A Season of the Heart. Dorothy Clark

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СКАЧАТЬ tucked the quilt more closely beneath her chin and smiled. Imagine dining with the governor! Her mother and father would be so proud of her. And if what her father had said was true—and it surely was—Mr. Cuthbert might soon be wealthier than even Mr. Lodge. He would surely be more powerful. And there was another reason to give preference to Mr. Cuthbert. His age. He was a widower with grown children older than she. He would not demand an heir, as would Mr. Lodge. Yes, she would have to reconsider.

       What of love?

      Her face tightened. She turned onto her side and stared at the flames devouring the wood on the hearth. Willa had no right to challenge her decision to follow her parents’ advice and marry for comfort and prestige. Her friend was only jealous. Willa would be forever stuck in this small village, serving the people as their pastor’s wife, while she would be living a life of ease and social prominence in Buffalo—or attending parties with the governor and other high officials in Albany. Oh, what an entrance she would make into that social scene!

      She smiled and closed her eyes, imagining her first attendance at a governor’s ball. The men would all be in handsome evening wear, and the women would all be richly gowned. But her gown would be more lavish and beautiful than all the rest, and every eye would be on her as she entered on Mr. Cuth—Daniel.

      Her breath caught.

      She jerked her eyes open to rid herself of the image of him standing in the midst of all that finery in his logger clothes with his green eyes laughing, his mouth slanted in that teasing, heart-stealing grin and his hand held out to her.

      * * *

      Daniel shivered and tugged the covers closer around his neck. The temperature had to be below zero and falling to make the boards creak like that. Even with the drafts adjusted wide and the coals burning hot, the woodstove couldn’t warm the small lean-to attached to the stable. The cold emanated from the sawn-wood wall behind his cot and chilled his back, even through his blankets. Nights like this, he almost wished he slept in the common room of the camp house with the loggers, snores, smells and all. At least the log building held the cold out and the heat in. He frowned and flopped over so his back was toward the stove.

      Ellen hated to be cold.

      The thought came unbidden and unwanted along with a memory of her looking up at him from beneath her fur-trimmed bonnet. He scowled and opened his eyes to replace her image with the sight of the moonlight-washed rough board only inches from his face. Why didn’t she stay in Buffalo? When she came home, when he’d seen her again, all the old memories resurrected in spite of his good sense.

      He stared at the board, at the grain that looked like flowing water. He’d loved Ellen when he pulled her, pale and struggling for breath, out of the flood-swollen waters of Stony Creek twelve years ago, and a remnant of that boyhood love was buried beneath all that had transpired since that time. It lingered with the stubbornness of a burr in a horse’s tail. He’d given up thinking the memory of that childhood love would someday die. If his dislike of the uppity, citified, stuck-up fidfad Ellen had grown up to be hadn’t killed it by now, nothing would.

      He blew out a cloud of breath. At least his pride was intact. Only Willa knew how he’d once felt about Ellen—and she’d promised to keep his secret. Callie and Sadie suspected, but they didn’t know. And Ellen, for sure, didn’t know. As long as that was true, he could live through her rare visits home. He just came out of them feeling like the boor she accused him of being.

      He pulled in a lungful of the cold air, coughed and burrowed his head beneath the blanket to block the aching cold on his forehead. The memories had brought the familiar knots to his stomach. He pressed his lips into a thin line and forced himself to stop remembering that it could all have been different, if only his father hadn’t died.

       Chapter Three

      It was still snowing. Ellen tossed the magazine onto the settee, rose and went to the window. Snow clung to the wood grids that separated the glass, leaving only the center section of each small pane clear. She caught a glimpse of movement, leaned close and looked to the side. Asa was shoveling their slate walk. For what purpose? There would certainly be no callers today.

      She glanced at the road, at the snow rutted by the runners on pungs and sleighs and trampled by the hoofs of the horses that pulled them. Not that many were passing. The blizzard had slowed village life to a crawl. Her warm breath fogged the glass. She shivered at the draft of cold air coming off the small panes, pulled her lace-trimmed silk wrap more closely about her shoulders and went to stand by the fire.

      A log popped. Cinders dropped to the shimmering coals and the flames flared. She pulled her long full skirt back away from the edge of the hearth, smiled and ran her hand over the smooth Turkish satin material. She loved the way the skirt was caught up at random intervals with a silk knot securing the resulting puff. She was the only one she knew who had a dress of this design. Of course, the other women in the social set would have copied it by the time she returned to Buffalo.

      Her smile faded. Her women acquaintances in the city would not be standing in an empty room wishing for something to do. They would be at the dressmaker’s being fitted for a new gown, or paying calls on others of their set and enjoying a gossip over tea this afternoon, before hurrying home to prepare for the evening’s entertainment. What would it be for tonight? A dinner party? A musical? Or the theater? There was always something important to attend. One had to be seen at the right places. Had she erred in coming home for the holiday?

      She sighed and ran her fingers over the silk knot that secured the narrow band at her waist. What good was a stylish gown if there was no one to admire or envy it? The silence pressed in upon her, increased her restlessness. Her mother and father had gone to their shops. There was no one to talk to and nothing to do. Her mother didn’t even need her for a fitting for her new gowns. And she certainly wasn’t going to walk to town in this weather.

      She shivered at the thought, walked back to the window and looked out. There was nothing to see but the road, the empty field across the way and the parsonage, barely visible through the rapidly falling snow. She huffed out a breath, turned away, then turned back. The parsonage wasn’t that far. And Willa was there. Of course, there was that open field to cross.

      The wind gusted, drove the falling snow sideways and moaned around the window, dashing her hope. It was foolishness to even think of going outside. Still, her cloak was warm....

      The lure of tea and conversation with her old friend pulled at her. She whirled from the window and hurried up the stairs to her bedroom. Wading through that deep snow in the field would ruin her silk gown. She would wear one of her old dresses.

      * * *

      “Give me twenty minutes or so, Daniel. That wound is going to take some cleaning before I stitch it up.”

      “All right, Doc. I’ll be back to get him.” Daniel led Big Boy to a spot beside Doc’s stable where he’d be out of the wind, fastened the blanket on him, then trudged his way across lots to the parsonage.

      “Woof!”

      “Hey, Happy...” He bent down and scratched behind the ears of the dog standing watch at the top of the back porch steps. “Waiting for Josh, are you?” The dog let out a whine, lay down with his muzzle resting on his crossed front paws and stared toward the road. He grinned and thumped the dog’s solid, furry shoulder. “I wish I’d had a dog like you to roam the woods with me when I was a kid. We’d have had ourselves a time.”

      He СКАЧАТЬ