‘‘Once a long time ago . . .’’
‘‘Before we was borned?’’ A little girl with freckles dancing across nose and cheeks asked the question.
‘‘Long before any of us were born or even our mothers and fathers were born or our grandfathers. Way back in very early times a boy not much older than you was out in the countryside taking care of his father’s sheep.’’
‘‘My pa don’t like sheep much. He says they are smelly and stupid and ruin the pasture.’’
Jacob nodded. ‘‘That’s true. Sheep are all of those things, but they also provide us with wool for our clothes and blankets—’’ ‘‘And stockings. My ma knits lots of socks.’’
‘‘Very true. To help keep you warm in the winter, right?’’
‘‘My winter underwear itches. I don’t like wool much.’’
‘‘Let’s get back to our story.’’ While he unfolded the story of David and Goliath to them, the children stared at him in rapt awe, giggling when he changed his voice to portray the parts, and falling silent as he waved an imaginary sling around his head to let the stones fly. When Goliath hit the ground, all the children applauded.
‘‘And so we see that when God is on our side, we can slay even giants.’’ He glanced up to see that Ada Mae and Joel had joined the group, along with other older children he didn’t know.
‘‘That’s Joel’s pa,’’ Ada Mae announced to all the children. She pointed to the boy beside her.
The look Joel sent his father wore a touch of pride.
Jacob nodded, while inside his mind danced and his heart leaped. The feelings happened again when sometime later Joel joined him in the line waiting for a piece of the beef being served by four men who were slicing as fast as they were able.
‘‘That was some shindig,’’ Mrs. Robertson commented on the ride home. ‘‘Times like this I miss my Ward so bad I can about taste it.’’
Jacob sighed. ‘‘I can’t begin to understand how you feel, but I can say how sorry I am you have to walk through this.’’ Losing Melody when he’d planned to marry her had taught him something of grief. It hurt, clear to the bone and the innards. It colored the whole world in tones of gray and preyed on one like some vicious critter that slashed and ran, leaving you bleeding and reeling from the shock. Not just once, but over and over until you caught yourself watching the shadows and listening for the footfall, all the while knowing there was nothing there. The one you loved was gone, and there was nothing you could do about it but endure. Unless . . .
‘‘I found comfort in His Word,’’ Jacob offered.
‘‘I’d be one of those demented ones picking at threads were it not for that. But no matter how much comfort I receive in the reading, I’m alone in my bed at night, and I’ll never hear his voice again nor see his smile. My Ward had a smile that near to squeezed my heart to smithereens. That’s what made me fall in love with him in the first place. He was never one to waste words, but with a smile like that, why, who needed words?’’
‘‘Mr. Robertson was a fine man. I could never thank him enough for taking on this easterner and my son.’’
‘‘He was always like that. If someone needed something and he had it to give, he would.’’ Mrs. Robertson dabbed at her eyes.
‘‘Ma?’’
She turned around to answer a question from Ada Mae. ‘‘Yes?’’
‘‘You seen my hat?’’
‘‘In the box there in the corner.’’
‘‘Thank you.’’
Mrs. Robertson turned to Jacob. ‘‘You’re an easy one to talk to.’’
‘‘Thank you.’’
‘‘I do hope you take on our little congregation. We need a pastor.’’
‘‘How did . . .’’
‘‘I suspected you were far more than you were letting on.’’
‘‘May I ask how?’’
‘‘Just a sense. But I knew you were playing close to your chest. When you gave the funeral for Ward, well, I can never thank you enough.’’
As they topped the rise to the homeplace, Jacob wished he’d driven more slowly. But then, one of the girls might have overheard. He had to talk about the situation with Miss Edith. But when? And how?
Back in the bunkhouse Jacob tucked the covers around his already sleeping son. Oh, to have the resilience of youth, to play hard, work hard, and collapse into sleep without a care in the world. Or at least to be able to forget those cares in the comfort of sleep.
When will I be able to talk with Mrs. Robertson? Lord, it has to be
soon, before that young woman gets hurt any worse than she already is
going to be. Such an innocent. Why can’t I love her? It would be so easy.
Well, not easy but simple. But then I would be living another lie.
A lie I live because of another innocent, another one I wounded. I cannot,
will not, do that again
.
For some reason a picture of Mr. Dumfarthing came to his mind. Not the nearly dying man but the one later, the one so interested in discussing things of the spirit but with no patience for those around him in the present. An interesting dichotomy.
What has happened with you, my friend?
You call him friend when you ran out on him too? Isn’t it time you
put your own life back in order?
‘‘Yes, Lord, it is time.’’ His whisper sounded loud in the silent soddy. He took out paper and ink, sharpened a wing feather he’d found in the chicken pen to use as a quill, and sat down to write.
Dear Mr. Dumfarthing,
I am writing to beg your forgiveness for running out on you. I was a coward, pure and simple, and now I must tell you the story and let you judge whether you believe a correspondence could be possible, especially if it could be between friends. One of the lessons I have learned is the value of friendship. . . .
He wrote for three pages and signed his name, along with an address, before he sat back in his chair and rubbed his aching forehead. The headaches were still a recurrence since the accident, but they came less frequently now. As did the dizziness. He addressed an envelope and, now that the ink was dry, folded his closely written sheets, fitted them in the envelope, and dropped wax from the candle on the flap to seal it.
The letter he wrote to his family was far shorter, but at least they would know where he was living now and would have an address for him should they decide to write. If only he could write a letter to Mrs. Robertson and perhaps Miss Edith and be gone when they got them.
Ah, but that would be the coward’s way out, and he’d resolved not to take that way anymore. He put away his things, blew out the lamp, hung his good clothes on the pegs along the wall, and just before crawling under the bedcovers, laid a hand on Joel’s shoulder. ‘‘Lord, please, help me to show my son how much I love him. And if possible, let him believe that I am indeed his father. Now and for always. Thank you.’’
Morning was going to come mighty early, but he’d finally gotten some things off his chest. One, no, two, left to go.
Opal threw back the sheet and went to kneel at the window, her arms crossed on the sill. She inhaled and nodded. Fall was indeed heading quickly for winter. Soon this window would be closed, the cracks stuffed until spring. Gone was the hot stillness of summer, of frogs croaking and crickets singing.
An owl hooted, a coyote yipped, and another joined in to make a chorus. From a distance a horse whinnied, another answered. What did they see or hear that made them restless? She listened closely now. Horses were better at guard duty than even a dog. Another whinny, and she pushed away from the window and flew out the door to call Rand. Something out of the ordinary was out there.
‘‘Rand, there’s—’’ ‘‘I heard them too.’’
‘‘I’ll get dressed.’’
‘‘No, you stay here. I’ll take Ghost and get the men. Get the rifle down.’’
Opal wanted to argue, but someone needed to stay by the house, and she was as good a shot as any. Rumor had it that a small group of Indians had been stealing horses and cattle. So far their ranch had never had any trouble, but then, Rand treated the Indians like he did everyone—fairly and with respect.
Opal pulled on britches and shirt, knotting her hair back with a ribbon. Once she had her boots on, she headed for the front room and took her rifle from the gun rack. Levering a shell into the chamber, she eased out the front door and remained in the deep shadows. The moon peeped from behind a cloud, then hid again. Ghost whined at her feet. Rand must have told her to stay too.
‘‘Come,’’ she whispered as she slid back into the house and walked on through to the back door.
‘‘I don’t see anyone.’’
Gun ready, Opal spun toward the voice. ‘‘Oh, you startled me.’’
Ruby stood to the side of the window. They exchanged brief glances, and Opal paused for a moment before easing back out the door and repeating her actions from the front of the log house. Two pairs of eyes were surely better than one.
The land had fallen silent, as if it too waited, holding its breath in order to see.
Opal’s eyes ached from staring into every shadow, from studying each moving leaf and grass blade. Ghost sat quietly at her feet, further confirmation that nothing untoward moved.
She wagged her tail when Rand stepped onto the porch at the far end.
‘‘Good thing she knew you, or you might have caught a bullet.’’ Even though Opal trusted the dog, her heart still needed to settle back down.
The sound of horses galloping off in the distance sent them both to the front of the house.
‘‘You see anything?’’ Rand called to the three approaching men.
‘‘Two Indians. Took off when we showed up. Good thing we have a strong fence and the horses were in it.’’ Chaps set the butt of his rifle on the porch floor. ‘‘They must be getting desperate.’’
‘‘They don’t eat horse. I’d give them a steer if they asked. But horse thieving . . .’’ He shook his head. ‘‘And on a moonlit night too. Strange.’’
‘‘You need anything else, Boss?’’
Rand nodded. ‘‘Joe, you take guard the rest of the night.We’ll keep an eye out for a while.’’
Though they stayed on guard for the next week, nothing else happened. A severe frost crept in one night, and they woke to a white-rimmed world. Opal’s boot tracks to the barn to milk made a black trail in the sparkly grass.
‘‘We’ll dig up the rest of the potatoes,’’ Rand announced after breakfast. ‘‘And bring up some river sand to cover the root crops. Opal, you take care of that. I don’t want Ruby doing any heavy lifting.’’
Opal stared across the table at her sister. ‘‘You’re all right?’’
‘‘I’m fine. Rand is being a mite protective, that’s all.’’
‘‘Chaps, you can go back to splitting wood. Beans says we’re going to need to put in extra wood at the line shacks. Promises to be a hard winter. The rest of us can go pull in those trees we downed last year and any that the wind felled for us. Let’s stay on this side of the river.’’
The men gave Beans a hard time about his weather-predicting bones as they filed out of the kitchen.
Opal continued to study her sister. Were the circles under her eyes more pronounced? Had she seemed more tired lately? How come the cows could drop their calves off all by themselves and women needed help? She started to ask, thought the better of it, and pushed back her chair. Cleaning up the garden would most likely use up the day. That and studying, since tomorrow she went to Pearl’s again. Rand had been making sure one of the men was always around the homeplace too. Was he being overprotective or just wise? She chose the latter and set her dishes in the steaming pan.
‘‘It keeps cold like this, and we’ll be butchering soon.’’ Chaps forked up a mound of potatoes. He had finished splitting a pile of wood so had offered to help Opal dig up the potatoes.
Opal pointed to the dirt-crusted potatoes. ‘‘Per, you can help me put them in the sack.’’ She did several to show him how. When he did as she said, she patted his bottom. ‘‘Good boy. You can help.’’
Together the three of them made their way down the row.
‘‘Hey, Per, no.’’ Chaps hid his laugh behind the back of a gloved hand as he swiped it across his face.
Opal turned. Per sat in the middle of the row, a ring of dirt circling his mouth as he tried to take another bite out of a potato about the size of his fist.
‘‘Good grief.’’ Opal surged to her feet and took the potato away. ‘‘We could at least wash it first.’’
Per reached for his treasure, eyes narrowing. ‘‘No, Opa.’’
‘‘Well, that was sure clear.’’ She turned to Chaps, who was now leaning on the fork handle. ‘‘Can it hurt him?’’
‘‘Only if he chokes on it.’’
‘‘Opa!’’ One tear meandered down his fat cheek as he stood up.
‘‘Oh, all right.’’ She rubbed the dirt off on her pant leg, turning the potato to get it all. Washing would be better, but this was the way she always cleaned carrots before eating them. After all, what harm could a little dirt do?
She gave Per back his potato, and he plunked himself down again. Hard to do two things at a time at his age, like standing, biting, and chewing the crunchy white flesh.
‘‘I’ll wash you up later,’’ she promised and went back to putting potatoes into the gunnysack. From there they would dump them into the bin cleaned and ready in the root cellar. Turnips and rutabaga each had a bin, carrots another; onions were already dried, hanging by their braided tops. Anything that couldn’t be stored or dried was already canned.
Ruby and Little Squirrel were justifiably proud of the shelves of food put up. Any game brought in and not needed immediately was either smoking or had been smoked and now hung in the springhouse.
By the time the triangle rang for dinner, Opal counted ten gunnysacks full of potatoes, tall and ready for hauling. She’d taken Per back into the house earlier when he’d gotten fussy but had stopped first for a quick washup at the pump to appease his mother.
As they continued to prepare for the coming winter, Opal finished off the two horses she’d been training and took them back to their owners so the Harrisons wouldn’t have to feed them. Along with bringing the split wood to the line shacks, Rand hauled sacks of grain back from Medora for winter feed. They stocked the line shacks with a supply of canned food and dried food and lined the northern wall with firewood as an extra shelter. They made sure that the Robertsons’ shack had the same preparations.