Her Colorado Man

“You’re a blessing,” Mariah told her sweet dark-haired cousin and looked into her hazel eyes. They couldn’t have been more different in appearance. Hildy’s father had been of Irish decent, while Mariah took after the fair-haired Bavarian Spanglers.

Instead of using the back staircase, she headed for the front of the house and ran up the wide front staircase that opened into a commons room. There, the four youngsters had their own benches, desks, slates and a case of books, as well as an assortment of games and puzzles for evenings and rainy afternoons.

“Mama!” John James leaped up from his position on the rug to hug her. “I added five numbers together in my head without my fingers. Or the slate.”

“I do believe you have a calling to work in the accounting office with your uncle Wilhelm.” She ruffled his blond hair and knelt to kiss his cheek. He smelled like chalk and soap and little boy, and her heart tripped at the thought of him ever being hurt.

“Oh, no,” he said with a shake of his fair head. “I’m going to work on the machines.” His blue-eyed expression held all the seriousness a six-year-old could muster. “I like the sounds in the bottling house. And you can see the mountains from the big doorway.”

“That you can,” she agreed. “You, my bright shining star, can be whatever you want to be when you grow up.”

“Even the president?” Marc and Faye’s seven-year-old Emma asked, with a grin.

Mariah turned to tweak her pigtail. “Unless you beat him to it!”

“Emma can’t be the pwesident!” Emma’s five-year-old brother Paul said with a wide-eyed exclamation. “Her’s a girl! Pwesident’s got to have beards.”

Mariah laughed and the boys joined her. Emma only gave them a puzzled look.

“Finish your lessons before supper,” she said to John James and hurried along the hallway to her room.

Supper was a noisy affair as always, relaxed and friendly. At home like this she wasn’t anyone’s boss or coworker. She didn’t have a quota or hours and product to tally. She was simply aunt, sister, daughter and mother. Siblings and cousins and aunts and uncles talked over each other while they passed heaping bowls of potatoes and platters of schweinsbraten, their traditional oven-roasted pork. Half a dozen foamy pitchers of dark beer stood on the table at intervals.

Mariah set down her empty glass with a satisfied sigh. Only perfect brews came from the barrels with the Spangler stamp.

Noticing her lack of animation, Mariah’s father, Friederick, gave her a long glance. “Are you well, Mariah?”

She assured him she was fine. “It was a long day. I’m just tired.”

Much later after the dishes were washed and the various families had retired to their quarters, Mariah tucked John James into his bed in the room he shared with Paul. He closed his eyes and she threaded her fingers through his pale silky hair.

Wesley Burrows’s written words came to mind: I want your great-grandson to have what every boy deserves—a father who cares about him. No one wished that more than she, but it would never be. Memories of her son as a chubby infant and a toddling two-year-old assailed her. The other children in their household—in all their family—had fathers to swing them in the air and play catch and teach them to fish and hunt.

Her brothers were wonderful, and she loved them for their devotion to her son. Arlen never left with a fishing pole without asking John James if he wanted to accompany him. Mariah often tagged along and watched as her brother taught him how to dig for worms, place one on the hook and cast the line into the stream.

She stretched out on the narrow bed and lay with her face nestled in John James’s hair where it met the collar of his nightshirt. He was never lonely. She’d seen to that. Her family had seen to it. She owed them a debt she could never repay for loving her child and giving him a sense of belonging.

He slept soundly, his breath a soft whisper against the cotton sheet.

She was the one who was lonely. She was the one who watched couples with curiosity and awe. She was the one who lay awake at night, knowing she’d never have anything more than what she had at that moment, and vowing that she was going to be satisfied regardless.

She would never marry. She would never have another child. She would never be loved in the way a man loves a woman. It was unlikely she’d ever love a man who wasn’t her closest of kin.

Sometimes she thought she could embellish the lie she lived by saying that her husband had been killed. She’d imagined a hundred deaths for him. And if he were dead, she’d be free to be courted. Though she was decidedly unapproachable and rarely met men who weren’t her family.

But she couldn’t tell that additional lie just for her convenience. The thought of doing that to John James stopped her. As it was he believed he had a father, no matter how distant. If he believed his father was dead, it would hurt him more.

Wouldn’t it?

The partially closed door creaked open and Faye peeked in. Paul had been asleep since before John James came to bed. Mariah couldn’t see Faye’s gaze, but knew she checked her son before giving Mariah a little wave and backing out.

It didn’t matter now. At this point she didn’t have any power to alter the husband fable. Wesley Burrows was coming to insinuate himself into their lives. And she was going to have to tell John James.

Mariah got up and went to the bureau that held John James’s clothing and opened the bottom drawer. Raising the lid on a hinged wooden cigar box, she lifted out a packet of envelopes tied with a piece of string and left the room, silently closing the door behind her.

Mariah’s room was across the hall from where her son slept and beside her brother Arlen’s. It was a comfortable space, plenty roomy enough for a big upholstered chair beside the fireplace, a writing desk and the four-poster bed in which she’d slept since childhood. A padded seat had been built before a trio of paned windows that overlooked the vegetable and herb gardens, with forested hills in the background.

Mariah lit another lamp and settled at her desk with the packet of letters. After first identifying the differences between two similar, but individual styles of handwriting, she sorted the envelopes into piles accordingly. These weren’t all of the letters, but they were the most recent, dating back nearly a year.

From those with the earliest dates, she scanned a few, and then set them aside. Starting with the first one after the handwriting changed, she began to read.

Dear John James,

As soon as the weather is warm and the rivers are free of ice so that canoes and steamboats can carry the mail, I will send the book I have been saving for you. It holds many drawings of steam engines, and I believe you will enjoy looking at them. Right now, during the harsh winter, the only mail that can be delivered are letters.

One of my dogs had a litter of puppies. They are little balls of fur, with yipping barks and adventurous spirits. The one with a black circle around his eye will make a good sled dog, because he enjoys playing in the snow. I have sketched him for you. I am calling him Jack.

Mariah unfolded the other piece of stationery. A smile touched her lips at the ink line drawing of a playful-looking puppy.

Her gaze fell to the end and she read his signature.

Your loving father.

John James had studied the book filled with detailed drawings so intently that more than once she’d had to remind him steam engines weren’t his schoolwork.

The next letter told of a winter storm and carried an update on the puppies. The following spoke of salmon fishing in icy rivers and camping with a native band of Cree fur traders.

What child wouldn’t be delighted by these newsy letters and exciting accounts of sled races and gold strikes? Who wouldn’t want someone always thinking of him? Who wouldn’t feel important because someone with such an exciting life was sending all these newsy captivating letters? She herself admitted a deep-down fascination. Though skeptical of this man’s motivation, she couldn’t fault his attention to detail or the caring manner in which he addressed her child. The thing that disturbed her most was that closing at the end of each missive: Your loving father.

As much as she’d considered and reconsidered holding back the letter that told John James about this man’s arrival, she’d told Grandfather to give it to him, and she’d only had to help him read a few of the words. Maybe Burrows wouldn’t show up and she’d be spared, but John James would be heartbroken. She was pretty sure he’d turn up, though.

She believed he meant what he said, but there was no way of preparing. What did Wesley Burrows have to gain by perpetuating this charade?

She would know soon enough. She would know sooner than she’d like. However long it took him to get from Juneau City to Colorado wasn’t long enough for her.

Early June, 1882

John James had been in a constant state of frenzied anticipation for the past week. He’d told everyone who would listen that his father was coming home. Every time Mariah heard him speak the words, another layer of rigid steel reinforced the protective shell around her heart.

“My father’s coming home,” he had proudly told the postman at the window in the Ruby Creek mercantile that afternoon.

Mariah had steadied her nerves and turned a page in the Montgomery Ward catalog. “Come look at these coats, John James,” she said. “You need a new one.”

“Your husband is returning?” Delia Renlow moved from where she’d been stroking a bolt of deep blue velvet to approach Mariah. “This is interesting news I haven’t heard.”

Dressed in a flowing green skirt and lacy shirtwaist, the curvy redhead dropped her gaze to Mariah’s brown tweed trousers and scuffed boots.

Mariah managed a stiff smile. She’d attended school with Delia, but they’d never been friends. In fact Lucas Renlow, the man that Delia married, had once been sweet on Mariah. “Yes, Mr. Burrows will be here any day now.”