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Hope Is Built

By Davalynn Spencer

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CHAPTER ONE
Cumberland County, Pennsylvania
Early Spring, 1912
“You’re going to end up an old maid unless you accept one of the eligible dairymen. And you might try to be cordial when they come calling.”
Mary McCrae ground her teeth and glared at her brother whose eyes bugged out in his anger. He thought of one thing and one thing only, and it was not her welfare. She crushed her response between her teeth rather than spew what she wanted to say across his arrogant face.
Just because he was a man and she wasn’t.
Just because he was the first-born and their parents were in their graves, he had no right to order her around like a hired hand. Or tell her how to behave toward the bow-legged, toothless Mr. Bourgher and others like him because they too had Aryshire cows. It was the twentieth century—or hadn’t Lewis noticed?
She turned and stomped from the milking parlor, reaching into her skirt pocket for the letter from Aunt Bertie. Since last fall, when Papa’s heart finally gave out, Mary had read the letter over and over until she could recite it from memory—an invitation to come to Colorado to visit her aunt and uncle and see their farm.
Mama’s sister and her husband, Ernest, had filled the hole left when Mama passed suddenly a decade ago. But not long after, they’d left Pennsylvania with their sights set on the wide-open land of the West.
Mary had wanted to go with them, but Lewis insisted he needed her help. What he needed was a cook and housekeeper, and someone to draw another dairyman to the farm.
Mary had kept all of Aunt Bertie’s letters. Colorado was good for cattle, and good for growing peaches and apples, potatoes and berries of every kind, her aunt had said. Mary’s mouth watered at the thought, and her emotions tugged along with the door to the kitchen, where she pushed the coffee pot to the back plate and stoked the fire. This most recent letter drew her more than all the others.
The kitchen’s warmth wrapped a tender longing around her, chasing away the morning chill and stirring memories of Aunt Bertie and Uncle Ernest. Oh, how she missed them. Nearly as much as she missed Papa.
Truth was, Lewis did have the right to tell her what she could do with her breeding stock. She had no rights as an unmarried woman, despite the fact that Papa had bequeathed prime Ayrshires specifically to her in his last days. It stuck in Lewis’s craw as the surviving male heir. He had rights to everything Papa had left behind, and he repeatedly reminded her of that fact.
Mary took a teacup from the cupboard and slammed it onto the counter in frustration, breaking off the handle and leaving a large V-shaped gap in the rim. Her temper had gotten her in trouble more than once—repeatedly, if she were honest with herself—but it simply wasn’t fair. She knew as much about the dairy as Lewis and could run one of her own. If she were out from under his surly lordship, she could do as she pleased.
As she scooped up the ruined china, a sudden and rebellious thought struck with a force equal to her cup-smashing. What was there to keep her from acting on Aunt Bertie’s invitation? It wasn’t like Mary was a child. At twenty-four, she had done every interesting thing there was to do in Pennsylvania. But she’d not traveled out of the state.
The idea stirred her, and she hurried to Papa’s study and his prize globe near the window, stopping to peek through the heavy curtains. No sign of Lewis heading to the house, so she gave the globe a twirl until it brought the Western Hemisphere into view. Leaning in, she traced her finger from the East Coast of the United States to the Rocky Mountains’ ragged spine. She knew Colorado sat roughly mid-way, top to bottom, of those mountains.
Massive mountains, Aunt Bertie had said, much grander than anything in the Appalachians. And abrupt. No rolling hills. She recalled her aunt’s first description of the lofty peaks lifting their shoulders like giants guarding the plains.
Mary’s heart lifted as well, guarding her fledgling idea.
A distinct sizzle from the kitchen and the smell of burned coffee snatched her from the study. With a folded towel, she pulled the pot forward. Lewis would grumble when he came in for supper.
But she wouldn’t be there to hear him.
She uncovered the ham they’d been eating, cut several thick pieces, then sliced bread from a fresh loaf. A butter crock and Mama’s silver sugar bowl crowned the kitchen table, and Mary laid a place setting at the head. Plate, napkin, knife, fork.
After a quick look around, she added water to the charred coffee, hoping it would suffice. Lewis could add cream. They certainly had plenty. Some of the best this side of the Appalachians.
What might people think of such cream and butter in Colorado? Surely, they had dairy animals, but no other breed could hold a candle to an Aryshire.
Her thoughts ran ahead as she hurried up the stairs to her room for her coat and scarf. Snow still draped the hills around the farm, and if she didn’t hurry it would soon be dark. She’d best leave Lewis a note that she was staying at Celia’s tonight. Celia’s husband had gone to the livestock sale in Shippensburg, so the timing was perfect. He always stayed two days.
The buggy and horse barn were on the opposite side of the main barn from the milking parlor, and Mary took the long way around the dormant garden plot and rose bushes. No reason to alert Lewis to her plan. This evening’s outing to Celia’s was merely a precursor to her escape of Lewis’s domineering ways and all the Mr. Bourghers he could find. The thought was nearly intoxicating.
Lettie whinnied a soft greeting from her stall and was ever so aggreeable at being hitched to the buggy. Mary tightened her scarf around her neck and ears and set Lettie to a gentle walk as they left the barn. At the juncture of the farm lane and the main road, she snapped the reins on the mare’s rump and set her into a high trot.
Celia Griffith had been Mary’s dearest friend since grade school. Tight as two fleas they were, still to this day, though Celia had married and borne three beautiful children.
In no time, Mary turned into Celia’s lane, two farms over from the McCrae dairy. The sun kissed the tops of the oak trees and winked through the white pines that lined the path to the Griffith home.
Hopefully, Mary’s friend would share her excitement.
~
“But you can’t leave!” Celia’s hushed cry pushed tears into her pale blue eyes, and she covered her mouth with a hand and glanced toward the nursery.
Mary pulled off her scarf and hat and laid them on the settee in Celia’s bedroom. “I’m not leaving you, Celia. I’m leaving Lewis. At least for a while. I need a break from his overbearing ways. And his last attempt at finding me a husband brought Mr. Bourgher to the door.”
Celia gasped into a coughing fit, and they laughed like schoolgirls, squashing their giggles into silent fits lest they wake the children.
Celia pushed the scarf aside and sat close, reaching for Mary’s hand. “Oh, but I will miss you desperately. I don’t even remember not knowing you.”
“I’m only going for a visit, not forever.” But the idea of a longer stay snagged a corner of Mary’s thoughts and she didn’t free it.
“It’s more than halfway across the country. How can you go so far—and alone at that? People with consumption go to Colorado. And ruffians and miners. I’ll be worried sick about you.”
“You can’t believe everything you read in those novels of yours, Celia.”
“It wasn’t a novel. It was the Pittsburgh Post Gazette.”
Why should she care what people in Pittsburgh thought? “You can’t believe everything you read in the newspaper, either.”
“Are you telling me you don’t read the paper?”
“No, I’m telling you I need prayer more than I need to know what people in a big city have to say. And I need you to do the praying. I’ll count on it, Celia. It will get me across the miles and make me feel as if you are traveling with me.”
Another tear slid down Celia’s cheek.
“Please don’t do that, or you’ll have me doing the same.” Mary pressed a hankie from her sleeve into Celia’s hand. “And Peter will be thinking you pined away for him while he was gone.”
Her friend snickered at the idea.
“And speaking of Peter, do you think he’ll keep my yearling bull and heifers while I’m away? I don’t trust Lewis not to sell them off just to spite me, claiming possession is nine-tenths of the law and it’s his right as the male heir.”
“But that is how things are. You know that.” Celia blew her nose. “Peter will keep them for you, though. If not, he can sleep in the barn. But I know he will. And don’t be surprised if their ears are tagged when you return. You know how modern and up to date he tries to be. He’s tagged all of our cows.”
Mary considered the notion for a moment and realized what a blessing it would be. “That’s fabulous, Celia. Lewis can’t worm his way into ownership of a gifted, identified animal and claim he got them mixed up. There is nothing he would not do to improve the herd, including selling my bull and heifers.”
“But you’re a woman, Mary. You don’t own them outright.”
Mary clenched her jaw until it ached. “Can Peter register them in my name?”
“I don’t know—He takes care of all that. But what does Lewis think about you going off on your own to the Wild West?”
Mary picked up her woolen scarf and busily pinched off the pills.
Her friend leaned over and looked at her, the same way she had when they were children and she wanted to weasel a secret out of Mary.
“You haven’t told him, have you?”
Mary frowned. “I’ll tell him, but he’s not going to stop me. I’m going.”
“When are you leaving?”
Mary hadn’t thought things through that far, but it seemed sooner would be better than later. “It will take a day to secure a train ticket, pack, and get my stock and their papers to you. And an extra day in case things don’t go well—which I don’t anticipate—but Mama always said to plan for the worst and pray for the best.”
“Two days? Why, that’s Wednesday.” Tears threatened again.
“Yes. Spring is trying to break through, and I don’t think Lewis would expect me to leave with snow clinging to the shady spots. But it’s still cold enough that the road to town won’t be a sloppy mess. I’ll leave the buggy at the station. Can you and Peter pick it up for me and drive it home?”
“Of course.” Celia pressed the hankie to her nose.
Mary offered another. “Here, take a fresh one. You’ve soaked that one. And please thank Peter for me after I’m gone. I’ll write to you, I promise.”
“You’d better.” Celia glanced around the settee. “Did you bring a night gown to sleep in?”
“No. My slip will do. It’ll be like old times.”
~
By Tuesday, Mary had her ticket, a carpet bag packed with the barest necessities, and money from her savings to purchase anything else she’d need in Colorado. She’d moved her yearling bull and heifers to an outside pen for washing and checking, and Lewis never questioned her.
Up and dressed before he left to milk Wednesday morning, she went out the front door in the fading dark. Peter and his two oldest boys met her at a pre-arranged site, and she gave him papers proving her so-called ownership of the stock.
He folded them into his coat pocket.
Not to draw attention to her scheme, Mary stood near a clump of silky dogwoods watching the Griffiths lead her future through the woods as the sun peeked over the barn. Melancholy inched its way into her thoughts, coloring her mood about leaving.
Would she return? Would Lewis come after her, or send someone? Would he figure out that six animals were missing and discover them at the Griffiths’?
Was she acting like a foolish child?
By habit she reached into her pocket and felt the edges of Aunt Bertie’s folded letter, envisioning her aunt’s fine script in her mind’s eye.
Come for a visit, sweet Mary Agan. You’re sure to fall in love with these majestic mountains and the clear dry air. It’s breathing air, it is. And the sunshine makes roses blush and lilacs bloom like heather.
Faint and far away, Mary heard the screen door slap its frame.
Lewis.
She dashed across the field next to the house, shed her muddy boots at the foot of the steps, and eased through the front door.
All through breakfast she questioned her motives and cast furtive glances at her brother. Should she tell him she was leaving? Yesterday she’d posted a letter to Aunt Bertie that would arrive in Cañon City before she did.
Guilt peppered her fried eggs and stuck in her throat. She must tell him.
“What’s got you in a twit?” Lewis threw a glance across the table, still chewing. “Having second thoughts about turning Bart Bourgher away?”
Apparently, her nerves had tipped him off, but his full-mouth remark emboldened her.
“I’m going to see Aunt Bertie and Uncle Ernest.”
Lewis looked up with a tolerant expression, as if discussing the matter with a child. “And when are you planning to leave?”
“This morning.”
His fork clanked against Mama’s china when it fell. He stared at her, his mouth open like a Pennsylvania brook trout’s.
Building steam, Mary continued. “I’ve already made arrangements so you needn’t worry about a thing. My departure will not interfere in any way with the milking schedule. I’ll have dinner in the oven for you, so you shouldn’t have to cook for a few days. I’ve also made fresh bread.”
His face reddened and he pushed his plate away. “Is Celia Griffith in on this?”
“No, she is not, so calm down. I made this decision on my own.”
He reclaimed his plate and went after his ham and eggs as if they were to blame. “I advise against this harebrained notion.”
“I knew you would.” Mary felt oddly at ease once the news was out. She sipped her coffee and then buttered her toast.
“Give me one good reason why you think this is a good idea.”
She had many, but she offered the first that came to mind. “I need a change of scenery.”
He snorted.
Perhaps he loved her as a brother ought, but he was hard-pressed to show it, even now. He’d never gotten over their father’s untimely death—neither had she. But she didn’t take it out on him a bite at a time.
Without finishing his breakfast, he took his plate to the sink and downed the last of the coffee. “I’m going to the Overholts’. Tom wants to talk about ear tags, of all things. Crazy notion if you ask me.”
He spoke with his back to her, so she couldn’t read his expression, but his voice was cold as winter, and she shivered involuntarily.
At the door he paused but did not look at her. “Don’t know when I’ll be back.”
Mary clapped a hand over her mouth as the door closed. She could say the same thing.
Did Lewis hate her? Did he blame her for their father’s weak heart? He offered no goodbye, no well-wishes. Nothing. But with him off the farm, leaving would be easier. And the Overholts lived two miles in the opposite direction from town.
Heartsore, she offered silent thanks while clearing away breakfast. Then she set one place at the table for dinner, a fresh napkin, knife, and fork, and a hopeful wish that things between them could be as they were when they were children.
Such a foolish hope, she scolded, setting a roaster on the counter. Her brother had hardened when Papa died. With no wife to soften his rough ways, he’d grown bitter over the past several months. Mary had prayed he’d find a good woman to share his life, but he seemed intent on finding her a husband instead.
With a heavy hand, she seasoned a beef roast, taking her frustration out on the slab of meat. She added potatoes and carrots to the pot, set the lid on, and slid it in the oven. Then she hurried upstairs to change into her green wool coatdress. The suit was a bit outdated, for she hadn’t gone anywhere in ages, but Mama used to say green set off her eyes in a lovely way. The memory pricked, but she did not have time to be pathetic. Not if she was to be at the train station on time. She tucked her black spool-heel shoes into the bag and went downstairs in her stocking feet.
Mornings were still chilly, and she fastened every button on her overcoat. At the bottom of the front steps, she pulled on her Wellingtons, then went to the barn, where she’d left her bag beneath the buggy seat, and harnessed Lettie.
“Another drive to town, you sweet thing. Are you up for it?” She combed the mare’s forelock as if were important that she look her very best. “I’ll be right back, ol’ girl.”
Mary held her skirt high as she climbed the small rise, stepping carefully lest she slip and muddy her suit and overcoat. But as always, the view from the family plot was worth the effort with farmland rolling green and fresh around her. A premonition settled within her that this would be her last time for a long time, and she stood between her parent’s headstones, as straight as her father’s. Her mother’s had tilted and grayed over the years and collected moss.
Of course Mama’s and Papa’s loving spirits were not entombed in the cold earth, yet she felt a closeness with them as she whispered her goodbyes. Kissing the palms of her hands, she laid one atop each stone. A familiar tune hummed through her—Mama’s favorite hymn—and she sang in hushed tones.
“On Christ, the Solid Rock, I stand … All other ground is sinking sand.”
Atop the hill she felt as if she were on that solid rock, the foundation of her parents’ faith.
“I love you both so much, and I’m grateful for what you’ve given me.” Her throat tightened, thick with tears. “Not only in land and livestock, but in faith and honor.” She closed her eyes against the sting of sadness and drew a stuttered breath. “I’m on my way to Aunt Bertie’s farm. Wish me well.”
A silly thing to say, but she knew they would do so if they were there.
In the barn she changed into her black shoes, then climbed to the seat. “We’re on our way, Lettie. At least I am. Off to freedom and adventure.”

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