An Unexpected Surprise

Chapter 1

Long and low the sound of the train's whistle reached the depot well ahead of Engine 826. Angie McDonald shaded her eyes against the glare of sun on snow to peer across the South Dakota prairie. The winter of 1872 promised to be a cold one though it was still a month away.

"There it is!" twelve-year-old Judy Phillips cried, pointing at a growing black plume parallel to the horizon.

"Calm down," Angie told her blond niece, who was bouncing beside her under the eaves of the station house. "It'll be ten minutes before she gets here."

Judy stared at the tintype photograph in her gloved hand. Her head came just above Angie's shoulder. "I hope she's as nice as she looks in her picture." She rose up on her toes, anxiously watching her aunt's face. "What if she's mean? What if we don't like her? What if she doesn't like Papa?"

Angie pushed several strands of dark hair from her cheeks back under her bonnet. She put an arm around Judy and gave a gentle squeeze. "If things don't work out, we'll send dear Mrs. Dryden on her way."

"But what if Papa likes her, and we don't? I'm so scared." She tilted her freckled face toward the sky and squeezed her eyes shut. "Why did we do this?"

Angie gave the child a little shake. "Because we're desperate, that's why. Don't go weak-kneed on me now. We've been planning this for months. We've got to see it through."

"What if she talks to Papa about the love letters she thinks he wrote her?"

"She won't. Not if we handle it right."

Sparks flying, the iron horse screeched to a halt next to the tiny clapboard station. Angie and her charge stepped away from the building, shivering inside their wool coats and shawls‹partly from the piercing breeze and partly from sheer nervousness. It was one thing to devise a scheme and quite another to meet it at the station.

The anxious pair watched five people step down to the platform before they spotted their guest. Saundra Dryden looked just like her picture. A blond, buxom German immigrant in black cape and bonnet, she stood two inches taller than Judy. Her clothes were not expensive; yet she had an elegance about her that was hard to define.

The woman turned expectantly when Angie said, "Mrs. Dryden? We're from the Flying P ranch. Lane had some things to do so we came to meet you. I'm Angie McDonald, Lane's sister-in-law, and this is his daughter, Judy."

Mrs. Dryden's right cheek dimpled when she smiled. "How nice to meet you!" She spoke clearly, but her words held the German dip and sway. She leaned toward the girl. "I've heard so much about you from your father's letters. You're more charming than I imagined." She gazed toward the end of the train. "I have two trunks."

"Give me your tickets." Angie held out her hand. "I'll have a porter bring them to our buggy. Judy, show Mrs. Dryden where the buggy is. I'll meet you there."

"Please call me Saundra." She beamed at the child. "You can tell me all about the ranch while we're waiting. I have never been on a real ranch before."

Angie hustled toward the baggage car. Who would have dreamed that she'd stoop to finding a mail-order bride for her backward brother-in-law? But what else could she do? She couldn't stay around the Flying P until she had gray hair and wrinkles.

She twisted the gold signet ring on her left hand, her engagement ring until Barry could afford a better one. She deserved a life of her own, didn't she? If she waited for Lane to find a replacement housekeeper, she'd be standing at the altar smelling of liniment instead of toilet water.

A tiny thread of conscience skimmed across her thoughts. Maybe she should have waited for God to answer her prayers instead of rushing ahead with a scheme.

She shoved the thought to the back of her mind. She had waited two months. That was long enough. Besides, Christmas had become a dreaded chore since Lane's wife, Charlotte, died three years ago. Maybe Saundra would bring some light into the holidays this year.

Saundra's trunks thunked into the back of the box-shaped buggy under the muscle power of two teenage boys. Standing nearby, Angie heard Judy chattering about the stand of timber that Lane was harvesting this winter on his new quarter-section grant. He was hoping to pay off the bank loan on the ranch with what he would make on that timber.

Angie swung inside and picked up the reins. "Get up, Sheba . . . Dan." Impatient to be out of the biting cold, the gray and the black lurched ahead. Sheba was Angie's mare and trained to both the carriage and saddle, though she rarely rode her anymore.

Five miles to the south lay the Flying P. At the edge of town, the road stretched straight ahead of them, parallel ruts in a field of white. Last week's snow lay in drifted mounds for miles in every direction.

"What's he like, your father?" Saundra asked Judy, her blue eyes dancing. "He never described himself in his letters."

Angie answered first. "He's six feet three, with wide shoulders and long legs." "He has dark hair and light blue eyes," Judy added.

"He's also terribly shy." Angie glanced at the newcomer. "If I were you, Saundra, I wouldn't mention his letters. He can be very eloquent when he's putting thoughts on paper, but in person he's painfully shy. You'll have to draw him out."

"The silent cowboy type?" Saundra nodded. "I have read about them."

"That's right," Judy said, sending Angie a wide-eyed look, "the strong, silent type."

"Tell us about yourself, Saundra," Angie said, as if she didn't already know the woman's statistics by heart.

"While I was growing up, my father was a theology professor in Heidelberg. My mother died two months before I turned eighteen, so when my father got an offer for a position at Harvard, we came to America. There was nothing to keep us in Germany any longer."

"You speak wonderful English," Angie said.

"My father made me practice until I wanted to scream." She smiled at Judy. "That's the way with fathers, no?"

"Yes!" Judy giggled.

Angie swallowed a smile. So far, so good.

"When my father died four years ago, I married Joseph Dryden. He owned a hotel. I cooked for the guests and managed the cleaning service for him.

"Joseph had a heart attack last year. The staff problems and those mountains of paperwork were too much for me. I sold the hotel with the understanding that I could keep my job as manager."

Her shoulders lifted. So did her shapely eyebrows. "But the new owner was difficult. The past six months have been nothing but misery for poor Saundra. Your father's advertisement came at just the right time."

Beneath a sky full of wispy clouds, the thirty-year-old ranch house appeared on the horizon, a small two-story structure with a wide front porch and massive chimneys on each end. The house was twice as wide as it was deep. Rough lumber stained with dark oil covered the outer walls. The window frames and doors had last felt paint bristles five years ago. The white paint had chipped and peeled, but much of it remained to brave another harsh South Dakota winter.

The windows gleamed in the sunlight. Churned-up snow covered the yard with bits of brown grass poking through here and there. A shaggy collie barked a greeting.

"Quiet, Tip!" Angie called, pulling the horses to a halt near the back porch. She turned to Saundra. "Lane is working in the woods. He'll be home for supper."

"Good! I'll have time to comb my hair and press a clean dress." Lifting her skirts, she stepped daintily to the ground. Tip came around to sniff the stranger. Saundra tried to pat him, but he shied away.

"Tip doesn't like anyone to touch him," Judy told her. "He's a cattle dog." Saundra bent to talk to the watchful animal. "We shall be great friends. You'll see."

Tip sat down and lifted his nose.

Angie hopped out and opened the buggy's back door. "Saundra, could you unpack some things out here to lighten the trunks? Then Judy and I could lift them."

"Why don't I take out what I need and wait for a man's strong arms to do the rest?"

"That's a great idea," Angie said, smiling. "Need a hand?"

Saundra produced some keys and reached for the closest piece of humpbacked luggage. "I'll be fine. I only want a dress and my hairbrush."

Leaving Judy to keep Saundra company, Angie walked across the porch and stepped inside the house to check the beans she had left simmering on the potbelly stove in the living room. In winter the potbelly served for both heating and cooking when she had to go out, because the kitchen range would go stone cold with no one to feed it every few minutes.

The smoky scent of salted pork met her the moment she opened the door. Crossing the narrow kitchen to the wood box, she carried two split pieces down the hall and into the living room where the cast-iron pot bubbled. Grabbing a thick pad kept there for the purpose, she clanked open the door of the potbelly stove and shoved the logs inside, brushing bits of bark from her coat afterward.

Lane Phillips's presence filled this room as much as if he were sitting here. Everywhere Angie's eye strayed, his handiwork spoke of him. Even the thick-bottomed rocker had been born under his skillful hand.

What wasn't Lane's belonged to Charlotte: the hand-plaited rug, the curtains, the doilies.

Stirring beans, Angie drew in a slow breath. Stale, painful memories smothered her. She simply had to get away.

Chapter 2

The creak of the back door, then voices, reached Angie. "Your room is upstairs, next to mine and Angie's," Judy said. "I'll show you where."

Angie met them near the narrow stairs. "You can rest a while if you'd like, Saundra. You must be exhausted. We won't have supper for another two hours."

"Once I freshen up, I'll feel fine. I'll help you put supper on the table." She smoothed the mound of green fabric hanging over her arm. "Could I use an iron perhaps?" She winked. "I must put my best foot forward, you know."

"Of course." Angie lifted her bonnet and pushed at her flyaway brown hair. Pulled back into a single braid, it would never behave. "I'll put the iron on the stove for you right away."

Judy followed Saundra up the steep steps. Angie bustled toward the kitchen for the iron. Cold as it was outside, she wanted to get the horses into the barn as soon as possible.

Lane didn't arrive until an hour after dark. Boots thunking on the bare wood floor, he strode into the kitchen. Behind him came Barry Kimball, Angie's stocky fiancé, Lane's only permanent hand. Barry had quarters in the barn and took his meals with the family.

Both men looked haggard with cold and exhaustion.

Barry's gaze sought Angie's, and Angie responded with a warm smile. She'd known the smooth-faced Kimball boy since they played with empty spools under their mothers' quilting tables. He was two years older than she, but she was the taller until they were teenagers. She could still outrun him.

He took off his hat and flipped calloused fingers through sandy hair that brushed his ears and collar. Twenty-six last August, he looked eighteen.

Lane lifted his ten-gallon hat and dropped it on a peg. His short, brown hair had a widow's peak in front and a hat crease around the back. When he spoke, his voice sounded weary beyond physical fatigue. "That stand of oak in the lower corner is full of wood ants."

Angie's heart sank. "How will we make this year's payment to the bank?"

Lane's sagging shoulders lifted then sank. "I'll have to go into town and talk to Crouse. Maybe he'll let things ride until next year."

Using two dishtowels to pad her hands, Angie lifted a pot of boiling water off the stove and poured some into a metal basin on the stand near the door. She added a healthy amount of cold water to it. "This is the third year running that you've had to ask for more time. What if he can't help us?"

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it, Angie."

She sighed and dropped the dishtowel to the counter. Untying her apron, she avoided Lane's eyes. "She's here, Lane."

"Who?" He sent her a blank stare.

"My pen pal from the East. We've been planning her visit for weeks."

Lane frowned, a question in his eyes. Then he nodded. "Oh, yeah. I forgot all about her."

"Supper's in the dining room tonight in honor of our guest. After we eat, you'll need to carry in her trunks. They're still in the buggy."

"What's she like?" Barry asked, grinning and moving closer to his intended. "Does she have warts and a hook nose?"

Angie sent him an exasperated look. "Can't you ever be serious? Wait 'til you see her. You'll be surprised. Believe me."

Lane dipped into the water and rubbed his face. He reached blindly for the towel hanging on the stand in front of him. "We tramped all over those woods this afternoon and got nowhere," he said when he finished. "I'm bushed. And I could eat the house, floorboards and all."

"We're having beans and cornbread. Saundra made the cornbread."

"You mean she can cook too?" Barry asked, raising his eyebrows.

Angie shook her head at him, a warning in her eyes. "Don't you embarrass me with your foolish talk, Barry Kimball. Saundra Dryden is a lady."

Lane moved aside for his ranch hand to use the washbasin. He reached for the comb on the windowsill and flicked it straight back through his hair without looking in the mirror put there for that purpose.

When Angie and the two men reached the dining room, Saundra stood behind the oak table, radiant in an emerald gown with white lace brushing her throat and wrists. Her pale tresses lay in perfect waves over her ears, high on top with a wide French twist in back.

Lane hugged his daughter then acknowledged Saundra's presence with a brief handshake. The woman stretched out her hand‹what else could he do? He stepped to his chair at the head of the table.

Barry drew up short in the narrow doorway, face still, eyes wide. Flushing, he clasped the woman's hand as if it were made of blown glass. Angie saw his Adam's apple bob just before they took their seats.

As always, Barry prayed before the meal. Lane hadn't prayed or led in family worship since Charlotte died. He wasn't sullen. He was sad, the kind of deep sadness that went all the way to the soul. Tonight he wore a black expression that made even Judy take a second look at him.

When they started to pass the food, Angie spoke, "Lane, Saundra tells me she's from Germany. Isn't that interesting? Her father was a professor at Harvard."

The big man filled his plate. He scarcely seemed to hear.

Barry leaned forward. "You must have had some interesting experiences at a place like that." Angie nudged him with the bowl of beans. He took it, still watching the woman across from him.

Saundra smiled, her dimple in full display. "I was only in my teens at the time so I didn't get to many of the functions. My father made me stay at home to practice English and mathematics." Her lovely lips twisted provocatively. "Would you like to hear the logarithm tables recited?"

He let out a delighted chuckle. "Maybe on Sunday afternoon when there's more time."

"What's Harvard like?" Angie asked.

Saundra smiled and laid down her fork. "It was a place like any other place," she said. "At first I thought that America would be a fairyland with a gigantic mansion and handsome carriages for everyone."

Judy giggled.

Saundra beamed at her. "But when I arrived, I found stern-looking men wearing black gowns over their clothing and carrying fat books under their arms. The only ones who smiled were the freshmen boys. They hadn't learned what it meant to be a Harvard man yet."

Her eyes twinkled. "One of my favorite hobbies was playing tricks on them to see if I make them human again." She tilted her head toward Judy. "I was just a little older than you then, my dear."

Judy leaned toward her, eyes big as her dinner plate. "What did you do?"

Saundra laughed in her throat. "I'll tell you about the very first one I ever did. You see, there was a smooth stone patio outside the dining hall. One time I grated a bar of soap and put it into a bottle of warm water. I shook it up very well then added some oil to it. While the men were eating, I emptied that bottle over the patio floor. When they burst out the door on the way to their next class, they started skating as if they were on a pond in January instead of at college in May."

She laughed again. "You should have heard them calling out and shouting. They grabbed each other and slid into the grass." She chuckled. "My father made me stay in the house for a month after that."

"Did anyone fall down?" Judy asked.

"Oh, lots of them did." She turned to Angie and said, "I was too young to realize how dangerous a slippery floor could be. It was all in fun, but I'm glad no one was hurt." She turned back to Judy. "My father had Maria, our housekeeper, lock up the soap for a couple of years after that."

Gasping, she remembered another story. "Speaking of soap, one time I shook Maria's grated soap through a strainer and got a fine powder. I sneaked into the college dining room one morning and mixed the powder into the sugar bowls where they sat on the sideboard ready for breakfast." She laughed and covered her mouth with slim fingers. "You should have seen the suds coming out of the coffee cups at breakfast."

"Did your father catch you that time?" Judy asked.

Saundra sobered. "That was two years after we came to Harvard, Judy. By then whenever anyone pulled a prank, he automatically looked at me." She picked up her fork. "I had to scrub floors for Maria for the entire month of February for that one."

Saundra kept Barry and Judy entertained for the rest of the meal. As soon as she finished one story, they'd coax her into another. Twice Angie tried to draw Lane into the conversation, but he focused on his meal‹not rude, but not interested in chitchat either. Not once did he look at Saundra.

After the second round of coffee, Angie stood to clear the table. Judy gathered the cups and silverware.

Barry lurched to his feet. "Let me help you with that, Mrs. Dryden." He took a single plate from Saundra's hands and stacked it on his own.

"Call me Saundra. Please."

He gulped. "Of course‹Saundra." Fumbling to get around his chair, he strode toward the kitchen.

Angie sent an irritated glance after her fiancé. What on earth had gotten into Barry?