reaction was to turn her head and sniff at the fabric.
“Now for the milk.” Susannah pulled on the rope. Sweetie followed through the gate and over to where the jugs sat by the side of the lane. Loading them in the pockets was a bit tricky, but the calf stood still, and soon the colorful patchwork panniers were bulging and balanced.
“I’m just a little farm girl takin’ my wares to market,” Susannah said, adopting the local drawl, so different from her own Boston accent. “Come on, Sweetie. We’re goin’ ta town.”
The calf obliged by keeping pace beside her at a good clip, even when they passed Sweetie’s mother in the lower pasture. Lady, the Jersey cow Mama Brown had insisted Susannah buy with what remained of Wesley’s inheritance, raised her head and ambled over to the fence. Susannah kept the rope in her left hand and her right on Sweetie’s withers to make sure the quilt didn’t shift.
Susannah’s place at Hidden Spring was nestled at the head of a box canyon. Water welling up inside a cave at the base of a high sandstone cliff spilled into a stream that flowed down the widening valley, creating a swath of green in this mostly brown, high desert part of Arizona Territory. The track that led from the house to the main road skirted the pastures and followed the line of the rocky bluff.
About the time she turned onto the road to Masonville, the feel of the book in her apron pocket, which was bumping against her thigh, reminded Susannah of her favorite poem. She tried to recite it but couldn’t remember how the second stanza began. Letting go of the quilt, she pulled out the volume of verse and fumbled it open to the second page.
“Listen, Sweetie,” she said and began to read aloud.
Love, thou art like the waters
That flow to Hidden Spring,
Coming from afar, unnoticed,
Unheralded, yet you bring
With you, life.
Love, thine eyes are blue as rivulets
That pool along the way,
Thy hair the color of the sun,
Whose streaming, golden ray
Doth warm the earth
Beauty follows in thy wake,
And dormant dreams revive.
Souls shriveled by mundane cares,
In thy sweet presence come alive
And blossom.
Susannah held the book next to her heart and closed her eyes, picturing Wesley as he’d first read the poem to her in the Pattersons’ parlor. Th
e family had been out, so Susannah had an evening off and permission to use the room. The flickering fire created highlights in Wesley’s black hair as he bent his head to read the poem. Then he knelt before her, pressed the paper into her hand, and asked her to marry him.
The lead rope ripped from her hand. Susannah’s eyes sprang open. Her arms swung out to steady herself, but the calf’s hind legs caught the book squarely and sent it sailing. The next time Sweetie kicked, it was Susannah who went sailing.
Hitting the ground, she shrieked as she watched the saddlebags slide off Sweetie’s rump and fly through the air as the calf kicked them. They landed in a multi-colored pile in the middle of the road. When she tried to get up, pain struck her midsection, slashing through like a rusty knife. She lay back down, her eyes following the calf as, calm now, Sweetie turned to investigate the colorful heap, still holding the milk she was taking to sell in town.
“Oh, Sweetie,” she moaned. “What have you done?”
“Are you all right, ma’am?”
Susannah tried to rise up on one elbow to see who had spoken, but a sharp pang forced her to lie back down. Blinking, she squinted at the man bending over her, but the morning sun behind him was in her eyes. In spite of the glare, something about the shape of his head and the blackness of his hair was so familiar that her heart skipped a beat. “Wesley?”
Chapter Two
The stranger knelt beside her. “No, I’m not Wesley. I’m Douglas.”
Susannah turned her face away, embarrassment and disappointment making her chin quiver. Why did she still do that— think she saw him in familiar places? It had been six months.
Wesley was dead. He was never coming back.
“Can you sit up?” the man asked. “I hate to see you lying in the dirt.” He slid his arm under her shoulders.
She allowed him to help her to a sitting position but then shook him off. “I’m perfectly fine. I can get up by myself.”
“Are you sure?” He stood, dark eyes fixed intently on her.
Susannah considered a moment. Her skirt was tucked under her, so standing up would be a two-stage affair. Then there was the problem of the pain in her ribcage. She relented. “If you will give me your hand, I would appreciate it.”
He reached out, and she grasped his right hand with her left. The calluses on his palm and the sureness of his grip reminded her of Papa Brown, and somehow that made her feel better. Holding her right elbow tightly against her ribs, she used the strength of his arm to get to her knees and then to her feet.
She released his hand, but he seemed reluctant to let go, retaining the smallest amount of pressure so that her little finger trailed over his fingertips.
She felt color rising to her cheeks, and because she didn’t know what to do with her hands, she brushed off her skirt. “Thank you, Mr. …?”
“Cooper,” he supplied. “Douglas Cooper. And you are…?”
She examined him before answering. How could she have thought he resembled Wesley? He was taller than her husband had been, with broader shoulders and a more muscular build. His jaw was square and shadowed with black stubble, and there was a rough patch on one side of his face that had the look of a brush with smallpox.
“My name is Susannah Brown.” She gestured toward the mouth of the canyon. “I live at Hidden Spring.” She reached out to pet Sweetie, who had come over and was leaning against her thigh.
“You’re married to Wesley Brown?” Douglas grinned, and his eyes moved to the wreckage of the saddlebag experiment heaped in the middle of the road. “I might have expected Wesley to be involved in that some way.”
“What a despicable thing to say! What a malevolent creature you are.” Susannah marched to the quilt and grabbed one corner. She had intended to whisk it into her arms and do a grand exit, but whisking was not an option. Not only did it hurt to bend over, but the locking tops of the cans had apparently done their jobs. The pockets she’d made were sufficiently snug, so the two gallons of milk were still where she’d put them.
Douglas laughed. He bent down and picked up his hat. “I lost this when I piled off my horse trying to get to you,” he explained and added, “You and Wesley should get along just fine. I bet you spend evenings practicing long words.”
Still clutching the blanket, Susannah turned away, not wanting this stranger to see her tears. His guess had been too accurate, for she and Wesley indeed had spent many an evening working on vocabulary, delighting in the color and texture that words gave conversation.
“Here, let me help you with that.” Douglas picked up one of the milk cans by the handle.
She turned further away from him, winding herself into the quilt. With the corner she had in her hand, she dabbed her eyes.
Douglas pulled the milk jug out of its pocket. “You know, this is quite clever. As tame as that calf is, it might have worked just fine.”
Susannah gritted her teeth. She still wouldn’t look at him. “Don’t patronize me.”
“Miz Brown, I don’t even know what that means.” He pulled the quilt and unwound her. “I think your patchwork saddlebags must have slipped back and hit that calf in the flanks, made ’em buck. Shoot, that’s how they get the broncs to buck at rodeos— tie a strap around their flanks.”
“Fascinating,” she murmured, but she still held onto the corner.
“Tell you what. How about I deliver your milk for you today?” He tugged on the quilt, and Susannah let go. “You head on home with your friend here.” He indicated Sweetie with his thumb. “Tend to your bruises. Take it easy.”
Susannah watched as he reinserted the jug into its pocket and carried the quilt to a sorrel horse standing with its reins on the ground. Bunching the quilt at the middle, he hung it in front of the saddle and tied it on. He picked up the reins and gave her a searching look. ”You be all right walking home alone?”
“I’m not alone.” Susannah couldn’t repress a small smile. “Sweetie is with me.”
He answered her smile. “Where do I take the milk?”
“One gallon goes to Pattersons. They live on Elm Street, the big yellow house with columns. The other goes to the Browns. They live on—”
“Wesley’s folks? I know where they live. The Pattersons, too.” He mounted his horse and patted the quilt. “I’ll get your outfit back to you.”
“Leave it at the Browns. I’ll get it from them.”
“Fair enough.” He touched the brim of his hat.
Susannah watched him ride away, her eyes lingering on his straight back and broad shoulders until she felt the dampness of Sweetie’s muzzle on her arm. “Yes, my friend,” she said to the calf. “We don’t want to stand in the road all day.” She picked up the lead rope and started back to Hidden Spring.
With every step, a dull ache radiated though her torso, and she hadn’t gone a hundred feet before she stopped. “You know what?” she asked her bovine companion. “We’re halfway to town right here, and I think a cup of Mama Brown’s willow-bark tea would do me a world of good.”
Taking Sweetie’s silence as assent, Susannah turned again toward town. Seeing that Douglas was still within shouting distance, she wondered if she should call him back and tell him that she’d deliver the milk. “I’ll just let him do it,” she told Sweetie. “His horse must be a slowpoke, though. I would have thought he’d be halfway there by now.”
When they reached the scene of the fracas, Susannah stopped. “Wait a minute. We need to pick up the book, which you so rudely kicked out of my hand.”
Like the lane from Hidden Spring, this road marched alongside a line of sandstone bluffs. It was merely a wide track through a broad expanse of sagebrush, but here and there, the occasional nopal cactus or yucca plant asserted a spiny presence. Susannah stood in the middle of the road, making a visual sweep of the whole area then dropped the lead rope and tramped around among the brush. But there was no sign of the book.
“Well, isn’t that something.” She stood, hands on hips, and scanned a full circle
one more time. “What could have happened to it?”
She picked up the calf’s tether and began walking toward town. “Lucky for me, I have 499 more copies,” she said. “Come on, Sweetie. I’m looking forward to that willow-bark tea.”
Chapter Three
By the time Susannah arrived at the Browns’, she was hot, sweaty, and feeling a little weak in the knees. Though early May, the sun blazed from a sky the color of azurite, and cottony tops of cumulus clouds peeked above the hills to the north.
Masonville had been settled by hardy souls coming to Arizona Territory in 1863. Designated county seat, it had blossomed in a modest way with the coming of silver mines and the railroad in 1880. Now, it had a settled, prosperous air.
Susannah turned right on the first street she encountered and walked to the last bungalow. The Browns’ house had a well-tended lawn bordering the little-used front door, but Susannah headed for the back, passing the orchard and the garden along the side of the house. She led Sweetie to a corral beyond a grape arbor and put her inside.
She recognized the sorrel, tied to a post by the back porch with the quilt still hanging in front of the saddle. Walking by it, she paused at the door. She didn’t live here anymore. Not since four days ago. Did that mean she should knock, or should she just walk in?
She tapped the screen then opened the door and walked through the sleeping porch. With her hand on the kitchen door jamb, she paused and blinked at the sight before her.
Papa and Mama Brown sat at the table, coffee in front of them. Douglas Cooper leaned against the sink, a saucer in one hand, a steaming cup in the other. Deep in conversation, they had apparently not heard Susannah enter.
“What if we hadn’t been here?” Mama Brown was saying. “What if we were dead, like Wesley?”
Douglas answered. “Then I would live with that regret the rest of my life, just like I regret—” He glanced at the doorway and stopped when he saw Susannah. He straightened and set his cup and saucer in the sink. “Good afternoon, Miz Brown.”
