Читать книгу A Family Found - Laura Abbot - Страница 12

Chapter Four

The following day Sophie awakened to fresh snow blanketing the ground. Fortunately, by Wednesday the road had thawed enough for her to set out to visit Marcus and Toby. Ranger kept up a steady pace with Beauty following happily behind, although she frequently darted into the trees in search of adventure. This was Sophie’s first experience of the spectacle of a linen-white valley stretching as far as the eye could see, surmounted by mountains piercing the vivid blue sky with their icy fingers. It was as if she were riding through a crystal fairyland.

It was only when she crossed the river and started up the road to Tate’s home that her nerves began to jangle. He might perceive her visit to the boys as not only presumptuous, but unwelcome. Too late for second thoughts. She reached the hitching post, slid to the ground and tethered Ranger. Beauty followed her onto the porch and sat obediently until, after a deep breath, Sophie knocked. Hardly had she lifted her fist than the door swung open. Toby, atremble with excitement, stood beside a plump, pleasant-looking woman of indeterminate age. “You came!” he cried.

Sophie smiled. “We did. And here is Beauty as promised.” Toby leaned over and began talking softly to the dog. Sophie turned to the woman. “I’m Sophie Montgomery. I hope the boys told you I was coming.”

The woman reached for Sophie’s coat. “Indeed, they did. I’m Bertie Wilson, Mr. Lockwood’s housekeeper. Toby has been watching out the window for you.”

Sophie scanned the room, searching for Marcus. “The boys expressed interest in my new dog.”

Both women turned to observe Toby, who had led Beauty to the hearth and now sat on the floor beside her, one arm draped around the dog’s neck. “That friendship didn’t take long to develop,” Bertie whispered.

“I’m not surprised. Toby seems to be an outgoing little boy.”

“A treasure, that one,” Bertie agreed. “Now, Marcus...there’s another story.”

“Where is he?”

“Reading in his room. He’s one to stick to himself. Let me hang up your coat and then I’ll call him. I have some cookies and tea prepared for your visit.”

While she waited for Marcus, Sophie studied the room. A magnificent mountain sheep head was mounted over the stone fireplace. The furniture looked hand-hewn from local trees, and colorful woven cushions covered the settee and armchairs. A long, low table of polished wood sat in front of the settee. On top was a wicker basket of oversize pinecones, a stack of newspapers and a checkerboard. Off in an alcove was a library table and a tall bookcase filled with books and curious artifacts, among them a large geode, a polished piece of petrified wood and a bird’s nest. Not wanting to interrupt Toby’s bonding with Beauty, she moved to the bookcase and studied the titles on the spines: Gulliver’s Travels, The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, several volumes of Pliny’s Natural History, Darwin’s The Origin of Species, Robinson Crusoe and—

“The boys told me to expect you.”

Sophie wheeled around to face Tate Lockwood, who stood in the doorway holding a ledger book, his face revealing nothing about his reaction to her presence. “I hope this is not an intrusion,” she said.

“It’s no bother for the boys.”

Sophie cringed. What was unsaid hung in the air—but it is for me. “I promised them they could meet Beauty—” she nodded toward the dog “—and it seemed easier for me to come here than for them to come to me.”

Before he could answer, Toby bounded over to his father, Beauty close behind wagging her tail enthusiastically. “Papa, see? Isn’t she a great dog?”

Tate eyed Sophie briefly before kneeling in front of his son. “Yes, Toby. She looks as if she has some shepherd in her.”

“Shepherds help drive sheep,” Toby explained, as if he were a canine authority. “Maybe we could get a dog, right, Papa?”

Sophie watched Tate’s shoulders slump as if the same thought going through her mind had just occurred to him. Why didn’t the boys already have a dog?

“We’ll see.”

“See what?” Marcus had entered the room and stood observing the scene.

Toby clapped his little hands. “Marcus, wanna get a dog?”

“I didn’t say yes,” Tate mumbled as he rose to his feet.

“But you will!” There was no denying Toby. “We could call him Buster.”

“That’s a dumb name,” Marcus said, maintaining his distance.

Sophie, sensing tension, turned to the boy. “What’s a better name?”

“Well,” the boy drawled, inching closer and eyeing Beauty, “something more original like...Seaman, Meriwether Lewis’s dog who explored the Missouri, or Bacchus, the Greek god of fun, or—”

“Nobody said there would be a dog to name,” Tate interjected.

“But nobody said there wouldn’t be,” Sophie argued before she could censor herself.

Once more Tate eyed her expressionlessly. “True.”

Thankfully, at that moment Bertie Wilson entered the room with a large tray. Toby ran toward the dining table at the other end of the room near the kitchen where she was laying out the food, but Marcus couldn’t move. Beauty had wrapped herself around his legs and was looking up at him adoringly. Slowly Marcus sank to his knees so the dog could lick his face. “You’re tickling,” the boy said and then giggled. It was one of the most welcome sounds Sophie had ever heard. She reckoned this was a boy for whom giggles were few and far between.

The sweet hot tea and spicy homemade ginger cookies were welcome after her cold ride. “You have a lovely home, Tate.”

“We like it.”

“Papa builded it and Marcus and me got to pick our bedrooms.”

“I especially like the bookcase. You have quite a collection here.”

Marcus turned to her with a curious expression. “Do you like to read?”

“Indeed I do.”

“Good,” the boy said before filling his mouth with another cookie.

“You are welcome to borrow some volumes,” Tate offered.

“Thank you. I may well do that once I get more settled.”

Sophie turned the topic to her upcoming hike with Belle Harper, but throughout the rest of their conversation, she had the uncomfortable feeling that Tate was sizing her up.

“Can you play with us?” Toby asked, interrupting the adult conversation.

Sophie smiled. “I suppose I could.”

“C’mon, then.” He fetched her coat and dragged it over to her. “Outside. I like tag. And Beauty can play, too.”

“It’s nearly time for us to go home, but a bit of outdoor exercise will do us good.” Surprisingly, without a word Marcus, too, put on his coat and followed them outside. Sophie paused in the door and looked back. “Tate?”

“Not today.”

The sun was high in the afternoon sky and the air, crisp and fragrant. It was difficult to play tag with only three people plus Beauty, so Sophie introduced them to Follow the Leader. Then just before she left, she asked if they’d ever made snow angels. Their blank stares said it all. Throwing discretion to the winds, she lay down atop the snow and moved her arms and legs. When she stood up, she turned to the boys. “Now, then, what does that look like?”

“An angel,” they said in unison.

“Your turn.”

Sophie stood over them, reveling in their delight. “I’m making huge wings,” Marcus said, while Toby giggled with the effort of moving his arms and legs simultaneously. Then they stood up and began pelting one another with snowballs, between fits of laughter.

Sensing a presence behind her, Sophie turned to face the house. Before a curtain slipped back into place, she had a glimpse of Tate. He’d been watching them. She wondered what had prevented him from joining them. Or didn’t he ever play? No use wasting time thinking about such things. The man was a mystery.

* * *

Tate couldn’t believe his eyes. Marcus was nearly cavorting, Beauty trailed Toby’s every step and Sophie Montgomery, why, she might as well have been a child herself. She joined the boys’ play with abandon, her cheeks pink from the cold, her red-gold hair escaping her stocking cap and her laughter audible even through the pane of glass. Now accompanied by Beauty and the boys, she approached her horse. He couldn’t hear what she was saying to his sons as she bent close to them, one arm around Toby and the other around Marcus. Marcus, who rarely let anyone touch him. Whatever she’d said, each nodded seriously in reply.

Tate turned back to his desk. Why hadn’t he joined them? Was he too good for Follow the Leader, or had he feared making a fool of himself in front of the maddening Sophie? Sophie, who in less than two hours had captivated his boys.

He’d barely sat down to pore over his papers when Toby burst into the room without knocking. The rebuke for the intrusion died on Tate’s lips when he saw how animated his son was.

“Papa, Papa. Marcus and I discussed. He told me to ask you.”

“Ask me what?” Over Toby’s head, Tate spotted Marcus lurking outside the door.

“’Bout the dog,” Toby said, approaching him and laying a small hand on his knee. “If we had a dog, we’d be real ’sponsible. We’d feed it and give it water and take it for walks and—”

Before Toby could gather more steam, Tate interjected. “Animals require a great deal of care. Not just for a day or a week. Always.”

“Always,” Toby intoned, his blue eyes, so like his mother’s, fixed on him. “We promise.”

“Marcus?”

The boy slunk into the room, not daring to look at him. The concern that so often occupied Tate’s thoughts returned in force. Was his own son afraid of him? Indifferent to him? Angry? Clearing his throat and knowing there was no argument to be made, Tate said, “Both of you are committed to caring for a dog?”

“Yes!” shouted Toby, while Marcus nodded.

“Well, then, I think what we should do—” he paused, prolonging the suspense “—is ask around the valley whether anyone knows of available pups.”

Toby clambered into Tate’s lap and captured his face between his hands. “Really?”

“Yes, really.”

Marcus took a step forward. “Thank you, sir,” he mumbled before leaving the room.

“I don’t care what Marcus says. Buster is a good name.”

Tate groaned. Solving one problem had created another. He knew there was only one solution. Two dogs. But if that would please Toby and somehow bring a smile to his older son’s face, no price was too high to pay. Perhaps allowing them pets would in a small way compensate for the frequency of his business trips. “Buster, huh? We’ll see. Now run along like a good boy. Papa has work to do.”

The boy slid to the floor. “Beauty is a good dog. Betcha mine will be, too. I’m glad Miss Sophie came to visit.”

Tate started to say, “I am, too,” but was he really? “It was good of her.”

“We had lotsa fun,” Toby said as he skipped out the door. “Maybe she’ll come again.”

He should’ve thought of getting the boys dogs when they first moved to Estes Park. Ramona preferred cats and wouldn’t have let a dog anywhere near her. Was he so out of touch with his own childhood that he couldn’t remember how much he’d loved his short-haired mongrel, Buck? How he could tell Buck his worries and secrets and feel relief from the understanding canine eyes studying him solemnly. Growing up, Buck was his steadfast companion in a home too elegant for romping, where his distant, self-involved parents paraded their son before their friends as if he were a prize show animal. Buck and books—his two forms of salvation.

Vowing to procure the dogs soon, he studied the map of the valley on his desk. The Englishman Lord Dunraven had set his agent the task of buying up the entire valley for a private hunting preserve and recreational site. Some of the settlers, overwhelmed by the struggle to make ends meet or weary of mountain living, had succumbed to the lure of easy money. Others, like Tate, had resisted Dunraven’s attempt to turn the valley into a rich man’s playground and had refused to sell. As they were able, Tate and his like-minded friends had bought up additional available land, both as a buffer against Dunraven’s encroachment and as an investment. Beyond any economic advantage, this was a natural paradise that ought to be accessible to all, not restricted to the narrow pleasures of the indulgent few. Tate fumed just thinking about how close the residents had come to losing their piece of heaven. Fortunately, Dunraven seemed to have lost interest in the project, but not before he’d built a grand hotel to appeal to wealthy, adventurous Easterners and fellow Englishmen.

Tate had recently located another parcel of available land. Looking at the map, he considered its access to water and decided to explore it prior to making a bid. It lay a short distance beyond Sophie’s cabin. He’d heard about the help his neighbors had given her and thought it only decent, in light of his connection to the Hurlburts, to stop by to check on her after examining the acreage.

Oh, right. Blame it on duty. He stepped to the window. There in the fading sun, three angels lay in the snow, one slightly, but only slightly, bigger than the other two. Sophie’s angel. Sophie, who laughed pure melody and brought his sons to life. Sophie, whose mere presence scared him for reasons he was unwilling to address.

* * *

By Friday afternoon most of the snow had melted and an unseasonably warm wind soughed through the pine branches. Sophie took the occasion to move two old rockers she’d found in the barn to the front porch. After regluing a couple of joints and sanding the chairs, she was now in the process of painting them white. She wore her brown wool breeches, a long, plaid flannel shirt and a sheepskin vest. She’d tied back her hair with an old bandanna kerchief. She saw no point in prettifying herself every day. Except for Grizzly and the Tyler-Harper work crew, she might as well be on the dark side of the moon, and dresses were not the most practical garb for the hard work of getting settled in her place.

While Beauty lounged on the porch steps, Sophie daubed paint and sang “Amazing Grace” as she worked. After finishing with the first chair, she sat back on her heels and wiped her brow. There was something satisfying about seeing results from her efforts. With that thought, though, came a sadder one, prompted by the hymn she’d been singing. Without Charlie, she, too, needed to be found and restored through grace. Although the sharp, physical pang of grief hit her less often than it once had, there were times when Charlie seemed so present with her that she felt as if she could reach out and touch him. Like now. Sophie dabbed at the tears forming in her eyes. She gazed at the mountains, vibrant in the afternoon sun. Charlie, dear, are you someplace that is as wonderful for you as this is for me? I hope so.

She shook her head, knowing that following Charlie into the maze of her emotions was not helpful. He was gone. Not that she would ever forget him, but it was time to move on, time to be thankful she had once known love and to carve a new identity for herself here. Now. She picked up the paintbrush and bent to her task with renewed vigor. So intent was she on her work that she failed to hear the hoofbeats until horse and rider were nearly to her yard. Looking up, she was surprised to see Tate Lockwood dismounting and then mortified that he would find her in her tomboy getup. There was nothing to do but stand up and extend her hand. “Tate.” He stood in front of her, his face impassive. “Forgive my appearance. I was not expecting visitors.”

He held her hand while she squirmed under his slow examination. For a moment, she thought he might be about to laugh. But he didn’t. “I thought I’d stop by to see your progress on the cabin. Nice chairs,” he said, turning to survey her handiwork.

“I expect to spend a great amount of time out here this summer, that is, when I’m not in the mountains. Belle Harper and I have grand adventures planned.”

He studied her closely. “Not...”

“Yes, Longs Peak, our ultimate ambition.”

“I know you’re not short on determination, but that’s a feat rarely performed even by the hardiest of men.”

“Granted.” She set down the paintbrush before adding, “Notwithstanding my appearance today, Belle and I are not men.”

“You certainly are not,” he said with what could be construed as a glimmer of appreciation.

“Pardon my manners. Please do come in and have a cup of tea and a slice of the pound cake I made this morning.”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

While she busied herself at the stove, putting on the kettle for tea, she was aware of his scrutiny of the cabin’s interior. “Quite a transformation. It’s downright habitable.”

“I owe much of my progress to the Tylers and Harpers. They were a huge help.”

“Most of the valley folk are good that way.”

“But not all?” She set them each a plate of cake on the table, then turned back to check the kettle.

He straddled a chair and sat down. “Not all. For a time Lord Dunraven’s agent was intent on buying up the valley and forcing out the settlers.”

“Dear me.” Sophie took a seat across from him. “I had heard of Lord Dunraven’s presence and the establishment of his hotel and hunting preserve, of course, but I had no idea his ambition was so pervasive.”

“It was. However, it seems to be dissipating in recent months. Perhaps he’s lost interest in his toy.”

“The hotel may well be a good addition to the area, but riding roughshod over the settlers? I can’t abide that.”

“All the more reason for some of the rest of us to buy up land he may have his eye on. It’s not just an aesthetic matter. It also involves water and grazing rights. In fact, I have just come from looking over some land I intend to purchase. Being so close, I figured I’d check on how you’re doing.”

“I’m thriving. The next project is planting flowers and vegetables.”

“In between your mountaineering and gardening, I hope you’ll have time for this.” He reached in his pocket and withdrew a leather-bound volume. “It’s The American by a new writer named Henry James. I would like to know what you think of it.”

Dare she hope that in this remote place Tate Lockwood might be someone with whom she could discuss literature? “How thoughtful of you. I shall devour it with interest. Thank you.” She leafed through the book, then turned to Tate. “Your Marcus seems to be quite a bookworm.”

“He is. Prying him out of the house is difficult. However, you managed nicely on Wednesday.”