Come Spring Read Online Free

lamplight spilled out of the small, uneven windows that flanked the door, above which hung an enormous pair of elk horns. Hides were tacked to the outer walls of the cabin, lush fur pelts of wolf, bighorn sheep, and beaver. The snowy ground around the place was littered with wood chips scattered from the woodpile, a chopping block for splitting kindling, various bits of animal hooves and horns, and much-trampled earth. There was a small lean-to shed behind the cabin; and even more than the main dwelling itself, it appeared ready to fall over. A footpath through the snow had been cleared from the door to the edge of the nearby woods.
    Inside the sparsely furnished dwelling, two men sat in hushed conversation before a fire that popped and crackled in a stone fireplace that covered one entire wall of the cabin. One of the men was a visitor. He was old. His grizzled white hair and full beard attested to his age as much as the deep creases etched across his full features. Faded hazel eyes that had seen more in one lifetime than ten men could remember paused for a moment to watch in silent contemplation while the flames licked at the logs in the fireplace. Seated on a straight-backed hand-hewn chair, the old man leaned forward with both elbows resting on the crude table that separated him from his host. His clothing, an assortment of tanned hides and nearly threadbare wool, was as rugged as the life he led. His coat was made broad at the shoulders, for he was a big man, and it hung open to allow for his wide girth. He was known simply as Ted, Old Ted to be exact, his surname long since forgotten. Like most mountain men, Ted traveled alone, except for a scroungy, balding, long-haired Chihuahua he called The Mouse and carried inside his jacket. He’d had the dog ever since the day he had traded a Mexican a mule for it, and most folks agreed the Mexican had made the better end of the deal. The Mouse, who had a great aversion for anyone but its master, lay snuggled against Ted’s chest beneath his beard, snoring.
    The younger man, Buck Scott, stared not at the fire but at Old Ted. Buck fidgeted in his chair, his gaze often roving to the big bed in the far, shadowed corner of the cabin’s only room. He alternately tapped his thumbs against the edge of the table while he leaned against the wall, balancing the chair on its two back legs. As he chewed on his lower lip, he frowned, but his worried expression was barely visible in the dim firelight. Buck took stock of his home and possessions, trying to see them the way a stranger might. More to the point, the way the woman he would bring home with him in a few days’ time might view them.
    Brown was the color that first came to mind when he thought of having to describe the place to his new bride. Brown and dingy. The wooden walls were bare, except for the patch above the mantel that had been papered with newspaper and in the spots where they were chinked with mud. The floor was as brown as dirt, because it was dirt. He’d meant to save enough grain sacks to stitch together to form a makeshift floor covering, but by the time the idea came to him he’d used the sacks for other thigngs. A bag of potatoes slumped tiredly against a side wall. Shelves lined the space above and beside the bag. Tins of staples—dried beans, cornmeal, honey, molasses, yeast, soda, and baking powder—stood in a row like culinary soldiers. Buck hoped the woman would find everything to her liking.
    He knew for certain that he wouldn’t miss doing his own cooking and cleaning; and as his thoughts turned to the tasks, he hoped he had everything she might need. He’d never seen a fancy kitchen nor did he know what a city woman might think she ought to have in one. Since his sisters had been gone, he hadn’t paid much attention to such details and had lived on a diet of meat, biscuits, canned vegetables, and dried fruit. There was a turnspit for meat in the fireplace, heavy iron kettles, a Dutch oven, and a