Free To Dream Anew by Tracie Peterson Page A

that no one person bears more of a load than the other.”
    Portia seemed to consider the words for a moment. “Very well. If that’s the way it has to be in order to receive hospitality—then so be it. I must say life in the West is nothing like the more civilized East.”
    “No, I’m sure that’s true,” Dianne replied. “But then again, in the East you needn’t fear Indian attack, or a bear wandering into camp, or facing starvation because you failed to prepare for the long isolated winter. Out here we have no need of pampered ladies and their finery. We need strong women who aren’t afraid to get their hands dirty. Believe me, your boredom will pass soon enough.”
    Portia looked hard at Dianne and with that gaze, Dianne knew that she’d made an enemy of the widow. There was a hard glint in her eyes that suggested in other circumstances Dianne would not have come out of this confrontation unscathed. It was hard to know which enemy to fear more—the ones from outside the ranch or the one from within.

    “If I had my way about it,” Portia muttered as she pulled off her gown, “I’d leave this place and never return. How I hate this isolated land.” She threw the gown on the floor, then stared after it. Realizing that no one would come and care for it, Portia reached down and retrieved it.
    She smoothed out the dress, turning it right side out again. She draped it over the back of a chair, then stared at her wardrobe, searching for the “appropriate garment” Dianne claimed to have supplied.
    “I can’t believe I’m reduced to this, and all because of R. E. Langford and his greed.” She hated even thinking of her father-in-law. The man always managed to irritate her, even though he was miles away in Baltimore.
    “I was never good enough for you, was I?” she asked, reaching for a plain dress of dark blue serge. “I was never good enough for your social circles—your high and mighty friends and their uppity ways.”
    She yanked the gown from the wardrobe. “Never mind that I was moving in better circles in New York and London—circles that you would never be welcomed in. Never mind that I was the toast of Paris and that we never went without invitation to the finest homes and the best parties.”
    She attacked the dress, pulling it over her head as though it were a noose. “How dare you leave me like this! Destitute—facing financial ruin.”
    She hated R. E. Langford. Hated him almost as much as she’d hated his sniveling coward of a son.

    They moved toward winter with Portia doing as little as she could get away with as far as helping around the house. The ranch hands finished the fall roundup, and before the first snows fell in the valley, they moved out with the herd.
    Dianne always dreaded the time when the men moved the cattle to winter pasture. The ranch took on such an abandoned feel. The rumors of Indian attack had calmed somewhat, but there was always concern.
    Cole went with the men to see the herd secured, then returned two days before a heavy snow buried the roads and made passage impossible. Dianne was glad for his safety and the fact that he would be with her through the winter instead of out on the range guarding the cattle.
    December brought more snow and a feeling of isolation that weighed heavy on Dianne’s heart. She worried about her sister and whether Ardith would adjust to her new life. Portia often made snide comments for which Dianne had to take her to task. It seemed the widow felt Ardith would have been better off dead. No doubt many felt that way, but not Dianne.
    The New Year was celebrated in a somber manner. Luke had taken sick with a cough and runny nose. He seemed constantly to pull at his right ear, and Koko had declared him to have an infection. She treated him with herbs and warm smoke, and before long the baby, who’d turned a year old two days before Christmas, was up and taking full run of the house.
    On cold January nights, the family was sometimes