Chapter Eight

It tormented Emily knowing this other woman’s letters must be somewhere in the cabin. Daniel surely must have kept them, and he wouldn’t be back until nightfall. He’d have no idea of how long it took her to do things, would not suspect.

Yes, she most definitely must read them, know her opponent, know the woman for whom he yearned so.

It was against her morals to search, but not against her instincts. The hunger to see those letters, the desire to see the woman with whom this very complex man had fallen in love, the words of love and endearments Ethel Darton had written to elicit his response—that loving address of Dearest Darling—were so strong, she could not possibly resist. Snooping, yes. Inquisitive, yes. And prying, nosey, too.

She opened her hunt in the linen press, casting aside his spare shirts and blue jeans, a suit (strange to think), a jacket, spare union suits, and boots. No letters.

She passed on to the kitchen where he might have read them, the pantry, cupboards. Still no letters. She had been living in his bedroom and noticed nothing unusual. Piles of books. Could they be in the books he read at night? Stuffed like markers in the pages?

Each book was lifted and shaken, the pages flapping like some intricate fan or a strange bird, but nothing revealed, no content other than the written word.

Emily plopped herself down on the bed, the stacks of books disturbed around her on the floor. She lifted one to read its spine.

Ah, yes. Mark Twain. A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court.

It had been published but last year. Daniel had a sense of humor. Or so she could assume. But aside from that, no clues, no evidence of this Ethel Darton.

A quick peek under the mattress revealed nothing. Nor in the makeshift nightstand. Could he have transferred the letters to the barn? While she was asleep the very first night? She again strummed through the front pages of several books. Some had Ex Libris plates with “Daniel Saunders” on them: a strange anomaly. Some were library texts, others well-read tomes, obviously second or even third-hand. And one had the bookplate of Collegiate School, New York. Wilfred’s alma mater.

Strange. How very strange…

She flipped through the pages, but there was nothing more to clarify why Daniel would have this particular book. It could, of course, be second hand. She reviewed the last days with him, but nothing gave her any more evidence of his past. He was from back east and had emigrated west ten years ago. A year ago, he had commenced a correspondence with one Ethel Darton whom he now wished to marry. And that was about it. No, one more...he had said something about knowing people like those in her circle.

Is that it?

She glanced again at the book she held: The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne. Yes. She had read Wilfred’s copy, similar to this, but not thought much of it. She tossed the book back on the pile.

Sitting down once more with his mending, she made every attempt to think it through, consider it as he would. Mr. Saunders wouldn’t feel the need to hide letters while he was here alone. Had he hid them while I slept? He had only removed her shoes that night, and set her bag by the bed, perhaps taken some of his spare clothes to the barn. But the letters weren’t in the linen press; she had gone through that—

The barn, of course.

Leaving the mending in a heap, she grabbed her cloak and dashed to the barn.

As Emily eased open the door, she could see through the shaft of half-light the bed he had made for himself, a sack for a pillow, his bedroll, a spare coverlet, and a carpetbag with…some garments covering...the letters.

Dust motes shifted in the pale band of sunlight coming in as she knelt beside the bed amongst some hay bales set on the straw that covered the floor. She nestled into it and pulled his blankets around her, scattered the letters on the coverlet, and picked one carefully. She checked her hands were not damp so they would leave no trace. And one by one she read them, losing track of time, losing sense of place.

My Dear Daniel,

On Wednesday, Kitty and I rode in the park and I thought I could not wait to see your Wyoming one day where I might ride through open fields…

Dearest Daniel,

Last night some friends and I went off to the opera and to dine after at Delmonico’s… …We had a great game of piquet with some friends visiting from France…

What was this? Who was she? It didn’t make sense at all for a woman who led such a life, a social whirl with friends and family, to give that up for a man with whom she had only corresponded. Daniel had fallen in love with this?

Stunned, Emily sat back, her hand across her mouth, disbelief immobilizing her. But there was nothing she could do, nothing she could say or ask. She certainly could not admit to reading the letters. She could not advise him as he was his own man. But how...how had he fallen for this capricious creature?

She shuffled the letters together again and threw them back in the bag. Rearranging the blankets and bedroll, she stood and checked everything was as she had found it, and then dusted herself down.

Leave it be, she told herself. Leave him to his fate, to the future he has made for himself. Perhaps he misses that life after all. Perhaps it is the eastern life he left behind, and now regrets it.

Outside, the early evening had given in to a light rain, and she lifted her face to the sky, eyes closed. Would Miss Ethel Darton appreciate this? No, she would not. Most certainly, she would not. There would be no shopping on the Ladies’ Mile, no sashaying through Delmonico’s in fine furs, no parties, no jewels, no balls in Wyoming.

The scrunch of the wagon on the slushy road and the smack of reins on a horse’s back sounded. Emily’s heart raced with a desperation to protect this man, to stop him from dashing headlong into this ridiculous union and, yes, to keep him for herself.

But how? How?

With a guilt that riddled her, she could not look at him, could not face him just yet.

****

She must have heard him; she couldn’t have missed the sound of the wagon. But Emily continued to stand, face to the sky, rain coming down, hair wet. The drops and the chill made her cheeks bloom, her lips rosebuds.

“You’ll catch your death,” Daniel said as he unhitched the horse and led it away.

“Did you live in a city? Do you remember it at all?” She didn’t open her eyes, but stayed with her face to the rain, licking her lips briefly to taste it. “I would be inside almost all day, every day. Except to hang wash or perhaps shop. This is heaven, feeling the rain like this. Pure heaven.”

He stood silent for a moment, an ache in his chest, before he shook his head and strode away. She’s crazy. She is crazy.

In the barn, he rubbed down the horse, then forked out its feed. He could let it out to pasture tonight now the snow was melting. Wild May weather. Unpredictable.

As he walked back to the cabin, she was still there, face to the sky, the drizzle laving her. He stopped, then bent and retrieved the one hay stalk off the back hem of her dress.

He should have known. It was to be expected.

“So, you found them,” he said simply.

Emily spun around as Daniel held up the single stalk. In the fading light she wouldn’t be able to read his expression, but he’d kept anger from his voice.

“I...”

“It’s only natural, I reckon—you wanting to read her letters. I’d probably feel the same, though whether I’da done it, gone looking, I don’t know.” He flicked the stalk to the wind.

“I wanted to know who you had fallen in love with.”

Her face was wet, as if she might have been crying, and her hair glistened slightly in what light was left. Dusk settled about them, but still he remained, motionless. He didn’t know what feelings he had but it wasn’t anger. What he said was true. It was natural. What was that old Indian saying? Don’t judge a man until you have walked a hundred miles in his moccasins?

He didn’t know, couldn’t know, what she was going through, what she thought or felt. Coming out here alone like that. Brave. Living as Wilfred’s servant in her own home...

Did she really want to get married? Or am I only what’s available? Why should she care about Ethel, or what she wrote? Why should she care about me?

What the heck?

“I’ll take you on in to town tomorrow, and we’ll see if we can find you a job.”