A Family Found (7 page)

Behind them the two dogs circled each other, made a few playful nips and then settled happily in front of the hearth. “See you've got yerself a partner.”

“Her name's Beauty and she's a great companion.”

“No substitute for a red-blooded man, I'll wager,” he said with a mischievous wink.

“I had one of those, and one was enough.”

He tossed his bearskin hat on the table. “Don't quite know how to take that, missy. One was enough to spook you forever or you had one so good he put anyone else to shame?”

In that moment Sophie found she had a need to talk about Charlie, and in a peculiar way, she knew Grizzly was discreet. “I'll dish us up some ham and beans and tell you about my Charlie. Will you be able to stay the night?”

“If it's all right with you, in the barn.” He removed his heavy coat, withdrew a packet from one pocket and then threw the garment over a chair. “I stopped by the Harpers' place and picked up some mail. Here.” He thrust the bundle into her hands. Spontaneous tears filled her eyes as she recognized her father's spidery hand and Lily's graceful one. It was all she could do to set the correspondence aside and concentrate on Grizzly. These were her first letters from home. She mentally corrected herself. This was now home—that other place was Kansas.

“How does the mail work up here? I've written some letters, but need to learn about posting them.”

“Lucky I stopped by, then.” He sat down and pulled closer to the table. While she served the piping-hot bowls, he explained. “Those who regularly make trips down to Denver or Longmont take the mail and then fetch parcels and mail back to Harpers'. Joe sorts it and holds it until it's either picked up or until someone passing by can deliver it.”

“So I should give you the letters I've written?”

“Best to deliver them to Harper, maybe when you next go to church.”

“I rue the time delay on sending or receiving the post.”

“One price of livin' in God's country.” He took his first spoonful, nodded approvingly and said, “Now, girl. Tell me about this Charlie.”

As she explained to Grizzly how they had met, how deliriously happy they'd been and how talented and ambitious Charlie was, she found that speaking aloud about him to another was liberating. So long as she could share their special times, her memories were fresh and comforting—proof that her love for him and his for her was enduring.

“And then what happened?” Grizzly demanded, wiping his unkempt beard with his napkin. “Don't reckon he left you to fend fer yourself in this wild place.”

“If only,” Sophie said, her eyes focused on a piece of ham swimming in the broth. “At least then he'd still be alive.”

Grizzly laid down his spoon and reached for her hand. His warm, rough skin was oddly soothing. “Tell me about it?”

As if floodgates had been breached, the details tumbled out, accompanied by tears she was helpless to stem.

When she finished, he squeezed her hand and shook his head. “Heap of tragedy there. Loneliness, too, I 'spect.”

“Unbearable,” she added softly, wiping her wet cheeks with her apron. “That's why I said I'd already had one red-blooded man. He was a blessing from God. I don't ask for more.”

Grizzly leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “You don't strike me as a quitter or you wouldn't be here.”

“Life doesn't stop just because the heart has been ripped out of a person. I had no choice but to live. Otherwise, I would dishonor Charlie's memory.”

“Or he'd haunt you from the grave,” Grizzly said with a chuckle. They fell silent, and Sophie struggled to swallow the last of her ham and beans. Sometimes it did seem as if Charlie was...not haunting her but...abiding in her presence. Like right now. He would've liked Grizzly and quizzed him about his knowledge of the mountains.

She folded her napkin and was about to rise from the table when Grizzly's next words stopped her. “I think you're selling your God short, girlie.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“I ain't much fer churchgoin', but the Big Fella is a bountiful God. Think of all He created, how generous He was. While there's a powerful lot of wailing and gnashing of teeth in the Good Book, there's hope and promise and love abundant. My God isn't gonna set you here in this Eden and leave you alone. No, ma'am. He's no quitter. Now, your Charlie may have been a wonder of a sweetheart, all right, but I'm gonna be aprayin' for him and the Lord to send you another man to love. Lord knows, we all can use a heap o' lovin'.”

“But I don't need—”

“You hush now and leave all this in God's hands. It may not be about what you need, but about what you have to give. Ever think of it like that?”

She stared at this hulking giant of a man, so filled with kindness and so unlike any confidant she'd ever had. Was he, too, a gift from God? “I've not always been good about surrendering.”

His laughter shook the walls. “Do tell,” he finally sputtered after gaining control of himself. “You just wait. If there's one thing old Terence P. Griswold has learned in his time on this earth, it's that life is full of surprises. Yours'll come, mark my words.” He got to his feet, took his hat from the table and smiled down at her. “Mighty fine supper, missy. Even better palaver. I'll be long gone by sunup, but I surely appreciate you.” He winked. “And you can cook, too.”

After he left, it was as if some of the air had been sucked from the room, such was his energy. She pondered their conversation. Was she to believe God could have more surprises in store for her? Grizzly had credited her with faith, a faith she didn't know whether she could claim anymore.

With a lightening of spirit, she turned to the bundle of letters Grizzly had delivered, untied the twine holding them together and arranged them in chronological order, her fingers trembling with excitement. She recognized missives from her father, from both brothers and their wives and from her nieces and nephews. A treasure delivered by a disheveled mountain man. If nothing else, God surely had a sense of humor.

Later, after banking the fire and changing into her cozy flannel nightgown and wrapping up in a wool shawl, Sophie settled in the rocker near the hearth and by lantern light began to read the precious letters from her family, beginning with one from her father. His tall, scratchy hand, so familiar to her, recalled his patience as he tried to teach her her ABCs before sending her off to the one-room schoolhouse. Although she knew him as a man of few words, his words, when they came, were wise. This message was no exception.

Dearest daughter,

By now, I picture you settled in the mountains with fresh air cleansing your soul and invigorating your spirit. We are all grateful to the Hurlburts for their hospitality and relieved to know they are nearby should you require assistance. From the time you could walk, there was never any keeping you down. I think God created you to explore and embrace what life has to offer. This is how I deal with your absence—rejoicing instead of regretting. Although I imagine it may still be cool where you are, here the pastures are greening and the spring flowers blooming. Spring has always represented promise for me. I pray it does for you, as well. We eagerly await word from you and a description of your cabin, surroundings and new friends.

Always with prayers and love,

Your Pa

Sophie folded the letter carefully and held it for a moment to her heart. With what nobility and devotion he had cared for his family. How difficult it must have been for him—a widower with two small sons and an infant daughter. Yet never once had she seen evidence of frustration or resentment in his treatment of her brothers or her. Quite the contrary. As she looked back, she suspected his children were the glue that held him together after the loss of their mother.

Next she read a scrawled, smudged note from her adopted nephew Alf, followed by a few lines from his mother, Rose, with an enclosed recipe for venison stew. Then she picked up a letter from her brother Caleb and his wife, Lily. Caleb began with a detailed account of the cattle business in which they were all involved; and then Lily took over, telling about their children and Seth and Rose's. Sophie looked up, nearly overcome by nostalgia. In the family's loving words she could smell the lilac-laden breeze, hear the laughter of little ones playing hide-and-seek, taste Rose's famous cinnamon buns and feel the love that so characterized her Kansas family. It would have been easier perhaps for her to remain cocooned in the circle of their care, but she had known that such a course would ultimately paralyze and change her. No, she had needed to leave.

She glanced around her small cabin, fixing her eyes on those artifacts of home—the quilt, the photograph, Lily's sampler. Even though it had been the right decision to come here, just for a moment tears of homesickness prickled as she pictured each and every one of them—her father, Caleb, Lily, Mattie, little Harmony, Seth, Rose, Alf and Andy. Blinking, she opened the final letter bearing the most recent postmark, one from her brother Seth. She unfolded the single page and tried to take in his few but disturbing words.

Sister, our father has had a small stroke, but seems to be recovering. Doc Kellogg has recommended slowing down, but you know how stubborn Pa can be. We are all keeping an eye on him, so don't fret.

Sophie closed her eyes, trying to picture her vigorous father diminished. In her heart she knew the other family members would do all they could for his benefit, yet she couldn't suppress her initial reaction. She should be there. Once more she blinked back threatening tears. In her planning she had tried to prepare herself mentally for the fact that she would miss important family occasions or health issues, but nothing had prepared her for this blunt reality.

As if sensing her distress, Beauty rose from the hearthside, where she'd been sleeping, and came to Sophie, laying her head in her mistress's lap. That one comforting act provoked what Sophie had so valiantly been trying to restrain—a lonely sobbing that filled the room.

* * *

Now what was he supposed to do? Tate paced his office early Friday morning, frustration and helplessness fueling his movement. The solution upon which he had pinned his hopes had blown up in his face. Why couldn't people be counted upon to fulfill their obligations? He went to his desk and reread the offending letter.

The previous evening, exhausted from a ride to and from a meeting on the far side of the valley, he had not read his mail, picked up by his foreman, Sam. Only now had he opened the letter from Wallace Tolbert III, full of flowery language and evasions. Despite their flourishes, the man's words screamed cowardice. Once full of brave, idealistic promises, the young man had “reconsidered the generous offer to serve as tutor and companion” for Marcus and Toby. “Other opportunities of a more civilized nature” had presented themselves, so now Tate was once again faced with the dilemma of educating his sons. He threw the offending letter on the desk, cursing under his breath. He sat down, opened a desk drawer and withdrew several brochures from Eastern boarding schools. For the umpteenth time he studied them: “exceptional young men”; “a remarkable classical education”; “playing fields worthy of Eton.” The claims swirled in his brain.

No doubt they were excellent schools. Faraway excellent schools. Parentless schools. He swiped the papers to the floor. No. He couldn't send his boys away. No education was worth their separation.

He wasn't a praying man. Yet he had no other place to turn and no solutions for the problem gnawing at his heart. Could he spare the time from his schedule to tutor them? Not if he intended to maintain his business interests, which would one day, when they were academically prepared, enable him to send his boys to the finest universities. Besides, their needs were so different, and nothing in his education had prepared him to teach anyone. He buried his face in his hands, uttering only the small word, “Please.”

Preoccupied, he barely heard the tentative rap on the door. He waited, and the knock came again. “Come in,” he called.

Marcus edged into the room, trailed by Minnie. “May I have a piece of paper and some ink for my pen?”

“Of course. Are you writing a letter?” Even as he asked the question, he couldn't imagine to whom his son might write.

“In my mythology book, I found more information about Minerva. I thought Miss Sophie might like to know.”

“I'm sure she would. If you write it down, I could have one of the hands deliver it for you.”

He rubbed his right toe over his left boot. “Good.”

Tate handed him several sheets of paper and a small bottle of ink.

Instead of withdrawing, the boy hesitated as if wanting to say something more. “Papa, do you think if I send this letter, she'll come see us again? She's very smart. I like talking to her.”

As if a knife had lodged in his chest, Tate recognized his son's hunger for knowledge. “In your letter, perhaps you could invite her for another visit.”

“Thank you, sir,” Marcus said before beating a retreat.

Sophie Montgomery. He'd thought all he had to do was accompany her from the Hurlburts' to her mountain cabin. Mission accomplished. Yet she wouldn't go away. Not out of his home and not out of his mind.

He leaned back in his chair, staring at Wallace Tolbert III's annoying letter. The longer he studied it, the more incensed he became. Until, like a bolt from the blue, an idea occurred to him. Not one without pitfalls, but nevertheless a practical solution in such an extremity. Did he dare? What choice did he have?

Raising his eyes heavenward, Tate expelled a sigh. He'd had no idea God could work that fast.

Chapter Six

F
riday evening Sophie marked her place in the book she was reading and stared into the flames licking at the logs. What a different world Henry James depicted in
The American
, one where Americans were viewed as upstarts invading the bastions of European aristocracy. Old society clashing with cultural change. Although James's prose style was challenging, his characters piqued her interest. She longed to converse about the book. Might Tate prove a worthy literary companion? She sighed. Not likely with his many obligations and his circumspect treatment of her. And yet...

She bent to the book once more, fascinated by Christopher Newman's moral dilemma. Should he expose the Bellegardes for who they were or permit them to continue with their pretensions? Reaching the end of a chapter, she reflected that she, like the character, had exchanged one culture for another. In the eyes of some she was defying convention—living alone, riding astride, planning to scale Longs Peak—yet if she and others didn't undertake such challenges, women might forever be confined by prejudice and male societal expectations. It was appalling that as an educated woman, she was deemed too ignorant to vote while ruffians staggering out of taverns were welcome at the polls. She wondered what Grizzly would think about evolving roles for women. And Tate? Based on his reaction to her thus far and what she knew about Ramona, she assumed he'd align himself with those who expected a female to stay in her place. But Charlie? She smiled. He'd wanted her to be her best self, wherever that took her.

The next morning after she'd fed Ranger and Beauty and hung her wash on the line, Sophie pulled out some writing paper and sat at the kitchen table, determined to find the words to cheer her father. Although Seth had tried to reassure her, a small stroke was still cause for concern. Even as a little girl, she had taken care of the “boys.” Keeping house and cooking for her father and brothers had been not only a necessity, but a labor of love. Yet here she was, hundreds of miles away.

Knowing her father would be more interested in her situation than in her pity, she briefly addressed his stroke, assuring him of her confidence that with time he would recover fully. Then she launched into what she hoped was a lighthearted account of her Colorado adventures, including her acquisition of Beauty, her friendship with Belle and her amusing encounters with Marcus and Toby. She lifted her pen from the page. She wanted to include something about Tate, but what? He wasn't merely an acquaintance, and she had to admit that in some ways he was important to her. She shook her head, then carried on with a description of the local church services. Tate could wait for another time. After sealing the letter to her father, she wrote a quick note to Seth.

Dearest Brother,

Thank you for informing me about Pa. I'm sure Doc Kellogg is keeping an eye on him, as are all of you, but I imagine that he is a stubborn patient. I feel very far away, although Pa and all of my dear Kansas family are in my daily prayers. Seth, I know I can count on you and Caleb to let me know if I need to come. No journey is too long or arduous when my loved ones are in distress. The post is unreliable and erratic, but I'm sure if necessary, you could telegraph the Hurlburts and they could get word to me in a more timely fashion.

She stared at the words covering the page. How inadequate they seemed. She'd made the decision to leave Kansas, but perhaps she hadn't fully anticipated what the emotional cost might be. She carefully folded the letters and slipped both into an envelope addressed to Seth. She would deliver the packet to Joe Harper when she went to church the next day. With a sigh, she pushed back from the table, determined to clear her mind.

“Beauty?” The dog had been lazing on the front porch, but stood in response to her call. “It's a beautiful day for a walk. Come.”

On the way to a nearby ridge crowned by rocks and juniper trees, the landscape began to fill her emptiness. How she wished Charlie and her beloved family could share in such splendor. At the top of the ridge a flat plateau covered by low bushes and colorful flowers beckoned her on. Beauty bounded ahead of her and then circled back as if soliciting approval for another romp. As she walked, Sophie felt her worry lifting. Pa was in good hands and improving daily, she was loving Colorado...all was well. She paused, turning slowly in a circle to take in the panorama of the mountains. Then just a few steps away she noticed a bush covered with small red raspberries, then another bush and another. She knelt and plucked one of the sun-ripened berries and put it in her mouth, savoring its sweetness. Beauty nosed her curiously, and she cupped a branch in her hand. “Berries. Perhaps the first of the season,” she told the dog. She decided to fill her pockets with them, fancying a dishful topped with fresh cream after dinner. So busy was she moving among the bushes and plucking raspberries that she lost track of time.

Suddenly the hairs on the back of her neck rose, and she had the eerie sense she was being watched. She grabbed Beauty by the scruff of her neck and froze, her heart thumping. A crashing of twigs and a low growl followed. Then before she could react, a lumbering black she-bear, followed by two cubs, was closing in on her, teeth bared.

* * *

Tate stood on the porch of Sophie's cabin, frowning. The woman was nowhere to be found. Surely she couldn't have gone far. Whinnying from the barn indicated that wherever she was, she had walked. He'd hoped to arrive, dispatch his business and be on his way. Yet he couldn't be too impatient and end up botching the proposal he intended to put to her. He checked his watch, removed his hat and sank down onto a porch chair, smiling with the recollection of her appearance the day she painted it. He could only imagine the reaction of his aloof, fastidious parents to her hoydenish, paint-smeared apparel. But he had left behind the social constraints of upper-crust Philadelphia and had never been sorry. Rather like Christopher Newman in
The American
, he could see the flaws in what passed for high society.

He stretched out his legs and leaned back, enjoying the unaccustomed solitude. With effort, he tried to still his mind, racing with figures, contracts, assay reports and, more immediately, his mission here, upon which so much depended. Of course Sophie enjoyed the boys. That was not in question. But given her independent streak, he had no way to predict how she might respond to the question he planned to pose. He waited, amusing himself with watching a nest of jays. After thirty minutes or so, he checked his watch again. What could be taking Sophie so long? Since he hadn't seen Beauty, he assumed the dog must be with her. But what protection or assistance could a dog offer if something had gone wrong? If she'd fallen, for instance? With that thought, he stood and paced the porch, wondering if he should search for her. But where?

Lost in speculation, he failed to hear her approach. “Tate? What are you doing here?”

He wheeled around, took one look and gasped. Her normally rosy-cheeked face was ashen, her shirtwaist was soiled with dirt and dried vegetation, and her skirt was ripped and bloodstained. He ran to her and grabbed her hands, which trembled in his. “Sophie, are you all right?”

She sighed deeply even as she swayed on her feet. “I am now,” she said, relief evident in her voice. Beauty bounded up and sat by her mistress's side.

“Are you bleeding?”

She looked at him dazedly before she finally glanced down. “I don't think so.” She picked up her torn skirt. “My, claws are sharp, aren't they?”

“Claws?”
He could hardly articulate the word for the tightness in his chest. “What claws?”

“The mama bear's.” As she spoke, she allowed herself to be led to a rocker on the porch.

“Bear's?” He sounded like an idiot, but he was having a hard time imagining the danger she'd escaped. Even her hands were crimson. “Let me get a cloth and wash off that blood.”

He was not prepared for what happened next. She examined her hands and the fabric of her skirt and began to laugh. How could she laugh? Was she having a hysterical reaction to her ordeal?

“Dear Tate,” she said with a weary smile, “it's not blood. It's raspberry juice.”

“But you said ‘claws.'”

She sobered. “I won't lie. Beauty and I had a close call. We were in a raspberry patch, and that mother bear was not happy with our invasion of her territory.”

“Or about the threat that you posed to her cubs. My word, you could've been killed.” His stomach churned at the thought. “How did you escape?”

She took off her hat and ran her fingers through her curls in the effort to tame them. “By the grace of God and Terence P. Griswold.”

“Grizzly?”

“When he first came to visit me, he taught me some things he thought I might need to know about living alone in the mountains. One was what to do in an encounter with a bear.” She paused, clenching her fists as if recalling the terrifying moment. “I had hold of Beauty, so I fell on the ground on top of her, grabbed her muzzle and played dead.”

“But the tear in your skirt?”

Sophie closed her eyes. “The bear came close enough to nudge me and swipe at my skirt.”

He was speechless. The bear could've mauled her—and the dog. Only her quick thinking had saved them from a fate too ghastly to contemplate.
If only he'd gone looking for her.

“It was a lesson I needed to learn,” she went on. “Perhaps I've been too cavalier about the dangers in these mountains.”

He knew better than to agree with her just now. “When I didn't find you here, I was concerned about your whereabouts.”

“Concerned?” She attempted a teasing grin. “Are you equally concerned about me when you're at your house? Or riding out on business? Surely I've proved now that, with Beauty's help, I can take care of myself.”

He doubted it. What would she have done without Grizzly's information? However, there was no use contesting the point when she needed calming and he needed to gain her cooperation. “You are, indeed, your own woman.”

“Thank you.” As if suddenly remembering her manners, she said, “Could I serve you a cold glass of lemonade?”

“I'd be partial to that, but not until we clean the, er, raspberry juice off your hands.” He followed her inside, where she hung her hat on a peg by the door and set to work pumping cold water into a basin and then soaping her hands.

“You must have been quite frightened,” he said as he picked up a towel and gently dried her hands.

“Mama Bear had every right to protect her young. It's nature's way. We were trespassers.”

“Does this change your mind about living alone?”

She shot him an indignant look and grabbed the towel from him. “Certainly not. I handled the situation, didn't I? I'm not completely naive, you know. In fact, I'm more determined than ever to prove myself against the elements, including climbing Longs Peak later this summer.” She hung up the towel and began pumping more water into a pitcher for the lemonade.

He retreated to the table. “Still harboring that ambition, are you?”

“Not only ‘harboring,' but actively preparing for it.” She squeezed several lemons into the pitcher and sprinkled in some sugar. “You don't approve, do you?”

“My approval is not the issue, but your safety is. After today, I'd think you would be reconsidering the climb. Even beyond the physical danger of such an enterprise, I hope you're prepared for negative reactions from many folks.”

“No progress is made without risk. Old ways have to be challenged.” She handed him his lemonade and sat down across from him. “It's rather like Christopher Newman's issue concerning European society. To challenge or not to challenge societal norms.”

He couldn't help himself—he grinned. “So you're enjoying
The American
?”

“I'm not sure
enjoy
is the proper word. Let's just say, I find the premise thought-provoking and the characters well drawn.”

“What about James's style?” From that point, he was drawn into a lively discussion of the merits and flaws of the novel. Perhaps the topic had served to distract her from her meeting with the bear. During a lull in the conversation, he realized it had been far too long since he'd been so intellectually stimulated by a book or a conversation.

She fetched the leather volume and turned to a particular page. “Listen to this,” she said, reading a passage aloud. “Isn't that a clever description?” She smiled at him. “Thank you for loaning me the book. I shall return it as soon as I finish.”

Mentally crossing his fingers, he seized the moment. “I am hopeful you will often be at my home to avail yourself of my library.”

“Oh?”

“The boys and I need your help.”

“Is something wrong?”

“Not wrong exactly. Just missing.” Bypassing diplomacy, he went right to the point. “I would like to hire you to tutor Marcus and Toby.”

Her eyes widened. “I am no teacher.”

“I had engaged a tutor from Ohio who now informs me he is unavailable. Apparently our terrain is too rugged and dangerous, and another less adventurous opportunity tempted the lad to decline my offer of employment. But I note—” he grinned wryly “—that our terrain has not daunted you. If I am to find a tutor before the boys fall victim to even more educational lapses, I must turn to locals.” He shook his head. “Few choices here.” He covered her hand with his own and looked directly into her eyes. “Except for you.”

“Tate, why, I couldn't begin to—”

“Hear me out. Please. I don't mean to imply that I'm so desperate that even you will do. Quite the opposite. After what I've observed when you and the boys are together and considering our discussion of Henry James's work, you may well be the perfect choice. You did tell me you'd been educated at an Eastern academy for women. I beg you to consider my offer.”