Luke’s plan is to go as soon as he finishes the planting and return before Baby is due, which by my best reckoning is early June, and he wants to leave me behind! I protested vigorously, but Luke was firm, saying that going alone, he could make the trip in half the time. Besides, said he, the journey was too strenuous for a woman in my condition, as if thousands of women in the same circumstance have not already crossed these plains! When I suggested waiting until after the babe’s arrival, Luke argued that delaying the trip until the harvest meant we would take our chances with blizzards. He knows how I fear storms.
When I brought up the subject of the Indians, Luke said not one of the Red Men has been seen in our vicinity this year, and it is the general opinion in Mingo that they had been chased to the north. Then Luke remarked he had chosen me for a wife because I was levelheaded and had said as much in his proposal. He had not expected me to turn into an example of frail femininity, of a sudden.
Luke believed with that argument he had turned aside all objections, but he could not counter one. I told him I refused to let him go. It was the first time I have refused Luke a thing, and he was much upset. He tried to change my mind again this morning at breakfast, and when he could not, he stomped out, thinking his displeasure would influence me. On this one thing, however, I stand firm. Luke’s duty is to me, not to his mama.
March 20, 1866. Prairie Home.
Luke talks of nothing but the trip to Fort Madison, trying to persuade me, first with compliments and a bouquet of prairie blossoms, then with sulks and ill temper. Sometimes, I am so weary from his arguments that I am tempted to give in. Then I think of spending weeks alone in this country in my state, and I refuse once again. I do not understand why he has his heart set on the trip when I need him beside me. Luke promises to be home well before Baby’s arrival, would not attempt the trip otherwise, says he, but I do not want him to leave at all.
At last Sabbath service, Luke enlisted the aid of our neighbors to persuade me, and I think I came out the poorer.
Missus was no help, as she volunteered to take charge of me whilst he was away, saying there was no need to worry even if he was delayed, since I was built to “calve.” Emmie Lou says I ought to make him wait until the baby is two months old, because that is the time she always becomes pregnant again. (I was shocked at such language, especially Emmie Lou’s, as she is highborn, but coarseness passes for good humor in this country, and I expect that someday I shall adjust.) Ben Bondurant, who has decided to “stay a-put” by filing for a homestead not a mile from us, offered to oversee our crops while Luke is away, as he won’t plant but a few acres himself this year. He would even sleep in our barn, because he is tired of his own cooking. I think Mr. Bondurant is not much of an agrarian, because he told me he can recognize only two trees. “One is cottonwood,” said he. “The other is not.”
Moses Earley promised to help with the out chores if I will name the babe for him. I replied pertly that Moses was a poor choice for a girl.
My only allies are unwelcome ones—Sallie Garfield, who announced that she would be deathly afraid of Indians were she to be left alone, but that she did not have to worry, for Mr. Garfield would never leave her to go skylarking. Then, having gotten an audience, Mrs. Garfield tossed her head and gave a lengthy account of how she lost her babe, and nearly perished herself, for lack of proper care after her wartime confinement.
Lucinda Osterwald, who clings more than ever to her “Old Pap,” whispered to me that she would die if left alone, thus confirming my earlier suspicion that she has fits or some other condition of which she cannot speak. Mr. Osterwald said their son, Brownie, would hire out cheap to stay with me, but I declined the offer. This nugatory young man is feebleminded, and I do not care for him, as he has strange ways and can be fractious. I think Tom Earley disapproved of Luke’s plan to return home, which made me wish he had spoken his mind, because Luke values his opinion, but Tom keeps his own counsel.
In Colorado Territory, women are expected to endure hardship, and the consensus is that I will change my mind. Lordy, we shall see about that.
March 25, 1866. Prairie Home.
The naysayers were right, and I have indeed changed my mind, but, O, God, not willingly! I had no choice. Luke announced he would leave within the week for Fort Madison, with my approval or without it. As I want there to be harmony between us, I said that his mind being made up, he would have my blessing. It is bad enough that he should carry with him an image of his helpmate in her swollen state. I do not want him to remember a mutton-headed wife, as well. The journey is a long and arduous one, although Luke expects to make the round-trip in about the same time it took us to travel one way. He will be on Traveler instead of behind a team of oxen, and he will take a direct route, not going through St. Joseph, which we have been told was greatly out of our way. So I shall wish him Godspeed and not let him see that there is bitterness in my heart at his choosing Mama and wheat seed over Wife.
Luke toils in the fields now from first light until the setting sun, to finish the planting. He has replaced the sod on house and barn that was torn away by winter winds, and in every way he is making sure that I will be comfortable during his absence. I am grateful for that. Myself, I am busy preparing food for the journey, the most wholesome edibles I can make with our limited stores. Mr. Bondurant taught me to make jerked antelope in the Indian manner, by cutting the meat into strips and pounding them flat, then hanging them on a rack to dry, outside in the sun or next to the cookstove. Luke will take the remainder of our dried apples, which I am happy to be rid of, having, indeed, grown to “loath, abhore, detest, and despise dried apple pies.”
Luke requested that I pack the embroidered vest I made him, for he says he intends to greet our friends in style. I have written letters for him to deliver to my loved ones. O, that they might be presented with my own hand, but in that case, there would be no need for letters, would there?
Despite all the preparations he is undertaking for the journey, Luke found time to make me a surprise, a bench to place on the sunny side of the house. He teased me by saying I was to sit there and remember him. As if Baby’s quickening doesn’t remind me I have a husband! Still, I am grateful for his thoughtfulness, and I sit there now as I write. A minute ago, I looked up and saw the queerest thing. Our sod roof is in bloom. Weeds grow in its dirt, making our soddy appear to be dressed in a green bonnet. I shall ask Carrie to send me dandelion seeds to plant upon it.
April 4, 1866. Prairie Home.
I begged Luke to stay just one more day, but he said every day’s delay added another day to his return. I could not argue with the logic of that, but in my heart, I cried, And what if the trail claims you, and you don’t return at all?
Of course, I did not admit my fears to him. This morning, long before sunup, Luke left me. He rides Traveler and leads a mule, borrowed from Mr. Bondurant. This mule is packed with provisions and will carry seed on the return trip. As the Indians in these parts have been quiet since the scare last fall, Luke will go by himself to Fort Kearney, then inquire there about conditions to the east. He promises to join a train if told the Indians are on the warpath.
Luke was anxious to be off. Even so, after he was in the saddle, he dismounted to give me one more hug, and as he looked back to wave from the far side of the barn, I fancy he was tempted to return a final time. I waved long after he had disappeared into the dark, then stared after him until daylight, before turning to Luke’s morning chores, which I had insisted he leave for me.
I had barely begun when Mr. Bondurant rode up, and nothing would do but that he should finish them. He stayed and talked so long that I invited him for dinner, and just as we sat down, why, there came the Earley boys, Moses carrying his dulcimer. They, too, were persuaded to join at table. Afterward, we sang many fine songs, accompanied by both dulcimer and Mr. Bondurant’s Jew’s harp. I requested “Lorena,” it being a favorite of Luke’s.
I think the three men have decided among themselves that they will not allow me time to be lonely, for they talked of which one would come on the morrow to check on the animals; what they mean, I believe, is check on me. God and Husband may have forsaken me in Colorado Territory, but my good neighbors have not.
April 18, 1866. Prairie Home.
With Luke away (two weeks today!), I am able to write at leisure, but what is there to tell? I miss him, but the days pass quickly, since there is much work to be done, my own and Luke’s, although Mr. Bondurant or one of the Earley boys always seems to be about so’s to help with out chores.
No woman on her “at home” day entertains as much as I. One of the three men and sometimes all of them visit each day. I am alone only after dark, which is when I miss Luke most. It was our time of leisure together, when we discussed the day’s labors or Luke read aloud while I sewed. But then Baby thrashes about so that I know I am not alone. I feel quite heavy and weary of an evening now, and I will be grateful when Husband returns, and Baby can make his appearance. I wonder if I have miscalculated the date. I think the day may be sooner than I had expected.
There is not a trace of snow anywhere, and the prairie is thick with many grasses. Mr. Bondurant is teaching me their names—bluestem, buffalo, big gama, and so on. There are wildflowers, too. I never saw the Great Plains with so many bright colors. If it looked as pretty all year-round, I think I might even come to like this country.
May 1, 1866. Prairie Home.
Moses returned from Mingo with a letter Luke posted with an emigrant headed west. It tells me all is well with Husband. Traveler lost his footing whilst fording the Platte, which was swift and cold from melted snow. The misstep caused Luke to drop the mule’s lead rope, and that animal panicked and went under. But Luke kept his head, and by the most difficult exercise was able to claim the mule. Luke is making good time and says he will return before I have a chance to miss him. This is the first letter I ever received from Luke. It is not a love letter, but it satisfies me.
May 2, 1866. Prairie Home.
This morning, as I sat on the bench outside, rereading Luke’s letter, paying no attention to the world around me, something intruded upon my thoughts, suggesting I was not alone. I looked up and caught sight of a naked chest and a flash of feathers tied to hair. Frightened almost unto death, I jumped up and ran, dropping the precious piece of paper. Before I could reach the door, a powerful hand gripped my arm and spun me around, and I expected next to be scalped. But instead of an Indian, the half-naked man was Brownie Osterwald, pretending to be a savage.
I suppose I should have felt relief, but I did not, because Brownie has always scared me. It is not just his childish mind, for I have known simpletons at home, but a feeling that his brain was twisted in some way and his soul warped.
“Fooled you,” Brownie said, twitching and jerking as if he had the Saint Vitus’ dance.
I did not know whether to agree that it had been a fine prank or to let him know I was displeased. I decided on the latter course, thinking it would send him on his way, and so I stamped my foot and said slowly, as if speaking to a child, “Yes, you did, Brownie, and it was wrong of you. Remove your hand, and go home.”
Brownie dropped his hand, but he showed no signs of leaving, and he replaced the grin with a frown. He studied me for a moment, his eyes slipping down over me like greasy water, until he was staring at my protruding belly. Before I could make out his intention, he put his hand over the baby.
I jumped back and ordered, “Don’t you do that.”
“Baby in there. Like Ma,” he said, obviously pleased with his deduction.
For just a second, I supposed Lucinda Osterwald had lost babies after Brownie’s birth, because he is her youngest child, but I did not dwell on the thought, for Brownie came even closer, placing his hand on me a second time. I was greatly alarmed, for I was alone with him on the prairie, with no one in hailing distance and no way to reach the safety of the house. I prayed Brownie was merely curious and, that being feeble, he didn’t know enough to restrain himself. So I stood quietly, my heart beating just as it had during the Indian attack. Then, before I could prevent it, Brownie’s hand was upon my breast.
“Bubby,” he said with a wicked leer.
I snatched his hand away and slapped him smartly.
Brownie’s dark eyes glistened with beastly lust and darted about. He leaned toward me, his hair like moldy hay against my face, and his breath so foul that I was forced to turn away. That angered the dunce, who took my head between his huge hands and wrenched it back so that I faced him again. I knew he could crush my skull as easily as I would a walnut, and a chill came over me, as I feared for Baby’s life, as well as my own.
“Good Brownie. Now let me go,” I said, summoning a calm I did not feel. His licentious nature had put him beyond reason. So I concluded to treat him as I would an animal, showing neither anger nor fear, as that would have let him know he had the upper hand.
At first, I thought my ploy had worked. Brownie smiled uncertainly, and the pressure on my head lessened. But instead of letting go of me altogether, he put his filthy mouth against mine and, at the same instant, ripped my bodice from neck to waist. I screamed and wrenched free, but Brownie, his face purple with rage, hit me across the brow with the back of his hand, knocking me to the ground, where he kicked me in stomach and ribs. By instinct, because I do not remember thinking to do it, I rolled into a ball to protect Baby, while I braced for further blows.
Brownie circled me, then drew back his boot, but instead of kicking me in the head, as I think was his intention, he made a bellow like that of an enraged ox. I looked up—into the angry face of Ben Bondurant, a bullwhip in his hand. When Brownie turned to Mr. Bondurant, I saw a wicked red streak on his back where the whip had cut through his shirt and lacerated the flesh. Mr. Bondurant drew back the whip and struck Brownie across the face with the lash. Brownie screamed again, but he stood there dumbly, making no move to defend himself, as if he was used to being whipped and knew protest was of no use.