Jessica turned and took a shawl from the door. “I’ve got to go. Pa’s waiting for me to take over at the other place.”
“Did you hear me, Jessie? Lydia didn’t send them back. It’s that old witch, her mother. She never did like me.”
“Yes, I hear you, Joshua.” She turned and went out, not bothering to close the door behind her.
It was almost ten o’clock that night before Joshua came to the bar. His eyes were still bloodshot, but he seemed to have sobered up. He had bathed and changed into clean clothes. He had also been to the barber, for his beard was trimmed and his hair combed and shortened by an inch or two.
Jessica saw him come in, but didn’t give any sign she had. He stood for a moment, answering the called greetings from the men gathered at the tables. Then he moved to the bar, shouldering a man aside so he could face her directly. “I’ll have some beer.”
Jessica turned and reached for the stout pewter mug she kept in a special place beneath the bar. She filled it with beer, then placed it in front of him. She wanted to search his face, to see if the anger was still there, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She just wiped with a rag at the wet spots she had made on the counter, waiting.
“I’ve got a load of window glass to pick up in St. Louis next week,” he said gruffly. “Have to haul it to Fort Leavenworth. Then I’ve got to make another run to Sante Fe. It’ll be late October or early November before I’m back.”
“I understand.” Freight hauling was his business, and Joshua personally supervised every load of any worth. Why was he telling her all this?
“It’ll be too late for much else by then.”
She turned away quickly, not wanting him to see the sudden pain that wrenched at her insides. “It’s what you do, Joshua.” It was a deliberate attempt to thrust aside what was coming. He didn’t seem to notice.
“Come spring,” he said flatly, “I’ll be heading east for a time.”
Her head came back around slowly. Her eyes were wide. Now there was no attempt to hide the hurt, the vulnerability.
He looked away. “It’s time to see my family.”
She dropped the rag on the counter. “You mean it’s time to see Lydia.”
“It’s time to see my family,” he said again. And with that he took his beer and moved away to join a poker game going on at one of the tables.
Chapter Twenty
The arm was starting to throb again, and Benjamin Steed took a swallow of the tangy, cool ale. That won him a quick glance from his wife, but Mary Ann didn’t say anything. She just kept folding the dress and shawl and other things into their battered old valise. It was her best dress, the one she would wear tomorrow, Sunday, when they saw Joseph Smith and his dutiful little band of followers. The thought filled Benjamin with sudden anger.
He took another deep pull from the bottle, this time slowly and deliberately. She didn’t look up again, but he could tell from the sudden set to her mouth that he had made his point.
Three weeks earlier, Benjamin had given a foot-thick hickory tree one last blow with the ax, then stepped back into the clear. Or so he thought. It had not snapped cleanly, and the tree twisted, pulling sharply to the left. Matthew, standing about twenty feet behind him, had shouted a warning and Benjamin leaped away. But not quickly enough. One of the upper branches caught him across the back and knocked him sprawling against a log. In addition to being bruised and battered, his left arm was fractured between the wrist and elbow.
Much to his good fortune, it had only been a simple fracture. Compound fractures almost invariably brought on infection, blood poisoning, and gangrene, and so most doctors simply amputated the broken limb immediately and avoided the complications that followed. One-armed or one-legged men were a common sight in most parts of the country, and Benjamin knew he was fortunate not to be one of them. As it was, the doctor had simply bound the arm tight with a heavy splint and told him to wear it for five or six weeks until it healed.
Yesterday, Benjamin had finally passed the point of patience and took the splint off. It galled him deeply to have to be dependent on anyone, even Nathan, who, on the day that word reached him, quit his job with Mr. Knight and returned to the farm. That irritation had only deepened in the ensuing days as he had to watch Nathan do all but the most humiliatingly simple tasks. He had brushed aside the protests of his family. The arm was healing nicely. He would be careful. He didn’t need their mothering.
That had been yesterday. During the night, he had turned in his sleep and laid on it. Now it throbbed incessantly. But there was no way he was going to put the splint back on while Mary Ann was still here to point out the folly of pride.
The front door burst open and Matthew stuck his head in. From its earlier combing his blond hair had burst loose into disarray. Now nearly eight years of age, he looked like a young gentleman, except for that one stubborn lock of hair. “Mama,” he said, “Nathan’s got the wagon hitched.”
“We’ll be right there.”
As the door slammed again with a sharp crack, she turned. “Melissa, Becca. It’s time.” She shut the valise carefully and fastened the straps. She took a bonnet from the bed and stepped to the mirror, placing it upon her head.
Begrudgingly, Benjamin watched. She was not an especially handsome woman, not in the way the world looked at things—not anywhere near as striking as that flighty Lydia McBride whom Nathan had chosen. And yet he found himself very much taken with her, even after twenty-three years of marriage. She had an inward beauty and serenity that had, over the years, permeated her outward countenance as well. He knew every line in her face—the ones that showed when she was tired; others, around the mouth, that showed some inner sorrow; and those, like now, which gave evidence of the stubborn determination deep inside her that made her so unbendable.
Quickly he took another drink, angry that he found himself softening toward her. She finished tying the ribbon around her chin and turned, catching him watching her.
“Are you sure you’re going to be all right?”
Normally she allowed no liquor in the house, especially in front of the children, and he sensed her stern disapproval. But she also knew she had pushed him into a corner already and would not dare challenge his drinking, not now at any rate.
“I’ll be fine.”
“We’ll be home before dark tomorrow. There’s some soup in the pot. Just swing it over the fire. Nathan’s cut plenty of wood. The bread’s in the—”
“I said I’ll be fine,” he snapped. “Ain’t no need for you to start worryin’ ‘bout me at this point.”
Mary Ann sighed. “Ben, we’ve been over that. After yesterday’s rain it’s too wet to do much around here. And tomorrow’s Sabbath, so we wouldn’t be working anyway. Nathan can start cutting the barley on Monday.”
“Nathan’s got his own farm now. I’ll be doing my own harvesting.”
Before she could answer, Melissa came down the stairs from the upper bedrooms with Becca right behind her. Both were dressed in pinafore dresses made from the same bolt of material which Mary Ann had found in the village. Melissa, now eighteen, looked so much like her oldest brother, Joshua, that it sometimes hurt Benjamin to look at her. She had her mother’s gentle temperament mixed with a generous helping of Joshua’s impetuousness and her father’s hardheaded practicality.
Eleven-year-old Rebecca was much more like her mother in outward appearance, and had Nathan’s quiet strength of will. A deep dimple on her left cheek was always startling in its abruptness when she smiled, which she did now as she saw her father watching her. Her cheeks were aglow with excitement, and she fussed nervously at the bow in her dark hair.
Since their move to Palmyra Township almost three years ago, the younger children had traveled no farther than the village. So the prospect of the twenty-mile trip to Fayette Township was as exciting to her and Matthew as going to a place like New York City or Boston. Benjamin felt a sudden prick of guilt for stubbornly opposing the trip. For the children, it was a welldeserved outing.
“Nathan’s got the wagon hitched,” Mary Ann said. “Melissa, you take the bag out. Becca, make sure Matthew got his and Nathan’s bag in.”
“Yes, Mama.” They both came over. “Good-bye, Papa,” Melissa said. She leaned down and kissed him on the cheek. “I hope your arm doesn’t bother you too much.”
“I’ll be fine. You have a good time.”
“Good-bye, Papa.” Becca’s eyes studiously avoided the bottle on the table as she kissed him.
He swatted her affectionately across the bottom. “You keep Matthew out of trouble.”
“I will, Papa.” She moved quickly to the door, with Melissa and the valise right behind her. As they went out, he finally looked up to his wife, who was watching him steadily.
“You could still come, you know. Nathan can drive. You can’t do anything with that arm, anyway.”
“Someone’s got to milk the cow and feed the stock.”
She nodded, a quick, weary acceptance of his petulance. “You know Nathan’s got Mr. Harris’s hired man to come over both tonight and in the morning. You’re just going to get your arm hurting all the worse.”
“There ain’t nothin’ in Fayette Township that interests me.”
She turned and walked slowly to the door, but stopped before she opened it. Finally, she turned around to face him. “You know this is real important to me, Ben. I don’t ask for much. Why are you so dead set against it?”
“Joe Smith-”
“He prefers to be called Joseph,” she cut in quickly. He knew that, and knew it galled both her and Nathan when he used the shorter form. The townspeople usually added a third word, making it “Ol’ Joe Smith”—which was always said in open derision.
“Joe Smith has done nothing but bring trouble to this family. First Joshua and his madness, now Nathan, running after him like he was some kind of holy king or something.”
“Ben—”
But he was not going to be stopped. “And now you, leaving off like this when there’s work to be done. Taking the children. Filling their heads with all kinds of spiritual mumbo jumbo.” He snorted his disgust. “I won’t stop you. I believe in letting people make their own way in life. But you know how I feel. You’re going against my direct wishes, so don’t ask me to smile and pat your cheeks, because I ain’t about to do that.”
He picked up the bottle and, turning his back on her, took a deep swig, ignoring the stab of pain that shot through his arm. He heard the door open, then shut again softly. He didn’t bother to turn around.
Fayette Township lay south and east of Palmyra Township about twenty miles, almost midway between Cayuga and Seneca lakes. In the township, but north and west of Fayette Village, was the farm of Peter Whitmer, Sr., and his family. It was to the Whitmer cabin, a solidly built two-story structure, that Mary Ann Steed and her children came late that Saturday afternoon.
As they drove into the yard, hot, tired, and hungry after a six-hour wagon ride, Mary Ann felt her heart sink. Joseph’s request that Nathan bring his mother to see him had included an invitation to stay with the Whitmers overnight. But the Whitmers had seven children. The oldest daughter had recently married and moved out, but that still left eight people at home, counting the parents. Add to that number their permanent houseguests—Joseph, Emma, and Oliver—and the Whitmer cabin had to be bursting at the rafters.
“We should have stayed in Waterloo and just come tomorrow, Nathan,” she said. “They must already have more people than they have room for.” Waterloo was the village about three miles back. There had been an inn there that looked comfortable and respectable, and the rates were within the amount Mary Ann had brought with her.
But before Nathan could answer, the door opened and Joseph came bounding out. “There you are,” he boomed, waving. In four strides he was at the wagon. “Mrs. Steed, how pleased I am you would come.” He held out his hand to help her down.
“Hello, Joseph. It is good to see you again.”
He turned as Nathan jumped out of the wagon and clasped his hand. “Welcome, Nathan. And how is your father?”
Nathan shook his head. “You know Pa. He took the splint off yesterday. The doctor said two more weeks, but Pa won’t hear of it.”
“That’s no surprise. One thing to say for Benjamin Steed, he’ll not easily be beholden to any man.”
“That’s the truth,” Mary Ann said.
Joseph laughed, then turned back to the wagon. His face instantly registered surprise. “But Nathan,” he cried, “I thought you were bringing your family. All I see here are strangers.”
Matthew’s face fell. “I’m Matthew, Joseph, remember?”
Joseph fell back a step. “No!” he breathed. “This can’t be. The Matthew Steed I knew was only this high.” He held up his hand at belt level.
“He’s just teasin’ you,” Becca said, poking her brother in the back. Matthew looked startled for a moment, then his face split into a grin which nearly cracked his cheekbones.
Joseph swung around to face Rebecca. “And this must be Melissa,” Joseph said, bowing low. Her mouth dropped and for a moment Becca was perplexed. Then realizing she too was being teased, she started to giggle, ducking her head and blushing furiously.
Melissa stood up. “Hello, Joseph.”
Joseph looked up at her, shaking his head. “Just look at you.” Melissa colored as she took his hand and hopped down from the wagon. “You have become a lovely young woman, Melissa.”
“Thank you.”
Joseph swung around, grabbed Matthew, and with a flip that left him squealing had him riding piggyback across his shoulders. He glanced again at Melissa, then turned to her mother. “I think I’d better go tell Father Whitmer to lock his boys in the barn,” he said solemnly. “When they see this daughter of yours, they’ll be smitten speechless as pillars of salt.”
If Melissa had blushed before, now her face turned bright scarlet. Nathan laughed out loud. This was Joseph. How could anyone help but like him? His unbounded joy and enthusiasm was like a tonic that cleansed the soul. It had been a little over two years since he had been at the farm helping the Steeds clear their land. And yet in no more than a few moments, the time was brushed away and he was one with them again. Matthew hugged him tightly; Becca watched him with unabashed adoration.