Emma stood in silence after Mr. Lowery left the cabin, unsure what to do. She felt leaden, as though rooted in place, struck with an unfamiliar fear. She’d spent her life as the much-loved and well-pampered daughter of a successful businessman. She’d wanted for nothing, and had never faced anything that tested her to the core of her being, as she feared she would be by her stay here. She’d thought she knew herself, who she was meant to be.
Now, she faced a challenge so unexpected and foreign to everything she’d ever experienced that she had no idea how to even begin to confront it.
True, she rejoiced she’d been born into her particular family; she’d loved Mama, and still loved Papa, more than she could measure. She also rejoiced in the many blessings she’d enjoyed all her life, and yet, she also knew how much less many others had. She didn’t think it made any sense, though, to blame her for her father’s hard work and success, not even for his willingness to shower his only daughter with the fruits of that success.
It wasn’t as though the family didn’t share their blessings with those less fortunate. Papa regularly gave substantial sums to their church, which then used that money to serve those less fortunate and needy. Emma well knew how often she and Aunt Sophia had taken food baskets, blankets, clothes, and shoes to many, many families who otherwise would have gone without. She’d been brought up to not only acknowledge the importance of the Scripture that called one to do unto others as one would have done unto one’s self, but also to live it out. She hadn’t, however, seen where it might call her to reject her father’s bounty.
That bounty had meant a different life from that of many others, and she was beginning to understand the enormity of that difference. Perhaps she had been spoiled and not just pampered. Perhaps she had grown into a more frivolous person than many others—maybe even most others. But she didn’t feel she ought to be blamed for something she hadn’t consciously chosen to do. Or be.
Emma slowly returned to the bunk. She sat gracelessly, a sense of dejection heavy and oppressive on her otherwise optimistic nature. The tears that had threatened time and time again since she’d come face to face with the two half-hearted outlaws poured out. And while she’d cried herself to sleep the night before, in that prickly, outdoors-pungent pine-needle substitute for a real mattress, those tears hadn’t brought any measure of release. She wondered if any amount of weeping would. How could she feel any relief under these circumstances? Where might some manner of comfort be found?
Again she looked around, and, of course, nothing had changed. Her situation remained as bleak as it had been for a day and more. She dropped onto the bed, her face in the pillow.
She’d never felt so alone, not even after her mother died giving birth to her stillborn brother. Although consumed with grief, Papa had kept Emma at his side for months and months afterward. He’d often taken her along on his travels, even. She had for a very long time missed her mother, and still did, but Emma had never felt alone, not even during that painful mourning period. Not like she did right then. “Oh, Papa…”
But her father was nowhere near enough to hear her plea, much less answer. She had to find a way to gather her wits, to discover what she really was made of, to face her situation, and go forward to accomplish—
“What?” she whispered into the fragrant mattress. “What is it I really must do?”
No voice came to answer her question, but a tiny glimmer of gumption flickered to light deep inside her. She had wanted to be on her own. This was her chance to see what she could accomplish through her own strength and wit.
She knew herself well enough to know she was no ninny, no simpering, silly girl. True, she took pride in making the most of the looks she’d been blessed with at birth, and she always looked on the best side of everything, but that didn’t mean she was an utter fool. She did have the ability to learn, as she’d told Mr. Lowery, and she’d always been told her stubborn—er… her determination was more than ample.
Just who did Mr. Lowery think he was? He’d ordered her to work for him as though she were his employee. He’d cast down his challenge, certain she would fail, as his expression had revealed. The more she thought about it, the angrier she grew. And the more disgusted she became with the notion of possible failure.
No.
She refused.
She would not fail.
Not Emma Marguerite Crowell.
Hmph. She’d show Peter Lowery what she was made of.
At the heels of that thought a traitorous part of her began to weaken. She stood and squared her shoulders, refusing to entertain even the slightest element of feebleness. Goodness, if she was strong enough to be known as stubborn—er… determined by those who knew her best, then she must, of course, also be strong enough to succeed at just about anything she tried.
And she’d been challenged to try to run this… this… could she call it a house? No, surely not. A cabin made more sense. Or maybe it was nothing more than a rustic camp.
“Bah!” What did it matter what one called it? She only knew people lived here, including her for a number of months, and she needed to somehow run it. For her own sake—her very sanity—she had to turn it into a proper home. She knew what a proper home was. She would model her efforts after Aunt Sophia’s lovely, welcoming home in Denver. She could also model them after Papa’s and her own home in Portland. Ophelia knew how to make one feel at ease, and she’d succeeded there. Emma’s success, of course, would depend on how much this place could be improved.
She swatted her cheeks dry of the last trails of the tears she had shed. Mr. Lowery had said his wife had books to teach the reader how to run a proper kitchen, and, one would hope, a home. With that kind of guidance, at least half of her job was already done. All she had to do now was…
“Hm… find the books.”
Emma approached the trunk. She felt uncomfortable about the prospect of going through another woman’s belongings. What would Mrs. Lowery say when she learned Emma had rummaged through them?
A shimmer of unease ran through her. Well, she supposed she couldn’t help it. The woman’s own husband had told Emma to do so. Taking a deep breath, she dropped down to her knees and opened the trunk.
“Tie ’em up?” Colley asked.
“You heard me,” Peter answered. “Can’t have a pair of rustlers loose around the flock. They’ll have to get used to being prisoners. That’s what they’ll be for a good, long while after I take them down to Adam Blair in the fall.”
Shotgun in hand, Colley swept the glaring Sawyer and distressed Ned with a skeptical stare. “I dunno about that tying-up part, boss. It’s a long, long time ’fore fall gets here.”
“Exactly. That’s why keeping them subdued and tied good and hard is the best thing to do. I don’t have the time to stand watch and keep a gun on them, and neither do you. You, Wade, and I already have too much work to do to waste even an hour watching these two.”
“But they can still ’scape into the woods!” Robby cried, excitement sparkling in his eyes. “They can run without their hands, you know, King Peter—er… Papa.”
Peter couldn’t avoid the shot of irritation that ran through him at yet more evidence of his son’s love of make-believe. And Robby knew it. The boy blushed. But then, he went on.
“And then…” he frowned furiously, thinking. He crossed his arms and clamped his lips tight for all of a moment. A defiant glare and the tilt of his chin spoke volumes. “Then you, King Peter, and your faithful knight, Sir… er… Lady—um, no. Your faithful knight, Colley, will have to set off on a quest to catch them and bring them back. Can I go with you on the quest?”
Peter bit back the scolding that bubbled to his lips. Instead, he focused on the boy’s initial statement. “Robby’s got a good point, Colley. Make sure you and Wade tie up their feet, too. Can’t have them up and walking away.” He turned to his son. “No one will be setting off after these two. We’re going to make sure they stay put.”
“What about her?” Colley asked, eyes narrowed, free thumb jabbing toward the cabin. “You ain’t gonna tell me you want to tie her up, are you? Cuz I won’t tie up a lady.”
Peter shook his head. “You won’t have to. We’re awful shorthanded as it is, and her cooking, cleaning, and doing the wash ought to help us a good deal. Plus she and Robby seem to have a lot in common. That’ll help some, too.”
Colley made a face, wreathing her features with more wrinkles than a body might think possible. “Ya really think she can do any of them things?”
“No. But she can read, and Adele’s housekeeping books are in that old trunk. She’ll learn.”
The skepticism on Colley’s face gave Peter pause. Did Miss Crowell have it in her to do what was needed? She looked as though she hadn’t done a single productive thing in her whole life.
Looking beautiful wasn’t productive. Pleasant? Yes. Enjoyable to see? Of course. Appealing to any man? So long as he wasn’t blind… he couldn’t help but notice her appeal. But deep red hair and sparkling green eyes on their own did no one any good. Neither did a woman dressed in lace and velvet. Or her love of old stories and such silliness.
Surely, Miss Crowell wouldn’t spend all day entertaining Robby’s penchant for flights of fancy. Peter didn’t have the heart to take the book from his son, since it had been Adele’s and he cherished it, especially for that reason. He did still miss his mother, even though as time drew out, Peter knew the boy’s memories of her continued to blur.
Still, he feared Robby might resemble his mother more than him in nature. Adele’s bookish bent had left her unprepared for the harsh realities of life on a sheep ranch.
Robby needed strength and know-how to carry on Peter’s legacy.
He watched as Colley marched the two scoundrels to the rustic bunkhouse, Wade at her side. He couldn’t let a pathetic pair of thieves ruin all the work he’d done since coming West. A glance at Robby, using his branch to “fence” with a tree not five yards away, reaffirmed his conviction.
He’d fought long and hard to build something of value to leave behind. As the only son in a family of five, Peter’s father had inherited the family farm in Ohio, but when the War Between the States broke out, he’d felt compelled to join the Union Army and fight for what he’d known was right. Peter remembered his father’s two rare furloughs from the front line, when the older man spent much of his time in a silent haze, deep in thought. It had been especially heartrending when Captain Lowery died a few months before General Lee surrendered to General Grant at Appomattox Court House. It had never felt fair.
By that point, Peter’s oldest brother, Stu, had worked the farm for years, carrying far more responsibility than most youths his age did. Their mother had worked just as hard as Stu, and while doing so, she’d instilled in all four boys the certainty of her love, respect for discipline, and appreciation for industriousness.
Peter had known the farm would provide well for Stu, their brother, Tom, two years older than Peter, and their families. Brett, the youngest Lowery boy, had always been studious and devoted to the Lord. He’d followed God’s call into the ministry, and now led a growing congregation in Cleveland. But Peter had little future back home.
“En garde!” Robby leaped with his “sword” in hand to jab at an imaginary enemy.
Yes, Peter feared the draw that books and make-believe had for his son. Those things, while perfectly fine on their own, wouldn’t do the boy a whole lot of good here on this rugged land. They certainly hadn’t helped his mother. He tugged his hat off and ran a rough hand through his hair.
His dream had cost Adele her life. He couldn’t, in any way at all, let her death be for a failure.
Neither drought nor grasshoppers, outlaws nor an addlebrained society belle, draped in miles of velvet frosted with lace frou-frou, as Adele used to call that sort of feminine trimming, would derail him.
He wouldn’t let them.
Mr. Lowery’s directions clear in her mind, Emma forced herself to overcome her reluctance and opened Mrs. Lowery’s trunk. It was a plain travel storage container rather than the elegant, well-appointed case Papa had given Emma not so long ago, with all its specialty compartments and lovely dividers for her various necessities. This one was just a simple rectangular space within leather-covered wooden sides, filled with someone else’s… things.
She found a number of books at the top, well-worn and clearly important to the rancher’s wife. Robby had returned Le Morte D’Arthur to the trunk when his father had put an end to their reading—and napping—time, and now, she reached for that one first. Curiosity burning in her, Emma pulled out the other books, one by one. First, she brought out a lovely Bible, covered in rich black leather, its edges softened by much handling. On the cover, in embellished script, the name Adele B. Lowery had been embossed.
Odd. A Bible didn’t strike Emma as something a woman would leave behind at her husband’s summer camp. At least, not if the woman read it as often as the wear on the leather cover seemed to suggest.
As Emma lifted it, the Good Book fell open, and she noticed a number of notes on the margins written in graceful script. That discovery made her slam the book shut, feeling as though she’d trespassed on the other woman’s most private thoughts. She would simply have to apologize once they met. She imagined that wouldn’t happen until the fall.
She set the Bible to a side, and then dove back into the trunk. The next book she withdrew was The Frugal Housewife. She didn’t much think she’d have to worry about being frugal, seeing as there was nothing but frugality around the camp. She set that one next to Mrs. Lowery’s Scriptures.
Following that book, she brought out Miss Leslie’s Directions for Cookery. That one might help, since the rancher had made clear he expected her to run the kitchen. Next came something perhaps more promising, The Housekeeper’s Encyclopedia. While she didn’t know a thing about cooking or cleaning or running a home, a housekeeper generally did. The encyclopedia might help.
The last book she found was one that nearly brought her to tears. A copy of Mrs. Beeton’s Book of Household Management always sat within Ophelia’s reach at home in Portland. If only Ophelia were near enough to teach Emma now…
Emma hugged the book close, blinked at the tears scalding her eyes, and rocked herself in place, on the floor, with knees drawn close to her body. While she was glad to have found a treasure trove of useful books, there was nothing like an excellent teacher at a student’s side.
She would have no such luxury.
But before she could give in to self-pity, she squared her shoulders and returned to the trunk. A lovely, hand-made white lace shawl covered a few other items. She pulled out the exquisite piece, carefully laid it across her lap, unwilling to set it on the rough floorboards, and another book slipped out as she did so. She bent to pick it up, but when she read the notation inside the cover, she yanked her hand back as though it had been stung by a bee.
JOURNAL
That went too far. Emma couldn’t imagine violating another woman’s innermost self in such a direct way. She gingerly picked up the slender tome and slipped it back into the trunk, tucking it down against one wooden side. Next she placed the Bible back inside, followed by the other volumes. She did keep Mrs. Beeton’s tome out. If it had been good enough for Ophelia, then it was certainly good enough for Emma.
“I’m at your service, Lady Emma!” Robby cried from the door to the cabin, startling her.
She scrambled up, heart pounding, still clutching the Mrs. Beeton’s to her chest, and stared at the boy. “Goodness gracious, Sir Robby! You must not frighten a body by coming up behind them like that. Such a startle might give me the vapors. Give a lady a fair warning first, please.”
The smug smile on his childish face told Emma the boy knew exactly what he’d done and was pleased with himself. An innocent child’s prank, but goodness, it had affected her. Not that she’d ever had the vapors, but that possibility always existed.
“Oh,” Robby said, his voice serious. “You have Mama’s book. She used to read it all the time.”
His mother used to read it all the time, hm? And Emma had found the worn Bible inside the dusty trunk, too. But she’d seen no sign of the woman other than Mrs. Lowery’s rocking chair and the trunk. What did all that mean? Did she not need any of that wherever she was? She had others? Odd, indeed.
And it gnawed at Emma’s curiosity.
“Sir Robby,” she started, her voice warm and gentle but resolute, “where is your mama?”
The slight smile melted right off the boy’s face. He lowered his gaze and shifted from foot to foot. His shoulders slumped.
Oh, dear. Something was wrong here. And she’d gone and stirred it up. But now, it couldn’t be helped. She had to finish what she’d started.
In a handful of hurried steps, she came to Robby’s side. When he wouldn’t look up at her, Emma knelt, and she saw the tears on his cheeks. Her heart squeezed at the misery the boy displayed, especially since it hadn’t been her intention to upset him.
She curved a finger under his chin and lifted his face so he couldn’t avoid meeting her gaze. “Please tell me what’s wrong.”
A deep, shuddering breath ran through him, and Emma felt it in that minor, tender contact between them. Through the gleaming wetness in his eyes, he met her gaze.
“Mama’s with the angels now.”
“Oh, Robby…” She opened her arms, letting the book fall to the floor, and the boy slipped into her embrace. Emma’s eyes welled up, too.
At first, she just held him with a light touch. His tears dampened the fabric of her blouse as he stood stiff while he continued to weep. But then a deep, rough sob wracked him, and he melted into her clasp. A storm of sobs followed that first painful one, and he cried in despondent anguish.
Emma couldn’t help but join him. She wept for the grieving child she held, as well as for the grief-stricken girl she’d been after her own mother’s death. She knew only too well how Robby felt. She wept for her situation, too, the limitless loneliness she’d felt since she realized she’d been abandoned. She wept for her uncertain future, and she even wept for the helplessness of her present.
To her amazement, she realized she also wept for Mr. Lowery, whom she scarcely knew. The loss of his wife explained to a certain degree his aloofness and unyielding stance. His struggle was as great as Robby’s was and hers had been, even though somewhat different. A mother and a wife represented two different kinds of loss.
No wonder he refused to lose his ranch. He’d already lost much.
The situation also explained Robby’s unexpected affinity to a book like Sir Thomas Malory’s. Since it had belonged to his mother, and he said she’d read it to him regularly, it represented his strongest tie to the memory of the woman who clearly had loved him.
Emma sat after a bit, drawing Robby onto her lap. The boy curled up, and little by little his sobs diminished until they trembled to a stop. She glanced down, saw he’d cried himself to sleep, and swept the curling lock of brown hair off his forehead. As she held him, her heart felt too large for her body to contain, filled with emotion for the child, and she realized this moment would never leave her memory. Neither would her growing feelings for the youngster.
Pippa padded over to them, crept up into Robby’s lap, and snuggled close to the boy.
It seemed to Emma she might be able to help here at the camp in more ways than one. Robby needed his mama, and while Emma wasn’t equal to that responsibility, she certainly knew she could comfort, care for, and help the boy in ways no man, not even a father, could. Or perhaps would, since Mr. Lowery was quite consumed by the need to earn a livelihood.
Ophelia had often told her that nothing happened to folks for no reason at all. As odd as it might be, perhaps Emma had been left behind by the carriage for the sake of this child.
She sighed. Odd indeed.
Before Robby could awaken, she rose, cradled him close, surprised at how small he really was, and carried him to the bunk. There, she tucked him under the blanket and marveled at the wave of tenderness that swept over her. If this could happen to her, all but a complete stranger, simply by their shared grief, what might it be like for a mother to love a child? The mere thought moved her to tears again.