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DECEMBER 6, 1891
Weaving its lazy way north, the road from town was pleasant in all seasons, the river ever changing in both sound and size according to the snow melt in the Sawtooths farther north. Spring provided its own entertainment with a riot of bird songs beneath the newly budding aspen. Now in winter, when the trees were stripped of leaves and silent with no songbirds, apart from crows and ravens, there remained a unique beauty in stark contrasts of black and white. The only sound was that made by the horse’s hooves striking against hard-packed earth, a sound magnified by the complete absence of human conversation.
Clara guessed that they had been riding for a quarter of an hour without exchanging a single word. If that was the way Mr. Kincaid wished their daily journey to be conducted, then she would certainly not disappoint him with any attempt at polite conversation.
Instead of allowing herself to dwell on the man’s discourtesy, she turned her thoughts to the task ahead. After searching through two shelves of illustrated books, she hoped what she found would meet with Mrs. Hartmann’s approval. After all, her vision of whimsy might not align with that of Mrs. Hartmann. But apart from enduring these trips to and from the ranch, she looked forward to trying something new.
He turned off the main road, heading east up a narrow valley flanked by gentle treeless hills. A few miles in, the road took a sharp bend, and Mr. Kincaid slowed the buggy. She glanced at him, looking for an explanation. He nodded to the road ahead. “This is where Mr. Hartmann stops when he’s bringing guests out to the ranch.”
She followed his gaze, gasping in spite of her decision to remain as reticent as he. Before them, positioned at the crest of the knoll, stood an expansive two-story house. A deep porch wrapped around three sides of the structure, and four stone chimneys rose above the steep and gabled roof.
Mr. Kincaid volunteered a little more of his explanation for stopping. “He says the view of the house from here tends to impress the guests.”
She understood why. Now stripped of their summer foliage, aspen tree branches formed a backdrop of lace. In spring, dressed in palest green, they would create a stunning frame. From what she knew of Mrs. Hartmann, there would also be wildflowers in the meadow and perhaps stalks of foxgloves, flowering into mid-summer. A word came to mind—oasis. This was an oasis of gentility in a brand-new state with big dreams, shared by the Hartmanns.
Grazing in a long pasture that stretched along the stream to the south, was a herd of perhaps a dozen horses, their coats the color of burnished copper and all with ebony manes and tails.
He must have been following her gaze. “That’s his breeding stock. Gambit is the tallest one over there.” He pointed to the stallion running along the fence closest to the road. “That’s the horse he started with. It was his brother’s, and it was his idea to get into breeding a line of good ranching stock.” He pointed to the long barn below the house. “That’s the main barn there, goats, milk cows, and birthing stalls. There’s a horse barn around back and that new one over there is for the sheep they don’t sell in fall.”
“Three barns?”
“Four. You can’t see it from here. It’s for carriages and wagons.”
“I had no idea,” she murmured.
“He and his brother had a claim they worked together outside Sawtooth City. He and Bart own it now. Seems there was enough gold there to stake the ranch. They’ve done well, invested smart, watched expenses.” He gave a soft chuckle. “I still think Evan Hartmann has some Scottish ancestors.”
Clara turned to him, uncertain of his meaning. But he didn’t explain and slapped the reins and the horse stepped off again. “Why are there so many doors?”
“Each guest room has its own access to the porch. They call them suites. They even have their own indoor plumbing. I heard that was Mrs. Hartmann’s idea.”
And she wanted Clara to paint animals on the walls of the bedroom? Clara’s mouth felt like it’d been swabbed with cotton.
When they pulled up before the ranch house, Clara helped herself down from the buggy before Mr. Kincaid had a chance to assist her.
Jessie greeted them at the kitchen door. “Welcome. Come on in.”
“Where do you want this?” Mr. Kincaid gave a grunt as he lifted the box from the back of the buggy.
Clara looked to Jessie for the answer.
“Oh, you can carry it back to the bedroom. Come on. I’ll show you. What ya’ got in there?” Jessie asked.
“My painting supplies and fabric samples. Oh, and a few books from the shop.”
“That explains why it’s so heavy. It’s all those words,” Jessie said with a wink.
After studying the illustrations in one of the books Clara had borrowed from the bookshop, Lena pointed to a page asking, “Could you paint some of these woodland animals to the side of the bookcase? I don’t want them to be too similar to what one might find in a nursery, but something fanciful. Do you know what I mean?”
Clara nodded, her anxiety rising as she understood more of what Mrs. Hartmann wanted her to do. She had expressed some very specific ideas, and Clara worried that she was not as talented as Mrs. Hartmann seemed to believe. But Clara had always loved to paint, even considered furthering her studies before making the trip west in answer to Mrs. Reynolds’ advertisement. In the end, her love of books had won out. And yet, what Mrs. Hartmann proposed was rather exciting. Such an opportunity to let her imagination run free around an entire room was both exhilarating and terrifying.
Clara took in the furnishings of the bedroom, the colorful quilt, the tasteful window coverings, the luxurious rugs on either side of the bed. Mrs. Hartmann had refined tastes, but the changes she proposed hardly suited the rest of the room. She hadn’t mentioned what else she planned to do to make the room more suitable for a child.
“Would you also be willing to give me some ideas about fabrics for drapes?” Lena asked. “I was thinking of something brighter, something soft and in keeping with our woodland theme, don’t you agree? Perhaps a pale shade of green like the walls.” Mrs. Hartmann brought a forefinger to rest against her jaw in a thoughtful pose. “We have so little time, but together, maybe—?”
“I know we can make something warm and inviting for your little girl,” Clara said. She watched the woman’s expression alter at the comment. Her brow creased and her lips compressed into a thin line. It occurred to her how difficult this must be for the woman. She guessed she was well into her thirties, and from what she’d learned from Mrs. Reynolds, she’d only recently married. How hard would it be to change one’s life so suddenly to accommodate a child? From her obvious desire to provide a welcoming place, Mrs. Hartmann must be a woman with a compassionate heart.
A moment passed and Mrs. Hartmann’s earlier cheerfulness returned. “Yes, Clara, with your help, I’m certain we can.”
Carrying a ladder and can of paint, Mr. Kincaid stepped into the room. “Mrs. Hartmann. Miss Webster. Which wall is it you needed painted?”
“I was thinking that it might be nice to paint the wall behind the bed.”
Frowning, Clara watched as he began to move furniture away from the wall. As if it was not enough that she was lacking confidence in the task before her, she’d have to do it under Mr. Kincaid’s critical eye. She rummaged through the box and pulled out her sketchbook and pencils. Positioning herself near the window where the light would be best, she turned her back to the man and sat at the table. This would be a simple matter of focusing her attention. That shouldn’t be so difficult.
Clara was still sketching when Mrs. Hartmann returned an hour later. “What have you there?” Lena gestured to the drawing book.
“I’ve sketched out a woodland scene and thought we could let it run around the base board to the closet. It might appear that the animals had slipped in through a hidden door.”
Lena nodded. “Oh, yes! What child wouldn’t be thrilled with this? I love the idea.” Her smile widened. “You’re going to give a little girl a wonderful place to call her own.”
“Thank you for your confidence,” She gave a nervous laugh. “but maybe you should wait until I’m finished before you thank me for the work. I’m not sure I can do this. My painting has been limited to art boards, not walls.”
“I have faith in you,” Lena said with such assurance that Clara felt her cheeks grow warm with pleasure. “Now what else have you brought?”
“Um. I brought some fabrics from the mercantile. The clerk was very kind to allow me to borrow them. As soon as I told her it was for you, she was ever so helpful.” Clara pulled from the box two bolts of lace and one of satin in the palest shade of peach, and another in pink. “What do you think of these for the canopy?” At least, she wasn’t expected to sew them. She’d been assured that Jessie was up to the task.
“These are lovely.” Lena held the peach satin against her cheek. “So smooth.” She lay it back in the box and her brow creased. “You think these will work?”
What Mrs. Hartmann did not know was just how delighted Clara had been to find these. In shade and texture, they were a nearly perfect match to those her mother had selected to decorate her childhood bedroom. She’d felt like a princess living in a faraway fairytale castle. Of course, the child would love them just as she had. She’s was about to explain this to Mrs. Hartmann when Mr. Kincaid cleared his throat.
Clara had almost forgotten he was there, and she turned to see him resting against the ladder, wiping his hands on a rag. He met her gaze with his steady one, then turned to look at Mrs. Hartmann.
“Excuse me, ma’am. I’m no designer, but I’ve been thinking about what you said last night. It seems you’re concerned this little girl you’re taking in out of the kindness of your heart might be a wee bit shy, not knowing you and all.”
“Yes. You understood me correctly, Mr. Kincaid. I welcome any of your thoughts on the matter. Please speak freely.”
“Well, I’m imagining what one of my nieces might be feeling if the same were to happen to her. She’d be feeling lost and alone, wouldn’t she after losing her mother? She’d be wanting something familiar around her. Begging your pardon, ma’am, but this house isn’t going to feel at all familiar. It’s grand and everything is oversized, if you know my meaning.”
Clara felt the rise of heat to her cheeks for the second time today. This was the man who’d said not a word to her on the trip from Ketchum, and he had an opinion on decorating? It was absurd. But Mrs. Hartmann was listening with rapt attention. When she felt her nails digging into her palms, she relaxed her hand.
“A little girl who’s lived with nothing most of her life, might feel even more lost in a room that would better befit a princess in some fairytale, don’t you think?”
Clara took in the man’s tousled blond hair and coarse ranch attire and asked quietly, “What would you suggest, Mr. Kincaid?”
He took his time taking his eyes from Lena to meet hers. “Well, since you’re asking, I’d say that pretty satin and lace might not be the best choice for such a lass as you’re expecting.”
“And you’d suggest denim, perhaps?”
Lena picked up the satin and said, “No, I think I understand what Mr. Kincaid is saying.” She cast her eyes to the ceiling and back to the man. “How do I reduce the size of a room? She’ll feel so small in here by herself, won’t she?”
“I’m thinking so, ma’am. But there are things you might do to make it seem not so big.”
“And you have ideas about how to do that?” Clara asked curtly.
“A few.”
Lena laughed lightly. “Then please tell us. We have so little time.
Mr. Kincaid ran his hand down his cheek, looking less eager than when he’d begun. He hitched a shoulder and said, “I’d start with the bed you’ve planned. I think it might be twice what the little girl needs. Even at half the size, there’ll be room for you and Mr. Hartmann to sit by her side and read a night time story.”
Clara saw the dreams of her spacious canopy tossed aside now. And as the man opened his mouth yet again, she wondered what more he could suggest.
“The room is big, but couldn’t we bring in one of those comfortable stuffed chairs from the main room? There’s one I’ve in mind that might be big enough for two to cozy up in when sleep doesn’t come easily.”
“I imagine you must speak of the low back one with the wide stuffed arms.” Lena looked about the room and then pointed to where the bookcase was intended to stand. “It could be placed there, between the bookcase and the window.” She turned to Clara. “What do you think?”
“It’s your room, Mrs. Hartmann.” She pressed her teeth into her bottom lip to keep from embellishing her statement.
“And I value your opinion,” Lena said. She stepped to the window, surveying the room in one slow turn of her head. “But I think we must include the canopy. We’ll just use a different fabric.”
“I’m not much help there, ma’am. I’d just say something less fancy,” Mr. Kincaid said as he wrapped his large hands around the ladder to move it.
“Linen.” Clara surprised herself by speaking aloud the idea.
“Yes.” Lena nodded slowly. “Light and airy.”
From the top of the ladder, paintbrush in hand, Kincaid opined, “But those little woodland paintings are sure to brighten the child’s world.”
Clara supposed the man thought his approval of her paintings made up for the rest, but he was wrong. The arrogance of him was appalling. Two weeks might be more than she could endure of him.