The Route Home: The Complete Collection: The Route Home

By Jennifer Crosswhite

Welcome to Reedsville, Oregon, the end of the Oregon trail and the beginning of a new life for many. If you like Christian historical romance with a touch of suspense, strong female characters, and a taste of the wild West, you'll love this journey of frontier townspeople moving into the modern age and finding their way home.

Includes:
Be Mine (The Route Home prequel novella)
A woman searching for independence. A man searching for education. Can a simple thank you note turn into something more?

Coming Home (The Route Home book 1)
He was why she left. Now she's falling for him. Can a woman who turned her back on her hometown come home to find justice for her brother without falling in love with his best friend?

The Road Home (The Route Home book 2)
He is a stagecoach driver just trying to do his job. She is returning to her suitor only to find he has died. When a stack of stolen money shows up in her bag, she thinks the past she has desperately tried to hide has come back to haunt her.

"Maggie and the Preacher" (bonus short story)
It's a second chance at love for Maggie, but will her groom make it to the wedding in time?

Finally Home (The Route Home book 3)
The son of a wealthy banker poses as a lumberjack to carve out his own identity. But in a stagecoach robbery gone wrong, he meets the soon-to-be schoolteacher with a vivid imagination, a gift for making things grow, and an obsession with dime novels. As the town is threatened by a past enemy, can he help without revealing who he is? And will she love him when she learns the truth?

BuyThe Route Home: the complete collection and jump into the adventure today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tandem Services Press
• Release date: Feb 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223602248

Book preview

The Route Home: the Complete Collection

CHRISTIAN HISTORICAL ROMANCE

THE ROUTE HOME

JENNIFER CROSSWHITE

Tandem Services Press Tandem Services Press

Contents

Be Mine

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Acknowledgments

Coming Home

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

The Road Home

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Acknowledgments

Maggie and the Preacher

1. Maggie and the Preacher

Finally Home

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Epilogue

What’s next?

Acknowledgments

Author’s Note

Sneak Peek of The Inn at Cherry Blossom Lane

About the Author

Books by Jennifer Crosswhite

Books by JL Crosswhite

Praise for Jennifer Crosswhite

What Readers Are Saying…

Definitely on my to-buy list now. I can’t wait for more! Hawaiibooklover, Amazon reviewer

I look forward to reading more of [her] books. Amazon reviewer

If you enjoy a good, clean love story then give this novella a try. You will not be disappointed. Danielle, Amazon reviewer

Other books by Jennifer Crosswhite

The Route Home series

Be Mine, prequel novella

Coming Home, book 1

The Road Home, book 2

Finally Home, book 3

Contemporary romance

The Inn at Cherry Blossom Lane

Hometown Heroes series, writing as JL Crosswhite

Promise Me, prequel novella

Protective Custody, book 1

Flash Point, book 2

Special Assignment, book 3

In the Shadow series, writing as JL Crosswhite

Off the Map, book 1

Out of Range, book 2

Over Her Head, book 3

Holcomb Springs Small Town Romantic Suspense series, writing as JL Crosswhite

Beneath a Star-Lit Sky, book 1

Under an Indigo Moon, book 2

Eat the Elephant: How to Write (and Finish!) Your Book One Bite at a Time, writing as Jen Crosswhite

Devotional

Worthy to Write: Blank pages tying your stomach in knots? 30 prayers to tackle that fear!

Copyright

© 2023 by Jennifer Crosswhite

Published by Tandem Services Press

Post Office Box 220

Yucaipa, California 92399

www.TandemServicesInk.com

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted for commercial purposes, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.

Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

Cover photo credit: 100 Covers

Be Mine

To You, Lord, for leading me through.

One

REEDSVILLE, OREGON ~ 1880

Sy O’Malley blew into his hands, not so much out of cold—since the stove in the corner of Fulton’s Mercantile kept things toasty—but out of nerves. Mrs. Fulton searched the mail slots until she came to his family’s. He wasn’t expecting anything important. Maybe a seed catalog or a new science journal. Still, he couldn’t help but hope for something more.

Here we are. Mrs. Fulton waved some envelopes in his direction. His eyes strained to make out any information, but she was flapping them around too much. He did see folded newsprint, which he hoped was his Scientific American. What else can we get for you?

All he truly wanted was the mail, though he was sure there was nothing important there and he shouldn’t have bothered. He pushed down his frustration. A trip into town on the off chance there was news—and that it was good news—was a plain waste of time, even if Christmas had recently passed and work on the orchards was as slow as it ever got. Even in the busy season, his four brothers could handle the work fine.

Which is what he kept trying to convince his father. Sy wasn’t cut out to be a farmer. But without some good news in the mail, Sy wouldn’t be leaving the orchards anytime soon.

His brothers had compiled something of a list, which he dug out from his shirt pocket and passed over to Mrs. Fulton.

She stuck it on top of Sy’s mail, which she still held, and lifted the lorgnette that hung from a chain around her neck, peering at the list.

Sy winced. He should have written it over in his neat script instead leaving the hash of chicken scratches that passed for Jacob’s scrawl. Leaning against the wood counter polished smooth by the farmers, townspeople, and lumberjacks who also leaned against it, he gave up trying to see the envelopes. Patience was a virtue, one he could stand to cultivate. Maybe then he could endure his father’s promises that soon Sy could pursue his own interests.

Oh, there you are! A soft, feminine voice accompanied by a light touch on his arm caused him to turn. Mrs. Fulton, did you ask him?

Mrs. Fulton pressed her hand to her ample bosom, list, envelopes, and all. I completely forgot!

Sy gave his attention to the woman who still held onto his arm. Mrs. Parsons, if he remembered correctly. She and her husband ran the hotel in town, the dining room of which served as the town’s schoolroom and church, when the circuit preacher came. He nodded. Ma’am.

May I tell him? Mrs. Parsons’s head swiveled from Mrs. Fulton and back to Sy. Mrs. Fulton and I have come up with a wonderful plan.

Actually, I think it was Cassandra who first thought of it, Mrs. Parsons said.

Sy didn’t know who Cassandra was, but he dutifully listened to the women discuss who had come up with the idea. He would not try to sneak a look at the envelopes. He wouldn’t. Maybe just a look. Mrs. Fulton had dropped them on the counter, but the list and her hand covered them. Apparently, God had decided today in particular Sy would have ample opportunity to explore the idea of patience.

So would you?

Sy dragged his attention back to the women. Mrs. Fulton beamed at him. Mrs. Parsons’ raised eyebrows held a question. He hoped one of them would repeat the request or clarify.

The silence ticked out. He shifted away from the counter. Well, are you sure that I’m the person for that?

The women turned to each other and laughed. Mrs. Parsons squeezed his arm. You have such a sense of humor. So you’ll do it then?

Um, sure. Why not? His stomach filled with lead. What had he agreed to? And when he would find out what it was?

Cassandra Parsons fiddled with the strings of the too-large apron as she tried to understand the recipe in her mother’s cookbook. It was Greek to her. Ha! If it were actual Greek, she’d have a prayer of understanding it. As it was, the domestic arts were a bit out of her realm.

Which was a problem, as she had determined to become Seth Blake’s wife. And since he owned the logging camp, he needed a wife who could cook far more than one who could read Greek or Latin or quote lines from Shakespeare’s plays.

She read down the list of ingredients and threw them into the largest bowl she could find. Six eggs. Sugar. Vanilla. Flour. Butter. The measurements were a bit difficult to comprehend—what size cup was a cup?—but she figured she got close enough. It was a big blob, not resembling anything like cake batter in the slightest. Maybe that would change.

Cream sugar and butter. What? Cream comes from milk, which is related to butter, but where does the sugar come in? She’d skip that part.

Sift flour. Oops. She’d just dumped it in the bowl. She ran her finger down the rest of the instructions and then mashed the ingredients together. Mother and Miss Bess made it look much easier than this. Still, like anything, she supposed it got easier with practice.

The butter stuck to the spoon in a big glop, flour and sugar clinging to it but not truly mixing. Well, the butter would melt once it got into the oven and the other ingredients could just sort themselves out. Maybe the eggshells would melt, too, because she never remembered cake being crunchy.

Pouring the mixture into two tin pans, she shoved them into the still-warm oven. She wasn’t sure how to adjust the oven temperature, but it felt warm enough from breakfast. Ovens stayed hot for a merciful long time.

Cassandra poured herself a cup of coffee, dosed it heavily with cream and sugar, and then sat at the kitchen table and opened her book to her marked spot. She’d read in the kitchen where she could keep an eye on things.

Mother had headed over to Mrs. Fulton’s to discuss the Evening of Culture. Winter was so dull after Christmas had passed, and there was nothing left to look forward to. What could be better than gathering for such a night to start off the new year on the right foot? It would bring brightness to the gray, bleak landscape, even in a rough-and-tumble town like theirs.

She couldn’t resist a quick peek. Using a towel, she opened the oven door. Nothing much had changed, but the butter was starting to melt, so that was a good sign. Closing the door and hanging the towel back up, she hoped the cake finished before Mother returned. Cassandra had wanted to go, since the whole evening was her idea. But it was winter, and that meant Mother rarely let Cassandra out of the hotel, afraid she would catch some disease and die like her five older siblings had.

Plopping into her chair with a decidedly unladylike sigh, she opened her book. It was just as well. This way she could make Seth’s cake.

Lost in Jane Austen’s Emma, Cassandra kept turning pages and sipping her coffee until an acrid stench hit her nose. What in the— Oh, my! The cake! She had forgotten.

Black smoke leaked from the oven door and the burners on top. Whisking her apron over her nose, she grabbed the towel and flung open the door, allowing a plume of smoke into the room. Her eyes watered. Wafting the towel, she tried to determine the state of her precious cake.

The kitchen door opened, but Cassandra’s eyes were watering too much to see who it was.

What on earth! Mother’s voice came from behind Cassandra’s shoulder. Cassandra, get away from there! Mother tugged her away from the oven.

Cassandra watched helplessly as her mother pulled out two smoking, charred pans.

What were you thinking playing with the stove? You could have burned yourself. Mother dumped the pans in the sink. She turned and picked up Cassandra’s arms, examining them. You didn’t hurt yourself, did you?

No, Mother. Cassandra yanked her arms loose. No, just my pride. Once again, I’ve just proven how utterly useless I am. What man will want a wife who can’t cook? Or keep house? Or mend clothes? Or anything else that normal girls learn? Tears sprang up, and she squeezed them away. She didn’t need that, too.

Now, Cassandra—

No, Mother. I’ve heard it all before. She yanked off the apron, snatched her book from the table, and headed down the private back hall, not caring if the pace and force of her steps were less than ladylike. She’d go to her room, an absolutely safe place, and come up with another plan. At least using her brain was one thing she was good at.

Sy never should have come to town. He let the reins go slack in his hands; the mare knew her way home. He pulled the letter out again. He’d ripped it open the moment he’d left the mercantile, leaning against the post outside. Why had he been so eager for this? It was another rejection.

According to this college, he sounded promising but didn’t have the proper educational background. But they would allow him to take a placement test in a location he couldn’t get to at a time he couldn’t make. The demands of the orchard were the reason why he hadn’t completed his education. His father said they needed him to work and schooling could wait. There were always promises that Sy could make up the school time, but none of them were ever fulfilled.

He wadded up the letter and chucked it in the back of the wagon with the supplies.

Even if he had gotten an acceptance, his father probably wouldn’t have let him go. He and Ma remained at their New York orchard, selling it and arranging for buyers for the Oregon produce. All five boys had come to Oregon to get this orchard started. Father had promised Sy that once things were going well, he could go off to college.

But there was always something. Sy was needed to keep the books, write up contracts, make clever inventions that made everyone else’s work easier. He experimented in the greenhouse and monitored the weather instruments. His brothers loved working the orchards. But that was someone else’s dream, not his.

And to top off the bad news of the rejection letter, he was supposed to play the violin at the Evening of Culture on New Year’s Day. He should never have come into town. Mrs. Fulton had whipped out a handbill and hung it over the counter after she handed him his mail and gathered his supplies. Apparently she’d been certain he’d say yes.

Now what? He’d go and perform. It might even be moderately enjoyable. But what was the point in this backwater town? They wouldn’t know Bach from Brahms. Still, he loved to play. And performing, whether the audience knew it or not, made him play at a higher level.

It’s not like he was going to become the town fiddler. He wouldn’t be staying. One way or another, with or without his father’s blessing, he’d leave. He’d be the dutiful son until his parents arrived from back East, but the sand was running low in that particular hourglass.

Two

Cassandra clasped her gloved hands in front of her and peeked around the doorway. Townspeople filled all the chairs in the hotel dining room, with men and older children standing along the wall and in the back. Cassandra had to peer around them. Even with her heeled calfskin boots, her short stature made it impossible to see. She should be seated in the front row with the other presenters. But Mother forbade it. She wouldn’t even let Cassandra in the room with all the potential illnesses simply flying through the air. So Cassandra was relegated to listening from the kitchen doorway.

She was fortunate Mother even let her be present. But since the whole evening had been Cassandra’s idea, she had prevailed. With Mother’s conditions.

Even from here, Cassandra could tell the evening had already been a success. The presenters ranged from eight-year-old Laura singing in the sweetest, clearest soprano an Irish folk song called Red is the Rose to old Mrs. Benchly reading Washington Irving’s The Legend of Sleepy Hollow in a most dramatic fashion that had even older children sidling closer to their parents.

But she was most looking forward to hearing Sy O’Malley play his violin. When he and his brothers first came to town, they had stayed at the hotel while the purchase of their land was being finalized. He played in the empty parlor one night. She stood in this same kitchen doorway, just out of his sight, listening to the sweet, sorrowful melody. Who knows how long she would have stood there if Miss Bess hadn’t caught her and shooed her away? Truth be told, she greatly hoped he would be the highlight of the evening. For the townspeople as well as her.

Standing on her tiptoes, she spied Seth leaning against the wall, his light brown hair falling across his forehead. If he moved slightly to his left, she could boldly look all she wanted without being spotted. Her foot cramped, so she lowered herself and moved a bit more into the dining room, keeping her gaze on Seth.

Until her hip collided with something hard. Punch-filled glasses clinked together as Cassandra balanced against the refreshment table. A few people in the back turned. Cassandra gave a quick smile and scanned the room. Her gaze collided with Seth’s.

Mortified, she ducked back in the kitchen. She covered her mouth as she shook her head. Hopefully, Mother hadn’t seen. Applause reached her ears, and in the lull that followed she heard her name called. She was next!

Where was her book? She swept the kitchen with her gaze. It wasn’t in here.

She stepped into the dining room and spotted it on the refreshment table where she must have set it. Punch had sloshed on its cover. Giving a smile to the few people who had turned around to look for her, she grabbed a napkin and blotted her book as best she could. Her bookmark was also soaked. She tossed it aside, marking her place with her finger.

Hurrying down the aisle, Cassandra caught her mother’s look and recognized from her expression that she had seen everything. Well, no time to worry about that now.

She reached the front and turned around to face the audience, beaming. She slid her gaze to the side, toward Seth, but his head was bent listening to something Maggie Kincaid was whispering to him. Wetting her lips, she opened her book to the page her finger marked, only to discover her glove was soaked with punch and had bled onto the page, obscuring the first two lines.

Swallowing, she briefly closed her eyes, recalling the words in her mind before speaking. Sy O’Malley sat in the first row, his violin across his knees. His performance would follow hers. His expression was somber. But his gaze flicked to her book and back up to her face, a small smile creeping across his lips. He knew.

Taking a breath, Cassandra began. She spoke the first two lines, and then the rest of the poem, hardly looking at the book. She added dramatic flair at just the right moment, excitement rushing through her. As the poem drew to a close, she wished she’d chosen something longer so her performance wouldn’t end so quickly.

Letting the last syllable linger, she closed the book, dropped her hands, and bobbed a small curtsy. Loud applause filled her with the joy and belonging she rarely felt. Emboldened, she moved to the wall to stand for Mr. O’Malley’s performance instead of returning to the kitchen. Let Mother try to drag her back in front of everyone.

Sy nodded in her direction as he rose and took his place. Tucking his violin under his chin, he lifted the bow and then drew it across the strings. Within a few notes, Cassandra was transported to a wonderful place by his music. It was different from the sweetly sorrowful song he had played before. This was by turns lively and mournful, but each note was exquisite and masterfully played. When the last note faded away, Cassandra clapped until her palms stung.

Sketching a brief bow, Sy returned to his seat. Mrs. Fulton waltzed to the front to thank everyone for coming and participating and to tell them to eagerly anticipate the next event the Reedsville cultural committee would put on.

Cassandra peered around for Seth, but too many people were in the way. Finally, with a break in the crowd, she spotted him speaking to Thomas Wilson, his logging partner, and Josh Benson, who ran the stagecoach line. How could she get closer to him without looking like she was intentionally eavesdropping? They were standing by the refreshment table.

She made her way over, nodding and smiling thanks at the people who complimented her. Wanting to appear as if she were being helpful, she took her time gathering cups and plates, stacking them, and working her way closer to Seth.

He was still deep in conversation with Thomas and Josh, and they were edging toward the door. Seth nodded to them and then settled his hat on his head.

He was leaving. No!

Gathering her stack of dishes, she started to maneuver around the edge of the table over to Seth. Her elbow caught on something, and she turned, colliding with someone. Her stack of dishes lost their balance and toppled everywhere.

Her face heated, but before she could lift her head to see who she collided with, she snuck a peek in Seth’s direction.

He had left.

What in the world? Sy held his violin out of reach of the small tornado that had plowed into him. Punch soaked through his shirt and bits of cake clung to the front. A cup had shattered at his feet.

He waited to see what she would do next before he would put his treasured violin aside to pick up shards of china.

She bent over the mess on the floor. I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you there. I’m so clumsy. I shouldn’t have tried— Finally she raised her head. Oh, hello. I didn’t realize it was you. Shoving the stack of plates and cups back on the table, she grabbed a napkin and blotted his shirt. I’m so, so sorry.

He took the napkin from her. No harm done. Dusting off the cake bits, he repressed a sigh. At least nothing had happened to his violin. He could wash the shirt. He examined the woman. Cake and punch covered the front of her deep blue brocade dress as well. She was the one who had read the Christina Rossetti poem. That bit from this evening had been a pleasant surprise. The evening on the whole had been entertaining, but hers was the only piece that reflected a higher level of sophistication.

I greatly enjoyed your reading tonight. Rossetti, was it?

Yes. She cocked her head to the side. As small as she was, with her pale hair and eyes, she looked like a little bird. You’re familiar with her?

She’s one of my favorites. Not many female poets at that. He tossed the ineffective napkin on the table. Sy O’Malley. He gave a nod. My family has an orchard outside of town. Doesn’t leave as much time for poetry reading as I’d like.

Cassandra Parsons. She glanced around. Of this hotel. She smiled at him, and her pale face glowed. I have entirely too much time to read. She nodded to his violin. "You must have some time to practice that. I heard you play once before when you were staying here. I enjoyed that, but the piece by Brahms you played tonight was magnificent. From the German Requiem?"

He was sure his shock showed on his face, and he carefully schooled his features. If he had been told that anyone in this room would be familiar with that piece, he wouldn’t have believed it. He picked it purely for his own enjoyment, and the townspeople simply got to listen. Uh, thank you. Yes. ‘How Lovely Are the Dwelling Places’ from the fourth movement. I didn’t think anyone here would have a musical background.

After studying the major composers, I begged for piano lessons— she flapped her hand in the direction of the parlor— and I requested whatever music I could get by my favorite composers. I’m not terribly good. Your playing is exquisite.

Sy blinked at the rapid succession of her words. Surely his brothers had put her up to this. He scanned the room. They congregated with some of the other young men from the town and were talking. Not even a glance this way. Hmm. Seems if they played a joke they’d want to see the results. And none of them knew anything about music, so they wouldn’t have known what he was playing or how to tell anyone what it was.

Which left him with the only conclusion. Miss Cassandra Parsons might be the one person in this town that could intrigue and keep up with him intellectually.

Unfortunately, as soon as his parents arrived in Reedsville, he was leaving.

Three

After finishing his morning chores, Sy headed upstairs to the room he shared with his brother Stephen and moved straight to his bookshelf. There it was. He tugged a slim volume from the shelf and weighed it in his hand. Books were precious and hard to come by. On the other hand, being able to discuss them with someone brought another level of pleasure. While he had no doubt Cassandra—Miss Parsons—could acquire another volume to replace the one ruined by punch, giving her his copy created a connection between them.

One he had been mulling over the better part of the week. It was nearly the dead of winter, which left little to do on the orchards that couldn’t be handled by his brothers. Since his college application had been rejected, all Sy could do was check his instruments and the greenhouse, work on his plans for his ideas, read books, and play music. So perhaps a few literary discussions with Miss Parsons would help pass the time.

A thank you note to Mrs. Parsons for hosting last night’s event wouldn’t be out of order. And he could include the poetry book as well. Moving to his desk, he slid out a fresh sheet of paper and dipped his pen in ink.

Venturing down the hall, Cassandra peeked around doorways, hoping to stay out of Mother’s sight. She had on her warmest coat, a muffler wrapped tight around her neck, and mittens. With her hat snugged down, she was going to suffocate if she didn’t get outside soon. But she was well protected against the cold. Even Mother couldn’t argue about that.

Assuming Mother was in the kitchen, Cassandra headed out past the front desk. Her father had his head bent over the ledger. She hurried her steps. Just heading over to Maggie’s for a visit, she tossed over her shoulder. Be back soon. She reached for the doorknob.

Cassandra! Mother’s voice halted her.

She spun around. Mother, as you can see, I’m completely bundled up. I can’t possibly get chilled in the few blocks it’ll take me to get to Maggie’s.

Mother examined her head to toe, shoulders finally dipping a bit. I just worry about all those travelers bringing disease with them.

I don’t believe they have anyone there at the moment. The stagecoach doesn’t run much in the winter. Besides, I’ll be in the kitchen with Maggie, not with the travelers. She reached for the doorknob behind her. I’ll be back soon. Turning, she slipped out before Mother could raise another objection.

The cold nipped at her cheeks but was refreshing and made the bundling slightly tolerable. She loosened the muffler, hoping to get a bit more air.

The Evening of Culture had been wonderful. The performances, the music. Especially Sy. He had been a delightful surprise. Not that she was surprised by his musical ability. But that he had recognized her poetry and appeared to be well read wasn’t something she had expected. She wondered if they would ever be able to have a discussion about poetry or other literary topics. There was no one she could truly share with, and sometimes her head felt as if it would burst with all her ideas. Especially since Emily, the town’s schoolteacher, had left to care for her ailing grandfather.

Still, she supposed none of that would help make her a good wife for Seth. And perhaps he wouldn’t care for her spending time with another man, even if it were for purely intellectual pursuits.

By the time Cassandra reached Maggie’s, she was quite heated and couldn’t wait to get her warm things off. Rapping on the kitchen door, she looked out toward the barn in case Seth happened to be around. Just a few chickens scratched in the yard.

Maggie ran the boardinghouse which served as a way station for the Oregon Express stagecoach. She was a mother figure to those who had lost theirs, collecting those who were alone the way some collected stray cats. And her cooking rivaled Mother’s for being the best in town.

Maggie, plump and red-headed, opened the door. Come in, dear girl! She gave Cassandra a quick squeeze. Coffee or tea?

Coffee, please. If she dosed it with enough cream and sugar, it was tolerable. She’d prefer tea, but Seth drank coffee. She’d learn to like it. Eventually.

After they were seated at the kitchen table, Cassandra brought up her reason for the visit. I’m hoping you can give me cooking lessons. I’m hopeless, and Mother and Miss Bess won’t hear of me being in their kitchen. She hesitated, trying to decide if she should confide her interest in Seth.

Maggie patted her hand. I’d be happy to help you. But I’d hate to do something your mother wouldn’t approve of.

She’s so overprotective of me. I’m not made of china. How can I possibly learn how to be a good wife if I’m never allowed to try anything? Cassandra swirled the coffee in her mug. She probably sounded a bit petulant, but she was getting to her wits’ end.

Maggie gave a sympathetic smile. You have to see it from your parents’ view. They lost five children before you. They treasure you, and don’t want anything to happen to you.

Cassandra sighed. I know. I just want to be able to make a meal without burning it, and to sew something useful, not just decorative. It’s not like I want to become a blacksmith or a lumberjack.

Maggie laughed. I tell you what. You can help me a bit today, and then I’ll pay a visit to your mother and talk it over with her. I think I can convince her I can teach you to cook without bringing you to harm. She stood and handed Cassandra an apron. Let’s start with biscuits.

Things went along fairly well with Maggie giving gentle instruction while Cassandra attempted to follow them as best as she could. She dug in the bin for more flour a bit too vigorously. The scoop slid through and came out the other side, scattering flour all over Cassandra and the floor.

Ahh! I can’t believe I did that! She shook flour from her hands.

Maggie smiled. It happens. She grabbed a towel just as there was a quick rap on the kitchen door and it opened.

Seth appeared in the doorway. He didn’t live at the boardinghouse, but he took many of his meals there. Stepping inside, he had begun to remove his boots when he took in the scene and stopped.

Cassandra’s heart flew up in her chest at the sight of him and then sank when she remembered she was coated in flour. Still, she could make the best of it. Beaming, she said, So good to see you Seth! I’m helping Maggie make biscuits. I’m sure we can spare a hot one for you as soon as they’re done.

Uh, morning ladies. I’ll just step back out. I don’t want to be in the way, and it looks like you’re in the middle of something. He nodded and backed out the door before Cassandra could think of anything that would make him stay.

Deflated, she turned back to the flour tin. But Maggie’s touch to Cassandra’s shoulder stopped her. Maggie lifted the towel to Cassandra’s face and dusted off the flour that Cassandra hadn’t even known was there. Oh, she must have looked a sight to Seth. Would he ever be able to see her as wife material?

Sy stepped into Fulton’s Mercantile, the warmth from the pot-bellied stove reaching him even at the door and whisking the chill off. Mrs. Fulton stood behind the counter, and he headed her way.

Her hands flew to her chest. Why, Sy, that was a marvelous song you played on your fiddle the other night. What’s it called?

If the fourth movement of the German Requiem could be called a song. It was ‘How Lovely Are the Dwelling Places’ by Brahms.

Her brow furrowed in confusion a moment before she smiled. Well it was just lovely. I hope we can do something like it again. Mrs. Parsons and I need to put our heads together. And Cassandra, of course. She has the best ideas. It does help pass the dreary weather, and it brings the community together—

He cleared his throat. There might be no stopping her once she got on a roll. I actually wanted to thank you—and Mrs. Parsons—for the event. He pulled the envelopes and poetry book out of his coat pocket, fanning them until he found the one for her. He held it out to her.

She eyed all of the contents he held before slipping her note from him. I see you have something for Mrs. Parsons as well. I could deliver it to her. Save you a trip. I am the postmistress after all.

A bit of disappointment settled in his chest. Until this moment, he hadn’t realized that he hoped to deliver the volume in person to Cassandra. He met Mrs. Fulton’s gaze and saw the smile that played around her lips. There was no way he could justify a trip to the hotel without her tongue wagging. She’d have him married off to Cassandra by the end of the day.

He handed the items over. Thank you. And this book is for Miss Parsons, if you don’t mind including it. Hers was damaged the night of the reading.

Mrs. Fulton didn’t bother hiding the smile that bloomed across her full face. Poetry, is it? Sounds rather romantic.

Sy pulled his gloves on. Just a common interest in a subject. Much obliged. With a nod, he left the store, the wind cooling his warm cheeks.

He glanced up and down the street, realizing—foolishly—he was looking for Cassandra. As if she would be out in the street. Still, he would have enjoyed a conversation with her. Should he head over to the hotel? What would he say to her? Why hadn’t he thought up a plan?

Without any good reason to stick around, he climbed on the wagon and headed home.

Cassandra stepped into the hotel kitchen, the smell of meat and spices cooking filling the warm air. She set her basket on the table.

Miss Bess scrutinized her over an ample shoulder while stirring something on the stove. What you got in that basket?

Cassandra pulled the cloth off. I made biscuits with Maggie. Want to try one?

Miss Bess’s eyebrows nearly disappeared under the kerchief she wore tied around her hair. You made biscuits? What on earth for, child?

Well, I helped. Maggie did most of the work. But I want to learn to cook so I can be useful and be a good wife someday. She unbuttoned her coat and removed it, too warm now that she was inside.

Um hmm. Miss Bess stepped over and poked a biscuit with a thick, dark finger, sniffing. Mrs. Kincaid makes a mighty fine biscuit, almost as good as mine. She pointed to the book on the table. John dropped that off for you.

John? Cassandra picked up the book. A collection of Christina Rossetti poems. She thumbed through the pages. He could barely read, so he must have been delivering it on behalf of someone else. He did make deliveries for the mercantile.

He left a note for your mother. I think it was from Mrs. Fulton.

He didn’t say who the book was from?

Not to me.

Cassandra folded her coat over her arm. I’m headed to my room.

Don’t be late for supper. Miss Bess turned back to the stove.

Mrs. Fulton wouldn’t send her a book of poetry. But since the poem Cassandra had read at the Evening of Culture was a Christina Rossetti, someone who was paying attention could then surmise that she enjoyed Rossetti’s poetry and would think a gift of the book would be appreciated.

She plopped down on her bed. Could it be from Seth? She squeezed the book to her chest and grinned. He had been paying attention. Maybe he had planned to give it to her but didn’t want to do it in front of Maggie. Maybe he thought it was more romantic to leave it for her. A sense of mystery.

Now she really did need to get some cooking skills in earnest.

Four

Sy tossed another tool on his workbench. He had left all of his good, precise tools in New York, with a promise that his father would bring them with him when that orchard sold and his parents joined the boys in Oregon.

No matter what he tried, he could not get the vision he saw in his head and drew on paper to work with metal and wood. He had no problem dreaming up ideas and solutions to problems. It was getting them to work in reality that stumped him.

He had been tinkering with a new design for the packing plant that would allow fruit to be sorted more quickly. But getting it to work was more difficult than he envisioned.

Much like getting Cassandra a simple book of poetry. How could he have failed at that simple task? And more to the point, why did it bother him that he did? He’d spoken to her briefly. Was he that desperate for cultured conversation? All it proved was that he needed to get out of Reedsville and into college where he could do some good with his life.

He picked up the plans he had drawn and compared them to the pieces on his workbench. What was missing? Where had he gone wrong? There had to be an answer, but he hadn’t had enough formal training to see it. His scientific journals, Scientific American, and what few books he could get his hands on could only take him so far. He kicked at a scrap of wood sending it skittering and clinking across the barn floor until it collided with the door.

Thomas Jefferson would certainly have come up with a solution. Sy had read every book about the third president he could find. But Jefferson also had the advantage of education.

Sy educated himself as much as he could, but the family orchard took up much of his time with pruning the trees, checking and eradicating pests, keeping the books and handling contracts, and then the harvest. Not to mention experimenting in the greenhouse and tracking the weather with his instruments. And the opportunities available to sit for college entrance exams were always during the busiest times, not when his father could spare him.

His mother understood. She loved cultured things and wanted to raise one of the pack of her burly boys to love them too. She even gave him a literary name: Odysseus. Which he hated, and he had had a few wrestling matches with his bigger brothers when they called him that.

The barn door squeaked and Jacob, the eldest of the O’Malley boys, strode through. Did you get more flour at Fulton’s yesterday?

No, it wasn’t on the list.

Well, we’re out. Jacob picked up the piece of wood Sy had kicked earlier.

Sy crossed his arms. Why didn’t you put it on the list? That’s what the list is for.

Because I forgot. Jacob tossed the wood chip into the loft.

I’m not making another trip into town. One disaster was enough for this week.

Fine, I’ll go. Need anything else?

Check the list.

Jacob nodded and headed out the door.

Sy shook his head. If his brothers couldn’t manage something as simple as a supplies list, how were they going to manage the books when he was gone to college?

If he ever went to college. And if he wasn’t going to college, maybe he could consider courting Miss Parsons.

Spreading his plans out on the workbench again, he studied them. But his mind was on how soft Cassandra’s skin looked and how unusually colored her eyes were. He slapped the desk, giving up on trying to concentrate.

He needed to forget about Cassandra—Miss Parsons—no matter how soft her skin looked or how mysterious her blue-green eyes seemed. He left the barn and stepped into the bracing wind, clearing his thoughts. He’d go through his scientific journals to see if there were any other colleges that he could write to.

Five

Cassandra paced her room, thinking of something to do. Maggie had come to talk to Mother, who had reluctantly agreed to allow Cassandra to have cooking and sewing lessons. But the next one wasn’t until tomorrow.

Her gaze landed on the poetry volume next to her bed. The gift she hoped was from Seth. Though she was familiar with all of the poems, she read them again last night with new eyes, as if Seth were there with her.

She stopped mid-stride. Seth! She could write him a note, thanking him for the book. That was it!

She slipped into the chair at her desk then picked up her pen. But how to get it to him? The logging camp was too far away for her to take it. She could drop it at Maggie’s tomorrow on the chance he would be stopping by there soon. She squirmed in her seat. She still wasn’t sure she could confide her interest in Seth to Maggie yet.

What about the mercantile? She’d have to pay postage most likely. She did have funds in her purse.

John! He had delivered the book, so he could deliver the note. It was perfect! Plus, there was the additional wrinkle that since the poetry book hadn’t come with a note, she wasn’t entirely, completely sure it came from Seth. She paced again, hands clasped behind her back in her thinking position. It always helped when she had a particularly tricky problem to work out.

There was also the fact to consider that even if it was from Seth—and she was quite certain it was—maybe he wanted it to remain a secret. So if she penned a simple thank you note without addressing it, gave it to John with instructions to give it to whomever sent her the book of poetry . . . Yes! That was perfect!

Sliding back into her chair, she nearly upended the ink pot. Once it stopped rocking, she dipped her pen in and got to work. A few minutes later, she laid her pen on its rest and blotted her note before folding it.

Cassandra rushed down the hall and grabbed her coat from the hook by the door. She shoved her arms in the sleeves, tucking her note into the pocket, and hurried down the street to the mercantile. She hoped John was around.

The bell above the mercantile door rang, and the smell of flour, oil, and pickles filled her senses. She scanned the store. It was surprisingly empty. No John.

Mrs. Fulton was dusting shelves, so Cassandra edged over to her, pretending to peruse the shelves until she realized she was looking at men’s long johns. She hurried over to the candy selection. She hadn’t thought this through well at all. It never crossed her mind that she wouldn’t be able to find John.

What can I get for you, dear?

Cassandra jumped, not expecting Mrs. Fulton to appear over her shoulder. Um, some lemon drops and licorice whips. Miss Bess loved lemon drops, and licorice whips were Cassandra’s indulgence. There was a new item in the candy display. Little pastel candies with sayings imprinted on them. She peered into the jar trying to read the messages. TRUE LOVE, BE GOOD, BE TRUE, KISS ME, and BE MINE. Delightful!

Mrs. Fulton handed over a small paper cone. Will there be anything else?

Cassandra bit her lip. She would just have to come out and ask. Is John around? I have something I’d like him to deliver.

He’s out on a delivery right now, but you can leave it with me, and I’ll make sure he gets it.

Digging in her reticule for coins to pay for the candy, she willed her mind to race with an answer. She dropped the coins into Mrs. Fulton’s hand. Yesterday, he delivered a note to my mother and a book of poetry to me. I just wanted John to give my note of thanks to the sender. Her face heated. If she wasn’t so determined to correspond with Seth, she would have fled this entire embarrassing situation.

Mrs. Fulton’s brow grooved. Oh, you mean— Her mouth hung open a bit before she shut it. Then she smiled. I know just what to do. Leave it with me.

Sy sat at the kitchen table eating a piece of pie. He was still mulling over the problem of the sorting machine when Stephen, the brother nearest in age to Sy, came in and tossed him a letter. What’s that?

It’s for you. Stephen grinned. Looks like a love letter.

Sy scanned the front of the note. There’s no name. How do you know it’s for me?

Mrs. Fulton said it was. Jacob badgered me into going into town today to get flour since I used it up making that pie. Is that the last piece?

I think there’s one more. The fact that Stephen had learned to cook from their mother was a saving grace for them all. Sy slid the note toward himself and opened it. His pulse ratcheted up a notch. A feminine script lined the page in a short thank you note. Cassandra. He examined the front again. His name was nowhere on it. And it wasn’t addressed to him. Or anybody.

You say Mrs. Fulton gave you the note to give to me?

Yep. And oh, I almost forgot. Stephen reached into his pocket and tossed a handful of pastel candies on the table. She said to share these with you. They’re the newest thing for Valentine’s Day. He slid on the bench next to Sy. What’s the note say? You courting someone?

Sy snatched the note out of reach and stuck it in his shirt pocket. No. He picked up one of the candies. BE TRUE was stamped across it. He turned it over in his fingers before putting it in his pocket with the note.

Stephen nudged him with his shoulder. "So what’s up? Why so secretive?

It’s nothing. Sy stood. I’ve got work to do. He headed upstairs.

Once in his shared room, he shut the door, hoping he might get a few minutes of privacy. He didn’t know why he was so bothered. If there was anyone he could tell, it would be Stephen. They were only eighteen months apart, and of all the brothers, Stephen was most like Sy. Which was saying something in a family of big, burly boys who would rather wrestle, climb trees, or fish than read a book.

But there wasn’t anything to tell.

He read the note again. Why wasn’t his name on it? As far as puzzles went, it wasn’t a big one, but it niggled at him. Hadn’t he mentioned the poetry book in his note to Mrs. Parsons? He couldn’t remember that he had. And Mrs. Fulton had taken the note and book. It’s possible Cassandra didn’t get the message that it came from him.

It would be simple to solve the mystery by writing her back and signing his name. But it was the middle of the winter, and a bit of distraction could be fun. Cassandra appeared to be the type of lady who would find it amusing. And since Mrs. Fulton seemed to be a willing go between . . .

He picked up his pen just as Stephen came through the door.

You’re writing her back? Then you do know who it’s from. Stephen tried to peer over Sy’s shoulder.

Sy blocked the words with his hands. And waited.

Come on, Sy. Even if you aren’t going to tell me who she is, you at least have to go into town to get the letter to her. I’ll go with you.

Sy blew out a breath. Stephen was like a puppy with a sock: relentlessly tenacious. All right. I have some letters to mail to colleges anyway. Go see if anyone needs anything. And check the list.

Stephen bounded down the stairs.

Finished with the note, Sy sat back. Then he reached in his pocket and pulled out the small candy, tucking it in the note before folding it shut and sealing it.

Six

This time, Cassandra didn’t have to sneak out of the house to see Maggie. And the sun was shining so she didn’t bother buttoning her coat. Mother would be horrified. She was living recklessly, and she laughed at the idea of anything she did being dangerous. But it was a beautiful day in the midst of winter, and she would enjoy it.

She had nearly reached Maggie’s when she spotted John heading down the street. John! She waved at him.

He turned her way. Well, hello, Cassandra. What brings you down this way?

I’m headed to Maggie’s. She’d leave off the part about cooking lessons. The whole town didn’t need to know she was inept. I wanted to ask you a question. Miss Bess said you delivered a note and a book to the hotel the other day for Mother and me. Do you know who they were from?

Mrs. Fulton gave them to me with my other deliveries. That’s all I know.

Cassandra’s shoulders dropped. She was so sure John would have the answer. Now she didn’t know what else to do. Other than ask Mrs. Fulton. And she truly didn’t want to do that. It was embarrassing enough giving her the note.

Sorry I can’t be of more help.

Thank you, John.

He tipped his hat and continued down the street.

Mrs. Fulton was such a gossip. Cassandra was sure the news of her note exchange would be all over town. She blew out a breath and stepped around to Maggie’s back porch and knocked.

Maggie opened the door and hustled Cassandra into the kitchen, settling her at the table with a cup of tea.

Cassandra raised her eyebrows but gratefully took a sip.

I know you had coffee last time, but I had a feeling this might be more to your liking.

Cassandra slumped in her chair as she nodded. I know I should like coffee, but I can’t get past the bitterness.

Many things in life are like that. Everyone has their own particular taste. Maggie pulled down her recipe box and settled into a kitchen chair. Now, what’s your fancy for today? I thought we’d make a spice cake.

That sounded delicious. Cassandra finished her tea while Maggie pulled out the recipe card for Cassandra to read.

Maggie gathered up the ingredients and set them next to a large mixing bowl. They sifted together flour, baking soda, salt, and spices.

Good! Why don’t you keep going with the wet ingredients while I get a few things going for supper? Let me know if you have any questions."

I think I can manage. Cassandra creamed the butter into the sugar. It made more sense now that Maggie had explained it. When it was nicely blended, she added the eggs.

Maggie turned from the stove. What step are you on?

I just added the eggs. Though I always wonder what happens to the shells since you don’t taste them when you eat cake. Do they melt?

Dropping her spoon, Maggie hurried over. Land sakes, child! You have to crack the eggs first.

Like this? Cassandra smashed the eggs with the back of her mixing spoon.

No, no. See if you can pick the shells out, or we’ll need to toss this and start over.

Cassandra picked out the shells, but the slimy egg whites on her fingertips made her shudder.

This is how you add eggs to any recipe. Maggie deftly tapped the egg on the table until it cracked then held it over the bowl, widening the crack with her fingers until the egg slipped out. Now you try it.

That made so much more sense. Cassandra felt a little silly for not figuring it out herself. She tapped the egg—too gently at first and then a bit harder—but the egg began leaking out as she slung it over the bowl. She tried widening the crack with her fingers but only succeeded in crushing the shell more, raining bits of it into the bowl.

That’s just fine. It takes practice. Maggie whisked the shell fragments out of the mix.

With supervision, Cassandra finished the cake and got it into the oven.

She plopped into a kitchen chair. That was more work than I thought it would be. It’s almost like recipes are written in a secret code. You need to know how to unlock them.

I’d never thought of it that way, but I can see what you mean. Cassandra, the Good Lord gave you an unusual way of looking at the world. It’s a gift, but I suspect a lonely one at times.

Cassandra turned her teacup in circles. It is. Especially living at the hotel and being so guarded by my parents. And so few people share my interest in things. No one really, except . . .

Perhaps you’re thinking of Sy O’Malley? He’s the only one whose talent came close to matching yours at the Evening of Culture.

I did enjoy speaking with him. He knows poetry. And plays that violin so sweetly. Not to mention his mysterious dark eyes. And how tall he was but gentle. She could see it in how he held his violin. How would it feel to be held in those hands?

What was she doing thinking about Sy? She should be thinking about Seth. That’s who she was going to all this trouble for. She cleared her throat. We should do something similar again. I think most people quite enjoyed it. And it’s a pleasant way to break up the long winter days. Speaking of which, Seth must find himself at your table more frequently now that logging has slowed?

A small smile played across Maggie’s mouth. Not as often as I would like. He’s too busy making plans for next year. I haven’t seen him since he poked his head in here several days ago.

Cassandra’s stomach felt like she’d eaten one of her first-attempt biscuits. So he wouldn’t have gotten her note.

Maggie sipped her coffee. God’s plan for us doesn’t always play out the way we would think. Sometimes our assumptions about situations and people need to change.

I wish my parents could see that.

Your parents love you and have given you many, many advantages, even if they do treat you like a china doll. Maggie met Cassandra’s gaze. Have you ever considered that you might not be happy living a hardworking life? Like being a wife to a logger?

Heat rushed to Cassandra’s cheeks, and she dropped her gaze.

Have you ever considered going to college like Becca did? Becca Wilson was the little sister of Seth’s logging partner, Thomas. She had been at Willamette University for the past three years.

Cassandra nodded. When Becca left, I begged my parents for weeks to let me go to college. But they would never hear of it.

Maggie tilted her head. You’re older now. Perhaps they would reconsider. Regardless, pray God will open your heart and mind to all of His possibilities. She scooted her chair back. I think that cake is done.

Cassandra pondered Maggie’s words as she walked home, a large portion of the cake in her basket. Sy was a handsome man, there was no doubting that. And that he shared her interest in education and cultural things was a miracle out here. He was the perfect man for her.

Except there was Seth. The man she’d had a crush on forever. Maybe it was time to put away childish things, if that’s all her crush on Seth was. But her heart wasn’t quite ready to let Seth go.

And what about the notes? If they weren’t from Seth, who sent them?

She stepped through the back door of the hotel and into the warmth of the kitchen, the air redolent with roasted meat and spices.

Miss Bess stood at the dry sink. What’d you make this time?

Cake. Would you like a piece? Cassandra set the basket on the table and peeled off her coat.

Hmmpf. Miss Bess sniffed. Not before supper, and you shouldn’t either. You’ll ruin your appetite.

Cassandra wouldn’t mention that she’d already had a piece at Maggie’s.

Another note came for you. Seems like you’ve got a beau.

What? Cassandra spotted the paper on the table. I don’t have a beau. But if Seth hadn’t come to town, where had this note come from? She slit the seal. A small candy fell out and bounced across the table. Picking it up she noticed the words stamped across the face: BE TRUE.

This was ridiculous. Sy paced in front of the mercantile, waiting for Stephen. They had wasted more time than he thought possible while Stephen flipped through catalogs and visited with townsfolk. Now he was off trying to track someone down. Sy had been paging through his latest Scientific American, but he was ready to go home.

But all of that was merely a distraction from the thing weighing most heavily on his mind: Cassandra. While the exchange of notes was amusing, it didn’t replace getting to know a body in person. He had spent only a few minutes in