A Family Found (15 page)

Seth carried Sophie's bags to her old room under the eaves, its comforting furnishings so full of reminders of her girlhood. When he left her there, she slipped off her travel jacket and used a soft cloth to soak up cool water from the basin. Heat, unlike any in the mountains, suffused this second story. She wiped her flushed face and neck and redid her hair, lifting it higher off her neck. Before she went to her father, she uttered a silent prayer that she might be a source of light and comfort to this dear man who had so valiantly undertaken to raise three motherless children.

Lavinia stood at the bottom of the stairs. “My dear,” she said, “we are so glad you have come.” She nodded toward the downstairs bedroom door. “Rose and Seth are with Andrew.” Then she cupped Sophie's cheeks and kissed her on the forehead. “Go with God, child.”

No amount of imagining could have prepared her for what greeted her upon entering the sickroom. Her sturdy, muscled father had been reduced to a fragile wraith laid out on the bed beneath a light counterpane. His sunken cheeks and pale skin bore no resemblance to the tanned, laughing face she held in her memory. Seth yielded his chair at the bedside, and Sophie rushed forward. “Papa, Papa,” she said as she sank into the chair and gathered his cool, dry hand in hers. “It's Sophie.” She leaned even closer. “Papa, I'm home.”

His ragged breaths filled the silence. Sophie waited for what seemed an eternity for his eyes to flutter open. “Swee-har,” he mumbled. Then he repeated the mangled word in a more demanding tone. “Swee-har!”

Sophie stood and leaned over him, her fingers smoothing the hair off his forehead. “I'm here, Pa. Your Sophie.”

“No,” he rasped. “No. Swee-har.” He thrashed impotently, then once more fixed his rheumy eyes on Sophie. “You. Bride. Love.”

Seth came up behind her and ran his hands up and down her arms, which were suddenly pebbled with goose bumps. “It's all right, Sophie. He thinks you're Mother.”

Sophie could have wept with the sadness of it all. Now, in his final hours, her father was turning to the sweetheart he'd lost to childbirth all those years ago. The woman he had continued to love. And loved now.

“Swee-har,” her father whispered, just before closing his eyes. “I see you.”

“He'll sleep now,” Rose said. “Let's get you some supper, and then, if you wish, you can sit with him for a time before bed.”

Worn-out from the trip and the emotions of the day, Sophie hadn't realized how hungry she was. As usual, Rose had prepared a delicious meal. Sophie ate quickly, anxious to get back to her father's bedside, praying he would recognize her before slipping off to eternity to join his “Swee-har.”
Just once more,
she begged God,
let him see me and hear me tell him how much I love him
.

Despite her exhaustion, Sophie remained at her father's side until ten, when Caleb was due back to relieve her. Rose and Seth had retired earlier, and the house was eerily quiet except for occasional ghostly creaks and the relentless ticking of the hall clock. Fighting drowsiness, Sophie passed the long minutes by recalling her many happy times with her father—from his clumsy attempts to braid her hair before she learned to do it herself to his mischievous teasing about Charlie's courtship. Occasionally Pa would stir, even reach up and claw the air as if searching for something—or someone. Then his arm would fall limply back to the bed. She had so hoped he would open his eyes, recognize her, and...what? Forgive her for her absence?

Just as the clock struck ten, Caleb entered the room and stood at the foot of the bed. “You should get some sleep. I promise to call you if he needs you.” With that Caleb helped her to her feet and walked her into the hallway. There he paused and drew her into a brotherly embrace. “I'm glad you're here, dear Sophie. It's not just Pa who needs you. Seth and I do, too. You are, and always have been, our gift from God.” Then with what sounded like a muffled sob, he turned and reentered their father's room.

Lying in her bed, Sophie was convinced she would never sleep, the events of the past few days whirling in her brain. Heavy-eyed, she tried to think what the morrow would bring. And the day after that. She wanted to keep her father here on earth, to hold him ever closer to her heart. Yet simultaneously, she prayed to be able to release him, for him to arrive at a peaceful end.

Finally, she dozed off, only to be awakened at dawn's first light by Rose, gently shaking her and whispering, “Come, now, Sophie. It's time.” She hastily donned a robe and followed Rose down the stairs. Lantern light from the bedroom cast long shadows on the floor and in the distance a cock crowed. Seth and Caleb stood one on each side of their father's bed. Seth turned and led her to the chair. She picked up her father's hand, calloused from a lifetime of hard work. Across the bed, she noted Caleb's lips moving in a silent prayer. Pa's mouth was open and the sound of each irregular breath wounded her.

Then he roused, and another garbled “Swee-har” escaped his lips. Sophie clutched his hand and stood up, leaning close. “I'm here, Pa.” Then a wondrous thing happened. He turned his head. His eyes were open and clear. “Sophie?”

She kissed his hand. “Yes, I'm here.”

“Good girl,” he mumbled.

“I love you, Pa. So very, very much.” She was aware that Caleb now sat on the bed and Seth was supporting her.

The old man looked then at each of his children. “Good boys. Good girl.”

Just before he once more closed his eyes, he looked straight at Sophie. “Mountains. Your dream. Be happy there.”

Caleb cleared his throat and Seth tightened his grip on her. Minutes passed where words were unnecessary to express the bond of love blessing them all.

Then, almost without their notice, the labored breathing ceased and the wrinkles on their father's face relaxed in such a peaceful expression that Sophie could not help but murmur a relieved “Amen,” even as her heart broke.

“He was waiting for you,” Seth whispered.

Chapter Twelve

T
ate looked around at the folks seated on the ground outside Martha and Jackson Tyler's place. He realized it was more people than he'd ever seen at one time in one place in Estes Park. He'd resisted coming and had been embarrassed, even a little irritated, by the welcome so many had tendered. Nor was he oblivious to the surprised looks some had tried to conceal when he'd arrived with Marcus and Toby in tow. Rapscallions. Nobody but his sons could have convinced him to attend a Sunday service, something he had not done since leaving Philadelphia. But, for better or worse, here he was.

Without Sophie's lessons, the boys had grown restless. Particularly in Marcus, Tate sensed a loneliness that took him back to his own childhood. As the days had worn on, he knew his sons needed exposure to other young people. It was Marcus who had first brought up the idea of the church service. “I'm learning lots from the Bible. The preacher can prob'ly teach me more.”

Toby had jumped right on the suggestion. “I know about Noah. I want to hear another story about those Bible people. Come on, Papa. Let's go.”

When Tate had offered lame excuses, Marcus had shrewdly looked right through him and said, “What are you afraid of, Pa?” He had not answered. How could a mere boy understand a fear of losing control, of accepting a God who had created a world in which bad things happened?

For the benefit of his sons, though, coming to the community church service had been a good idea. Toby was playing tag with several other children while Marcus and a trapper's son about his age huddled together on a rock examining some bird feathers. For Tate, though, the experience bordered on torment. Seeing his friends and neighbors, all seemingly quite at ease, made him feel distinctly out of place. He looked about for somewhere to sit and perhaps become less conspicuous. Just then Martha Tyler sidled up to him. “The world hasn't come to an end, you know,” she said with a smile.

He grinned ruefully. “Because I'm here, you mean?”

“People come to the Lord at different ages and stages.”

“I merely brought my sons to a community gathering. My coming to the Lord is an entirely different matter and not likely to happen anytime soon.”

She patted his shoulder. “The way I figure it, that's more up to the Lord than to you. Would you join our family for the service?” She glanced around. “It's about to begin.”

Grateful to be part of a group instead of a lone curiosity, he allowed himself to be led to a large blanket spread on the grass near the Tylers' front porch, where Jackson, Dolly and John were already seated. Across the way, a farmer he recognized rang a large cowbell and the children scampered to join their families. “Isn't this fun?” Toby panted, settling beside him. Marcus sank down on his other side and poked him. “I think I'm going to like the service.”

Then to Tate's surprise, John Tyler stood up, extracted a tuning fork from his pocket, hit a note and commenced singing, “To God be the glory, great things He has done...” From high sopranos to deep basses, other voices joined in. Martha pressed a hymnal into his hands opened to the correct page. Marcus and Toby leaned closer, found the place and were ready to sing when the chorus came.

“Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, Let the earth hear His voice!” Tate remained silent despite Toby's tug at his sleeve. All around, people sang with enthusiasm, finally finishing with, “O come to the Father, through Jesus the Son, and give Him the glory, great things He has done.”
Great things?
Tate inwardly scoffed. Wars? Floods? And was he expected to give God credit for the benefits derived from the sweat of his own brow? From shrewd business decisions? Should he be giving God the glory for leading him into a doomed marriage with the wrong woman?

By the time the preacher started with several Bible readings and prayers, Tate was more than edgy—he was ready to bolt. Yet with Marcus's and Toby's hands in his, he was anchored to the spot. “Listen, Papa,” Toby said rather too loudly a few minutes into the sermon, “he's telling us about some men in a lion's den. I like lions.”

“Daniel,” Marcus snapped at his brother.

Tate could relate to the story. He felt rather as if he, too, were confined in a lion's den of others' expectations that he should suddenly “come to the Father,” as the hymn suggested and plead mercy. He hated to disappoint Martha Tyler, but God was not tapping him on the shoulder this day.

A stray thought startled him. Did Sophie truly believe all of this church haranguing? After what she'd been through? What she was currently enduring? That would be faith, indeed. He wished he knew what was happening with her father. With her. Then with an inner groan, he owned up to his greatest fear—what if she didn't come back?

Dimly he became aware the congregation was now singing “Blessed Assurance.” He squirmed in the hope this unendurable service would soon be over.
Blessed assurance?
He could almost bring himself to pray if he thought God would assure him of Sophie's swift return. And not just for the boys' sake. Despite all his efforts to the contrary, he was pretty sure he was falling in love with the irrepressible Sophie. But he'd be a fool to voluntarily step once more into the lion's den of romantic love. Look where that had gotten him before. “I like the singing,” Toby said when the service concluded, “and the stories and all the people and—”

“Promise we can come back again,” Marcus said, fingering Tate's sleeve.

What were the boys experiencing that he wasn't? Yet how could he deny them something they so clearly enjoyed with people who were offering them a broader sense of community?

Tate relented. “I suppose we could.”

Toby jumped up and down at his side. “Yippee! Maybe Miss Sophie will be here next time!”

“If she comes back,” Marcus reminded his brother.

“She'll be back,” Toby responded with confidence. “I got the blessed insurance about it.”

“Assurance.”
Marcus was quick with the correction.

Tate started walking the boys toward the buggy.
Insurance
or
assurance
, what was the difference? What mattered was the ever-deepening bond they all felt with Sophie and what they were going to do about it.

* * *

Only the sheltering presence of Caleb and Seth on either side of her kept Sophie grounded in the present moment. All she wanted to do was float far beyond this crowded church and the suffocating reality of her father's death. For the past two days well-wishers had arrived at the ranch in a steady stream, sapping her energy and allowing little outlet for the private grief building within her. This morning's funeral, conducted in lieu of the regular Sunday service, was nearly over, and though she appreciated the outpouring of sympathy from their friends, she felt an overwhelming need to be alone—to run up into the hills and give vent to her own sorrow. As if from a great distance, Pastor Dooley's words flowed over and around her. On the other side of Seth, a sob erupted from Rose, and Sophie bit her lip to keep from crying out. Caleb maintained a soldier's erect composure, but she could see his leg jiggling with tension. The reading of the twenty-third psalm preceded the final prayer. Sophie clung to the verse “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for Thou art with me...” Her father had feared nothing except the loss of those closest to him. He had always faced adversity and tragedy through faith and hard work. He would expect nothing less of her.

“What a friend we have in Jesus, all our pains and griefs to bear...” Caleb helped her to her feet. From every side, loud, imperfect voices sang the concluding hymn, but all Sophie could do was wonder how Jesus was planning to help her bear the weight of her losses. Outside the church, the ladies began laying out dishes for the funeral luncheon. Sophie nearly gagged on the odors. She couldn't imagine putting a bite in her mouth, much less swallowing it.

Lavinia Dupree came up to her, placed a firm hand under her elbow and led her to the shelter of an overhanging tree. “I expect you've had enough of community rites. These events too often take on a life of their own.”

Sophie sagged against Lavinia, permitting herself to rest in the older woman's embrace. “They mean well,” she finally said.

“Of course. But they are not your concern. Or mine. Sometimes you have to forget everyone else and concentrate on your own needs.”

Sophie stepped back and turned her head to watch the funeral goers, who now seemed more like relieved banquet guests than consolers.
Meaning well
was nice, but it wasn't enough.

“Sophie?” Lavinia spoke softly. “What about you?”

Sophie searched her heart. “I can't cry. I need to, but tears won't come. I should be crying.”

“Grief has no ‘shoulds' and crying isn't required.” Lavinia picked up Sophie's hand and gently stroked it. “If you could do whatever you wanted right now without a thought for propriety, what would it be?”

Sophie lifted her eyes to Lavinia's. “I would go out into those hills and walk and talk to God. Question Him. Plead for answers.”

“And maybe shake a fist or two?”

For the first time all day, Sophie managed a smile. “That, too.”

“All right, then. When we get back to the ranch house, you do just that, and I'll keep everyone else at bay.”

Sophie knew the imposing woman could handle any objections. The entire family loved Lavinia, but rarely crossed her. “How did you know how I'm feeling?”

“Funeral rituals have suffocated me on occasion, too.”

“Thank you,” Sophie murmured, finally feeling a sense of direction.

After arriving back at the ranch, Sophie went to her room and exchanged her black dress for a shapeless gingham one. She donned a wide-brimmed sunbonnet and after giving each of her brothers and sisters-in-law a gentle word, slipped out the kitchen door, passed through the barnyard and started up a cow path leading toward a rocky flat-topped hill. The buzz of insects and the earthy smell of prairie grass soothed her. The faster she walked, the more deeply she breathed, the better she felt—as if finally her lungs could once again expand and contract without the grip of worry. She realized her body, too, had long been coiled with tension. She was accustomed to the out-of-doors, to challenging her stamina in the Rockies. The past few days had been uncharacteristically confining.

One of the ranch dogs trailed her, much as Beauty might. Sophie experienced a sudden spasm of longing for the solitude of her cabin and the majesty of the mountains. Reaching the top of the hill, she sat down on a limestone outcropping, letting her legs dangle over the side. Below, nestled among the trees, was the ranch house built so lovingly by her father and Seth. She pictured them, their shirtsleeves rolled up, toting the stone blocks and sawing boards for the framework. She had thought her pa one of the ablest, strongest men in the world. Fearless, yet gentle. Determined, yet flexible. And always loving. She closed her eyes, recalling him carrying her as a toddler on his broad shoulders, pushing her in the rope swing he'd made for her and holding her on his lap as he told tales of his boyhood. She sat, remembering him, for a measureless time. When she opened her eyes, she was surprised to feel teardrops on her cheeks. Then she saw it—the Chase County Courthouse—her Charlie's grand achievement. Charlie. Pa. There was no holding back. The floodgates opened and raw pain poured forth in an overdue catharsis.

When she could finally breathe again, she wiped her tear-streaked face on the soft hem of her dress.
God, what am I to do now? So much has been taken from me.
And then the questions came, one piling atop the other. Could she possibly leave this place again? The place where so many memories lived. The place where she would always be enfolded in a loving family circle. She had been far away when her father needed her. What if she was needed in the future? Had she sacrificed family to indulge her love of adventure? Yet there was no denying the powerful lure of the mountains or the liberating sense of being on her own. Being...true to herself.

She stood and gazed around the comforting mounds of the Flint Hills. Beneath her feet, wildflowers peeked from between rock crevices. There was beauty here, too. Not the wild, rugged beauty of the Rockies, but a more subtle kind. She recalled her father's dying words.
Mountains. Your dream. Be happy there.
But could she? Of course, she'd have to return to close the cabin and collect her things. But stay?

Turning for home, she was startled to spot the figure of her ten-year-old nephew, Alf, sitting still as a stone a few yards down the path. How long had he been there? He faced the west, his legs folded, his arms at his sides, his raven's-wing hair shining in the sun. At the sound of a rock dislodged by her foot, Alf turned. “I was worried,” he said simply.

This was far from the first time that the boy had seemed to intuit the feelings of his elders. “I needed to be alone.”

“I know. Me, too.” In one graceful movement, he got to his feet.

It occurred to Sophie that far too often adults underestimate the grief of children. And this one? He had witnessed the murder of his Pawnee mother at the tender age of four. He knew sorrow deep within his bones. “Are you ready to go home?”

He nodded. “Now I am.”

They walked in companionable silence for a ways. Then in a voice so small she had to lean closer to hear him, Alf said, “I want to know about the mountains. Are there eagles there? And bears?”

In that moment Sophie experienced a flash of recognition. Alf wanted the same kind of answers Marcus craved. She was overcome by her deep affection for both boys. And for Toby. Tate's sons posed another consideration. How would she balance her affection for them, and theirs for her, with a possible decision to leave Colorado?

“Aunt Sophie?”