“What of Mr. Lodge? I thought he was your beau?”
“He is.” She glanced at Willa and sat a little straighter. “You needn’t look disapproving. I’ve not given Mr. Lodge my promise. I’m still free to accept another suitor if one takes my fancy, and I find Mr. Cuthbert’s maturity attractive.”
“His maturity?” Willa’s brows rose. She hung the poker she was using on its hook and looked at her. “As in steadfast character or years?”
She lifted her chin. “Both.”
“I see.” Willa’s eyes narrowed on her. “If I remember correctly, Mr. Lodge is six years older than you, Ellen. How ‘mature’ is Mr. Cuthbert?”
“That is not important.” She rose and held her hands out to the fire to avoid meeting that penetrating gaze. Willa was only two years older but she’d always had the ability to make her want to squirm. “Mr. Cuthbert is a man of great distinction and social eminence, and I’m flattered by his attentions.”
“And he is as wealthy as Mr. Lodge.”
Judged and found guilty. The indictment was in Willa’s voice. She squared her shoulders. “Not quite.”
“Ellen! You have true affection for this man?”
She took a breath and turned. “I have admiration for him and his accomplishments. He is a personal friend of the governor and may become the next secretary of state—if the Senate approves Mr. Seward’s appointment of him. And then...who knows how far his abilities may take him? Perhaps even to our nation’s capital.” She smiled, waited for the gasp of disbelief, the look of envy that always accompanied her announcement.
“I see.” Willa’s gaze shifted to the cradle, then came back to rest on her. “And what of love, Ellen?”
The question brought the romantic young-girl dreams she had forsaken rushing back. A frisson of anger slipped through her, stiffened her spine. She should have guessed that would be Willa’s reaction. Willa had been preaching to her about love in marriage ever since she’d wed Matthew Calvert. And Callie was as bad since her marriage to Ezra Ryder. No doubt Sadie would be the same. The fire crackled. Ellen took a breath and turned back to gaze down into the flickering fire. Seeing Daniel again made those romantic dreams all too real. But she was no longer a hero-worshipping child. She was a woman with a purpose. “What about love, Willa? You, of all people, know that love can be fickle.”
“Not true love, Ellen.”
Enough! She would not be belittled because she chose to follow her head instead of her heart. “And how does one know the difference?” She threw a challenging glance over her shoulder. “You and your mother were both deceived. I prefer not to take that chance.” She looked back at the flames devouring the wood, the way poverty turned love into ashes. “Mother told me love is simply an emotion that will trap you in a log cabin with a husband who spends his time trying to earn enough to provide food and shelter for you and the children that come of such a union. She was not interested in that menial sort of life. That’s why she married Father. And she’s never regretted her decision.”
She lifted her chin, turned and faced Willa again. “I’m not interested in that sort of drudgery either, Willa. I mean to have every advantage—and both Mr. Lodge and Mr. Cuthbert can provide them. And both have spoken for my hand. That’s why I’ve come home. I have to decide which man will best serve my plans. As for love—” she gave an eloquent little shrug “—I’m certain a fondness between me and the man I choose to marry will develop over the years. And if not...” She looked at the happiness glowing in Willa’s eyes and caught her breath at a sudden empty feeling inside. Daniel’s crooked grin appeared before her, enticing her. Foolishness. Daniel was nothing but a friend from her childhood. A teamster with nothing to call his own. She blinked the image away and ran her hands over the rich fabric of her gown. “If not...I will have the finest of everything to take its place.”
“Whoa.” Camp had never looked so good. Daniel draped the reins over the edge of the wood seat, jumped off and trudged to the back of the pung’s low wood box. A quick swipe of his gloved hand cleared the mounded flakes off of the molasses keg and he hoisted it to his shoulder. Bits of clinging snow fell off the keg against his neck, sent a shiver chasing down his back. He ignored the chill and searched for the neck of the burlap bag, took hold and pulled it free.
The pigs milling around the kitchen door waiting for the cook to throw out the leavings from his supper preparations came snorting and grunting, pressing against his legs as they fought for position. “Give over!” He kneed them aside, stomped his way to the log building and gave the door a swift kick.
Irregular footsteps thumped against the puncheons of the kitchen floor. The door was yanked open. “Ain’t ya got a hand?”
“Not an empty one.” He thrust the burlap bag at the scowling cook. “Here are the things you ordered.”
“’Bout time.” The cook folded a meaty fist around the neck of the bag, kicked the door shut and limped his way over to the worktable.
“What are you grumbling about, Smiley? You’re still alive, aren’t you?” He grinned and shrugged the keg of molasses off his shoulder onto a long plank shelf on the wall. Heavy boots thumped against the floor in the other room. “You’d better get the coffee going if you plan to stay that way. The men are coming in.”
“I’m lame, not deaf. I hear ’em.” The cook tugged open the strings on one of the sacks of coffee beans, dumped some in the grinder and turned the crank. The beans popped and crackled, the fragments whispering down the chute into a bowl and releasing their tantalizing fragrance to blend with the smell of the beef stew simmering in the iron pots hanging in the fireplace. Loaves of fresh-baked bread piled on a table by the dining room door added their tangy sourdough aroma.
Daniel tugged the shoulder of his coat back in place, turned and took a deep sniff. “Smells good in here, Smiley. Feels good, too. It’s turning nasty outside. The temperature’s dropping fast.”
“Then, was I you, I’d stop jawing and get some heat in the dining room.”
“My exact intentions.” He grinned and clapped the scowling cook on the shoulder, strode by the table loaded with bread and into the dining room. “Irish, come help me carry the woodstove in from the pung.”
A roar of approval rose from the snow-covered loggers stomping in from outside to find a place on the plank benches alongside the sawbuck tables.
“Ja. Und be quick about it, Irish!” A ham-sized fist landed on the thin Irishman’s shoulder as he turned back toward the door. “Get those jigging feet moving so ve can have some heat in here, ja? It’s bad enough ve freeze—”
“Thump me again, Hans, an’ you’ll not be warmin’ yourself by any fire.” Irish scowled and pulled his coat collar up around his neck. “’Tis eatin’ an’ sleepin’ in a snowbank you’ll be doin’.”
The stocky German wobbled his knees and shook his arms, pretending to quake in his boots. A burst of laughter filled the room.
“An’ that—” Irish yanked the rolled brim of Hans’s hat down over the German’s face “—will get you the joy of helpin’ me fetch in an’ set up the stove, while Danny-boy-o tends to his horses.”
The crowd of laughing loggers parted, making a pathway to the door. Irish gave Hans a friendly shove and followed him outside.
Daniel grinned at their antics and stepped back into the kitchen. “Save me some supper, Smiley. I’ll be back when I’ve stabled Big Girl.”
“I ain’t yer servant. Come