Come Spring (3 page)

“Then don’t you think it’s time I experienced life on my own? Goodness, Mama, it’s almost the twentieth century, not the Dark Ages! I want to see something of the world and form a few opinions of my own before I give myself over to a man.”

“You aren’t exactly selling yourself down the river,” Caleb reminded her. “Richard Thexton is the kind of man any woman would be proud to marry. He comes from a fine family—”

“Papa—”

He held up his hands and quickly added, “But it’s up to you.” He turned to his wife and took her hand in his. Indeed, the passion they shared still lived. It was a silent, vibrant thing that was almost tangible as they exchanged a smile. “Let’s go downstairs, Anja, and start the party. There is no need to let all that food and champagne go to waste.” Caleb then turned back to Annika and Ruth, who waited expectantly. “We’ll make excuses to the guests, Annika, but it’s up to you to break the news to Richard.”

Annika felt as if a great weight had been lifted from her. She ran across the room with Ruth in tow and hugged her parents each in turn. As she did, she felt truly lighthearted for the first time in days.

Head high, in a voice filled with determination, Annika said, “Send Richard up, Papa, and I’ll tell him the wedding is off.”

   2   

February 1892, Rocky Mountains

A
brilliant full moon hung over the mountain peaks, casting the valleys into dark shadows while it bathed the open, snow-covered hillsides with silver blue light. The air was still and cold, the forests that covered the base of the hills and lined the valleys silent. Moonlight illumined the high scattered clouds that floated like lost spirits across the night sky.

Near one particular valley floor, tucked amid the lodge-pole pines and stands of leafless aspen, an old cabin stood beside a rambling creek. Its weathered split-rail walls looked as ancient as the mountains that surrounded it. Golden lamplight spilled out of the small, uneven windows that flanked the door, above which hung an enormous pair of elk horns. Hides were tacked to the outer walls of the cabin, lush fur pelts of wolf, bighorn sheep, and beaver. The snowy ground around the place was littered with wood chips scattered from the woodpile, a chopping block for splitting kindling, various bits of animal hooves and horns, and much-trampled earth. There was a small lean-to shed behind the cabin; and even more than the main dwelling itself, it appeared ready to fall over. A footpath through the snow had been cleared from the door to the edge of the nearby woods.

Inside the sparsely furnished dwelling, two men sat in hushed conversation before a fire that popped and crackled in a stone fireplace that covered one entire wall of the cabin. One of the men was a visitor. He was old. His grizzled white hair and full beard attested to his age as much as the deep creases etched across his full features. Faded hazel eyes that had seen more in one lifetime than ten men could remember paused for a moment to watch in silent contemplation while the flames licked at the logs in the fireplace. Seated on a straight-backed hand-hewn chair, the old man leaned forward with both elbows resting on the crude table that separated him from his host. His clothing, an assortment of tanned hides and nearly threadbare wool, was as rugged as the life he led. His coat was made broad at the shoulders, for he was a big man, and it hung open to allow for his wide girth. He was known simply as Ted, Old Ted to be exact, his surname long since forgotten. Like most mountain men, Ted traveled alone, except for a scroungy, balding, long-haired Chihuahua he called The Mouse and carried inside his jacket. He’d had the dog ever since the day he had traded a Mexican a mule for it, and most folks agreed the Mexican had made the better end of the deal. The Mouse, who had a great aversion for anyone but its master, lay snuggled against Ted’s chest beneath his beard, snoring.

The younger man, Buck Scott, stared not at the fire but at Old Ted. Buck fidgeted in his chair, his gaze often roving to the big bed in the far, shadowed corner of the cabin’s only room. He alternately tapped his thumbs against the edge of the table while he leaned against the wall, balancing the chair on its two back legs. As he chewed on his lower lip, he frowned, but his worried expression was barely visible in the dim firelight. Buck took stock of his home and possessions, trying to see them the way a stranger might. More to the point, the way the woman he would bring home with him in a few days’ time might view them.

Brown was the color that first came to mind when he thought of having to describe the place to his new bride. Brown and dingy. The wooden walls were bare, except for the patch above the mantel that had been papered with newspaper and in the spots where they were chinked with mud. The floor was as brown as dirt, because it
was
dirt. He’d meant to save enough grain sacks to stitch together to form a makeshift floor covering, but by the time the idea came to him he’d used the sacks for other thigngs. A bag of potatoes slumped tiredly against a side wall. Shelves lined the space above and beside the bag. Tins of staples—dried beans, cornmeal, honey, molasses, yeast, soda, and baking powder—stood in a row like culinary soldiers. Buck hoped the woman would find everything to her liking.

He knew for certain that he wouldn’t miss doing his own cooking and cleaning; and as his thoughts turned to the tasks, he hoped he had everything she might need. He’d never seen a fancy kitchen nor did he know what a city woman might think she ought to have in one. Since his sisters had been gone, he hadn’t paid much attention to such details and had lived on a diet of meat, biscuits, canned vegetables, and dried fruit. There was a turnspit for meat in the fireplace, heavy iron kettles, a Dutch oven, and a skillet for frying. He’d made a new broom by tying dried brush to a smooth pole with a strip of rawhide.

Besides the table of split logs and the two real chairs, there were two stools fashioned from nail kegs that had been padded with moss and covered with canvas.

The huge bed took up nearly one side of the room. Buck had made it for himself because he figured a big man deserved a big bed. There was plenty of room in it for him and the woman both to sleep comfortably—even if she didn’t take to him right off.

When his thoughts drifted in that direction, Buck quickly drew his gaze away from the bed and looked across the table at Ted. As he watched the old man take a sip of whiskey, Buck hoped he’d done the right thing when he asked Ted to look after the place while he went down to Cheyenne to meet the train. Dropping the front legs of the chair back to the ground, Buck straightened and ran a hand across his chin. His half-grown beard felt rough against his palm. He reckoned he should shave it, then decided to wait until he got to Cheyenne where he could have a real barber attend to it for him. He’d have his hair cut too, since it had grown thick and so far past his shoulders that he wore it tied behind him with a rawhide thong. He had the same wild blond mane that had made his father stand out from the other trappers. Even now, whenever Buck ran into some of the old buffalo hunters they knew who he was because of his great height and his abundance of wild blond hair.

Ted belched. “You leavin’ at first light?”

“Soon as I can see my hand in front of my face.”

“Thought about it a long time, have ya?”

His impending marriage was all Buck had thought about for weeks. If he had any choice he wouldn’t be getting married at all. But he didn’t, so he shrugged and said, “Nothing else I can do. It will all work out.”

“You don’t look as sure as you sound, but I ‘spect it will. What’d you say her name is?” Ted leaned forward and rested his stubbled chin in his hand.

“Alice Soams.” Buck tried to conjure up the image of the woman he’d been writing to for six months, but even though she’d told him she was blond, thin, and taller than most women, nothing came to mind. He guessed fear clouded his mind’s eye.

“How’d you find her?”

“Remember that paper you carried up last year? The one Jonesey gave you from Boston?”

“No.”

“Well, you did. Anyway, I saw an advertisement in it and answered it. A lady from Boston wanted to move west, was looking for a husband. Said all she required was a home of her own and someone who could provide for her. She picked my letter.”

“Seen a pitcher of her? Hear tell most men that gets a bride by mail has seen a pitcher,” Ted said knowledgeably.

Buck shook his head. “No. No picture. She said she’s blond. Said some might say she’s attractive.”

Old Ted looked skeptical. “‘Spect it’s too late now, anyway.”

“I guess it is, since she’ll be in Cheyenne day after tomorrow. Coming in on the noon train.” Buck tapped the shirt pocket where he kept his last letter from Alice Soams that gave the date and time of her arrival. “It’ll take me four days there and back.”

“You ain’t stayin’ over in Cheyenne?”

“No time.” Buck glanced across the room and back at Ted. “We’ll be married soon as she gets off the train and then pack up. I hope she doesn’t have a passel of trunks with her.”

“I hear women don’t often go anyplace without such. Need ‘em for their geegaws.” Ted took another sip of whiskey and smacked his lips. “It’s been a mild winter, but what if the pass gets snowed in and you can’t get back in the valley?”

Buck set his jaw. “It won’t.”

“Hell, it’s only February. It might.”

“I’ll get through. I’ll be back in four days.”

“Draggin’ a woman behind you? Why didn’t you tell her to wait till the spring thaw? Why’s she comin’ out here in the dead of winter?”

“Because I sent her the money and told her to decide when she wanted to leave Boston.”

“Well, I hope to Christ for your sake you don’t let her make too many more decisions, then,” Ted said.

Buck ignored the old man’s comment and stood up. “I guess we better be turnin’ in.”

“I’ll sleep on the floor,” Ted volunteered. “You don’t need to wake me when you go, just stir up the fire. I ‘spect I’ll be up soon enough after you leave.”

“Yeah, you will.” Buck stood in the middle of the room and stared down at Ted, who hadn’t moved yet. “You sure you’ll be all right looking after things here?”

“Don’t you worry about a thing. The Mouse and I will do all right. You jest hurry on back, though, and do your sparkin’ here. My achin’ joints tell me there’s a storm a comin’. I can’t guarantee how long I’ll be able to keep things runnin’ aright if you’re gone too long.”

Buck didn’t want to think about the consequences of getting snowed out of the valley, so he turned away from the sight of Ted, who had reached down to scratch his poor excuse for a dog behind the ears. He wondered what it would be like to have a woman around the place again. Three years ago there had been two women underfoot and he’d been more than happy to let them take care of the chores. Then Sissy, his youngest sister, had died of typhoid and Patsy—who’d been crazy ever since her common-law husband died—got so bad he couldn’t trust what she would do next. He’d had to take her down the mountain and trust her care to an old Scotswoman Ted knew who lived outside Cheyenne.

Now that he’d asked Alice Soams to marry him, there would be a woman in his life again.

And things were bound to be different.

A
NNIKA
Storm touched the frosted glass of the windowpane beside her seat on the Union Pacific train bound for Cheyenne and parts west. She traced an ever-widening circle with her index finger until she created a peephole large enough to see through, but all it revealed was a vast stretch of snow-covered land.

She took one look outside and sighed with boredom. The bleak landscape had not changed for the last five hundred miles. She glanced down at the journal lying open in her lap and fingered the well-worn pages. Today’s entry would read much like the past few days.
Still traveling westward. Open plains and snow all around.

Before she could open her slant-lidded, hand-carved writing box, take out pen and ink, and add the entry (no little feat with the ceaseless rocking motion of the train) Annika felt a sudden jolt and the train ground to a halt. The other passengers around her began to stir, shaken from the lethargy brought on by the earlier, hypnotic motion of the train.