Western Winter Wedding Bells

by Cheryl St. John, Jenna Kernan

  She forced a smile. “That is a great relief to me.” She needed to change the subject. Eliza glanced about, her gaze settling on the bookshelves flanking the hearth. “Would it be possible to borrow a book?”

  He turned to follow the direction of her gaze. His smile broadened. “Oh, absolutely. Anything for a guest of Mr. Foerster.” He ushered her toward the collection. “You know he has made this town safe for business. He’s even, fair and no-nonsense. He was a Texas Ranger! Can you imagine? We are lucky to have a man like that here in Early. Why, I’d imagine he could have a position anywhere he wished, and now that his mother has passed, well, we’re all crossing our fingers that he stays because his reputation is so good it keeps trouble away. I feel sorry for the criminals now.”

  Eliza’s heart pounded so loudly she was certain the man could hear it. But he gave no sign. Trent Foerster had been a Ranger, the fiercest, most relentless of lawmen. She reached for a volume and found her hand shaking. Eliza drew back. How long would it take such a man to see through her? “Perhaps Bleak House?” he offered.

  The very last thing she needed was a book about debtors’ prison. “I was rather looking for something to read to Addy.”

  “Oh well, we have Kidnapped.”

  “No, not Kidnapped. A Christmas Carol?”

  The manager slipped a slim volume from the shelf. “Take them both. As I said, any friend of Foerster’s…”

  She held a tight smile as she accepted the book, knowing without question that she would not be reading a story that was full of ghosts to Addy. But the volume had served its purpose. She said her good-nights.

  A few moments later Eliza sat alone on the coverlet that draped the bed of the small room on the top floor. She stared bleakly at the orange glow of the fire just visible around the crack of the hinged door of the woodstove. At her feet lay her bag, untouched. She still clutched the book in her hand.

  What should she do now? She thought to have the whole night to get out of town. She had not counted on contending with a rowdy, drunken man. She glanced wearily at the plump, white pillow with bleary eyes. If she could just rest for a few moments she might be able to think of a way out of this conundrum. Had she really let Mr. Foerster see her cry?

  Perhaps she could pull this off for one month, take her wages and run. And what about the other Mrs. Guntherson? She had only to send a telegram explaining her delay and Eliza would be finished. Perhaps she was at Mr. Foerster’s doorstep right now.

  She sank to her side, staring out at the dark window, listening to the tiny shards of ice beat against the glass. Eliza shivered. She would rest a bit, let the storm blow itself out and then leave before dawn. She set the book on the bedside table. The maid could return it tomorrow, for she’d never have a chance to read it and despite what Mrs. Holloway thought, she was not a thief. Her heart gave an uncharacteristic twinge. She hadn’t felt so sad since her first Christmas in the boarding school.

  Enough of that now. You have to get out of this mess.

  Surely she could find a freight wagon that would agree to take her back to Butte. From there she could disappear, become a server or scullery maid. Yes, that was the thing to do.

  Don’t think about Trent Foerster’s handsome concerned face or the downy-soft hair on his daughter’s head. Her chest ached as she wished she was the woman he was waiting for. She could think of nothing sweeter than looking after Trent’s daughter and becoming a part of a real family. Her sigh was heavy and she did not recall closing her eyes, but the next thing she knew there was a loud knock at her door.

  “It’s five-thirty, Mrs. Guntherson. Mr. Foerster asked us to wake you. Mrs. Guntherson?”

  Eliza sprang to her feet and started to run. She had the door open before she could recall where she was.

  “Yes?”

  “Oh, I see you are dressed already,” said the young maid in the hall. “Coffee, biscuits and gravy are complimentary. Ham, steak or eggs is extra. Dining room opens at six.”

  Eliza blinked after her as she retreated.

  “Say hello to Mr. Foerster for me.” She giggled before disappearing down the stairs.

  Who? Eliza shut the door, leaning back as her addled wits returned to some semblance of order. Her first coherent thought was to wonder how the chambermaid knew Trent. She pressed her lips together in irritation and then realized she was expected at his home in twenty minutes.

  She glanced down at herself to see she still wore all her clothes from yesterday, including her coat. She flew to the washstand and poured the freezing water into the bowl, then scrubbed her face until it was pink. Her hair had suffered and she had time to set it straight and use the chamber pot. Would he notice she wore the same clothing? She hoped not. Her father never noticed such things. In fact, he never noticed anything about her. She had been born late to elderly parents, already nearly forty when she arrived. They had not taken to rearing a child. She’d always thought they were just set in their ways. It was preferable to thinking that they did not want her, but it amounted to the same thing.

  Eliza paused before her bag. Small wonder she was uncomfortable about children. She had no siblings and spent most of her time with her nose in a book. She’d likely muddle Addy’s life even further, having no experience with children. But the aching in her chest told her that she would miss the child. Eliza wondered how Addy had burrowed into her heart so quickly.

  She lifted her bag. It wasn’t fair to the girl to pop in and out of her life. It was reason enough to leave now. Eliza closed her eyes and prayed. Dear God, what should I do—run or stay?

  There was a second knock on her door.

  “Mrs. Guntherson?”

  Her eyes popped open as she recognized the voice of Mr. Foerster.

  “You up?”

  She dropped her bag and opened the door.

  “Ready?”

  “What are you doing here?” she managed.

  He glanced away and color rose in his face. “I had to see about some property damage. Brought me near the hotel, so I thought I’d walk you home.”

  “Who’s with Addy?” The man wasn’t fool enough to leave a small child alone, was he?

  “Neighbor’s girl is sitting with her. She comes at night when I’m called away.”

  Which she wouldn’t need to do if his housekeeper had been the matron he had expected. She realized again what a sacrifice he was making for her, a woman too old to marry, but too young to be left alone beneath his roof. Her chin sank to her chest, and she felt miserable again that she was not the woman he needed.

  “I’m sorry. I should be there to see to her at night.”

  She glanced up in time to see his smile fade.

  “None of that now. I have it in hand.”

  “Perhaps you could come and get me when you are called away?”

  His smile was back. “I’ll think on it.”

  Trent’s expression reminded her of a schoolboy who had once carried her books. Then it hit her, the look he had given her last night, as if he wanted to kiss her and then today, the thin excuse to appear at her door.

  Was it possible that Mr. Foerster was attracted to her? Oh, no, that would not do. She was his employee, or she wished she were. But in any case, she had more self-respect than that and if he thought she’d allow him to take liberties he was much mistaken. She intended to tell him so if he tried to kiss her again.

  “You packed up your bag again?” he asked, gazing past her into the room. His smile dropped away and he stared steadily at her. “Or you haven’t unpacked.” He frowned. “I thought you agreed to give it a few days?”

  Ignoring his question, Eliza stepped into the hallway and tied her bonnet strings. “Shall we go?”

  Chapter Six

  Eliza clung to Trent’s elbow. On more than one occasion she lost her footing. Her high-laced boots had lost any tread years earlier and the soles were now nearly as smooth as the ice beneath them. Despite her difficulties, he managed to get to his home before the church tower s
truck six.

  The stove fires were already glowing. Trent showed her where the baking ingredients were stored and brought out his mother’s darkly stained, wooden recipe box.

  “I think Addy would like her granma’s cinnamon crumb cake today with some eggs and bacon.” He placed a small square card on the butcher block that dominated the center of the large kitchen.

  Grease spattered the yellowing paper of the card. The recipe itself had been written in pencil in a tight, looping hand. She peered and could make out the numbers and absolutely nothing else. German, she realized. Trent hovered.

  “Anything wrong?” he asked.

  Other than the fact she felt sick to her stomach?

  “Do you have all these ingredients?” she managed.

  “Yup.” He opened a cupboard and pointed. “Flour, soda, salt, cinnamon, brown sugar, white sugar and—” he closed the door “—eggs, butter and milk in the icebox. I’ll give you a line of credit down at McVane’s so you can pick up anything else you need.”

  If she had the first idea how to stock a larder that might be an appealing prospect; as it was, the notion filled her with dread. She forced a tight smile.

  “I’ll get out of your way.” He picked up his coffee cup and headed through the door whistling “Jingle Bells.”

  Eliza snatched up the card and studied the squiggle scratched upon it and felt defeat press down upon her. There was definitely one and a half cups of something and a teaspoon of two other somethings, one of which might be cinnamon. Butter was clear enough. Was that the same in German? She did not know the order or which measurement went with which ingredient.

  Eliza measured flour, salt, soda and cinnamon into a mixing bowl. Then she added three eggs for no particular reason followed by two cups of sugar. She stirred the ingredients until her arm ached and belatedly decided to add milk to make the mixture more doughlike. The resulting concoction went into a greased pan. She sprinkled cinnamon on the top and then slid the batter into the oven.

  From somewhere upstairs, she heard whistling—“Jingle Bells” again. Eliza had the coffee on the stove when Addy appeared in the doorway, bleary-eyed, barefoot and crying.

  Eliza scooped her off the cold floor and carried her back up the stairs.

  “What’s the matter, kitten?” she cooed.

  Addy pressed her face into the juncture of Eliza’s shoulder and neck. Eliza closed her eyes a moment, relishing the warm, sweet smell of the child. She’d never thought to have the opportunity to have a child of her own, but now, for just this moment she could make believe. Addy’s sobbing began again.

  “Penelope’s arm came off!”

  Eliza only then realized that the girl was clutching a rag doll in her hand. She paused halfway up the stairs and sat the child upon her lap.

  “Let’s see it then.”

  Penelope had blond hair, braided at each side of her squarish head, and her dress was prettily done in a nice green plaid wool, but her arm was indeed severed from her body.

  “Oh, well, I can fix this right up.”

  Sewing, thankfully, was something that Eliza did very well, having made all her clothing since she was a girl. She fingered the frayed hem of the doll’s stained apron. Perhaps they could make Penelope a new one today.

  “Would you like to make your dolly a new apron?” asked Eliza.

  Addy’s face brightened. “Could we?”

  “If you have some fabric scraps.”

  She dashed away her tears. “And fix the hole in her heel? I have to keep poking the rags back in.”

  Trent appeared at the top of the stairs, clutching the banister as he leaned over. His face was half-covered in lather and he held a straight razor pressed to the wood rail.

  “What happened?”

  “Penelope suffered an involuntary amputation.”

  His concerned frown vanished.

  “Sewing kit?” she asked.

  “Parlor, beside the rocker.”

  Her employer returned to his bedroom, and she led Addy to her room, dressed the girl and gave her hair the good brushing that it needed. She plaited her fine curls in one long braid down her back, securing it with a bit of green ribbon. Then she led Addy and Penelope down the stairs.

  Addy stood beside the rocker, stoic as any mother as Eliza rapidly threaded a needle and reattached the limb. Then Eliza turned her attention to darning Penelope’s heel and was just about to sever the thread when Mr. Foerster thundered down the stairs shouting, “Fire!”

  Eliza glanced up to see black smoke billowing from the kitchen. She snatched up Addy and headed for the front door, carrying them both to the safety of the sidewalk.

  A moment later Trent appeared, holding a dish towel about a familiar sort of cake pan that was fully engulfed in flames. He hurled the blazing meteor out over the porch rail where it disengaged from the pan and fell with a hiss into the bank of snow.

  Eliza clutched Addy closer, sheltering her from the cold as she took in Mr. Foerster’s glowering face. His expression was icy as the bricks beneath her feet. The condemnation was clear as well as the banked fury. She’d nearly burned down his house in the first hour of darkening his doorstep. There was no question that he’d fire her, but would he also discover her secret? If he fired her, she could leave. Why did that knowledge make her stomach ache? Didn’t she want to go? She held Addy tighter, grieved already at the notion of their parting.

  Mrs. Milward poked her head out the door of her home, one down from Mr. Foerster’s.

  “Everything all right?”

  Eliza flushed, knowing her humiliation would be public knowledge.

  “Fine, fine. Kitchen fire,” said Trent from the doorway.

  She waved and retreated from the cold. Trent’s smile dissolved as he turned his attention to his new employee. In that moment, Eliza knew what it was like to face a Texas Ranger.

  She made the short walk and ascended the stairs, much like a condemned man awaiting his final punishment.

  Addy reached for her father and he took her instantly, keeping his flinty gaze leveled on his housekeeper. He’d been looking forward to that cinnamon cake more than he cared to admit and was extremely put out that it would be biscuits and gravy at the jail. Surely Addy was no fonder of the bread and jam he’d been dishing up for her before dropping her at his neighbor’s home.

  “Daddy, look!” Addy held out her doll. “She fixed her!”

  Addy’s joyful expression melted some of his disgruntlement. His daughter was already scrubbed and dressed and her hair neatly fashioned. Trent felt a lump rise in his throat at the sight. Mrs. Guntherson stepped forward to break the thread, stowing the needle with a half stitch through her shirtsleeve.

  “That was quick thinking, bringing her out here,” he said to Viola.

  Her mouth dropped open, but she quickly closed it, nodding her understanding. Her face was pale as paste, and he wondered, for the first time, just what she had expected him to say.

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Foerster. It’s entirely my fault.”

  “Well, I’m disappointed. I do love that mixture of brown sugar, cinnamon and butter crumbled up on top of that cake.” He glanced at the rectangular hole in the snow. “Don’t expect it’s worth saving.”

  “Butter and…” Viola’s words trailed off.

  Addy glanced from him, then to Viola and leaned away, clasping Viola’s neck and drawing her close for a clumsy kiss.

  “You fixed Penelope.”

  Trent stilled at the sudden nearness of the woman. Even in the crisp air, he could feel the heat of her. His heart took up a violent hammering and he stepped back, breaking the hold his daughter had on Mrs. Guntherson. Addy, however still studied her new caretaker’s face, which now tipped down as if she took a sudden notion to stare at his boots.

  “Don’t worry,” she cooed. “We have bread and jam.”

  His smile lasted only until Viola lifted her chin and he saw her eyes now brimmed with tears. He didn’t think before he acted, looping one
arm about her narrow shoulders and ushering her toward the door. She was trembling from the cold. Was it the cold?

  “I’ll just have to wait until dinner to sample your cooking, Mrs. Guntherson.”

  He thought his words would reassure, but instead she grimaced.

  “What would you like?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

  “What about a stroganoff with egg noodles and apple pie?”

  He heard her gulp.

  They reached the door and he was forced to release her as she slipped inside. It felt right somehow, having her beside him. Now, don’t get carried away again. He’d been down that road, and no matter what jackass things his deputy said, he’d be damned if he’d ask another woman to marry him. And that meant he couldn’t bed her, for he’d not make that mistake again. He glanced at Addy.

  “Daddy?” Addy tugged at his neck. “I’m cold.”

  How long had he been standing half in and half out of his door?

  He toted Addy to the kitchen, grabbed a cup of coffee and gulped it down black as Viola set out the mixing bowl. “No time now. Tomorrow’s soon enough.”

  Trent set the tin cup into the sink and kissed Addy goodbye. Eliza stilled, waiting to see if Addy would feel any anxiety at being alone with her. But the little girl just hugged her father and went back to her bread and jam. Trent looked quizzically at his daughter then glanced at the woman.

  “Since my mother…well…I usually have to peel her off me,” he muttered. “I don’t know how you do it, Mrs. Guntherson, but you’re a marvel.”

  Mrs. Guntherson didn’t suit her, somehow. He wondered what her maiden name had been.

  Addy lowered her bread. “We’re making an apron for Penelope today.”

  Mr. Foerster retrieved his hat from a peg near the stove. “Are you? Well, Granma’s bag of rags is in the sewing basket. You know where.”

  Eliza stilled at the mention of Addy’s grandmother and glanced toward the girl. Addy’s bright smile faded and she pushed aside her plate. Mr. Foerster seemed to realize what he had said now.

  His mouth turned grim, and he tugged his hat down low, wheeled about and headed out the door. “See you at supper,” he called over his shoulder.