A Hopeful Heart (4 page)

Tears stung her eyes. Although Mama and Papa had been gone for years, she missed them as much as if they’d only left her yesterday. Memories from her early years—carefree, joyful, surrounded by love and laughter—were the only happy possessions she carried into adulthood. Fortunately, her long, somber years with Aunt Gretchen and Uncle Leo hadn’t succeeded in washing away the precious memories.

The stars wavered, distorted by her tears, but she stared hard at the flickering bits of light. Papa and Mama lived somewhere behind those stars. Papa believed the Bible when it said the Father’s house had many mansions. After Mama’s death, he had held Tressa on his lap and explained that the Father’s house was Heaven, and that Mama now lived in a beautiful mansion built by God. Tressa easily envisioned the mansion—built of tan stone, with turrets and beautifully colored windows, a replica of Evan’s Glen. And she knew Papa and Mama were there, along with the little baby boy who’d lived only a few hours. They resided happily together.

While she was all alone.

Sallie’s snore increased in volume. Tressa turned from the window and gasped when a small, fuzzy animal darted across the floor and jumped into her lap. The animal—a cat with long black-and-white fur—kneaded its front feet against Tressa’s leg and set up a mighty purr that competed with Sallie’s snore.

Too startled to react, Tressa simply planted her palms against the wood floor and stared at the cat. A creaking noise from the hall shifted her attention from the cat to the doorway. Mrs. Wyatt poked her head into the room.

“Oh! Tressa, my apologies, dearie. I was tryin’ to put that old scalawag in the pantry, where she spends the night, but she got away from me.” The woman tiptoed into the room, casting a furtive glance toward the bed where Sallie slept on, unaware. “I forgot to tell you the latch on the door to this room doesn’t always hook. Izzy-B here can bat it right open. I’ll have one o’ my men take a look at it tomorrow an’ get it fixed so she won’t be sneakin’ in here an’ botherin’ you.”

The cat examined Tressa with round, curious eyes before turning itself and coiling into a ball on her lap. Despite the start she’d been given, Tressa felt a small bubble of laughter form in her throat. “Oh, she’s not a bother, ma’am. She’s actually quite . . . nice.”

Mrs. Wyatt’s smile warmed. “It’s good of you to say so. She’s a special girl to me, havin’ been a gift from my husband—God rest his soul—when she was just a scrawny kitten. She spent lots o’ years in the barn, chasin’ away the mice, but she’s earned her spot ’neath the stove in her later years.”

Tressa stroked her hand down the length of the animal’s back. The cat responded by twisting around and bobbing her head against Tressa’s palm. The giggle trickled past Tressa’s lips.

“I’ll take her now so I can put her to bed.”

Somewhat disappointed, Tressa lifted the cat and handed it to its owner. Mrs. Wyatt cradled the cat beneath her chin. Suddenly she frowned. “What’re you doin’ over here on the floor instead of bein’ in bed at this hour?”

Tressa struggled to her feet, careful to shield her bare limbs with the generous folds of her white cotton nightgown. She kept her gaze averted as she replied. “I was looking at the countryside. It’s so big . . . and open. Not like—” She started to say “home,” but had her aunt and uncle’s three-story townhouse ever truly been home?

“I remember it seemin’ mighty big when Jed an’ me first settled here. An’ quiet, compared to the city.” Mrs. Wyatt paused, and then her quiet voice came again. “You missin’ the city?”

Truthfully, Tressa didn’t miss the city, but she missed her former life. Her life with Mama and Papa. But she’d been missing that life since she was twelve years old. She shook her head, still clutching the cotton fabric of the worn nightgown.

“I know it’s different here, Tressa, but it’s a fine place to put down roots. Good folks—salt o’ the earth, no matter what you might’ve thought about the men’s orneriness today. As a whole, they’re hard-workin’ an’ God-lovin’, even if some are a bit rough around the edges.” Mrs. Wyatt chuckled softly. “But nothin’ softens up a man like the care of a good woman.”

Tressa lifted her head. The woman’s face, even shadowed by the scant moonlight shining through the window, appeared kind. For a moment she considered sharing her thoughts. Mrs. Wyatt had lost her husband; she would understand the deep hurt Tressa still carried at having to say good-bye to her parents far too soon. But her aunt’s warning about keeping her past a secret held her tongue. So she blurted, “I . . . I should go to bed now.”

She scurried to the bed and climbed in, careful not to bounce the mattress and disturb Sallie. Mrs. Wyatt padded silently to the door and stepped into the hallway. Her whispered voice, crooning to the cat, slowly faded as she headed down the stairs. Tressa lay, wide-eyed, staring out the window. Although she wanted to sleep, a question kept her awake: If her childhood wish to marry a man like Papa came true, would this lonely ache finally depart for good?

4

“Hey, boss?”

Abel paused in lifting the pitchfork of hay to look at Cole. The hired hand straddled a low stool beside the milk cow, squirting an even stream of creamy milk into the tin bucket between his knees. A lopsided grin stretched across his face.

“Reckon Aunt Hattie managed to get them girls out of bed with the rooster’s crow?”

Abel tossed the forkful of hay into the horse’s stall. Cole was a good worker and more than earned his pay as a hand on Abel’s ranch, but once he latched on to an idea, he was like a fox with an egg in its mouth—all the hollering in the world wouldn’t make him drop it. Last night at supper Abel made it clear he didn’t want to discuss the herdsman school or its pupils. Cole had hushed his speculations when Abel got cranky, but here he was, starting in again first thing this morning.

Drawing in a lungful of air, Abel prepared to tell Cole in plain language to get his mind off those girls at Aunt Hattie’s ranch, but before he could speak, Cole continued.

“Seems to me it wouldn’t be so bad to have one of ’em on your ranch, seein’ to the cookin’ and milkin’ an’ such.” Cole rested his cheek against the cow’s flank, his expression thoughtful. “Free us men up to focus on other things.”

“Like I said last night . . .” Abel forced the words through clenched teeth, jabbing the pitchfork into the mound of hay with enough force to bend the tines. “I wish Aunt Hattie well with her school, but I’m not interested in those girls.” He pointed at Cole, squinting one eye.

“An’ I’ll thank you to keep your nose out of my business.”

“Well . . .” Cole lifted the bucket from beneath the cow’s slack udder and rested it on his knee. The man’s sparsely whiskered cheeks blotched red. “I wasn’t necessarily thinkin’ of you so much as . . .”

Abel waited, his body tense.

“Me. Maybe takin’ a look-see at ’em an’ seein’ if . . . well . . .”

Abel’s jaw went slack. “You thinkin’ of marryin’ up with one of those girls?”

Cole shrugged one shoulder while keeping a grip on the bucket. “Dunno why not. Most men think of gettin’ hitched at some point. An’ I’m gettin’ up there, ya know. Be twenty-two on my next birthday. . . .”

Abel swallowed a laugh.

“Why, even you must think it’s a good idea for a man to have a wife. ’Member two years back when you—”

Abel snatched up the pitchfork and stabbed it into the mound of hay. “Two years back I didn’t have the sense I have today.” He tossed the load over the stall’s door and then moved to the next stall. “Besides, we weren’t talkin’ about me—we were talkin’ about you.” Abel faced Cole, hooking his elbow on the rounded end of the pitchfork’s handle. “Seems to me that before you start courtin’, you ought to think where you’d keep a wife. You forget you live in a bunkhouse with two other men? No woman I know would cotton to a setup like that.”

“I reckon not.” Cole rose, catching the bucket by its rope handle and letting it dangle from his hand. His shoulders slumped, his chin low. “Just thinkin’ . . . Them girls, they’re bound to be pretty.”

Abel double-fisted the pitchfork’s handle. “Eastern women.” He didn’t try to hide the disgust in his voice. “Pretty packages with not much inside.”

Cole heaved a sigh as he ambled toward the barn’s wide opening. “Yep . . . Reckon you’d know.” He exited, leaving Abel alone.

“Reckon you’d know . . .”
The words buzzed like a persistent horsefly. Abel reached to scoop another load of hay, but then his hands stilled, an old hurt rising to pinch his chest. When would the humiliation of Amanda’s rejection ease?

More than two years had passed since he’d offered his heart through letters and then paid for her transport west. But even now, if he closed his eyes, he could picture how she’d looked as she stepped out of that stagecoach, wearing a gown the color of the Kansas sky, her big eyes as green as fresh clover. His heart had fired into his throat when he’d realized how lovely his bride-to-be was. Wouldn’t every man in town be jealous? But instead of becoming the envy of the town, he became Barnett’s laughingstock—the man duped into believing a highbred eastern woman would want to carve out a life on the Kansas plains.

He banged the pitchfork on the stall door, shaking the hay loose. If only it were as simple to shake loose the unpleasant memories. As much as he hated to admit it, Cole was right—a man naturally thought of matrimony. But thoughts of marriage led Abel straight to thoughts of Amanda. Why would he want to relive a hurt such as that?

He hooked the pitchfork on a wooden peg in the tack room and then headed for the house. By now Cole should have breakfast laid out so the men could eat and get the day started. Abel grimaced, considering Cole’s sorry excuse for cooking. But there was no cure for it—each of the men took their turn, and this week was Cole’s.

“Wouldn’t be so bad to have one of ’em on your ranch, seein’ to the cookin’ . . .”

Cole’s words returned to haunt Abel. He came to a dead halt in the middle of the yard and gave his forehead a firm whack with the butt of his hand to send the idea far from his mind. The last thing he needed was another eastern woman leaving him high and dry!

He set his feet in motion again, but his heels dragged, his thoughts refusing to go where he demanded. Amanda had been a woman of wealth. She’d claimed she found the high society life unbearably dull and without challenge. So she’d agreed to join him on his ranch. After a few weeks, however, she admitted her pampered life hadn’t prepared her for the ruggedness of the Kansas plains, and she broke her agreement with Abel to return to the East.

But was it fair to compare these women Aunt Hattie had brought in to Amanda? They weren’t wealthy and spoiled like Amanda. Aunt Hattie had invited working girls, girls accustomed to labor. And time under Hattie’s tutelage would surely provide them with all the skills needed to meet the demands of being a rancher’s wife.

“Abel?” Ethan Rylin called from the open doorway of the house, yanking Abel from his reverie. “Cole’s got breakfast cooked.” Ethan made a face as Abel trotted up to the porch. “Burnt pancakes and raw bacon. But I figure we’ve eaten worse on his week. . . .”

Abel followed Ethan into the house, wrinkling his nose at the acrid smell of burnt food permeating the dwelling. He sank into the chair at the head of the table and stared at the pitiful mess substituting as breakfast on his plate. “Vince, would you give the blessing?”

Vince offered thanks for the food while Abel’s thoughts rolled onward. Cole was right—it would be beneficial to have a woman on the place, seeing to the cooking and cleaning. Should he check into hiring a housekeeper? But how would he pay her? He couldn’t afford a housekeeper, but a man didn’t have to pay a wife a wage. . . .

He jabbed his fork into the pancake on his plate.
No wife
. Not for him. Having his heart stomped once was plenty for any man.

“Why, Sallie, you do know your way around a cow.”

Tressa peeked over her shoulder. Sallie stood next to Mrs. Wyatt, a triumphant grin on her face and a full bucket in her hand. With a frustrated sigh, Tressa turned her attention back to the cow she’d chosen as her own. The brown and white beast, with its large eyes and incredibly long eyelashes, had seemed a cooperative sort. Unlike the one Mabelle chose, Tressa’s cow stood complacently rather than shifting her feet. But the gentle animal refused to release more than a weak dribble of milk into Tressa’s pail.

Despite the measly return, she dutifully continued her squeeze-and-pull on the cow’s teats, just as Mrs. Wyatt had instructed. She also kept her lips tightly clamped against complaint. Evelyn openly and loudly proclaimed her opinions on rising at such an early hour, sitting in such an unladylike position, and being forced to endure the odors of the barn. Her comments couldn’t quite drown out the whiz of milk streams connecting with the tin sides of the buckets. Obviously the others were experiencing success in emptying their cows’ full udders. If Tressa couldn’t compete with skill, she could at least be noted for her long-suffering behavior. Hopefully it would be enough to retain her position in the school.

Her shoulders pinched from leaning forward. Her hips ached at being held in the straddle-legged position for so long. Her fingers, cramping and stiff, resisted squeezing just one more time. She bit down on her lower lip and willed herself to continue. A hand descended on Tressa’s shoulder. She peered up into Sallie’s freckled face.

“The others’ve all taken their milk to the house for churnin’ an’ such. Aunt Hattie asked me to stay with ye.”

Tressa spun on the stool, searching the barn. With the exception of Sallie, a row of cows contentedly munching from hay boxes, and a bird peeking over the edge of a nest snug against the rafters, the barn was empty. How could she not have heard everyone leave?

Sallie crouched beside Tressa and angled her head to peek into the bucket. She reared back in surprise. “Why, it’s not even half full!

Is she wigglin’ too much for ye to hit the bucket?”

Tressa wrinkled her nose. “She’s been a patient beast and very well behaved, but . . .” She sighed, flexing her tired fingers. “I can’t seem to coax the milk from her.”

“Scoot aside. Let me be givin’ it a try.”

Tressa’s feeling of incompetence increased as a full, sure stream of milk fired into the bucket with Sallie’s first pull. “Oh, Sallie . . .” Tressa sank down in the soft hay, resting her chin in her hands. “I’m an utter failure at milking.”

Sallie gawked at her. “
Udder
failure?” The girl laughed, startling the cow into nervous shifting. With a wide grin, she gave Tressa’s shoulder a light push. “Not at all, Tressa. It just takes time an’ patience . . . and a wee trick. Ye must roll your fingers down the teat, like so . . .” Sallie demonstrated, squeezing one finger at a time and giving a gentle pull with the final finger. “See?”

“I see, but . . .” Tressa bit off the last words. Hadn’t she decided not to complain? “I’ll try again.” Sallie shifted off the stool, and Tressa resumed her position, working her fingers just as Sallie had shown her. A drizzly stream released—much improved over the drip, drip, drip of moments ago. Heartened, Tressa squeezed again and was rewarded by another meager stream.

“There now, you’re gettin’ it!” Sallie beamed, giving Tressa’s shoulder a pat. “But why don’tcha let me finish for ye?”

“Oh, no, I—”

“Aren’t your hands achin’?”

Tressa sat back on the stool. In all honesty, her fingers hurt so badly she feared they’d be useless the rest of the day.

Sallie held up her hands. Calluses dotted her palms and the pads of her fingers. “My hands’re used to milkin’.” She caught Tressa’s arm and urged her from the stool. Tressa stood to the side, rubbing her aching knuckles while Sallie quickly seated herself and emptied the cow’s udder. Finished, she pulled the bucket free and grinned.

“Now, let’s get this girl into a stall with some breakfast, an’ we can head to the house to see what we’ll be doin’ next.”

Tressa took the bucket with both hands. Its weight settled against her knees, and she waddled as she followed Sallie between stall rails, where the girl piled clean hay in the waiting feed box. The girl’s confident actions stirred a question in Tressa’s mind. “Sallie, you possess so many skills. . . . Surely you could have found employment in the city. Why did you choose to attend Mrs. Wyatt’s school?”

Sallie led the cow to the feed box, her face puckered with sadness. “Right ye are that I be havin’ many skills. I’ve been workin’ from the time I was a wee lass, an’ there’s not much I can’t do. No, t’wasn’t the promise of new skills that brought me to Kansas. . . .” She scratched the cow’s forehead while the animal munched. “I’m wantin’ a kind man an’ the chance to build a family of me own. Been many years since I been part of a family, Tressa.” She tipped her head, sending Tressa a thoughtful look. “And ye? Why did ye come to this place?”

Heat built in Tressa’s face. How could she explain that coming hadn’t been her idea? Sallie would certainly scuttle away in shock if she learned that Tressa’s aunt had deemed the school a means of ridding her of the obligation of providing a dowry for a niece. Tressa felt a developing affinity with Sallie despite the vast differences in their backgrounds. But if she were to mention those differences, Sallie might withdraw her offer of friendship.

She chose her words carefully, unwilling to deceive Sallie but also unable to divulge the full truth. “Like you, I’m here to gain a husband . . . and a family.”

Sallie grinned, stepping away from the cow and reaching for the bucket. “Well, I’d say with your pretty face an’ sweet way of talkin’, the men around here would be foolish to pass ye by. I be thinkin’, once you’ve learnt what ye need to cook an’ clean an’ be a help with the animals, you’ll have no trouble snaggin’ a man.”

Tressa couldn’t decide if she found Sallie’s validation encouraging or frightening.

“An’ besides, if ye don’t find any of the men here pleasin’, I’m thinkin’ you’d make a fine schoolmarm. I can tell by your way of speakin’ you’ve had more learnin’ than most. You must’ve lived with a fancy family at some time an’ picked up their habits. . . .”