had escaped, bouncing close to her diminutive ears.
She couldn’t be more than eighteen. What person had sent her out on the train by herself? Didn’t they know that the prairie was full of single men? Many hadn’t had an opportunity to socialize with a lovely lady for months or even years. Where was her father or brother? What was she to do now that no one had shown up to the station? And who was so irresponsible to have a young lady like her come halfway across the continent and then not meet her train?
“He’s my big brother. He always tells me what to do. He’s sweet on Jill. So, what are you going to eat? Pa likes the chicken ’cuz we mostly eat venison and rabbit on the farm. I’m gett’n’ the same thing ’cuz it’s got potatoes in it. I think I like potatoes.”
“That’s very nice, Tommy, but you didn’t tell me you brother’s name.”
“I told ya you talk too much,” Willy muttered.
“I do not!” Tommy answered his brother with a glare.
“Do, too!”
“Do not!”
“Do, too!”
“Boys!” Barely keeping his voice low, Will intervened and frowned when he saw the young lady biting her lower lip. Was she trying not to laugh at the boys or trying not to show her discomfort? He had had almost all the humiliation that he could take for one day. “Behave yourselves.”
His warning was understood and both boys lowered their eyes. “Forgive us, miss. We don’t get to town very often and it seems we’ve left what few manners we have back home.”
“Don’t think another thing about it, sir. My nieces and nephews were always saying things without thinking them through first. I find your boys refreshing.” She smiled reassuringly at both boys.
“Well, I should try to start the introductions again,” Will stated, wondering why her smile made his stomach flutter just a bit. It must have been the hunger for his supper sending ripples though his middle. “I’m Will Hopkins and this is Willy.” He pointed to his older son.
“It’s a pleasure—” The young lady had turned to Willy, extending her hand to shake his, when she froze and turned stunned eyes back to Will. Willy stared at her strangely, his hand in the air.
“I... What did you say your surname was?” she asked in a choked voice.
“Hopkins, but around here we usually are very...” Her face had gone deathly white and she looked as if she was going to faint.
She looked too stunned for words, barely gathering herself together enough to speak. “I... Where is Mrs. Hopkins? Where is Francis?” she stuttered.
He hadn’t heard anyone call him that in years—in fact, other than his mother, no one called him that at all. He could feel himself flush, and tried to talk over it. “I’m, um... My father was... I’m Francis, Francis William Hopkins. I go by Will most of the time.”
“But you’re not a widow!”
A widow? Why would anyone think he was—
“I thought... My mother’s best friend was Frannie, Francis...and if you...if you’re... Why didn’t you tell me who you were at the station? You just walked past me and left me there!” The confusion on her pretty face gave way to obvious anger.
“How’d you know my given name? What are you talking about?” Will asked, curious and accusing at the same time.
“Your ad.”
“What ad?”
“The ad that you placed in the ladies’ Christian monthly pamphlet,” she explained. “I subscribe to it and in April of last year, there was an ad...” She pulled her satchel up onto her lap and started sorting through her things. Finally she pulled out a paper and handed it to him.
He only read the first few lines before he glanced back up to study the young woman again. It was the ad his mother had created to find him a housekeeper. The ad Miss Stewart had answered. But that meant... No, it couldn’t be. This girl didn’t look a day over twenty, and the letter he’d received had clearly stated that his new employee was in her fifties. The woman in front of him, who looked as if she might give in to tears at any moment, couldn’t be Abigail Stewart.
“What’s wrong, miss?” Tommy asked her, having come to stand next to her, his small hand on hers.
Will watched as some of the anger and frustration melted out of her expression as she looked down at his son. “I’m not quite sure of that myself, honey,” she answered, pressing his hand with hers. “It’s been a long trip and I have had a very taxing day. I was looking forward to meeting my new employer and her...his family. But this hasn’t gone at all like I thought it would.” She looked up from Tommy to glare at Will. “Especially the part where I was left alone on the train platform while your father walked away.”
“You’re...you’re Miss Stewart?” Will said incredulously.
She straightened her back and tilted her chin up to look him straight in the eye. “Yes, I’m Abigail Stewart.”
Any answer Will might have given was interrupted by Tommy’s response. Throwing his arms around the woman’s waist, he squeezed tight while yelling out, “You’re our auntie House!”
Chapter Two
“Housekeeper, not Auntie anything,” Willy hissed at his brother.
Abby didn’t know how to respond to that, so she addressed their father. “I came all the way from Ohio just to be part of Mrs. Francis Hopkins’s household. Now what am I going to do?” she asked out loud, not expecting an answer from him.
“But you’re not old!” Willy burst out. Abby tried to focus on the boy, but her head felt clouded.
“That’s right. You wrote you were fifty-eight.” Will eyed her suspiciously.
“I did no such thing. I’m twenty-six, as I told you in my letter.” How could he say something so strange? She had been a little uncomfortable when Mrs....er...Mr. Hopkins had asked her age, knowing that the posting had specifically requested a “mature” Christian woman, but she decided to be honest, deciding that if her honesty somehow lost her the opportunity to work for the family, it was because God was closing that door. When there had been no further mention of her age in the letters, she had assumed her new employer had decided that it wasn’t important.
“Here, I’ll show you.” Mr. Hopkins reached into his worn denim shirt pocket and pulled out a pile of letters that even from a distance Abby recognized. Her heart sank. There was no doubt about it. She had been corresponding with Mr., not Mrs. Hopkins.
He shuffled the papers and then scanned one, holding it out to her, his strong, calloused finger pointing to a paragraph. As she took it, she noticed that the page was watermarked and that the ink had run. Even Abby had to admit that the number she had written out did look like a fifty-eight.
“I’m sorry. It must have gotten wet. I did write that I’m twenty-six. I never intended to be dishonest or misleading.”
“I
