Colorado Courtship: Winter of Dreams / The Rancher's Sweetheart. Cheryl St.John
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and she followed him through the thinning crowd to a black carriage with a boot on the rear. He stored the load and went back for the second. Meanwhile Violet admired the sleek black horse harnessed to the carriage. Taking a few steps forward and cautious of the layer of dirty snow along the curb, she tugged off her mitten to stroke the animal’s shiny mane and neck. The heat and texture of his hide was familiar and comforting. She could almost smell the stables.
Mr. Hammond stowed the rest of her belongings, folded down a step and waited beside the carriage until she joined him. Quickly pulling on her mitten, she accepted his outstretched hand. Climbing up from the other side, he took the seat beside her. “You like horses?”
“Yes. My father used to take me riding.”
“There are saddles and tack in our stable. Henry takes care of the horses. He’ll help you if you want to ride. Maybe you can get Tessa to join you once the weather’s nice.”
“I would enjoy that, thank you.” Tessa was his sixteen-year-old sister. Violet had been hired to do the cooking for him, his sister and his other employees. He’d suggested she take an interest in Tessa as well, being a companion of sorts as time permitted. “Will I meet her today?”
“Yes. She’s waiting at home.”
Once they’d moved past the main street of businesses, where wagons and buggies traveled and townspeople went about their day, he drove the carriage several blocks along a street of two- and three-story homes until they reached a cross street, where he turned to the right.
“I expect you to take time for yourself,” he said. “Attend church with us—or another church if ours isn’t your preference. Sunday will be your day off. Tessa and I will either fix our own meals or eat in town. You’re welcome to join us if you’re not tired of us by then.”
“That’s thoughtful of you.”
Mr. Hammond was polite and seemed kind and generous. It appeared her concern had been for naught.
The buildings on the north side of this street backed a wooded area. A row of enormous attached brick structures came into view. Behind them stood a matching carriage house and a small wood-frame stable. The sign in front of the first building they passed indicated it was a furniture maker’s. “Do you make furniture?”
“No. My father did, but I sold the business to Walter Hatcher in ’eighty-five. Two doors down is where we live.”
Her interest was definitely piqued now. Whatever he did, his company obviously thrived. “One of these is your home?”
“And my business,” he replied.
A low hedge surrounded the next two connected buildings, where white shutters framed the windows and white arched doors indicated entries. There were two sets of doors on the front, a double set on the right.
They drew close, and a fancily lettered iron sign caught her attention:
Hammond Funeral Parlor
Ben Charles Hammond, Undertaker & Stone Mason
Undertaker? Violet’s heart hammered and, though she’d had little to eat for days, her stomach threatened upheaval.
He’d brought her to his funeral parlor?
A dusting of snow fell now, and the smell of smoke curling into the sky from two chimneys was strong, but she barely noticed.
She fastened her gaze on the portion of the structure at the right. Double doors, wide enough for...coffins. “You’re an undertaker?”
“Used to be Hammond and Son until fourteen years ago when my father passed on. Now it’s just me. I have help, of course. Too much work for one person to handle.”
She guessed him to be no older than his mid-thirties, so he must have been quite young when he’d taken over the business. He helped her to the ground, where she stood unmoving while he unloaded the baggage. From around the end of the building, a young man joined them, removing his wool cap and giving Violet a lopsided grin.
“This is Henry,” Mr. Hammond told her. “Henry, Miss Bennett.”
“How do, Miss Bennett.”
“Help me take her things upstairs, will you?” Mr. Hammond asked.
Violet hadn’t answered. She stared at the other portion of the building—right beside where she was expected to work and live and sleep. Were there—what did Mr. Hammond call them?—lifeless clients in there now?
Henry grabbed a crate and carried it into the house.
“A lot of people have an aversion to my occupation,” Mr. Hammond said. “Is it going to be a problem for you?”
“It’s just—well—you didn’t mention it in your telegrams.”
He hefted the other crate onto his shoulder. “I didn’t think you’d come if I did.”
She stared at his retreating back.
* * *
Ben Charles made a concerted effort not to grunt or sweat, since he’d been adamant about his ability to lift and tote Miss Bennett’s belongings. The young woman had apparently packed bricks and planned to add an addition to his home while she was here.
He’d fully expected her revulsion regarding his profession and his home, and it had only been a matter of time until he’d seen the reaction on her face. “Henry will return for your bag,” he called over his shoulder.
He experienced a slim measure of guilt for not telling her up front, but she wouldn’t have come. And they needed her. He’d been relieved to find someone to take over the kitchen and he’d been eager for her to arrive. He hadn’t known what he’d expected, but the pretty doe-eyed Violet Bennett wasn’t it. There was something too vulnerable about her. Something that made him shudder when he thought of her traveling alone.
As soon as he’d seen her, he’d felt guilty that he hadn’t gone to get her, as he had for Tessa when she’d come home from boarding school last year. “Thank You for keeping her safe, Lord,” he whispered.
He stopped on the landing midway up the stairs and looked back.
She stood in the enormous tiled entry, staring up at the ceiling where cherubs cavorted with plaster ribbons, then studied the shining oak stairs and banister. She glanced at the east wall of the foyer, and he read the questions on her lovely face. She wondered what was on the other side.
He imagined he saw her shudder.
Henry passed Ben Charles on his way back down and greeted Miss Bennett. “I’ll be right back with your bag.”
She looked up, caught Ben Charles watching her and quickly composed her features. As long as she was a decent cook, a person of good moral character—and Tessa liked her—he intended to do everything in his power to keep Miss Bennett here.
Violet gathered the hem of her traveling skirt and climbed the stairs, her aching feet protesting. At the top was an open room with an arched and draped window facing the rear of the house, and framing a white-blanketed lawn and the copse of trees beyond. The room held floor-to-ceiling shelves of books and assorted plush furniture.
“Tessa!” Mr. Hammond called, startling Violet.
“No need to shout, Ben Charles. I’m right here.” A slim young woman stood from one of the chairs facing the window and rested a book on the seat she’d vacated. Her rose-colored dress was nicer than anything Violet owned, though it was simple in design. The girl walked forward.
“This is Miss Bennett.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Tessa said, without a smile. “Your room is ready. My brother gave you the one next to mine.”
Violet followed her, and when Tessa stepped back, she entered first. Two windows opened to the west, taking advantage of the side of the structure away from the