“So what do you think?” Belle Harper sprawled atop a boulder the size of a small building Saturday afternoon.
Sophie leaned back, propped on her arms with her legs dangling from the rocky ledge, and laughed aloud. “It’s magnificent.” The endless sky stretched in cerulean splendor above the distant snowy peaks. Pure air filled her lungs, and she felt alive in a way she hadn’t in a very long time.
“You didn’t do badly for your first hike. Not as much huffing and puffing as some, but then, you’ve had time to acclimate to the altitude.”
“How high are we now?”
“About ten thousand feet.” Belle gestured toward Longs Peak. “That’s over fourteen thousand, and I’m told the last two thousand feet are treacherous. Above the tree line, boulders abound, so some difficult rock climbing is involved. It’s by no means impossible for women to reach the summit, although men try to dissuade the ‘fairer sex’ from the attempt. Yet a couple of our sisters have achieved the feat. I want us to join their number.”
“I’m game, although I’ll need considerably more experience. When might we attempt the ascent?”
“Depending on your conditioning, I’m guessing early-to mid-September. Weather is a factor. Early snow would knock us out.”
“Some will deem us crazy to attempt it.”
Belle shoved back her hat and turned to study Sophie. “What do you think?”
The prospect was fraught with uncertainty and danger, but Sophie didn’t hesitate. “It would be the most exciting, exhilarating thing I’ve ever done.”
“Let others doubt or mock us. That will just fuel our determination.” Belle opened her canteen and took a sip. “Once or twice a week, then, we’ll tackle the mountains. Flattop Peak is next.”
“I’d welcome the challenge.” As she uttered the words, Sophie understood why she was so open to Belle’s direction. On today’s hike, there had been long minutes when her mind was so focused on the trail she hadn’t once thought about Charlie. Yet paradoxically, now touching the pockmarked surface of the rock beneath her fingers, she felt as if she were that much closer to heaven, closer to Charlie.
“Ready to start back?”
Sophie levered herself to her feet. Beyond lay the valley floor, dotted with small settlements. In the distance, the imposing lodge of Lord Dunraven reminded her of Tate’s concern for preserving the area. He was right. Such a beautiful place was not meant to be the province of a single individual. She shivered with excitement, knowing how much she wanted to be part of Estes Park’s future. She spread her arms as if to encompass the valley. “Look, Belle. Is there any better place on earth?”
“Not in my mind.”
Trailing Belle down the mountain, she concentrated on noticing each smell—juniper, pine, spruce—and each animal—the chattering chipmunk, a soaring eagle, the lone doe poised by a small pool. Before she knew it, she was singing to herself and considering the hymn’s lyrics.
All things bright and beautiful,
All creatures great and small,
All things wise and wonderful,
The Lord God made them all.
Could it be that here in this mountain paradise she could regain her unquestioning faith? What would Charlie want for her? There was really no question. She knew that difficult and painful though it was, he would want her to embrace life, to climb out of the valley of her gloom and ascend to unknown heights.
* * *
What in the world had he done? Any serenity Tate had known within his home had vanished with the arrival of two rambunctious pups. Toby’s Buster skittered through the house nipping at his master’s legs and yipping excitedly, only quieting when he fell, exhausted, into the dog bed the boys had made of old blankets. Marcus’s female was only minimally more sedate and thankfully felt no need to establish supremacy over her brother. When Tate asked Marcus what he’d decided to name his collie, his son had shrugged and said, “These things can’t be rushed. The name has to be right. In many cultures, a name has great significance, you know.”
Tate stood at the window of his office, aware he should be working instead of watching the road for Sophie Montgomery. Marcus had seemed more lighthearted than usual this morning, and Toby had dogged Bertie about the refreshments before retiring to the back porch to brush Buster’s lush coat. Granted, the boys had few visitors, but was Sophie that much of a novelty? Occasionally they attended community suppers, which afforded Marcus and Toby the opportunity to mingle with others their age. Toby knew no strangers, while Marcus tended to stand on the sidelines until another boy made an overture. Had Marcus always been so shy and reserved? Tate cast his mind back. Although quiet, he’d also been a thoughtful, charming little boy. Sensitive. Therein lay the problem, no doubt. Marcus had reacted far more viscerally to Ramona’s disappearance than had Toby, who tended to live in the present, while Marcus brooded on the past. Tate shook his head in disgust. He, who could open mines, negotiate with bankers and parlay minerals into wealth, was helpless to deal with his own troubled son.
A flash of color caught his eye. Sophie rode up the road, her red jacket clashing with her copper curls. She sat easily, clearly long accustomed to riding. Living on a ranch had obviously equipped her for pursuits many women disdained. Ramona. Yes, disdain would’ve been her reaction to someone like Sophie. He hated it when his thoughts conjured his ex-wife from his subconscious. She was out of his life, and he had to move on.
He straightened his suspenders and put on his coat before walking to the front door, where Toby already waited with a grin on his face, Buster right behind him. Even Marcus had closed the book he was reading and stood by the fireplace, his expression expectant, if guarded.
Before she could knock, Tate opened the door to Sophie, who entered with a smile, pulling off her gloves. “What a beautiful day!” she exclaimed, but before she could go on, Toby scooped up his dog and held it out to her. “See, miss? It’s Buster.”
Tate started to admonish the boy for speaking up before Sophie had even removed her jacket, but she winked and he fell silent. “Oh, Toby, he’s adorable. May I hold him?”
Tate helped her out of her jacket as she balanced the puppy against her chest, cooing softly to the animal. “Aren’t you a sturdy little fellow? A ‘Buster,’ indeed.”
Toby peeked around the door. “Where’s Beauty?”
Sophie smiled. “At home. I wanted your pups to be the center of attention.” She entered the living room and nodded at Marcus. “And what of your dog?”
“Sleeping. I’ll get her in a minute.”
“Have you named her?”
He clasped his hands nervously before answering softly. “I thought maybe you could help me.” He swallowed and then went on. “It has to be just the right name.”
“I understand. A name marks one forever.”
“I like your name. Sophie. Are you wise?”
She laughed. “Not always. It’s a difficult name to live up to, but I try.”
Tate watched their exchange. Sophie had somehow gained enough of the boy’s confidence for him to trust her to offer suggestions for his dog’s name.
Toby pulled on Sophie’s skirt. “Wanna play checkers?”
Marcus looked menacingly at his brother. “We’re gonna name my dog.”
Tate stepped forward. “Before that, wouldn’t it be courteous to invite our guest to sit down?”
“Please sit,” Marcus mumbled.
“Here’s a chair,” Toby offered.
Sophie sent Tate an amused glance before moving to the chair and sitting, still clutching Buster. “Thank you, gentlemen.”
“Gentlemen. She called us ‘gentlemen.’” Toby giggled.
Bertie entered the room with a tray laden with a plate of cookies, cups and a teapot, and milk for the boys. “Good afternoon, Miss Sophie. I hope you favor sugar cookies.”
“I do, indeed.”
When they were sitting down with their refreshments, Tate found himself at a loss for words. What could he possibly talk about with her? Did it matter? She was here for the boys.
She settled her cup in her lap and turned to him. “I’ve been reading in the Denver papers, just delivered, about silver discoveries west of here. That should lure even more settlers to Colorado, I should think.”
“We’ve only seen the first of the influx. I’m in no position to complain about westward expansion since I myself have profited from leaving the East to make my own way.”
“That can’t have been easy.”
“The hardest part was leaving my family behind, but mining camps are wild places, not fit for a lady.” He caught himself before saying anything about Ramona.
Sophie covered the awkward silence. “It will be exciting to be part of Colorado’s future.”
Future? “Does that mean you’re planning to stay? You haven’t been here long nor have you endured a high country winter.”
She smiled impishly. “Why, Mr. Lockwood, I do believe you are trying to discourage me.”
“Not ‘discourage,’ but perhaps protect you from yourself.”
“I appreciate the impulse and I’m not unacquainted with the dangers, but in just this short time, the mountains have worked their magic on me.”
Magic? What was the woman thinking? It took much more than fairy dust to survive a brutal winter up there.
Marcus had slipped out while they were talking and now returned with his yawning brown-and-white dog. “Here.” Marcus held out the pup. Sophie set down her cup on a side table and embraced the animal, who promptly licked her face.
“What a charmer,” she said.
Marcus blushed. Toby and Buster drew near and sat at Sophie’s feet. “Are you finished with your cookies? Tell me when to set up the checkerboard.”
Marcus bristled, and Tate knew it was time to intervene. “Toby, let’s you and me play a few games and give Sophie and Marcus time to discuss names.”
Sophie shot him a grateful smile. “Marcus, why don’t we sit at the library table by the bookshelves? We might need to do some research before you feel right about what to call your dog.”
Tate concentrated on the checkers while also trying to eavesdrop on Sophie and Marcus’s conversation.
“I don’t want a boring name like Queenie or Lady.”
“How do you feel about historical or literary names?”
“Like what?”
Toby jumped Tate’s black marker and muttered, “Pay attention, Papa.”
He was paying attention, all right, but not to the game.
“Well, there are historical names like Cleopatra, Betsy Ross—”
“No. What do you mean literary names?”
“Perhaps from Greek mythology or Shakespeare.”
Toby kicked Tate under the table. “Please, Papa.”
“Oh, you mean like Athena and Juno or Juliet?”
“Exactly.”
“It’s your turn.” Tate made a move and then strained for his older son’s voice.
“Wait! I have an idea, Miss Sophie. Your name means wisdom, right? I want my dog to be wise, too.” His brow furrowed in concentration. “What about Minerva?”
“Minerva is a strong name. You could call her Minnie sometimes if you’d like.”
“Minnie...” The boy seemed to be testing the word. “Yes. I like it.” He shoved his chair back and carried the puppy to his brother and father. “My collie has a special name, the same as the Roman goddess of wisdom. Minerva.” The pup in his arms looked up at him and seemed to nod her head.
“A fitting name for such a fine animal,” Tate said.
“Minerva! That’s not as good as Buster,” Toby announced.
“It’s not a competition.” Sophie moved to Marcus’s side and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Each dog is unique and deserves a unique name.”
With that one statement, Sophie calmed the boys and secured peace. After that, she played two checkers games with Toby and two with Marcus. Tate chuckled to himself watching them vie for her attention. Sooner than he liked she announced her departure.
“Are you gonna come again?” Toby asked as she donned her jacket.
“When I receive an invitation,” she said.
Tate hesitated, his stomach in a knot. Courtesy suggested he should follow up on that remark. He couldn’t. It would never do for her to become a fixture in his sons’ lives. He was grateful for the time she’d given them, but there was too much likelihood of hurt if they became overly attached to her.
Yet after she’d left, Toby sulked by the fireplace, desultorily stroking Buster. Marcus, cradling Minnie, hunched over a book on mythology he’d extracted from the shelf. With a restlessness he was unable to tame, Tate paced the room until finally he grabbed his coat and hat and headed for the barn, where he hoped lulling sounds and familiar, earthy odors would quiet his racing heart.
* * *
When she entered her cabin later that afternoon, Sophie was greeted by a delighted Beauty as well as by the enticing aroma of the ham and beans she’d left simmering in the Dutch oven before visiting the Lockwoods. After checking the fire pit, she brought in fresh wood before removing her hat and jacket. Even though the weather was still wintry for May, she’d found the ride home invigorating and had worked up a healthy appetite. As the renewed fire warmed the room, she washed her hands and was preparing to dish up some supper when Beauty bristled and stalked to the door, where she stood on guard. “What’s the matter, Beauty?”
When the dog didn’t stir, Sophie moved stealthily to the loaded rifle. She would not make the mistake again of opening the door without knowledge of her caller’s identity. Leaning against the door, she called out, “Who’s there?” just as a voice boomed, “Open up, missy. It’s me. Grizzly.”
Limp with relief, she opened the door. “Please come in.”
Looking more like his namesake bear than a man, Grizzly entered with his dog, Sarge, and stood eyeing the weapon in her hands. “Good fer you, missy. Can’t get too comfortable here.” Then he turned his gaze to the stove. “Smells like I’m just in time for dinner.” Without waiting for an invitation, he continued, “Don’t mind if I do.”
Behind them the two dogs circled each other, made a few playful nips and then settled happily in front of the hearth. “See you’ve got yerself a partner.”
“Her name’s Beauty and she’s a great companion.”
“No substitute for a red-blooded man, I’ll wager,” he said with a mischievous wink.
“I had one of those, and one was enough.”
He tossed his bearskin hat on the table. “Don’t quite know how to take that, missy. One was enough to spook you forever or you had one so good he put anyone else to shame?”
In that moment Sophie found she had a need to talk about Charlie, and in a peculiar way, she knew Grizzly was discreet. “I’ll dish us up some ham and beans and tell you about my Charlie. Will you be able to stay the night?”
“If it’s all right with you, in the barn.” He removed his heavy coat, withdrew a packet from one pocket and then threw the garment over a chair. “I stopped by the Harpers’ place and picked up some mail. Here.” He thrust the bundle into her hands. Spontaneous tears filled her eyes as she recognized her father’s spidery hand and Lily’s graceful one. It was all she could do to set the correspondence aside and concentrate on Grizzly. These were her first letters from home. She mentally corrected herself. This was now home—that other place was Kansas.
“How does the mail work up here? I’ve written some letters, but need to learn about posting them.”
“Lucky I stopped by, then.” He sat down and pulled closer to the table. While she served the piping-hot bowls, he explained. “Those who regularly make trips down to Denver or Longmont take the mail and then fetch parcels and mail back to Harpers’. Joe sorts it and holds it until it’s either picked up or until someone passing by can deliver it.”
“So I should give you the letters I’ve written?”
“Best to deliver them to Harper, maybe when you next go to church.”
“I rue the time delay on sending or receiving the post.”
“One price of livin’ in God’s country.” He took his first spoonful, nodded approvingly and said, “Now, girl. Tell me about this Charlie.”
As she explained to Grizzly how they had met, how deliriously happy they’d been and how talented and ambitious Charlie was, she found that speaking aloud about him to another was liberating. So long as she could share their special times, her memories were fresh and comforting—proof that her love for him and his for her was enduring.
“And then what happened?” Grizzly demanded, wiping his unkempt beard with his napkin. “Don’t reckon he left you to fend fer yourself in this wild place.”
“If only,” Sophie said, her eyes focused on a piece of ham swimming in the broth. “At least then he’d still be alive.”
Grizzly laid down his spoon and reached for her hand. His warm, rough skin was oddly soothing. “Tell me about it?”
As if floodgates had been breached, the details tumbled out, accompanied by tears she was helpless to stem.
When she finished, he squeezed her hand and shook his head. “Heap of tragedy there. Loneliness, too, I ’spect.”
“Unbearable,” she added softly, wiping her wet cheeks with her apron. “That’s why I said I’d already had one red-blooded man. He was a blessing from God. I don’t ask for more.”
Grizzly leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “You don’t strike me as a quitter or you wouldn’t be here.”
“Life doesn’t stop just because the heart has been ripped out of a person. I had no choice but to live. Otherwise, I would dishonor Charlie’s memory.”
“Or he’d haunt you from the grave,” Grizzly said with a chuckle. They fell silent, and Sophie struggled to swallow the last of her ham and beans. Sometimes it did seem as if Charlie was...not haunting her but...abiding in her presence. Like right now. He would’ve liked Grizzly and quizzed him about his knowledge of the mountains.
She folded her napkin and was about to rise from the table when Grizzly’s next words stopped her. “I think you’re selling your God short, girlie.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“I ain’t much fer churchgoin’, but the Big Fella is a bountiful God. Think of all He created, how generous He was. While there’s a powerful lot of wailing and gnashing of teeth in the Good Book, there’s hope and promise and love abundant. My God isn’t gonna set you here in this Eden and leave you alone. No, ma’am. He’s no quitter. Now, your Charlie may have been a wonder of a sweetheart, all right, but I’m gonna be aprayin’ for him and the Lord to send you another man to love. Lord knows, we all can use a heap o’ lovin’.”
“But I don’t need—”
“You hush now and leave all this in God’s hands. It may not be about what you need, but about what you have to give. Ever think of it like that?”
She stared at this hulking giant of a man, so filled with kindness and so unlike any confidant she’d ever had. Was he, too, a gift from God? “I’ve not always been good about surrendering.”
His laughter shook the walls. “Do tell,” he finally sputtered after gaining control of himself. “You just wait. If there’s one thing old Terence P. Griswold has learned in his time on this earth, it’s that life is full of surprises. Yours’ll come, mark my words.” He got to his feet, took his hat from the table and smiled down at her. “Mighty fine supper, missy. Even better palaver. I’ll be long gone by sunup, but I surely appreciate you.” He winked. “And you can cook, too.”
After he left, it was as if some of the air had been sucked from the room, such was his energy. She pondered their conversation. Was she to believe God could have more surprises in store for her? Grizzly had credited her with faith, a faith she didn’t know whether she could claim anymore.
With a lightening of spirit, she turned to the bundle of letters Grizzly had delivered, untied the twine holding them together and arranged them in chronological order, her fingers trembling with excitement. She recognized missives from her father, from both brothers and their wives and from her nieces and nephews. A treasure delivered by a disheveled mountain man. If nothing else, God surely had a sense of humor.
Later, after banking the fire and changing into her cozy flannel nightgown and wrapping up in a wool shawl, Sophie settled in the rocker near the hearth and by lantern light began to read the precious letters from her family, beginning with one from her father. His tall, scratchy hand, so familiar to her, recalled his patience as he tried to teach her her ABCs before sending her off to the one-room schoolhouse. Although she knew him as a man of few words, his words, when they came, were wise. This message was no exception.
Dearest daughter,
By now, I picture you settled in the mountains with fresh air cleansing your soul and invigorating your spirit. We are all grateful to the Hurlburts for their hospitality and relieved to know they are nearby should you require assistance. From the time you could walk, there was never any keeping you down. I think God created you to explore and embrace what life has to offer. This is how I deal with your absence—rejoicing instead of regretting. Although I imagine it may still be cool where you are, here the pastures are greening and the spring flowers blooming. Spring has always represented promise for me. I pray it does for you, as well. We eagerly await word from you and a description of your cabin, surroundings and new friends.
Always with prayers and love,
Your Pa
Sophie folded the letter carefully and held it for a moment to her heart. With what nobility and devotion he had cared for his family. How difficult it must have been for him—a widower with two small sons and an infant daughter. Yet never once had she seen evidence of frustration or resentment in his treatment of her brothers or her. Quite the contrary. As she looked back, she suspected his children were the glue that held him together after the loss of their mother.
Next she read a scrawled, smudged note from her adopted nephew Alf, followed by a few lines from his mother, Rose, with an enclosed recipe for venison stew. Then she picked up a letter from her brother Caleb and his wife, Lily. Caleb began with a detailed account of the cattle business in which they were all involved; and then Lily took over, telling about their children and Seth and Rose’s. Sophie looked up, nearly overcome by nostalgia. In the family’s loving words she could smell the lilac-laden breeze, hear the laughter of little ones playing hide-and-seek, taste Rose’s famous cinnamon buns and feel the love that so characterized her Kansas family. It would have been easier perhaps for her to remain cocooned in the circle of their care, but she had known that such a course would ultimately paralyze and change her. No, she had needed to leave.
She glanced around her small cabin, fixing her eyes on those artifacts of home—the quilt, the photograph, Lily’s sampler. Even though it had been the right decision to come here, just for a moment tears of homesickness prickled as she pictured each and every one of them—her father, Caleb, Lily, Mattie, little Harmony, Seth, Rose, Alf and Andy. Blinking, she opened the final letter bearing the most recent postmark, one from her brother Seth. She unfolded the single page and tried to take in his few but disturbing words.
Sister, our father has had a small stroke, but seems to be recovering. Doc Kellogg has recommended slowing down, but you know how stubborn Pa can be. We are all keeping an eye on him, so don’t fret.
Sophie closed her eyes, trying to picture her vigorous father diminished. In her heart she knew the other family members would do all they could for his benefit, yet she couldn’t suppress her initial reaction. She should be there. Once more she blinked back threatening tears. In her planning she had tried to prepare herself mentally for the fact that she would miss important family occasions or health issues, but nothing had prepared her for this blunt reality.
As if sensing her distress, Beauty rose from the hearthside, where she’d been sleeping, and came to Sophie, laying her head in her mistress’s lap. That one comforting act provoked what Sophie had so valiantly been trying to restrain—a lonely sobbing that filled the room.
* * *
Now what was he supposed to do? Tate paced his office early Friday morning, frustration and helplessness fueling his movement. The solution upon which he had pinned his hopes had blown up in his face. Why couldn’t people be counted upon to fulfill their obligations? He went to his desk and reread the offending letter.
The previous evening, exhausted from a ride to and from a meeting on the far side of the valley, he had not read his mail, picked up by his foreman, Sam. Only now had he opened the letter from Wallace Tolbert III, full of flowery language and evasions. Despite their flourishes, the man’s words screamed cowardice. Once full of brave, idealistic promises, the young man had “reconsidered the generous offer to serve as tutor and companion” for Marcus and Toby. “Other opportunities of a more civilized nature” had presented themselves, so now Tate was once again faced with the dilemma of educating his sons. He threw the offending letter on the desk, cursing under his breath. He sat down, opened a desk drawer and withdrew several brochures from Eastern boarding schools. For the umpteenth time he studied them: “exceptional young men”; “a remarkable classical education”; “playing fields worthy of Eton.” The claims swirled in his brain.
No doubt they were excellent schools. Faraway excellent schools. Parentless schools. He swiped the papers to the floor. No. He couldn’t send his boys away. No education was worth their separation.
He wasn’t a praying man. Yet he had no other place to turn and no solutions for the problem gnawing at his heart. Could he spare the time from his schedule to tutor them? Not if he intended to maintain his business interests, which would one day, when they were academically prepared, enable him to send his boys to the finest universities. Besides, their needs were so different, and nothing in his education had prepared him to teach anyone. He buried his face in his hands, uttering only the small word, “Please.”
Preoccupied, he barely heard the tentative rap on the door. He waited, and the knock came again. “Come in,” he called.
Marcus edged into the room, trailed by Minnie. “May I have a piece of paper and some ink for my pen?”
“Of course. Are you writing a letter?” Even as he asked the question, he couldn’t imagine to whom his son might write.
“In my mythology book, I found more information about Minerva. I thought Miss Sophie might like to know.”
“I’m sure she would. If you write it down, I could have one of the hands deliver it for you.”
He rubbed his right toe over his left boot. “Good.”
Tate handed him several sheets of paper and a small bottle of ink.
Instead of withdrawing, the boy hesitated as if wanting to say something more. “Papa, do you think if I send this letter, she’ll come see us again? She’s very smart. I like talking to her.”
As if a knife had lodged in his chest, Tate recognized his son’s hunger for knowledge. “In your letter, perhaps you could invite her for another visit.”
“Thank you, sir,” Marcus said before beating a retreat.
Sophie Montgomery. He’d thought all he had to do was accompany her from the Hurlburts’ to her mountain cabin. Mission accomplished. Yet she wouldn’t go away. Not out of his home and not out of his mind.
He leaned back in his chair, staring at Wallace Tolbert III’s annoying letter. The longer he studied it, the more incensed he became. Until, like a bolt from the blue, an idea occurred to him. Not one without pitfalls, but nevertheless a practical solution in such an extremity. Did he dare? What choice did he have?
Raising his eyes heavenward, Tate expelled a sigh. He’d had no idea God could work that fast.