A Christmas Dream (Hudson House Holiday #1)

Chapter Three

D espite his plans to remain in Portland for a few weeks, Brant felt drawn to Silver Bluff after being in the city only a few days.

He wanted to blame it on his desire to watch every step of progress being made at Hudson House, but he found his thoughts circling around Holland Drake.

In spite of her modest upbringing, the woman was lovely, charming, and full of life. Being around her was akin to drinking an elixir full of sunshine. She’d been so open around him, so unaffected, he couldn’t work up a suitable amount of regret at having deceived her in regard to his identity.

The part of him that detested lying of any type had wanted to tell her before she’d left that afternoon who he was, especially after she had offered such an unflattering description of him. But he couldn’t. Not when it had been so refreshing to be around a woman who seemed to enjoy his company without having any idea he was worth millions and came from a lineage that could be traced to early American settlers.

He wanted Miss Holland Drake, with the gleaming hair and sparkling brown eyes, to like him for him, not because of his name, bank account, or status in society. Remington had lectured him endlessly about setting a poor example of honesty for Denver. The man wasn’t wrong. Not only had he bent the truth to suit his purposes, he’d involved Denver in his deception.

Before he’d left for Portland, he’d made it a point to find Denver and apologize, and reiterated his promise to set things straight with Holland the next time he saw her. Which was why he’d departed for Portland two days earlier than planned, leaving Remington to interview the Drake sisters without any chance Brant might encounter Holland and have to explain himself.

He knew he’d have to do it sooner rather than later, but he dreaded it. Denver’s warning about a scalded bobcat made him question if Holland had a terrible temper. What would he do if she decided to unleash it on him?

Then again, Remington had hired Holland and her sister to begin working at the house next week. Surely she wouldn’t erupt in a fit of anger if she was worried about keeping her job. Not that he’d fire her, or allow Remington to, if she completed her duties satisfactorily.

Unable to concentrate on the work piled on his desk, Brant finally gave up and stuffed his leather satchel full of files, bid a quick farewell to his secretary with instructions to forward any necessary correspondence to him in Silver Bluff for the next two weeks, then rushed home.

Remington opened the door as Brant charged up the front steps. “What brings you home in the middle of the morning?” his butler asked as Brant strode inside.

“Silver Bluff. I can’t explain it, but I feel an urgent need to get back to Hudson House. If transportation on the afternoon train can be arranged, I’d like to leave today.”

“I’ll telephone the depot right away,” Remington said, hurrying off to Brant’s library where one of two telephones were located in the house.

Without waiting to hear Remington’s answer, Brant rushed upstairs and packed a bag with essential things he’d need, then carried it downstairs. He recalled what Holland had shared about her family having so few books and stepped into the library as Remington hung up the telephone.

“We’ll need to leave shortly if we plan to catch the train.” Remington gave Brant a curious glance. “Does this sudden rush back to Silver Bluff have anything to do with Miss Drake?”

“No! Don’t be ridiculous,” Brant snapped as he strode over to one of the bookshelves and searched for a title.

Remington chuckled. “I do believe your abrupt protest is quite telling, sir.”

“Don’t you have a bag to pack?” Brant cast a dark glower over his shoulder at his friend. He felt like slugging the man when he chuckled, knowing him far too well.

“I suppose I do.” Remington grinned and backed toward the doorway. “I’ll be ready to leave in ten minutes.”

Brant nodded but didn’t turn back around. He returned to perusing the shelves, searching for a book his sister had sent to him a few months ago.

“There you are,” he said, snatching the book from the shelf, then grabbed a few more.

He’d just added them to his bag when Remington rushed down the hallway from the direction of the kitchen, a coat tossed over his arm, hat askew on his head, with a traveling bag and a basket Brant was sure held their lunch in his hands.

“You haven’t said if you plan to keep this place once Hudson House is finished,” Remington said, opening the door while Brant settled his hat on his head and slipped on his coat against the rain that had begun to fall outside.

“I’ll keep it. The location is ideal, and the house is convenient for entertaining when the necessity arises for business purposes. After I move to Silver Bluff, it will be nice to have a comfortable home here for the times I must attend to business in the city. Besides, it gives Dean and Eloise adequate accommodations when they are in Portland.”

“It certainly does,” Remington agreed, pulling the door shut behind him against the autumn wind. He somehow managed to don his coat while following Brant down the steps to the hansom cab that waited to transport them to the train depot.

Brant climbed in, grateful to be out of the cold drizzle of rain, and studied his friend. Remington did his job so well, so flawlessly, Brant knew he often took him for granted.

Such as arriving home unannounced, eager to head to Silver Bluff without a thought to the hasty arrangements his butler would have to make. Remington placed a few telephone calls and everything was quickly taken care of so Brant could travel in comfort and ease.

“Thanks, Rem,” he said, nodding at the man seated beside him in the cab. Their shoulders bumped with each bounce in the road, but Brant didn’t mind. Remington was closer than a brother to him. He always had been, and Brant couldn’t foresee that changing regardless of what the future might bring.

“For what?”

“For being you.” Brant thumped him on the leg, then settled back in the seat. “You work far harder than anyone I know, yet you make everything appear so easy and simple. Like you snap your fingers and magically there’s a cab waiting to take us to the train depot, where my private car will be ready to transport us in every possible comfort available.”

“It’s my job, Brant, but more than that, you’re my friend. You have such a busy, hectic life. It’s my pleasure to do what I can to make things, as you said, easier and simpler for you.”

“I don’t say it often enough, Rem, but I appreciate you. Truly, I couldn’t manage anything, let alone the enormous project Hudson House has turned into, without your help. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Remington gave him a sly grin. “If you’re in a generous mood, perhaps I should request an increase in wages.”

Brant chuckled. “Done! You’ve more than earned it.”

“Thank you, Brant.”

“Of course. Now, speaking of earning their keep, how will the two Drake sisters do as housemaids?”

“Very well, I think, at least from my initial impression. Savannah seems more serious than Holland, but they both are intelligent, aren’t afraid to ask questions, and took to heart my lecture about being careful with priceless antiquities. From the letters of referral, I believe they will be trustworthy employees. I’ve been putting off ordering uniforms until we have more staff in place, but we might need to look into purchasing something for the women to wear in the meantime. I’d hate for them to ruin any of their personal clothing.”

“Can something suitable be purchased in Silver Bluff?” Brant asked as the cab rolled to a stop at the train depot.

Remington smirked at him. “I can honestly say I have not taken an inventory of the apparel options available for females in town.”

Brant grinned and waggled an eyebrow at Remington. “Perhaps you should. If Savannah looks anything like Holland, she’s likely lovely.”

“Beautiful, actually,” Remington said softly as they stepped out of the cab and he paid the driver.

Brant heard the comment and made a mental note to find reasons to place Remington and Savannah together. If he had to enlist Holland’s help, even better. He certainly wouldn’t complain about time spent with the lively, vibrant woman.

Since his encounter with her last week, she’d never been far from his thoughts. Her smile was full of joy and light, just like her warm brown eyes. Holland was neither too tall nor too short, although she leaned more toward thin than plump. She possessed a full bottom lip, positively made for kissing, with freckles that danced across her cheeks and cute nose. The woman was a blend of girlish charm and feminine attraction, all wrapped up in one enticing package.

Brant considered what his parents would say if they ever met Holland. Most likely, their choice of words would land somewhere between thoroughly unsuitable and illiterate spawn of a farmer .

Thankfully, his parents were all the way across the country in New York and would “never in this lifetime visit that heathenish land you’ve run off to,” or so his father had written in his last missive which Brant had read, wadded into a ball, and tossed into the fireplace. He took more satisfaction than he should have in watching it burn.

That had been two months ago. He’d half expected a letter from his mother or one of his other New York siblings to arrive, chastising him for his poor choices in moving to Oregon, but they hadn’t written. Truthfully, he didn’t care. He’d severed his ties with his relatives in New York when he’d gone into partnership with Dean and moved across the country.

Eloise, his favorite sibling and the only one whose opinion mattered to him, wrote frequently. Often she sent him little things she thought he’d enjoy, like drawings made by her children, or an article she’d found interesting, or even a new tea she thought he might like to try. He sent her sketches he made in his travels, a leaf or interesting rock he happened upon for his nephew Mayes, and dainties such as a hair ribbon for his three-year-old niece Clara.

Although he saw Eloise, Dean, and their children whenever he traveled to San Francisco, he was already looking forward to hosting them for Christmas this year, provided the house was finished and livable by then.

Thoughts of Hudson House brought his wandering mind right back around to Holland. He certainly hoped Denver had been exaggerating when he’d claimed she’d be livid when she found out he’d pretended to be someone else. Surely she’d see it as a joke. Wouldn’t she?

For the moment, he needn’t worry about her reaction. There would be time enough to set things right with her later, when she and her sister began work on Tuesday. Right now he was anxious to return to Hudson House and see what he could do to help move things along toward the finish line of the house being ready before his sister’s arrival in December.

“I’ll see if your car is ready, sir,” Remington said, shifting into the role of butler as they entered the depot building. He took the bags Brant carried from his hands.

“Thanks, Rem. I’ll pick up a copy of today’s paper.” Brant turned and headed toward the newsstand where passengers could purchase newspapers, a limited supply of books, sacks of peanuts, and dry, tasteless sandwiches.

He’d just stepped into the line when he heard a sniffle and turned to see a little boy who appeared to be near the age of Eloise’s son, Mayes. Big teardrops rolled across the silent child’s cheeks as he leaned against the legs of a tall woman dressed in an immaculately clean and pressed traveling suit that was at least ten years out of style. It was meant to be worn with a bustle, but the fact that she’d left it off was likely the only reason the somewhat ill-fitting garment covered her long frame.

“I’m sorry, baby, but we’ll have to make do for now. I still have half a biscuit left you can eat for your lunch, and I saved a shiny red apple for your supper.” The woman offered her son a tender smile.

Brant had a notion she would have picked up the child and comforted him if her hands hadn’t been full of bags that appeared as well-used as their attire. The woman glanced around, and Brant saw desperation in her expression along with hunger, exhaustion, and fear.

Growing up with every luxury anyone could ever wish for, Brant had never done without. Even when he’d struck out on his own, he’d lived in luxury. In a physical sense, he’d never experienced the pangs of hunger. Never been homeless. Never knew the terror of wondering if he’d have a warm bed to sleep in or a roof to keep off the rain.

However, suffering of the heart knew no division between wealthy and poor. Brant had spent a good part of his life starved for affection from his family. His grandparents, when they’d been alive, and Eloise were the only ones to give him love and kindness.

Brant knew about exhaustion and fear, and he was acquainted well enough with desperation to recognize it in a fellow traveler along life’s journey. As he waited in line, he kept an eye on the woman, who appeared to be anxiously studying the crowd.

Brant felt a little nudge in his spirit to speak to her. He purchased two newspapers, a bag of peanuts, and a sack of penny candy, then dropped the peanuts and candy into his pocket and tucked the newspapers beneath his left arm as he walked over to the woman.

“Pardon me, ma’am,” he said, politely tipping his head to her when she turned to face him.

“Yes?” she asked, tensing, as though she expected him to insist she leave or some other nonsense.

“Are you waiting for someone? Something?” he inquired, wondering why he was bothering the poor female who looked one disaster away from all but giving up.

She shook her head, then lifted her chin a notch, her gaze meeting his. “No, sir. We’re alone.”

From a distance, the woman had appeared attractive, but up close, she was undeniably lovely with dusky skin, the greenest eyes he’d ever seen, and ripe rosy lips. Her brown hair with lighter streaks of blonde running through it was lush and thick, twisted into a bun at the base of a slender neck. Although some would say she was stunningly beautiful, Brant couldn’t help but prefer Holland’s impish face.

“Are you traveling somewhere today?” he asked.

The woman held his gaze and attention. “I had hoped to leave town today due to unacceptable circumstances at my former place of employment, but I had no idea train tickets would be so expensive. Quite honestly, sir, I’ve been standing here, praying for a miracle.”

Brant knew he was about as far from a divine gift as any that could ever be offered, but he could help this woman and her son. The way she mentioned her former place of employment made him wonder what had taken place to cause her not only to leave her employer, but to flee Portland.

“May I offer my assistance, ma’am?” Brant doffed his hat and bowed to the woman, then smiled at her son. “My name is Brant Hudson. My brother-in-law and I own Pacific Horizon Shipping Company. Perhaps you’ve heard of us?”

She nodded slowly, cautiously, as though she wasn’t certain he could be trusted.

“I own a house here in Portland and one I am most eager to finish building in Silver Bluff, which is where I’m traveling. Would you care to join me and my butler as we travel? I promise I am quite harmless and can provide a reference from the stationmaster if you so desire.”

“It’s kind of you to offer, Mr. Hudson. Under normal circumstances, I’d refuse, but I can’t help but think you are an answer to my desperate pleas for assistance. If you wouldn’t mind the reference from the stationmaster, I would be most grateful.”

“Of course.” Brant returned his hat to his head, took the bags from her right hand, then motioned to the counter where Remington spoke with one of the depot agents. “This way, please, Missus …”

“Anders. My name is Dulcie Anders.” She glanced down at the little boy who had stopped crying and looked at Brant with open curiosity. “This is my son, Bobby.”

“Mrs. Anders. It’s a pleasure to meet you and Bobby.” Brant gave the boy a reassuring smile, then started toward the ticket counter. “Right this way. I’ll see if Mr. Oakbrook has a moment to speak with us.”

The woman took the little boy’s hand in hers and followed as Brant led the way to the counter. Remington turned around and gave him a questioning glance, but offered Mrs. Anders a polite nod. “Your car will be ready momentarily, sir.”

“Excellent, Remington. This is Mrs. Anders and her son, Bobby. I invited them to travel with us today, but she would like to hear a reference from Mr. Oakbrook to confirm I am who I say I am.”

“Understandable. A reprobate like you could cause any number of questionable problems.”

Brant scowled at him, Remington grinned, and Mrs. Anders barely hid a hint of a smile.

Remington motioned to the agent he’d just been speaking with, who walked over to them. “Mr. Hudson requires a word with Mr. Oakbrook, please. It will only take a brief moment of his time.”

The man nodded and scurried over to a doorway with a brass plaque beside it that read Stationmaster . He tapped on the door, pushed it open, nodded once, then hurried back to the counter. “Mr. Oakbrook will be out shortly.”

“My thanks to you, good sir.” Remington offered the man a tip, which he took with a pleased nod, then rushed over to help the next passenger waiting for assistance.

It only took a moment for Mr. Oakbrook to appear in his doorway. He looked around, caught sight of Brant, and headed toward them.

“Mr. Hudson! To what do I owe the pleasure today?” Mr. Oakbrook asked, reaching out to shake Brant’s hand. “Shipping more supplies for your house? How is it taking shape?”

“Mr. Oakbrook. No supplies today, at least that I’m aware. The house should be finished on time, barring any further delays. You’ll have to come see it in the spring when the wildflowers are in bloom.”

“My wife will likely hold me to your invitation.” The man grinned and placed his hands on the counter. “How may I be of assistance?”

“Our traveling companions would feel a measure of ease if you would verify who I am and how we are acquainted.”

Mr. Oakbrook looked both confused and amused, but leaned toward Mrs. Anders. “You’re traveling with this shyster?”

Her eyes widened and she took a step back before Mr. Oakbrook burst out in a deep laugh.

“I’m joshing with you, ma’am. Brant Hudson, co-owner of Pacific Horizon Shipping Company, has been a frequent traveler through this station for more than three years. Our train cars have hauled more building supplies for his property in Silver Bluff than I could begin to list. His private car is being hooked to the train heading to Silver Bluff as we speak, and you’re in for a treat if you’re riding in it with him today. This man”—he placed a hand on Remington’s shoulder—“is his faithful servant and friend, Remington Monroe. If you ask any of Mr. Hudson’s staff, Monroe is the center cog that keeps all the wheels turning.”

Brant watched an expression of shock register on Rem’s face. The man was humble to a fault, but Mr. Oakbrook wasn’t one given to idle claims. Everything would fall apart without Remington.

“He speaks the truth, ma’am,” Brant said, careful not to mention her name in case someone came around asking after her. “I’d be lost without Mr. Monroe.”

“I see,” she said quietly. She gave Brant an observant look before studying Remington with the same intensity, then faced Mr. Oakbrook. “I thank you for your time, Mr. Oakbrook, and the clarification that these men are trustworthy.”

“They most certainly are. Just to set your mind at rest, Mr. Bingley is the conductor on the train. Should you have any trouble at all, you tell him I said for him to provide whatever assistance you require.”

“Thank you, sir.” Mrs. Anders looked near tears as Mr. Oakbrook nodded at her, shook Brant’s hand a second time, then strode back to his office.

“Hudson! Boarding now may take place,” a loud voice called across the station.

“That’s us,” Brant said, hunkering down and looking Bobby in the eye. The child backed into his mother’s skirts, shyly glancing at him. “Mind if I carry you, Bobby? That way you can see everything as we board.”

The boy looked up at his mother, who nodded once, then he stepped forward as he swiped the sleeve of his thin jacket across his still-damp cheeks.

Brant lifted him with the arm not holding half of Mrs. Anders’ bags and started toward the door as Remington took the rest of her bags and added them to those he already carried.

The little boy’s head swiveled back and forth as they exited the station, crossed the platform, and walked up the steps to Brant’s private train car. Brant thought Bobby’s eyes might bug right out of his head when he pushed open the door to the car and carried the child inside.

“Do you like it, Bobby? Think you can ride in here for a while?” Brant asked, wondering what the private car would look like to a little boy.

“Yes, sir!” The child nodded his head with such enthusiastic force, the little cap he wore sailed right off his head and landed on the Chinese Peking rug done in shades of blue and cream.

Brant set him down, and Bobby latched onto his hat, tugging it back on his head of dark hair. The boy’s skin was several shades lighter than his mother’s, but he had the same green eyes and determined chin.

“This is …” Mrs. Anders stopped just inside the door. “It’s too much, sir. Are you certain you want to endure our company?”

Brant laughed and swept off his hat, hanging it on the coat rack just inside the door. “It is you who will be forced to endure ours, Mrs. Anders. Please, come in. Make yourself comfortable.”

“Thank you,” she said humbly, and walked over to stand by her son. He gawked at the rich mahogany paneling, the plush sapphire blue velvet upholstery on the chairs and couch, and the writing desk in the corner.

“Might I offer you a tour, Mrs. Anders?” Remington said as he closed the door behind him, set the bags beneath the coat rack, and removed his hat, hanging it next to Brant’s.

“Yes, please.”

Brant removed his coat and hung it from a hook, then found the basket of food Remington had no doubt asked the cook to prepare for their lunch. She always sent twice as much as they needed, so he knew there would be plenty to share with the mysterious Mrs. Anders and her son.

While Remington showed Mrs. Anders and Bobby the sitting room, the dining area, and the bathroom, Brant carried the basket to the dining area where a large booth served as the table and seating. In a pinch, the table could be folded up, and the bench seats pulled out to make a bed.

There were also beds that could be pulled out from the overhead storage in the dining area. Brant rarely needed to use the beds in this car because it was only a half-day’s journey from Portland to Silver Bluff. When he traveled to San Francisco, or other destinations farther afield, he had a larger car he used with a full-sized bed and a kitchen.

This car was his favorite, though, because Eloise had taken charge of decorating it in his preferred hue of rich blue. The brocade curtains hanging at the windows were almost a match for those he’d ordered for the library at Hudson House.

Brant went into the bathroom to wash up just as the train lurched forward. He heard Bobby giggle and stepped out of the room to see Remington holding the child around his middle, one hand braced on the back of an upholstered bench seat at the table, while Mrs. Anders was sprawled across the opposite bench, hat askew and hiding one eye.

“My apologies, ma’am. I guess we’re more used to the unsteady movement of the train than most,” Brant said, walking over to the table and lifting Bobby into his arms. “What do you think, young man? Are you ready for an adventure?”

“Yep! Ventures are fun!” Bobby clapped his little hands together and then gave Brant a hug that tugged at his heartstrings. “Thank you.”

“You’re most welcome.” Brant motioned to the basket he’d set on the table. “I’m starving. Do you think you might be able to help me and Mr. Monroe eat the lunch our cook sent?”

Bobby nodded as his mother untangled her skirts and managed to stand. She unpinned her hat, swept the cap from her son’s head, and gave Brant a look so full of gratitude, it made him want to squirm. He wasn’t used to people looking at him like that, and the raw honesty in her expression was unsettling.

“I don’t know how I can ever repay your kindness, Mr. Hudson,” Mrs. Anders said, standing with her hands at her sides, her hat and Bobby’s still clutched in her hands.

“Don’t give it another thought, Mrs. Anders. Please, have a seat. Relax. Enjoy the trip.” Brant set Bobby on the bench seat closest to his mother.

Remington took the hats she held and carried them to the rack by the door before he washed his hands, then returned to the table.

“Would you like to wash up before we eat, Mrs. Anders?” Remington asked.

She nodded, took Bobby’s hand in hers, and led him to the bathroom, closing the door behind her.

Remington fetched plates, cutlery, and napkins from their storage place in a cabinet built into the wall opposite the table. “What happened to them?” he asked on a whisper as he set the table.

Brant shrugged. “No idea, but she looked both desperate and downtrodden. The whole time I was in line to buy the newspapers, a little voice kept whispering in my heart to speak to her. I’m rather glad I did.”

“I’m also glad you did, Brant. I believe you might fill the role of guardian angel today.”

“Me, angelic? Hardly.” Brant chuckled as Mrs. Anders and Bobby returned. He curtailed his amusement and stood while they took seats in the booth. Brant slid into the booth and waited until Remington sat beside him to bow his head and ask a blessing on their meal. He gave thanks for their unexpected guests and prayed they would be held in the Father’s hand throughout their travels.

When he said “Amen,” he looked across the table to find Mrs. Anders’ pretty green eyes swimming with tears.

Before she started to cry, he grinned at Bobby. “I hope you’re hungry, young man. Our cook always packs more food than we can eat.”

Bobby, who could barely see over the table, got up on his knees, tongue tucked into his cheek, and nodded.

Remington opened the basket and removed four hearty beef and cheese sandwiches on the rye bread Brant favored, sliced dill pickles, boiled eggs, four fresh pears, and a dozen oatmeal spice cookies.

“I’m sorry we don’t have any coffee or tea to offer you,” Brant said, glancing at Remington.

“But we do have a jar of cook’s lemonade,” Remington said, pulling a canning jar from the basket.

“Excellent,” Brant said as Remington poured the lemonade into four glasses.

Bobby dug into his food like he hadn’t eaten for days. Mrs. Anders ate with excellent manners, her posture erect, but she appeared as hungry as her son.

Brant asked Remington a few questions about a shipping account they’d planned to discuss that evening. It wasn’t until Mrs. Anders and Bobby had finished eating that he felt the woman might be willing to answer a few questions.

“Are you running toward or away from something, Mrs. Anders?” Brant asked bluntly as the woman wiped her fingers on a napkin embroidered with a flourished H, as were nearly all Brant’s linens.

“Both, I suppose. Toward a better future for Bobby,” she said, feathering her fingers through her son’s thick hair. When he glanced up at her, the smile she bestowed on her son held such love, it was impossible not to notice. Brant wondered what it would be like to know that kind of deep, unbridled affection from a mother, or anyone. “Away from unexpected and unacceptable circumstances.”

Brant glanced at Remington, surmising the woman would be more forthcoming with information without her son present. “Rem, do you think Bobby might like watching out the window? I wouldn’t want him to miss a chance to see that waterfall we chug right past.”

“What’s a wallerfall?” Bobby asked as he climbed onto his mother’s lap, sweetly kissed her cheek, then jumped out of the booth as Remington stood and held out a hand to him.

“Well, you see, it’s when water …” Remington explained the intricacies of waterfalls as he led Bobby into the sitting room.

When they were occupied watching out the window, Brant poured the last of the lemonade into Mrs. Anders’ glass, and held out the packet of cookies to her. She’d eaten only one cookie as they’d finished their meal, but he had an idea she was likely still hungry.

She took a cookie, set it on her plate, and broke off a small piece. “Your cook is good. Thank you for providing lunch and such luxurious accommodations.”

“You are welcome, Mrs. Anders. I’m glad you enjoyed the meal.” Brant leaned back and tried not to toy with his cutlery or the napkin still draped across his lap. “You don’t owe me any explanation, but if you tell me what sent you to the train station, desperate to leave town, I may be able to help.”

“I don’t want to bring any trouble to your door, Mr. Hudson. Not when you’ve been so kind.”

“Whatever you say will stay between us. I won’t even tell Mr. Monroe, if you prefer.”

She took a long sip of lemonade, appearing to consider what to say and how much to share.

Brant thought about assuring her he was capable of keeping secrets and minding his own business, but something about the woman made him conclude she needed a friend, one who would listen.

“My husband was a logger, and a good man,” she finally said. “A chain broke, and a load of logs fell on him. The logging company did nothing for us, other than bury him. That was two years ago. Bobby was only two, and it felt like the world was falling in around me. I tried taking in laundry and selling baked goods at the logging camp, but it wasn’t enough, so I sold what I could and moved to Portland where I was hired as a cook’s assistant in one of the newer homes near Mount Tabor. The cook was kind and patient, and I was allowed to bring Bobby with me. Everything was fine until the lady of the house invited her brother to live with them two months ago. He, um … well, he …”

Her cheeks turned red, and Brant could just imagine what the brother had done—or attempted to do—to the winsome widow.

“He behaved inappropriately toward you,” Brant said not as a question, but a statement.

Mrs. Anders nodded. “Yes. It started with a comment here or there in passing, but then he started following me if I left the kitchen. Twice he pawed at me like a rabid beast, but before any harm was done, I managed to get away. Two days ago, he threatened to kill Bobby if I didn’t do as he said, so I packed what I could and ran away. I figured the faster I left Portland, the better.”

“Indeed. If you are ever inclined to share his name, I will make certain he doesn’t bother you or anyone else again.”

Mrs. Anders nodded, somewhat warily. “Thank you. For now, it is enough to be away from him. In my haste to leave, though, I couldn’t collect my last month’s wages, so I was short on funds to purchase two train tickets. I stood at the depot, uncertain what to do beyond praying for guidance, and then you appeared, asking if you could help. I don’t know how to thank you.”

“I’m grateful I was there at the precise moment you needed my assistance, Mrs. Anders. However, I’m going to make a request of you for entirely selfish reasons.”

She stiffened, and hesitation filled her expressive green eyes.

“Nothing like that, Mrs. Anders. What I’m wondering is if you’ll consider cooking for me? We have yet to hire a cook for my house in Silver Bluff. The house isn’t quite finished, but I believe you and Bobby could be comfortable there. If you’re interested, you could ride out with us to see the house, and once we have the kitchen set up, perhaps you’d consider cooking an audition meal, of sorts. If either one of us felt the arrangement wouldn’t work out, we wouldn’t be under any obligation. If I like the meal you prepare, and you like the house and think you could tolerate working for me and with Mr. Monroe, I’d provide a room for you and Bobby, as well as a competitive wage. You’d have Sundays and Tuesdays off each week.”

Mrs. Anders went from looking at him like he was in league with shysters to one of relief. “Truly? You’d consider hiring me?”

“I most certainly would, at least after I taste some of your cooking. Want to give it a try?”

“I do, Mr. Hudson, and I thank you for that generous offer. I promise I’m a good cook. I might not be much else, but I can cook, and after my last position, I know how to make food that would do any hostess of a dinner party proud. If you prefer simpler fare, my granny taught me how to make the most tender, fluffiest biscuits you’ve ever tasted.”

“With butter and jam?” Brant asked, already looking forward to eating one hot from the oven.

“Is there any other way to eat a hot biscuit?” she asked with a smile.

“Only if there’s a slab of smoky ham tucked into it.” Brant eyed the woman and felt a sense of rightness in offering her a job. He couldn’t help but think divine guidance had led them together today. He offered a brief prayer that he might be a blessing to Dulcie Anders and her son in the years to come.

The woman sobered and leaned forward slightly, lowering her voice so it was barely more than a whisper. “Since you so kindly offered an opportunity to work for you, I’m compelled to be completely honest with you, sir.”

“About?” Brant asked, wondering what it was she was hiding, or thought was a secret she needed to share.

“My background.”

“Go on.” Brant waited for her to speak as she took another sip of lemonade, followed by a deep breath as though she needed to fill her lungs before she launched into a rather unexpected story.

“My granny, the one who taught me so much about cooking, was a slave from Mississippi. Her father was the plantation owner, and her mother worked in the kitchen. When Granny was fourteen, her half-brother—her father’s oldest heir—beat her within an inch of her life and left her in the woods to die. My grandfather was a peddler with hair so blond it reflected like the sun, and eyes so green they held waves of the Irish Sea in their depths, or so Granny used to say. He found Granny in the woods, loaded her in his wagon among his trade goods, and nursed her back to health as he traveled west. As soon as she was well, they wed and made their way to Oregon. He opened a mercantile, and they ran it together until he died when I was three. Then Granny moved in with my parents and helped raise me. I felt you should know, Mr. Hudson, that I’m not all white.”

“I figured as much, Mrs. Anders, and it makes no difference to me if you’re purple or green with pink polka dots as long as you can make biscuits as good as you say.” Brant grinned at her. “And maybe some berry jam. We have a blackberry thicket not far from the house, my gardener has strawberry plants started in the greenhouse, and there are orchards that yield apples, pears, cherries, and peaches. The gardener planted two dozen nut trees last year, mostly hazelnuts. We also have a dairy on our property, a herd of beef cattle, and we raise some of the finest hogs in the region. I plan to add sheep next year because I do enjoy a nice leg of lamb with mint sauce. You’ll have all the milk, meat, fruit, and eggs you could possibly need for cooking, fresh from the source. The landscape architect designed a fenced kitchen garden to keep the wildlife out. You may certainly put in requests for the spring plantings if there are particular vegetables you’d prefer.”

“I appreciate that, sir. I’ve never been in charge of my own kitchen, but the cook at my previous position taught me everything she knew. She was hoping to retire next summer and leave me in charge, but she knew what was happening with the missus’s brother.”

“Don’t give any of that another thought, Mrs. Anders. You’re free from worry. As long as you are working for me, you’ll be under my care and protection.”

“Thank you, sir. I’m so grateful. I hope you don’t mind Bobby being with me. He’s a good boy, and minds well, but he is four, and inquisitive, and I’ve seen gnats with longer attention spans than that child has some days.”

Brant laughed. “He’ll have room to run at Hudson House. I will warn you, though, the Columbia River is below the house. I’ve erected a walled fence about twenty feet back from the banks of the river, but I want you to be aware it is nearby.”

“Thank you. There was a river near the house where we’ve been. I worried Bobby would fall in, but I didn’t often let him out of my sight. I’ll be watchful of him.”

Brant nodded. “Do you prefer I call you Mrs. Anders, Cook, or Dulcie?”

“I feel like I’ve made a friend today, Mr. Hudson, so if you would like to call me Dulcie, I’m agreeable to that.”

“Very well. Dulcie it is. I’d offer to allow you to call me Brant, but I have a feeling you won’t.”

“You’re correct in that assumption. As my employer, I’ll continue to refer to you as Mr. Hudson, but it will be with much gratitude. Sincerely, I am in your debt, sir.”

“Nonsense.” Brant rose and held out an arm to escort her into the sitting area. “Now, tell me more about these biscuits. What do you think about pie? I am quite partial to a decadent chocolate pie, or spicy apple, or juicy blueberry, or—”

“Pie, Mrs. Anders. He is quite partial to two kinds of pie: hot or cold,” Remington said with a cheeky grin, making them all laugh.