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“Connor isn’t the father?” Alger’s eyes widened as if he’d been observer to an unbelievable sight. “What are you talking about? Of course he’s the father. He’s responsible for it.”
“No, Daddy,” she repeated. “He’s not.”
“Well then, who is?” her mother asked. Silent up until now, Minnie Peterson was nonetheless a woman who always managed to speak her mind. “Whoever it is, he’d better march over to the parsonage and take you along. There won’t be a church wedding, young lady, but there will be a wedding.”
“You’re both wrong,” Loris said quietly. “I’m no longer engaged to Connor, and it will be official when I give him back his ring. The other person in this situation has already left town, and I won’t be marrying him either.”
“Left town?” Her father blustered loudly as he marched around the table and gripped her shoulders. Dragging her to her feet, he shook her, then apparently decided that action was not sufficient to express his anger and so delivered two ringing slaps to her face.
Loris stood silently before him, her eyes closed. She could not bear to look on his face, could not abide the disdain he showered on her. Her cheeks stung from his blows, but compared to the painful disgrace she had brought upon her family, the pain was of little importance.
“You can pack your things and move out,” her father said bluntly. “You are no longer our daughter.”
“Mama?” Loris turned to Minnie and spoke the title as if it were an entreaty for mercy. As indeed it was.
“Your father is the head of this house,” Minnie said primly. Even if she’d wanted to side with her daughter, Loris knew that her mother shared Alger’s views on such things as family honor.
“All right. I’ve got my things packed in the tapestry valise, Mama. I knew this would happen. When I’m settled somewhere, I’ll send it back to you.”
“You can keep it,” Minnie said. “I couldn’t look at it again.”
Loris left the dining room, walked up the stairs slowly and entered her room. She was cold, not due to the weather outdoors, but instead to a chill that seemed to emanate from deep inside her body.
Her warmest clothing was on the bed, a pair of men’s long red underwear she’d been given by her father when they shrank in the wash, becoming too small for him. Before this, she’d only worn them when she went to the river to ice skate in the winter time. Tonight, they would keep her from freezing to death. She didn’t plan on forcing her parents to buy a coffin for her, so it would behoove her to start out walking with enough clothing on to keep warm.
By the time she’d found her heaviest woolen shirt, donning it over her dress, and then pulling her heavy leather boots on her feet, she was breathless from the exertion of preparing to leave. Or maybe it was just the prelude to a fit of crying that seemed to be imminent.
Valise in her hand, she walked down the stairs and saw her mother awaiting her in the wide hallway. “Here are your mittens and a warm scarf,” Minnie said. “I have no use for them. You may as well take them with you.”
It was a backhanded gesture of kindness, and though hurt by her mother’s words, Loris offered her thanks.
“Let us know where you are,” Minnie said.
“Will you really care?” Loris asked, and then bit at her lip. There was no point in estranging her mother from her any more than she already had with her announcement.
“Yes, I’ll care, Loris,” her mother said righteously, pressing a bundle into her hands. “Here’s enough food to keep you going for a day or so.” Minnie touched her daughter’s shoulder as a gesture of farewell and spoke again. “Just wait until your child is grown and you are hurt by that child beyond measure. You’ll find that you still care.”
“Maybe.” Loris pulled her mittens on, knowing she would be thankful for their warmth, and wrapped the scarf around her neck. The front door opened and she stepped out onto the porch. The sun had set, the moon had risen, and the night was clear and cold. Stars glittered in profusion across the sky, but they blurred as she walked down the steps and made her way toward the street, her falling tears blinding her.
Yet, she cried but little, for she forced herself to blink them away, knowing she didn’t have enough energy to waste on feeling sorry for herself. She struck off for the western edge of town, since it was closer to the shelter she sought than walking through the business district. Taking that route raised her chances of meeting someone she knew.
The road was rutted, so she chose instead to walk on the grass at the side, now overlaid with a light covering of new snow. At least her boots would keep her feet from freezing, she thought, shifting the valise to her other hand. It was heavy, but she’d brought everything warm she owned. And then topped off the contents with a quilt that seemed to be an intelligent addition to her collection. It would keep the wind from her, should she decide to wrap it around herself.
For a moment, she wondered just where she would be when she unfolded the quilt and curled in its folds. Maybe in someone’s barn. Although the scent of fresh hay in a barn turned her stomach these days. Had, in fact, for three months, ever since the evening James Webster had pressed her deeply into a bed of the fragrant stuff in her father’s extra stall. As if it had never happened, James had ignored her for weeks, while her own guilt had nagged at her, as she continued her discreet courtship with Connor.
She’d been a fool. And not for the first time, she cursed the dance she’d shared with James, the kisses he’d offered, the bedding he’d instigated with her full cooperation.
She passed the edge of town and paced steadily beside the road. Trees met overhead, their branches bare of leaves, the faint noise of their rubbing together in the wind contributing an eerie sound to the quiet of the evening. Ahead was a farmhouse, one belonging to Joe Benson, a friend of her father’s.
She skirted it, walking on the other side of the road as she passed by the lane leading to the big house. Being seen would be bad enough. Being recognized would be worse. The valise was heavy and she shifted it again, feeling the muscles in her arm cramp.
The next two houses were small, lived in by hired help, men and their families hired by the Bensons to help them on the farm. She walked as quickly as she could without stumbling and falling. She couldn’t afford to turn her ankle or twist her knee. It was difficult enough keeping a steady pace while her legs were sound. Making her way in the dark with pain as her companion would be unthinkable.
An hour passed slowly, and Loris walked on, knowing that she had barely begun her trip. Clouds began to appear in the sky, lowering clouds that made her think they might contain snow. The stars disappeared in another hour or so, and the wind came up, its cold fingers cutting through her clothing as if she were barely clad.
To her right, just ahead, she caught sight of a building. It looked to be an abandoned farm, left by a family who’d moved onward and left their house to the elements.
If that were true, she might be able to get inside and build a fire, she thought. Maybe sleep for the night before she walked on in the morning. Turning up the lane that led to the small structure, her heart beat faster, and she peered at the shuttered windows as she rounded the side to where a small back porch offered shelter.
She climbed the steps slowly, fearful of encountering a locked door. But the knob turned readily and she pushed the door open. Darkness met her, but with an innate sense, she knew the house was empty.
In the depths of the room, she spotted the looming bulk of a cookstove and her hopes rose. Taking her mittens off, she approached the black form and felt across the top of the warming oven, hoping for a box of matches. Her search was rewarded by the discovery of just such a find, and she opened the box, finding it over half full.
Lighting a match, she blinked and then lifted one of the stove’s burner lids and peered inside. Ashes met her gaze, but on the floor to one side of where she stood was a woodbox, holding a good supply of short pieces, apparently cut to size for burning.
A bit of brown paper was crumpled beneath the first two chunks of wood and she placed it in the stove, then added pieces of wood and a bit of kindling she found scattered on the floor. Lighting another match, she set the paper ablaze, then watched hopefully as it caught the kindling in its path, flaring up around the larger pieces of wood.
With care, she settled the lid in place and hovered over the stove, waiting for some small bit of warmth to reach her fingers. It took but five minutes or so for the fire to penetrate the iron and reach her. She shivered, held her hands over the stove lid and closed her eyes.
Maybe she could sleep right here in the kitchen, she thought. It would be the warmest place in the house, and though sleeping on the floor lacked comfort, she could not be fussy. She looked around the room, her eyes finally adjusting to the darkness. The shape of a lamp hanging over the table on the other side of the room was encouraging, and she carried the box of matches there, lighting one as she lifted the globe from the lamp and sought to light the wick.
It caught, flared, and then softened a bit as she dropped the globe in place. Now the room was clearly visible, and her heart lifted as she saw the kitchen dresser across the room, the doors protecting an assortment of dishes behind the wavy glass.
The bundle of food her mother had pressed on her was in the pocket of her coat, and she brought it forth into the light. Half a loaf of bread, a chunk of cheese and a generous portion of roast beef lay wrapped inside a dish towel. Enough food for at least a day, perhaps longer if she rationed it out.
The floor did not seem overly dirty, she decided, and was certainly warmer than any other room in the house. Tomorrow was soon enough to go exploring. For now she eyed the bare floor and found it welcoming.
Another chunk or two of wood in the stove would warm her for a few hours, and she could replenish the fire during the night if need be. The stove lid clunked dully into place as she fortified the stove, and then herself, for the rest of the night.
Her quilt was warm, and for that she was grateful, pulling it around herself as she curled on the floor, her head cushioned by the valise. From beneath the stove, glittering in the reflection of the lamp, two tiny eyes watched her, and even the thought of a stray mouse could not stir her from the cozy cocoon of her quilt.
“I’ll worry about you in the morning, Mr. Mouse,” she said softly. “Just stay out of my food,” she warned the tiny creature, thankful that she’d tucked the package into her valise.
And then her eyes closed as weariness overcame her. Even the desolation of her shelter was not enough to keep her awake, and she basked in the heat of the stove, her hands tucked between her thighs for warmth.
Chapter Two
The crowing of a rooster woke her, and Loris sat up from her makeshift bed, groaning aloud as she felt the pull of muscles strained by the hard floor. If there was one chicken out there, there might be more, she thought hopefully. And if one was a hen, there might even be an egg or two available.
She rose slowly, aware now of the chill of the kitchen around her. The fire had apparently gone out, and she’d been too tired earlier to replenish it. Lifting the stove lid, she caught sight of glowing ashes and was cheered by their presence.
More wood was placed with care, lest she suffocate the promise of flames, and then as the bits of bark on the sides of the wood caught fire, she smiled and gently put the lid in place.
Shaking out her quilt, she folded it, depositing it over the back of a chair, and then set out to explore her shelter. The house was small, a parlor and two bedrooms occupying the rest of the downstairs. Furniture had been left behind, the owners apparently not considering it worth transporting. But upstairs there were two more bedrooms, complete with beds.
But beggars couldn’t be choosers, she reminded herself as she viewed the sparse furnishings throughout the house. At least there were dishes, and perhaps kettles, though what she would find to cook was another thing entirely.
First on her list of the day’s tasks was finding an outhouse, she decided. Stepping outside, she saw the small structure standing near what appeared to be the chicken coop. Loris made her way there, walking carefully across the yard, lest she slip on the covering of fresh snow. Only an inch or so whitened the ground, and she was thankful there wasn’t any more than that.
Her duties completed, she went to the chicken coop, opening the door to find two hens squatting in the confines of their nests. A barrel of feed had been tipped over, most likely by the owners, who probably felt guilty at leaving the creatures behind. Bits and pieces of feed lay about on the ground, liberally mixed with the chicken’s leavings, and Loris felt a surge of nausea at the odor of the pungent manure.
The two hens squawked at Loris’s appearance in their domain, and one of them fluttered to perch on a dowel rod apparently placed there for their comfort. In the nest, Loris found four eggs and she gathered them, aware that they might not be fit to eat. It would be easy enough to find out, she knew and given the temperature of the henhouse, they might yet be edible.
Leaving the second hen to cover her clutch of eggs, Loris left the henhouse, spying the rooster as he scurried in through the tiny door leading into the fenced-in yard. He halted before her and cocked his head, perhaps deciding if she were worth his attention.
Before he could lunge in her direction, which the rooster at home tended to do if disturbed, she left, closing the door tightly behind herself, carrying her find to the house. There, she entered the kitchen, appreciating the warmth of the stove, and found a bowl in the cupboard.
Next, she searched for a skillet and came up with one in the depths of the oven. With it were two kettles and she pulled them out, using her mittens as potholders, and put her treasures on the stove burners.
“Things are looking up,” she sighed, heading for the sink in the corner, although she doubted that water would be available, given the cold temperature. A small pan sat in the wash basin, its surface icy, and she rapped on it sharply, pleased when a hole appeared and water welled up.
Dumping the scant cup or so of liquid into the pump to prime it, she worked the handle vigorously and was rewarded by a gush of water.
She rinsed and filled the wash basin and carried it to the stove. Opening the reservoir attached to the side of the black appliance, she tipped the clean water inside, knowing it would warm up soon and provide her with a bit of comfort. She filled the basin again, and after filling the reservoir to the top, she set about washing the skillet and kettles, placing them in the basin and allowing the whole collection to heat on top of the stove.
Beneath the sink was a jar of soap, and she carried it back to the stove, not surprised to find the container behind the faded curtain some poor soul had hung to hide the assortment of odds and ends she’d tucked beneath her sink board. It was the same place her own mother kept a supply, and Loris was familiar with the ins and outs of a kitchen.
A glob of the slimy stuff would soon form bubbles in the basin and would give her a semblance of cleanliness when she began washing the utensils and dishes she planned to use. So she settled to wait for the fire to do its work, pulling a chair closer to the warmth and seeking the bundle of food her mother had given her.
The loaf of bread was cold, but she tore off a piece and bit into it. If the meat were warm, it would be more inviting, she decided, and, ignoring the fact that the skillet, by any measure of cleanliness, should be scrubbed first, she pulled it from the basin and rinsed it beneath the pump. With a quick swipe of her mother’s dish towel, she placed it on the top of the stove and put her piece of roast beef in it.
Bits and pieces of silverware were stored in one of the dresser drawers, a motley assortment, to be sure, but Loris found that necessity made her overlook much, and she found a knife to cut up the meat, allowing it to cook faster. Adding a bit of water assured it would not burn, and she waited patiently for her makeshift meal to be ready. Apparently the former tenants had headed for greener pastures and left here empty-handed.
A thin layer of gravy formed from the meat and water, and Loris cut her piece of bread in half and placed it to steam atop the slices of roast beef. A fork from the drawer was wiped on her towel, and when the meat had warmed through she placed the skillet on the table, then sat down to eat her breakfast.
The eggs would wait till dinnertime, she decided, and perhaps, if all of them were fit to eat, she’d poach them and eat them with another piece of her bread.
In the meantime, she’d do well to scout up a source of wood for the stove, since she’d already used up almost half of the supply left in the kitchen. Maybe there would be a woodpile outside, or hopefully, an ax in the barn, allowing her to cut her own. Not that she’d ever done such a thing, but it certainly couldn’t be all that difficult.
Her stomach reacted well to the food and she took the skillet to the sink, rinsing it with the flowing water from the pump. Filling the container she’d used to prime it earlier, she assured that the pump would be usable, and then set about washing the contents of the basin. Leaving them to dry, she decided to explore the pantry, the doorway of that small room beckoning her from across the kitchen.
It was dark, windowless, and she was delighted to find a candle on one of the shelves, awaiting a match. Within moments, she’d lit it and saw she’d stumbled on a storehouse of sustenance. The owners must have taken only what they could carry and left the rest, for jars of produce lined the top shelf, and partially filled bins of flour and sugar met her gaze. Even a smaller crock of coffee was there, and she smiled with pleasure as she considered the warmth it would elicit.
A dusty coffeepot was there, too, and she carried it to the sink, washed it quickly and then filled it with fresh water. Dumping in a handful of coffee, she settled it on the warmest spot on the stove, and found herself silently urging the fire to do its best to bring the coffee to a boil. An additional log added to the glowing coals insured its performance, and she set off for the back yard, hoping to find enough wood to keep herself in comfort for the remainder of the day and the night to come.
A pile of neatly stacked logs at the side of the house brought a smile to her lips and she carried a load indoors, depositing the wood in the box behind the stove. “This is more like it,” she murmured to herself, basking in the heat and congratulating herself on her ability thus far to survive.
“Where is she?” Connor Webster spoke the words in a rush, his appearance on her front porch apparently having struck Minnie Peterson speechless. The woman groped for a reply and finally grasped Connor by the arm and brought him into her front hallway.
“I don’t know,” Minnie said, her voice breaking.
“She’s not here?” Connor asked, and Minnie shook her head.
“She left last evening, right after supper. Not willingly, but her father gave her no choice.”
“And what about you?” Connor asked. “Did you just let her go out in the cold without knowing where she could find shelter?” Connor’s heart ached as he recalled his own harsh words to Loris.
“I had no choice,” Minnie said weakly. “I gave her a bit of food, and she’d packed a valise. What more could I do, under the circumstances?”
“You gave her a bit of food?” Connor asked incredulously. “Just what does that mean?”
“Don’t get huffy with me, young man. I shouldn’t have offered her even a crust of bread, after she brought disgrace down on her family the way she has.”
“No? Not even the fact that she is your daughter made a difference?”
“Alger told her she’s no longer our daughter,” Minnie said.
“And you agreed with him?”
“I had no choice,” she said.
“You had a choice,” Connor told her, as did he. “Now, have you any idea which way she headed?” The urge to find Loris was overwhelming now. And his anger with her was banished by the memory of her vulnerability.
“I watched her,” Minnie said. “She walked away from town, toward the open country.”
“On the road?”
Minnie nodded. “On the side of the road. There was fresh snow, and she apparently didn’t want to walk in the wagon ruts.”
Connor was silent, his mind working furiously. If she’d left last evening, after dark, she wouldn’t haven’t gotten very far, unless she’d just kept walking until she dropped. And in that case she would have frozen to death. The temperatures were below freezing, and last night they’d dropped far lower.
“What are you going to do?” Loris’s mother asked as Connor turned away.
“Find her.” The words were terse and to the point, and Minnie only nodded as she closed the door.
Connor mounted his horse and rode from the yard, heading out of town at a slow pace, his gaze on the sparse covering of snow beside the road. Several sets of footprints marred the pristine surface, but most of them were heading to town, not in the other direction.
One small set was easy to follow, and he turned his horse to the grassy area, the better to track them. If it was, indeed, Loris’s tracks he followed, she’d slipped several times and he winced as he thought of the harsh wind blowing toward her as she walked. He’d heard it around the house all night, in those long hours when he’d found it impossible to sleep, not knowing what had happened to her. Those dark hours when he’d admitted to himself that his love for her had not died.
The fact that her father had turned her out of the house didn’t surprise Connor. Alger Peterson was a harsh man, a man dedicated to all that was right and proper, and the idea of his daughter bearing a child out of wedlock must have struck him a heavy blow.
Connor wondered why the man hadn’t tried to understand his daughter’s dilemma, at least long enough to provide her with a place to live, and someone to look after her. Instead he’d booted her out.
The footprints Connor followed wove back and forth a bit, as if their owner were uncertain as to the path she took, and well she might have been. Walking away from town would not have offered her much choice as to the shelter she sought.
He passed by the Benson place, saw Joe himself outside, walking toward the barn, and thought for a moment that it would have been a good place for Loris to seek a resting place. But the footprints beside the road told a different story.
She’d bypassed Benson’s barn and walked on. Farther than he’d thought she would, for the next two places had been bypassed too, and after that point, hers were the only tracks to be seen in the sparse covering of snow.
Connor blessed that snow, for without it, he’d never have seen her trail. He needed to find Loris. She’d been betrayed by parents who should have given her love and affection, setting aside the disgrace she might have brought to them. And he, himself, had turned his back on her.
He cursed himself for being so harsh with her, for denying her his aid. He’d offered her money, his help should she want to leave town, but not the helping hand she’d needed. But he’d been so angry at her betrayal, he hadn’t been thinking straight.
If he found her by the side of the road, it would be on his head, for he’d been the logical one she could have counted on to give her help. And he’d turned her away. Sleep had evaded him during the night, his memory bringing her desperate plight before him when he would have slept. While he’d been tucked into his bed, she’d been walking through the night, and he felt the pangs of regret strike his soul with harsh lashes of the whip of remorse. Upon awakening, he’d left home to find her.
A wisp of smoke rose from an abandoned house to the south and he touched his horse’s barrel with his heels, his heart lifting as he considered the possibility of Loris having found shelter there. The owners, a couple named Stewart, had left town months ago, taking little with them. But the house was still livable, to his knowledge.
His horse trotted up the lane and to his relief, he noted the footprints that went before him. She was here. He’d lay money on it. Somehow, she’d gotten into the house and lit a fire. The prospect of finding her at the side of the road had daunted his spirits, but now he breathed a prayer of thanksgiving as he realized his fears might have been in vain.
