Chapter 9   

The new, bigger church held all the funerals together as the whole of the area held one another up in the following days. All in all, they’d lost fifteen loved ones throughout the county. They also prayed for the five strangers whose hastily crafted coffins went back east in the days after the tracks were cleared. Twenty souls went up yonder, leaving tears to those left behind. Then each family took their dearly departed either to the churchyard or to private family graveyards.

The Johnston family cemetery held four graves now, each covered with a layer of stones to protect the sanctity of the resting places from the ravaging of wild animals and elements. A newly carved memorial stone matched the weathered markers of Tara’s mother and brothers.

Tara brushed the dirt from her leather gloves as Timothy finished stomping down the fill around the headstone.

Peg lay on the ground in front of the arched wooden gate in the picket fence that surrounded the family plot, guarding her people, nose sniffing at the air and floppy ears alert. A gopher crawled out of his tunnel twenty yards away and sat on his haunches, staring at the dog. Peg rumbled a low growl and sat up.

Timothy caught the standoff. “Peg, hold.” The puppy in her responded with shivers of anticipation. She kept her eyes on the gopher but didn’t budge though her head lowered a smidge.

“Thank you for visitin’ with me and doin’ all this work,” Tara said. “I can think of all of them together now. They won’t be forgotten.”

“It’s an honor to help install your father’s marker and pay my respects with you.” Timothy stood with her, looking down at the grave. “I’m glad you trust me enough to let me be a part of your troubles.” He walked her to the wagon. They tossed in their shovels.

“I hate those demon trains.” Tara’s pain welled up inside as if it would blow like the gas inside a mineshaft. “They mar the land, slam into our livestock, and kill our families. They’re like a plague of locusts that leave destruction in their wake.”

“Losing your father isn’t fair.” He offered a palm to help her climb into the wagon. “I hope now that they’ve set up standard times, there’ll be no more accidents. I know it doesn’t stop what you’re feeling.”

She placed her hand in his, stepped up, and plunked herself on the buckboard. “One month.” She hunched over on the bench seat. “This whole disaster could have been avoided by one month.”

“It makes no sense,” he agreed. “I’m sorry, Tara.”

“Thank you.”

He called the dog. “Up, Peg.”

As Timothy gave Tara his nonjudgmental ear, her courage built to share what had taken seed in her heart as she grieved. “Maybe God is really just rolling dice. Why else would He so blithely let people die for the tick of a clock?”

“I can see how it feels that way.”

Their shoulders bumped as they swayed over the rough road. Tara remembered her father’s words the last time she’d gone this same trail over their land. “He was right.” Her lips trembled. “Almost prophetic.”

Timothy gave her a curious glance. “Who was prophetic?”

“My pa. He said, ‘Mouse, there’ll be a day you’ll miss it.’ He was talkin’ ’bout our funny ways of laughin’ off hard work and worries. He taught me to focus on good things and laugh at trouble. I can’t laugh at this.” She pressed her heart as if she could ease the boulder off her chest. “I miss it. Him,” she whispered and lowered her head, dropped her hands, and stared at them in her lap. “I miss him.”

The bare and dreary trees waved bony arms in the brisk chill like goblins come to steal away all the joyous color in Tara’s world. Timothy drove the team with one hand, reached out and covered Tara’s hand with his, squeezing with gentle comfort.

His touch, the strength of his hold, enveloped her in warmth. A warmth that flowed toward her heart, easing the chokehold of grief.

“Can I ask a question, if it’s not too difficult?”

She searched his eyes. Still kind. Still compassionate. Still trustworthy. She nodded. “Go ahead.”

“I’ve always wondered why your father called you Mouse.”

The black clouds dampening her spirit broke as her father’s loving ways came to mind. A reminiscent sweetness came over her. “That came from when I was born.”

“Would you tell me?”

Her shoulders lifted. “My mother died from giving birth to me too early. I guess she hung on a few months. Then Pa had to feed me goat’s milk with a bottle. But he says—” Tara closed her eyes for a second and took a deep breath. “I mean, he said, that I made funny squeaky noises for the longest time when I drank and sometimes when I slept. He said I was so tiny and delicate, I was like a little baby mouse. Said I was as bald as a baby mouse too.” She chuckled.

“Look at that. Your father can still make you laugh.” He squeezed her hand again.

Tara finished her story. “As long as I was makin’ noise, he knew I was alive.” A wistful smile crossed her lips. “He promised my ma that he’d name me Tara Joy, but all my life I’ve been Mouse to him.”

“It’s a miracle from God that you survived.”

“He used to tell me he prayed that God would send angels to guard my cradle. That my squeaks must be an angelic language, ’cause they kept me safe.” She wiped an errant tear. “For so long, as a little girl, I believed in God and guardian angels.”

“You don’t believe in God now?”

Anger crackled in her, snapping like static electricity through her very being. “Why would I? I’ve lost everyone. My mother, both of my brothers, and now my father.”

Timothy listened and drove. “And Cookie? You said he was there all along.”

She relaxed a little again in Timothy’s easy presence. “He says we were already his family by then ’cause he had no other left. We’ve been so blessed to have him.” She paused. “They were like brothers. Pa said they were brothers born on the trail of adversity.”

“Tara, I miss your father too.” He let the horse take the lead toward home. “I’d like to tell you his last words.” His forehead wrinkled as if he struggled with something deep down.

Was he worrying how she’d respond or that he’d hurt her? She pressed him, promising herself not to weep. “Go ahead. I’m fine.” Tara heaved a sigh. “Guess I’m just workin’ through my feelin’s.”

He glanced at her and then at the ranch ahead. “I know. But it’s hard to get out. Maybe I’m not ready yet. Will you give me a little time to sort through my thoughts?”

Peg popped up from the wagon bed, paws on the back of the seat. Timothy reached back and ruffled the fur on her neck. Her body wiggled from how hard her tail wagged. He slowed enough to let her jump down. “Okay, girl, go home.” The dog was off and running.

Tara searched his face, his eyes, and sought the inexplicable. She found no deception or cause for distrust. She nodded, content to leave well enough alone for the moment. Pa had taught her to give people the space to think. She needed a little of that herself. She could honor her father’s memory by honoring his teachings.

Cookie clapped Timothy on the back. “Well, I done my part. Let’s see ya get our girl onto a train.” He stood back and admired the special chicken dinner, roasted vegetables, sourdough bread, and chokecherry jelly. “I got all ’er favorite foods. Don’t be messin’ it up. She cain’t go through the rest of ’er days scared of progress. Ya fall off a horse, ya get back on. Works with anything, even a train.”

November’s crisp weather did nothing for the nervous sweat Timothy had built up. He changed into a “fancy” shirt, as she called them. Cookie left to deliver dinner to the ranch hands. At least that was Timothy’s plan to get Tara alone for a long talk. With Cookie’s help, he’d lay out Robert’s plan for their future … and convince Tara to take a train with him to sell the two horses and meet his family. But he had to help her overcome her very valid fears.

He stood in the kitchen with a plate of gingersnaps as he heard the porch door open and close. He quickly rubbed one palm, and then the other, on his denims.

Her bewildered smile set his heart thumping.

“What’s all this?”

He held out the plate. “I had Cookie help me set up a nice dinner and dessert so we could converse privately.”

At first her quizzical look was just shy of comedic. Then she took the ugly cookies with grace, lifted her eyes to his, and said, “You had him make my favorites?” She lifted one. “They’re a bit off his usual.”

He cleared his throat. Cookie had been stunned but partnered up in approval. “I, uh, I asked him to teach me how.” Though the partnership produced an uneven, crispier than usual offering.

“You made these?” She had a look that said, Now that makes all sorts of sense, while holding back merriment with pursed lips and dancing eyes.

“Probably not the best you ever had, but I couldn’t pick you flowers at this time of year.”

Her expression softened. “This is better. Flowers are overrated.”

“Maybe not after you taste one of these.” He loved the sound of her laughter.

She set down the platter, keeping the one, and tasted Timothy’s first-ever attempt. “Mmm. You’ll be first in line if Cookie ever decides to quit runnin’ our chuck wagon.”

He never aspired to bake anything before. But suddenly he wanted to do anything to provide for Tara. “You are a bad liar,” he teased.

She giggled and cupped a palm over sputtering crumbs. Her appreciation and praise of a simple treat drove home to him why this woman would be his perfect mate. She inspired him to open his heart to a simpler life too.

After seating her at the table, Timothy carved the chicken and served supper. He sat with her once their plates were filled. “One of your father’s wishes was to take Socrates and Tumbleweed to Kentucky for a sale. They’re special.”

“I know.” She answered while spreading the cranberry-colored jelly on fresh bread.

“It would mean taking the horses by train.” He watched her flinch and so badly wanted to ease her fears.

“I don’t like trains.” She handed the chokecherry jar to Timothy.

“I don’t blame you. But it’s too late in the year and too far to ride them across country and keep them healthy for the sale.” If he let her think on his points, maybe she’d come around.

“I know that too.” While they ate, they reasoned through the issues. The horses might be trusted to an agent. But then no one would be there for important decisions or emergent situations. “You go with a letter from me as my agent,” she suggested. “Then wire me if you need somethin’ important.”

He scooted his chair a little closer. “You’ve never seen other parts of the country. How can you let fear rule your choice? God is not a God of fear.” Timothy meant every word. He wanted to rejoice with Tara when she conquered this overwhelming internal battle. But he had his own fear too. He wasn’t stepping foot back in Kentucky as an available man. The woman he wanted to spend his life with sat in a large country kitchen in the middle of the Wild West enjoying a chicken dinner. Wherever he went in the world, he wanted Tara by his side.

“Please come with me and be part of the sale as the owner. Don’t let fear take over and choose your future for you, or for us.”

Worried eyes flashed between her plate and his face until finally she capitulated. A tiny nod, then she whispered, “I don’t want to be ruled by fear anymore.”

They ate and then finished with another gingersnap, splitting one that had cracked to pieces already.

“The crunchier the better,” she said as she brushed away the crumbs. “Will you tell me Pa’s last words now?”

He swallowed some coffee to fortify himself. Based on her reaction to his last marriage proposal, this could go either way. “When your pa and I were on the train, I was about to ask permission to court you when the wreck happened.” He spared her the details. “I think he knew how I felt about you.”

“How you felt?” Mixed emotions flickered across her face.

Too far in now. He had to say what he had to say and live with the consequences. “Your father, your pa—” Timothy dropped his native formality. In a moment she’d say yay or nay. Man up, Lord Cumberland. “Tara, he said, ‘Marry my girl,’ and ‘Love her.’ Those were his last words.”

Tara’s nose turned rosy and tears gathered in her eyes. “You’re not makin’ that up, are you?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know that he heard me, but I told him I would do as he asked.” He laid his palm on the table, open to her. “But I also told him I do love you.”

Her gaze dropped to his palm. She stared at it for what seemed a hundred years. Timothy held his breath. Right before he thought he’d turned blue, she placed her hand in his. “I accept.”

He exhaled with such relief they broke out in nervous laughter.

She looked from their hands to his face. “I’m thinkin’ maybe God is workin’ things out after all, and it’s time I let ’im.”

Then he realized what she hadn’t said—and what he hadn’t yet told her.