Dear Reader
Chapter One
Pepin, Wisconsin
August, 1870
Clutching the railing of the riverboat, Miss Ellen Thurston ached as if she’d been beaten. Now she truly understood the word heartbroken. Images of her sister in her pale blue wedding dress insistently flashed through her mind. As if she could wipe them away, she passed a hand over her eyes. The trip north had been both brief and endless.
She forced herself back to the present. She was here to start her new life.
The sunlight glittering on the Mississippi River nearly blinded her. The brim of her stylish hat fell short and she shaded her eyes, scanning the jumble of dusty, rustic buildings, seeking her cousin, Ophelia, and Ophelia’s husband. But only a few strangers had gathered to watch the boat dock. Loneliness nearly choked her. Ophelia, please be here. I need you.
The riverboat men called to each other as the captain guided the boat to the wharf. With a bump, the boat docked and the men began to wrestle thick ropes to harness the boat to the pier.
As she watched the rough ropes being rasped back and forth, she felt the same sensation as she relived her recent struggle. Leaving home had been more difficult than she could have anticipated. But staying had been impossible. Why had she gone against her better judgment and let her heart take a chance?
The black porter who had assisted her during her trip appeared beside her. “Miss, I will see to your trunk and boxes, never fear.”
She smiled at him and offered her hand. “You’ve been so kind. Thank you.”
Looking surprised, he shook her hand. “It’s been my pleasure to serve you, miss. Yes, indeed it has.”
His courtesy helped her take a deep breath. She merely had to hold herself together till she was safely at Ophelia’s. There, with her cousin—who was closer than her sister—she could mourn her loss privately, inwardly.
Soon she was standing on dry land with her luggage piled around her. She handed the porter a generous tip and he bowed his thanks and left her. Ellen glanced around, looking for her cousin in vain. Could something have happened to her? Even as this fear struck, she pushed it from her mind. Ophelia was probably just a bit late. Still, standing here alone made her painfully conspicuous.
A furtive movement across the way caught her attention. A thin, blond lad who looked to be in his midteens was sneaking—yes, definitely sneaking—around the back of a store. She wondered what he was up to. But she didn’t know much about this town, and she shouldn’t poke her nose into someone else’s business. Besides, what wrong could a lad that age be doing?
She turned her mind back to her own dilemma. Who could she go to for assistance? Who would know the possible reason why Ophelia wasn’t here to meet her? Searching her mind, she recalled someone she’d met on her one visit here a year ago. She picked up her skirts and walked to Ashford’s General Store.
The bell jingled as she entered, and two men turned to see who had come in. One she recognized as the proprietor, Mr. Ashford, and one was a stranger—a very handsome stranger—with wavy blond hair.
Holton had the same kind of hair. The likeness stabbed her.
Then she noticed a young girl about fourteen slipping down the stairs at the rear of the store. She eased the back door open and through the gap, Ellen glimpsed the young lad. Ah, calf love.
Ellen held her polite mask in place, turning her attention to the older of the two men. “Good day, Mr. Ashford. I don’t know if you remember me—”
“Miss Thurston!” the storekeeper exclaimed and hurried around the counter. “We didn’t expect you for another few days.”
This brought her up sharply. “I wrote my cousin almost two weeks ago that I’d be arriving today.”
The storekeeper frowned. “I thought Mrs. Steward said you’d be arriving later this week.”
“Oh, dear.” Ellen voiced her sinking dismay as she turned toward the windows facing the street. Her mound of boxes and valises sat forlornly on her trunk at the head of the dock. How was she going to get to Ophelia? Her grip on her polite facade was slipping. “I could walk to the Steward’s but my things...”
“We’ll get some boys to bring them here—”
The stranger in the store interrupted, clearing his throat, and bowed. “Mr. Ashford, please to introduce me. I may help, perhaps?” The man spoke with a thick German accent.
The man also unfortunately had blue eyes. Again, his likeness to Holton, who had misled her, churned within. She wanted to turn her back to him.
Mr. Ashford hesitated, then nodded. “A good idea.” He turned to Ellen. “Miss Ellen Thurston, may I introduce you to another newcomer in our little town, Mr. Kurt Lang, a Dutchman?”
Ellen recognized that Mr. Ashford was using the ethnic slur, “Dutch,” a corruption of Deutsche, the correct term for German immigrants. Hiding her acute discomfort with the insult, Ellen extended her gloved hand and curtsied as politeness demanded.
Mr. Lang approached swiftly and bowed over her hand, murmuring something that sounded more like French than German.
Ellen withdrew her hand and tried not to look the man full in the face, but she failed. She found that not only did he have blond hair with a natural wave and blue eyes that reminded her of Holton, but his face was altogether too handsome. And the worst was that his smile was too kind. Her facade began slipping even more as tears hovered just behind her eyes.
“I live near the Stewards, Miss Thurston,” the stranger said, sounding polite but stiff. “I drive you.”
Ellen looked to Mr. Ashford a bit desperately. Young ladies of quality observed a strict code of conduct, especially those who became schoolteachers. Should she ride alone with this man?
Mr. Ashford also seemed a bit uncomfortable. “Mr. Lang has been living here for over six months and is a respectable person. Very respectable.” The man lowered his voice and added, “Even if he is a foreigner.”
Ellen stiffened at this second slur from Mr. Ashford.
Mr. Lang himself looked mortified but said nothing in return.
With effort, Ellen swallowed her discomfort. The man couldn’t help reminding her of someone she didn’t want to be reminded of. More important, she would not let him think that she embraced the popular prejudice against anyone not born in America.
“We are a nation of immigrants, Mr. Ashford,” she said with a smile to lighten the scold. She turned to Mr. Lang. “Thank you, Mr. Lang, I am ready whenever you are.”
Mr. Lang’s gaze met hers in sudden connection. He bowed again. “I finish and take you.”
