Springwater Seasons Read online

  Rachel was touched. “She’s a wonderful woman,” she said.

  Jacob’s gaze was tender as he looked upon his wife. “None better,” he agreed.

  Rachel thought to herself that if she could be loved like that, and love as fiercely in return, she would reconsider her position on marriage. Then, oddly choked up by this observation, she slipped off to her room to wash and exchange her dusty riding clothes for a crisp black sateen skirt and a white shirtwaist with a high, lace collar. She didn’t have to relax her standards, she concluded, just because she was living in the untamed West now.

  *

  By the time he went to bed that night, Toby had not only been bathed, but measured for new clothes, and June-bug was busily laying out pattern pieces, cut from old sheets of newsprint. Rachel, long since finished washing the dishes, sat at the end of the same table, a book before her, watching the other woman work. Sewing was a skill Rachel had never truly mastered, and therefore her clothing was all store-bought, and correspondingly expensive. Living on a schoolteacher’s salary, she had a very limited wardrobe, and she was full of admiration as she looked on.

  Lantern light, added to the glow from the fireplace, gave a cozy air to the large room and caught in the silver strands glimmering in June-bug’s thick brown hair.

  “Tell me about Trey Hargreaves’s wife,” Rachel said, and was as appalled as if someone else had made the audacious request.

  Mrs. McCaffrey looked up from her labor of love. She’d taken to Toby right off, that was obvious, and he’d taken to her. Rachel just hoped the alliance wouldn’t end in heartbreak for June-bug, somewhere down the road, when and if Mike Houghton returned to claim his son.

  “I didn’t know her, though I’ve pried a few things out of Jacob. Trey lost her afore he settled out here—died in his arms, or so the story goes. She was shot when some no-goods robbed a general store in Great Falls—there to buy sugar, she was, poor thing—and after she died, Trey wasn’t good for much of anything for a long time.” She paused, remembering, then brightened and went on. “That’s a fine girl he’s got, though, that little Emma. Smart as they come, and pretty, too. Right pretty.” She sighed and began cutting out the small pair of trousers.

  “And?” Rachel prompted, sensing something left unsaid. She’d already gone barging into the subject; no use sparing the horses now.

  June-bug’s expression was rueful in the lamplight, and she was still for a long while, as though looking back over time. Finally, she met Rachel’s gaze and spoke. “I reckon Emma’s going to have a hard time of it all her life.”

  “Because of her father and the saloon?”

  June-bug smiled sadly and shook her head. “No,” she said. “Trey was a rogue and a rounder for a long time. Lot of other things, too, I reckon. But he loves that child, and he’d do just about anything he had to do to protect her and keep her happy.”

  Rachel waited, knowing there was more. Being a motherless child was very difficult, but this, she sensed, was an even greater challenge, whatever it was.

  June-bug’s hair, worn down around her shoulders in the evening, fell over one shoulder as she worked, but she raised her head when she finally went on. “Emma’s mama was a full-blooded Lakota Sioux. Trey called her Summer Song. Must have been a beautiful woman, if that little girl’s looks are anything to go by, but out here—well, everyplace, really—folks don’t look too kindly on … on—”

  “Half-breeds?” Rachel said, to get them both past the ugly word. “Are you saying that people around here don’t accept Emma Hargreaves as one of them?”

  “There’s them who will refuse to send their young-’uns to school if she’s there. It ain’t right, and it makes Trey mad enough to bite nails, but that’s the way of it. And her such a precious little thing, too, with a fine mind and a gentle heart.”

  Rachel wanted to weep. Poor Emma! Not only did she have to deal with ignorance and prejudice, but she had a saloon-keeper for a father. It was in that moment, Rachel would later reflect, and often, that she had decided to make a special project of educating Emma Hargreaves. She knew of a certain Quaker school in Pennsylvania, where children like Emma were welcomed, and taught to rise, through learning and confidence in themselves and God, above things that might otherwise have held them back. Still, to gain admittance, not to mention a scholarship, Emma would have to score very highly in her studies and prove herself deserving.

  “You look so sad,” June-bug said, with a tender smile. “It ain’t all sorrowful, you know. That little girl is happy, for all of it. Maybe it’s them Indian ways of hers that see her through—she’s got a knack with animals, for instance, like nothin’ you’ve ever seen. And she listens to the wind and the rain, even the snow, like she can hear it sayin’ somethin’ to her.” June-bug put down her scissors and came to sit on the bench, facing Rachel. “Don’t make the mistake of feelin’ sorry for Emma. You’ll wound her for sure if you do.”

  Rachel smiled. It was good advice, and she meant to take it. “I think I’ll turn in,” she said, with a sigh. “It’s been a long day.”

  “You lookin’ in on the Kildares tomorrow?”

  Rachel nodded. “Maybe the Johnsons, too, if I can manage it.”

  June-bug was pleasantly skeptical. “Them Kildare boys will probably wear you plumb out. Full of the devil, they are, and their daddy don’t say much to ’em about the way they act. Yes, Ma’am, you’re going to have your hands full with them.”

  More good news, Rachel thought, but she was a person of almost boundless energy, and she would be more than a match for two little boys, no matter how wild they turned out to be. Perhaps, she reasoned later, it was her preoccupation with Emma Hargreaves that made her overlook the fact that she was tempting fate, and sorely.

  When she arose the next morning, dressed in yesterday’s riding clothes, which she’d shaken out and brushed carefully the night before, she found Toby already up and around, clad in his new shirt and trousers. He was coming through the doorway with an armload of kindling when Rachel first spotted him.

  “Good morning,” she said, with a smile.

  He beamed at her. “Mornin’,” he replied, and sniffed It was probably wrong, but Rachel found herself hoping his father would never return. She wondered if the boy had a mother somewhere, but did not consider asking. “Miss June-bug’s makin’ biscuits and sausage gravy for breakfast!” he announced.

  Rachel laughed. “That is good news,” she said. It was barely dawn, and there were a few lamps burning, as well as a leaping fire on the hearth. The delicious aroma of fresh coffee filled the air, though there was no sign of either June-bug or Jacob.

  So intent was she on the pleasures of awakening in the midst of a cozy household that she didn’t notice the man lying on the bench, sleeping, and nearly sat on him. She jumped up with a start and a gasp; her heart feeling as though it had stuffed itself into the back of her throat.

  Toby laughed. “Don’t mind him. He’s just an old drifter that had a few too many shots of whiskey down at the Brimstone last night. Jacob let him bed down here, ’stead of the barn, case the old coot should want a smoke and set the hay on fire.”

  Rachel peered at the man, a grizzled fellow, redolent of liquor and sweat and general fustiness. He looked harmless enough, but startled her again by letting out a sudden, loud snore. “Good heavens,” she said, alarmed.

  The door opened and Jacob came in, with an armload of firewood. “Not much of heaven about poor old Sibley,” he commented, but kindly. “He brung news from the Wainwright place, though. They’ve got a new baby out there, as of yesterday. A little girl they mean to call Rachel—after you, I reckon.”

  Rachel was overcome. She had never aspired to such an honor, never dreamed of one, and her knees went so weak for a moment that she almost sat on Sibley for certain. “I must go and see Evangeline,” she decided aloud. “Now, today.”

  “Nobody around to go with you,” Jacob pointed out.

  Rachel headed for her room, to fe
tch the paeonia cutting and her cloak. “Then I’ll go by myself,” she said, and when she came out again, with her things, nobody raised an argument.

  CHAPTER

  3

  RACHEL SADDLED the same ancient draft horse she’d ridden the day before, there in the misty dimness of the station barn, and led the creature out into the early morning. Jacob soon appeared, standing with arms folded.

  “Ain’t you even going to ask the way?” he inquired in measured tones.

  She was occupied with the logistics of transporting that infernal paeonia cutting, but she’d been watching the Stationmaster out of the corner of her eye and bracing herself for a more forceful protest than the one he’d offered earlier, inside the station. “No need,” she said lightly. “Evangeline and I have been corresponding regularly ever since she and Abigail came out here. She drew me a map once, and I’ve looked at it so many times over the last four years, I’ve got it memorized.”

  “There’s Indians out there, unfriendly ones,” Jacob said, presumably describing the territory between Springwater and the Wainwright ranch. “Bobcats and wolves, too. Miss Evangeline had herself a couple of different run-ins with wolves. She ever write you about that?”

  A shiver wound itself along the length of Rachel’s spine. She had indeed received a thorough accounting of those encounters, and she’d had nightmares about them on and off, ever since. Her reaction to that was to strengthen her inner resolve. “Yes,” she admitted. “But if I let such things daunt me at every turn—well, I might just as well have stayed home if I was going to do that.”

  At the sound of an approaching horse, they both turned, and there was Mr. Hargreaves, mounted on his paint gelding. “Mornin’,” he said, to all assembled, with a tug at the brim of his hat. “Young Toby tells me you mean to ride out to the Wainwright place, Miss English. Since I’m headed that way anyhow, to fetch my daughter back home, I thought you might allow me the honor of keeping you company.”

  Rachel couldn’t help being glad of an escort, though she was entirely too stubborn to let on. She gave Jacob a narrow look, well aware that the arrangement was a contrived one; obviously, the older man had sent Toby to the Brimstone Saloon, there to prevail upon Mr. Hargreaves to arise from his bed and accompany the reckless tinhorn schoolmarm on her journey. That was, she reflected, if Mr. Hargreaves had ever gone to bed in the first place. He was in need of barbering, as a dark stubble covered his jaw, and his clothes looked rumpled. Carousing was apparently untidy work.

  “I could not possibly refuse such a generous offer,” Rachel said, ungenerously.

  Trey smiled, showing perfect white teeth, and touched his hat brim again. He might as well have said, straight out, that if she wanted to play games, he would make a worthy opponent. “Here,” he said, riding forward a little and extending a hand, “let me hold that seedling, or whatever it is, so you can get into the saddle. I’m expecting more drovers to come through tonight, and I want to be back in time to see they get their whiskey and I get their money.”

  Rachel glowered at him, but she let him take the paeonia cutting and hoisted herself onto the borrowed horse’s back. As the fates would have it, it was an utterly ungraceful effort. When she was settled, with her skirts arranged and her dignity in place, though still faltering a bit, she took the paeonia back. She would be almost as glad to get rid of the thing, she expected, as she would be to see Evangeline again.

  “Heaven forbid,” she said, “that anyone should be deprived of their proper share of the devil’s brew.”

  Trey rolled his eyes at that. “This might be a long day,” he said, addressing Jacob.

  “No doubt it will,” Jacob agreed. “Give the Wainwrights our best, and tell ’em we’ll come by for a look at that new baby soon as we have the chance.”

  Trey smiled and nodded, but without the insolence he apparently reserved for Rachel. Then he spurred the paint into a leisurely trot, and Rachel had to scramble to keep up. Her own elderly mount would never be able to match his fancy gelding’s pace, and she figured he well knew it.

  He reined in at the edge of the woods and waited with an indulgent expression that made Rachel want to slap him. She had never done another human being violence in her life, and she didn’t intend to start then, but the temptation was a sore one all the same.

  They passed the first half of the trip in silence, Trey keeping the paint to a reasonable pace with, she suspected, some difficulty. She could see that the horse wanted to break free and run, and she didn’t blame it.

  “I won’t mind if you want to ride on ahead,” she said, somewhat stiffly, when they stopped alongside Willow Creek to rest for a few minutes and let both animals drink. “Poor old Sunflower here can’t move very fast.”

  Trey patted Sunflower’s neck as she drank, but he was looking up at Rachel, who stood higher on the grassy bank, wishing she’d taken the time to pack some spare clothes. She had nearly two months before classes were scheduled to begin and, while she still wanted to visit all the families of her potential students, there was no reason she couldn’t spend a week or even two with Evangeline, if she wouldn’t be intruding. Doubtless, her friend could use the help.

  “Maybe you and I ought to strike a truce,” Trey said, catching her totally by surprise. “I have a few redeeming qualities, you know.”

  Rachel arched an eyebrow. Truth be told, she thought it would be unwise to get too friendly with a man like Trey Hargreaves. He nettled her, but it was deeper than that. He was the most, well, male man she had ever encountered, and he stirred sensations in her that she’d thought were buried forever. Buried with Langdon.

  “Such as?” she asked, but she felt a smile play at the corners of her mouth.

  He laughed and swatted one thigh with his hat “Well,” he said, “I can beat most anybody at arm wrestling. I’ve never lost a horse race or a fist fight in my life, and for all that, I have good table manners.”

  Rachel had to struggle not to smile outright. She folded her arms. “Most impressive,” she said.

  He stretched out his hand. “Shake?”

  She hesitated, then moved forward and reciprocated. “For Emma’s sake,” she was careful to say, but at his touch, innocent as it was, a rush of heat surged up her arm and raced through her system to spark at every nerve ending. He went on holding her hand for a moment too long, and for a fraction of that time, she honestly thought he was about to kiss her.

  It was both a disappointment and a relief when he did not.

  “We’d better get rolling,” he said, letting his hand fall to his side.

  Rachel nodded and turned away, embarrassed by the color she knew was throbbing in her cheeks.

  It was midafternoon when they climbed a steep track onto the high meadow Evangeline had written about so often, and Rachel got her first glimpse of the rambling two-story house. Constructed of logs, it boasted glass windows and a shingle roof. Smoke curled from one of the three chimneys, and before Rachel and Trey could even dismount, the front door sprang open and two young girls erupted through the opening, running wildly, gleefully, toward them.

  One—good heavens, she’d grown so much that Rachel barely recognized her—was surely Abigail, ten now, and by all accounts a great help to Evangeline. The other, slightly older and taller, had to be Emma. Her blue-black hair flew behind her as she ran barefoot over the stoney grass, and Trey swung down from his horse just in time to catch her up in an embrace. They whirled, and Emma’s lovely hair swung around her luminous face like coarse strands of silk glinting in the sun.

  Abigail, an uncommonly pretty child herself, with ebony hair and eyes as blue as cobalt, looked up at Rachel with a pleased expression. “You’re Rachel, aren’t you? Mama’s been waiting for you ever so long.”

  Rachel got down, clasping the paeonia cutting in one hand, and hugged her best friend’s daughter warmly. “Yes,” she said, blinking back tears. “I’m Rachel. And you’re Abigail. How big you’ve gotten!”

  “We have a new bab
y,” Abigail said. “A girl named Rachel Louisa. Papa says we’d better call her Louisa, because things are confused enough around here as it is.”

  Rachel smiled and turned, one arm around Abigail’s shoulders, to look at Emma, who was huddled against Trey’s side, watching her with shy curiosity. Perhaps even—or was she merely imagining it—a certain hopefulness. Rachel put out a hand. “Hello,” she said. “I’m Miss English. I’ll be your teacher, come the last of August.”

  Emma ventured out of the loose curve of her father’s arm, but only tentatively, offering her own hand in return. “How do you do?” she said.

  “Very well, thank you,” Rachel replied. “And you?”

  Emma looked back at Trey, as though in silent consultation. Plainly, she distrusted strangers, and perhaps she had good reason to do so. He nodded, very slightly, in encouragement.

  “I like to read books,” Emma said staunchly. “Did you bring any new ones with you?”

  “I did,” Rachel told the child. Abigail was tugging at her hand by then, pulling her toward the house.

  “Come in and see Mama,” said Evangeline’s daughter. “She’s just perishing for the sight of you. She likes my papa a whole lot, but he’s a man and she misses being around women.”

  Trey and Rachel accidentally glanced at each other then, and something indefinable passed between them. Something that made them both look away.

  “Where is your pa?” Trey asked Abigail. “I’d like a word with him.”

  “He’s down at the corral, breaking horses,” Abigail answered, still tugging Rachel along in her wake, but looking back at Trey. “Mama won’t let Emma and I go down there and watch, either, even if we promise to stay behind the fence. She says he swears too much, but I don’t think it’s true because Papa is real gentle with horses. I think she’s afraid we’ll get stepped on some way, like Kathleen Bellweather’s baby sister did—”