Hope (10 page)

It was a simple, unassuming, friendly town. He was a simple, unassuming, friendly man. Would Hope find it in her heart to make her home here with him?
Father, I pray you will send a woman whom I can make happy, for indeed I will do my best to be a good husband.

With both hope and trepidation, John stored the duster under the counter, then bent to retrieve a new roll of wrapping paper from the bottom shelf. About to heave it onto the countertop, he spied Veda Fletcher crossing the street, scurrying toward the mercantile. Tucked beneath her arm was a familiar package. Even from this distance, he knew it was a towel-wrapped, glass casserole dish. He’d seen that particular sight many times.

“Oh no,” he muttered, quickly ducking down behind the counter. He dropped to his knees, lifting his head for an occasional peek over the countertop. Veda was still on target, her plump, rouged cheeks puffing with exertion.

The spunky, rotund widow had lost her husband some years back, and she now spent most of her time officiating as town matchmaker. Veda was just one of a whole list of town “mothers” who tried to initiate a match between John and their daughters or, in Veda’s case, her spinster niece.

Attending town social functions had become more of a burden than a joy, what with mothers plying him with food while parading eligible daughters in front of him like prize mares. Why, at the church picnic, he’d ended up with no less than nine pieces of dried-apple pie after Mrs. Baker discovered it was his favorite. He’d taken to eluding any community gathering whenever he could to avoid being up all night, gulping down soda water for indigestion.

For the past couple of years, Veda had been fixated on John carrying on a long-distance courtship with that niece of hers. Fortunately, Ginger lived in San Antonio. Unfortunately, Veda lived at the edge of town.

Being a social swan herself, Veda made her way to the store at least twice a week, each time managing to drag Ginger’s name into the conversation. John had explained no less than a hundred times in the last few weeks that he was betrothed, but Veda didn’t listen.

It was his fervent prayer that with Hope due to arrive any moment, the campaign—no, outright war—waged by the mothers of Medford to get him married off could end. True, Hope was a month overdue, but surely she was en route. He clung to the hope much like a drowning victim clings to driftwood.

Attempting to avoid another “visit” with Veda, John crept on his hands and knees toward the front door, pushing a sleeping Oliver out of the way. He didn’t want to hurt the woman’s feelings, but he just couldn’t face her again. Not today.

Just as John peeked from his hiding place, Veda put on the brakes and stopped to peer in the window of Hattie’s shop. Seizing his chance, he bounded to his feet and slipped the lock on the front door, then hurriedly crept back behind the counter.

Shortly, he heard the doorknob turn and the door rattle. A moment later someone pecked on the front window. John wished she’d just go away. But not Veda. She knocked, rapped, and jiggled the knob loudly. John peeked around the edge of the counter, only to glimpse her cupping her hands on the glass to peer inside, her parcel tucked securely beneath her elbow.

John held his breath.
Go away, Veda.

“John? The door is locked!” She tapped again. “John?”

He heard her mutter something; then it was quiet. When he thought it was safe, he again peered around the edge of the counter.

Veda was gone.

Thank you, God.

He rose a fraction—not much—just enough to glance out the front window and see her plump backside hurrying down the street, apparently heading for home.

Releasing a sigh of relief, he sat down flat on the floor. He liked Veda. He really did. But he just couldn’t force down another forkful of chicken casserole. At least, not the way Veda fixed it with all that stuff in it. It had been a sad day indeed when Veda accidentally overheard John telling old Mrs. Brandstetter that his favorite dish was chicken casserole. Unfortunately, Mrs. Brandstetter died the next year, and when they buried her, they also buried the only recipe for a decent chicken casserole in the whole town.

He thought about Mae Brandstetter’s casserole, and his mouth watered. Though he was quite adept at keeping his living quarters tidy, he’d never mastered the kitchen. His meals were quite inedible—suicide on a plate, his friends were wont to remind him. In order to keep from poisoning himself, he took most of his meals at the Pierson Hotel. Unfortunately, doing so exposed him to the cunning devices of the mothers of Medford. So much so that he’d taken to eating at odd hours. As a matter of fact, he’d missed lunch today.

A noise at the back door caught his attention. Straightening, his heart sank when he saw the door open and Veda Fletcher elbow her way inside.

“John, did you know your front door is locked?”

“Mrs. Fletcher—” His eyes focused on the casserole dish in her hand. Dear God. He would be up half the night. “Door locked? Now how did that happen?”

“Who knows—it’s fortunate I came along.” She set the bowl on the counter, eyeing him slyly. “Now let me guess: you missed lunch.”

“I had a large breakfast—”

“Breakfast! That was hours ago.” Beaming, she whisked the lid off the bowl. “Look, John. I brought you one of my chicken casseroles.”

She looked so proud of herself, he couldn’t think of hurting her feelings.

“Why, that’s very nice of you, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“No trouble at all. I enjoy doing for people. It’s a family trait, you know. The Fletchers are all nurturing people. Why, you remember my niece, Ginger? She’s exactly like me—chip off the old block. Just doing for someone all the time. Everyone who knows Ginger says—”

John reached for the dish. “You’re right; I did miss lunch.” He lifted the lid and sniffed, rolling his eyes with feigned pleasure. “This will certainly hit the spot.”

Veda’s smile was so genuine, John’s guilt lessened at his insincere show of appreciation. If something this simple gave Veda so much pleasure, who was he to complain?

“Thank you again, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“Veda. Everyone calls me Veda, John, and you’ve known me since before your mother died. Why, I feel like you’re part of the family.” She giggled like a small girl. “And maybe one day you will be. Well, I’ll run along now and let you eat. Laundry waiting on the line.”

If nothing else, John knew Veda Fletcher was a good housekeeper. Like clockwork, her laundry was on the line by nine o’clock every Monday. She was proud to remind her friends and neighbors that she ironed on Tuesdays, baked on Saturdays, and sat third row from the front at church on Sundays. Likely as not, she would invite Pastor Elrod and his family home for dinner and generally add another family or two as well. Generous to a fault—that was Veda. He couldn’t help liking her, even if she did drive him to distraction with her tasteless chicken casseroles and constant hints about her niece, Ginger.

“Oh, I almost forgot. I just received a letter from Ginger.” She turned back toward John and wiggled her brows. “She’s been planning a visit for some time, you know, and she’ll be here any day now. Isn’t that wonderful? I can hardly wait for you to meet her. I just know you two will have so much in common.”

“Mrs. Fletcher, you know my fiancée is expected any day now. We plan to be married—”

“Oh, I know that’s what you plan, but would it hurt for you to just meet my niece? My goodness, John. I’m not exactly asking you to marry Ginger. Well, look. The dear girl has sent a picture in her last letter. Just look at her. Isn’t she the prettiest thing you’ve ever laid eyes on?”

John took the tintype Veda thrust at him. He could tell absolutely nothing about the girl from the blurry image. He wasn’t even sure it was a girl.

“She’s lovely.” He handed the picture back.

Veda cradled the photo in her hands. “She is, isn’t she? Such a charming girl. Looks exactly like my sister Prunella looked when she was Ginger’s age.”

And Jake Pearson’s granddaughter was outrageously charming, and Greta George’s daughter, and Marly Jenkins’s sister. In fact, Freeman Hide’s granddaughter was also coming for a visit soon, and John wasn’t looking forward to meeting her, either!

“I was talking to poor Ben Grant the other day, and you know his wife isn’t getting any better.” Veda shook her head sadly. “He can’t take care of her and run the blacksmith shop too. He’s going to have to find someone to take care of Mary while he’s working. I was thinking Ginger could do that. That way, she could stay here in Medford. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”

Simply ducky. Somehow, in her own seemingly innocent way, Veda was always first to know what was going on in Medford—often before the involved parties did. Granted, everyone knew Veda had a good heart, so her questions were never considered prying, and she was always the first to be at the door if there was a need. There was absolutely no question that Veda Fletcher was a loving, caring woman who, after her husband’s death, had devoted herself to serving the town and its citizens. And wasn’t that, after all, what people were supposed to do? Take care of one another?

Unfortunately, John was her one blind spot. He and that niece of hers. Veda was determined to get them both to the altar. Together. And soon.

“It would help Ben, I’m sure.”

“It would. And Mary is such a dear soul. I’m sure Ginger would be such a blessing. And—” she smiled guilelessly—“her being here for an extended length of time will give you two time to get to know each other.” She clapped her birdlike hands together. “I’m so pleased this is working out so well.”

“I’m sure you’ll enjoy your niece’s visit.” Should he suggest an earpiece? He was already engaged to another.

Tucking the photo of Ginger into her pocket, she smiled. “I’ll introduce you the moment she arrives; you know how unpredictable the stages are. Why, out of the last scheduled four, three haven’t come in at all.”

John knew that quite well. In fact, Miss Kallahan had been due for the past four weeks and she wasn’t here yet. What with the spring rains and muddy roads, there was no telling when the stage could get through.

But Miss Kallahan would come. Her letters had shown her to be a woman of integrity and honesty. He could hardly wait for her arrival so this constant parade of eligible women would cease.

“I’m sure your niece will arrive in good time, Veda. And I’m sure you’ll enjoy her visit. If she can help Mary and Ben, then that’s wonderful. Now, I have work to do—”

“Eat your lunch,” Veda advised with a pat on his arm. “Young men need to keep up their strength.”

“Thank you, I will.”

“Enjoy.”

“Thank you again,” John called as Veda headed for the front door.

“Have a good day, John.”

“Same to you, Veda.”

He waved as he shut the door behind her, then snapped the lock back into place.

Turning, he took a deep breath and faced the chicken casserole.

Chapter Six

Under the cover of darkness, two figures silently emerged from the cave and crept toward a waiting horse. A moment later hoofbeats broke the quiet of the night.

Hope held tightly to Dan’s waist, praying that the Lord would guide his efforts. She was still weak from the illness and incredibly tired. She longed for a bath, clean clothing, and a soft bed. Though Dan was most considerate of her needs, there was nothing he could do about clothes and hot water. The best he’d been able to provide was a “spit” bath from rainwater he’d caught in their one cooking pot.

Resting her head against his broad back, she clung to him, dreaming of a steaming tub, pots and pots of hot water, and sweet-smelling lavender soap.

The night seemed endless. Dan promised they would ride down dark lanes, keeping to the side of the road in case they encountered other nocturnal travelers. Hope visualized Big Joe and the others hiding behind every rock and bush, ready to pounce and seize them captive, only this time Dan would be a victim, too. Big Joe would make sure neither she nor Dan got away again. Her hold tightened around Dan’s waist.

Her knight in shining armor glanced over his shoulder, the pale moonlight throwing his handsome profile into shadow.

“I know you’re getting tired, but if your strength holds up, I want to make as much time as we can.”

“Ride as long as you need.” He’d been so considerate, so attentive, during her infirmity, she’d be forever grateful. He’d fetched water, kept her fever to a tolerable level, and rarely slept while watching over her. She’d heard him outside the cave tossing in his bedroll. Even in her misery, she was confident he had one ear attuned for danger.

When she’d stir, he was there to see to her every need. At night in the light of the campfire, he read to her from a small Bible he carried in his coat pocket. His responsibility for her weighed heavily on him. She could see it in his eyes and hear it in the timbre of his voice.

“The worst is behind us,” she’d whisper, reaching out to take his hand. They had to keep their spirits up if they were to survive the ordeal.

“I pray you’re right,” he’d answer, and it was easy to tell he was worried.

The horse carried them through the dark night. They passed no one on the road. The infrequent homesteads they encountered lay dark and unthreatening beneath the waning moon.

Hope thought it must be close to dawn. Shadows gradually lifted, and the eastern horizon grew light.

“I’d like to ride until sunup,” Dan said over his shoulder.

Hope shivered, puzzled by the effect his calm, reassuring voice induced. Normally she’d be frightened half out of her wits, racing through the night with a man she trusted only by faith. But with Dan, she felt safe, protected, as if no further harm could touch her. “Don’t worry about me; I’m fine.”

She wasn’t fine, but she wasn’t going to fret about petty complaints. He didn’t have to personally escort her to Medford; he was risking his life by doing so. He could easily put her on a stage and be done with his responsibility.

But Dan Sullivan wasn’t one to shirk duty. He was a man of exceptional character. A man any woman would be proud to . . .