Sixteen Brides (11 page)

“You think so?” Mama would say. “Because from what I’ve been hearing, a lot of people are afraid of Lowell Day.”

“Well, Mr. Cooper wasn’t. And why would he be? He’s head and shoulders above that cowboy. Probably head and shoulders above any man I’ve ever known.” All of which was true. Physically Jeb Cooper hadn’t had a thing to worry about Friday night. Except—Lowell Day and his friends had guns. And Jeb Cooper had . . . one hand. And none of that had stopped him. Now, wasn’t that something? A man who would actually risk danger to himself to protect a lady.

CHAPTER
EIGHT

And we know that all things work together for good to them
that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose.

ROMANS 8:28

S
mall and wiry, Will Haywood was barely as tall as his dumpling-shaped wife. He had to crank his neck to look up at Ella when Martha introduced her to him the Monday morning after the dance. The man’s slight physique reminded Ella of all the things about herself she hated most. But when Will Haywood sat down with the ladies at the dining hall breakfast table and started telling stories, Ella forgot to feel uncomfortable, lost in the pure amazement that one man and one woman could have lived through some of the events the Haywoods had witnessed, could have thrived in the wilderness that was Nebraska Territory when they first arrived, and could still have the sparkle that shone in their eyes when they looked at each other. It was enough to give a woman hope about things Ella had long ago stopped hoping for.

“Martha and I were nothing but pups when we came down from Canada back in ’56. We started in Kansas Territory, but then war broke out and the Kansas-Missouri border was no place to be in those days. I’d done a couple of freighting trips out this way, and seeing all the wagons headed west put me in a mind to start a way station on the trail.” Will shrugged. “At the time what was to become Dawson County was populated by a couple of farmers, a dozen or so hunters, one trader, and a host of Sioux and Pawnee.Those last two were always fighting over the rich hunting lands along the Platte.”

“Indians!” Jackson suddenly entered the conversation. “You’ve seen some? Real ones?”

Will laughed out loud. “Well, it would have been hard to avoid them, son, seeing as how they were here first and weren’t always all that happy about the pale-skinned folks who seemed determined to stay.”Ella hadn’t thought about Indians all that much. Now she wondered if she should have. “Should we be—are there precautions to be taken?”

“Yes, ma’am, there are.”

Hettie spoke up. “Th-the ticket agent in St. Louis said something about . . . Cheyenne. And a massacre.”

Will sighed. He looked around the table at each woman there. “In general, the newspapers seem to enjoy creating as much sensation as they can over every little incident. The Plum Creek Massacre was a terrible and tragic event. Over the years Martha and I have spent more than our share of time holed up at Fort Kearney waiting for Armageddon in war paint. On the other hand, I’ve always found that man-to-man and woman-to-woman things between us and the people go just fine as long as we extend a hand of friendship.”

Ella noted that Jackson looked somewhat disappointed at the news. The other ladies—Ruth especially—looked relieved.

“I’ll be taking you up to where there’s other homesteaders nearby. And Lucas Gray’s ranch cuts a wide swath across that part of the sandhills. If you choose a homestead up that way, you’ll be all right. But yes, you may encounter Indians. I can help you know what to do when that happens.”

Ruth spoke up. “I’d like that. I once had a rather harrowing experience with a party of Crow. I’ll take all the advice you want to give.”

“You’ve seen Indians?” Jackson stared at his mother as if she were a stranger. “You never told me.”

Ruth lifted her chin. “I didn’t see the need.”

Mama spoke up with a dramatic sigh. “
Children!
They never seem to think their mothers know anything but cooking and sewing.” She nudged Ella and shook a playful finger at Jackson. “We may be older, young man, but that doesn’t mean we’re ready to sit in a rocking chair all day.”

“Mama . . .” Ella shook her head. “I only meant to be kind on Friday night. I was worried you would tire yourself dancing.”

Mama raised both hands and looked around the table as if to say, “See what I have to deal with?” She leaned toward her daughter. “I’m not a child, Ella. What better way to die than in the arms of a handsome man waltzing to beautiful music?”

“All right, Mama. The next time there is a dance in Plum Grove, I won’t say a word if you dance all night. You can
die
dancing. Would that make you happy?”

Mama fluttered her eyelashes. “I can only think of one other better way.”

“Mama!” Ella could feel herself blushing, but when she risked a glance in Will Haywood’s direction, he was smiling at his wife. In the next few minutes as they listened to Will, it became readily apparent that parting from Hamilton Drake was likely the best decision Ella and her friends could have made. Will’s life experience included a mesmerizing list of accomplishments that left Ella speechless and Jackson staring at the little man with openmouthed wonder.

Will Haywood had hunted buffalo with William Cody. He’d traded with Sitting Bull and Red Cloud. After running a road ranch on the Oregon Trail, he and Martha had realized the railroad north of the Platte offered better business prospects, so they’d packed their goods and, when the Platte was frozen, crossed over to make their new home at Plum Grove.

“Martha finally got herself a wood house,” Will said. “After all the years of living in dugouts and soddies, she earned it.” He smiled toward the kitchen, where Martha was now showing Mavis and Helen a few things about how she wanted the dining hall kitchen run. “I’d build her a gold-plated mansion if I could. She is the hardest-working woman God ever created.” Will’s face beamed with pride. “Back when we ran the way station—the Pony Express stopped there, you know—back in those days Martha went through nigh onto a hundred pounds of flour a day. Sold bread for fifty cents a loaf. Some days she earned nearly thirty dollars.” Will shook his head. “But if I had it to do over, I wouldn’t let her work that hard.”

He swallowed. “We lost three babies during those years. I’ll never forgive myself for that. And I’ll never stop thanking God he gave us Linney to help raise.” He looked around the table. “No, Linney isn’t ours. Not by blood, anyway.” He put his open palm to his heart. “But she stole into our hearts the day her pa brought her into town and asked for help.” He paused. “But that’s a story for another day. You want to hear about the land.”

He took a deep breath. “I’ve no interest in being a land agent and telling tall tales to get folks to buy. But I believe in Dawson County, and I can show you the places that are going to get snapped up first.”

“When can you take us?” Ella asked.

Will smiled. “How’s tomorrow morning at first light sound?”

“Exactly right.”

Martha called from the kitchen doorway. “Show them Matthew’s place first.” She smiled at the ladies. “You all need to see that a soddy isn’t all that bad. You might have heard some horror stories at the social Friday night about leaking roofs and varmints. The truth is, I felt snug as can be in our little house.” She glanced at Will. “Will was the one who seemed to feel bad about it. More than me. Our old place is mostly washed away now, but the Ransoms’ is fixed up real nice. You’ll see what I mean.”

She was not one to cause a ruckus, but as Will Haywood pulled his wagon to a halt in front of Jeb Cooper’s place, Caroline wondered— almost aloud—if westerners really did have a different dictionary than the rest of the world. Folks seemed to agree that “near town” could mean as much as a day’s drive away, and Martha had already said that “spring” could mean “snow.” And yesterday she had used “cozy” to describe life in a soddy. That was not the word that came to mind as Caroline stared at the dead bits of grass sticking out between the mud-brick walls that were Jeb Cooper’s house. “Interesting ornamentation,” she muttered, and nodded toward the roof, where several rather impressive sets of antlers lay atop hand-hewn shingles. Well. At least the roof was decent. If it didn’t leak.

Crumbling plaster was falling off the “entryway,” where the front door hung a good two feet back into the wall. Someone had stuffed rags in the gaps between the sod wall and the warped wood frame around both sets of double-hung windows. From where Caroline sat nestled in the hay of Will Haywood’s wagon bed, she could see a collection of barrels and boxes stacked against one side of the house. Just thinking about the creatures that might inhabit a trash pile like that made her thankful her tender ankle gave her an excuse for staying in the wagon. She exchanged glances with Ruth, admiring Ruth’s ability to manage a smile, albeit a weak one.

Zita got up and perched behind the wagon seat where Ella sat beside Mr. Haywood. “Mr. Cooper has a windmill,” she said. “That means fresh water near the house.”

“He told me he had a spring, too,” Ella said. “And a barn.”

“The barn’s back there,” Zita said, pointing toward the back of the house as Mr. Haywood jumped to the ground and walked to the back of the wagon.

“He doesn’t have a
barn
,” Caroline muttered to Ruth. “He has a smaller mound of dirt near the big mound of dirt they’re callin’ a house.”

“The barn was the original dugout,” Mr. Haywood explained as he and Jackson helped Sally and Ruth off the wagon. “That’s where the Ransoms were living when Linney was born. Matthew built the house the next spring.”

“Linney?” Caroline spoke up. “Your Linney? I mean—the Linney you raised? I hadn’t heard her last name.”

Will nodded. “Linea Delight Ransom. My Martha was midwife when she was born. You never saw a happier couple than Matthew and Katie when that baby came into their world.” He shook his head. “Time was Martha and I thought losing Katie just might kill Matthew. But selling this place seems to have done him some good.” He sighed. “Linney will likely throw a pure fit when she finds out. But she’ll come around. The way that girl loves her pa . . . she’ll see it’s for the best.”

Will stared past Caroline at the soddy for a moment, then with a little shrug, he smiled. “It’s too bad your ankle didn’t let you stay a bit longer. You could have met Matthew. After he and Jeb escorted Lowell Day out of town and things quieted down, Matthew came back to dance with Linney. I’m not sure the girl’s come back to earth yet. Last Friday was the first time her pa’s been to a social since Katie died.” He broke off.

“Anyway, this is their place, and it’s seen love and heartbreak, and now it’s got a new owner. And if I don’t stop jawin’, it’ll be dark before I get everyone back to town and Martha will have my hide.”When Will offered to help her down, Caroline shook her head. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll wait right here,” she said, and motioned to where the others waited by the soddy door. “Hettie said I should be careful, and”—she stared pointedly at the deep ruts in the mud running alongside the house toward the barn—“I surely don’t want to turn it again.”

“Well, now, that’s perfectly all right,” Mr. Haywood said. “There’s no doubt this kind of life isn’t for everyone. Not everyone is cut out of hardy stock.” He glanced quickly at Caroline. “Not that I was saying you— I mean, I meant no offense.”

“And none was taken,” Caroline said quickly. As Will hurried off to open the door so the ladies could go inside the soddy, Caroline glowered. “I’m hardy,” she muttered.
Oh, really? Hardy women don’t let a wall of earthen bricks scare them off. Hardy women don’t stay in the wagon. Hardy women make a point NOT to be the southern belle everyone expects them to be. Hardy women—

Caroline got out of the wagon and limped after the others.

It wasn’t as bad as she thought it would be. The door opened onto a good-sized room with one set of double-hung windows next to the front door and another set into the wall on the right. The plastered walls had once been white, and even with the layer of dirt on them now, Caroline could imagine that on a sunny day this room might be almost cheerful.

When she said so, Ruth nodded toward the wide window ledge where half a dozen houseplants had once soaked up sunlight filtering through the now dingy lace curtains. “That one looks like it could have been the start of a rosebush,” Ruth said, pointing at the tallest of the dead plants.

“My Martha favored geraniums,” Will said. “You’ll find that most of the soddy window ledges are crowded with one kind of plant or another. Martha started some of her garden seeds that way, too.”