Lyn Cote - Suddenly A Frontier Father

“Want me to drive the cows into the barn?” the boy asked.

“Yes, I’ll just put the cases inside and be out to help you. Thanks.” Mason turned to Emma, ready to let her go. She must be as uncomfortable in this situation as he was. “Thank you for your help.”

She paused, studying him. “I will sweep out your cabin before I leave.”

She must be offering to do this because of the girls. He couldn’t believe she was staying for his sake. “That’s not necessary—”

“I know it’s not, but you’ll have enough to do settling the cattle and getting firewood and water inside. Dusting and sweeping won’t take long.” She paused to touch first Birdie’s, then Charlotte’s shoulder. “The girls can help me.”

“We can help!” Birdie parroted with glee.

He again realized that Miss Emma was a very kind lady. Gratitude clogged his throat. Overhead the sun was sliding toward the western horizon. He needed to do the things she’d mentioned, get the house fit for occupation so he and the girls could settle in before night. Finally he regained his voice. “Thank you, Miss Jones.”

“Thank you, Miss Emma!” Birdie crowed.

Mason hurried ahead, unlocked the chain he’d secured the cabin door with and pushed it open. He set the baggage just inside and shed his traveling jacket on a peg on the wall by the door. Then he turned back to the barn. “I’ll go see to the cattle.”

* * *

“Fine,” Emma said, watching Mason go with both relief and a touch of regret. This man, whom she’d already come to respect, carried a heavy load, and she had volunteered to help in the small way she could. But she must not let sympathy lure her from her new, independent life. She brushed away these thoughts of Mason Chandler.

“Girls,” she announced briskly, “let’s go inside to see how much dust we need to clean away.” She strode through the open door and then paused to let her eyes adjust to the dimmer interior. The little girls, one on each side of her, peered in also.

Dust covered every surface of a sparsely furnished one-room cabin—a short counter attached to the wall with a dishpan on it, two benches, one on each side of a table, two handmade straight-back chairs by the central fireplace, and a bed in the corner. Emma surveyed the home that would have been hers if events had followed the course she’d expected.

She much preferred her cozy teacher’s quarters where she could do as she pleased. She took off her bonnet and hung it on a peg by the door. The girls shed theirs and she hung them up, too, since the hooks were too high for them to reach.

“It’s dusty,” Birdie commented.

“It is indeed.” Emma glimpsed a broom standing in the corner and several cloths hanging over the side of the dishpan. “I will sweep and the two of you can begin dusting.” She glanced down. “Do you know how to dust?”

“Yes, miss,” Birdie replied. “We dusted every week in Illinois.”

“Good.” She handed them each a cloth and claimed the broom.

“We sing while we dust,” Birdie informed her.

“What do you sing?” Emma asked, intrigued.

Birdie replied in song, “Ain’t gonna let nobody turn me ’roun’; Turn me ’roun’.”

Emma couldn’t like the ain’ts, but the song sounded cheerful, and she liked the sentiment. Nobody was going to turn her ’round, either. She had her new course as Pepin schoolteacher set, and she would follow it.

Soon she found herself sweeping up acorn tops and other evidence of squirrels. A thump against the side of the house startled her. Then she heard footsteps overhead. She looked up as if she could see through the ceiling.

The sound of scratching came down through the fireplace.

“What’s that, Miss Emma?” Birdie asked, also looking up.

“I think Mr. Chandler may be cleaning out debris from the top of the chimney.” She approached the fireplace and craned her neck to look up inside it.

Then she heard it—the sound of boots sliding down wooden shingles and a yell and finally a thump outside. Her heart lurched. “Oh, no!”

Birdie cried out in fear and ran to her with Charlotte close behind.

Emma hurried to the door and outside into the daylight, the girls at her heels.

Mason lay on the ground, flat on his back, not moving.

Emma gasped. How badly was he hurt? She rushed toward him and met Colton, who had run from the barn. Emma dropped to her knees, yet stopped herself from touching him. “Mr. Chandler?” she repeated his name several times.

She looked across at Colton, who stood on the man’s other side, looking as worried as she felt. She leaned forward over Mason’s mouth and turned her cheek to feel his warm breath. She felt it. Relief ruffled through her. “He’s breathing.”

Then she became aware of the fact that the two little girls were crying. “Don’t cry, Birdie. Tell Charlotte her brother’s breathing. He’ll be fine.” I hope.

All Mason Chandler and Birdie had revealed today had captured her interest, her sympathy. But that was all she could give him. Nothing more. She was independent at last, teaching school, which she’d always wanted to do. She was grateful Mason had released her from their agreement to marry. She would help him now but keep her distance.

Chapter Two

Mason blinked. He couldn’t think. But he could see Emma’s face just inches above his. “You’re so good,” he whispered. “And you could have been mine.”

Her eyes widened. “Mr. Chandler? Can you hear me?”

Silly question. Of course he could hear her, see her. He realized then that he was lying on the prickly grass, looking up at the blue sky. Crowded around him were his girls and Asa’s boy. Why was Emma on her knees beside him? “What happened?” He moved to sit up.

With her small hand on his chest, Emma pressed him back. “Take it easy. You’ve been unconscious for a couple of minutes. You fell from the roof.”

He closed his eyes and the memory returned, his sliding off the roof. That breathless jolt of panic. “I stepped on a loose shingle and lost my balance.”

“That could happen to anyone,” Emma murmured. She slipped her hand under his head. “You don’t have a bump. Does your head hurt?”

“A bit.” He appreciated Emma’s trying to soothe his dented pride, but he noticed then that Charlotte was crying and that Birdie, with tears running down her cheeks, was comforting her. He stirred himself. “I’ll be all right, girls. Don’t worry, Charlotte.” He tried to work his fingers to sign but he couldn’t. “I’ll be all right,” he repeated. He watched Birdie sign this to his sister, but she continued to cry. He could see the fear on her face. I must get up and show I’m all right, he thought to himself. He tried to sit up again.

Emma pressed him back once more. “First let’s make sure you’ve not hurt anything seriously.”

He glanced up at her, very aware of her being so close to him. He hoped she hadn’t heard him say, “You’re so good,” or, worse, “You could have been mine.” He cringed inwardly, hoping he hadn’t said that aloud. The words were true but too personal and embarrassing in the extreme.

“Start by moving each part of you and see if you feel any sharp pain,” she counseled.

He didn’t want to obey. He just wanted to stand up, thank her for her help and hurry her along home. Her presence was bringing forth feelings he didn’t want to explore. But yes, he might have hurt himself, so her instruction made sense. He didn’t want to make matters any worse than they were. He obliged her, moving his neck and working down his body, moving each arm individually and rotating each joint—shoulders, elbows, wrists, knees.

All was well till he tested his ankles one at a time. “Uhhh.” The pain-filled syllable was forced out when he rotated his right ankle.