A Baby to Heal the Widow’s Heart (Preview)

Chapter One

Whispering Pines, Montana Territory, Summer 1870

“Can I get you a drink, Sheriff?” asked the barman behind the counter, holding up a bottle of bourbon.

Ethan Hayes nodded, glancing around at the dimly lit interior of the saloon. Music from the out of tune piano was playing in the far corner, and a haze of tobacco smoke hung in the air. He leaned against the counter, sighing. “Just a small one. I’m on duty.”

The barman smiled. “Since when has that stopped you?”

Ethan glared at him. The day had been long enough without the barman’s wise cracking. He wanted a drink, but there was still work to do back at the sheriff’s office. He was tired and hungry, and he wouldn’t get to bed until late that night.

“Just pour the drink, Samson.”

The barman shrugged. “One small bourbon,” he replied, sliding the glass across the counter.

Ethan drank it in one gulp. He turned to lean against the bar counter and nodded to a group of men playing cards. Just then, the noise of the saloon quieted somewhat as Nancy Devere stepped onto the makeshift stage to sing. She was pretty in a blue dress, and she smiled coquettishly at the audience as the man playing the piano turned and nodded at her.

“Sing the one about the cowboy and the two sisters,” called one of the men playing cards.

“I’ll sing what I want to sing,” Nancy replied, catching Ethan’s eye and smiling at him.

She was a regular at the saloon – and in the sheriff’s office, too. The sort of person who attracted trouble… though her pretty looks had earned her a soft spot in Ethan.

“Go on, sing it for a nickel,” insisted the man at the card table as he flicked the coin onto the stage.

Nancy looked at it with disdain. “Is that all I’m worth?” she replied.

The men laughed. “It depends what else you’ll do,” another one of them called out. “I heard you’d do most things for a nickel.”

“Alright, that’s enough,” Ethan interrupted – though he knew it was probably true.

The man shrugged, laughing, as Nancy cleared her throat, ready to sing.

Before a single note escaped her, horses’ hooves resounded from outside, drowning out every other sound. Ethan glanced toward the swing doors, looking out into the evening gloom. It had been a hot day, and any moment now, that posse of cowboys would burst into the saloon, demanding refreshment.

But as he looked, several masked men leaped down from the saddles. His eyes grew wide with horror, and his hand went instinctively to his holster. “Get down! Everyone get down!” he shouted, gun in hand.

Nancy screamed as the group of men rushed into the saloon, shooting indiscriminately, the bullets ricocheting around. Smoke and the smell of gunpowder filled the air as Ethan threw himself to the floor, firing back. One of the masked men was hit and he collapsed as his companions rushed to the counter. Samson, the barman, was already throwing money toward them. “That’s all there is! There’s nothing more! Take it!” he cried out.

One of the men grabbed the cash, retreating, as the other two hauled their fallen companion to his feet. Ethan fired again, hitting the fallen man as he was dragged away. A hail of bullets was returned, and Ethan stayed low, his heart beating fast, fearful, as he listened to the sound of horse’s hooves disappearing into the distance.

He peered through the haze of smoke, trying to determine whether anyone else was still alive. Nancy was slumped on the stage, her blue dress now stained crimson, and several of the men who’d been playing cards were motionless in their seats.

“Samson, are you alright?” Ethan called out, rising to his feet.

The barman peered over the counter, still trembling with shock. “All for twenty lousy dollars,” he said, shaking his head.

Ethan holstered his gun. “Well, they didn’t all get away,” he muttered. There’d been something familiar about the men – something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

“They’ll want the man who shot their friend,” Samson observed.

Ethan nodded. “Let them come and get him. I’ll be ready.”

***

It was always the same dream. Clearmont, in the saloon, the day of the shooting. Ethan had started awake, covered in sweat, as he opened his eyes and realized where he was. This wasn’t Clearmont, and he wasn’t in the Samson’s Saloon watching Nancy Devere sing. She’d survived the shooting, but she’d never walked again.

As for the others, two had been left dead, and the rest were too afraid to testify – even if those responsible could be found.

It had been six months since the shooting, and Ethan was no closer to discovering the truth behind who was responsible than when he’d started. All he had was a vague sense of recognition, which was frustrated more each time he returned to the events of that fateful day in his dreams. Try as he might, he couldn’t place the men – or work out why he felt that sense of recognition.

It’s nothing to do with you anymore. He threw back the blanket and got out of bed.

That much was true. After the shooting, he’d known his life was in danger, and so had his superiors. They’d transferred him to the small town of Whispering Pines, where criminality was confined to the mundane, and it was hoped Ethan would be safe.

And bored. He looked irritably at his reflection in the mirror.

He was thirty-one years old, without family, and with few friends. He wasn’t afraid of the gang who’d robbed the saloon. He wanted to bring them to justice, but the decision hadn’t been his to make, and he had no choice but to make the best of things.

He splashed water on his face and put on his Stetson and sheriff’s badge, then he made the short walk from his lodging across to the sheriff’s office, finding things, as usual, a model of order.

“Good morning, Sheriff. How are you?” asked the deputy, Thomas Anderson, smiling at Ethan as he entered the office.

He was a young man, fresh faced, with blonde hair and bright blue eyes, and a keenness to please – like a puppy.

Ethan nodded. He didn’t much like talking when nothing needed to be said, and Thomas’ cheerful demeanor first thing in the morning wasn’t always welcome.

“Is there some coffee?” Ethan asked.

The deputy nodded. “There’s a fresh pot on the stove,” he replied. “And there’s a report of rustling on the Andover ranch – two cattle missing.”

Ethan groaned. “Two? That’s not rustling. That’s carelessness. You ride up there and tell Andover to mend his fences before he comes crying wolf,” he said, feeling irritated at being bothered by such trivial matters. In truth, he was bored. Back in Clearmont, he could be chasing bandits in the morning and stopping contraband in the afternoon. There were fights to break up, and robberies to investigate. But in Whispering Pines, nothing interesting ever happened.

Thomas nodded. “Yes, sheriff. I’ll ride up there this morning. You know what he’s like.”

“I do. And I won’t have him wasting our time rounding up his cattle,” Ethan replied. “Anything else?”

The deputy shook his head. Ethan was about to get up and pour himself a cup of coffee when the door to the office opened, and a pretty young woman, elegantly dressed, with auburn hair tied up beneath a wide brimmed hat, entered.

She smiled at Ethan, who returned her gaze questioningly. She’s probably lost her cat and wants a full-blown investigation.

“Good morning, Mrs. Thompson. How can we help you?” Thomas asked.

Ethan grimaced – the deputy was always so darn nice to everyone. The woman was gripping a poster, and she held it up, still smiling.

“Good morning to you both. Isn’t it a beautiful day?” she said.

“Beautiful, yes,” Thomas replied.

Ethan glared at him. “Did you want something, Mrs. Thompson?” he asked.

He knew her vaguely – a widow who lived in a large house on the edge of the town, close to the mission church. Her husband had died, leaving her a young widow with a considerable fortune.

In Ethan’s experience, such women always had far too much time on their hands, and he sensed some do-gooding was about to display itself.

“Yes, I’m sorry to disturb you,” she said. “I’m sure you’ve got lots of important things to be doing. But we’re raising money for the school renovations. There’s going to be a bazaar and a pageant. Can I display a poster in the window?”

“Certainly, you can,” Thomas said, rising to his feet to take the poster from her.

“Wait a moment,” Ethan interrupted. “This is the sheriff’s office, not a noticeboard.”

The deputy held back, but to Ethan’s surprise, the woman laughed. “Oh, come now, Sheriff. It’s for the good of the town,” she said. “Don’t you want to see the schoolhouse roof repaired? Those poor children are having their lessons outside. It’s alright in the summer but come winter… we’ve got to raise the funds.”

Ethan knew he could not very well say no. There was something disarming about her. She was the sort of woman who could persuade simply with a look, and she fixed him with just such an imploring expression.

“Alright,” Ethan replied. “You can put it up. When’s all this happening? I should be informed about these sorts of things.”  He did not like having his authority challenged – however pretty the challenger might be.

Mrs. Thompson smiled at him. “Next week – on Wednesday. The lady’s guild from the church is organizing it. I volunteered to take the posters around. There’s one in the mercantile, and another in the coffeehouse. I’m just on my way to the saloon, then I’ll stop at the bakery, too. It’s really very kind of you to support us like this,” she said.

Ethan nodded. He couldn’t be irritated with her – as much as he’d have liked to be. She was doing a good deed for the town, and he had to at least be seen as supportive.

“You’re welcome,” he said as she smiled.

“Well, I won’t take up any more of your valuable time, Sheriff. And thank you, too, Thomas,” she said, as the deputy hurried to open the door for her.

“Goodbye, Mrs. Thompson,” he replied, ushering her out of the office.

When the door had closed, Ethan looked at the deputy and raised his eyebrows. “Goodbye Mrs. Thompson,” he mimicked.

Thomas blushed. “I was just… being friendly, that’s all. She’s a good person, and she’s not had it easy, either,” he retorted.

Ethan finally moved to pour himself a cup of coffee, and he looked inquisitively back at the deputy, curious to know what he meant.

“She’s a widow, isn’t she? And didn’t her husband leave her a fortune? What’s her first name again?”

“Teresa. Teresa Thompson,” Thomas replied. “And that’s right. She was an orphan and came to Whispering Pines when she was just eighteen to marry Samuel Thompson. He was one of the wealthiest landowners in these parts, and that’s made her a wealthy woman.”

Ethan nodded. “A mail-order bride?” he replied.

The deputy blushed. “Yes… if that’s what you want to call it,” he said. “Samuel was good to her. But he died young. She… she’s pretty closed when it comes to… romance.”

Ethan raised his eyebrows. “You know that through experience, do you?” he asked, and the deputy blushed an even deeper shade of red.

“We’re friends. It’s Olivia Bennett, I… well, she’s the schoolmistress, and she and Teresa are friends,” he said.

Ethan held his hand up for silence, smiling and shaking his head.

“All right, I think I’ve heard enough about your personal life, Deputy. She can have her poster, and we’ll show our faces at the bazaar,” he replied. “It’s not like there’s anything else happening, is there?”

Thomas smiled. “Just the cattle rustling.”

“You can see to that,” Ethan said. He took a sip of coffee, glancing at the poster on the deputy’s desk. It was brightly colored, printed in large block letters, and announced the fundraising efforts for the new schoolhouse roof to replace the current one damaged in a winter storm the previous year. There was to be a bazaar, a pageant, and a sale of items by auction.

“She’s a nice person,” said Thomas. “Teresa Thompson, I mean. Like I said, she’s not had it easy – growing up in an orphanage, then losing her husband so soon after marrying.”

Ethan shrugged. It was no more tragic a tale than others. He’d lost his father when he was young, his brother had died in a shootout over a gambling debt, and his mother had taken to drink and died several years ago. Sad stories were two a nickel, and he didn’t think Teresa Thompson to be particularly hard done by.

“Well, we all have our crosses to bear,” he replied. “Are you going to ride up to the Andover place, or do I have to do it for you?”

Thomas, who’d sat back down at his desk, rose hastily to his feet. “I’m on my way, Sheriff,” he said, and Ethan nodded.

“Take the afternoon off, if you want. I’m sure you can find an excuse to visit the schoolhouse,” he replied.

A smile broke across the deputy’s face, and he nodded. “Thank you, sheriff, I’ll get right up to the Andover place, and…”

“Get on with it, before I change my mind,” Ethan interrupted.

Thomas hurried out of the office, leaving Ethan alone with his thoughts. He poured himself another cup of coffee, and stood at the window, looking out across the street toward the saloon.

At that moment, Teresa emerged, calling back her thanks to the saloon owner, who was holding one of the posters. Ethan watched as she walked along the street in the direction of the bakery. She was certainly an attractive woman, and her efforts to raise funds for the schoolhouse roof were admirable.

Careful, now. Ethan sipped his coffee with a frown. No need to foster some kind of soft spot for her.

It wasn’t his fault that she seemed interesting – a pretty woman, with a story to tell. With nothing else to occupy his mind, Ethan found his thoughts returning to Teresa as the day went by – as much as he tried to avoid thinking about her, too. She wasn’t his business. No more than anyone else in the town was his business, at least. But try as he might, the thought of her was there, and growing more persistent.

I suppose that’s why she’s thrown herself into this. He kept glancing at the poster now displayed in the window of the sheriff’s office.

No point in all that. Dismissing the thought, he tried again to concentrate on his work, but it was all so boring and mundane as to be monotonous.

He thought back to his dream, to the familiarity of the robbers – there’d been something different about them, and he only regretted not having the chance to investigate further before being sent away.

I’m not scared of them. But with his superiors thinking otherwise, it seemed he was destined to be writing cattle licenses a while longer.

Chapter Two

“Thank you, Mr. Coleman. It’s very kind of you,” Teresa said, as the saloon owner showed her to the door.

“Not at all, Mrs. Thompson,” he replied. “I’m happy to help. The schoolhouse needs a new roof, and if anyone can raise the funds, it’s you.”

Teresa smiled. She had thrown herself wholeheartedly into the campaign for the new schoolhouse roof and had been busy for the past few weeks preparing for the bazaar and the pageant. She liked to keep busy. It took her mind off things and made her feel useful.

“Spread the word,” she reminded Mr. Coleman. “We need lots of people to turn out and support us.”

“I’ll be sure to do just that,” he replied, and Teresa smiled at him, wishing him a good day, as she stepped out into the sunshine.

Glancing across the street towards the sheriff’s office, she saw the sheriff at the window and caught his eye, but he hastily turned away. The poster was displayed next to him, and she smiled to herself at the memory of her encounter with the gruff lawman a short while earlier.

He’s a strange man…  She turned in the direction of the bakery.

Sheriff Hayes had been the presiding lawman of Whispering Pines for the past six months, yet no one really knew much about the brooding man. Teresa had tried to be friendly toward him, but it felt as though he purposefully kept his distance, not wanting to let his guard down, or do or say anything that might be construed as being friendly.

Some people are like that, I suppose.

She was quickly distracted by the sweet smell of the cakes and the scent of the yeast that filled the air as she approached the bakery. She was almost knocked down by a gaggle of children hurrying out of the door with icing covering their faces. They were talking excitedly to one another and holding the remnants of various sugary treats in their hands.

“Goodness me, look at this,” she said, as they looked at her apologetically.

“Sorry, Mrs. Thompson,” one of them said.

Teresa smiled. “It’s quite all right. Have you just come from school?”

The children nodded. “Miss Bennett let us go early,” one of them said.

“I was just on my way there – I’ve got posters for the bazaar,” Teresa replied. “Are you all going to help?”

The children nodded in unison. “We’ll raise the money,” one of them said, and the others agreed.

Having sent them on their way, Teresa entered the bakery, finding the proprietor, Augustus Carter, standing behind the counter. Carter’s Bakery was Teresa’s favorite store in the town – a veritable feast for the senses. On the shelves behind the counter were rows of perfectly baked loaves, large and small, round and tin shaped, while below, neatly laid out, were the cakes and sweet treats. There were iced buns, sugar covered cookies, fruit cakes, pastries, and all manner of other delights too tempting to pass by.

Augustus was an elderly man, stooped, with graying hair, but a sparkle in his eye – the sparkle of a man whose business it was to bring joy. He had a permanent tickle in his throat – the result of a lifetime of breathing in the flour that rose in clouds as he kneaded the bread each morning, and which he had once told Teresa was the price a baker paid for eating fresh bread every day.

“Good morning, Mrs. Thompson,” he said, nodding to her from behind the counter.

“Good morning, Mr. Carter. Isn’t it a lovely day?” Teresa asked.

The baker nodded. “It’s nice enough,” he replied.

“How’s your wife’s aunt?” Teresa asked.

Augustus had told her his wife and daughter were away caring for a sick relative, and that perhaps explained his reluctance to agree with her previous sentiment.

For a moment, he looked confused but then shook his head and smiled. “Oh, her aunt… yes… she’s doing a little better,” he replied, though he did not sound convinced.

“I’m glad to hear that,” Teresa replied.

She was glancing along the rows of cakes, wondering if she might take a couple of iced buns for her and Olivia to share with a cup of coffee.

“I’ve got some cinnamon cookies fresh out of the oven,” the baker said, gesturing towards a tray on the counter. They smelled delicious, and Teresa nodded, buying four in exchange for the bakery displaying the poster.

“It’s to raise funds for the schoolhouse roof. We’re getting close to the target, but there’s still a way to go yet,” she said, handing over the poster to Augustus.

“I’ll put it up for you,” he offered happily. “No trouble at all… now, what can I get for you?”

Teresa was holding the bag of cookies in her hand, and she held them up with a smile on her face. “You just gave me these.”

Augustus looked surprised, and he shook his head and sighed.

“I’m sorry. I’m a little distracted today, that’s all,” he said, looking apologetic. “I’ll put the poster up, and I hope everything goes well with bazaar.”

Teresa thanked him and left the bakery, smiling to herself at his absentmindedness. He had been the town’s baker for twenty years – a familiar figure, and one she’d come to like and respect in the short time she had lived among the inhabitants of Whispering Pines.

He’s just worried about his family. That had to be the reason. It might be nice if she asked Reverend James to call on him.

Stepping out again into the sunshine, Teresa smiled and nodded to those she passed, reminded of just what a pleasant place Whispering Pines was to live. It was a quiet town, once at the edge of the frontier, but now having taken on a more genteel quality.

Life was slow paced in Whispering Pines – nothing happened quickly. Nothing much happened at all. It had been eight years since Teresa had moved west, answering an advertisement in the press for a wife to a local landowner, Samuel Thompson. But when he had died, Teresa had found herself a widow at just twenty-six years old and forced to make her own way in the world. But by inheriting her husband’s wealth, she’d been given the chance to do something meaningful, and she had thrown herself into philanthropic works, the schoolhouse roof being just one in a long list of projects that had come to occupy her attention.

“Good morning, Mrs. Thompson,” said a gentleman emerging from the coffeehouse, tipping his hat to her, and along the way, she met a dozen others to stop and talk to.

At the schoolhouse, the last of the children were just emerging, and Olivia was standing at the door to wave them off. “Don’t forget, I want five different types of leaves from each of you by tomorrow. We’re going to identify them by their shapes,” she called out.

She was the same age as Teresa, a little shorter and plumper, with a kind face framed by dark hair, and hazel colored eyes. She had arrived in Whispering Pines a few months after Teresa, dreaming of fulfilling her vocation to be a schoolmistress. Universally adored by the children, she was everything a schoolmistress should be – kind, caring, dedicated, and with a wit and intelligence to match.

She and Teresa had become the closest of friends, and after the roof of the schoolhouse had been damaged, Teresa had vowed to do everything she could to help.

“I just bumped into a group of them outside the bakery – covered in icing sugar,” Teresa said, watching as the last of the children ran off calling out excitedly to one another in search of the leaves.

Olivia smiled. “It’s been hard work today. I don’t know what’s got into them,” she replied. “I couldn’t get them to stop talking. It doesn’t help we can hear everything going on around us without a proper roof over our heads.”

Teresa glanced up at the damaged roof of the schoolhouse, the beams of which had been covered over with old covers from broken prairie schooners. It was enough to keep the rain out, but it was a long way from a permanent solution – the sooner the roof was repaired, the better. “It won’t be long,” she said. “I’ve just finished putting up the posters for the bazaar. I even got the sheriff to put on in the window of his office.”

Olivia looked impressed. “Really? I’m surprised he even gave you the time of day. I daren’t go in there for fear of being on the end of his tongue,” she said. “I feel so sorry for Thomas. He was here just before.”

She smiled, blushing, and Teresa raised her eyebrows.

“It was Thomas who agreed to the poster going up – until the sheriff interrupted,” she told Olivia. “He wasn’t going to let me at first, but he could hardly refuse, once I’d explained what it was about.”

Olivia shook her head. “I just feel sorry for Thomas, that’s all. He should’ve got the sheriff’s position, not some outsider,” she said.

“I don’t really know anything about the sheriff,” Teresa said.

Olivia shrugged. “Neither do I. I don’t think anyone does. One day he was just assigned here. He’s from Clearmont, I think. Goodness knows why he’d want to come here. It must be so boring compared to the excitement of there.”

Teresa smiled. “Perhaps that’s the exact reason why he came here. Maybe he likes it quiet,” she said.

“That’s not what Thomas says,” Olivia replied. “Apparently, the sheriff’s always saying how dull life is here. It all seems very strange to me. Anyway, what have you got there?”

She gestured to the bag, and Teresa held it up with a smile. “Cinnamon cookies from the bakery – fresh from the oven. I thought we could go to my house and have a cup of coffee with them,” she said.

Olivia smiled. “That’s a lovely idea,” she said, offering Teresa her arm.

The two of them walked arm in arm together from the schoolhouse, taking the dusty road that led behind the townhall and along an avenue of trees, past the mission church to Teresa’s house. It was one of the finest in town – built of wood slats, with gables, and a porch on three sides. A white picket fence surrounded a pretty garden, and the shutters of the house had been painted to match.

Teresa had fallen in love with it the first moment she’d laid eyes on it – a stark contrast to the orphanage in which she’d grown up. But there was a sadness about the place, too, for she’d always pictured it being a place to raise a family, and not the home of a widow.

“Everything’s bursting into life, isn’t it?” she observed, looking around her at the garden as they walked up the path from the gate to the porch.

The door was opened by Teresa’s maid, Betsy, who greeted them with a smile. “Reverend James called on you, Mrs. Thompson. He said, he’ll try again tomorrow. I think it was about the bazaar,” she said, as Teresa handed the maid her bonnet.

“Thank you, Betsy. I might call on him myself,” she replied, thinking of Augustus Carter.

They went to sit in the parlor, where the windows faced south, looking out on the garden at the back of the house. Betsy brought them coffee, and plates for the cinnamon cookies.

“These are delicious,” Olivia said.

“I’ll save one for Betsy, too,” Teresa replied.

Even after six years, she still wasn’t used to the idea of having a maid – or of having the money to live independently. Samuel had owned most of the land surrounding the town, and the income from the rents gave Teresa ample security in her finances. She had time to dedicate herself to good causes, and along with the funds for the schoolhouse roof, she was involved in raising money for the church, and a charity supporting orphans in cities in the east.

“Are the preparations all in hand for the bazaar?” Olivia asked. “The children were practicing for the pageant yesterday. It’s going to be lovely.”

“I think so, yes,” Teresa replied. “I just hope people come.”

Olivia smiled. “If you can persuade the sheriff, you can persuade anyone.”

Teresa laughed. “I’m not sure I’ve persuaded him to come. We’ll see, though. He’s an interesting character, that’s for certain.”

That morning was the first time she’d met the sheriff properly since his arrival in Whispering Pines. She hadn’t seen him at church, and as for what he did when he wasn’t on duty, her guess was as good as anyone’s. Perhaps he was lonely, Teresa knew the feeling well enough for herself. It was one thing to involve oneself in the goings-on in the town, but quite another to come at night to an empty parlor.

She missed her husband. Samuel had been twenty years older than her, but the two of them had found much in common, and he had been a good husband – kind and considerate.

“You should hear Thomas talk about him,” Olivia said. “He does a wonderful impression of him.” She contorted her face into a grumpy expression, folding her arms and slouching her shoulders.

Teresa laughed. “Oh, I’m sure he’s not that bad,” she exclaimed.

“He just… seems distant,” Olivia clarified. “He doesn’t involve himself. It’s a small town; people notice that kind of thing.”

Teresa shrugged. Everyone was different. The sheriff would have his own story to tell, and perhaps that explained why he was the way he was. “Perhaps I’ll pay him another visit,” she said, wondering how she would be received the second time. “But what about you and Thomas? He’s sweet on you, isn’t he?”

Olivia blushed. “He’s nice… he brought me some flowers he’d picked from up at his father’s ranch earlier on. They’re on my desk at the schoolhouse,” she said.

Teresa was pleased. There’d been a time when Thomas had made it clear he had a liking for Teresa – posies of flowers, offers of help around the house, an invitation to coffee at the coffeehouse. But she’d made it clear that she wasn’t interested – not in romance, at least. It was too soon after Samuel’s death, or, rather, there was a sense of fear in the possibility of romance.

She’d thrown herself into her charitable works, not only to help others, but to help herself, too. Widowhood was lonely. But while there were those – including Olivia – who’d encouraged Teresa to pursue romance, the fear of further heartbreak remained.

“That was sweet of him. Do you think he’d propose?” Teresa asked.

Olivia smiled, pondering the question for a moment. “I don’t know. We’ll see. Anyway, I should probably be going. I’ve got a whole pile of comprehension exercises to mark,” she said, rising to her feet.

“I’ll see you at church on Sunday,” Teresa replied.

They parted ways, and she watched from the porch as Olivia made her way across the garden, pausing at the gate and turning to wave. Teresa waved back, grateful for a friend like Olivia, even as a pang of sadness came over her.

I’m happy for her, I just wish things had turned out different for me. She returned to the parlor and sat down to busy herself with preparations for the bazaar, trying not to think about how empty the house felt without someone to share it with.