The Blizzard Bride Page 8

  Burt bent down. “Where?”

  “This bursa here. The lump.” Smaller than a baseball but plenty big to cause discomfort.

  “What does that mean?” Burt’s voice held an edge of panic. “Do I have to put him down?”

  Dash rose from his squat. “No need for talk like that. You said Jasper’s not walking well?”

  “Just a little hitch that I noticed.”

  “Hmm.” Dash checked Jasper’s feet. “Maybe talk to the smithy about these shoes. Looks like he could use an adjustment.”

  “I can do that. But the burs—what did you call it?”

  “Bursa. A sac of fluid. It’s often a result of trauma of some sort, or repeated kicking against a stall door or wall. Does he do that?”

  “I—I’ve never seen it. Why would he do that? He trying to get out?”

  “Could be bored.” Dash brushed a few horse hairs from his hands. “You can leave it be, or treat it by draining it, putting some salve on it, and bandaging.”

  “Can you do it now and keep an eye on him overnight? I’ll pay.”

  “Like I keep saying, I’m no veterinarian. And there’s always risk of infection.”

  “I want you to do it, though. How much?” Burt withdrew a leather wallet from his coat pocket and thumbed through numerous bills. “This is for the Millers for boarding him.”

  Five dollars. Genuine, by the color and feel of it. “I’ll offer it to the Millers, but they’ll say it’s too much.”

  “And here’s another for you, for your trouble.”

  Dash whistled. “No, that’s generous of you, but I’m just doing my job.”

  “So am I. I hate to see an innocent animal suffer. Makes my blood boil. And I told you I protect my own, right?”

  “But—”

  “I need to get back to the ranch. School will be out soon and I don’t want any of the children playing around the unfinished fence and getting hurt. I’ll be back for Jasper in the morning.”

  It was clear there was no stopping Burt. “Until morning, then.”

  Burt didn’t shut the door all the way, but the cool air trickling in the crack carried in fresher smells. Dash would leave it for now. “Well, Jasper, the last time I helped drain a bursa was at my pa’s knee. I think I remember how to do it well enough, though.”

  Jasper blinked his dark, heavily lashed eyes.

  “How’d you get this bursa, eh? Seems like Burt feeds you well but doesn’t know much about horses.” Cattle ranching—any ranching—was probably a second career for Burt. Tending Jasper himself would have saved Burt ten dollars.

  Ah well. Dash was happy to do it, and he needed to stay at the inn anyway to watch Unger’s movements, although he envied Burt going past the schoolhouse right about now. He still had a thousand questions for Abby. Did her lunch with Mrs. Story yield anything interesting? Did she like Nebraska? Had she ever thought of him over the past six years, and did she care for him, even a smidge—

  Jasper nudged Dash’s shoulder. “All right, fellow, let’s take care of you.”

  Dash might not really be a hostler, but he couldn’t walk away from an animal in need any more than he could fall all the way out of love with Abby Bracey. No matter how hard he tried.

  CHAPTER 7

  Abby spent a busy evening in Hildie’s kitchen, baking treats and then staying up late to clean the stove, table, and floor. It was the least she could do, after using the space.

  After school the following day, she went home with Willodean, washed her face, and packed the cinnamon-scented fruits of her labor in a tin. She had an early supper planned with Kyle and his mother, Sara Queen, at Wells Café, but first she had a stop to make. “Girls, I left some cookies for you after your supper.” She pointed to the plate of treats.

  Willodean and Patty jumped up and down. “Can’t we have one now?”

  “Not until after supper.” Hildie held out an unlit lantern to Abby, her brow etched in concern. “Are you certain you don’t wish Bynum to come fetch you afterwards? It’ll be dark when you walk home.”

  “It might be dark, but it won’t be late.” Besides, her knife was strapped to her stocking, and she wouldn’t hesitate to use it. She glanced at the walnut carriage clock ticking away on the mantel. “Thanks, though. I’m later than I planned. Goodbye, everyone.”

  Their farewells followed her out the door. As she walked past the house, she waved at the girls watching her from the parlor window, but she didn’t linger. She was late, and her strides were long and quick, but they might not be fast enough.

  Cutting through the churchyard would shave valuable minutes. Abby stepped over a fallen portion of the rail fence and entered the cemetery, all white and gray stone protruding from a fresh dusting of snow. She wove through headstones, gauging the quickest path—

  Her foot slid, yanking her legs into a split. Clutching her cookies, she grasped the nearest headstone and held on as she regained her footing. At least nothing hurt. Abby brushed snow off her cloak, which was smeared with the snow that had covered the headstone.

  The name on the stone caught her eye.

  MAGGIE YATES. 1843–1885

  Yates. Was this Maynard’s wife? No Loving wife, or At home in heaven. Just the date.

  Beside it was another stone.

  EUGENE YATES 1863

  That was the year of Abby’s birth too. This Eugene must have been an infant. Maynard had lost a child?

  Perhaps these were other relatives who’d lived in Wells. Ah, here, another Yates. Another Eugene, to be precise. His stone offered a pinch more detail, though.

  LOVED BY ALL. 1838–1863.

  He’d died young. How sad.

  Goodness, what was she doing, lollygagging like this? She’d be late. Determined not to slip again, she picked through the cemetery, resuming a more normal gait when she reached the road at the front of the church.

  As she passed Knapps’ store, however, two boys at the checkerboard table on the other side of the large display window waved at her. Chester Knapp and Micah Story. She paused to wave, and they hurried out of the store to meet her, grinning.

  “Miss Bracey!”

  “Hello, boys. Nice to see you both.” Despite being in a hurry.

  “Chester invited me to play draughts,” Micah said.

  “I won one and he won one.” Chester wrapped his thin arms around his chest. In their haste, the boys hadn’t donned a stitch of outerwear. The temperature fell with the winter sun’s early descent, and although the workday wasn’t yet finished for the businesses lining Main Street, it would be dark soon.

  “Perhaps you should go back inside where it’s warm.”

  “We won’t be long. Whatcha doin’?” Chester glanced at the tin in her hands.

  “I’m on my way to visit Kyle and his mother at the café.”

  “Are those cookies?”

  “They are.” She pried the lid off to show the boys her cinnamon molasses cookies. Chester licked his lips. “They sure smell good.”

  “Would you lads be so kind as to taste one for me? I want to be sure they turned out well.”

  “Sure.” Chester selected a large one on top and bit off half of it. Micah followed suit but only took a nibble. Chester swallowed and nodded. “Yup. I’d say these are mighty fine.”

  “I don’t like cinna-minna-mon but these are good, I guess.” Micah gave his nipped cookie to Chester.

  “Thank you for your honest opinion, lads. I’d best be on my way.”

  “We should escort you wherever you’re going, ma’am. Mama says it’s part of being a gentleman.” Micah shivered, but bore a resolute expression, so she didn’t argue.

  “Let’s make haste, then, before you catch cold.”

  Chester peered up at her. “Say, Miss Bracey, some of us were hoping … can Almos bring Stripey back to school?”

  “May he,” Micah corrected. “And she’ll never say yes.”

  “Micah is correct on both counts, Chester. I’m sorry, but Stripey is a wild ani
mal. In the classroom, the least he would do is cause a distraction. At most? I shudder to think what a skunk could do.”

  Chester twisted an arm behind his back and mimicked a tail lifting to spray. “I wanna see him do that.”

  “I do not.” Abby stopped at the livery door. “But he could also bite, scratch, or make a terrible mess.”

  “Almos says he’s a good skunk, though.”

  “Even good skunks have accidents or misbehave from time to time. I’d rather neither occurred in our classroom.”

  Micah glanced at the sign above her head. “Why are you stopping here?”

  “We’ve arrived at our destination. The cookies are for Mr. Yates.”

  Micah’s light eyes grew wide. “Oh.”

  “Are you sure you want to do that, Miss Bracey? Mama tells me not to talk to him,” Chester whispered.

  “My mama said the same thing,” Micah said. “Some folks can’t be helped.”

  “Thank you for your concern, boys. Go on and warm up now. See you tomorrow at the mayor’s party?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Micah turned around.

  “Yep. Bye, Miss Bracey.” Chester skipped backward toward the store.

  A wave of affection surged in Abby’s chest. She’d already grown fond of her students. If anything good had come out of her father’s betrayal, it was teaching. She was still smiling when she slipped inside the livery’s sliding door. At once she was met by the odors of stables everywhere, horseflesh and manure and wood, smells that always reminded her of Dash. She felt her smile falter as she skirted a wagon. “Hello?”

  Mr. Yates appeared from a horse stall across the building. “Unless you want to rent something, I’m closed.”

  She held out the tin. “I won’t stay. I just wanted you to know I can cook.”

  His glower twisted into a confused expression. “What’re you talking about?”

  “Wednesday night you asked if I became a teacher because I couldn’t cook. Well, judge for yourself.”

  A stabled horse nickered in what Abby imagined was approval.

  That made his forehead wrinkles deepen. “You came to town with night fallin’ for this? To give me cookies?”

  Mr. Yates was not a likable man. She’d baked for him in part to salvage her pride, at which he’d taken a broad swipe the other evening. Not the best reason, perhaps, but she also hoped it might sweeten him up a pinch. She’d also probably baked for him because he was of an age with her father. If her father were still alive, that is.

  And now that she’d seen those headstones, especially the one for the little Eugene who’d be her age had he lived, well … she couldn’t help but feel Mr. Yates must be grieving. Lonely.

  She set the tin down on his desk. “Not just to give you cookies. I’m going to the restaurant after I drop by the inn.”

  His scowl returned full force. “Thieves and robbers at that inn.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They stole my business, didn’t they? I stabled their guests’ horses until they hired your tall fella as a hostler.” He squinted at her. “Now I see. You and he are in cahoots. These cookies got somethin’ in ’em they shouldn’t, don’t they? You’re tryin’ to give me a stomachache.”

  “I assure you these are perfectly good cookies.”

  He swiped the tin to the ground anyway. It landed with a clatter. “The rats can have ’em.”

  “Mr. Yates, really. I baked those for you last night out of fresh ingredients.” Whatever compassion she’d felt for him a minute ago dissipated. She started to bend down to gather the tin of what was now crumbles before stopping herself. Her father may have been full of his own importance, but that didn’t mean he’d been wrong to teach her to preserve her dignity.

  She stood tall. “The rats will feast tonight, then. Good day.”

  The horses were silent, as was Mr. Yates, when she exited the livery and crossed the street. This was the part of her visit to town she dreaded most—stopping by the inn. It was adjacent to the café, however, and she owed Dash a report.

  Still, she didn’t wish to do it. Her steps slowed as she passed it to reach the drive to the stable. White, and three stories high, the structure was well kept and inviting. Windows framed from within by jade-green curtains—damask, if she was not mistaken—spilled golden lamplight onto the darkening street. The steps and long porch had been cleared of snow. In structure, the inn did not resemble the house she’d grown up in, and yet it reminded her of her home all the same.

  Cozy winter evenings in the parlor with her parents, a fire blazing in the hearth. Cups of cocoa to warm the hands and the tummy. The cold world outside couldn’t penetrate those happy evenings … until, of course, it did. Father died and Abby’s world hadn’t been sweet since.

  “Abby?”

  Dash stood on the wide drive, bundled against the cold in a rich-brown leather jacket and a bright blue scarf that had seen too many winters. For a moment—just one, traitorous moment—she wished she could curl into his arms the way she once did, absorbing his strength and comfort and warmth. To cast off her burdens for a while.

  Dash could never be that for her again. Why did she still want him to, deep down in the hidden places of her heart?

  She forced a smile. “Good afternoon.”

  “Are you looking for me?”

  “Yes, before I meet Mrs. Queen and Kyle for supper. Do you have information for me? Is he here yet?”

  He glanced behind him, but no one was there to overhear. “A single male guest checked into the inn. Name of Unger. Rich as the proverbial Croesus, by the looks of his rig and horseflesh, but that doesn’t mean he’s our friend. Best I can tell, he’s only been to the café and the lawyer’s one street over. If he’s been to the school to spy for a little boy, it’s a surprise to me.”

  “No one’s visited the school since you dropped in.” Her lips pressed together. “Could he be our friend, though? Maybe hoping to recognize Katherine Hoover?”

  “Our friend and Katherine never met, remember? So he has no idea what she looks like. However, she has that tintype of him and her sister. She might be able to identify him, depending on how much he’s changed in ten years.” His eyes glinted gold in the light of the setting sun. “You look the same, though.”

  “Stop it, Dash.”

  “What? You do.”

  This wasn’t about how she’d changed, and oh, how she’d changed. This was about boundaries he was perilously close to trespassing. “I can still read your face like a newspaper headline. If you intend to reminisce rather than limit our interactions to work, I cannot do this.”

  He stared at her for a moment. Then he held up a hand in apology.

  Good. But her breath hitched when she inhaled.

  “So how was your lunch with Mrs. Story?”

  “The only crumb she spilled was that Micah’s father has been gone a long time. And her exact words were ‘We don’t talk about him, ever. It’s far better that way.’ Maybe she doesn’t speak of him because he’s a criminal and she had to abscond with little Micah to protect him. But maybe it’s because it’s too painful for her to talk of someone she lost.”

  “I like to talk about my parents. It keeps their memories alive.”

  “Your parents weren’t murdered. Or criminals.”

  “I’m sorry, Abby. I’m saying everything wrong today.” He glanced around again, but no one was close enough to hear them. “I know you don’t want to talk about personal matters, but I pray the hurt will go away for you someday.”

  “I think it will always hurt, Dash.” Not just her father’s history, but what Dash did too. Would he ever understand that?

  “Your father made some bad choices, but he put a stop to working with our friend. He knew God too, from what I recall. I think there’s hope. Hope is the one thing that kept me sane when my folks passed, that and knowing they’re safe and whole in God’s presence.”

  How contrary to Abby’s experience. The one thing keeping her sane was focusin
g on the knowledge that Fletcher Pitch would get his comeuppance someday. Hopefully with her help.

  “There’s that verse in the New Testament, ‘ye sorrow not, as others who have no hope.’ Or something close to that. Is that Colossians?”

  She adjusted her gloves. Hmm, the thumb had a small hole. “Maybe.”

  “No, it’s First Thessalonians, I reckon. Or is it Second?”

  “I’m not sure.” She tipped her head toward the restaurant. “I don’t wish to be late for supper.”

  “Sure, but will you look up that verse for me and tell me later? I’d like to know where it is.”

  Look it up for yourself. The words were on her tongue, but they were cruel, considering his hardships with reading. “I’ll try to find time.”

  “Maybe tonight when you’re at your evening devotions.”

  She stepped away. “I don’t do them anymore.”

  “Morning prayers, then.” He followed after.

  She spun to face him. “Dash, I—didn’t bring a Bible with me from Chicago. If I find time I can borrow Hildie’s, but it would be faster if you asked the pastor. Surely he’ll know.”

  He blinked. “Why didn’t you bring your Bible?”

  “My trunk was full.”

  “Too full for a Bible? Abby, what happened to your faith?”

  She couldn’t bear the disappointment in his eyes. “I’m late, Dash—oh, pardon me.”

  The postmaster, Isaac Flowers, blocked the entrance to the café. “My apologies, Miss Bracey.”

  “None necessary.” Isaac Flowers was her hero, saving her from Dash’s judgmental gaze. “Good evening, gentlemen.”

  A twist, and she sashayed around Mr. Flowers and into the restaurant. The aromas of yeast rolls and onions made her stomach rumble. And there was little Kyle, waiting for her by a table in the back.

  Was he young master Pitch? Abby intended to find out.