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July 5, 1881
Sitting on the hard seat of the buggy next to her older sister, Sarah watched the passing scenery as the vehicle rolled down the rutted dirt road. The day had finally returned for her to leave her parent's home, and return to her own life. As the buggy bumped along, she tried to push away the sense of melancholy that had been hanging over her ever since that morning, when she'd wished her mother, father, and Kate a tearful goodbye.
"You're awfully quiet over there. Thinking of all the things you have to do when you get back home, I imagine." Mary glanced her way, but only for a moment, before turning her attention back to driving.
She offered a nod. "Yes, a busy time is approaching." The statement wasn't untrue; there would be plenty of work awaiting her at her destination. What she didn't say to her sister was the same thing she'd withheld from the rest of the family: she was not bound for Cheyenne. No, if anyone had seen her carefully guarded train ticket, they would know she'd booked passage to Washington D.C.
Mary navigated the buggy around the familiar bend in the road, and the train depot came into view. "What time is your train again?"
"In a couple of hours." She kept her answer purposefully vague.
Once she'd parked the vehicle on the edge of the road near the depot and set the handbrake, Mary hopped down from the driver's seat. Sarah followed suit, dusting off the skirts of her pink traveling costume once she achieved firm footing.
Mary handed her the single large valise she'd brought. "Are you sure you don't want me to wait with you? Mama will only make me do chores if I go back home."
She shook her head, accepting the bag. "No, Mary. Go on back. I've been trying to finish this book for weeks now, and this will be the perfect opportunity." She held up her copy of Hawthorne’s The House of Seven Gables.
"All right. Finish your book then." She leaned in to give her a hug, then a peck on the cheek.
"When are you and Emily headed back to Richmond?"
"Day after tomorrow." She stepped back, then walked around the buggy and climbed back up into the driver seat. "Safe travels, troublemaker. I love you."
She blew a kiss in Mary's direction. "I love you, too. I'll send Papa a telegram when I'm safely home."
With a nod, Mary slapped the reins, guiding their parents' old buggy back toward the Webster home.
Sarah watched her sister disappear around the bend. Then, clutching her small handbag and her valise, she entered the train station.
Long, polished wooden benches provided a place to sit inside the station, and Sarah quickly found an empty spot to inhabit. Tucking her valise beneath her skirt, and her handbag onto her lap, she glanced at the big clock on the wall. She had a good two and half hours to wait before the northbound train arrived to whisk her to D.C. Taking out her copy of the novel she'd been telling her sister about, she settled into the seat and opened it to the red ribbon she used as a bookmark.
She'd read about a chapter or so when she started to nod off. The early hour, coupled with the sleep she'd lost over the last few nights, conspired to make her eyelids heavy. The moment she closed her eyes, she could see Owen's face.
She hadn't spoken to him in the two days since her mother's birthday party. That day had held so much excitement and anxiety, she still hadn't recovered.
In her semi-conscious state, she found herself back in his cabin. Just like that fateful evening, she was sitting across his lap, with the bodice of her gown pushed down, baring her breasts to his touch and his kisses. She could feel the warmth of his mouth in the hollow of her neck and surrounding her nipples; she could feel his bold, questing hand teasing her feminine warmth as he played beneath her skirts. Her breath piled up in her throat, until it came out in gasps. His hands, his mouth, they were all too much. She could feel her blood heating, feel the magical sensation rising from between her thighs...
"Sarah, darling."
She heard him call her name. A smile touched her lips.
He spoke again.
"Wake up, Sarah."
She sat up with a start, her eyes popping open to the bright, sunlit interior of the train depot. She was confused for a moment, because she knew she'd heard Owen's voice.
"You must be tired, to fall asleep on this hard bench."
She let her gaze drift to her left, and saw him sitting next to her on the bench. All the heat that had filled her body during her dream went directly to her cheeks. "Owen. How long have you been here?"
"Only a moment. I hope I didn't startle you."
She shook her head, even as she blinked a few times to let her eyes adjust to this brightly lit reality. Hoping her face didn't look as red as it felt, she asked, "What brings you here?"
He clasped her hand. "I wanted to remind you that you didn't do anything shameful the other day." He kept his voice low, even though there wasn't anyone else in the depot but the two of them and the ticket agent.
Time had helped her feel less ashamed, but she sensed that wasn't why he'd actually come. "So you've said. But why are you really here?"
He drew a deep breath. "I want to ask you to do something for me."
Her brow hitched. "What's that?"
"Don't go to D.C. If you can't stay, I'll understand. But please don't go to Washington."
She studied him, hoping his expression would give her some clue as to why he'd be concerned about where she went. "Owen, I told you that I was headed to Washington when I left here. You're the only one who knows. Why would you try to stop me now?"
"Things were different then."
"How?"
"When you first told me where you were going and what you planned to do there, it sounded like you were going through some rebellious stage against your father's wishes."
She furrowed her brow, being sure not to hide her distaste for his assessment. Still, she held her tongue, curious to see what he would say if she allowed him to keep talking.
"But now, with the President being shot—" he hesitated, his expression growing even more serious. "It's foolish and dangerous to go up there."
She folded her arms over the bodice of her traveling costume. "And you think that by coming down here and calling me foolish, you'll stop me from going to do something I've planned to do for weeks?"
His eyes widened, as if he were surprised. "Sarah, darling, I..."
"Don't ‘darling’ me, Owen." She resisted the urge to wag her finger, but didn't plan to mince words with him. "No matter what my father wants, you aren't my husband or my keeper. You have no right to come here and insult me, or tell me what I can and cannot do."
His jaw tightened. "I didn't come here to insult you, Sarah. I'm only concerned for your safety."
"And why is that? We aren't yoked together." Deep inside she knew that wasn't entirely true, based on the encounters they'd shared. He'd given her something called “completion”, something no other man had ever given her. Even though she was new at this, she sensed the experience somehow tied them together.
He drew back. "What we shared meant something to me. But apparently it meant nothing to you."
His words stung, but she refused to let him see her pain. "Goodbye, Owen. I'll send a wire to my father when I'm home. You can check with him, since you’re so concerned for my safety." She made a show of turning her gaze away from him, choosing instead to look out the rear windows of the depot.
She heard his growl of frustration, and then his retreating footsteps as he left.
When she turned back, he was gone.
A tear slid down her cheek, and as the sound of the approaching train began to fill the space, she stood to gather her things.
***
July 6, 1881
Wednesday morning, Owen got up with the rooster and drove his old buckboard deep into the forest along the winding banks of the Cape Fear River. He carried along nothing but his axe and his canteen.
His encounter with Sarah the day before had left him frustrated, angry. He'd gone to the train station with his mind set on protecting her, only to be rebuffed. Even though dismissed him and his concerns, he still couldn't help being worried about her.
Worse still, in the few brief days she'd spent in Fayetteville, he'd become...attached to her. Somehow, he'd become consumed with the idea of her as his, so much so that he hadn't thought twice about trying to stop her from going to Washington. Knowing that she’d affected him this way—that she'd managed to work her way into his heart—only increased his irritation.
In the silent forest, where only the birds and animals dwelled, he let his feelings have their head. Draining some of the water from his canteen to quench his thirst, he stripped off his shirt and approached a stand of young pines. The trees were ripe for use; not so young that they were still flexible but not so old that they were brittle.
Soon the sound of metal splintering wood filled his ears. With each swing of the axe, he felt some of the bitter feelings leave him. By mid-morning, he'd felled seven trees and cut them down into sections to haul back to his shop.
Driving the buckboard down the worn road, he inhaled deeply of the fresh morning air. As soon as he unloaded the wood into this shop, he looked forward to making himself a cup of hot coffee and a tall stack of flapjacks running with butter and syrup. His stomach growled loudly at the thought, and he urged his mule on toward home.
When he pulled the board up next to his woodshop, Owen was surprised to see George Webster sitting on a half barrel by the shop door. Wondering what Mr. Webster might need, he waved to the older man before setting the hand brake. After he'd stabled his mule, Owen returned to the shop, his keys in hand. Opening the door, he said, "Good morning, Mr. Webster. What can I do for you?"
"Good morning, Owen. I just came to ask you something."
The two men were now inside the cool, semi-dark interior of the shop, and had taken seats on the two stools inside.
Noting the serious expression Mr. Webster wore, Owen felt his own brow furrow. "Is there a problem with the gazebo?"
"No. My wife is enjoying it as much as possible, considering the tragic events that marred her birthday." George paused, as if choosing his next words with care. "I came to ask you about my Sarah."
Owen bristled, but did his best not to show it. "I'm not sure what you mean, sir."
"I'm sure you do. I told you before her visit that I wanted you to pursue her. That she was ripe for courting, and that I approved of her being courted by a fine gentleman like you."
Owen swallowed, thinking back to his memories of Sarah, perched half-dressed atop his lap in the cabin just a few days ago. Knowing her father would never place his behavior that night in the "gentleman" category, he kept it to himself. "So, don't you have anything to say?" George's eyes were locked on Owen's face.
He shook his head, pushing his thoughts aside for the moment. "Mr. Webster, I tried. I truly did. But your daughter is the most headstrong woman I've ever met, and I'm not sure she wants to settle down with anyone, least of all me."
He sighed. "Headstrong is a fair description. She's been that way since she was a little girl. Always wanted to do everything for herself. Insisted on learning to ride a horse when she was barely eight." He chuckled, as if the memories amused him.
Owen couldn't help smiling as he imagined Sarah as a feisty little girl, wagging a tiny finger as she made some declaration or other. "Knowing that makes me feel somewhat better, but it's still a defeat."
"I don't think it has to be. You just have to ask yourself, how far are you willing to go for her?"
That gave Owen pause. He looked to his elder, unsure of what to say next.
George asked, "Now that you know my daughter, how do you feel about her?"
He didn't hesitate. "I care for her. Deeply, actually."
George smiled. "Then start thinking on what you're going to do to convince her that you belong together."
Raising a hand to scratch his chin, Owen could feel the gears of his mind turning.
"Be warned, she will make you work for it. She takes after Liza. But if you are willing to work for her, to prove yourself, you'll win the greatest treasure you could ever hope to possess." He stood, gave Owen a firm slap on the shoulder. "Buck up, young man. You've got me in your corner, and that's a start."
"I appreciate that, sir."
With an easy smile, he headed for the door. There he stopped and turned back. "Call me George. After all, if you do this right, I'll be your father-in-law." Whistling, Mr. Webster made his exit.
After he left, Owen sat in the shop for a few long moments, thinking on what he'd said. As his growling stomach reminded him that he hadn't eaten breakfast, he went into the house to whip up the flapjacks.
The wood, and his conquest of Sarah's heart, would have to wait until after he ate.