Her Colorado Man

Arlen lived in the family home with Grandfather and their parents, as did she and John James, her two younger sisters, a widowed aunt and her cousin Marc’s family.

Mariah’s family had lived in a separate house once, but when her mother’s sight had failed, they’d moved into the big house so Henrietta wasn’t alone during the day. Now Wilhelm and his family lived in the house they’d vacated, which was only several hundred feet from this one.

For practicality, all of the Spanglers lived within a half a mile radius of the brewery and each other. Grandfather said it was like having their own Bavarian district. They shopped, worshipped and visited in Ruby Creek on a regular basis, though, always taking an interest in the community and usually attending church.

The good-natured chatter and teasing between cousins and siblings was lost on her today; her thoughts had been narrowed to one subject—and one person—since that morning.

The wagon slowed and Arlen, along with her cousin Marc, jumped down. Arlen reached back for Mariah’s hand and Marc helped his wife to the ground. Faye adjusted her skirts and took his hand as they headed toward the rear entry.

Men and women parted in the yard, the men headed for the washhouse. Mariah followed Faye in through the sun porch to the enormous kitchen filled with mouthwatering aromas. Her aunt Ina turned from one of the steaming cast-iron stoves to welcome them with a smile.

Mariah’s mother sat on a wooden stool near a chopping block, peeling potatoes. “Hello, Mama,” Mariah greeted her.

“How was your workday?” Henrietta asked and raised her cheek for a kiss.

“It was long.” Mariah joined Faye at a deep sink to scrub her hands. “I’ll be down to help with supper after I wash up and change.”

“There you are!” her cousin Hildy exclaimed when the two of them nearly collided in the doorway. “John James has been waiting for you.”

Hildy didn’t live with them. She had worked in the brewery for a couple of years, but most recently she’d been a companion to Henrietta. She preferred helping with the household chores and watching over the younger children to a brewery position, and the arrangement suited everyone. Hildy had no children of her own.

“I gave the children toast and eggs after school,” Hildy told her. “Though they’d have much preferred your mama’s cookies.”

“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.”

“My goodness! Why how long has it been? You and your man will have to get acquainted all over again.”

“He writes often,” Mariah blurted, and then caught herself sounding defensive.

“A letter is no substitute for a flesh and blood partner, now is it? How long has it been?” she asked again. She looked at John James. “Six years? Seven? I’d be surprised if you even remember what your husband looks like.”

“Yes, well, we’d better be going. We’re celebrating Grandfather’s birthday this evening.” Mariah hurried John James toward the door.

“Give my best to your granddaddy.”

The brass bell attached to the door rang as Mariah escaped onto the boardwalk. The late-afternoon sun cast long shadows from the two-story wood frame buildings onto the hard-packed dirt street. In the distance a locomotive whistled, a sound she rarely noticed, but had been keenly attuned to the past several days. Would he arrive by train? Horseback? Wagon? She had no idea. She had studied the world map in John James’s geography book to surmise that this Burrows fellow would take a steamship to the western coast of the United States. Train would be the quickest mode from there.

“Mama, you didn’t order my coat.”

“We have plenty of time,” she assured him and took his hand and urged him toward the buggy she’d left several feet away.

That evening, the festivities commenced before dinner as family members arrived with platters of food. Wilhelm and Arlen had settled a keg of beer into the scrolled wrought-iron stand that had been in Grandfather’s family for a hundred years. It now stood in the great room near the doorway where a hall led back to the kitchen and dining hall. A bucket sat below the spigot to catch drips, and Louis’s two mountain hounds lapped at the overflow.

Mariah’s grandmother had been gone nearly a decade, so as the oldest of their daughters, Mariah’s mother supervised meals and holidays. Her blindness had no effect, since the family had carried out the same plans in the same manner for so many years that everyone knew their role. But Henrietta took her position seriously and reigned from her stool just inside the kitchen door.

“Where is the rotkohl?” her mother asked. “The dish hasn’t gone to the table yet.”

Mariah used flour sacks to pick up the steaming hot bowl of braised red cabbage. “Right here, Mama.”

She and Faye exchanged an amused glance. Nothing passed without being detected by Henrietta’s exquisite sense of smell.

Faye carried out egg noodles with mushroom sauce and Hildy followed with potato dumplings. The women had been cooking since the day before, and the house had remained filled with the mouthwatering aromas.

Mariah hadn’t had much of an appetite recently, but tonight she was famished. She couldn’t wait for her mother to give the word to begin.

Families grouped together, and the crowd became unusually quiet.

“Good health to the Spanglers!” her mother shouted.

A rousing cheer went up. Mothers helped their children prepare plates first. The youngsters sat at the long table in the kitchen, and the adults were welcome to prepare plates and eat in either the dining hall or the great room.

Mariah settled John James between Paul and Wilhem’s boy August before going back for a plate for herself.

The line had already grown long, so she waited her turn beside Wilhelm and his wife, Mary Violet.

“How old is your grandfather?” Mary Violet asked.

Mariah and Wilhelm exchanged a glance. “Seventy this year?” Wilhelm asked and Mariah nodded.

At last Mariah filled her plate and took a seat in the great room. The room buzzed with conversation and laughter. One of Grandfather’s dogs belched and flopped down beside his master’s chair, raising a round of amused chuckles.

The door chimes rang, and Mariah distractedly noticed Marc rise and leave the room in the direction of the front hall.

A few moments later, the noise level dropped until the only sounds were forks settling on plates and voices from the dining hall.

Marc appeared in the doorway, a stranger beside him.

The few bites Mariah had eaten turned to stones in her belly. She paused with her fork in the air and stared.

The tall broad-shouldered man beside her cousin wore a brown straight-cut wool jacket over a red flannel vest, double-breasted shirt and black wool trousers. The outsider held a felt hat by the brim until Marc took it, along with his jacket and led the man farther into the room.

“She’s right over there, Mr. Burrows.”

Mariah froze in a moment of pure terror. A sound like rushing water filled her ears.

He was here.

Chapter Three

The stranger’s skin was deeply tanned except for feathered lines at the corners of his rich brown eyes, making him look as though he’d squinted against the sun for a lifetime. His russet-colored hair had been neatly cropped and was combed in waves against his scalp. One obstinate curl drooped at his temple.

He searched the faces of the people in the room with surprising intensity.

He wouldn’t know her. The man everyone believed was her husband had never before set eyes on her.

Quickly handing her plate to Mary Violet, Mariah stood. She only wore skirts to church and for special occasions, and while a dress always made her feel naked and awkward, she felt even more vulnerable now. She brushed her damp palms against the fabric.

She’d drawn his attention, and he directed his dark gaze to her.

She took a few steps forward, then halted. Under the starchy skirts and petticoats, her knees shook.

He was taller than most of her brothers, but not as burly. He had a smooth, handsome forehead, a nice nose and well-defined lips. God help her, her gaze was drawn directly to a deep divot in the upper one.

Taking a few hesitant steps closer, she noticed the sweep of his dark brows and the shape of his square jaw. Just because his appearance took her breath away was no reason to weaken her resolve. This was the scoundrel who was up to no good.

His gaze never wavered from hers. “Mariah,” he said.

Her first breath didn’t produce anything, and it was a good thing, because she’d been about to blurt, Mr. Burrows, in front of her entire family. Instead she corrected her thinking and managed, “Hello, Wesley.”

Louis straightened from his chair and made his way to where she and the unfamiliar guest stood gaping at one another.

“Welcome to Colorado, young Wes.” Grandfather extended a hand. “Welcome to our home. It’s a pleasure to meet you at last.”

The stranger averted his gaze to the gentleman and shook his hand. “Thank you, sir.”

Grandfather’s mountain hounds sniffed at the stranger’s boots and pant legs. He leaned forward and lowered a hand with his fingers curled under to let them learn his scent. After careful evaluation, one of the dogs licked him, and Wes turned his palm over to scratch its ear.

A few voices picked up conversations behind her, and others greeted Wesley with curious hellos.

The news had traveled as far as the kitchen, and Mariah knew the moment John James appeared in the great room. The expectant silence was deafening. Of course the irritating man had picked this night and this hour, and now her predicament was destined to play out in front of the entire Spangler clan. Mariah’s heart hammered in apprehension.

All of her fears combined into a wave of dread, and she wanted to grab her boy and run with him until they were far away and safe, someplace where nothing could ever hurt him. But she couldn’t. She was doomed to watch this unfold and deal with the consequences.

John James walked forward to stand beside her and curl his slender fingers into hers in the hidden folds of her skirt. He was afraid, too, but he was trying to be brave and not let on.

Wesley Burrows hunkered down until he was level with her child. The look in his obsidian eyes confused her even more. The look was almost relieved, almost desperate, almost…loving.

“John James?” he asked.

John James nodded, looked up at Mariah and then back. “Are you my papa?”

Mariah’s throat grew tight with panicky denial. Denial she couldn’t voice. Dozens of eyes were on them. She’d never fainted in her life, and she wasn’t going to start now.

“I’m Wes Burrows,” the man said. “I have all your letters. Every one. I’ve read them a hundred times.”

“A hundred?”

“Maybe more.”

John James’s face lit with pure elation. “I read the book you sent. Mama helped me with the big words. There was lots of ’em.”

The man glanced up at her with a crooked smile, but she averted her gaze to John James. As soon as they picked up their conversation, she studied him again.

His voice was deep and low, with a smoother accent than she was accustomed to hearing. “You’re taller than I expected,” Wes said.

“So are you.”

The stranger smiled.

“Mama says I grow like a weed.”

Mariah looked away so she wouldn’t meet his eyes again.

“Did you cross the ocean?” John James asked with rapt fascination.

“I did. I had a stateroom aboard the White Star and came ashore in Seattle.”

“I studied the ocean in my geography book,” John James said with wide-eyed amazement. “Some ships sink in the water.”

“Tragically, some do,” he agreed.

Mariah had been unaware of her son’s concern about this man’s ship being lost, but putting herself in his place, he’d been without a father his entire life. When he’d learned his was on the way, he’d likely imagined all manner of heartbreaking possibilities. She’d caused him this worry, but she’d had no choice. No choice in any of it.

John James’s face was lit with discovery and pride. He turned to glance at the nearest family members.

For the first time, Mariah noted that Wilhelm and Arlen, along with her two older brothers, Gerd and Dutch, stood in a protective semicircle behind her and John James. Her gaze touched on each of their faces, noting their solemn expressions of concern. No doubt her body language hadn’t alleviated their instincts.

With deliberate purpose, she relaxed her facial muscles and her shoulders, garnering her gumption for what she knew she must do. “Wesley,” she said in the most cordial tone she could muster.

Immediately he stood, giving her his nerve-racking attention. “Yes, ma’am.”

She turned to include her brothers in their circle. “Meet my brothers, Gerd, Dutch, Arlen and Wilhelm.”

Wes shook hands with the fair-haired men one at a time, each man weighing the measure of the other in those brief grasps.

“I brought you something,” Wes said, turning back to John James.

John James’s eyes lit in anticipation. “What is it?”

“Wait right here.” Wes turned and headed back for the front door, giving Mariah her first notice of the way he favored one leg in an awkward gait. John James looked up at her. He’d noticed, too. So had everyone else.

Within moments, the man returned, but now all attention was drawn from his limp to the wooly white-and-gray puppy he carried over his forearm.

John James yipped his own bark of excitement and darted forward.

Grandfather’s mountain hounds were every bit as interested as John James, wagging their tails and sniffing the air.

“You brought me a puppy?” John James asked excitedly. “What’s his name? Did he come on the boat with you? What does he eat?”

This time when Wesley knelt to place the dog on the floor, Mariah noticed the way he grimaced, realizing the position caused him pain. “He’s meant to be your dog, so you’ll do the naming,” he replied. “And yes, he and Yuri were good company on the trip. They’ve eaten a lot of fish. And small animals mostly.”