Sixteen Brides (15 page)

“A sign would be grand.”

As Caroline lettered a sign, Martha cleared the countertop of the empty cardboard around which the fabric pieces had been wrapped. She brought another box from the supply room and began to arrange cards of black jet buttons on a shelf inside one of her glass display cases. Every sound had her looking toward the door.

Look! Remnants at the best prices! Make your quilts shimmer!
Caroline had just set her sign in place in the washtub when Linney bolted through the door, her face streaked with tears, her father at her heels, pleading for her to listen.

“I’m sorry. I was wrong. I’m so sorry, baby girl.”

Linney whirled about. Swiping at her tears with the back of one hand, she said, “Don’t call me your baby girl! Don’t you ever say anything to me again!” She ran out of the room. Caroline could hear her stomp up the outside staircase leading to the living quarters over the store. The door slammed. Caroline couldn’t think what to do. A trapdoor beneath her feet would have come in handy at that moment. When she finally managed to move, Matthew Ransom was still standing by the washtub. Caroline slipped by him and out the door.

Matthew sat up, his body drenched in sweat, his beard soaked with tears. Time was supposed to heal all wounds, wasn’t it? Then why was he having
more
nightmares just when he was trying to break the bonds that kept dragging him into the past? Selling the homestead was the right thing to do. And yet these past couple of nights had been among the worst in recent memory.
Well, what do you expect? You’re such a coward. Afraid to face your own daughter. Going behind her back. You should have told her and taken her out there. Packed Katie’s things together.
Made sure she met Jeb Cooper right away. She’d like Jeb and you know it.
That would have helped. Coward. Fool.

With a sigh Matthew swiped at his face with the back of his hand. Some nights he thought that if he had eyes to see the spirit world, he would see Katie or an angel or his mother or maybe even Jesus himself looking down on him with sad, disappointed eyes.

At times like this it didn’t do any good to try and go back to sleep. He’d just lie there and debate the ghosts in the room, and he’d end up in the same place he always did.

Feeling lost and bitter and as if those things Jesus said about forgiving others just didn’t apply in some cases. It had taken Matthew long enough to get to the point of forgiving Katie. But he’d done it.

He’d finally gathered enough pelts for Martha to order a proper tombstone, too. A metal one from Iowa with a border of oak leaves all around the lettering that no amount of weather would ever wear away. Katie had lamented the absence of oak trees out here. She would have them on her gravestone at least, and he would plant another one this year. Cooper would be glad to keep it watered, and Linney would like that, too.

Linney.
What a mess he’d made of things earlier today. And right in front of Caroline Jamison. At least she had the decency to slip out the door and give him some privacy. He’d wanted to chase Linney up Martha’s stairs, but Martha said no.
Give her some time, Matthew. You’ve handled this badly, but she’ll come around. Just give her some time.
How much time was what Matthew wanted to know.

Time.
It had taken him eight years of time to get to this point, but he had made progress, and with Jeb Cooper on the homestead, Matthew somehow felt that would free things up for both him and Linney. He wasn’t ready to buy a place again, but he was at least thinking of spending more time in Plum Grove. In fact, he was almost ready to tell Vernon Lux he’d take that job building wagons and move into his back room. And didn’t that show the progress he had made? As for the rest of it, the best he could do was to keep it buried where it could do no harm beyond his dreams. Some people did not deserve forgiveness, and no amount of dreaming or imagined whispers from the very mouth of God could change that.

With a sigh, Matthew threw back the tangle of furs he used for bedding. He rose and made coffee and fried an egg, savoring the rare treat. Martha had nestled a few eggs in straw in the pocket of his buckskin coat before he left town yesterday. “They won’t make it back to the dugout,” he’d protested.

“But even if only one does, won’t it be a nice treat?” And it was. Especially with the yolk left runny to soak into the biscuit crumbs he sprinkled on top. Wide awake now, Matthew sat at his table and looked around the dugout. That stack of pelts collecting in the far corner might just be his last. With people pouring in to settle the area, the good days of trapping would be over soon.

Thoughts of newcomers in Dawson County made him think about Caroline—Mrs. Jamison—again. With a last swig of coffee, he stood up. After collecting a few tools, Matthew slid his rifle into its scabbard and stepped outside. As daylight washed the deep shadows off the hillside above his dugout, he pulled his door closed behind him. It was going to be a fine day. Sunshine. Warm air. Lifting his face toward the sky, Matthew said thank-you to whatever spirits might be listening. As he mounted his pinto pony, he saw a hawk soar across the sky in the distance.

Linney had a right to be upset with him. But she’d forgive him. She was better than he was in that. Linney had a forgiving heart.

CHAPTER
ELEVEN

For my thoughts are not your thoughts,
neither are your ways my ways, saith the Lord.

ISAIAH 55:8

O
ne loud thwack, a few beats, another thwack, a few beats, another thwack. Whoever was working—and Matthew assumed it to be Jeb Cooper—was taking exactly one smack of a hammer to drive nails. That indicated both physical power and prowess. But what would Cooper be building? On a day like this a man should be plowing and planting. He’d never be a successful homesteader if he didn’t.
It’s not your homestead anymore. And it’s definitely not your place to tell a man how to farm.

Even after he topped the rise just behind the house and could see Cooper down below, Matthew wasn’t sure what the man was building. The wagon stood near the back of the house. It didn’t look like he’d unloaded anything, save for the pile of lumber they’d strapped atop all those boxes. A series of rectangular frames leaned against the back wall of the house to the right of the door. As he got closer, Matthew realized Cooper was hammering at yet another. Why would a man need that much shelving? Was he one of those hermits who laid in stores for a year so he wouldn’t have to go to town?
Look who’s talking.

Cooper’s oxen grazed off in the distance near a couple of cows, the latter staked out. They’d already grazed a semicircle clear. As Matthew watched, first one and then the other folded its legs and sank down into the grass, content to bask in the morning sunshine and chew their cud. A sow suckled her newborn farrow inside the small sod enclosure built for such. And then Matthew saw the spot on the prairie where his heart lay buried.
Inside an iron fence.

Cooper looked up and called a greeting. He glanced over toward the grave, then back at Matthew. “I hope you don’t mind.” When Matthew still didn’t respond, Cooper frowned. “If you don’t want it, I’ll—”

“No.” Matthew swallowed. “It’s not that. It’s—” He dismounted and walked to the fence. “I’ve never seen ironwork like this. Where—how?”

“I made it,” Cooper said, and drove another nail.

“You . . . made . . . this?” Matthew touched a cluster of leaves.

Cooper shrugged. He didn’t look up. “I was a blacksmith before the war. Couldn’t figure out how to do it with one hand. At least not as well as I used to, and I wasn’t willing to settle.” He drove a nail. “So now I’m a farmer. I’m a little worried about the plowing, but I believe I’ve about got it figured out.”

He looked down at the forearm that ended in a stump. “I’m grateful for the elbow joint. It does make a difference. I can wrap the reins—” He broke off. Shrugged. “Anyway, I’ve about got it figured out.” He pointed at the fence with his hammer. “I’m glad you don’t mind about that.”

“Mind? It’s astonishing. But where was it when we took your freight off the train?”

“Already in the wagon I brought with me. Frankly, the fence is why I brought the wagon. It has a false bottom built exactly for the fence.”

“But the boxes we loaded are still in the wagon.”

Cooper shrugged. “Unloaded, reloaded—” He smiled. “After I met Linney, the fence took on a kind of urgency. I think it was meant to be, Matthew. I had exactly enough. Not one foot too much or too little. It’s as if God was designing it long ago.”

Oak leaves.
The whole thing gave Matthew goose bumps. He scanned the back of the house. Cooper had cleared away the pile of old barrels and assorted debris from along one side. The rake that had been up on the roof was leaning against the wagon. Katie’s overgrown garden was weeded. “It’s obvious the right man bought the place,” he said.

Cooper thanked him before pointing toward the shelves leaning against the house. “Lend a hand?”

“Happy to.” As Matthew passed by the wagon he glanced into an open crate.
Browning. Longfellow. Defoe. Hawthorne. Euripides.
The idea of Jeb Cooper being a scholar didn’t fit, either with blacksmithing or with plowing. Men who read books like that ended up teaching at universities. Didn’t they?

“I am hatched from a long line of deep thinkers,” Cooper said, as if he’d read Matthew’s mind. “But I always preferred working with my hands. I am, therefore, a great disappointment to what little family I have left. My great-aunt expected my injury to finally show me the error of my ways.” He shrugged. “This being polite company, I shall not repeat her last words to me as I drove away from the family home to begin a new life out here.”

Matthew shouldered his part of the first empty shelf, and together the men took it inside. “You’ve sanded the floor,” he said as they settled the shelf against a wall. “And whitewashed the walls.”

“As to the floors, I couldn’t risk a shelf toppling over. A man could get killed. Buried under books.” Cooper smiled. “Not a bad way to die, I suppose. But I’m in no hurry. As to the rest, I had to get it done before moving the books in, or it never would happen. Don’t be too impressed. The front room is still sadly in need of attention.”

He laid a hand atop the sewing machine. “Help me take this out by the wagon, will you? I promised to deliver it to Mrs. Grant in return for her making a few shirts.” He hesitated. “But maybe—” He scratched his beard. “I’m sorry, Ransom. I should have checked with you about it. Maybe you want it for Linney.”

“If Mrs. Grant can use it, that’s fine. Martha has one with all the newfangled gadgets. At least that’s what Linney says.” He paused. “I meant to bring her out here to see for herself that it’s all for the best.” He shook his head. “I’ve bungled things with Linney badly.” He looked toward the front of the house, and suddenly everything seemed to be a treasure, from the framed motto above the door to the cradle to the cracked blue-and-white teapot.

Cooper’s voice was gentle as he said, “There’s a trunk by the front door that’s full of things she should have.”

Katie’s trunk. Her wedding dress. Her clothes. The baby’s things . . .
The lump in Matthew’s throat made it impossible to speak. He nodded.

“I’ve an idea,” Cooper said. “You help me finish with the shelves and my books. Once the wagon’s empty, we’ll reload it with the things you want Linney to have. Take it all if you want. Obviously I can build anything I need—although I’d appreciate keeping the stove.” He paused. “Tomorrow we’ll take it all into town, and you can make your peace. I heard there’s a circuit rider coming through. Thought I’d go to church. If things go well with you and Linney, I’ll buy us all lunch at the dining hall. If not—well, we’ll work that out, too.”

Matthew had no interest in attending church, but seeing Linney was another matter. He hated the idea she was mad at him. And he missed her. Just looking at the cradle brought a fresh realization that his little girl was growing and he’d missed so much of it. It was time he talked to Vernon Lux.

Hettie and Ruth sat at the kitchen table in the Immigrant House, a dozen lists with headings like “Have” and “Need” and “Buy” and “Build” spread before them. Hettie ran her finger down the “Have” list, then shook her head. “No, it says right here that Ella and Zita brought two Dutch ovens, so we won’t need to order one.” She frowned. “Although I don’t see that we have a frying pan.”

Ruth turned to the appropriate page in the Wards catalogue. “What do you think?” she asked. “Twelve-inch or sixteen?”

“I . . . I don’t know,” Hettie said. “We’ll be cooking for seven people three times a day. What do you think?”

“Sixteen,” Ruth said, and wrote it down on the ever-growing list of things Martha Haywood would order for them.

“How are we going to afford all of it?” Hettie said, pointing at the list.

“A little bit at a time. After we get everyone’s input, we’ll have a meeting and prioritize.”

“You’re good at organizing things,” Hettie said.

“I just thought of another list to make, though.” Ruth stood up. “You can make this one by yourself. I need to get this catalogue back to Martha so she has it tomorrow. She’s expecting a lot of business, what with the circuit rider and Helen’s wedding.”

“What kind of a list do you want me to make?”

“Medical supplies. So we have what you would need should anyone take sick or, God forbid, get injured.”

Ruth left and Hettie began to write.
Carbolic—
when Sally burst in the back door with a man in tow.

“Here she is,” Sally said, pointing to Hettie, “the closest thing to a doctor in town. I bet she can help.” Sally stepped aside so the man and his petite wife could come in.

Hettie stood up, hurrying to collect the lists before they blew off the table.

“This here’s Frank Darby,” Sally said. “And his wife, Nancy. Nancy’s feelin’ poorly.”

Indeed, before Sally was finished with the introductions, Mrs. Darby turned white as a sheet and plopped into a chair, her hand to her mouth.

The look of terror that came across Frank Darby’s handsome face as he murmured “Darlin’,” and put his hand on his wife’s shoulder overcame Hettie’s resistance. As she slipped into the chair nearest Mrs. Darby, she reached for the woman’s slim hand and leaned forward. “Tell me,” she said, and looked up into the young wife’s frightened eyes.

“I . . . I just can’t keep a thing down,” she said in a half whisper.

Hettie put her hand to the woman’s forehead. Expecting to feel indication of a fever, she was pleasantly surprised.

“And I’m so tired all the time.”

“That’s not like my Nancy,” the rancher said. “She’s always been real pert.”

Finally, as both the rancher and his wife listed the changes in her health in recent weeks, Hettie began to have trouble suppressing a smile. Finally, she adjusted her glasses and cleared her throat. “And your . . . personal . . . calendar . . . Mrs. Darby. Has it . . . changed?”

As the meaning behind Hettie’s question dawned on the couple, Mrs. Darby’s face turned scarlet. “Well,” she said, so quietly Hettie had to lean close to hear it, “now that you mention it—”

“Mrs. Grant.” Hettie looked up at Sally. “Would you be kind enough to go next door and see if Mrs. Haywood might send us a pinch of peppermint tea leaves?”

While Sally was gone, Hettie went about preparing to serve tea. “I believe it will settle your stomach,” she said. Then she smiled up at Mr. Darby. “And if you’ll give us a moment with the almanac”— she pointed to the little book she and Ruth had been using to plan a garden—“I believe we’ll be able to predict just when Mrs. Darby will feel her old self again. Although, if I’m correct in my diagnosis, your lives are about to change in the most profound way possible.”

When the rancher looked confused, his wife reached for his hand. “The doc thinks I’m . . . uh . . . in a family way, Bill.”

The rancher’s eyes showed amazement. “He—she—does?” He stared first at Hettie and then down at his wife. “Do
you
?”

“I suppose it was bound to happen sooner or later.” She put her hand to her mouth. “I just didn’t expect it to make me so
sick.
Mother was never sick a day. And I’m one of thirteen.”

“Well,” Hettie said as Sally returned, tea tin in hand, “every woman is different. But most find peppermint tea to be very helpful.” She brewed the tea. The color returned to Mrs. Darby’s face after only a few sips. With Hettie insisting that she didn’t expect to be paid, the couple left.

Ruth returned a few minutes later with a message. “Martha said to tell you that you have five dollars on account at the mercantile.” She smiled. “Mr. Darby was extremely grateful. Apparently he intends to tell everyone he knows that Plum Grove might not have a real doctor, but they’ve got the next best thing.”

“Well, ain’t that somethin’,” Sally said, and patted Hettie on the shoulder.

Hettie forced a smile, but inside she trembled at the idea of Frank Darby’s talking about the woman in Plum Grove who knew doctoring.

On Sunday morning while Zita, Ruth, and Ella worked on Helen Smith’s wedding cake in the Immigrant House kitchen, Caroline and Sally headed over to the dining hall early to help rearrange things for the combination wedding/church service. As they moved tables to one side, Sally joked, “I suppose it’s too much to hope for another dance tonight, it being the Sabbath and all.”