Prairie Wife (24 page)

Cay used a dented dustpan to pick up his pile of dirt and china
chips. "Yeah. Prob'ly somebody more like Mrs. Barnes who cooks good and
wouldn't make you cut your hair all the time and stuff."

The boy's words caught Sam by surprise. Mrs. Barnes? He tried to
remember her first name. Ethel? Evelyn? He'd seen her nearly every day for the
past six years and didn't know her name.

She was a widow. Well, so was he.

She had a grown son. And he had a grown daughter.

She was pleasant enough and not hard to look at. But a
wife?
He
must be plumb loco for havin' these thoughts. He wasn't young and looking to
start a family. He had a simple, settled, more-than-adequate life.

But something is missing,
an internal voice taunted.
What happened with Eden had shown him that he had been missing a relationship.
He'd made a mistake with that one, but that's what he deserved for taking up
with a woman he didn't even know.

A respectable woman who simply wanted companionship as he did—now
that was another thing entirely. He'd have to look Mrs. Barnes over with a new
eye. And... he'd have to pay attention to see if she ever looked at him in any
certain way.

"I am an old fool," he said to himself. And laughed
aloud.

***

The diversity of people who passed through Shelby Station never
ceased to amaze Amy. Hopefully they'd seen the worst of the lot with Lark Doyle
and George Gray. Once news came the following week that the marshal had
arrived, and Jesse and Amy told him their stories, the lawman took custody of
Gray and hauled him away for trial.

The jewelry had been returned to its rightful owner. That chapter
was behind them, but not entirely forgotten. Jack confided in Jesse that Rachel
had nightmares almost every night. Amy's sleep was disturbed by dreams, as
well, but she rationalized by day that the danger was over, and moved forward.

Mr. Quenton had proved to be an interesting fellow, joining them
for meals and often sitting with the men of an evening. One morning, soon after
the news that Gray had been taken away to stand trial, Quenton extended an
invitation to come to his tent to see his photographs. That night a few hands
at a time took him up on his offer, followed by the Shelbys.

Snow fell as Jesse, Amy and Cay ran across the rutted road and
entered the spacious tent. The man sat writing in a journal by lamplight. He
removed a pair of wire-framed spectacles and welcomed the visitors.

"You've come to look at my work." He opened a case and
carefully took out a stack of large photographs.

"Have to admit we've been curious," Jesse said.

Mr. Quentin gestured for them to take seats on nearby trunks. With
heads bent over the pictures, the three of them viewed image after image. Some
pictures of men working on the railroad, cowboys herding cattle, and families
standing outside tents and soddys. Others depicted children and animals and
farmland.

"Mr. Quenton, these are incredible," Amy told him.
"You've caught
life
on these papers." There was a candid
quality about his work, a stark reality that somehow captured the lives and the
determination of the people that the viewer couldn't help recognizing and
appreciating. "It's like—like you've lassoed a tornado and brought it to a
stop, with all its power visible."

"Mighty impressive," Jesse agreed.

Mr. Quenton smiled at their praise and moved to a folding table.
"I've just developed these."

Amy took the smaller stack from him and looked at the first one. A
likeness of Pitch made her smile. He was leaning on a corral rail, his hat
cocked back, squinting into the sun. His gold front tooth gleamed.

Another was Jesse, his shirt molded to his chest in the wind, one
hand flattened on a dark gelding's neck as he adjusted a harness. Amy's fingers
hovered above the picture. "He looks so real. I feel like I could touch
him." She glanced up. "Not like the daguerreotypes where the person
is posed and sober. This is... well, it's the real
Jesse."

"I consider that a supreme compliment." Mr. Quenton gave
a little bow.

Among the collection, were photographs of Sam and Cay, and one of
Amy standing on the porch, one hand shading her eyes. She stared at an Amy so
different from the person she saw in the mirror each morning and night that she
barely recognized herself. This woman seemed in harmony with her surroundings,
at peace with her life. She moved on to the next picture—an image of the
windmill. Another showed the soddy, smoke curling from the chimney.

Amy paused over the last picture, and beside her Jesse lowered his
head for a better view. Three wooden crosses poked through a dusting of snow,
the names painted on them legible. Amy's breath caught. It was a picture of the
slope where their mothers and their son were buried.

Jesse felt as though the air had been sucked from the tent. Amy
seemed to stare at the likeness as though she'd never seen the sight before, as
though it was one of the previous pictures from Kansas or Wyoming and not a
spot a few hundred feet from where they now sat. Wind buffeted the canvas
overhead.

And Jesse realized then that she hadn't ever seen it. Not like
this. Not like he had when he'd planted roses and tended the weeds. In all the
time since Tim's death she'd only been there the day they'd buried his mother,
and she had carefully avoided looking at Tim's grave.

Unaware of the tension, Cay pointed. "I helped make that
one."

Quickly, Amy handed the stack back to Mr. Quenton. "Thank you
for showing us your work."

She stood and ducked out the tent flap.

Jesse watched her exit and turned to Quenton, who wore a puzzled
expression. "She liked them. So did I. See you in the morning."

Then he and Cay followed Amy to the house. She had gone directly
to wrap several loaves of bread she'd baked after dinner, and stood arranging
them. Jesse took his nephew into the parlor to work on his numbers.

Amy had become predictable in her dogmatic refusal to talk or even
think about anything where their son was concerned. Now there was another child
to consider, and that concerned him even more. Her denial wasn't healthy, and
his patience had worn thin. He was going to handle things differently this
time. He wouldn't end up frustrated and tempted to lose himself again.

"Uncle Jesse?" Cay looked confused. "What happened
to your little boy?"

Jesse gazed at the fire. When he spoke it was to say words he had
never said before. "He drowned in the creek." A simple explanation
for an event that had changed his life. "He was just three."

"And his name was Timothy." Cay had read that on the
marker.

Jesse nodded. "We called him Tim." Just saying his son's
name aloud was liberating.

Cay's attention shifted to a spot behind Jesse. Jesse turned to
see Amy standing inside the room, her hair still damp from the snow. She wore
an expression of betrayal, as though telling Cay the truth somehow made him
unfaithful to her... or to their son.

Without a word, she gathered her hem and climbed the stairs. Jesse
and Cay exchanged a look and returned to the lesson.

***

Jesse didn't think Amy slept that night. She was too still, too
quiet. Each time he woke, he could feel the emotion emanating from her. This
was the way it had been before he started drinking. In shutting out her
feelings, she was shutting out him. But he wasn't going to let it go this time.
He wasn't going to feel like he was doing something wrong.

"Amy," he said softly into the darkness. "Maybe if
we could just talk..."

"Let it go, Jesse."

"You keep acting like if I let it go, everything will be all
right. Well, it won't. You think you've let Tim go, but you haven't. You
haven't even grieved, and I don't understand how you can
not.
You
haven't allowed me to grieve. Why can't we share this?"

When Amy threw back the covers and stood, Jesse got up and padded
across the floor to strike a match and light a lamp. Amy wore her gauzy
nightdress that revealed the slight swell of her belly. Her braid draped over
her shoulder and across her breast, and her eyes were like dark bruises in the
soft light. She stared at him as though he were deliberately trying to hurt
her.

"Don't keep lookin' at me like you can't figure out what's
goin' on." He thrust a hand into his hair and gripped until his scalp
hurt. "Denying we had a son or that he's gone won't fix this. Denying that
you're carrying a child now won't make our loss go away."

Amy covered her face with both hands and released a sharp cry.
"I don't want another child! I don't deserve another child!"

He'd never seen her this anguished, and her distress almost made
him feel guilty, but he caught his thoughts before he regressed. Jesse
approached her slowly. "Amy, this baby didn't have anything to do with the
past. He deserves to be loved and wanted."

"I know," she said from behind her fingers.

He peeled her hands away from her face, but she didn't look at
him. "We can't pretend this child isn't comin', and we can't deprive him
of our love just because we feel guilty."

"I know," she said again with a nod.

Encouraged, he gently cupped her jaw and turned her face up to
his. Her eyes were dark and liquid, but no tears marred her cheeks. He drew her
into his arms, aching for all she held inside, needing her to face the truth.

"We're going to be parents."

She clung to him, her fingers biting into his flesh. "I'll do
better, I promise."

"Don't promise me anything, except that you'll always love me
and that you'll love our baby." He led her to the bed and lay down with
her in his arms. He stroked her back and shoulders until she relaxed against
him, and eventually slept.

She had taken a huge step in recognizing her pregnancy, and for
that he was grateful. Perhaps this baby would be the key to helping her let go
of Tim. Jesse prayed it was so.

***

The following morning, Jesse tapped on Cay's door on his way past,
calling, "Mornin'!"

Amy joined him in the kitchen and he kindled the fire in the stove
for her before going out to start chores before breakfast. An early stage
arrived, and he changed horses while the driver and passengers made their way
to the kitchen for coffee. When the stage had moved on, Jesse returned to the
house.

The warm interior smelled like bacon. "Did you have time to
feed 'em?"

"They got bacon and toast. I haven't been out for eggs
yet."

"Cay still hasn't come down? He could've gathered the eggs
for you."

Jesse ran up the stairs and knocked on the door. No response.

Letting himself in, he found the room unoccupied. The bed was
unmade and a drawer stood open. Jesse moved forward. The drawer was empty, so
were all the others.

He glanced around in bewilderment, a sick feeling in his stomach.
He thundered down the stairs. "Did you see Cay this morning?"

Amy and Mrs. Barnes shook their heads. Pitch entered and gave the
same answer.

Jesse ran across the yard to the stable. Hermie was just propping
a pitch fork against a stall. "Seen Cay?"

"No, boss."

"Are all the horses here?"

Together they checked the stalls and found three empty.
"Who's ridden out already?" Deezer's horse was gone. And the one Jack
rode. They had been assigned to check fences and probably got an early start.
He stood before another empty stall. "The dun mare," Jesse said.

He glanced at the rack of saddles. "How would we even know if
there was tack missing? Or a saddle, for that matter?"

"There was a saddle on this divider last night," Hermie
replied. "I remember because I was gonna oil it if'n I had a spare
minute."

"Why would he take a horse and head out on his own?"

Hermie shook his head.

Amy was heading toward him when Jesse started back toward the
house. "Did you find him?"

"Appears he's taken a horse and saddle."

She stared, wide-eyed. "What? Where would he have gone?"

"I don't know."

Biscuit ran up to them then, tail wagging, and they exchanged a
worried glance.

Having just ridden in, Sam dismounted and joined them.
"Somethin' troublin' you?"

"Cay took a horse and rode out," Jesse told him.
"Probably sometime during the night."

Sam looked from one to the other with a puzzled frown. "Why
would he do that?"

Jesse shook his head.

"He heard me," said Amy.

"What?" Jesse asked.

"Last night," she continued. "He must have heard us
talking. I was upset. I said I didn't want any more children."

Jesse studied the horizon, his jaw set in a grim line. "It's
my fault," she said.

"Oh, for cryin' out loud," Jesse said in disgust.
"I'm fed up to here with the two of you takin' the weight of the world on
your shoulders. How full of yourselves are you? People do things—bad and
good—without your permission. Without you givin' 'em the idea or the reason."