Every evening that followed the spinning lesson, Peter watched Emma hurry through her chores, take Pippa out for her last constitutional of the night, and then march straight to the wheel. At first, what she spun onto the bobbin looked like a mass of knots strung together by a thread from a spider’s web and fell apart from little more than a passing look sent its way. Not what anyone would even think to use to knit or weave a single, useful thing.
But again, with that determination he was coming to know, she kept up her efforts, and in a shorter number of days than he’d expected, she began to fill the bobbin with a respectable beginner’s yarn. Each new batch looked better and better to his fairly critical eye.
That night, she followed her routine again, and now sat at the wheel, working the wool into yarn. It would appear she, too, knew how much progress she had made, since, after a glance toward him, she took her foot off the treadle and brought the soothing whir of the wheel to a stop.
“Well, Peter.” She pointed to the bobbin. “What do you think?”
He felt himself blush, certain she’d caught him staring at her. At least he could blame his fixation on his interest in her progress, not something he could do any of the many other times he found himself following her every move. “That looks right even and strong,” he said. “Do you knit?”
She shook her head. “I’ve always preferred petit point embroidery. The colors of the silk threads are so lovely, and the patterns so intricate and charming. Why, you can make a complete picture, like an artist paints with oils, out of nothing besides needle and thread. But, I must admit, unless one is making a tapestry to upholster a chair cushion, and that does take an eternity to make, then I don’t see any practical use for all those pieces that took up so much of my time. Will you teach me to knit?”
He laughed, relieved. “Oh, no. That I can’t do. I’ve never picked up a pair of knitting needles, not once in my whole life. You’ll have to turn to Colley for that. I reckon she can teach you to make some of those socks of hers. Maybe you’ll learn to make them where they aren’t quite so scratchy.”
She arched a brow and crossed her arms. “Now that I’ve spent some time with wool and yarn, I would have to wonder if the scratchiness comes from the quality of the wool itself, since that would seem to make a great deal of difference in the yarn.”
How dared she? “Are you questioning the quality of my product? I’ll have you know, I raise fine Merino sheep. They produce good, tasty meat, and their wool is strong and long-fibered. We shear about twelve pounds per ewe. An excellent yield—”
“Goodness! I didn’t think my simple comment would set off a lecture on the merits of your flock.”
“And why not? I have plenty of reasons to feel right good about my work. Up until those years of drought and the grasshopper plagues, I had no trouble getting fine, healthy animals to market, and selling them and their fleece for fair sums.”
“How long ago was the drought?”
He told Emma how it had been five years earlier, right around the time Robby was toddling around the ranch, when the weather turned dry and harsh. The land became an endless expanse of dust. The next spring, while young shoots braved the conditions to work their way up through the soil, bathed by the few welcome spring showers that fell, swarms of hungry grasshoppers descended on the area and left nothing but memories of the hints of green. After those years and the hard hit from the loss of his wife, he’d almost sold out.
“I’m glad you didn’t,” she said in a soft voice, careful not to wake Robby. “I don’t know what would have become of me if you hadn’t been up here with your flock this year. I’m so glad you came and rescued me from that cave.”
Her comment shouldn’t have pleased him such a great deal, but it did. He shrugged, not wanting to let her know just how much it meant. “Someone would have been here. I would have sold to another fella with the same dreams. No one would just up and leave his animals and his ranch.”
“But whoever you sold to might not have cared what became of me once he’d found me.”
“Well, you’re right about some other fellas,” he answered, mischief bubbling up in him. “My conscience wouldn’t have let me be if I hadn’t done right by you, no matter how irksome you might be at times. And here I thought you found me harsh—stern, I recollect was the word you used. Maybe that other fella would have had fewer of those stern words for you. You might already be back at Bountiful, owing to that other fella, too.”
She didn’t snap back at him straight away, but rather gave his half-jesting words careful thought. “I must confess it hasn’t been a real hardship here for me. Different? Oh, indeed. But it hasn’t been nearly as dreadful as I first feared. If it weren’t for Papa, I think I wouldn’t be so distressed, since everything here is so… interesting. But Papa must be heartbroken by now, and so full of sadness, too. I fear he thinks he’s all alone.”
The love for her father rang deep and sincere. Peter had fought her insistent pleas to return to Bountiful from the moment he’d found her because of the demands of his ranching life that asked so much but also could give back such a good existence. His reasons had been and still were valid, seeing as how he was a father and had taken on responsibility for everything around him. But now that he’d come to know her better, he realized how much she truly ached for the way news of her loss would have affected her father, and the grief he must continue to feel.
“I’m sorry, Emma.”
She met his gaze. “I think you are. Thank you for that.”
“Please think how much more it will mean to your father when you return. His joy will come as an enormous relief.”
Her smile looked a mite crooked. “And all of this came to be, just because I felt the need to prove how much of an adult I’d become. It was my first time to travel without him at my side.”
His brows went up. “I’ve often wondered what kind of father would send a beautiful young woman like you on such a long journey West all on her own.”
At first she gaped, and then she glared. “Nothing of the sort, sir! Be careful what you say about my papa. He sent me with Reverend Strong and his wife, who were headed to Portland as well. They’re friends of my uncle’s family in Denver, and they’re a perfectly sober, proper, and serious couple, too. For him to even let me do that much, I’ll have you know, I had to beg and beg. I assured him many times I could indeed care for myself, that I was no longer his little girl.”
Peter tried but failed to keep the knowing smirk off his face. “And now that you’ve been through all these… experiences… how well do you think you can care for yourself on a journey to Portland?”
Although she blushed a bright rosy red, she also bolted upright as though she’d been jabbed by a pin. “I’m doing quite fine for myself these days, I’ll have you know. You’ve even said so, yourself.”
It was his turn to give her words careful consideration. “I’m happy to see your experience with Sawyer has left you no scars.”
Emma shuddered, and for a moment he almost regretted his comment. The attack had happened, as had Sawyer’s murder, and no one had mentioned the event since, not even Emma. He’d waited, hoping someone would let something slip that he could grasp, but nothing. It was Emma who surprised him most. She was the one who’d been attacked, and she was the one who chattered all day about every last little thing, likely just to keep her ears from growing lazy on her head. And still she’d said not a word about the attack. Had she been able to just forget it all? What did that say about her? Did it mean she knew more about the outlaw’s death than she’d let on? That it didn’t bother her on account of that knowledge?
He waited out her silence.
After a bit, she shut her eyes tight then shook her head. “I have tried hard to forget that man. And what he was bent on doing to me. But at the oddest moments it all comes back. At those times, I make myself think of something much better, of going back home and seeing my father again, of reading to Robby, of playing with Pippa out in the sun. Other times, I go to Mrs. Beeton to find a new recipe to try, or I’ll work harder to spin a better yarn. I find something to do—anything—that takes more time and thought than simpler, more thoughtless things might.”
Her words caught him by surprise. “Is that why you’ve worked so hard since that night?”
“It’s one of the reasons. I haven’t lost my mind or any such thing to wish for an experience like mine with Sawyer, but I learned a great deal that night, about myself and about… well, about God. I called out in prayer, and then… there you were, and—well, we know what happened after that. But while you were injured, I was not. I know God heard me cry out to Him. He protected me. Now, I’d rather think and try to understand why you would have to suffer the pain Sawyer meant for me.”
He shrugged. “I don’t know, but I’m glad it happened that way. I’d much rather put up with a broken leg than try and put you back together, had Sawyer gotten his wish. I’m just waiting to see how God will turn all this into something to the good.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “To the good?”
“Scripture says, ‘And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are called according to His purpose.’ ”
“I have heard that, but…”
“But we will have to see how He takes that moment and then works something good out of it for all of us who do love Him.”
“I grew up at church every Sunday, and I heard many verses during all that time, but I know now I didn’t pay as much attention as I should have.” She smiled. “I must have learned enough to know to call on God when I had no other hope. I suppose deep inside of that action is a form of love. I’ll have to work on my understanding of it…”
“That might be the best of all the work you do. You can always trust Him when you reach the point where there’s no one else to trust.”
She sighed and grimaced. “I suppose I must admit to you, of all possible people, that wasn’t my finest moment. I never should have trusted Sawyer even so much as to walk with him to the cabin door, never mind consider, if only for a few crazed, furious minutes, he might be someone I could count on to see me safely to Bountiful.”
He thought back on the moment when he’d realized Sawyer had died. He supposed he, too, had refused to come to terms with what had happened, since he couldn’t make himself mourn the man too deeply. Still, no matter how great a sinner a man might be, none should have to face death by another’s hand. That was up to God, who called His children to cherish life, to never kill.
Since he hadn’t done it, it had to have been either Ned or Wade. While Peter didn’t feel about Ned the same way he cared about Wade’s fate, he was coming to have a soft spot for the inept outlaw. He’d never known a man with a less criminal nature than Ned, never mind his lack of smarts and cunning. Peter doubted the young fella had the wits to pull off a misdeed on his own. Without a doubt, he’d fallen in with the wrong sorts. And yet, just like Wade, the would-be sheep rustler had fallen under Emma’s bewitching spell.
Had either of them killed Sawyer to protect the woman they wished to win?
Emma’s soft voice broke into his thoughts. “I haven’t let myself dwell on it, even if the thoughts do come up many a time. I know someone must have done it, and only a certain number of us are here. But I can’t see anyone I know doing such a thing.”
He gave a humorless laugh. “You couldn’t see Sawyer turning on you the way he did either.”
“No, I suppose you’re right. I didn’t like him, but… no.”
To his dismay, he couldn’t shake the nagging thought he’d missed something, something that didn’t quite fit.
He took hold of the splint and eased his leg up onto the bunk again. The relief from the discomfort he’d ignored while he’d spent all that time talking to Emma was such that a heart-deep sigh burst out from him uninvited. He’d held the leg out at an odd angle from his body, seeing as he couldn’t bend or move it in any normal way. But lying about in bed during a conversation with a lady hadn’t seemed right, certainly not proper. It did surprise him how easy it had been to talk, just talk to her.
Too easy, he reckoned. Too easy for his own good.
“There’s not much more to be said about that night, Emma, so I’ll just say goodnight.”
She gave him an odd look, but didn’t answer. She stood, stored the spinning wheel in its corner, tucked the chair she’d used back in its place at the table, and then stepped to the door to Colley’s room. She opened it, and only then did she speak again.
“I can never thank you enough for what you did that night for me. If you hadn’t come after me, regardless how much I’d irritated you, if you hadn’t fought Sawyer off me, I… I—”
“Don’t.” His heart felt squeezed with the mix of emotions the memory brought up in him. To think of such a lovely, delicate woman debased in such a way by a brute like Sawyer was more than Peter could stomach. “I’ve thanked God more than once that He led me to you at that moment. I don’t know if I could have faced myself or my God if you’d been harmed because I’d behaved in a terrible way since the day we met.”
“It wasn’t your fault. It was Sawyer who made his choice.”
“But it was my fault that I chose to speak to you in a way that made you run away from the barn. For that, I will always be sorry. Please forgive me.”
“I did, right from the start.”
Her words warmed a spot Peter hadn’t realized held a chill. “That means a whole lot.”
“Goodnight, Peter. I’m glad we talked tonight.”
With great reluctance, but also with total honesty, he said, “So am I. Goodnight.”
As soon as she closed the door, Peter dropped back down onto the pillow. What was that woman doing to him? How had she torn down his defenses in such a way that he was having heart-to-heart chats with her? And why had she moved into even his dreams of late? Wasn’t her constant presence in his home and his days enough?
His cabin rang with her voice and her laughter at all times. His son sang her praises morning to night. His crusty ranch manager thought the world of her, and his ranch hand wanted to woo her. It would seem Emma Crowell had taken over every inch of Peter’s life in only a matter of a very few short weeks.
What troubled him most was how easily she’d done it.
Stern? Him?
Hah! Not around her.
Maybe his words had been thoughtless and hurtful, but, him? Stern? A stern man wouldn’t be fighting his every stray thought to keep it from flying right to her.
Colley came inside for the night. As she stood in the doorway, scraping her boots, with a satisfied grin turning her weathered face into a pleated wreath, Peter realized he’d been had. Up until a short time after Emma had invaded the camp, his ranch manager had always been in an all-fired hurry to make her way to her room after a hard day’s work. Ever since his injury, however, Colley had made herself scarce until right around Peter’s bedtime.
Who would have thought he’d have to fight a denim-and flannel-clad matchmaker as well when it came to keeping his heart intact?
At first, Emma had been reluctant to do much more than take Adele’s Bible out of the trunk to reach inside for something else. But after the night Sawyer died, she’d gone straight to the trunk and retrieved the leather-bound book. She’d wanted to explore the matter of God answering, specifically her prayer. Of course, she’d always heard it said that the Lord listened, and she’d also heard, all her growing-up years, that He delighted in giving His children good things, but she’d never experienced such a direct response to a plea. She’d seen her family’s many blessings as God’s way to answer prayers for provision and protection.
She’d begun to read random sections, but soon found herself consuming chapter after chapter, if only to learn what would happen next in the biblical tale. But what she read weren’t stories like one of those in Le Morte D’Arthur. Oh, sure, they were full of just as many fascinating characters and multiple twists of plot, but the Bible stories made her think, they kept her pondering the reasons why they’d turned out the way they had. Each time, she came back to one simple answer. It had always been as a result of the Father’s touch. Just as had happened with her.
At the same time, she’d read bits and parts that made her think of situations she hadn’t handled well or even sections that brought other people’s actions to mind. Peter seemed to feature prominently in those recollections, especially when she read through the brief collection of thirty-one chapters of Proverbs.
A few days after the evening she and Peter talked so openly about that dreadful night, her mischievous side stepped up. Later that night, after supper had been cleaned away, after Colley had run off to the barn, and after Ned had taken Pippa for her walk, silence reigned in the cabin. In anticipation of her plans, Emma kept an eye on Peter. When she saw him reach for his Bible, a smile turned up her lips.
“Time for a bit of Scripture,” he told his son, who’d sat quietly on the floor and played with a pair of wooden railroad cars he loved.
“I think,” Emma said, surprising father and son, “that it would only be right if I took my turn reading Scripture at night. You are injured and recovering, after all, and it might even help you rest easier. Maybe you’ll sleep sooner, as well.”
He snorted. “All I do is rest these days. I don’t need any more of that. What I need is a full day’s work to wear me out good.” He eyed her with curiosity then. “But I can’t deny you a chance to read the Word. Go ahead. It should be good to take turns.”
She fought the urge to grin. “I agree, especially since I’ve become quite fond of the book of Psalms. And I’ve learned a good many bits of sound advice from the book of Proverbs. How about if I start with a Psalm?”
“Excellent choice.”
Emma read, filling her words with the best intonation for the particular passage. Before long, Peter seemed to relax, his eyelids lowered a bit, as though he were listening with his attention on his own application of God’s Word. Robby, as usual, fell asleep before more than a couple of verses were read.
Oh, yes, indeed, Mr. Peter Lowery; two could very well read the Word.
“Now,” she said, “for a Proverb or two.” She quickly flipped pages and came to the passage she’d earlier marked. “ ‘The wise in heart,’ ” she read from the sixteenth chapter, “ ‘will be called discerning, and sweetness of speech increases persuasiveness. Understanding is a fountain of life to him who has it, but…’ ” She slowed for mischievous emphasis. “ ‘But the discipline of fools is folly—’ ”
Outraged sputtering cut into her words. Emma ignored it.
She continued. “ ‘The heart of the wise teaches his mouth, and adds persuasiveness to his lips. Pleasant words are a honeycomb, sweet to the soul and healing to the bones.’ ”
“I am not a fool—”
“Oh, dear,” she said, again ignoring his indignation, trying to keep from laughing. Of course, she didn’t think he was a fool, but those lectures straight from his Scripture readings still rankled, and she thought, since he was injured at the moment, a touch of his own medicine might do wonders indeed. “It is late, and I’m so tired. Robby fell asleep right away, didn’t he?”
She set up the usual ruckus dragging first the spinning wheel to its corner, and then the chair to the table, making it quite impossible to catch Peter’s objection. It was a good thing Robby always seemed to sleep so deeply, or she surely would have woken the child. “I’m sure I’ll do the same, no sooner than my head touches the pillow. It is so quiet and peaceful here at night that I’ve had moments of the most interesting discernment when I retire.” She scooped up Pippa, who’d faithfully followed her every step. “Since getting lost in the woods, I’ve come to deeply appreciate the wonders of a bed and a pillow.”
Finally, at the door to Colley’s room, she came to a halt in her chatter. “Well, Peter. It has been a long, satisfying day. Goodnight. I hope you sleep well.”
And she closed the door to the continuing, one-sided debate. Only then did she let herself giggle at what she’d just seen. One very annoyed rancher had been dosed with his own tonic. She wondered what effect it would have by the time the morning dawned. There was only one way to find out.
Ah, yes… sleep was welcome, indeed. Emma’s daily chores left her tired at the end of the day, tired but satisfied with her efforts.
She curled up under the fluffy quilt, Pippa at her feet, and closed her eyes. She’d discovered a number of pleasant qualities to the camp. Not the least of which was a decent, upright owner, even if he had an overgrown sense of his own importance at times. She respected Peter a great deal, which only made the last few minutes the more enjoyable for the challenge she’d returned.
Even though she’d grown to respect and even like Peter, Emma hadn’t been able to shed the discomfort she felt from being observed at all times. Of course, she couldn’t really blame the man. He was stuck in bed; she worked in the cabin. There wasn’t much for him to look at in the space. But understanding his situation didn’t relieve her anxiety. Especially since she suffered his observation as a critical stare. As mild a parry as her Scripture riposte had been, she was glad she’d made the point the night before, as evidenced by his loud objections.
She didn’t think she could ever find anything to do that might not meet with his objections. It was hard to tackle chores with dread, fearful she’d never live up to his exacting expectations. And she cared. No matter how often she told herself it was foolish to feel that way, she did care what he thought of her.
Yet another reason to leave.
The sooner the fall came, the better.
His judgmental scrutiny was only one of the reasons she’d come to appreciate, if not love, laundry day. Because of the need to hang the clean items to dry, she had every reason to spend time in the lovely outdoors. She no longer found the woods quite as ominous as she had when she’d first wound up lost on the untamed mountain. At least, she didn’t during the daytime. At night, in the shadowy murk, the whoosh of the winds and the unfamiliar sounds still made her scurry as she saw to her needs—and Pippa’s—and then hurry back to the safety of the cabin.
The horror of Sawyer’s attack in the dark hadn’t faded.
But this day was sunny, and armed with her basket of clean clothes, she went outside as usual, followed by Robby.
“Lady Emma! Shall we joust today? What say you?”
Emma knew the child’s playacting still rankled his father, especially in the close quarters of the cabin. Fortunately, on laundry day they could play outdoors. Peter was still in bed, per Colley’s staunch orders. Emma suspected he could get around if he were to try with the help of a cane, but she wasn’t prepared to argue with the formidable ranch manager, any more than Peter was.
“As soon as I have the laundry hung on the rope,” she answered.
Robby’s eyes sparkled even more. He cheered. “I’m going to find us each a good, sturdy lance, then.”
Emma took little time to hang the clothes, and Robby even less to return with a pair of adequate lance substitutes—leafless branches he had found inside the edge of the woods. If for no other reason, she was thankful for the abundance of “weapons” the forest provided the child.
“Are you ready?” he asked, as soon as he’d handed her one of the sticks.
“Of course.”
The battle was launched. He danced from foot to foot, lunging at her with more enthusiasm than accuracy or grace. Pippa bounced around them, barking. Robby’s cries were matched only by his chortles of glee, and Emma made certain he could land more blows than she did. His pleasure made her heart swell with joy, which made her realize how much he meant to her. She couldn’t understand how his father could deny himself, and the boy, that delight she gained from their games.
As the thought occurred to her, the man himself appeared in the cabin doorway, as though summoned by her wandering mind. She hadn’t seen him stand since he’d broken his leg. If Colley saw him…
“Peter!” she yelled. “What are you doing out of bed? Colley hasn’t given permission for you to put weight on that leg yet.”
His thunderous frown gave her pause. As it registered, she remembered the stick—the lance—she held aloft. In a gesture as inconspicuous as possible, she lowered it, brought it to her side first, and then slipped it behind her back. Once there, she dropped it, wishing she could persuade herself he hadn’t noticed.
But he had. And he wasn’t pleased.
“Robert,” he said in that implacable voice, “have you checked in with Wade or Colley today? Have they told you what chores they need you to do?”
Out of the corner of her eye, Emma saw the happiness vanish from Robby’s face. He lowered his gaze to the ground at the same pace he lowered his “lance.”
“No, sir,” the child said “I meant to go after we were done—”
“In a ranch,” Peter said, his words clipped and edged with the weariness of frequent repetition, “we work first, play later. Go find out what you need to do, then do it. We’ll have us a long, meaningful talk once you’ve finished.”
As soon as the boy had gone a few feet away, Pippa trotting along beside him, the rancher turned to Emma. “I do believe I’ve told you not to indulge him with all those fantasies. Why do you insist on going against the one thing I’ve insisted you do? Why must you fight me?”
She tilted her chin up in the air. “I have yet to fight you, sir. And I have found myself in need of making a choice. My alternatives are few—two, as a matter of fact. The one you prefer would have me stifle all the joy out of that little man of yours. If you’re of a mind to do so, then suit yourself. I will not do that to any youngster, much less such a wonderful, bright, engaging young man.”
“But I am his father!”
“Indeed! But not his jailer, I would venture. On the other hand, how about a killjoy? A spoilsport, perhaps?”
As she spat out the questions, her courage grew, as did her determination. The child needed to be… well, a child at this point in his life. Sure, he could also take care of his share of the chores, but that was, of course, his share, a child’s share.
Before Peter quit sputtering in indignation, she went on. “Have you lost sight of reason? Have you lost your mind? I would have thought the loss of your wife would have been enough to mourn, but it would appear to me that you’ve decided to lose the love and affection of your son, too. Perhaps his company, as well, if in a few years’ time you haven’t changed your ways.”
His face turned an alarming shade of red. “You have no right—” As he clearly sought more to say, he stepped outside and marched toward Emma, his steps uneven. “I’ll have you know, I love my son. He can be assured of my affection at all times. I do not agree that to love a child a man must put aside the need to teach him—aaagh!”
As he stomped up to Emma, he stepped on Robby’s forgotten lance, and the injured leg collapsed. Horrified to see a tall, strong, proud man fall, she flew toward him, arms extended, determined to catch him, break his fall, keep him from further injury.
While she was much smaller than he, when his bulk struck hers, his momentum halted. She wobbled, unable to fully bear his weight. As she held him for that brief moment, his stunned gaze met hers. Her arms burned with the strain of holding him, but in the end, there was nothing she could have done. She wasn’t tall enough, strong enough, to keep them from toppling over. As she lay on her back staring up, all she saw was the angry brown eyes, the tumbled dark hair, the vast expanse of cloudless blue beyond, and at the edges, the tips of the evergreen branches aimed at the sky.
Emma fought for breath, but pinned beneath Peter’s larger body she could only gasp, stare… and notice he was doing the same. Only a scant whisper away, she also noticed the gold flecks in his brown eyes. The warmth there reminded her of the night the lamb was born, the night he’d come to her rescue, the night he’d fought to protect her from a monster. The gentle, courageous, decent man she’d witnessed in action seemed to overshadow the outraged father, and her irritation melted away in soft waves of sensation. It would appear his anger toward her vanished as well.
Before she realized what was about to happen, he let out a rough breath and brought his lips down to hers. Oh, yes. He did have a gentle touch, indeed, and he knew how and when to call it into play. Peter kissed her, tenderly, but with a heated intensity she’d never experienced before. It stole what breath she had left, her strength, all thought of consequences. He deepened the kiss in slow, even measures, and she lost herself in the heady whirl of her senses.
But it was his tenderness that overrode her reason.
In that one vivid, emotion-packed moment Emma realized she’d only been a girl until then. She’d played at feelings, at romance, at adulthood, at growing up. It had taken a man to show her how naïve she’d really been.
It had taken Peter Lowery to kiss her like the woman she’d longed to be.