The Milch Bride (3 page)

Able clapped his hands and laughed. “Got you again,
brother.”

Silas swore and swung at his brother and they grappled as
Jackson reached for Hattie, pulling her and the baby behind him.

“Hey,” the storeowner raised his shotgun and the loud racheting
sound as he cocked it stopped everyone.

Rafe raised his hands and backed toward the saloon door.
“Come on boys, we’ll visit the little lady later. See if she has time to put us
on her dance card.”

“No need men. She is going to have all her time taken up
caring for Donna’s and my son. If you want to lay claim to her son, you’re too
late, he’s dead.”  Jackson’s cold voice filled the store.

Hattie had been frightened and angry before. Now she felt
humiliated. Her father was gone. There was no one left who knew and loved her,
who knew she was not a fallen woman, who knew she was a person, not just a wet
nurse. However, to everyone in Star, she would never be anything else.

When they were gone, Jackson holstered his gun, and then
turned to examine the woman. She shushed the crying baby and would not look at
him or anyone else. She turned her back and let him settle with the clerk. When
he looked at the invoice, he was surprised at how brief her purchases were. Well,
there were Donna’s clothes that could be made over, a room full of them, if she
needed more.

“Thanks Thompson, for grabbing the shotgun,” he added as he
paid the bill.

“Those rowdies, I figured you deserved someone to back you. I’m
sorry about not getting the supplies loaded, but it’s been raining.”

 Jackson knew it was not rain, but the man’s fear of the
dead bodies. He let the man carry out the box, while he lifted and toted the
sack holding flour, dried beans, and corn meal. As Jackson carefully loaded
everything, the storeowner complained, “It seems wrong that Tom’s daughter
isn’t burying Tom in town,” he added, then realized the girl was already seated
on the buckboard.

“Maybe, she doesn’t care anymore for this town than they
seem to care for her” Jackson said, as he climbed up to sit beside Hattie and
the baby. He had noted her curved back and bowed head as he stepped up, but he
was surprised to hear J.D. slurp loudly as he released the nipple. Jackson
scooted the box out between their feet, and then took the boy.

Hattie started when he did, then quickly fastened her coat
and struggled to sit upright, her eyes half-closed in weariness.

Jackson tucked the small boy into the blanket lined box,
surprised when he lay there, staring up at him, opening and closing his mouth. “It’s
all right boy, you can have more when we get home.”  Smiling, he secured the box
and started the team.

When he pulled up at the ranch house, it was almost dark. He
moved his shoulder to jostle the sleeping woman leaning against him, and was
startled by the vivid blue eyes staring up at him. “I’m going to unload the
wagon, and then try to drive the team up the hill to the graves.”

Hattie nodded, and then started to get down when a small
voice began a high-pitched squall. A couple of people came out of the house,
one a woman who started to talk, then froze as he reached under the seat for
the baby. As he pulled him out and up to her, he whispered, “He’s wet again.”

The cry was growing in intensity. She laid the babe onto the
high seat as Jackson swung down, passing the box and bag of groceries to the
waiting hands. “There’s clean cloth in the top of the bundle of clothes,” she
said.

The woman on the porch harrumphed as Jackson hurried to hand
her the diaper. “Miss Harriett Stoddard, my housekeeper, Rubye White.”

Hattie looked past the waving tiny feet at the scowling face
of a tall, angular woman who stood with arms folded across her chest. Before
Hattie could speak, Rubye raised her apron to cover her mouth and nose.

“Rubye, we’ve got some folks to bury first, before Harriet
can come in. But I know she’d like to clean up and get settled.”

Another man came out on the porch, and both men uncovered
their heads in respect. Even as Jackson finished giving Rubye orders, the loud
frantic cry changed, and then abruptly stopped as Hattie lifted the child to
suckle, her back to all the people on the porch.

Rubye disappeared into the house with a disapproving cluck,
ready to heat water and set up the tub in the pantry off the kitchen.

Hattie stared down at the small baby in her arms, grateful
for the fading light that helped to mask them from all the staring eyes. Jackson
handed out the last bundle, removing the Bible and putting it on the floor of
the buckboard beside her.

“Hank, can you give me a hand to get the team on up the
hill.”

Hank walked up to the head of the lead animal as Jackson
sprang up to the seat beside her.

“Hold on to your hat, Miss Stoddard,” and he snapped the
reins.

Hattie braced forward, hanging onto the baby who frantically
held onto her nipple. She managed to clasp one hand on the back of the seat as
they began the steep incline. Through it all, the babe continued to nurse.

At the top of the hill, she continued to tend the baby,
grateful to be able to watch as Jackson shook out one of the oilcloths into the
bottom of each of the graves. At least here on the hill, the water had already
run through the soil and she was glad not to hear a splat.

For the first time, he lifted the tiny scrap that had been
her son, pausing with the baby beside her. Hattie fought back tears at the
sight of the tiny bundle, dressed in his flour-sack gown. Unloved, unwanted, he
was about to be buried. He was about to be buried in an unhallowed grave
without even a name. Hattie choked back a sob as she nodded and Jackson lowered
the tiny babe as gently as though he were sleeping into the small hole in the
ground.

She returned the sleeping boy in her arms into his box and
straightened her clothing yet again, wiping at her eyes even as Jackson and his
cowhand paused again beside her, waiting silently with her father’s body. This
time she had to bite her lip to swallow the sobs, wondering even as tears
streaked down her face if they were for her father, or for herself.

Finally, both bodies had been moved, each one once again
covered with the quilts from the cabin. Although not wooden coffins, Hattie
felt that both were now wrapped protectively in love. The quilts made by her
mother had always been important to her father and herself. She was comforted
knowing they would cover them in their final sleep.

Jackson reached up to help her down and Hattie accepted his
hand, feeling awkward in the twilight in this strange place. “Is the Bible
still in the wagon?”

The tall cowboy reached around her and lifted the worn and
torn bible from the floor beneath the seat. “I grabbed it before they carried
your belongings inside. But I don’t think there’s enough light to read. Do you
know the words you want us to say?”

She shook her head, clutching the old book close against her
chest. “Begin with Dad,” she whispered.

Both men uncovered their heads and moved to the foot of the
grave, framing Hattie. Jackson placed a hand on her shoulder and she lowered
the Bible toward him. Taking it, he began to speak.

“Tom Stoddard, beloved husband, father, and grandfather…”

Hattie gasped. She clenched her jaw to keep from fresh sobs.

Jackson continued as though she had not interrupted, holding
the Bible forward in both hands, the brim of his hat clutched beneath the book.

“Never heard any man say a bad word against you, so I’m sure
God has welcomed you home, that your wife and parents have greeted you in their
loving embrace. Your daughter here is grieving, but she knows you are in a
better place. As the good book says, ’dust to dust, ashes to ashes.’” He knelt
down to drop a hand of dirt onto the soft quilt.

Hattie followed his motion, scooping the pebbly soil into
both hands and sprinkling it over the quilt.

Jackson extended a hand to her elbow to help her rise. “Tom,
as hard as it is to let you go, we rejoice knowing you are in a happier place,
Amen.”

Hattie and the other man echoed, “Amen.”

When he turned to the grave holding the baby, Hattie sank to
her knees between the two graves, dropping a handful of dirt onto the babe.

Jackson waited expectantly, but was surprised when she rose
and took the Bible from him, choking back tears until she could speak.

“Go with your grandfather, little one. I’ll join you soon.
Amen.”

There was a dissatisfied silence, then finally the men
added, “Amen.” She scooped up another handful of dirt and sprinkled it over the
quilted form.

Jackson lifted out the sleeping baby and Hattie clasped the
Bible to her body once again, and then let the strong man beside her lead her
down the hill toward the house. In the shadowy light, she was grateful for his
support.

<><><> 

 On the porch, the hands gathered for dinner. Jackson
acknowledged their greetings, ignoring the jibes about his carrying the baby. Rubye
tsked and took the infant, then scowled at Hattie.

“Vittles are ready, and I set up for her bath in the
pantry.”

Jackson patted Rubye’s shoulder as he gave up his son. He
turned and steered Hattie toward the pantry and held the door for her.

<><><> 

The water was cold and Hattie shook her head, rousing enough
to rinse the second soaping from her hair. It had been ages since she had the
time to relax and enjoy a hot bath. She heard the baby cry and realized J.D.
was gaining momentum. Sighing, she rose to towel off, dressing in the stiff new
clothes. She felt strange, embarrassed by her uncertain status. The housekeeper
had propped a mirror on a pantry shelf, setting a brush and comb in front, a
lighted oil lamp beside it.

Hattie lifted the gilded handle of the brush, noticing dark
hair caught in the bristles. She dipped it in the cold bath water, and then
used the comb to clean it. Gratefully she toweled her hair and furiously
attacked it.

J.D.’s angry cries and Rubye’s frantic pacing warned Hattie
to hurry, but the knock at the door still made her jump. Hattie laid the brush
down and hastily twisted her hair into a clumsy braid before opening the door.

She was surprised to find the big dining table empty of all
but Jackson and the cowboy Hank. Hank rose, tipped his hat, and then bowed out
of the room.

Hattie opened her arms for the baby and the housekeeper
gladly turned him over. “He’s hungry,” Rubye snapped.

She wanted to answer back, he’s always hungry, but she bit
her tongue. She sniffed the good smells that lingered on the empty plates. The
table was set for eight and seven of the plates sat with only crumbs and smears
of grease to indicate they had ever held food.

Rubye bustled into the kitchen with a tray of stacked dirty
plates and glasses. Hattie draped the blanket higher on her shoulder, aware of
the sharp tension in the room. The housekeeper bustled back for a second load
of plates, wiping down the table this time, then carried the last load to the
kitchen.

Hattie could feel the baby already slowing down in his
feeding and automatically stroked his cheek to cause him to remember to eat,
just as she had her own weak baby. But he had never suckled like this boy,
never bawled from hunger, never drank so deeply. A wave of sadness swept over
her again, a desolate sense of loss. Was it her fault he was sickly, that he
died?

The sound of dishes being washed in the kitchen was very
loud. Hattie raised the baby to examine when he whimpered. Even though his eyes
were closed, his little face was scrunched into complaint and he made a small,
whining sound.

Rubye bustled back from the kitchen, setting a small skillet
of food along with a tall glass of milk down before Hattie. “Did you burble
him?” she asked accusingly.

Hattie raised her eyes to the woman, “Burble?”

The older woman sat down on the chair beside her, took the
clean cloth she had used to grip the skillet, shook it out, and then draped it
over her shoulder.

“Got to burble a baby so he don’t get colicky.” She
stretched him against her shoulder, and then very softly patted his back.

Hattie laughed, surprised at the loud burp from the tiny
baby. Jackson smiled proudly as though the boy had just recited a poem.

The housekeeper gave him another couple of pats and a
smaller noise and a splash of milk decorated her shoulder. Satisfied, she
leaned the child down in her arms. “Now he’s ready for bed.”

Rubye dabbed at his pursed mouth with the clean end of the
towel. “You’d best eat up, it won’t take another warming, probably dried out
too much already.”

Hattie tried to find a smile for the brusque words but the
woman was gone. Timidly she broke off a pone of bread, hard and dry, just like
the cook said. But it tasted so good she leaned forward and grabbed a fork to
get at the fried pork and potatoes, the thickened beans. Washing it down with
the cold buttermilk, she enjoyed it all.

Then she heard the loud voices, whispering, but all the
angrier because of the hissing low tones.

“Where do you plan for her to sleep, out with the hired
men?”

“What’s wrong with in here, near the baby?”

“In your wife’s bed? You plan to put that tramp in your
Donna’s bed and her not cold in the ground yet? If you do, I’m leaving.”

Hattie waited for Jackson’s voice, calming, pleading, but
when he answered the whisper cut like a knife. “Then leave, but I’ll be damned
if I’ll lose my son because of what people might say. I’ll get a cot set up in
the study for me.”

Rubye’s shocked silence was all the angrier.

“The men will like that, seeing her when they come in to
eat.”

“Hush. We’ll work all that out, it‘s the boy that matters.”

Rubye clearly wanted to argue more for she stomped past,
glaring at Hattie. Minutes later she returned with the package of clothes and
the sack holding Hattie’s few possessions from home. This time her chin jutted
forward and she didn’t even bother to glance at the quiet girl.

Hattie felt the chill of resentment and swallowed the pride
that made her want to leave this place where she was unwanted.

Jackson had remained at the door a minute then walked to the
dresser. Slowly he pulled out one of his wife’s nightgowns, hesitating a moment
to ball it up and bury his face in, breathing in Donna’s scent. He shook out
the gown and draped it across the bed, then glanced around the room. He could
still feel her presence and hear Donna’s voice. To the unasked question, he
thought he heard her answer. “Take care of J.D., whatever it takes.”

Hattie carried her empty pan and glass to the kitchen,
looking about at the big black stove, the full wood box. She had already
marveled at the pantry, stocked with food yet still with room enough for her to
bathe. When she stepped back into the main room, she again counted the eight
chairs at the long table, and then stared at the other half of the long room to
the big stone fireplace. Along the back of the house there were three rooms,
the bedroom where she could hear more arguing and two other rooms. Curious, she
stepped closer to the open door in the middle. The desk and book shelves made
it clear it was Jackson’s office. The third door was closed, but she knew it
had to hold Rubye’s bedroom.

Jackson’s voice made her jump, aware that she was guilty of
snooping. He nodded toward the bedroom and she followed him to step inside. Weary
though she was, she was aware of another presence in the room. According to
Rubye, it was his wife’s room. Across the end of the bed hung a yellow
nightgown, clearly the object of the argument she had overheard. She reached
out to finger the soft thin cotton, aware of being watched.

“I could sleep in the front room on the settee,” she said.

He shook his head. “You need to be here with the baby; the
gown is for you.” Then he closed the door.

A gas lamp sat on the bedside table, softly glowing. Hattie
stood and stared in the mirror. Her hair had worked loose from the braid and
looked neither combed nor as wild as when she had been in town. She unbuttoned
the dark shirt waist and looked for a peg to hang it up.

The room contained a high bed with curved headboard and
footboard, the dresser with its mirror, and a tall wardrobe. All were made out
of the same dark, red stained wood. Hattie removed and folded her new clothes,
pulling the soft gown over her head before removing the new undergarments. She
folded them and stacked them on top of the other clothes. On one end of the
dresser sat the paper bundle of store things and beside on the floor the canvas
sack from the house. Maybe she should put away her clothes.