Disclaimer:
Characters and situations from Lonesome Dove: The Outlaw Years belong to Hallmark Entertainment and are used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended. This story or the new characters created by the author are not to be published on any ftp site, newsgroup, mailing list, fanzine or elsewhere without the express permission of the author.
Author's Notes: Hetty Biddle and all original material included in this story are the creations of
Debra E. Meadows.
Early April, 1881
Curtis Wells, Montana Territory
Colonel Francis Clay Mosby dipped his pen in the inkwell and signed his name with a flourish. He sighed. He'd been at it for an hour and a half, and yet the stack of papers on his desk didn't seem to have gone down at all. He wished, not for the first time, that there was someone in Curtis Wells he could trust with the more mundane tasks associated with the running of the town. His responsibilities were taking up far too much of his valuable time lately -- time he'd rather spend reading fine literature or taking Blackjack out for a ride in the countryside. He allowed himself one more wistful glance at the fine Montana spring day outside his window and then turned his attention reluctantly back to his work.
A knock on the door interrupted him.
“What is it?” he called out. “And it better be important,” he added under his breath. The last thing he needed right now was an intrusion.
A tentative Deputy Ike poked his head in the door. At Mosby's bidding, he came fully into the room, turning his hat nervously in his hands. “Mr. Mosby, sir, I'm sorry to bother you. I know you're real busy and all. I mean, I know you said not to disturb you this afternoon unless it was real important.”
“Get to the point, Ike, will you? I haven't got all day.”
“Yes, sir.” Ike cleared his throat. “Well, it's like this. You see, there's this woman . . . “
Clay folded his hands patiently and tried not to think about the spinning hands on his pocket watch.
Ike cleared his throat again. “There's this woman just come in on the stage, and she's insisting on talking to you. I told her you couldn't be disturbed, but she says she has urgent business to discuss with you.”
“Oh, really? What sort of business?”
“I don't know. She wouldn't say. She says she’ll only speak to you about whatever it is.”
“Where is this person? Did you bring her with you?”
“She didn't want to come inside. She said she needed to get some air after her long ride on the stage.” Ike looked confused. “Isn't there any air on the stage, Mr. Mosby?”
Clay was rapidly losing patience. “Just tell me where she is, and I'll go and see what she wants.”
“She's out front of the Dove.”
Ike let himself out as Clay reluctantly got up from his desk. Hopefully, this wouldn't take long, and he could finish his paperwork before supper.
A young woman in a prim dress and bonnet stood near a pile of luggage on the boardwalk. Her mouth dropped open slightly at the sight of Clay, and she pushed nervously at a lock of mousy blonde hair that had managed to escape her careful pinning. “Are you Mr. Mosby?”
Clay doffed his hat. “Clay Mosby at your service, Mrs. . . . ?”
“That's MISS. I'm Miss Hetty Biddle,” she informed him. She started to hold out her hand to him, then withdrew it, giggling nervously.
Clay reached for her gloved hand and brushed it with his lips. “Welcome to Curtis Wells, Miss Biddle.”
Hetty blushed deeply. “Oh, why, thank you most kindly, I'm sure.”
Clay smiled. “You're quite welcome. Now, I understand there is a matter of some importance you wish to discuss with me.”
Hetty blinked. “Oh, yes, of course.” She opened her purse and started rummaging around in it. “Now, where did I put that?”
Clay put his hands on his hips and assumed what he hoped was a patient expression.
“Forgive me, Mr. Mosby; I know I put it in here somewhere.”
“Couldn't you just tell me . . .?”
“If you could just give me a moment.”
Clay held up his hands in defeat. “That's quite all right, Miss Biddle, take all the time you need.” His hopes for a productive afternoon slipped away as Miss Biddle continued rifling through her purse.
“Here it is!” she proclaimed finally, producing a rumpled bit of newspaper and thrusting it into his hands.
He smoothed it out and read. Wanted: Qualified schoolteacher for all grades. Please apply in person to F.C. Mosby, Curtis Wells, Montana Territory.
“Here I am! And I'm ready to start if you'd be so kind as to point me in the direction of the schoolhouse.”
Clay shook his head. “Miss Biddle, I'm afraid you have made your journey in vain. The teacher's position was filled more than a month ago. This paper is three months old!”
Hetty twisted her hands. “Oh dear. I meant to get here sooner, but I stopped to visit my cousin Tillie in Hackensack. We hadn't seen each other since we were girls. There was so much to talk about! I had to help her with the church social and the charity bake sale. Do you know, Mr. Mosby, there are hundreds of orphans in the streets of New York City? Children running wild with no one to care for them? Well, it did my heart good to do my part, I can tell you. I must have baked three dozen cakes -- my mother's secret recipe, you know. Would you believe there is whiskey in it? Well, there is, but I didn't tell the church ladies that. All of them sold too. I'm famous for my whiskey cakes back in Hartford. That's where I'm from, don't you know, Hartford, Connecticut. Hartford's very pretty in the spring. Have you ever been there? I'm sure you'd like it. Why, you just have to see the cherry trees to believe them. The blooms are simply heavenly this time of year.”
“Miss Biddle, if I might interject . . .”
“Oh dear. I do run on so. My mother always says to me, Henrietta -- that's my real name, you know -- Henrietta, you'll injure your tongue. A person can't hear themselves think with you carrying on like that. That's what she always says.”
Clay felt his temples beginning to throb. “Please, Miss Biddle, I think the first thing we need to do is see about gettin' you a room in the hotel.”
Hetty wrung her hands. “Oh dear, I've come all this way for nothing. What am I going to do?” she said, looking as though she was about to burst into tears.
“Try not to fret yourself, Miss Biddle, I am not without influence. If you like, I will be glad to assist you in findin’ another teachin’ position.”
Hetty clasped her hands together. “Oh, Mr. Mosby, would you? I'd be ever so grateful, really I would.”
Clay smiled at her. “Consider it done. Now, let's get you settled, shall we?”
Impulsively, Hetty threw her arms around his neck and hugged him. Then realizing what she had done, she pulled back, blushing furiously, and turned around to enter the hotel.
At that precise moment, Newt Call emerged from the Lonesome Dove, and Hetty collided with the bounty hunter, the impact knocking her backward into her mountain of luggage. Hatboxes rolled away in all directions as Hetty struggled to hang on to her dignity and her belongings.
Clay glared at Call as he helped Hetty to her feet.
Call smirked. “Friend of yours, Mosby?” He touched the brim of his hat. “Ma'am.” Then he ambled off down the boardwalk.
“That's MISS!” Hetty called after him. She straightened her bonnet and smoothed her dress, then set about helping Clay retrieve and restack her luggage.
Since Amanda Carpenter's abrupt removal from the Lonesome Dove a few months before, Clay had employed a young couple, Simon and Dorothea Brown, to run the hotel. Both were both behind the desk when Clay ushered Hetty inside. Simon went out to bring in her luggage while Dorothea checked her in.
“You’ll be in room six. If you’ll just sign here, Mrs. . . . ?”
“That's MISS! Miss Hetty Biddle. I don't know why everyone assumes that I'm married. Everyone in Hackensack made the same mistake. I thought it was just because I was in New Jersey. They're a bit backward there, you know.”
She turned to Clay. “Do I look married to you? What does a married woman look like?” She didn't wait for an answer. “Maybe I'd better change my hairstyle. I saw one in Godey’s Ladies’ Book I might try. It had curls all down one side, like so,” she finished, demonstrating with her hands how the curls would cascade down her neck.
Clay snatched the room key from Dorothea and held it out to Hetty. “I'm sure that will be lovely, Miss Biddle.”
Hetty took the key. “Oh, do you think so? Very well, that's what I'll do then. If you really think so.”
“Yes, I do,” Clay said, taking her by the shoulders and giving her a sight push towards the stairs. “Now, you get settled. I have some other matters to attend to.”
By this time, Simon had managed to get Hetty's large trunk part way up the stairs where he stood mopping his brow from the exertion. He shoved his handkerchief back in his pocket and took hold of the trunk once more. He pulled and pulled, but the trunk was wedged between two stair posts and refused to move.
“Here, let me help you with that, Mr. Brown.” Hetty started up the stairs.
Simon gave the trunk a mighty tug, and suddenly it broke free. Before Hetty could jump out of the way, it was bumping down the stairs towards her, picking up speed with every bump.
Hetty squealed as the runaway luggage hit her, and she flew backward, landing with a crash on the floor below. Simon, Dorothea, and Clay all rushed to help the poor woman.
She seemed a bit stunned, but as they helped her to her feet, she laughed. “My word, you'd think I was accident prone, wouldn't you? But I'm all right. Truly I am. Why, it reminds me of a time back in Hartford when my sister, Beulah, ran into me with her sled. You see, I was standing on a slippery slope.”
Clay chose that moment to make his escape.
Hetty picked up a valise and started for her room once more. She had almost made it to the landing when the valise popped open, and undergarments spilled down the stairs. Simon threw up his hands and beat a hasty retreat, leaving his wife to help Hetty gather up her things.
Clay smiled to himself as he headed out the door. He was almost sorry that Miss Henrietta Biddle wouldn't be staying on in Curtis Wells. One thing was for certain. Life would never be dull with her around.
~~
The next morning Clay was preparing to shave when he thought he heard a knock on his balcony door. Surely, it must be the wind, he thought. He finished lathering his face and dropped his shaving brush into the mug on his washstand. He reached for his straight edge.
Tap. Tap. There it was again.
This was really too much. Clay grabbed a towel and wiped the lather from his neck as he headed to the door. Whatever it was, it had better be damned important.
“Who is it?”
“It's me, Hetty,” answered a voice from the other side of the door.
Clay opened the door a crack. “Miss Biddle, what are you doin' here? Do you know what time it is?”
“Oh, I know it's early, but like my mother says, it's the early bird that catches the worm.”
“Miss Biddle, I doubt that you will find any worms here. At least, none that I am aware of.”
“Well, of course not, Mr. Mosby; what a strange notion. Do you mind if I come in? I simply MUST speak to you.”
Clay reluctantly opened the door the rest of the way. “Be my guest,” he said, ushering her into the room.
Hetty looked closely at him. “Did you know you have something on your face? Here, let me get that for you.” And before Clay could protest, she had grabbed the towel he still held and wiped his cheek with it. “There. That's much better,” she said, thrusting the towel back into his hands.
A somewhat nonplussed Clay Looked from the towel, to Hetty, and back to the towel again. He tossed it on the washstand. He took a deep breath and composed himself. “Miss Biddle, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”
“Well, you see, it's like this. This morning I was taking a walk. I take a walk every morning, don't you know? Morning is such a lovely time to be outside. Do you know, when I walk in the morning, I think that is my favorite time of the day. However, when I am out in the evening, I think that time is best. I never can decide. Can you? Anyway, as I was saying, I was taking a walk, and I noticed that Curtis Wells doesn't have a library! Well, you can just imagine my surprise. Why, every town needs a library! You really should think about building one, you know, Mr. Mosby.”
“I plan to, Miss Biddle, all in good time.”
“There's no time like the present, Mr. Mosby, especially now that I'm here.”
Clay folded his arms, smiling indulgently. “Oh really? And why is that?”
“You're in luck, Mr. Mosby, because I know all about running a library. My Aunt Margaret was the head librarian at Hartford's city library, and I used to help her. Why, I know the Dewey Decimal System backwards and forwards!”
“Well, I am sure that is very nice, but as I said, the library hasn't been built yet. I have no need for a librarian. Now, if you'll excuse me . . .”
“The building really isn't important, Mr. Mosby; we can set one up anyplace. What about here? I'm sure you have plenty of rooms you aren't using.”
And before Clay could stop her, Hetty opened his door and headed off down the hallway. He caught up with her at the door of his storeroom where old ledgers and papers were stacked high, along with crates of whiskey and other spirits.
“Oh, yes, this will do nicely,” Hetty enthused. “When can you have it cleared out, do you think?”
“Now, see here!” Clay remonstrated. “I have absolutely no intention . . .”
“Now, don't be selfish, Mr. Mosby. You can store your liquor someplace else. Just think of Curtis Wells' citizens having access to fine literature right here under your roof!”
Clay sputtered. “I can't have women and children comin' through the Ambrosia to get up here! This is a saloon, Miss Biddle.”
“Well, they can come up the balcony stairs the way I did.”
“And right through my private quarters, I suppose? No. I don't think so.”
“Oh please, Mr. Mosby? It's only until we have a proper place to move into.”
Clay sighed. He was going to need to hire a librarian one day anyway, and Hetty was so determined. He supposed he could give her a chance. Besides, he really wasn't sure he had a choice. “Very well. You win. There's an empty room in the Assay office. That will have to do until somethin' more permanent can be arranged.”
Hetty threw her arms around his neck and hugged him.
Clay disengaged her. “On a trial basis, you understand?”
She nodded vigorously.
“We'll discuss your wages later.”
“You won't be sorry, Mr. Mosby; you'll see.” Hetty gave him a big smile and left the way she had come.
Clay looked after her thoughtfully. That remained to be seen.
~~
“You certainly have some nice books, Mayor Peale.” Hetty placed the last volume in the box Mr. Creel had given her and closed up the lid. “It's awfully nice of you to let us use them to start the library. I don't know what we would have done without them. Mr. Mosby says it will take three months, at least, for our book order to arrive from St. Louis, and we haven’t even sent it in yet.”
“Well, you're welcome to them. I don't read as much as I used to. My eyes are going bad, I guess. And if I feel the urge to peruse an old favorite, I can always come and check it out of the library.”
“Thank you, Mayor Peale.”
“Here. I'll be glad to carry them for you.” Josiah picked up the box and preceded Hetty to the door.
“Oh, wait just a moment. There's one I forgot.” Josiah set the box down on a chair and disappeared into the back room.
Hetty glanced around the Peale parlor. Several photographs decorated the mantelpiece, and she stepped closer to have a look at them. The women in both photographs were wearing wedding gowns and veils. They looked very much alike. One must be Mrs. Peale. Hetty wondered what had happened to her. Judging from the dust in this parlor, there was no woman living here now.
Josiah reentered the room, clutching a book to his chest. “This book of poetry belonged to my daughter. He looked fondly at the book. Then his face clouded over. “She died.”
“Oh, I'm so sorry, Mr. Peale; I didn't know. Are you sure you can bear to part with it?”
Josiah smiled sadly. “Yes, Hannah was always trying to help people. It's what she'd want.” He opened the box and slipped the volume inside. Then he closed the lid.
~~
“I simply cannot start the library with only twelve books, Mr. Mosby! Surely, there are more people in Curtis Wells who have books they would loan us. I don't know what I would have done if Mayor Peale hadn't given me what he did. Of course, many of his were religious books, but there were also some classics. I'm very anxious to read Edgar Allen Poe. Do you know, I've just never taken the time to do it? But, as I was saying, the mayor was more than generous. Why, do you know he even loaned me one of his late daughter's books? It's by Walt Whitman, the poet. Are you familiar with his work?”
“Josiah gave you a book that belonged to Hannah? Where is it? Let me see it.”
Hetty opened the box of books and pulled out the volume Josiah had placed on top. She handed it to Clay. “Did you know Hannah?”
Clay turned the book over in his hands, smoothing the faded cover. His eyes held a faraway look. “Yes, I knew her.”
“She must have been very young when she died.”
“Yes, she was.”
Clay opened the volume to the inside cover and read the inscription written in a woman's flowing script: To Newt from Hannah, April 15, 1878. Hastily, he snapped the book shut and handed it back to Hetty.
“How did she die?”
“It was a long time ago.” Clay put on his hat and went to the door, turning back before he reached it. “If you feel you need more books, you might find Dr. Cleese willin' to part with a few interestin' titles. I believe the man reads a great deal. And I have a few as well. You may drop by for them later.” Clay opened the door and went out, closing it harder than he needed to.
As she watched him stride purposefully past the assay office window, Hetty found herself wanting to know more about the young woman whose death had had such a devastating effect on two men. She opened the cover of the book and read the inscription.
Better make that three.
Hetty shivered. Mr. Cummings, who ran the assay office, had said he would see about getting her her own pot-bellied stove. In the mean time, she'd have to dress warmly. The building held in the chill, even on these warm spring days.
Hetty's stomach rumbled, and she suddenly realized that it was long past suppertime. “Time to be getting back to the hotel,” she told herself. “My stomach's starting to think my throat's been cut.”
She placed Hannah's book back in the box and went out, locking the door behind her.
As she headed to the hotel, she saw the man who'd knocked her down on the boardwalk the afternoon of her arrival. He was sitting on a bench outside the general store. What was he doing there at this hour? Wasn't his family expecting him home for dinner? “Good evening,” she called out to him.
But the man gave no indication that he'd heard her, and she continued on her way, wondering who he was.
~~
“I hope you have found your room to your liking, Miss Biddle.”
Hetty stopped at the foot of the stairs and turned back to the woman at the desk. “Oh, yes, Mrs. Brown. It's just fine. Of course, anytime I have my own room I feel like I'm living in the lap of luxury. I used to share a room with my five sisters. Mother always said we were stacked in there like cordwood!” She sighed. “I've never gotten used to sleeping alone. I guess I need a husband!” Hetty blushed. “You see, it's like this, I'm the eldest, and all my sisters are married except for Anne. She's the youngest, only sixteen, so no one expects her to be married. But, oh dear, I'm so afraid I'm doomed to be an old maid. Do you know what I mean, Mrs. Brown? Oh, listen to me go on. Of course you don't. You're married. What would you know about spinsterhood?”
The hotelkeeper smiled. “Call me Dorothea, please.”
“And you can call me Hetty. I'll bet we are about the same age. I'm twenty-three.”
“So am I. My birthday is in September.”
“And mine is in August! -- August fifth! Well what do you know about that? I'm awfully glad there is a woman my own age here in Curtis Wells. I could use a friend.”
Dorothea smiled shyly. “Running this place takes most of my time, but sure. I'd like that.”
“Very well, friend, would you join me for a cup of tea in the dining room? I'm buying!”
Dorothea took a quick look around. “I guess I could spare a few minutes.” She grinned at Hetty. “Why not?”
The two women chose a table near the front window, and Hetty poured them each a steaming cup from the pot Callie brought from the kitchen.
“Callie seems like good help,” Hetty remarked when Callie had gone back to her work.
“Oh, yes, I couldn't run this place without her. She worked for the previous owner, so she was able to show me the ropes.”
Hetty took a sip of her tea and gazed out the window. The man she had noticed earlier was still sitting on the bench across the street. “Who is that?”
Dorothea got up and walked over to the window. “You mean the fellow sitting outside the store?”
“Yes, I bumped into him when I first arrived, but we weren't properly introduced. He seems so . . . so sad somehow.”
“I guess he has a reason. They say he lost his wife tragically.”
“What's his name?”
Dorothea returned to her seat. “That's
Newt Call.”
“Newt,” repeated Hetty. “He was Mayor Peale's son-in-law.”
“Yes.”
“No one seems to want to talk about Hannah or how she died.”
“I heard it was some sort of explosion.”
“That's terrible! Oh, the poor man! No wonder he looks so sad.”
“Yes, you know, he has a room here, but he seldom uses it. He doesn't talk much to anyone either, I've noticed. He's scarcely said two words to me the whole time I've been here.”
“What does he do? For a living, I mean.”
“He's a bounty hunter.”
Hetty looked out the window once more, but the bench was empty. Newt Call was no longer there.
~~
“How high do you want these shelves, Miss Hetty? You're not very tall, so I guess I better not hang them real high, or else you won't be able to get the books down when somebody wants one.”
Hetty held her hand up as far as she could reach on the wall. “This ought to be just about right for the top one, Unbob. Then just space them the way we talked about.”
Unbob went back to his measuring, and Hetty went back to cataloging her small pile of books.
After a few moments, Unbob stopped work and turned around.
“What kind of books are you orderin' for the library, Miss Hetty?”
Hetty looked up from her work. “Oh, all kinds, Unbob. There'll be history and reference books, fine literature and poetry.”
“Oh.”
Hetty studied the simple man for a moment. “Is there something special you were wanting, Unbob? Tell me what it is, and maybe I can see about getting it.”
Unbob looked uncomfortable. “Uh, no. Well, you see, it’s like this . . .”
“Do you know how to read, Unbob?”
“Yes, ma'am. Well, no. That is, I was learnin'. Miss Fiona was teachin' me. Only, then she died, and well, I can read books with lots of pictures. I was hopin' there'd be books with lots of pictures in them.”
“Who was Miss Fiona, Unbob? An elderly lady here in town who tutored you?”
“Oh, no. Miss Fiona was one of them fancy ladies. You know, from Miss Twyla's.”
“Oh, I see. And you say she died?”
“Yes, she died. She got stabbed with a knife -- Mr. Call's knife, and she died.”
“Oh, my goodness! Mr. Call stabbed her?”
“No, it wasn't him that done it. Miss Della's the one that done it.”
“Who's Della?”
“She worked at Miss Twyla's too. I guess she was jealous on account of she said Miss Fiona was purtier than she was, so that's why she done it.” Unbob's face clouded over. “But before they found out it was Della, Sheriff Peale thought I done it. He locked me up me in the jail and told me he was gonna hang me. But I could never have hurt Miss Fiona.”
“Of course not, Unbob!”
“I don't know why the sheriff done it -- locked me up, I mean. Other times he's real good to me. He even found my brother when I didn't know where he was so I could send him a letter. He can be nice, and he can be mean sometimes too.”
“I see.” Hetty tried to digest this bit of information.
“He ain't sheriff no more; Sheriff Stone's sheriff now, but I still call Austin that sometimes.”
“Unbob?”
“Yes, Miss Hetty?”
“This Austin Peale. Is he related to Mayor Peale?”
“The mayor's his pa.”
Unbob picked up his hammer. “ Miss Hetty? Miss Fiona and me, we was readin' a story about a little girl whose grandmother got ate up by a wolf.”
“You must mean Little Red Riding Hood.”
“That's the one! She had a red coat her grandmother made for her. Miss Fiona had a coat like that with a hood and everything! I dunno if Miss Fiona had a grandmother. I never had a grandmother, but if I did, I sure wouldn't like it if she got ate up by a wolf.”
“Well, it turned out all right in the end, Unbob. The woodsman showed up and cut the wolf open and let the grandmother out, and they all lived happily ever after.”
“I like it when they live happily ever after. Are there more books like that -- where they live happily ever after, I mean?”
“Oh, yes, there are, Unbob.”
“Will there be books like that in our library, Miss Hetty?”
“I'll see to it.”
Unbob smiled. “I better go fetch some more nails.” The town handyman shuffled towards the door. Halfway there, he turned back. “I'm glad you came to Curtis Wells, Miss Hetty.”
Hetty smiled. “I am too, Unbob.”
~~
Hetty decided to take a stroll that evening after dinner. She would have liked to ask Dorothea to go along. It would have been nice to have someone to talk to. But the hotelkeeper was busy waiting on some late diners and cleaning up in the kitchen.
Hetty pulled her shawl a little closer about her shoulders. Montana springs were a bit cooler than Connecticut’s. She smiled, remembering croquet games on the lawn back home and the smell of her mother’s honeysuckle in the evening. She sighed. She supposed she was a tad homesick.
Sunset tinged the snow-capped peaks in the distance as Hetty came to the end of the boardwalk. She stood still, breathing deep of the pure, sweet evening air as she took in the beauty all around her. This was a good place to be. She turned and retraced her steps. Nighttime was busy in Curtis Wells. The trickle of patrons heading into Mr. Mosby's Ambrosia Club was becoming a steady stream, and Hetty was jostled several times as she neared the front of the establishment. There was nothing wrong with a man wanting to wet his whistle after a long, hard day. But Hetty didn't approve of inebriation. She heard the croupier calling for bets as the front door opened to admit yet another customer. Gambling was all right too, she supposed, as long as it wasn't taken to excess.
Across the street Hetty saw Luther Root talking to Mr. Call. Luther looked up and caught her gaze, tipping his hat to her before the two men headed off down the street. Hetty waved back. Then she blushed, remembering his big hands on her waist, lifting her down from the stage the day she had arrived, and the way he had smiled and winked at her in the way station between here and Miles City. He was very playful for such a large man, she thought -- kind of like a big, overgrown puppy. Hetty smiled to herself. She quite liked Mr. Root. Which brought her to another pleasing thought. There seemed to be a good many handsome, SINGLE men in Curtis Wells. And that suited Hetty just fine.
She was very glad she had come. Tomorrow she would open the library – the first real job she had ever had. She was grateful to Mr. Mosby for having faith in her. She wouldn’t let him down.
Hetty looked forward to helping the citizens of Curtis Wells improve their minds. Being a librarian was almost like being a teacher – her chosen profession. It was such a big, wonderful world, and there was so much to learn. She’d start by helping Unbob with his reading. And there were sure to be others. Women, maybe her own age, who had never been to school. She’d give them a chance to rise above the drudgery of endless chores and child rearing. Introduce them to great literature. Maybe start a Saturday afternoon reading circle.
From the woods nearby, a hoot owl called, and its mate answered. Hetty looked up at the crescent moon that was slowly rising over the clapboard storefronts across the street. A cool breeze caressed her cheek. She smiled as she turned to go inside. Yes, Curtis Wells was a good place to be.
The End (to be continued)
5/2004
