Robin Lee Hatcher (11 page)

She heard the bedroom door close a second time and knew that Gavin had returned to the living room. “How’s Mrs. Blake?” she asked, her back still to him.

“Asleep.”

The lid of the wood box creaked open. She heard the crackle of fire and pitch as new logs were added to the flames. A chair scraped against the floor. She let the curtain fall into place and turned. Gavin sat on the spindle-backed chair, leaning forward, his forearms braced on his thighs. He stared into the fire, the firelight dancing across his face. Light that revealed the worry that was still in his eyes. She moved toward the fireplace, drawn by its warmth — and by the man beside it.

“It doesn’t snow this early in Boise,” she said softly.

“It won’t last long. A few days, a week maybe.” He glanced up as she sat on the rocker opposite him.

“A week?”

Gavin raked his fingers through his hair. “Could be longer, but I imagine we’ll be up to the Lucky Strike before the end of October.” A frown furrowed his brow. “I never should’ve let Dru talk me into staying. No way to get a doctor to her now if she needs one.”

“Mr. Blake . . .” She hadn’t wanted to ask, had wanted to wait until the information was offered. But now she felt she had to know. “What’s wrong with Dru?”

Pain and defeat filled his eyes, and her heart ached in response. He looked vulnerable in this moment, so unlike the man whose dislike for her was evident at every turn. For the third time today, she wished she could offer solace. She wished she could ease his anxieties.

“She’s got a cancer. The doctors we’ve seen . . . none think she’ll live much longer.”

Tears burned her throat. Emily had feared it was something bad, but she hadn’t expected this. She hadn’t known Dru’s illness was fatal. It made her irritation with Gavin seem small and petty. No wonder he was concerned with hiring the right person to tend his daughters. They would soon be motherless. No wonder he was moody. So would she be in his place. She’d judged him too harshly.

“I thought you knew,” he added. “I thought she’d told you.”

“No, she never told me. I knew she was ill but not how serious it was.” She released a soft breath. “I should have guessed, but I didn’t. I’m so sorry, Mr. Blake.” She reached out and touched the back of his hands, folded between his knees.

He looked up at her, and something tightened and twisted inside Emily’s chest. Something in his eyes. Something in the way he watched her. Her breathing felt suddenly labored as she drew back her hand.

“I’ll pray for her,” she whispered as she rose from the chair. “And for you and the children.” She moved away from him, hurrying toward the safety of her room.

Before the door swung closed behind her, she heard him say, “Thank you, Miss Harris.”

Gavin closed his eyes and rubbed his fingers in tiny circles over his temples, his head throbbing.

He never should have agreed to stay in the basin, despite Dru’s wishes. He’d told Emily Harris that the snow wouldn’t last long, but he could be wrong about that. And if he was? That didn’t bear thinking about.

Women. He never should listen to them. Never. Not even to Dru.

Agitated, he rose and went to the window. By this time, there was more than an inch of snow on the ground, and the storm showed no sign of letting up.

Like the falling snow swirling before the windowpane, unwelcome memories from his boyhood sifted through his mind. Twenty years had passed, and yet he could still hear his mother’s voice as she’d screamed at his father,
“I hate you, and I hate everything here.
I’m leaving with Mr. Hannah and I’m never coming back.”
Snow had fallen on that day too. It had blanketed the carriage that carried her away.

His mother was as good as her word. She didn’t return to the farm. Her hatred must have run deep, for she never asked to see her son again, never even wrote him a letter. Not long after she was granted a divorce, she married her lover, the wealthy Mr. Hannah. Gavin’s father turned to whiskey for comfort and drank himself into an early grave.

In the years it took his father to die, Gavin learned to hate the woman who gave birth to him.

He remembered another snowy day not long after he buried his father. The farm was lost, anything of value sold. With nothing to hold him there, Gavin wrapped the framed photograph of his parents on their wedding day in an old newspaper and — carrying all his worldly possessions in a canvas bag slung over his shoulder — made his way to the city where his mother lived.

He couldn’t have imagined her home if he’d tried. It was a mansion, and she was a pillar of society. It seemed enough money and distance could make people forget that she’d deserted a good husband and her only son for this life she lived. Or perhaps society didn’t know and didn’t want to know.

He remembered every detail of how she looked that day. She wore a blue gown, jewels sparkling at her throat and on her ears, and her cool eyes perused him for the longest time before she said, “You look like your father.”

Gavin handed her the photo wrapped in newspaper.

She lifted an imperious brow, then opened the package. Her expression didn’t change a bit as she stared at the photograph. At last she said, “Too bad he wasn’t as rich as he was handsome.” Then she dropped the frame unceremoniously into a wastebasket.

Gavin had never forgotten nor forgiven what his mother did. He never would.

And because Emily somewhat resembled Christina Blake —blonde, blue-eyed, and beautiful — he resented her too.

There. He’d acknowledged it. That’s why he didn’t want to like her. That’s why he didn’t like any beautiful woman, especially if they were wealthy. Trouble was, Emily was nothing like his mother. She kept surprising him, doing and saying things he never would have expected from her.

He turned from the window, his gaze moving toward Emily’s bedroom. A thin spray of light fanned out beneath the door. She was still awake.

His mouth felt suddenly dry. His breath quickened as he recognized what he felt. He not only liked her against his will — he wanted to be
with
her.

He made a sound of disgust in his throat as the realization washed over him. It wasn’t Emily, with her beauty and privileged lifestyle, who was like his mother. He was the guilty one. He was like his mother — married to Dru and desiring Emily. The discovery sickened him. It didn’t matter that his was a marriage in name only, that he’d married in order to provide for two girls who would soon be orphaned. No matter the reason for the vows he’d given, he was still married, and he didn’t mean to forget it.

No matter how many things Emily said or did to surprise him.

Eleven

By morning there was at least a foot of snow on the ground, and snowflakes continued to fall.

As Emily stood at the window, watching the falling snow, she wondered when they would be able to leave. It looked like winter was here to stay. What would that mean for Dru? She needed a doctor. No wonder Gavin had been reluctant to honor his wife’s request.

Lord, please grant this family a miracle. They will all be so lost
without Dru. Extend her life beyond what the doctors have told them.
And Father, if it is your will to call her home to heaven, help me to help
them deal with their loss. May I be of some small comfort to them.

She thought of Gavin, sitting by the fire, his face creased with tension. She recalled the moment she’d covered his hands with her own, and she felt that same strange disturbance in her chest. The sensation that had made her leave his presence in such haste.

Lord, grant me wisdom.

“You’re up early.”

Emily turned to find Dru standing outside her bedroom, clothed in nightgown and robe. Her hair hung in a single braid over her shoulder. Dark circles marred her eyes.

“So are you. Did you rest well?”

Dru sighed. “Well enough.” She crossed the room. “How bad was the storm?”

Emily stepped aside to reveal the snow-blanketed yard. “It isn’t over yet.”

“This will keep us here awhile.”

“You don’t want to leave, do you? You would stay all winter if you could.”

“It’s true. I love it here more than anywhere in the world. It’s my true home.”

“Mr. Blake is worried. About the weather and about you.”

“You two talked last night.”

Emily felt a stab of guilt — almost as if she’d done something wrong. Utter foolishness. “I’ll start breakfast. Why don’t you sit next to the fire and keep warm. Would you like some coffee or would you prefer tea?”

“Tea, I think.”

Emily put the kettle on the stove, then gathered the ingredients for flapjacks while she waited for the water to come to a boil. Minutes later, she carried a cup of brewed tea to Dru.

“Thank you, Miss Harris. You’ve been very kind to me. I’m thankful God brought you to be with us.”

“It’s I who should thank you,” she replied. “I adore Brina and Pet and have discovered how much I love teaching. I wouldn’t have, apart from this opportunity.” She turned toward the kitchen.

That was the moment Gavin stepped out of the bedroom. His gaze met briefly with hers and then moved to Dru. “I didn’t expect you to be up this soon,” he said to his wife.

Dru lifted the cup in her hand. “Miss Harris made me some tea.”

His eyes — filled with the familiar chill he often directed at her — returned to Emily, and he gave her a nod. “I’ll check on the livestock.” He crossed the room, pulled on his coat, and opened the door, letting in a gust of wind and a flurry of snow. “We’re in for another blow. Don’t anyone venture out. This looks like it could get nasty.” He exited without a backward glance.

What was wrong with him? He hadn’t been rude to her last night. Why did he have to be so now? Why couldn’t he treat her with the same kindness he showed his wife?

Am I such a horrid person that he can’t be civil to me even for a
day? Isn’t there anything about me that he can find to like?

Emily tried to ignore the feelings of hurt and rejection as she mixed the pancake batter while the skillet heated on the stove.

From the loft, Sabrina called, “Ma! Ma, did you see the snow?” She hurried down the ladder, Petula right behind.

“Yes, I saw,” Dru answered.

Sabrina turned toward the kitchen. “Mmm. Flapjacks. I’m hungry.”

“Me too,” echoed her sister.

Emily smiled. “Good, because I made lots of batter.”

“I want six,” Sabrina said.

“Me too,” Petula parroted.

Oh, how she would miss these girls when her time with them was over. She hadn’t known she would feel such love for her charges when she accepted this job.

Feeling the threat of unexpected tears, she returned her attention to the skillet, scooped two pancakes each onto two plates, and set them on the table. When she had control of her emotions, she turned. “Breakfast is ready.”

Sabrina and Petula took their places at once.

“Mrs. Blake?”

Dru shook her head. “I believe I’ll stay here by the fire. My tea is enough for now.” A tired smile tweaked the corners of her mouth. “It’s time you called me Dru. I like to think we’ve become friends.”

A lump thickened in Emily’s throat. “I would like that . . . Dru. And you must call me Emily.”

“Can we go play in the snow after breakfast, Ma?” Sabrina asked before stuffing a large bite of hotcakes into her mouth.

“Not until the storm is over. When it stops snowing, you can go out.”

As if in response, a gust of wind slammed against the house, rattling the windows and whistling beneath the door. Emily poured more batter into the skillet, then walked over to the window to look outside. The steady snowfall of earlier had become a blizzard. There was no earth or sky to be discerned. All was white, the barn obscured by snowflakes driven sideways by the wind. She hugged her arms against her chest.

“How will Mr. Blake find his way back?” She glanced over her shoulder at Dru. “He can’t possibly see.”

“He’ll wait it out in the barn.”

Time passed slowly after that. The girls finished eating, and Emily washed the dishes. All but the skillet. She would wait until Gavin had his breakfast before she washed it. Surely it wouldn’t be much longer before he returned.

Every time the house creaked she looked toward the door. Dru looked too, and Emily knew the woman shared her concern. She tried to hide her growing anxiety from the children, but despite her best efforts, the air was thick with it.

“Ma?” Petula crawled into her mother’s lap. “Is Pa okay?”

“Of course he is. He’s tending the animals, like he does every morning.”

“He’s been gone a long time.”

“He’ll be in soon, Pet. Don’t you worry.” As she stroked her daughter’s hair with one hand, she glanced at Emily.

It was bad enough for the women to worry. Worse yet for the children to be afraid. Emily nodded, communicating her understanding. Then she said, “Girls, it’s time for your studies. If we get our work done now, we can play in the snow when the storm is over. Get your books and slates.” She clapped her hands twice.

“Hurry now.”