A Family Found

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.”