THE FOLLOWING MORNING, a crowd gathered outside the paintpeeled clapboard building of the Willow Springs undertaker’s office. The buzz of speculation hummed beneath the overcast skies, and a late May drizzle dampened the air. Kathryn shivered and searched the unfamiliar faces around her. Most of them stared back, watchful, waiting. She supposed it was nothing more than morbid curiosity that drew them.
“A man’s body was found in a ravine a few miles from town,” Matthew Taylor had told her the previous night.
That’s all he’d said, but Kathryn had the feeling he knew more. She stared at the door that Taylor had disappeared through a half hour ago, fear of the unknown knotting her stomach. If the body beyond that threshold was Larson’s, then she had indeed lost everything. She wished Annabelle had come with her, but Matthew Taylor had insisted against it. Kathryn had glimpsed the sting of rebuff in Annabelle’s eyes when Matthew had voiced his strong opposition to her accompanying them. Annabelle had hugged Kathryn tight and hadn’t looked in his direction again.
Kathryn pulled her coat tighter and wrapped her arms around herself. Lord, please let them be wrong. Don’t let it be him.
From the corner of her eye, she spotted Gabe standing at the edge of the crowd. Their eyes met, and he smiled gently. He worked his way through the clusters of people, careful not to jostle anyone in his path. Then he came and stood close beside her.
Kathryn looked up into his face. After not having seen him for days, she wanted to speak with him but was completely bereft of words. In his eyes she sensed a depth of compassion she would have guessed him incapable of with his childlike purity. Without a word, he slipped an arm around her shoulders in a brotherly fashion, and she found herself leaning into his strength. What pain had this gentle man endured that he could so thoroughly, with a simple touch, render such peace?
“Mrs. Jennings?”
Kathryn lifted her head to see Matthew Taylor walking toward her. People drew back as he approached. Her gaze fell to the object in his hands, and she heard a guttural cry leave her throat.
Larson’s coat. The one she’d bought for him in Boston for their first Christmas. Dark stains marred the tanned leather.
She saw her own hand reaching to touch it while another part of her tried to hold it back. Maybe if she didn’t touch it, it wouldn’t be real. And he wouldn’t be dead. The leather felt cold and stiff and damp. Kathryn sank to her knees.
Taylor knelt in the mud beside her. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
She took the coat from him and in one last frantic hope, opened to the inner lining. The images blurred as she ran her fingers over the initials LRJ, then over their unique cattle brand she’d embroidered inside.
“I want to see him.”
He shook his head. “No you don’t. You don’t understand. The body is . . . Your husband’s been dead for several months now.”
With his help, she rose. She started in the direction of the undertaker’s office.
Matthew touched her arm. “Kathryn, please. Don’t do this. He’s not like you remember.”
She stilled at his use of her name and looked up, her resolve holding fast.
As though sensing it would take more than pleading to change her mind, he grimaced. “His body’s been ravaged. First by the cold, then by the spring thaw.” His voice lowered. “And by . . . animals.”
She closed her eyes as she imagined Larson’s body—the body she’d drawn next to hers and had clung to so tightly—being so horribly defiled. “Even so, Mr. Taylor,” she said quietly, so only he could hear, “it is my husband’s body and I will see him one last time before I bury him.”
After a long moment, his determined look faded. Before he led her inside, he handed her a handkerchief. Kathryn realized why as soon as she entered.
She held the cloth to her nose and stared in disbelief at the body on the table. Surely this couldn’t be Larson. Her eyes scanned the torn clothing and deteriorated flesh. Her stomach convulsed.
With his coat still in her arms, she saw Larson’s boots on the table.
“Mrs. Jennings.” A man’s voice sounded softly beside her.
Kathryn turned. She hadn’t noticed the gray-haired gentleman standing there. She guessed him to be the undertaker.
“My condolences to you, ma’am.” He slowly extended a bundle to her. “These papers were found near your husband’s body. They’re hardly legible now, but I thought you might want them. And there’s something else. I found it in the pocket of his coat.” He held a crudely fashioned metal box in his hand.
Swallowing, she took the box and opened the lid. Her eyes filled when she read the inscription inside. She saw the key on the side and gave it a slight twist, doubting anything would happen. Her lips trembled as a tinny Christmas melody plinked out from the mechanism within. Larson, you remembered after all. . . .
Matthew Taylor stepped closer, paused for a moment, then laid a hand to her arm. “I’m sorry, Kathryn. Your husband was a good man. A lot of snow fell Christmas Day. Even the best tracker would’ve gotten lost in that storm.”
She nodded. But how could he be gone? She still felt him with her. Inside her.
The gray-haired gentleman turned, drawing her attention. He nodded to the table. “Oh, this man here didn’t die from the elements, leastwise not that alone.” His expression flashed to Matthew and then back to her. Regret lined his face. “I . . . I’m sorry, ma’am. I thought you’d already been told. Your husband was shot before he died, square in the chest. No doubt he died quickly, if that’s any consolation.”
Kathryn felt her mouth slip open. “But, I don’t understand. . . .”
The look the man gave her clearly told her that he didn’t have the answers either. And even if he did, it wouldn’t bring Larson back.
Her eyes flashed briefly again to Larson’s body, then to his left hand. She wished, not for the first time, that he would’ve allowed her to purchase a wedding ring for him. She looked down at the simple band of gold adorning her left hand and wondered why such a silly thing would matter at a moment like this.
True to Matthew Taylor’s word, Larson’s body was not as she remembered. Nor as she wanted to. Kathryn almost wished the painful image could be erased from her mind even as the talons of truth sank deeper into her heart. Her loss was complete. She turned to leave.
Then a slight flutter quivered in her belly, and her breath caught tight. In that instant, she knew she was wrong. She hadn’t lost everything.
Larson skirted the boundary of Willow Springs and made his way up the mountain pass. He still held hope that Kathryn had kept the ranch, but even if Kohlman had called the loan in, Larson knew that, by contract, Kathryn could continue to live in the cabin until the bank foreclosed. To that end, he gently nudged his aging mount around an outcropping of boulders and down the familiar path toward home.
In the past, he’d never have given his swayback horse a second glance. But using the money he’d found stashed in his pack a few days into his journey, he’d managed a fair barter for the pastured mare with a few bills to spare. He reached down and ran a gloved hand over her less than lustrous coat, thankful for every grueling mile she’d spared him from walking. Then he aimed his thanks heavenward again for the gift of Isaiah and Abby.
He carefully tugged off the leather gloves and looked at his misshapen hands. Gently flexing his fingers, Larson winced at the unpleasant sensation shooting up his right arm. The skin was nearly healed but was stretched taut over the back of his hand, much as it was over half of his body. He may have denied death its victory, but the grave had certainly claimed a bit of him in the struggle.
A sense of dread washed through him. What would Kathryn’s reaction be at seeing him like this for the first time? He pulled the gloves back on.
His yearning to see her, to hold her, had deepened with each mile. But along with his anticipation mingled a foreboding that tasted far more of fear than festivity. He shifted in the saddle and stared ahead at the winding trail of dirt and rock that had been the haunt and haven of his dreams, both waking and sleeping, for the past five months.
He’d lived this moment a thousand times over, and it still sent a chill through him.
Maybe if he’d been a better husband to her, a better provider, or perhaps if he had treated her more gently, he’d feel differently about coming back. The truth of their marriage was as real to him now as the scars marring his body. And the fault of the relationship rested mostly with him. Hadn’t God chiseled that truth into his heart in the past months?
After several hours of riding, Larson’s pulse kicked up a notch when he rounded the bend and the familiar scene came into view. It still took his breath away. The cabin, nestled in stands of newly leafed aspen and willow trees, crouched in the shadow of the rugged mountains that would always be his home.
His stomach clenched tight as he watched for movement from the homestead. He hadn’t seen signs of cattle yet, but they could’ve already been herded through the pass to the lower pasture. He frowned as he rode past the unkempt garden. Normally Kathryn would have the plot cleared by now, the soil tilled and ready for planting. More than likely she was overworked from the ranch. His lack of provision for her thrust the stab of guilt deeper within him.
An explanation for the shape of things corralled his thoughts. His emotions argued against it, but a heaviness weighted his chest. What if Matthew Taylor and the ranch hands hadn’t been able to keep the ranch going? What if they’d lost the land he’d worked so hard to claim? But remembering Taylor’s skill lessened Larson’s unease. Taylor was a hard worker and an honest man. He would’ve helped Kathryn in any way he could, Larson was certain of that. Taylor was a man he could trust.
As he rode closer, a breeze swept down from the mountain, whistling through the branches overhead. The door to the cabin creaked open and Larson’s eyes shot up. A rush of adrenaline caused every nerve to tingle.
“Kathryn?” he rasped. Though Abby’s tea had worked wonders, his voice still reminded him of a music box whose innards had been scraped and charred. The comparison tugged hard at a well-worn memory, but he resisted the pull and stuffed it back down.
He eased off his horse and glanced at the barn. Eerily quiet.
It took him a minute to gain his balance and get the feeling back in his limbs. His right leg ached, and he was tempted to reach for the staff tied to his saddle but he resisted, not wanting Kathryn’s first image of him to be that of a cripple. With each stuttered stride toward the cabin, he fought the urge to feel like less of a man. Would he ever be able to look at himself again and not flinch? But more than that—would Kathryn?
He stopped and briefly closed his eyes, wishing he could mimic the simple eloquence of Isaiah’s prayers. Vulnerability flooded his heart, sweeping away all pleas but one.
God, let her still want me.
He continued toward the cabin, his eyes trailing upward to the smokeless chimney. A light mist filtered down through the hearty blue spruce he’d planted their first spring here. Remembering that day gave him hope. Larson pulled his knit cap farther down over his scalp and turned up his coat collar to meet his sparse beard— partly to protect the still-sensitive skin on his neck from the chill and damp, but mostly to lessen the initial shock for her.
He gently pushed open the door. “Kathryn?”
He stepped inside and scanned the room. Deserted. Empty. Dust covered the wood plank floor. He heard something scurry in the far corner. The door to the bedroom was closed, and he crossed the room and jerked the latch free. The room was empty but for the bed they’d shared. Scenes flashed in his mind of being here with Kathryn that last night. Disbelief and concern churned his gut.
He strode from the cabin and searched the barn. It too was empty. He called her name, but his voice was lost in the wind stirring among the trees. Chest heaving, he ignored the pain and swung back up on his mount.
Later that afternoon, exhausted from the hard ride back to Willow Springs, Larson’s body ached from the unaccustomed abuse. If anyone would be able to tell him what had happened to Kathryn, it would be Jake Sampson at the livery. He’d dealt with him for years, and Jake kept up with all the town’s business, whether he had a right to or not.
The livery doors stood open. Larson walked in and spotted Sampson bent over an anvil by the fiery forge, pounding red-hot steel. Larson stopped in his tracks.
He watched the rhythm of Jake’s body as he worked, the muscles flexing and bunching in his forearm as he brought the hammer down with practiced expertise. Larson couldn’t help but stare. A whole body, healthy and unmarred, was a masterful thing—something he’d never fully appreciated until now, until it was too late.
He took a step forward. “Jake?”
His head didn’t turn. Larson took another step and called out again, motioning this time.
Jake’s head lifted slightly. He acknowledged him with a nod. “Let me finish this and I’ll be right with you, sir.”
“Jake?” Larson repeated.
Jake looked up again and paused. Hammer in hand, he took a step through the smoke-layered air and into the sunlight. “You got a horse you need boardin’ while you’re in town, mister? I charge fifty cents per—” His eyes took in Larson’s face, and his smile faded. He turned away but not quickly enough to hide his grimace.
The revulsion Larson saw in Jake’s eyes caused an unbearable ache. Disbelief jolted him. He lowered his face and took a step back into the shadows, struggling to maintain his composure. Jake hadn’t even recognized him. How was that possible? Was he so different a man now? A thought pierced him. If Jake looked at him this way, how would Kathryn see him? Surely there was enough left of the man he’d been that would stir Jake’s memory. Part of him wanted to turn and leave, but he thought of Kathryn and knew he had to find her.
Summoning the last of his pride, Larson stepped forward and looked directly into Jake Sampson’s eyes.
Jake wiped his hands on a soiled cloth but kept his face down, as though determined not to look at him again. “What exactly is it that you need, sir? I’ll be happy to help, if I can.”
Larson didn’t answer. Instead, he willed his old friend to look at him, to know him.
When Jake did look up again, his expression was a mixture of shock and pity.
But it wasn’t pity Larson sought. He wanted some semblance of recognition. Anything but the thinly veiled aversion he saw in Jake’s response. For the first time, Larson saw himself through eyes other than Isaiah’s and Abby’s, and the reality sent a shudder through him.
If given a choice, of course he’d choose his former appearance and powerful build over this ugly mask and crippled stride. How had he ever thought Kathryn would see past his wretched appearance? She’d always wanted more from him, more of what was inside. But he hadn’t fully understood what she’d meant until that very moment. Until the only good left in him was masked by a hideous shroud. Just imagining Jake’s reaction mirrored in Kathryn’s eyes was more than he could take.
He thought of what Abby had said about her loving Isaiah despite his scars. But Isaiah’s deep scars had been on his back and arms. They hadn’t disfigured his face, hadn’t irrevocably altered the man she sat across the table from each morning and slept with each night.
Larson’s courage withered inside him. Shame filled him. His eyes burned, and he knew he needed to leave quickly. “If you could direct me to a hotel, I’d be obliged,” he said quietly, eyes down.
Jake said accommodations were hard to come by but gave him directions to a place Larson knew well two streets down. Larson thanked him and left. Back on his horse, he urged the animal down a less crowded side street. Still reeling from Sampson’s reaction, he tried to convince himself that Kathryn’s response could be different. In a way, the woman Kathryn was had become clearer to him during their separation. Her honesty, purity, and loyalty were more real to him now than they ever had been.
Clinging to that fragile hope, he gave his horse the lead as his mind searched the possibilities of where she might be.
If the ranch had become too much for her, which by all signs it had, she would have surely moved here to Willow Springs. He thought about checking the hotels and boardinghouses, but then his mind lurched to a halt.
What if she’d gone back home to her father, back to Boston? His body tensed. He had been gone for five months. What if she had assumed him to be dead and returned to the East?
Kathryn’s mother had passed away years ago, and though she and Kathryn had written letters through the years, Kathryn’s father had maintained a wall of silence. It was still hard to fathom that William Cummings had taken so little interest in his only child.
Not having thought about it in years, Larson recalled a conversation with Kathryn’s father that occurred before he’d taken Kathryn as his bride. The sting of Cummings’ words wounded afresh.
“My daughter can do better than you, Jennings. Kathryn has beaus lined up, just waiting for even a cursory glance. But she won’t look at them because of you. Those men are able to give her the opportunities she deserves, provide the kind of life she’s accustomed to.” William Cummings had higher aspirations for his daughter and was accustomed to getting his way. “Name your price, Jennings.”
Remembering that day in Cummings’ plush study, how he’d felt so out of place while trying hard not to show it, brought back a flood of uncertainty. Kathryn had sworn to him that she didn’t care about any of it—the money, the inheritance, the social status. All she wanted was him. But Larson had watched the fire inside her die through the years, and he suspected her inability to conceive contributed to that in large part. Though they’d never spoken of it, he wondered now if she’d grown to resent him for it through the years.
Pulled back to the present, his attention was drawn to a small gathering of people huddled in a fenced off portion of land behind the white steepled church. He remembered visiting the church once with Kathryn, years back, when she’d begged him to stay over for Sunday services on one of their supply trips. He’d begrudged every minute of it. The tightness of the pews, the hushed whispers and grave expressions that hinted to him of disapproval.
Kathryn had thanked him no less than five times on the way home for taking her, but the hour wasted that Sunday morning only confirmed within Larson that he best communed with God among His creation and away from His people.
As Larson moved closer to the gathering, he realized their purpose. Two men worked together to lower a coffin suspended by ropes into a hole in the ground. Three other people looked on in silence. A woman dressed all in black and two men beside her. Larson guessed that from the Bible in his hands one of the men was a preacher, but it wasn’t the same sour-faced fellow he remembered behind the pulpit all those years ago.
Watching the sparse gathering, Larson suddenly felt for the departed soul and wondered what kind of life the person had led that would draw so few well-wishers. Then the woman turned her head to speak to one of the men beside her.
A stab of pain in his chest sucked Larson’s breath away.
Kathryn.
He dismounted and started to go to her, but something held him back.
She walked to the pile of loose dirt and scooped up a handful. She stepped forward and, hesitating for a moment, finally let it sift through her fingers back to the earth. Larson was close enough to hear the hollow sound of dirt and pebbles striking the coffin below. He was certain he saw her shudder. Her movements were slow and deliberate, as though carefully thought out. She looked different to him somehow. He drank her in and could feel the scattered pieces of his life coming back together.
His thoughts raced to imagine who could be inside that coffin. She knew so few people. His mind quickly settled on one. Bradley Duncan. While rubbing the numbness from his right leg, he remembered the afternoon he’d found the young man at the cabin visiting Kathryn. Despite the past months of pleading with God to quell his jealous nature and for the chance to make things right, a bitter spark rekindled deep inside him.
He bowed his head. Would he ever possess the strength to put aside his old nature? At that moment, Kathryn turned toward him, and he knew the answer was no.
Larson didn’t want to believe it. He knew his wife’s body as well as his own, from vivid memory as well as from his dreams, and the gentle bulge beneath her skirts left little question in his mind. Larson’s legs felt as though they might buckle beneath him.
He hadn’t recognized his ranch foreman at first, but Larson watched as Matthew Taylor put a protective arm around Kathryn as though to steady her. An uncomfortable heat tightened Larson’s chest at the intimate gesture. Kathryn nodded to Taylor and casually laid a hand to her abdomen. He’d trusted Taylor with the two most important things in the world to him—his ranch and his wife. It would seem that Taylor had failed him on both counts. And in the process, had given Kathryn what he never could.
With Taylor’s hand beneath her arm, Kathryn turned away from the grave. Taylor whispered something to her. She smiled back, and Larson’s heart turned to stone. They walked past him as though he weren’t there. He suddenly felt invisible, and for the first time in his life, he wasn’t bothered by the complete lack of recognition. Defeat and fury warred inside him as he watched the couple walk back toward town.
When the preacher had returned to the church and the cemetery workers finished their task and left, Larson walked to the edge of the grave. He took in the makeshift headstone, then felt the air squeeze from his lungs. Reading the name carved into the splintered piece of old wood sent him to his knees. His world shifted full tilt.
Just below the dates 1828–1868 was the name—
LARSON ROBERT JENNINGS