Tate sat in front of the fire, an open book in his lap. From the library alcove, he could hear the murmur of voices—Toby reading from a primer, Marcus asking a question, Sophie affirming their efforts. In less than two weeks, she’d made significant strides with the boys. Toby had actually crawled into his lap one evening as he was reading a recently delivered Denver newspaper and proudly pointed to words he recognized. “See, Papa?” he’d boasted. “I’m getting to be a good reader. And I computed the size of this house.” Computed? Clearly that word sounded more sophisticated to the boy than “doing sums.”
“Did you know that music is based on mathematics?” he heard Sophie inquire of her students.
“That can’t be true,” Marcus objected.
“It’s just singing and fiddling,” Toby added.
Curious, Tate leaned forward.
“Look here,” she said.
From his chair, Tate watched her make notations on a piece of paper, the boys clustered around her,
Tate turned back to his book, but found himself rereading the same paragraph. Any remaining concentration was broken by the sound of a lilting, clear soprano. “Lullaby and good night, with roses bedight...” Her voice held him in thrall, but it was the final words of the song, dying away, that brought tears to his eyes. “...Lay thee down now and rest, May thy slumber be blessed.” Who had ever sung lullabies to his sons? Maybe a nanny early on. Certainly not Ramona. Then another equally disturbing thought occurred to him. Who had ever sung him lullabies?
“...and this song is by a wonderful new German composer, Johannes Brahms. Did you like it?”
Both boys gave enthusiastic assent.
“Look, now, at the mathematics. You see that I have drawn lines and symbols on this paper. This is the way music looks on a page.”
“Why?” Toby’s voice was mystified. “Just sing it.”
“If we only heard music, it would be much more difficult to pass it on to others far away or to perform it the way the composer intended.”
“That makes sense,” Marcus said. “Toby, think about it. Mr. Brahms lives in Europe. How could we know his music unless there was a way to communicate it in writing?”
Tate couldn’t help himself. He stepped into the alcove, and after securing Sophie’s nod of approval, took a chair at the other end of the table. He watched in wonder as she explained the mathematical timing involved in the shape of the notes and the vertical bar lines. Then she tapped out the rhythm, drawing out by longer time than lulla, and showed them how the notes reflected the timing. Then she reached for another piece of paper and quickly sketched four bars of a score. “Now, then, boys. How would you tap out this rhythm?”
Tate watched in amazement as the boys quickly grasped the concept.
“Enough for this lesson,” Sophie announced. “Let’s finish by singing Brahms’s ‘Cradle Song’ together.” She nodded to him, soliciting his participation, yet he could hardly utter a sound, so moved was he by his sons’ sweet voices raised in song. When the notes died away, silence hovered in the air until Sophie clapped her hands. “Bravo, young men!”
Tate noted how his sons gazed at her with delight. Even though he had engaged Sophie reluctantly, he doubted a male tutor from the East could have aroused such curiosity and adoration. Yet caution was needed, lest the boys become overly attached to her. He couldn’t bear the thought of their being crushed once again by a female who, for whatever reasons, might walk away from them.
Released from their studies, the boys ran off in search of the pups. Sophie gathered up the papers and stowed the writing utensils. Finishing, she turned to him. “It was good of you to join us...to show the boys your interest. I hope you know you are always welcome.”
“It’s not often I have the time,” he hedged. “Business occupies me.”
“I understand your myriad enterprises require your attention, but so do your sons.”
He winced. “Is that a criticism?”
“I did not intend it as one, but as a reminder. Children are not forever, and what happens to them as youngsters has a great bearing on what kind of adults they become.”
The woman had pricked a sore. What had happened to him as a child should happen to no one. He wanted his boys to know they were loved. Sophie was right. He had been too detached, too afraid his influence would more closely resemble that of his own mother and father rather than that of a more loving parent. He swallowed back his hurt and self-insight.
“Tate?” He looked up into Sophie’s quizzical glance. “Are you all right?”
“Just lost in thought. You...you opened a wound.”
She sat down and folded her hands on the table. “I’m listening.”
Could he bring himself to say what he was thinking? In the distance a puppy yipped, a boy laughed, the fire crackled. “I don’t know how to be a good father.” She raised her hand in protest, but he rushed on. “Please, no demurrals. I had no parent after whom to model myself.”
“They died when you were young?”
“No. But I never felt wanted or appreciated. I couldn’t do much of anything right in their eyes. Now, as an adult, I understand that they were cold, unloving people. I doubt there was much, if any, affection between them. Our home, our so-called family, was all for show.”
He looked away from Sophie, whose eyes were awash with tears. “I was foolish to expect Ramona to be any different. Once she and the boys moved to Colorado, no matter how hard I tried to create the loving, stable home of my boyish fantasies, I failed. So—” he sighed deeply “—here we are.”
Sophie covered his hand with her own. “My dear man, you are too hard on yourself.”
He curled his fingers around her hand, as if it were a lifeline. He cleared his throat before daring to look at her. “I appreciate how you so effortlessly give Marcus and Toby the love they need. They soak it up. I don’t seem to know how to do that.”
“It’s natural to want to make men of them, I suppose, just as my father did with my brothers. He didn’t want them to be soft. But that does not mean you should withhold your approval and affection, as your parents obviously did. Discipline is necessary, of course. But always, first and foremost, is love.”
“How did you become so wise?”
Her smile lit up the room. “I owe any wisdom I possess in this regard to scientific observation. This ornery, outspoken sister and daughter learned a great deal from the school of experience. As for you? You don’t need my help, you just need to allow yourself to love. To let go of an unhappy past and embrace the present. Trust me, God desires the best for you.”
He stared at her, caught between wanting to believe her and longing to retreat to the comfort of his customary isolation. Her eyes never left his, and in them, he read both challenge and caring. Finally he mumbled to himself, “What’s God got to do with anything?”
Before she could respond, Toby burst into the room followed by Marcus, who carried a spoon and large tin can covered with canvas. “Listen to this! We made it ourselves. Bertie helped.”
Marcus began slowly beating on the makeshift drum, the tempo slow-slow-quick-quick-slow. Then both boys chanted in rhythm, “We-like-learning-things.”
When they finished, Tate held out his arms. “Great job!” The boys came and nestled within his embrace. Only when he looked up did he note that Sophie had slipped from the room.
“Wanna hear more, Papa?” Toby whispered, his face alight.
Tate inhaled the outdoorsy smell of his son’s hair. “I do,” he said quietly. “That was quite remarkable.”
“It’s because of Miss Sophie,” said Marcus.
Even as he listened to another drum performance, Tate understood that it was too late for any of them to view Sophie Montgomery as merely a tutor.
* * *
The next day while Beauty played in the yard, Sophie knelt beside a row of lettuce in her small garden. It seemed she had only to turn her back before weeds encroached or animals enjoyed the leafy delicacy. The day was warm and perspiration dampened her brow. Busy with tutoring Marcus and Toby and hiking with Belle, she’d neglected her own home. Now everywhere she looked another chore demanded her attention. Mending, dusting, grooming Ranger, blacking the stove—the list was endless. When she was occupied with the Lockwood boys or with Belle, she didn’t have so much time to think. Or remember.
Today the loss of Charlie was a weight crushing her spirit. By now they’d not only have been married but would surely have had a child or two. She pictured his strong, tanned hands, the way they had caressed the limestone of the Flint Hills, as if he intuited how it would perfectly suit the buildings he had in mind. Those same roughened hands had ever so gently traced the line of her jaw and lifted her fingers to his lips. Savagely, she rooted out a weed. Memory. Sometimes she could keep it at bay. Other times, like now, it intruded, threatening to overwhelm her with what might have been. Little Reuben and Jessica remained only fantasy—the future children she and Charlie had named in their daydreaming. Listening to the water rushing over the rocks in the nearby stream, she sometimes thought she heard Charlie’s robust laughter, and every time she contemplated the stony faces of the mountains, she imagined discovering them with Charlie, whose affinity for all things geological had been moving to observe.
She sat back on her heels and removed her bonnet. In moments like this, she was forced to acknowledge that she had failed to foresee the challenges involved in setting up housekeeping by herself in the middle of an untamed environment. Nights when a fearsome, cold wind rattled the wooden shingles or when the baying of coyotes sounded close, she wondered what she had been thinking to cling so stubbornly to her vision. Not to mention one protective she-bear who had destroyed any illusion of control. She didn’t even want to think about winter—the snow, the isolation, the sheer boredom. Although it wasn’t in her nature to give up, the thought of wintering in the cabin was increasingly unappealing.
Disgusted, she retrieved her bonnet, stood and focused on the scene before her. Meadows green with waving grass, peaks bold and timeless and the silver of the rushing stream. Where would she rather be? At home, pitied and protected in the bosom of the Kansas family who loved her dearly? Being a schoolmarm in a small New England town, like so many of her fellow academy students? Suddenly, nothing seemed more important than soaking her tired feet in the icy stream. She went into the house, set her bonnet aside and picked up the latest book she’d borrowed from Tate’s library—the fascinating Around the World in Eighty Days by the Frenchman Jules Verne—then walked to a rock beside the stream and sat down. The bracing massage of the water over her bare feet coupled with the exciting story made for pure indulgence. Not for the first time, she was thankful for Tate’s standing order with a Philadelphia bookseller, since new titles arrived with almost every post. She wondered about the neglected little boy he’d been whose main companions, by his own admission, were books and a dog. She pulled her feet out of the water and sat back on the rock. She would simply have to discipline herself in order to accomplish her domestic chores and also fulfill her obligations to the Lockwoods and to Belle. As she finished a chapter, the sun settled over the western mountains and a cool breeze raised goose bumps on her arms. How could she consider being elsewhere? Her place was here in this special valley.
Tucking the book under her arm, she strolled toward the house, determined to iron the shirtwaists she’d washed yesterday, but just as she reached the porch, she heard someone approaching on horseback. Tate’s foreman, Sam, slid from the saddle and waved. “Got letters for you, miss,” he called.
She hurried toward him. “It’s thoughtful of you to deliver them.”
He shifted from foot to foot. “Not my idea. Mr. Lockwood’s. Sent me for the mail down to Harpers’. Said if there was anything for you, I was to deliver it.” He reached in his saddlebag and pulled out a pair of envelopes. “Here,” he said, thrusting them at her. “Duty’s done. I’ll be takin’ my leave.”
He remounted and started off at a trot. She stared at the letters—one from Lily and one from Rose, her sisters-in-law, so different from one another and yet so loving and dear. The tears she’d been fighting throughout the afternoon tempered her joy at receiving messages from her family. She pulled a rocker nearer the edge of the porch where the light was better and settled with the letters. She started with Rose’s.
My dearest Sophie,
Seth joins me in sending you our love and also our thanks for your recent communication concerning the wonders of Estes Park, both natural and human. We are grateful you are thriving. I know you are curious about your father.
Living with him on the ranch has been a blessing, since he does require some attention. Although his speech is getting easier to understand, he has trouble with his right hand and arm and needs assistance with things like buttoning his shirt and holding a cup. That has not stopped him from trying to help around the place. He is able to ride, which is a blessing since it gives him pleasure and makes him feel useful.
Our Alf is growing into such a fine boy and enjoys helping his grandpa, and of course little Andrew is a joy to us all. Seth tells me to convey how much he misses you and your feistiness. I miss you, too, dear.
Sophie stared into space, letting Rose’s words wash over her. It was difficult to imagine her vigorous, vital father impaired in any manner. He would fight to get better—that was his nature—but not without a great deal of frustration. Rose hadn’t said much about her responsibility in caring for him, but that was just like her—self-effacing. Yet Sophie knew Rose was devoted to all the Montgomerys and would spare nothing to ease their lives.
She set Rose’s letter aside and opened Lily’s.
Dearest Sophie,
I know how worried you must be about your father. Truth to tell, he has had quite a time of it. In Father’s medical opinion, he thinks Andrew is making progress, but it seems slow to us, and Andrew often is quite impatient with himself and others. He doesn’t blame God, but he does question why he has been afflicted. As you might expect, Rose is a saint with him, and Alf and Andy follow him like puppies. But, in truth, it is Aunt Lavinia who keeps him from giving up.
Sophie sighed, picturing her father’s impatience. Who would ever have thought that Rose and Lily’s sophisticated aunt Lavinia Dupree would play such a vital role in their lives, especially Pa’s? They had all been surprised when the newly widowed Saint Louis socialite had visited her Flint Hills family and then made the stunning announcement that she was building a summer home there. The woman did not suffer fools lightly, and Sophie could well imagine Lavinia’s intransigence in putting Pa through his paces.
She comes to the ranch at least three times a week and barks at him until he does some of the therapeutic exercises and movements she claims to have read about. If the situation weren’t so sad, it would be almost comical, yet beyond her badgering and his recalcitrance, I believe they have deep respect for one another. Caleb and Seth do what they can, but their hearts are sore, so it is understandably more difficult for them to be stern with their father. I am sorry to have begun with news which may distress you. On a lighter note, our daughters are thriving and growing like weeds.
Sophie finished the news concerning her nieces, then set the letters aside, lost in worry for her father as the sun finally slid behind the mountains, leaving her in the shadows.
* * *
After church the following Sunday, Sophie and Belle huddled together, studying a rudimentary map of Longs Peak. “See here,” Belle said, pointing to a line on the paper. “This is where the boulder field begins, and I am told the ascent through those obstacles can be rigorous.”
Sophie leaned forward. “Boulder field? You mean nothing but rocks?”
“We will be above tree line there and, yes, guides say it’s nothing but rocks, some so big they defy belief. So I propose that in the next month or so we find areas where we can practice rock climbing.”
Sophie nodded, but before she could comment, Martha Tyler bustled over. “You girls, I declare. If I’m hearing right, folks are saying you two plan to climb Longs Peak.”
Belle smiled up at her neighbor. “We are.”
Martha glanced around as if fearing to be overheard. “I’m not one to say you’ve lost your senses. I get mighty tired of menfolk always thinking they know what’s best for women. But I do hope you’ll be careful. That mountain can be treacherous.”
“We’re doing our best to prepare,” Sophie said.
“I surely couldn’t do it myself, but I just wanted you to know I’ll be praying for your success.” Then Martha beamed at them both before rejoining the others.
“Well, that’s one supporter.” Belle held up an index finger. “On the other hand, Mabel Hawes pulled me aside before church to tell me that rumors of our intentions were ‘scandalous’ and ‘against God’s natural order.’”
“I imagine it’s always been thus with pioneers, male or female. Think about how his countrymen scoffed at Columbus.”
“For me, all such negative comments serve as motivation.” Belle nodded at Sophie. “We have to succeed.”
Riding home, Sophie was charged with excitement. Belle’s enthusiasm was infectious, and the idea of proving naysayers wrong stoked her determination. Her brothers had learned over the years that she was fearless, even unstoppable. Yet she knew what they would say if they were here. You’re doing what? Are you crazy? That had always been their initial reaction to the unconventional things she undertook, like riding in the roundup, but in the end, they had clapped her on the back and crowed, That’s our girl!
Hearing a horse approaching, Sophie slowed to a walk and pulled Ranger to the side of the road. Around the bend came Tate, mounted on his large chestnut. He drew close and reined in his horse. “Where have you been?”
“Good day to you, too,” Sophie said with asperity. What business was it of Tate Lockwood’s where and how she spent her time?
“I couldn’t find you at your cabin.”
“Of course not, it’s Sunday.”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“Along with many others, I attend services at the Tylers’.”
“Oh, that,” Tate muttered dismissively.
Sophie held her tongue, sensing that Tate Lockwood was in no mood for a sermon. “Is something wrong with one of the boys?”
“Why would you assume that?”
“You apparently came to the cabin to fetch me. I can’t imagine another reason.”
He leaned over his saddle horn as if cowed. “I’ve botched this conversation. Let’s start over.”
“A splendid idea.”
“I’ve come to invite you to spend the afternoon with us. The boys have planned some games to celebrate Toby’s birthday.”
“Birthday? I had no idea. If you had told me earlier, I would have prepared a gift.”
“Bertie has baked a cake. When the boys realized this morning that I had failed to invite you, they were quite upset.”
Irked, Sophie didn’t want to make it easy for him. “I have other plans for the afternoon.”
He raised a skeptical eyebrow, but his tone was gentler when he said, “Surely you won’t disappoint the boys.”
“Why do I feel as if I’m being manipulated?”
He grinned. “If that’s what it takes...”
“You know very well I can’t ignore Toby’s birthday, even if his father does lack social graces.”
Trotting alongside Tate toward his house, Sophie couldn’t decide if she was more galled or amused. Verbal sparring stirred up her competitive instincts. She was annoyed to have had no advance notice of Toby’s birthday, but she looked forward to celebrating with him. Once again, though, Tate Lockwood had caused her consternation. Worse yet, he’d gotten his way.
* * *
What a buffoon! Of course his approach to Sophie had been rude. It was only when Toby asked him this morning if he’d remembered to invite Sophie that Tate realized his oversight, so he’d lit out to find her. He’d been concerned she might turn down his request and thereby devastate his son. Yet his invitation to Sophie had made him sound like an insensitive fool. When they reached the house, she leaped from her saddle before he could assist her. “I’m sorry if I’ve offended you,” he said as they walked to the front door.
“This isn’t the first time and I doubt it will be the last,” she said saucily. She laid a hand on his arm. “But considering the occasion of your delightful son’s birthday, you are forgiven.”
With those words, Sophie flashed a mischievous grin and hurried ahead of him through the door, where a noisy crush of dogs and boys greeted them. In that moment of disorder, an inexplicable happiness enfolded him.
Toby threw himself at his teacher. “Miss Sophie, you came!”
“Happy birthday, young man. So now you are nine years old?”
“I am, and we’re gonna have cake and games now that you’re here.”
Marcus corralled Minnie and sidled up to Sophie. “My brother thinks he’s so big, but he’s not as big as me.”
“And he never will be,” Sophie said, “but older brothers needn’t lord it over younger brothers.”
Marcus cocked his head. “I guess you’re right.”
Tate never ceased to be amazed by the woman’s instinctive skill in handling the boys. After gathering for Bertie’s delicious spice cake, they adjourned to the library for a few games of dominoes, during which Tate noted how Toby’s mathematical skills had improved under Sophie’s tutelage. Next, Toby wanted to play jackstraws, but after only one game, he tired of the concentration and dexterity demanded to lift a slender stick from the pile. Then Marcus suggested they draw the shutters and make shadow finger puppets. Tate soon learned Sophie was adept at creating shadow figures on the wall. She had the boys giggling over the bird that flapped its wings and the pig that opened and shut its mouth.
“Show me how,” Toby demanded after she’d depicted a cat. Both boys watched intently and then repeated the pattern.
“Would you like to see a bear?” Tate asked, entering into the fun. He formed the image of a bear on its hind legs and growled in accompaniment.
Marcus approached his father to study the position of his hands and fingers. “How come you never showed us that?”
The boy’s question pierced Tate’s heart. Why hadn’t he played with the boys, taught them games? Had he really been that preoccupied with business? Or had he been afraid of making a mistake with them? Had his aloofness been self-protective? What kind of father puts his own selfish needs ahead of those of his children? When the answer came, his heart fell. He was just like his own father.
He turned to Marcus and put his arm around him. “I should have, son. I should have.” He swallowed. “From now on, we’ll try to have more fun.”
As his son turned away, Tate heard him mumble, “We’ll see.”
The challenge in those words was clear. Tate would have to prove himself, but at least the door was open for change.
* * *
After the games, Tate opened the shutters and Sophie noticed long afternoon shadows on the floor. “Oh dear, I’m afraid I have overstayed my welcome. I have just enough time to get home.” She gave each of the boys a hug and hurried to the door.
“I can’t tell you what your being here meant to Toby,” Tate said as he accompanied her outside.
“I’m glad you insisted.” She hesitated, wondering whether to speak her mind and, as usual, honesty overcame tact. “I hope you’re aware of what happened this afternoon when you relaxed and let yourself play. Your boys saw a new side of you, one they liked. One I liked.”
“I don’t want to appear unapproachable. It’s time I realize my parents’ mistakes should not be repeated in the next generation. Thank you, Sophie, for showing me a different way.”
Glancing up at him, Sophie was arrested by the raw longing in his eyes. “You are a fine father, and you’ll only get better,” she murmured, laying a hand on his chest. She gasped then, as he suddenly enfolded her in his arms and rested his chin on the top of her head.
“With your help,” he whispered. “You are working wonders with the Lockwoods.”
The scent of wood smoke and pine clinging to him made her light-headed. She should step back. Yet it had been so long since she had experienced the comfort of a masculine embrace. Not since...Charlie. And then Tate was twining her hair through his fingers, and she could feel the rapid rhythm of his heartbeat. Now. Retreat now. She wrenched herself from his grasp, shaking her head. Somehow she found her voice. “I can’t do this.”
Tate, too, stepped back. “Forgive me. My gratitude overcame common sense. I meant only to show my appreciation.”
Clasping her trembling hands behind her, she sought the right words. “Of course. I’m delighted I could help.” She couldn’t get away fast enough, but even as Ranger put distance between her and Tate Lockwood, her breath caught in her chest. For that brief moment, she had experienced not only a powerful attraction to the man but a sense of coming home. No! He was her students’ father, nothing more. Besides, he had none of Charlie’s sense of fun and passion for life. Charlie, Charlie, Charlie—her homeward mantra. Yet instead of succeeding in redirecting her thoughts, it only reinforced her memory of that terrifying and wonderful embrace...and of Tate.