The days following her sickness were a revelation to Heather. Sterling and Gracie had developed a routine during her illness. The two of them were like siblings, fussing with each and then making up again. Sterling had taken over her care with an effortless proficiency that sparked Heather’s envy. Her own transition into parenthood had been far rockier.
She set a cup of milk before the child, and Gracie pushed the cup away. “No. Pa.”
Heather frowned. “Don’t fuss. Drink your milk.”
Gracie had mastered the rudiments of using a cup. She wasn’t particularly neat and tidy, but she managed.
Crossing her chubby arms over her chest, Gracie stubbornly shook her head. “No.”
“Suit yourself.” Heather shrugged and tended to the flapjacks cooking on the flat griddle she’d placed over the two front burners. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you this morning.”
Sterling appeared in the doorway, his hair damp from his morning ablutions. “Good morning, ladies.”
Gracie held out her arms and opened and closed her pudgy fingers. “Papa.”
“How’s my best girl?” He approached the table and lifted her glass. “What’s in here? Let me see.” He held the cup to his ear. “Moo!”
Gracie threw back her head and laughed, then smacked the table with both hands. “Moo.” She reached for the cup and took a long drink. A white mustache decorated her upper lip when she pulled it away.
Heather watched the proceedings in amazement. “Is that how you get her to drink her milk in the morning?”
He lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug. “Seems to work.”
He took his place at the table across from Gracie. Heather dried her hands on her apron and reached for the bundle Otto had brought over earlier.
“The Valentine Gazette arrived.”
Sterling snapped open the paper. “Let’s read the news of the day. What have we got here? ‘Washington, November 17—for the upper Mississippi and lower Missouri Valleys, rising weather conditions followed by stationary or lowering barometer, northerly winds, stationary or higher temperature and clear or partly cloudy weather.’ Isn’t that something? A fellow can get paid a living wage for predicting that the weather will be clear or cloudy, and the temperature will change or stay the same. I should have gotten a job writing the weather for the newspaper instead of raising sheep.”
Gracie giggled. “Ma.”
“You’d like me to read more?” he asked.
“Ma!” Gracie demanded.
Heather held her spatula aloft, watching the pair as Sterling read snippets of the newspaper as though he were reading a childhood story. His voice wove a tapestry around the two of them, and she might as well have been a picture on the wall for all the attention they paid her.
As she watched the pair, jealousy sparked in her chest. She’d never once thrilled Gracie with her reading of the stock prices. The two of them didn’t have a ritual before the morning breakfast. Sterling was annoyingly adept at effortlessly entertaining the child. Her eyes burned, and she fought back the unbecoming emotion. She was being perfectly ridiculous. There was no reason to deny them their fun simply because she wasn’t included.
Sterling rested the paper on the table and pointed at an advertisement. “There’s a new German remedy for rheumatism being marketed. Heather, have you ever been afflicted with rheumatism?”
“Not that I know of.”
“How about neuralgia, sciatica, lumbago, backache, soreness of the chest, gout, sore throat, quinsy, swelling or sprains, burns and scalds, general bodily pains, tooth, ear- and headache, frosted feet and ears, or any other assorted aches?”
“What is quinsy?”
“Something to do with your tonsils, I believe. I’d have to ask the druggist and dealer of medicine to be certain.”
She laughed in spite of herself. “No. I cannot claim any of those afflictions at the current moment.”
“We can ascertain two things from her answer.” Sterling directed his attention toward Gracie. “Your mother is remarkably healthy. And we are going to save a bucket of money on German remedies.”
Her brief spark of jealousy faded. Sterling had instinctively drawn her in, including her in their game. He’d also called her Gracie’s mother. She’d avoided giving herself the moniker. Everything had happened quite rapidly, and she hadn’t caught up. Having Sterling say the word somehow made this more real, more permanent.
She lifted several slices of bacon from the pan and rested them on a plate. “What else does the newspaper say? What’s happening in the world?”
“It says here that Kalish, the merchant tailor, is prepared to make suits and overcoats to order. Prices, fit and workmanship are guaranteed to suit. Located one door west of Cruikshanks.”
“Imagine that. A tailor who makes suits to suit.”
“What do you know? Do you see this?”
“See what?”
“Says right here in black-and-white that Hostetter’s fortifies the body against disease.” He raised his voice as though barking for customers. “Hostetter’s Celebrated Stomach Bitters for Fever and Ague.”
Gracie giggled in delight at his deep-timbral tone of voice.
“I blame myself,” he continued in a normal voice. “We could have saved you a week’s worth of illness. I’m going to buy a whole case the next time I’m in town. We’ll be the healthiest couple in Valentine. They may even send a reporter to interview us.”
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re mad?”
“‘I am but mad north-north-west. When the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw.’”
“Has anyone ever accused you of being the teacher’s pet?”
“Only the teacher.” He folded the newspaper. “The flea circus is coming through town. When is your birthday?”
“In July.”
“Too bad. The show is scheduled for December. The flea circus should be saved for special occasions.”
“Perhaps there will be a circus in July.”
“You can always dream, but don’t get your hopes up. I’d hate to see them dashed.”
She leaned over his shoulder and studied the advertisements. “If not the flea circus, how about a lecture on temperance?”
“Hmm, I believe Gracie has a birthday in December. Perhaps we can attend the flea circus for her birthday, and save the temperance speech for your special day.”
“She’s probably not interested in temperance just yet.”
“Then it’s settled. You’re never too young for fleas.”
Heather snatched the newspaper out of his hands. “You’re far too distracted. Eat. Those sheep won’t shear themselves.”
“You don’t mind being the wife of a sheep farmer?”
“Why would I mind?”
“Because it’s not as manly and tough as cattle ranching.”
“I don’t care if you raise angora rabbits, as long as you’re happy and we have enough money to attend the flea circus on special occasions and temperance meetings on not-so-special occasions.”
“Your birthday is always a special occasion. Perhaps the circus will come through town and we can see the sideshow. Have you ever seen General Tom Thumb?”
“I have not.”
“Then we’ll go to the sideshow on your birthday.” He stood and snatched a last piece of bacon from his plate. “I’ll be late tonight. We’re burning rubbish this afternoon.”
He was through the door before she could ask him about his own birthday. She lingered at the door, watching him stride toward the barn. Her heart warmed. She’d never been much for silly games, but after seeing Sterling’s success with Gracie, she’d make an effort to engage with the child in a less serious manner.
For the rest of the morning, she concentrated less on her chores and more on having fun. They laughed and played, and the morning sped by.
As she laid Gracie down for her afternoon nap, a sense of peace slipped over Heather. She pushed the future aside and concentrated on the moment. Despite her protests to Sterling, his words had taken root, and she couldn’t shake the fear that someone might come looking for Gracie. The nightmares during her illness had brought those fears to the surface.
Anybody’s name might have been printed on that Return of Birth. She was fortunate she’d been paired with Sterling.
Her gaze rested on the newspaper. The weather report called for mild temperatures, but there was always the chance of a tornado tearing through their lives.
* * *
The burn pile was located far from the barn, and an equal distance from the house. Sterling watched the fire closely. The air was still, with only the barest hint of a breeze ruffling the prairie grasses poking through the light layer of snow. There was little chance of the fire spreading this time of year, but he kept a close watch on the flames anyway, to be safe.
Dusting his hands together, he inhaled a deep breath. He and Dillon had always been responsible for burning the household rubbish, and the task reminded him of the days when they’d gotten along as children.
Before him, a week’s worth of household trash burned merrily, along with several pieces of broken furniture and some periodicals he’d discovered rotting in the barn loft. Flecks of ash caught the wind and blackened the snow surrounding the pile.
Joe and Price carted a broken push wagon from the shed and tossed the splintered wood on the pile. The wheels smoked before the flames caught. Joe stretched his hands toward the welcoming heat.
“Where is Woodley?” Sterling asked.
Price and Joe exchanged a glance.
“Gone,” Price said.
Sterling stuffed his hands into his pockets. “What do you mean he’s gone?”
“I thought you knew,” Price said, his expression dark. “Otto and Woodley had a disagreement. Woodley left.”
An ember sparked the grass at his feet, and Sterling snuffed out the weak flame with the toe of his boot. “What kind of disagreement?”
“Don’t know,” Joe said. “It was between him and Otto.”
Sterling made a sound of frustration. “Who’s doing the cooking?”
“Don’t know. I’m hoping you’ll tell us.”
Sterling surveyed the fire and noted the buckets of water the men had carried close by in case of an emergency. “I need to speak with Otto.”
Price and Joe exchanged another glance, and the hairs on the back of Sterling’s neck lifted. They’d all been working together just fine when Heather was ill. What had sparked the sudden disagreement?
He discovered Otto in his rooms in the bunkhouse. The foreman sat in a chair, his reading glasses balanced on the tip of his nose, a book open before him.
Upon seeing Sterling, Otto snapped the book shut and whipped the glasses from his nose. “What brings you here?”
Sterling glanced around the small but well-appointed space. Otto kept a shelf full of books, and the walls were lined with harnesses and other tack. The room hadn’t changed much since his childhood, save for a new selection of spines on the bookshelf.
“What happened with Woodley?” Sterling asked.
Otto rubbed his eye with the back of his hand. “I was hoping you wouldn’t find out this soon. I know you’ve been busy, what with the missus being sick and all.”
“She’s doing much better.”
The memory of her warm laughter had chased away the chill of the morning air. For the first time since their hasty marriage, he’d felt a sense of kinship with her, a sense of a shared purpose.
“Good to hear,” Otto said.
“You haven’t told me about Woodley.”
“I didn’t want to tell you this, but I know how stubborn you are. I was only trying to protect you. Woodley was the one spreading rumors about the missus.”
Sterling dropped onto a straight-backed chair set before the potbellied stove. “Are you certain?”
In the three months he’d known the ranch hand, he’d never heard Woodley speak ill of anyone.
“I’m certain.” Otto set his glasses on the closed ledger. “I heard him myself. He went into town to fetch some supplies. He must not have known that I’d gone into town, as well. I overheard him talking to Mrs. Dawson in the general store.”
Sterling braced his hands on his knees and straightened his elbows. “Why would he do something like that?”
“Who knows why a man does anything? Maybe it made him feel important. Believe me, I almost wish I hadn’t gone into town that day. I wish I hadn’t been buying a new pair of boots while Woodley was flapping his lips not one aisle over. We argued, and I asked him to leave. Didn’t mean to overstep my bounds, but you were busy with the missus.”
“The decision was yours to make,” Sterling said. “You did the right thing.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
“We’ll have to rotate the cooking.”
“About that. I thought maybe the missus could pitch in, just until we find someone new. Joe and Price can’t cook for nothing, and I only know how to make beans and biscuits.”
Sterling pushed back in his seat. “I don’t want to wear her down.”
Her recent illness had left him shaken, and her nightmares haunted his own dreams.
“We’ll have to do something.”
“Let me think about it. Problems are cropping up faster than mushrooms after a spring rain.”
“That’s the way of things,” Otto said. “If it isn’t one thing, it’s another.”
“What about—”
From outside the window, a shout of distress interrupted his question. Sterling shot to his feet. His body poised for action, he turned on his heel to face the danger inherent in such a call. He slapped the wooden door with his palm and it flung open, banging it against the siding. Joe and Price danced around in a frenzy. Price leaned forward, his shirtsleeves ablaze.
Sterling crossed the distance in a dead run, Otto lagging behind him. He snatched a pail of water near the burn pile. Stumbling, water splashing out of the pail, he hoisted the bucket and poured the contents over Price’s hands and arms.
Joe grasped a second bucket and followed suit. Price was white-faced, his hands a brilliant red from the heat of the blaze. His shirtsleeves were blackened and wet, hanging from his forearms in limp tatters.
Thankfully, the water had done the trick.
Summoned by the commotion, Heather darted toward them. Sterling eased his arm beneath the injured man’s armpit and supported his slumping weight.
“Help me get him inside,” he called to Joe.
Heather took in the scene and set her jaw in a determined line. “How can I help?”
“Pour some fresh water and gather some towels. We’ll be right behind you.”
He limped the distance, Price’s weight heavy against his side. “What happened, Joe?”
Joe loped beside them. “The wind caught up an ember and it snagged on his shirt. It flared up before I could blink. When Price brushed at the fire, it went and caught the other sleeve too.”
“You’d think I was a greenhorn,” Price muttered between grunts of pain. “I know better than to get that close to the fire.”
“They call them accidents for a reason,” Sterling said, his concern about the blisters rising on the man’s arms growing. “There’s no one to blame.”
By the time they pushed through the back door, Heather had the sink filled with water and was filling another bucket.
She glanced up at their noisy arrival. “Gracie is napping, but don’t worry about keeping quiet. When she’s plum tired like she is today, you could run a locomotive through the house and she’d sleep through the noise.”
Sterling propped up Price before the sink and let the cascade flow over his hands and arms. The ranch hand hissed in pain. Sterling stood behind him. He gripped the man’s shoulders, forcing him to submerge the limbs.
“Thanks for putting out the fire.” Price swayed as he spoke. His face was deathly pale, his eyes feverish with pain as he surveyed the welts on his hands and arms. “It’s not so bad.”
Heather’s expression was sympathetic. “I’ll fix up the spare bedroom.”
“The bunkhouse is good enough for me,” the injured man protested, lifting his arms from the water. The skin had already begun to blister. “I’ll be right as rain tomorrow. I just need some bandages to put over the blisters.”
Heather drew in a deep breath, but Sterling beat her to the draw. “You’ll do as the lady of the house says and let us tend the burns. I don’t need you out with an infection for weeks. We’re already short a hand.”
Heather’s gaze sharpened. “Why are we short a hand?”
“Long story. Woodley is gone.”
Heather wrung out the wet towels, draping them over Price’s hands and arms. “You might as well stay in the house, Price. I’ll take over the cooking until someone else is hired.”
Her voice was gentle and her touch careful as she tended the man.
“Don’t take on too much,” Sterling warned. “I don’t want you getting sick again.”
She tilted her chin at a mutinous angle. “If you’re worried, you can have Joe help with the biscuits.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Joe said. He laughed, the sound rusty, as though forced past a lump in his throat. “We’ll all pitch in and help out.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Price said. Courteous as ever, he bobbed his head, then stumbled. Sterling tightened his hold and half carried the injured man toward the table.
Heather took the chair on the opposite side. “I’ll finish wrapping these bandages if you’ll check the spare bedroom. I left a stack of linens at the foot of the bed.”
Satisfied that Heather had the situation under control, Sterling went out the door, pausing halfway up the kitchen stairs. Price’s accident had left him shaken. In the blink of an eye, he’d gone from laughing to writhing in pain.
All the disparate feelings he’d been experiencing over the past few weeks were now jumbled together. Heather had brought something to the house that he’d never experienced before. She’d brought love and a sense of peace.
Price’s accident strengthened his resolve. Despite his fears for the future, she was here now, and he meant the arrangement to be permanent. She might not be able to love him, but there was no reason their friendship couldn’t carry them through the years.
He’d seen lasting and happy marriages built on less.
* * *
With Gracie sleeping, Heather took the opportunity to dismantle the kerosene lantern. She set the slender glass chimney on the table and grasped a towel, then polished the clouded surface. She threaded a new wick through the casing and added lamp oil before replacing the chimney once more.
Across from her, Price repeated the process on another lantern, his movements hampered by his injuries. His arms were wrapped, with only his fingertips showing. Dr. Jones had come by the previous day and praised her ministrations. The burns were healing well, and there was no sign of infection.
Having company around the house made the days fly by. Price wasn’t talkative, but he was eager to be useful while he healed.
He cursed beneath his breath, and she pretended not to notice. The forced confinement was frustrating, and he was coping as best he could. She sensed he was self-conscious about his difficulties.
She rose from the table. The loaves of bread had depleted rapidly with the addition of the men for dinner. She’d been gradually increasing the amount of food she served, but the men’s appetites appeared bottomless.
She gathered her supplies and set them on the worktable. “Where are you from, Price? You never said.”
“Here and there. I was born in Ohio.”
“Do your parents still live there?”
“Nah. My ma died and my pa moved to California.” He poured lamp oil into the base, and she held her breath. But he managed the process without soiling his bandages. “He lives up near San Francisco now. What about you? Where are you from?”
“Pittsburgh. That’s the nice thing about living in a town that’s only thirty years old, like Valentine—at least half the residents are from someplace else.” She dumped several scoops of flour onto the table, then changed her mind. She’d make piecrusts first. “I was originally from Maryland, but I moved to Pittsburgh after the war.”
“I’ve never been that far east. Don’t think I could stand all the people.”
She laughed. “If you don’t enjoy the company of other folks, Pittsburgh isn’t the place for you.”
Footfalls sounded on the back stoop, and she knew without looking that the new arrival was Sterling. She recognized the cadence of his walk.
He pushed open the door and hung his hat on the peg. She fussed with a bit of hair near her temple and smoothed her hands down her apron. “You’re early.”
“Thought I’d see if you needed any help with supper.”
“We’re doing fine. Price has been an invaluable help.”
The ranch hand grimaced. “I’m slow as molasses in January doing anything. I can’t wait until these bandages come off.”
Sterling came to stand behind her. “What are you making?”
“Pie.”
He wrapped his arms around her waist and nuzzled her neck, his whiskers tickling the sensitive skin. “What kind of pie?”
He smelled of fire and the outdoors, and she pressed one of her hands against his chilled fingers. “You need new gloves.”
“Not as much as I need food.”
She giggled and ducked away. “I found some jarred peaches in Woodley’s supplies. I think he canned them himself. I felt guilty going through his belongings, though I don’t suppose he’d care anymore.”
Sterling straightened and pivoted toward the sink. “Whatever he left is fair game. I’m not chasing down the man for peaches.”
“I can’t believe he just up and left,” Price said. “I thought he and Otto were getting along better the past few weeks.”
Reaching for the lard, Heather paused. “I didn’t realize those two were at odds.”
“I shouldn’t have said anything.” The tips of Price’s ears reddened. “I didn’t mean to gossip.”
“I’m just surprised, that’s all,” Heather said. “I can’t imagine anyone arguing with Otto.”
Price bent his head over the lantern. “Yep.”
His clipped answer gave her pause, and she turned toward Sterling. He was focused on rinsing his hands in the washbasin and wasn’t paying them any mind. Otto had always been polite and kind to her, and she couldn’t imagine him arguing with anyone. Yet something in Price’s demeanor gave her pause. She’d gotten to know him over the past few days, and his reaction didn’t feel right.
He glanced up and caught her staring. “I’ll carry the lanterns back upstairs.”
“Can you look in on Gracie?”
“Sure thing.”
Long after he’d gone, she remained, staring at his vacant chair.
Sterling touched her shoulder and she started. “What?”
“What are thinking about?”
“I don’t think he likes Otto.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I don’t know.” She brushed the stray lock of hair from her forehead once more. “Didn’t his reaction seem odd to you?”
“I think I know why.” Sterling licked his thumb and rubbed a spot on her forehead. “You’ve got flour in your hair.”
Self-conscious, she brushed at the spot. “Have I got it?”
“No.” He offered one of his lopsided the grins, the kind that made her skin tingle and her toes curl. “Let me help.”
He stood before her, her eyes level with the second stamped button of his coat. Unable to resist, she ran her finger along the lettering. His touch gentle, he sifted through the strands of hair at her temple, carefully brushing away the flour.
Sterling caught her hand. “Apparently Woodley was the source of gossip in town. Otto overheard him in the general store. That’s probably why Price didn’t want to say anything. I think he’s sweet on you.”
She pulled away and pressed her hands against her warm cheeks. “Don’t be silly.”
“I’m certain you’ve had more than one student who was sweet on you.”
“Now you’re being outrageous!”
“Am I?” He lifted the lid from the pot on the stove. The delightful aroma of roast beef simmering in vegetables wafted through the kitchen. “You never had a boy stay after class and offer to clean the chalkboard?”
“Once or twice.”
“That’s how an adolescent boy declares his love.”
“By wiping down the chalkboard?” she scoffed.
“Sure. I must have wiped down Mrs. Lane’s chalkboard a hundred times. Imagine how shocked I was to find out that she already had a husband. I’d gotten it into my head that I was going to marry her.”
Heather clapped her hands over her mouth to stifle the laughter. “You wanted to marry Mrs. Lane?”
“Mind you, I was six at the time. But I had our future all planned out. I was nearly inconsolable when I discovered she’d squandered my love for that of Mr. Lane.”
“You have me curious,” she said. “How else does an adolescent boy show his love?”
He grasped her hand and lifted her arm above her head, then spun her toward him. Her back bumped into his front, and his opposite arm snaked around her waist.
“He tries to steal a kiss.”
Sterling kissed the sensitive skin at the nape of her neck, and gooseflesh scattered along her arms. His breath was warm against her skin, and her eyelids drifted shut.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs, and they sprang apart.
“She’s sleeping,” Price declared as he emerged into the kitchen. “And the lamps all have oil.”
Sterling leaned his hip against the table and crossed one ankle over the other. “Price, if an adolescent boy had a crush on his schoolteacher, how do you suppose he’d show her?”
“That’s easy. I’d stay behind and offer to clean the chalkboard. I must have cleaned Mrs. Benson’s chalkboard a hundred times in the third grade.”
Heather and Sterling erupted into peals of laughter.
An hour later, she fed the men lunch and set about making pies. Price retired to the parlor and read a book while she worked on supper. Several times she considered asking Price questions about Woodley but couldn’t quite manage to bring up the subject.
After spending time with the ranch hand, she trusted his judgment. If he had a complaint about Otto, that complaint was not to be taken lightly. Otto was the only man the late Mr. Blackwell had let near him. Perhaps he was suffering from ill health. Folks tended to be cranky when they were sick. She reached for the eggs, vowing to ask Sterling later if Otto was ill. They couldn’t afford to lose any more ranch hands.
Otto had spent more than one afternoon resting instead of joining them in the kitchen. She’d asked him a few questions about the accounts, and now she sensed he was avoiding her. Did Otto know something more about Mr. Blackwell’s actions at the end of his life? If so, why would he withhold that information?