Chapter 3
The stagecoach lurched to a halt in front of the general store, its wheels sinking into the spring mud.
Eleanor Cathcart – now Louisa Pallister – gripped her carpetbag tightly as the driver swung open the door.
She stepped down, her boot sinking ankle-deep into the churned earth with a wet squelch.
Cold mud seeped through her stockings. She straightened, lifting her chin against the vast Montana sky that stretched endlessly above the mountains.
A tall, broad-shouldered man stood waiting by the store’s porch, a small child nestled in his arms. Sandy-brown hair fell across his forehead. His blue eyes met hers with quiet steadiness. He crossed the distance in a few strides.
“Miss Pallister?” His voice was low and even, with the faint cadence of a man accustomed to preaching.
“Eleanor swallowed. “Yes, I am Louisa Pallister.” The false name still felt heavy on her tongue, like a stone she could not quite swallow. Levi shifted the child higher on his hip and reached for Eleanor’s carpetbag.
Their fingers brushed as he took the handle.
A spark of unexpected warmth shot up her arm.
She pulled her hand back, clutching her shawl, breath caught in her throat, butterflies in her stomach.
“This is a marriage of convenience,” she reminded herself. “Nothing more.”
“The church is just up the street,” Levi said. “If you are ready, the reverend from the next valley over is waiting to perform the ceremony.”
It seemed to Eleanor that in the blink of an eye, she was standing at the altar.
Their vows were brief, spoken inside the simple wooden church with only two people in attendance.
Eleanor repeated the reverend’s words in a steady voice that belied the pounding of her heart.
Levi’s accompanying response was equally as steady, each word ringing with measured composure.
When it came time, he slipped a plain gold band onto her finger, the metal cool against her skin.
Nora watched the proceedings from within Grace Callway’s arms, her wide blue eyes curious.
Afterward, Levi led her the short distance to the parsonage, a modest whitewashed house tucked behind the church. Nora rode quietly in her father’s arms as they walked.
“This is the kitchen,” he said, pushing the door open. A black iron stove dominated one wall. As a result, the room smelled of woodsmoke and fresh bread. “The sitting room is through here.”
He guided her into the next room, where a stone fireplace held a small fire. Above the mantel hung a portrait of a dark-haired young woman with gentle eyes. Eleanor felt a quiet pang, realizing the woman was likely Levi’s late wife. She seemed to watch over the room with a dignified serenity.
Levi continued the tour without lingering.
“The pantry,” he said, opening a narrow door to reveal shelves lined with jars, including one of bright preserves, and a half-full sack of flour.
“And then my room is at the end of the hall. I keep Nora’s cradle in the room with me.
” He stopped before a door at the back of the house but did not step inside.
“This will be yours.” He met her gaze for a brief moment.
“I will have supper ready by six. Please let me know if you need anything, Mrs. Crandall.”
The sound of her new name startled her. After a moment, Eleanor managed a nod. Levi did not linger and withdrew without a word.
Now alone, Eleanor set her carpetbag at the foot of the narrow bed. The room was simple yet clean. A quilt crafted in muted blues lay across the mattress. There was a washstand and a small window overlooking the ridge, but not much else.
Unpacking took little time, and soon she was reaching into the bottom of her bag, where her mother’s medical notebook lay, its cover worn soft from years of use.
Eleanor sat on the edge of the bed and ran her thumb over the penciled remedies in her mother’s familiar handwriting.
The sight brought a tightness to her throat.
…willow bark for fever… yarrow for bleeding… chamomile for restless nights…
She stopped flipping through the journal when she heard Nora begin to fuss through the thin wall.
It was such a tired, fretful sound that it immediately tugged at her heartstrings.
A moment later, Levi’s voice came, “There now, little one. I’ve got you.
” The rhythmic creak of the cradle followed, soothing and constant.
At six o’clock, Eleanor made her way to the kitchen. Levi stood at the stove, ladling stew into two bowls. Nora sat on his knee as he settled at the table, one arm securing her in place while he ate with the other. The child reached eagerly for his spoon.
“Easy,” Levi murmured, gently guiding her small hand back. “Not yet. It’s still too hot.”
They ate in silence that was not uncomfortable, though it was not easy either. The stew was hearty, flavored with venison and root vegetables. Eleanor found herself studying Levi through veiled eyelashes as he managed both his bowl and his child with quiet competence.
“How long have you been in Deer Lodge?” she asked, breaking the silence.
“Four years,” he replied. “Took the pulpit after the last pastor moved to California. The town was smaller then.”
Nora dropped a crust of bread onto the floor as her father spoke. Without thinking, Eleanor bent to retrieve it. As she straightened, the little girl’s chubby hand shot out and seized Eleanor’s braid, which had slipped over her shoulder. Nora held on with surprising strength, giggling with delight.
“Oh—” Eleanor started, caught off balance.
Levi immediately reached over to untangle his daughter’s fingers.
His knuckles brushed the side of Eleanor’s neck, warm and callused.
A shiver traced down her spine. As if he could feel it too, he pulled back quickly and cleared his throat.
“I’ll take care of the dishes,” he said, rising with Nora.
“You should rest. Your journey was long.”
Eleanor stood as well. “Thank you,” she said, the words hanging between them. Those two words felt far too small. This man had given her a train ticket, a new home, a new name, and a chance at safety. She owed him everything.
After supper, Eleanor returned to her bedroom and sat on the edge of the narrow bed, hands folded tightly in her lap. The weight of deception pressed heavily on her heart. Levi Crandall was a good man, yet here she was, pulling the wool over his eyes.
Eleanor sighed, remembering Mary’s prayer in which she had asked God to hide her under the shadow of His wings. She closed her eyes and hoped God would forgive her for the lies she had been forced to tell.