Wisconsin Wilderness
Early September, 1873
Standing on the sunny riverboat deck, Mason Chandler was painfully aware of the intense curiosity of the other passengers. No doubt it did look odd for a man to be traveling with two little girls yet without a woman. Little Birdie stood on his right and Charlotte on his left in their new matching starched blue calico dresses. The tops of their bonneted heads barely reached his belt. If the girls had resembled each other or him, people might have merely assumed that he was a widowed father with two daughters.
Certainly, Charlotte with her light golden-brown hair and green eyes could pass for his child. But Birdie with skin the shade of dark chocolate could not. And of course, there was the other matter, Charlotte’s special problem, that set them apart.
People had stared at them ever since he’d boarded the boat in Illinois. He might as well get used to it. He had no doubt that some of his once-friendly neighbors here in Pepin, Wisconsin, would be shocked and then no doubt cool toward him. What about Miss Jones, the woman who’d answered his newspaper advertisement for a wife?
After corresponding with her for months, he’d proposed to her by letter earlier this year. But he’d been called away to his father’s deathbed and could not be in Pepin in March to marry her as they’d planned. Now it was September. He was six months too late. And his circumstances had changed so dramatically that he had sent her a letter months ago releasing her from their agreement. What else could an honorable man do?
He could only hope that he would have time to get settled in again before he finally met Miss Emma Jones. He hoped to be able to mend the situation. But it was a faint hope. So much had changed.
Well, this wasn’t the first time in his life he’d swum against the current. He placed one arm around each little girl. These two little ones were his now, and he wouldn’t let them down, no matter what.
The crew suddenly began calling to each other and hurrying around, casting the ropes ashore, jumping onto the pier. The steamboat slowed, glided on the sky-blue water and bumped against the dock. Mason picked up his satchel and the small valise that belonged to the girls. And soon they were walking onto the Wisconsin shore.
Though his life had changed, the town looked much the same as it had when he’d left in March. There was a blacksmith, Ashford’s General Store, and a few other stores on Main Street, along with a saloon at the end of town. Now, in early autumn, the street was dusty and the trees were still green, though scarlet edged a few high maple leaves. The blacksmith’s hammer on the anvil pounded clear in the afternoon air.
The little girls huddled close to him. He caught himself as he began to stride normally, and instead he shortened his steps. Before going to his cabin, he needed to buy a few necessary items at the general store but dreaded facing the inquisitive, talkative Mrs. Ashford. Why put it off, though? He led the little girls across the street and up the two steps to the store.
Plump and grandmotherly, Mrs. Ashford met him on the porch. “Mr. Chandler, you’re back.”
“Yes, ma’am. I need—”
“And who are these little girls?”
He was saved from replying when the woman looked over his shoulder and exclaimed, “Miss Jones! Here is your intended, Mason Chandler. He’s come home at last!”
Mason turned. His heart was thumping suddenly and his mouth dry. Miss Emma Jones, the woman he’d hoped to marry, halted just a few paces in front of him. He drank in her appearance. Tall but not too tall. A trim figure. Bright golden curls atop a face so lovely he thought he might be dreaming. Miss Emma Jones was a beauty. His hope of winning her favor bumped down another notch.
Mason shook himself mentally and, after setting down the baggage, descended the two steps again. He bowed politely. “Miss Jones, I’m happy to meet you face-to-face at long last.” An understatement.
“Mr. Chandler.” Her voice devoid of welcome, she offered her gloved hand.
He shook it and held it in both of his. Neither her words nor tone encouraged him. “I apologize again,” he said, forcing out the words, “for my not being here to meet you in March. I’m afraid I had little choice. Still, I wish things were different.”
“The arrangement you made for me to stay with the Ashfords worked out well. They made me very welcome.” She paused to smile at Mrs. Ashford. “I’m sorry about the loss of your father.” She withdrew her hand from his.
He felt his neck heat with embarrassment for holding her hand too long.
“I was just asking Mr. Chandler,” Mrs. Ashford interrupted, “who these little girls are.”
At this moment, Charlotte spoke to Birdie with her hands, as was her way. Birdie replied in kind.
“What’s that they are doing with their hands?” Mrs. Ashford asked.
Mason replied, “This is Charlotte, my little half-sister, and her friend Birdie. Charlotte cannot hear. They speak in sign language.”
“She’s deaf?” Mrs. Ashford’s voice fell. “Oh, the poor little thing. What a judgment.”
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