by Regina Scott
John and Beth had both substituted for James’s wife, who taught in the one-room school at Wallin Landing. Beth must have something else to do tomorrow that James would come for John.
“Of course,” John assured him. “Just have her write down what they’re studying in the various subjects. Last time Danny tried to convince me he couldn’t do more than add so he could get out of working on his multiplication. And perhaps Simon can return the wagon and horses to Seattle and bring back my horse.”
James opened his mouth, most likely to make some quip, as he was wont to do, but his gaze swept past John and no words came out.
John turned to find Dottie in the doorway to the bedroom. She smiled shyly at his brother before focusing on John.
“Forgive me. I just realized. You said you had cows and chickens. Do you need me to feed them? Milk the cows? Gather eggs?”
“I’ll tend to the cows and milk morning and evening,” John promised. “If you’d like to gather the eggs, that would be appreciated. You’ll see the coop at the side of the barn.”
James cleared his throat.
John kept his smile tight. “Mrs. Tyrrell, this is my brother James Wallin. He has the claim next to mine, as I mentioned. James, Mrs. Tyrrell and her son will be staying in my house until she decides where to settle in the area.”
James swept her a bow. “Dear lady, welcome to Wallin Landing. I’m John’s most charming brother and father to three adorable children. May I see yours?”
Dottie widened her grasp so he could peer down at Peter. The baby’s lower lip trembled, and he buried his face in his mother’s arms.
Funny. Peter hadn’t been particularly shy with John. He wasn’t sure why that made him feel as if he’d finally gotten the better of his witty brother.
“Probably ready for a nap,” James acknowledged. “A shame John doesn’t have a cradle.” He tsked as if John had been entirely shortsighted.
“I haven’t needed one before,” John reminded him.
James beamed at Dottie. “I have it! My beloved wife and I have a cradle, and none of our darlings is sleeping in it at present. We’d be delighted to see it go to good use. Why don’t you come with me, John, and fetch it back for the lady?”
Why not? It would keep John from saying more ridiculous things that would only give Dottie Tyrrell a further disgust of him. And the way his brother’s brows were wiggling, he had something to say to John in private.
“I’ll be right back,” John told her. He nodded to James, who bowed again to Dottie and then headed out the front door.
John fell into step beside him, arms still laden with clothing.
“Who is she?” James demanded. “Where did you meet her? Why does she have a baby?”
John started for the trees that marked the dividing line between his claim and James’s. “She’s a widow from back east. She and Beth have been corresponding for months, and Beth convinced her to relocate to Seattle.”
James whistled. “So that’s the mail-order bride. I didn’t realize she’d arrived.”
John jerked to a stop on the well-worn path. “You knew?”
James shrugged. “Beth had to confide in someone.”
“And you didn’t think to warn me?”
“She swore me to silence.” James shook his head. “Besides, it wasn’t as if I expected the woman to agree to come. This isn’t exactly an admirable situation—far from civilization and the things a lady generally prefers.”
John glanced back at the house, barely visible through the trees. “You think she can’t be happy here?”
“Who knows?” James clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s what courtship is about, learning what the other person can tolerate.”
John started forward once more. “We aren’t courting. She’s just staying here until she can determine her next steps.”
“Ah, I see.”
Somehow his brother made it sound as if he saw more than John intended.
“I mean it, James,” John warned. “Mrs. Tyrrell and I are not courting. I have no interest in marrying.”
James matched his stride. “Can’t say I blame you. There are already too many blondes at Wallin Landing, though none, mind you, with quite that glorious shade of gold. And a trim figure, while all the rage in Beth’s precious magazine, probably indicates she hasn’t the strength to muck stalls and haul timber.”
“I’d hardly expect a wife to muck stalls or haul timber,” John protested.
“No? How progressive of you. But it probably doesn’t matter. Very likely Mrs. Tyrrell is too educated for you.”
John frowned at him. “You think so?”
James barked a laugh. “No, scholar that you are. From what Beth tells me, you and Mrs. Tyrrell are evenly matched. I say propose and get it over with.”
“No.” John could hear the obstinacy in his tone. “You and Beth may know all about her, but I don’t. And I’m not sure I want to. A woman like that is looking for a hero. I’m no hero.”
James chuckled, but he didn’t argue the point. “It’s not me you need to convince.”
“Mrs. Tyrrell and I understand each other,” John assured him.
“Oh, very likely,” James agreed. “But you both may be outvoted. Do you really think you can resist the combined forces of the female population of Wallin Landing?”
John felt as if the shadows of the trees crept closer. “You don’t think...”
“I do. Once Beth, Rina, Catherine and Nora learn that Mrs. Tyrrell and her baby have arrived, you might as well go buy the ring, my lad, for you’ll be as good as married.”
Chapter Six
By the time John and his brother returned with the cradle, Dottie had taken herself in hand. She knew why she’d assumed John had a wife, but her reaction troubled her all the same. Everything she’d read in Beth’s letters, everything she’d seen so far, told her that John and his family were kind, helpful people. She didn’t want to judge them, or anyone else she met, by Frank’s behavior. Yet how could she trust her own judgment? She’d been wrong before, with disastrous results.
“That should do it,” John said now, stepping back as if to admire the placement of the cradle next to the bed. The cradle was beautiful, the wood carved with doves and lambs and polished to a warm glow. Already Peter snuggled in the soft blankets, eyes drifting shut.
“Is everything to your liking, Mrs. Tyrrell?” John asked.
“Yes, Mr. Wallin,” she replied. “You’ve been most kind.”
He smiled, but his brother made a face. “‘Mrs. Tyrrell, Mr. Wallin.’ We’re not nearly so formal here at Wallin Landing.” He bowed extravagantly to Dottie. “I shall be James, this paltry fellow, John. And what shall we call you, fair lady?”
“James,” John said in warning.
His brother shook his head. “No, no, we can’t call her James. It would be entirely too confusing.”
Dottie smiled. It should be permissible to go by first names. She was living in John’s house, after all. “My name is Dorothy, but everyone calls me Dottie.”
James seized her hand. “A pleasure to meet you, my dear Dottie. And now I must go, but I leave you in good hands.” He transferred her hand to John’s arm, wiggled his light brown brows and backed from the room.
John shook his head, shifting so that Dottie’s hand fell to her side. “Forgive him. He tends to be a bit theatrical.”
“Was he in the theater?” Dottie asked, bending to check on Peter. Her son was dozing in the cradle as if it had always been his bed.
“Never,” John told her. “Unless you count the school productions over the years. Rina used to have to enlist all of us in the plays—she didn’t have enough students at first.” He took a step closer. “You’re sure you’ll be all right?”
She glanced up and f
elt herself slipping into the green of his gaze. Odd how the color looked warm on him. She forced herself to step away. “We’ll be fine. Thank you.”
“If you need anything, look for a break in the trees to the north. That path will take you past James’s house and down to the main house. Someone’s always available there. Now, rest easy.” His boots clumped as he headed for the door.
Rest easy. If only she could. It seemed forever since she’d had a good night’s sleep. Before Peter had been born, she’d lie awake each night, thinking about the future. When she’d ordered Frank from her life, he’d left her some money. For her trouble and her silence, he’d said, as if the funds could in any way compensate for his broken promise, her shattered dreams. She’d been tempted to donate the money to charity, but she’d soon realized she’d need it for Peter. She’d taken pains to economize so that the money would go as far as it could.
Once Peter had been born, his needs had woken her several times a night at first. Rocking him in the darkness, she kept wondering what would happen if Frank discovered he had a son. He had been a terrible husband to both his wives, betraying them in the worst way, but the law was on the father’s side. If Frank had reconciled with his first wife, and he learned about Peter, he could easily take Dottie’s son from her, claiming her as a fallen woman, a seductress who had attempted to steal Frank from his wife.
Those concerns had driven her from Cincinnati, made her accept a stranger’s offer to be his bride, brought her to the far side of the country. Surely that distance would be enough to protect Peter. Surely she could finally rest, as John suggested.
But as the day faded and evening approached, she couldn’t seem to relax. Sounds she had forgotten when she’d lived in the city came back to her now. An owl hooted from the nearby forest; something rustled against the roof. And the smells—the tang of fir, the dark scent of fields freshly turned. With no streetlamps, no lights from businesses, it was so very black outside. Danger could be lurking ten feet from the house, and she’d never know.
Peter must have sensed her agitation, for he was unusually fussy, even as she nursed. Now she held him as she stood in the doorway, looking out over the porch, watching the darkness and listening.
But even as the night made her shiver, she began to notice pinpricks of light. The closest to the north was likely the home of James and Rina. The largest might be the house where John was staying. Was he asleep yet? Did he fret over the responsibility he’d agreed to take on?
Then, on the breeze, she caught the strains of a violin, plaintive, calling. And it seemed good and right that John moved out of the shadows to approach the porch.
He’d put a thick coat over his shirt, but he’d left his hat behind. The breeze fingered through his hair, which looked almost black in the night. He gave her a nod but made no move to enter the house.
“Still up, I see,” he said from the foot of the porch. “I just thought I’d check on the house and the barn. Everything all right?”
Everything felt more than all right with him here. Even her breath seemed to come easier.
“We’re fine,” she assured him. “Who’s that playing?”
He cocked his head as if to listen. “Simon. He often plays for his family at night.” He hummed a snatch of the tune.
“I don’t know the song,” she said.
“Pa taught it to us when we were children.
“I would not die in summer
When music’s on the breeze,
And soft, delicious murmurs
Float ever through the trees,
And fairy birds are singing
From morn till close of day
No: with its transient glories
I would not pass away.”
His warm baritone wrapped around her, the words reminding her of better times, a place of hope, where everything felt good. In her arms, Peter sighed and closed his eyes, a smile playing on his lips.
Could it be she’d finally found a place she could feel at home?
* * *
John wasn’t sure why he’d sung to Dottie and Peter. He remembered Pa playing and Ma singing when he was a boy. Certainly he’d sung to a fussy baby before. But never to a lady whose smile made him feel the most talented of all men.
“I’d best put Peter to bed,” she murmured now. “Good night, John.”
“Good night, Dottie.” He watched her until she closed the door. The night felt colder, and he tugged his coat closer.
He checked the barn and then walked back to the main house with a smile. It wasn’t just the sound of his brother’s playing, which always encouraged him. No, it was Dottie’s company that warmed him. He knew she wasn’t his to keep, but nothing said he couldn’t enjoy being around her for now.
Still, it was odd settling to sleep on the pallet in the loft of the main house at Wallin Landing. Growing up, he’d shared the space with Drew, Simon, James and Levi, while Beth had slept on the other side of the hearth in a bed near their parents. There had been a simple arch between the two spaces so Ma and Pa could call over to settle squabbles among his brothers or hurry to deal with a sick child.
Now the rooms were completely separate, and Harry Yeager, one of Drew’s men, slept in Ma and Pa’s room. Beth lived in Simon’s old cabin, since Simon and Nora had relocated to a larger house up on the ridge and Beth had yet to decide on the house she wanted to build on her claim. Instead of his brothers sleeping around him, the other two loggers of Drew’s crew were bundled under blankets. The sharp snore belonged to Thomas Convers. Dickie Morgan muttered something in his sleep, and the pallet rustled as he rolled closer to the wall.
John pulled the covers up over his ears, tried to focus on something besides the unfamiliar noises. Perhaps he’d lived alone for too long. He’d filed his claim when he was twenty-one. With his brothers’ help, he’d built the house and barn and moved in before he was twenty-two. Many times in the last six years one or more of the family members had stayed with him for one reason or another, but they’d used the loft, leaving him to his bedroom.
The bedroom Dottie was now sharing with Peter.
He could imagine her lying there, golden curls spread across the goose-feather pillow. Would she use the lamp to read one of his books? Would she fall asleep with a smile on those perfect pink lips?
The lips that had felt soft and sweet against his cheek.
He rolled over, gave the pillow a good punch. There was no future in dreaming about Dottie Tyrrell, or any other woman for that matter. He was the one women chose as a friend, a confidante, not a husband. He knew that. He was rather proud of the fact that he could be of assistance to any who needed it.
But somehow, the role had never seemed less satisfying.
* * *
John must have fallen asleep at last, for he woke to the smell of bacon frying and the sound of a baby crying. Funny. He’d thought all his nieces and nephews were too old now to make that distressed mewling. And who was cooking in his kitchen?
Then he remembered where he was. One of the loggers or Beth, who sometimes helped, must be cooking. But how could there be a baby in the house?
Only if Dottie had come with Peter.
He scrambled out of bed, yanked on his trousers and grabbed his flannel shirt, shoving his arms into the sleeves as he went. As he started down the open stairs that ran along one wall of the main room of the house, he spotted a head of golden curls near the table, surrounded by men with broad shoulders. Beth stood in the doorway to the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron and beaming at the group clustered around Dottie.
Drew was standing at the bottom of the stairs, arms crossed over his chest.
“I understand I have you to thank for this,” he said, jerking his head toward his men. “They were supposed to report to work an hour ago. First time I ever had to come looking for th
em.”
That was saying a lot. From the moment his brother had assumed leadership of the family on their father’s death, no one had disobeyed his orders very often. And why would they? Drew was the tallest of them, the strongest. His hair was the most blond, his eyes the darkest blue. Drew was a rock of safety, a mighty cedar sheltering any who came near. Even his work crew knew that.
“I’ll get them back to work,” John said, pulling his suspenders up over his shoulders. He waded into the crowd.
Dottie was in the middle, rocking Peter and making soft shushing noises. Today she wore a dress the color of spring leaves, with ruffles running up from her waist all the way to form a collar against her neck. Peter wore a long blue shirt that covered his toes, and his bubbling sobs were evident, his face puckered and red.
“Mr. Wallin taught me how to whittle,” Dickie said to Dottie. “I could carve little Peter a rattle. That might make him feel better.”
Dickie was young enough that he ought to be playing with toys himself, in John’s opinion. With blond hair that reminded John of the hay in his barn and bright blue eyes, Dickie’s round face held more than one pimple.
“No, what he needs is a wagon so you don’t have to hold him all the time,” Tom argued, squaring his shoulders so that the plaid flannel stretched taut. The most experienced on Drew’s crew, the dark-haired fellow was forever putting forth opinions on one subject or another.
“I’ll make you one,” Harry offered. “I can get Mr. Yesler to give me some of the lumber.”
That was Harry, always sure of himself. He had wavy brown hair, sharp brown eyes and a chiseled chin. Harry had been quick to push himself into a place of leadership among the loggers, until he was considered second to Drew himself.
“Mr. Yesler is only going to give you timber if you actually cut down the trees,” John pointed out. He made a show of glancing out the window at the brightening day. “Which you should have been doing an hour ago.”
Harry elbowed him good-naturedly. “You gave her your house. Can’t blame us for giving her our time.”
