A Stolen Heart

by Amanda Cabot

  “You can imagine how surprised I was after traveling all this way and then discovering he’s not here. That doesn’t sound like the Edgar I knew.” While she might not want to share her and Edgar’s relationship—former relationship, Lydia corrected herself—with anyone, she was curious about Catherine’s view of the man who had been Lydia’s fiancé. Perhaps Catherine had seen something that would explain why he’d changed so much and why he’d left town so suddenly.

  “I can’t say I knew him well, but Mama and I used to talk to him and Opal after church,” Catherine said slowly. “He seemed like a nice enough man. I know Opal’s been happier since Edgar arrived, and I’ve heard Faith is pleased with his work.” Catherine shrugged. “I wish I could tell you more, but I have no idea why he left.”

  There was one scenario Lydia had no trouble imagining. As a light breeze stirred the air, she asked, “Did he get into a lot of arguments?” An argument that had escalated out of control and left a man seriously injured was the reason Edgar had fled Syracuse.

  Catherine shook her head. “Not that I heard, and I would have heard if there were any. Cimarron Creek is small enough that there are very few secrets here.”

  That was a daunting thought. Secrets were meant to be kept secret.

  Catherine fingered a petal on one of the pink roses, her lips moving as if she were practicing a speech, though no words were audible. A moment later she looked up. “I’ll tell you one of my secrets if you promise not to tell anyone, not even Aunt Bertha.”

  “Of course.” Lydia was surprised by how flattered she was that Catherine wanted to confide in her. Once Catherine’s initial distrust had disappeared, Lydia had found herself as drawn to the woman as a hummingbird to nectar. It wasn’t simply that they were both teachers or that they shared a connection through Aunt Bertha. Lydia felt as if they were kindred spirits. If she stayed in Cimarron Creek—and it seemed as if she would—it would be wonderful to have a friend like Catherine.

  “I promise not to tell anyone.”

  “The nice part about this secret is that it could help you. If you really like teaching and decide to stay here, there’s a good chance the town will be looking for a new teacher next year.”

  Given what Catherine had told her about the Whitfields’ sense of responsibility, Lydia knew there was only one reason for a possible vacancy. “You’re getting married?” A pang of regret speared her. If everything had gone the way she’d expected, today might have been Lydia’s wedding day.

  Catherine’s smile broadened. “I hope so. No one knows—not even my mother—but he told me he wants to keep company with me.” She pulled a petal from the rose and crushed it between her fingers. “Oh, Lydia, he’s the handsomest man I’ve ever met. Most people think I’m level-headed, but everything changes when I’m with him. My heart beats so fast that I can hardly breathe, and all I can think about is how much I want to be his wife.”

  Lydia tried not to stare. How was it possible that, although she had planned to marry him, she’d never felt that way about Edgar? It was true she’d enjoyed being with him and had felt safe confiding her dreams to him, but Edgar had never left her breathless, and her heart had never raced, not even the two times he’d kissed her. If that was the way love was supposed to feel, perhaps it was just as well she wasn’t marrying Edgar. But she wouldn’t say that. Instead, Lydia smiled and said, “I hope he loves you as much as you do him.”

  A radiant smile was Catherine’s response. “He does. I know he does.”

  “So, who is this lucky man?” It was difficult to imagine a man more handsome than Travis Whitfield, but Lydia was certain Catherine wasn’t in love with her cousin. Though there’d been no sparkle in her eyes when she’d spoken of him, her eyes were as bright as the North Star now.

  This time Catherine shook her head. “I’m not superstitious, but I don’t want to say his name until we’re officially courting. All I’ll say is that he’s wonderful.” She tossed the crushed petal to the ground. “The other thing that’s wonderful is that you came to town. I needed a friend like you.”

  5

  Why ain’t anything cooking?”

  Travis clenched his fists, then slowly straightened his fingers as he reminded himself of the futility of being annoyed. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t heard criticism before; it wasn’t as if getting angry would solve anything. Pa was Pa, and though Travis wished it were otherwise, he was certain the man would not change.

  Travis had gone to meet the stagecoach again today, and this time his father had been on it. They’d walked home together, a journey of less than two blocks, but by the time they arrived at the house they shared, Travis’s tongue had hurt from the number of times he’d bitten it rather than vent his annoyance. He’d remained silent while his father had voiced a litany of complaints. He didn’t like Dorcas’s husband. All the baby did was cry. The stagecoach ride had been too rough. Now he was complaining about the lack of a pot of stew simmering on the stove.

  “Porter invited us to have supper at his place,” Travis said, hoping to end the tirade. “Warner and their parents are going to be there too.”

  Pa nodded grudgingly as he ran his hand through hair the same shade of brown as Travis’s. Though he’d inherited his gray eyes from his mother, Travis had his father’s color and build. He hoped the similarities ended there, because Cimarron Creek did not need two cranky Whitfields.

  “All right,” Pa said. “That wife of Porter’s may be scrawny, but she sets a good table.”

  Though Hilda would not be happy to be described as scrawny—she was slender, not skinny—Porter would appreciate the compliment to his wife’s cooking. It was well known that his mother was at best a mediocre cook who managed to put lumps in everything. Aunt Mary’s gravy was particularly bad.

  “You want to wash up before we leave?” Travis asked when he’d carried his father’s bags to his room. There’d been no word of thanks, but Travis had learned not to expect any. Ever since Pa had sold the ranch and moved in with Travis, their relationship had been best described as strained. Travis told himself that it was understandable that his father hated being dependent on someone, particularly his son, but there were many days when he wondered if he’d done the right thing by offering to share his home with Pa.

  “I suppose I better.”

  Half an hour later, they set off again, this time headed toward Porter and Hilda’s home. Catty-cornered from Aunt Bertha’s, the youngest Gray couple’s house was only half the size of the Henderson mansion but had similar classical lines.

  When the building had been under construction, Warner had teased his brother about creating a poor imitation of their parents’ home, claiming he preferred the simpler lines of Travis’s house. That was the one time Travis could recall Porter’s anger being directed at his older brother. Though they’d tussled as children, once they’d become adults, the fights had stopped . . . until that day.

  The truth was, Porter cared about appearances. That was why he wanted columns marching around his house. Travis didn’t care about columns and friezes. The home he’d built had no furbelows, but it did have enough room for a family. What mattered to him was whether the roof and windows were tight enough to keep the elements outside. After listening to Aunt Bertha complain about rain making its way into her attic, Travis had gained a new appreciation for roofers.

  But today, as he and Pa walked by his aunt’s house, Travis had little thought for roofs. Instead, his mind wandered toward the people living beneath that roof. Correction: toward the beautiful young lady living beneath that roof. Lydia Crawford.

  As he’d expected, Travis had received responses to his telegrams this morning. Lydia Crawford was what she claimed, a well-respected schoolteacher from Syracuse, New York. Edgar Ellis, on the other hand, had never set foot in Dayton, Ohio. Interesting. Travis wondered if Opal knew that at least part of her husband’s story was false.

  But it wasn’t Opal who’d haunted Travis’s thoughts all day. It was a lovely bl
ue-eyed blonde. Though he’d thought she might venture out, he hadn’t seen Lydia in town. That was probably just as well. Until Aunt Bertha paved her way, Lydia’s introduction to Cimarron Creek’s residents might be difficult.

  “About time you got here,” Porter muttered when they arrived. “My ma’s been singing to Susan, and you know what that’s like.” Though Aunt Mary was an excellent pianist and served as the church’s organist, her singing voice was as notorious as her cooking.

  Within minutes they were all seated, with Porter and Hilda at the head and foot, Travis and Pa on one side facing Warner and his parents on the other.

  “I hear you’ve been holding out on me, cousin,” Warner said as soon as his father had blessed the food.

  Charles Gray had an impressive voice, one the townspeople claimed should belong to a preacher. Others claimed that his voice, combined with his rugged good looks, was what had convinced Mary Whitfield to marry below her station. Though Uncle Charles had turned the livery into a profitable enterprise, Pa claimed that when he’d first come to town, Charles had been as poor as a church mouse.

  Right now, Uncle Charles appeared as puzzled as Travis by his son’s words.

  “What do you mean?” Travis asked. The expression in Warner’s eyes belied his slightly amused tone. Whatever was bothering him, he was serious about it.

  “You didn’t tell me about the young lady who came to town yesterday. What kind of Musketeer are you? You should have introduced her to me as soon as you learned she wasn’t married.”

  “Maybe Travis is keeping her for himself,” Porter suggested.

  Pa looked up from the slice of bread he was buttering and frowned. “What’s going on? We got someone new here? When did this happen? Seems a man can’t leave town without the place changing.”

  Travis suspected that no matter what he said, his father would be unhappy, especially when he learned Lydia was a Northerner. Though Pa’s parents had been born in the North, the war had changed his view of everything and everyone north of the Mason-Dixon line.

  “A young lady arrived yesterday,” Travis said calmly. If Pa exploded when he heard the story, there was nothing he could do. “I met her, because I was waiting for the stagecoach that I thought was bringing you. Your telegram said you were arriving yesterday.”

  Pa had made no explanation for the delay when he disembarked, and he said nothing now. Though Hilda and Aunt Mary appeared to have little interest in the newcomer’s arrival, Uncle Charles’s expression radiated curiosity.

  “It turns out the lady had nowhere to stay,” Travis continued, “so I took her to Aunt Bertha’s. As far as I know, she’s still there.”

  Pa seemed to accept the explanation, but Porter frowned. “You forgot the most important part. The way I heard it, she came looking for Edgar Ellis.”

  Travis could only speculate who’d spread the story. It wasn’t Opal or Faith. Both of them valued privacy and extended it to others. It had to have been one of the men who’d been in the Silver Spur yesterday afternoon.

  “That’s right.” He confirmed the rumor, knowing he was setting fire to tinder.

  There was a second of silence before Pa reacted. “She’s a Yankee?”

  Travis nodded.

  “You escorted one of the Cursed Enemy around town? You took her to my aunt’s house?” His voice escalated with each question. “You shoulda run her out of town.”

  Though his father was practically shouting, Travis kept his voice at a conversational level. “There was no reason to run her out of town or even to ask her to leave.”

  The meal forgotten, Pa turned and glared at Travis. “Mark my words. That was a mistake. A big one.”

  “I’m sorry, Travis,” Warner said an hour later when the meal had ended and he, Travis, and Porter had taken refuge on the front porch while the older men smoked cigars in the parlor. “I didn’t realize Uncle Abe would get so riled or I wouldn’t have said anything at supper.”

  Travis shrugged. “He’s more ornery than usual today. I think the stagecoach ride must have hurt his leg. He’ll settle down.”

  “I hope so.” Warner leaned against the railing, crossing his legs in front of him as if he were relaxed. Only the glint in his eye told Travis he was intent on learning something. “Now that he can’t hear anything you say, tell me about the new lady. Is she beautiful?”

  The question shouldn’t have bothered Travis, and yet it did. “She is,” he said. More beautiful than anyone I’ve met. But that wasn’t something he planned to tell Warner. Let him make his own observations.

  “And she’s single?”

  “Yep.”

  Warner’s eyes narrowed with interest. “What else do you know about her?”

  “She used to teach school.”

  “Beautiful and smart. Perfect.” Warner turned toward his brother, who had appropriated the larger of the rocking chairs and appeared to be ignoring the discussion of Miss Lydia Crawford’s attributes. “Doesn’t she sound perfect to you, Porter?”

  “If you call a Northerner perfect.” Porter’s tone left no doubt that he did not.

  Warner shrugged. “You know Pa doesn’t hate Yankees the way Uncle Abe does.”

  Travis suspected that was because Uncle Charles had been one of the few men to remain in Cimarron Creek during the war. Though he groused about the carpetbaggers along with everyone else, his life hadn’t been changed the way Pa’s had.

  Warner continued speaking. “All he cares about are looks. He’s already informed me there are no women in town pretty enough to be the mother of his grandsons. I tell you, Travis, Miss Crawford is perfect.” He uncrossed his legs and straightened his back. “When do I meet her?”

  “Are you sure you don’t mind doing this?” Catherine pointed toward the bowl of dough she’d just punched down.

  It was still early morning, but the two women had been working in Aunt Bertha’s kitchen for over an hour, with Catherine trying to make her first batch of cinnamon rolls. Though Lydia could have done it faster herself, she didn’t regret inviting the young schoolteacher to join her. It was surprisingly enjoyable to have company as she prepared breakfast.

  “Of course not. We’re both teachers, Catherine. This is what we do. Teaching you to make cinnamon rolls is no different from teaching someone to write.” Lydia reconsidered her assertion and said, “Actually, it’s easier, because you’re motivated. Now, sprinkle flour on the table, and then you’re going to roll out the dough.”

  As she complied, Catherine nodded. “I certainly am motivated. I kept thinking about those rolls all day yesterday, and you should’ve seen the way Mama’s eyes lit when I mentioned them. I’d love to be able to make them for her and one day for my husband.” A blush stained her cheeks as she pronounced the final word.

  Lydia did not want to think about husbands. “Once you’ve mastered these, I’ll show you how to make stollen. That’s one of my favorites.” She watched as Catherine carefully rolled the sweet dough into a half-inch-thick rectangle, then spread the cinnamon and brown sugar mixture over it. “Now comes the hardest part,” she told the pretty brunette. “You need to roll this carefully so the filling doesn’t escape while you’re forming the log. Once that’s done, you’ll cut it into slices and put them in the pan for the second rising.”

  As Lydia had expected, Catherine’s attempts were far from perfect, and yet she knew the result would be as delicious as if Catherine had managed to cut each of the pieces the same size.

  “Your mother must have been a wonderful cook,” Catherine said when she’d covered the rolls with a towel and poured herself a cup of coffee.

  Lydia shook her head. “Mama considered cooking a chore, not a pleasure, but luckily for her, she didn’t have to cook.”

  “Because she hired a cook.” Catherine’s smile turned into a grin. “Everyone who eats one of Aunt Mary’s meals wishes she’d do that.”

  “That’s not quite the way it happened.” Lydia chose her words carefully. Though she’d to
ld Catherine that her mother had died two years ago, she had not explained what had happened to her father. “Once Papa was gone, she needed a way to support us. We were both fortunate that she found a position as a housekeeper at a girls’ boarding school. They let me live there and allowed me to attend classes.”

  Laying her cup on the table, Catherine leaned forward slightly. “Is that where you taught?”

  Lydia nodded. “It seemed like the right thing to do. I enjoyed tutoring the younger girls, so when the headmistress suggested I attend Normal School, I agreed. After that, teaching at the academy gave me a way to repay the headmistress for her kindness to both Mama and me.”

  Catherine took another sip of coffee, the furrows between her eyes leaving no doubt of her confusion. “But if your mother didn’t cook, how did you learn to make such delicious baked goods?”

  “I helped the cook. She taught me how to make simple foods special with a few herbs and spices.” Lydia smiled, remembering the hours she had spent with Mrs. Fitzgerald. “I enjoyed that, but what I really loved was making candy.”

  “And she taught you that.”

  “No. I worked at a confectionary during school holidays. It was a way to earn a little extra money, but mostly I gained an appreciation for a piece of good candy.”

  “You’re making me hungry for some.” Catherine glanced at the wall clock and wrinkled her nose. “Whoever heard of eating candy before breakfast?”

  Lydia raised an eyebrow. “I did, but only to ensure that it was ready for customers.” Though she’d tried to keep her voice solemn, she couldn’t control her smile. “That was the excuse I used for the first piece. The second, however . . .”

  As she’d expected, Catherine laughed. “Your life sounds so exciting compared to mine.”

  Exciting was not a word Lydia would have used to describe anything about herself. “If you call shoveling knee-deep snow for months on end exciting, then I guess it was. Teachers weren’t supposed to have to do that, but we all pitched in to help our handyman when his back began to bother him.”