Chapter 2
At the clomping of horse hooves coming down the lane toward his house, Thatcher Hoyt stepped out of the barn and held up the lantern so that his visitor would know where to find him. Rusty was already barking a welcome and hobbling off to greet the newcomer.
If Thatcher had to guess who was coming, he’d pick Mr. Mintz, the middle-aged farmer who ran a grist mill outside of Breckenridge.
Earlier in the day, Mr. Mintz had stopped Thatcher on his way past his farm and asked him to take a look at a lame mare.
One glance at the blood from the coffin bone protruding through the sole had been all Thatcher needed to know.
The horse had foundered. The disease of the hooves was a hard one to cure and painful for the horse.
Mr. Mintz had wanted a quick cure, but Thatcher had explained that the only way the horse could be saved from founder was by a lot of time and attention—cleaning the wound, changing the dressing multiple times a day, keeping the stall spotless, and giving the horse feed that wasn’t so rich.
Not many farmers were willing to devote such attention to a lame horse, not with how many other demands they had, and Mr. Mintz had been no exception.
He’d claimed the bandage Thatcher wrapped around the hoof would be enough.
As Thatcher had readied to leave, he’d instructed Mr. Mintz to send word if the horse’s condition got any worse and he decided to put the horse down.
Thatcher had told Mr. Mintz he’d be willing to take the horse from him if there was a small chance of saving her.
He raised the lantern higher. The beams cut through the darkness of the evening, revealing the log-cabin home that had come with the place he was renting.
It was small and weathered, but the construction was sound and the chinking solid.
The roof was also in good condition, made of hand-split shingles.
The area around the house and barn had been cleared of trees and most stumps for farming. A large field close to the house contained strawberries and rhubarb. Farther out, the land had been cultivated into hay.
Thatcher had been too busy to keep up with the fruit last summer, and the birds had eaten most of it, but he’d managed to harvest the hay.
The solicitor of the property, Maverick Oakley, who was related to the owner, had allowed Thatcher to sell the hay and keep the profits.
Thatcher had used it to stock up on more medicine and supplies before winter prevented wagon trains from bringing up goods from Denver.
The horse and rider had slowed beside the cabin but then must have seen the lantern, because in the next instant they were continuing down the lane that curved around to the barn.
“Thatcher?” came a man’s voice that was decidedly younger than Mr. Mintz’s.
Thatcher waved an arm. “Over here by the barn!”
If this wasn’t Mr. Mintz, who was it?
As the horse drew nearer, the lantern light fell across a young man wearing a battered Stetson, his blond hair showing underneath.
It was Jeremy Usher, the blacksmith’s assistant.
Even though he was four or five years younger than Thatcher’s twenty-five years, Jeremy was a fun-loving fellow, and Thatcher had enjoyed his company on occasion, along with some of the other single men who worked in town.
Although Thatcher had blond hair too, his was a shade lighter because he spent more time out in the sunshine than Jeremy. Thatcher was also stockier, with broader shoulders and thicker arms and legs from his days as a farmer boy, plowing fields, wrangling cows, and harvesting crops.
What was Jeremy doing out tonight? Coming to invite him to another dance at Inman’s Lodge or to watch a hockey game on the manmade ice-skating pond on the edge of town?
Thatcher was more than ready for some company or excitement.
It didn’t matter how tired he was or that he’d had many sleepless nights lately thanks to all the vaccinations he’d been doing for blackleg.
The deadly disease had killed off close to twenty of the Nobles’ cattle before Sterling had called on him and given him the go-ahead to administer the vaccine.
Over the past two weeks since then, Thatcher had been called to two other ranches, and so far, the vaccine seemed to be putting an end to the spread of the disease.
Thatcher had studied that particular vaccine and worked on developing it during his years at the Veterinary College of Philadelphia. He believed in it and its ability. But he also knew that anything could go wrong in the blink of an eye.
He’d learned that the hard way earlier in the year when he’d made a mistake that had cost him his practice near Cedar Rapids. Not only had it cost him his livelihood, but he’d lost everything—his reputation, respect, honor, trustworthiness, and even his fiancée.
He’d had no choice but to move from Iowa to someplace far away where no one had heard about his blunder.
With his cousin Lee living in Summit County and writing back home to family about the beauty of the wilderness and mountains, Thatcher had packed the little he’d had left and come just as soon as the snow had melted on the high mountain passes.
Breckenridge, in the high country of Colorado, had seemed like the ends of the earth back in May when he’d arrived. But after the summer and autumn of settling in—especially after moving out of his cousin’s house and to the farm—he’d realized the area was a slice of heaven on earth.
Except for the loneliness . . .
He hated being alone and always had. He enjoyed being around people, having company, and carrying on conversations. That meant he relished making calls at any time of the day or night.
But his calls weren’t enough. He still had far too much time alone. In fact, five minutes alone was too much and one of the downsides of being so sociable and outgoing.
“Howdy, Thatcher.” Jeremy wore a wide grin as he reined in, and his eyes held excitement.
“Good to see you, Jeremy.” Thatcher reached for the bridle and rubbed a hand over the horse’s muzzle.
“Go put on your Sunday suit.” Jeremy thumbed the air in the direction of the cabin. “You’re getting married tonight.”
“Married?” Thatcher’s hand stalled on the horse’s forehead, and the word rolled through Thatcher’s head in a strange vacuum. But in the next instant, understanding hit him. He couldn’t hold back a wide grin of his own. “My bride finally arrived?”
“Yep. She just rode into town with Weston Oakley and his family.”
“Thank the good Lord.” A thrill raced through Thatcher’s blood. “Finally.”
“Knew you’d be happy.” Jeremy began to dismount.
Happy didn’t even begin to describe how Thatcher was feeling.
It was more like elated, even relieved. He’d started communicating with Eileen back in July, shortly after he’d moved to the farm and realized how big and lonely the place was all by himself, and after he’d realized how few single women lived in the area.
Eileen was from New York City and had been working as a domestic for a couple of years.
She was ready to leave the city behind, and after hearing about the West and the mountains, she’d responded to his advertisement about moving to his farm up in the mountains.
She’d said she would do her best to arrive in the autumn.
After her last letter in September, he’d expected her to arrive by October, early November at the latest.
With the long winter looming ahead, he hadn’t wanted to be alone, had even considered returning to town and living with Lee, his wife Dot, and their three young children again.
The trouble with moving was that he needed space for all his equipment, medicine, and the horse he’d purchased after he’d rented the farm.
He’d also, as usual, acquired a menagerie of pets that he’d rescued or been given by people who no longer wanted them—two sheep, three goats, a duck, and a handful of chickens.
Then there was Rusty, a dark-red golden retriever who was missing one of her back legs.
The dog limped next to Thatcher.
Jeremy’s feet had barely touched the ground before Rusty was lifting her friendly face, thumping her tail back and forth, and begging for attention.
“Did she say what took her so long?” Thatcher took up the lead line of Jeremy’s horse and wrapped it around the corral fence post.
“Didn’t have time to inquire.” Jeremy scratched Rusty’s head. “And you don’t have time to waste with questions. Go get ready.” Jeremy gave Thatcher a shove toward the cabin. “I’ll saddle your horse.”
Thatcher stumbled but caught himself, walking backward for several paces. He supposed it didn’t really matter what had held Eileen up. She was here now, and that was all that mattered. “Does she seem nice?”
“Real nice.” Jeremy’s grin was so wide it rivaled the Great Plains. “And she’s a real beauty.”
“Really?”
“Yep,” Jeremy said. “She’s prettier than any gal I’ve ever seen.”
“Then she must be modest, because in her letters she claimed her features were plain.”
“Nothin’ plain about your woman.”
Thatcher’s blood began to hum with a new anticipation.
He’d been prepared for plain, had been content with that.
But now that she was here and was pretty—at least according to Jeremy—he wouldn’t mind.
Not in the least. Most importantly, Eileen was kind and caring—at least, that’s how she’d seemed from her letters.
“Reckon if you decide you don’t want her, I’ll be first in line to marry her.”
“Oh, I’ll want her.” Thatcher turned and began to jog toward the cabin. “You better believe I’ll want her.”
He’d been eager to get married to Nora too. After they’d called off their engagement, he’d been hurt and disappointed, but there had been so much else going on that he hadn’t really missed her. Or maybe he’d never really loved her enough to fight to keep her.