Tate looked around at the folks seated on the ground outside Martha and Jackson Tyler’s place. He realized it was more people than he’d ever seen at one time in one place in Estes Park. He’d resisted coming and had been embarrassed, even a little irritated, by the welcome so many had tendered. Nor was he oblivious to the surprised looks some had tried to conceal when he’d arrived with Marcus and Toby in tow. Rapscallions. Nobody but his sons could have convinced him to attend a Sunday service, something he had not done since leaving Philadelphia. But, for better or worse, here he was.
Without Sophie’s lessons, the boys had grown restless. Particularly in Marcus, Tate sensed a loneliness that took him back to his own childhood. As the days had worn on, he knew his sons needed exposure to other young people. It was Marcus who had first brought up the idea of the church service. “I’m learning lots from the Bible. The preacher can prob’ly teach me more.”
Toby had jumped right on the suggestion. “I know about Noah. I want to hear another story about those Bible people. Come on, Papa. Let’s go.”
When Tate had offered lame excuses, Marcus had shrewdly looked right through him and said, “What are you afraid of, Pa?” He had not answered. How could a mere boy understand a fear of losing control, of accepting a God who had created a world in which bad things happened?
For the benefit of his sons, though, coming to the community church service had been a good idea. Toby was playing tag with several other children while Marcus and a trapper’s son about his age huddled together on a rock examining some bird feathers. For Tate, though, the experience bordered on torment. Seeing his friends and neighbors, all seemingly quite at ease, made him feel distinctly out of place. He looked about for somewhere to sit and perhaps become less conspicuous. Just then Martha Tyler sidled up to him. “The world hasn’t come to an end, you know,” she said with a smile.
He grinned ruefully. “Because I’m here, you mean?”
“People come to the Lord at different ages and stages.”
“I merely brought my sons to a community gathering. My coming to the Lord is an entirely different matter and not likely to happen anytime soon.”
She patted his shoulder. “The way I figure it, that’s more up to the Lord than to you. Would you join our family for the service?” She glanced around. “It’s about to begin.”
Grateful to be part of a group instead of a lone curiosity, he allowed himself to be led to a large blanket spread on the grass near the Tylers’ front porch, where Jackson, Dolly and John were already seated. Across the way, a farmer he recognized rang a large cowbell and the children scampered to join their families. “Isn’t this fun?” Toby panted, settling beside him. Marcus sank down on his other side and poked him. “I think I’m going to like the service.”
Then to Tate’s surprise, John Tyler stood up, extracted a tuning fork from his pocket, hit a note and commenced singing, “To God be the glory, great things He has done...” From high sopranos to deep basses, other voices joined in. Martha pressed a hymnal into his hands opened to the correct page. Marcus and Toby leaned closer, found the place and were ready to sing when the chorus came.
“Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, Let the earth hear His voice!” Tate remained silent despite Toby’s tug at his sleeve. All around, people sang with enthusiasm, finally finishing with, “O come to the Father, through Jesus the Son, and give Him the glory, great things He has done.” Great things? Tate inwardly scoffed. Wars? Floods? And was he expected to give God credit for the benefits derived from the sweat of his own brow? From shrewd business decisions? Should he be giving God the glory for leading him into a doomed marriage with the wrong woman?
By the time the preacher started with several Bible readings and prayers, Tate was more than edgy—he was ready to bolt. Yet with Marcus’s and Toby’s hands in his, he was anchored to the spot. “Listen, Papa,” Toby said rather too loudly a few minutes into the sermon, “he’s telling us about some men in a lion’s den. I like lions.”
“Daniel,” Marcus snapped at his brother.
Tate could relate to the story. He felt rather as if he, too, were confined in a lion’s den of others’ expectations that he should suddenly “come to the Father,” as the hymn suggested and plead mercy. He hated to disappoint Martha Tyler, but God was not tapping him on the shoulder this day.
A stray thought startled him. Did Sophie truly believe all of this church haranguing? After what she’d been through? What she was currently enduring? That would be faith, indeed. He wished he knew what was happening with her father. With her. Then with an inner groan, he owned up to his greatest fear—what if she didn’t come back?
Dimly he became aware the congregation was now singing “Blessed Assurance.” He squirmed in the hope this unendurable service would soon be over. Blessed assurance? He could almost bring himself to pray if he thought God would assure him of Sophie’s swift return. And not just for the boys’ sake. Despite all his efforts to the contrary, he was pretty sure he was falling in love with the irrepressible Sophie. But he’d be a fool to voluntarily step once more into the lion’s den of romantic love. Look where that had gotten him before. “I like the singing,” Toby said when the service concluded, “and the stories and all the people and—”
“Promise we can come back again,” Marcus said, fingering Tate’s sleeve.
What were the boys experiencing that he wasn’t? Yet how could he deny them something they so clearly enjoyed with people who were offering them a broader sense of community?
Tate relented. “I suppose we could.”
Toby jumped up and down at his side. “Yippee! Maybe Miss Sophie will be here next time!”
“If she comes back,” Marcus reminded his brother.
“She’ll be back,” Toby responded with confidence. “I got the blessed insurance about it.”
“Assurance.” Marcus was quick with the correction.
Tate started walking the boys toward the buggy. Insurance or assurance, what was the difference? What mattered was the ever-deepening bond they all felt with Sophie and what they were going to do about it.
* * *
Only the sheltering presence of Caleb and Seth on either side of her kept Sophie grounded in the present moment. All she wanted to do was float far beyond this crowded church and the suffocating reality of her father’s death. For the past two days well-wishers had arrived at the ranch in a steady stream, sapping her energy and allowing little outlet for the private grief building within her. This morning’s funeral, conducted in lieu of the regular Sunday service, was nearly over, and though she appreciated the outpouring of sympathy from their friends, she felt an overwhelming need to be alone—to run up into the hills and give vent to her own sorrow. As if from a great distance, Pastor Dooley’s words flowed over and around her. On the other side of Seth, a sob erupted from Rose, and Sophie bit her lip to keep from crying out. Caleb maintained a soldier’s erect composure, but she could see his leg jiggling with tension. The reading of the twenty-third psalm preceded the final prayer. Sophie clung to the verse “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for Thou art with me...” Her father had feared nothing except the loss of those closest to him. He had always faced adversity and tragedy through faith and hard work. He would expect nothing less of her.
“What a friend we have in Jesus, all our pains and griefs to bear...” Caleb helped her to her feet. From every side, loud, imperfect voices sang the concluding hymn, but all Sophie could do was wonder how Jesus was planning to help her bear the weight of her losses. Outside the church, the ladies began laying out dishes for the funeral luncheon. Sophie nearly gagged on the odors. She couldn’t imagine putting a bite in her mouth, much less swallowing it.
Lavinia Dupree came up to her, placed a firm hand under her elbow and led her to the shelter of an overhanging tree. “I expect you’ve had enough of community rites. These events too often take on a life of their own.”
Sophie sagged against Lavinia, permitting herself to rest in the older woman’s embrace. “They mean well,” she finally said.
“Of course. But they are not your concern. Or mine. Sometimes you have to forget everyone else and concentrate on your own needs.”
Sophie stepped back and turned her head to watch the funeral goers, who now seemed more like relieved banquet guests than consolers. Meaning well was nice, but it wasn’t enough.
“Sophie?” Lavinia spoke softly. “What about you?”
Sophie searched her heart. “I can’t cry. I need to, but tears won’t come. I should be crying.”
“Grief has no ‘shoulds’ and crying isn’t required.” Lavinia picked up Sophie’s hand and gently stroked it. “If you could do whatever you wanted right now without a thought for propriety, what would it be?”
Sophie lifted her eyes to Lavinia’s. “I would go out into those hills and walk and talk to God. Question Him. Plead for answers.”
“And maybe shake a fist or two?”
For the first time all day, Sophie managed a smile. “That, too.”
“All right, then. When we get back to the ranch house, you do just that, and I’ll keep everyone else at bay.”
Sophie knew the imposing woman could handle any objections. The entire family loved Lavinia, but rarely crossed her. “How did you know how I’m feeling?”
“Funeral rituals have suffocated me on occasion, too.”
“Thank you,” Sophie murmured, finally feeling a sense of direction.
After arriving back at the ranch, Sophie went to her room and exchanged her black dress for a shapeless gingham one. She donned a wide-brimmed sunbonnet and after giving each of her brothers and sisters-in-law a gentle word, slipped out the kitchen door, passed through the barnyard and started up a cow path leading toward a rocky flat-topped hill. The buzz of insects and the earthy smell of prairie grass soothed her. The faster she walked, the more deeply she breathed, the better she felt—as if finally her lungs could once again expand and contract without the grip of worry. She realized her body, too, had long been coiled with tension. She was accustomed to the out-of-doors, to challenging her stamina in the Rockies. The past few days had been uncharacteristically confining.
One of the ranch dogs trailed her, much as Beauty might. Sophie experienced a sudden spasm of longing for the solitude of her cabin and the majesty of the mountains. Reaching the top of the hill, she sat down on a limestone outcropping, letting her legs dangle over the side. Below, nestled among the trees, was the ranch house built so lovingly by her father and Seth. She pictured them, their shirtsleeves rolled up, toting the stone blocks and sawing boards for the framework. She had thought her pa one of the ablest, strongest men in the world. Fearless, yet gentle. Determined, yet flexible. And always loving. She closed her eyes, recalling him carrying her as a toddler on his broad shoulders, pushing her in the rope swing he’d made for her and holding her on his lap as he told tales of his boyhood. She sat, remembering him, for a measureless time. When she opened her eyes, she was surprised to feel teardrops on her cheeks. Then she saw it—the Chase County Courthouse—her Charlie’s grand achievement. Charlie. Pa. There was no holding back. The floodgates opened and raw pain poured forth in an overdue catharsis.
When she could finally breathe again, she wiped her tear-streaked face on the soft hem of her dress. God, what am I to do now? So much has been taken from me. And then the questions came, one piling atop the other. Could she possibly leave this place again? The place where so many memories lived. The place where she would always be enfolded in a loving family circle. She had been far away when her father needed her. What if she was needed in the future? Had she sacrificed family to indulge her love of adventure? Yet there was no denying the powerful lure of the mountains or the liberating sense of being on her own. Being...true to herself.
She stood and gazed around the comforting mounds of the Flint Hills. Beneath her feet, wildflowers peeked from between rock crevices. There was beauty here, too. Not the wild, rugged beauty of the Rockies, but a more subtle kind. She recalled her father’s dying words. Mountains. Your dream. Be happy there. But could she? Of course, she’d have to return to close the cabin and collect her things. But stay?
Turning for home, she was startled to spot the figure of her ten-year-old nephew, Alf, sitting still as a stone a few yards down the path. How long had he been there? He faced the west, his legs folded, his arms at his sides, his raven’s-wing hair shining in the sun. At the sound of a rock dislodged by her foot, Alf turned. “I was worried,” he said simply.
This was far from the first time that the boy had seemed to intuit the feelings of his elders. “I needed to be alone.”
“I know. Me, too.” In one graceful movement, he got to his feet.
It occurred to Sophie that far too often adults underestimate the grief of children. And this one? He had witnessed the murder of his Pawnee mother at the tender age of four. He knew sorrow deep within his bones. “Are you ready to go home?”
He nodded. “Now I am.”
They walked in companionable silence for a ways. Then in a voice so small she had to lean closer to hear him, Alf said, “I want to know about the mountains. Are there eagles there? And bears?”
In that moment Sophie experienced a flash of recognition. Alf wanted the same kind of answers Marcus craved. She was overcome by her deep affection for both boys. And for Toby. Tate’s sons posed another consideration. How would she balance her affection for them, and theirs for her, with a possible decision to leave Colorado?
“Aunt Sophie?”
Returning to the present, Sophie tucked Alf’s hand in hers as they trudged along. “I have seen a bear, quite close actually, and I have a friend named Grizzly, who wears a bearskin coat and hat. I have yet to see an eagle, but there are hawks aplenty, and—”
“One day might I come visit you in Colorado? I should so like to see the mountains.”
His question tore at Sophie. Soon, she would have to decide where she belonged. “You are always welcome, Alf. I believe you would find the mountains as beautiful and compelling as I do.”
“Someday I will come,” he said with resolve.
“Yes, someday,” Sophie whispered. God willing.
* * *
Sophie would surely come back. If for nothing more than to reclaim her belongings and say goodbye. Tate tried not to be obvious, but Joe Harper must surely wonder why he so frequently checked for his mail. Today he’d manufactured an excuse concerning business matters. But standing in Joe’s tiny wooden post office, Tate experienced yet another disappointment. Still no word from Sophie. Only a brief telegram from Robert Hurlburt announcing Andrew Montgomery’s death. It had been two weeks now since Sophie had departed. Tate rationalized that settling affairs and being with her family would take some time, but if she was still set on Longs Peak, she would have to return soon lest weather prevent the attempt. Belle remained convinced the two of them would persevere, although she, too, had received no post from Sophie, whose determination to make the ascent was Tate’s best reason for hope.
“Get what you came for?” Joe asked as he continued sorting envelopes.
“Yes and no.”
The postmaster looked up, studying Tate closely. “Belle didn’t hear from Sophie today, either.”
The valley was full of mind readers and gossips, Tate thought sourly. “Am I that transparent?”
Joe chuckled, but had the grace to say no more.
Changing the subject, Tate asked, “Have you heard anything further about those journalist fellows?”
“Two of them were in here yesterday, nosing around. Wanted to talk with Belle. I told them no. They got a bit hostile, asking why I thought I had to protect a grown woman fully capable of speaking for herself.” He paused. “I tell you, Lockwood, I didn’t like them or their attitude, and I’m afraid there are others like them, itching to get a big story.”
“If Sophie comes back and she and Belle attack Longs, I’m thinking we need to have a plan. Feisty as they are, two young women may be no match for a pack of ravening opportunists.”
“Their ilk are relentless.”
“You can count on me and my hands, and I’m sure Jackson and John Tyler will help.”
“I’ll talk with some of the other valley men, as well,” Joe promised.
“There’s a part of me that wishes Sophie would stay safely in Kansas.”
“A mighty small part, I reckon,” Joe said, winking broadly. “She’s good for you and the boys.”
Tate chafed at the personal turn of the conversation. “Yes,” was all he said before lifting his hat in a gesture of farewell.
He rode home slowly. He couldn’t recall when anyone had occupied his thoughts as Sophie had these past interminable days. It didn’t help that the boys talked about her incessantly and clamored for the information he couldn’t give. In truth, he had no idea whether she would return, and if she did, for how long. He was in a bad way and knew with certainty that if she didn’t come to him, he would go to her.
* * *
Sophie woke up in an unfamiliar bed. Dawn was just breaking through the east-facing window and the curtains rustled in the gentle breeze. As she roused to full consciousness, she remembered how she’d arrived exhausted at the Hurlburts’ Denver home the previous evening after a fortnight in Kansas. Effie had fed her a light supper and packed her off to bed, assuring her there would be plenty of time to talk after she’d had a good night’s sleep. Sophie turned on her side to watch the sun rise. It had been so difficult leaving her family and the familiarity of the Flint Hills. They had, of course, implored her to stay. In her heart of hearts, she knew she could not. She had to finish what she had begun, both with Belle and the Lockwood boys. Then...then she would decide where her future lay.
Before she returned to Colorado, she’d made herself face once again Charlie’s death and the loss of his love. The day before her departure from Cottonwood Falls, she went to the courthouse. She walked around the magnificent building, touching the stones that Charlie’s strong hands had sculpted, marveling in his vision and his talent. She prayed for the magnificent limestone facade to reveal a message, to direct her decision. The silent stones yielded nothing. Yet as she concluded her circuit, her father’s voice echoed in her mind: Trust in the Lord.
That was all she could do. And now, lying here, nothing was any clearer to her than it had been that day at the courthouse. Trust. Somehow, someday, she would be shown the way. Meanwhile, she had a goal that might get her through the coming weeks—the ascent of Longs Peak.
After breakfast, Robert left the house on business he needed to accomplish before accompanying her to Estes Park. Effie poured them each another cup of coffee and suggested they retire to the front porch with its grand view of the Front Range. For a few minutes, they sat in silence. Sophie let her beloved mountains calm her while the taste of fresh-brewed coffee spoke to her of the blessing of friends like Effie.
“My dear, you have been through a difficult time. The death of a parent is a stab to the heart.”
“I never knew my mother,” Sophie said in a soft tone. “My father was my everything—nurturer, confidant, protector, playmate. Even at the grave site, I found it impossible to believe he had vanished from the earth.”
“But never from your heart.”
Sophie clutched her cup for its comforting warmth. “No, never from my heart.”
“Trite as it must sound, somehow life does go on, but any semblance of normalcy takes time. Permit yourself that time.”
Silence ensued in which Sophie pondered the demands on her life—the desire of her family to have her return to Kansas, the tug of Toby and Marcus on her heart, the daunting but energizing task of trying to scale a 14,255-foot-high peak, the need to decide whether to winter in the mountains.
Then Effie homed in on the one thing Sophie had tried to avoid thinking about. “And what of Tate Lockwood? Robert seems to think he has more than a passing interest in you.”
Being in Kansas with all its rich memories of Charlie’s courtship had made it easy to block any thought of Tate...and her attraction to him. Yet seeing the mountains had stirred feelings in her she had not until this moment fully admitted to herself. “I don’t know, Effie.”
“He’s a complex man, but I do believe he is one capable of great love if he will give himself over to another.” Effie cocked her head inquiringly. “Could you be that one?”
Sipping from her cup, Sophie delayed replying. How could she answer? Her emotions were confused in a way she’d rarely experienced. She was both eager to see Tate and at the same time terrified of misreading his intentions. And guilty at the thought of being, in any way, unfaithful to Charlie’s memory. “Dear Effie, I’m grateful for your interest and affection. But I cannot answer you. I don’t even know my own mind.”
Effie set down her cup and took Sophie’s hand. “Then go to the mountains, child. Be open to their lessons.”
“Thank you, Effie.” With the sun warming the porch, Sophie tipped her head back, experiencing a peace that had eluded her for many days.