Sophie handed him a plate of food, poured two mugs of coffee and offered him sugar. “No cream, yet.” She sat down across from him.
“Do you need a cow up here? I know where you might could get one. Or if you’re planning to gallivant at all, I reckon you could buy milk and such from a neighbor.”
“I’m obliged for that information.”
“You probably need a lotta hints I can give you. Don’t reckon Lockwood was a fount of information. He doesn’t take too kindly to women.”
“I welcome any help. I’m not naive enough to think I don’t have a lot to learn or that I won’t make mistakes.”
“What’s yer name, by the way? Can’t be real friends till I know that.”
“I’m Sophie Montgomery.”
“Sophie?” He closed his eyes as if deep in thought. “Wisdom, right?” He opened his eyes and grinned at her. “In Greek. Good for you. You’re gonna need it.”
Sophie grinned. A mountain man who knew Greek? That would teach her to judge solely by appearance. “At least I’m not Pandora.”
He threw back his head and roared. “We don’t need no one opening a bag of ills up here.” After wiping his eyes and taking a big gulp of coffee, he leaned across the table. “Here’s the bargain. You let ole Sarge and me sleep in your barn, and over breakfast, I’ll tell you how it is in these parts.”
Sophie grasped the man’s hand. “You may be the best thing that’s happened to me lately. You, sir, have a deal!”
After Grizzly finished eating, she handed him a pan of bread scraps for Sarge. From the porch she watched as the two made their way to the barn. She couldn’t help smiling. Her adventure had begun in earnest.
* * *
The second day after he arrived home, Tate sat at his desk, poring over his account books. Granted, the start-up costs for the silver mining operation he was helping to back near Leadville were significant, but based on engineering reports, he was satisfied the ultimate profits would justify his investment. Although he missed the rough-and-tumble adventure of being on site, Estes Park was a far better place to raise his boys. He glanced around, satisfied with the craftsmanship of his new two-story home overlooking the valley and ranges beyond. A fire burned in the fireplace mounted on a hearth of native stone, and the rich oak paneling imported from the East made this a room any Eastern financier would fancy. From the mounted elk heads to the cowhide rug on the pegged floor, his office was a man’s room—and his escape. Aside from the debacle with Ramona, he had never regretted leaving the ease of life in Philadelphia to carve out a position for himself in Colorado by dint of hard work. To become his own man. His surroundings bore testimony to his success.
Bertie Wilson, his housekeeper, and his sons knew not to interrupt him when he retired to this sanctuary. Only here could he immerse himself in business and lay aside the guilt and remorse that so often hounded him, along with the relentless questions. Could he be parent enough for his sons? What kind of men would they become? How could he have so drastically misjudged Ramona? Worst of all, how much of his sons’ motherless condition was his own fault? He’d racked his brain to seize on what he could have done differently. Was he incapable of reading the feminine mind? He had thought he was doing the right thing by leaving her and the boys in Philadelphia when he came west to make his fortune. All along, he’d thought his descriptive letters would adequately prepare his wife for Central City. He’d assumed building her a dream house there would serve as a reward for their long separation and prove to her that he could provide all the amenities to which she was accustomed.
He slammed the ledger book closed and leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head. It hadn’t taken long for love to die, if, in fact, he’d ever truly known that state. Maybe Ramona’s ardor had cooled during their time apart, or maybe they’d both changed from the besotted youngsters they’d been when they’d married. She hated Colorado and, by extension, him. Her resentment and self-indulgent tirades left her little energy for mothering, and the boys had suffered. No matter what he did, he’d been unable to satisfy his wife or make her happy. As much as he’d been blindsided by her departure, he had also experienced overwhelming relief. Fine for him, but poor Marcus and Toby. They were the innocent victims of her fragile mental state and his blindness.
No doubt about it. He had little understanding of women. Take Sophie Montgomery, for instance. She was attractive enough, with her fiery curls, trim body and hazel-green eyes. In that blue gown she had fooled him into believing she was more at home at balls and salons than astride a horse. She was obviously an intelligent woman with a gift for repartee, but illusions about her true nature vanished when he saw her in her riding clothes, bloomers visible beneath her skirt. Independent and saucy, she seemed to care not a whit about defying convention. Women like his ex-wife and other women of her station would most assuredly disapprove of Sophie’s behavior. What foolishness for this lone female to come up to Estes Park on her own, thinking...thinking what? Why, he reckoned she wouldn’t last a month in the valley. Disgusted with himself for allowing such disturbing questions to unsettle him, he stood and went into the great room, where eleven-year-old Marcus and eight-year-old Toby sat on the floor in front of the massive river rock fireplace, playing with tin soldiers. Toby jumped to his feet and flung himself at his father. “Papa! You were busy so long.”
Tate ruffled his son’s brown curls. “I had lots of work to catch up on.”
Carefully studying the make-believe battlefield, Marcus moved one soldier into place before finally looking up, his expression guarded. “Bertie told us not to bother you. So we didn’t.”
Tate cringed at the censure in the boy’s voice. More than Toby did, Marcus seemed to mind his absences. Even the games and books he’d brought from Denver hadn’t impressed his older son. Maybe after a week away, he should’ve postponed his office work, but too much was at stake to delay. “I’m finished for today. How about a hike up to the ridge to watch the sunset?”
“Hooray!” Toby shouted, running for his coat hanging from a peg by the door.
Marcus rose slowly. “It’s too cold.”
“Bundle up, then,” Tate answered quickly in the attempt to overcome his older son’s reluctance. “We can hunt for animal tracks.” Marcus’s interest in nature was sophisticated for one so young. He already had an extensive scrapbook collection of plants and leaves.
The boy shrugged indifferently, then ambled to fetch his coat. Tate sighed. On top of everything else, his sons were very different. What pleased or excited one failed to move the other. Marcus was introspective and didn’t settle for easy answers, whereas Toby was an enthusiastic, open little fellow for whom the world was his playground.
Outside, Toby ran ahead on the trail while Marcus stuck his hands in his pockets and followed slowly, his eyes scanning the ground. Tate brought up the rear, wondering what his boys were thinking, especially Marcus, who had been old enough for his mother’s departure to disappoint and damage him. Ever since, he’d kept more to himself, within himself, and seemed less trusting. Tate felt helpless to improve the situation, especially when he sensed the boy harbored some resentment of him, as well.
“Look, Papa!” Toby skipped toward him, holding a gigantic pinecone. “See? Is this the biggest so far?”
Tate examined the treasure. “Could be. Let’s take it home to add to our collection.”
“You carry it,” Toby said, thrusting the cone into Tate’s hands before racing off again in pursuit of a new adventure.
“Pinaecae,” Marcus mumbled as he continued up the trail.
Watching his sons’ backs, Tate paused to shake his head. The tutor couldn’t come soon enough. Marcus needed direction for his inquiring, thoughtful mind, and Toby needed academic discipline. It was all Tate could do to get him to settle down long enough to encourage his reading and map skills. No matter