Page 1 of Hank and Elsie
CHAPTER 1
June 1896
Hank Canfield strode out the door of his log cabin, carrying the rocking chair he’d just finished crafting, placing it on the porch, and sitting down. Gently swaying back and forth, he gazed out at the view, entranced as always by the beauty of the high meadow before him. Hank had chores he should be finishing, but he was a big believer in stopping to take a few minutes to appreciate the beauty of nature and enjoy his blessings.
Grassland dotted with flowers gave way to a small lake that reflected the sky and the snow-covered peaks. Daily the snow receded, though it would be a while until the mountains completely lost their caps. He’d purposely situated his garden, the chicken coop, pigpen, smokehouse, and barn behind the house so as not to spoil the natural view.
Overhead in the vast blue sky soared a golden eagle, no doubt looking for small critters to take to its nest of chicks in the pine tree with the forked top. In the fenced pasture, his buckskinstallion, Chipper, and two mares with their foals frolicked in the grass.
He’d worked hard to acquire the land and build the house and barn. The sales from his horses and his hunting, trapping, and fishing efforts had paid enough to sustain him to the point that he could now support a wife—a goal he’d been working toward for the past couple years, ever since he turned twenty-eight.
He imagined sitting with her next to him, shelling peas, perhaps, or mending clothes or knitting. They might converse or sit in companionable silence.
On long winter nights, he’d have someone to warm the great bed he’d inherited from his parents, which was tucked into a corner of the cabin. He couldn’t wait to see children capering in the meadow with the horses or splashing about in the lake shallows on hot days. “Ha!” he exclaimed aloud, in a pointed dig at the deceased grandfather who’d raised him. “My children will be allowed toplay.”
If his grandfather were still alive, the bitter old man would sputter and predict the children would turn out “no good” from such indulgence. Like their father, they’d be shiftless, slothful. Probably also idolatrous.
I’ve proven him wrong.Hank had stubbornly insisted on making his own way and not touching a penny of his inheritance from the rigid old man. He lived in a beautiful place, free from familial expectations, with no one to please but himself.And soon a wife.
A pair of swans glided over the surface of the lake, trailing a narrow, silvery wake. Just watching their elegance soothed the ire that always arose at the memory of his grandfather. He put the thought of the old man out of his mind and concentrated on the far more attractive idea of a pretty bride.
Now that his garden was in, Hank could turn his attention to finding said wife. Shouldn’t be too difficult a task. When he bathed, shaved, dressed in his best, with slicked back hair, his shaving mirror told him that he looked tolerable enough a decent woman shouldn’t run screaming at the sight of him. He couldn’t offer her a luxurious life; it would be a life of labor. But most women in the West were prepared to roll up their sleeves and work alongside their men.
At least, I can give her this view.
He glanced to the empty porch boards next to him.Guess I’d better build a rocking chair for my future bride.
Going to church in the nearby town of Sweetwater Springs was as good a place as any to find a wife, for most of the people in the area attended when they could. Maybe he’d ask the minister to point out suitable women. He didn’t often attend Sunday service, given that the higher elevation of his homestead meant snow lingered longer here than in the town, often covering the narrow road down the mountain.
But with spring turning to summer, not that an odd snowstorm couldn’t still keep him homebound, he could take advantage of the warm weather.I can be married before the autumn leaves turn burgundy and gold. Maybe by this time next year, we’ll have a baby.
A vague memory of his little sister as a babe came to mind—her chubby cheeks and gummy smile. The belly laugh that erupted when he blew on her tummy and made pig snorting noises. He almost smiled, but the pain of her death at age seven still gripped him after all these years.
Forcefully, Hank wrenched his attention from the past to the future—to his own babe, who God willing, would not only survive until adulthood but thrive.
I’ll need to make a cradle.He mentally added the task to his wife list.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught movement and glanced over to see his nearest neighbors—Torin Reese and his daughter Jewel, walking hand in hand.
Jewel was eleven, although with the mind of a three-year-old. She wasn’t “quite right,” the father had told him in a fierce tone when Torin had moved here with his baby daughter. Just as protectively, he’d declared that Jewel wasspecial.
Witnessing the strong bond between father and baby had deeply moved Hank, given how he and his older sister had been mostly raised by an unloving, censorious grandfather. Then, too, he couldn’t help tumbling hat over bootheels for the adorable little one, and, as she grew, Jewel loved him right back.
The girl had her father’s mink brown hair and blue eyes, although hers were an almond shape. Her little pink tongue frequently protruded from her mouth. She was clad in a tube-like red dress made by her father, her hair in two uneven braids.
At the sight of Hank, Jewel’s eyes lit up. She waved so hard, she lost her balance, and Torin had to hold his arm rigid to keep her upright. Once she was somewhat steady again, he released her.
In what served for a run, Jewel stumped over to Hank, her arms held up.
His heart squeezing with love, Hank stood, took long steps to the girl, and scooped her into a hug.
Jewel squealed. “Han!” She threw her arms around his neck.
He clasped her tight and smacked a kiss on her cheek. “Hey, baby girl.” He set her down and reached to shake Torin’s hand.
“Swans.” Jewel pointed toward the lake.
Hank laughed. “Guess I don’t have to ask what brings you here.”
