“An angel,” they said in unison.
“Your turn.”
Sophie stood over them, reveling in their delight. “I’m making huge wings,” Marcus said, while Toby giggled with the effort of moving his arms and legs simultaneously. Then they stood up and began pelting one another with snowballs, between fits of laughter.
Sensing a presence behind her, Sophie turned to face the house. Before a curtain slipped back into place, she had a glimpse of Tate. He’d been watching them. She wondered what had prevented him from joining them. Or didn’t he ever play? No use wasting time thinking about such things. The man was a mystery.
* * *
Tate couldn’t believe his eyes. Marcus was nearly cavorting, Beauty trailed Toby’s every step and Sophie Montgomery, why, she might as well have been a child herself. She joined the boys’ play with abandon, her cheeks pink from the cold, her red-gold hair escaping her stocking cap and her laughter audible even through the pane of glass. Now accompanied by Beauty and the boys, she approached her horse. He couldn’t hear what she was saying to his sons as she bent close to them, one arm around Toby and the other around Marcus. Marcus, who rarely let anyone touch him. Whatever she’d said, each nodded seriously in reply.
Tate turned back to his desk. Why hadn’t he joined them? Was he too good for Follow the Leader, or had he feared making a fool of himself in front of the maddening Sophie? Sophie, who in less than two hours had captivated his boys.
He’d barely sat down to pore over his papers when Toby burst into the room without knocking. The rebuke for the intrusion died on Tate’s lips when he saw how animated his son was.
“Papa, Papa. Marcus and I discussed. He told me to ask you.”
“Ask me what?” Over Toby’s head, Tate spotted Marcus lurking outside the door.
“’Bout the dog,” Toby said, approaching him and laying a small hand on his knee. “If we had a dog, we’d be real ’sponsible. We’d feed it and give it water and take it for walks and—”
Before Toby could gather more steam, Tate interjected. “Animals require a great deal of care. Not just for a day or a week. Always.”
“Always,” Toby intoned, his blue eyes, so like his mother’s, fixed on him. “We promise.”
“Marcus?”
The boy slunk into the room, not daring to look at him. The concern that so often occupied Tate’s thoughts returned in force. Was his own son afraid of him? Indifferent to him? Angry? Clearing his throat and knowing there was no argument to be made, Tate said, “Both of you are committed to caring for a dog?”
“Yes!” shouted Toby, while Marcus nodded.
“Well, then, I think what we should do—” he paused, prolonging the suspense “—is ask around the valley whether anyone knows of available pups.”
Toby clambered into Tate’s lap and captured his face between his hands. “Really?”
“Yes, really.”
Marcus took a step forward. “Thank you, sir,” he mumbled before leaving the room.
“I don’t care what Marcus says. Buster is a good name.”
Tate groaned. Solving one problem had created another. He knew there was only one solution. Two dogs. But if that would please Toby and somehow bring a smile to his older son’s face, no price was too high to pay. Perhaps allowing them pets would in a small way compensate for the frequency of his business trips. “Buster, huh? We’ll see. Now run along like a good boy. Papa has work to do.”
The boy slid to the floor. “Beauty is a good dog. Betcha mine will be, too. I’m glad Miss Sophie came to visit.”
Tate started to say, “I am, too,” but was he really? “It was good of her.”
“We had lotsa fun,” Toby said as he skipped out the door. “Maybe she’ll come again.”
He should’ve thought of getting the boys dogs when they first moved to Estes Park. Ramona preferred cats and wouldn’t have let a dog anywhere near her. Was he so out of touch with his own childhood that he couldn’t remember how much he’d loved his short-haired mongrel, Buck? How he could tell Buck his worries and secrets and feel relief from the understanding canine eyes studying him solemnly. Growing up, Buck was his steadfast companion in a home too elegant for romping, where his distant, self-involved parents paraded their son before their friends as if he were a prize show animal. Buck and books—his two forms of salvation.
Vowing to procure the dogs soon, he studied the map of the valley on his desk. The Englishman Lord Dunraven had set his agent the task of buying up the entire valley for a private hunting preserve and recreational site. Some of the settlers, overwhelmed by the struggle to make ends meet or weary of mountain living, had succumbed to the lure of easy money. Others, like Tate, had resisted Dunraven’s attempt to turn the valley into a rich man’s playground and had refused to sell. As they were able, Tate and his like-minded friends had bought up additional available land, both as a buffer against Dunraven’s encroachment and as an investment. Beyond any economic advantage, this was a natural paradise that ought to be accessible to all, not restricted to the narrow pleasures of the indulgent few. Tate fumed just thinking about how close the residents had come to losing their piece of heaven. Fortunately, Dunraven seemed to have lost interest in the project, but not before he’d built a grand hotel to appeal to wealthy, adventurous Easterners and fellow Englishmen.
Tate had recently located another parcel of available land. Looking at the map, he considered its access to water and decided to explore it prior to making a bid. It lay a short distance beyond Sophie’s cabin. He’d heard about the help his neighbors had given her and thought it only decent, in light of his connection to the Hurlburts, to stop by to check on her after examining the acreage.
Oh, right. Blame it on duty. He stepped to the window. There in the fading sun, three angels lay in the snow, one slightly, but only slightly, bigger than the other two. Sophie’s angel. Sophie, who laughed pure melody and brought his sons to life. Sophie, whose mere presence scared him for reasons he was unwilling to address.
* * *
By Friday afternoon most of the snow had melted and an unseasonably warm wind soughed through the pine branches. Sophie took the occasion to move two old rockers she’d found in the barn to the front porch. After regluing a couple of joints and sanding the chairs, she was now in the process of painting them white. She wore her brown wool breeches, a long, plaid flannel shirt and a sheepskin vest. She’d tied back her hair with an old bandanna kerchief. She saw no point in prettifying herself every day. Except for Grizzly and the Tyler-Harper work crew, she might as well be on the dark side of the moon, and dresses were not the most practical garb for the hard work of getting settled in her place.
While Beauty lounged on the porch steps, Sophie daubed paint and sang “Amazing Grace” as she worked. After finishing with the first chair, she sat back on her heels and wiped her brow. There was something satisfying about seeing results from her efforts. With that thought, though, came a sadder one, prompted by the hymn she’d been singing. Without Charlie, she, too, needed to be found and restored through grace. Although the sharp, physical pang of grief hit her less often than it once had, there were times when Charlie seemed so present with her that she felt as if she could reach out and touch him. Like now. Sophie dabbed at the tears forming in her eyes. She gazed at the mountains, vibrant in the afternoon sun. Charlie, dear, are you someplace that is as wonderful for you as this is for me? I hope so.
She