What Once We Loved (21 page)

“Yeah, but not for goat's milk.”

“I rather like it,” Ruth said. She could see that the valley might be a bit narrower than she'd want in the long run. Trees could be cleared out and burned to make pasture. And who knew how the land claim was divided up—she might end up with the side hills rather than the valley, then she'd have to buy hay and haul it from a long distance. Maybe even haul water, though from the look of the lush pasture, if she set barrels out as cisterns, they'd have water enough. The horses could drink from the stream.

They rode closer, and she could see that the cabin was really just a shack. It might not be practical to stay the winter there unless they could shore it up. Yet something about Lura's suggesting they
should
move on pushed Ruth toward staying.

“What do you think, boys?” Ruth asked. “Jessie says we should make this our home.”

“Build a corral at that narrow place,” Jason said, pointing, “maybe catch up Carmine without having to rope him.”

“I like it, Auntie,” Ned added. “But I'm tired of riding too.”

“Sore bottoms do make for hasty decisions,” Lura said.

“Best we see what's available for land claims,” Matthew cautioned. “There might not be an adjoining one to this.” He looked at Ruth. “And this one might not have a title a man could sell even if he wanted. Don't go getting your hopes up, Ruth.”

“The only thing I'm inclined to do right now is to get Carmine roped so he doesn't lead his harem off somewhere,” Ruth said. “And find
a place to get the wagon through the trees. The children and I will stay here for the night. See what the morning brings.”

“We could still make the Table Rock site,” Lura said. “Do a comparison.”

“Ruth's made up her mind, Ma,” Matthew said, and he reined his horse away.

Nehemiah Kossuth lost control, just that one time.

His young wife permitted herself to be seen by him standing before the lamp in her night linen, for a moment, a breath-holding moment. Then she blew out the lamp.

It was what he thought of now watching the camphre dwindle into ash. He listened to the stomp of mules and the night sounds of crickets and packers turning in their sleep. The coast range mountains gave off cold. The moon cast barely a shadow from its pale opaque.

He turned on his bedroll, unable to move his beautiful wife from his mind. Tipton was a woman-child whom he'd never seen completely, not as a husband should see a wife. He'd thought to be patient, to stay forever close to her, giving her the time she needed. Then he'd done a thing he had told himself he would not do. She hadn't pushed him away, but she hadn't been welcoming either. It was as if she'd gone away for a while, and then returned when it was all over. Hurt pooled in her eyes.

That was when he'd chosen this occupation of packing supplies into Jacksonville.

He could have found a way to take her to San Francisco. This separation had been as much a way to avoid looking at the accusation in her eyes as getting needed materials into the mining camp before the snows came.

He lingered with the packing. It would be nearly two weeks before
he returned, and something in her look bothered him. He thought he saw puffiness in her perfect oval face. And a sadness. She seemed so irritable of late. He knew it was his fault. His weakness that had caused it.

He imagined her in the firelight as he had that night some months back, an image of white like porcelain, of beauty and perfection. Pearl. Ivory. Opal.

He'd seen a blue opal once, traded to him by a Warm Springs Indian in exchange for dried meat and fruits along the trail. Nehemiah had accepted a dark rock that the Indian said inside contained “a moon river stone.” He'd cracked it open and found an opal as near to perfect as anything he'd ever seen. A blue opal. He'd hoped to work it into a setting of silver. But he'd gotten involved in other things—a mule giving him trouble; digging out a mud slide, a slipped pack. There was always something to contend with on the trail.

When he returned to the opal a week or so later, the blue had disappeared and a dark crack like a lightning bolt fissured through the stone. Exposure to the elements, disregard, neglect, had all destroyed it. Who would have thought that the ugly-looking facade could hide such exquisiteness? Or that stones untended could deteriorate so quickly? Tipton was like that opal.

He worried over his marriage that he'd thought solid as rock. He had enough love for both of them, he'd always thought. Tipton just needed time, tending.

And then he'd lost control.

He wanted her to come to him, to assume her place as his wife as one willing, not just in name, not just because she'd married him. He'd committed to wait, wanted to do whatever it took to give this woman he'd discovered on a cold December day a lifelong place of security and love. People didn't take risks unless they felt safe, unless they felt respected and confident. This he understood. It was why he'd offered to bring her mother with them to their new home. But Adora Wilson had chosen otherwise. Had chosen her son over her daughter. They'd never
even discussed his mother-in-laws unexpected decision except for an occasional mention on his part that perhaps there'd be a way to mend the break someday.

He'd edged around that topic like a wary man encountering a cougar.

Tipton hadn't permitted discussion. She started rubbing her arm and then just went away in her mind if he came too close to some subject she wanted dismissed. He barely mentioned his meetings with the new political party, fearful that his talk of readying himself to run first for the county office, then on to the state house might send her to that distant place far away and alone.

He tried to involve her in his life, suggested she be his eyes and ears. But even that might not have been wise. Her story of the Crescent City folks talking Indian troubles wasn't something a young woman needed to be exposed to, especially when he was away from home so much.

He tossed on his bedroll again, the roots of the redwood lumped up into his blanket. He got up and poked the fire. He didn't talk easily about the things that mattered. Never had. Especially about intimate things. It was easier to remain formal, to speak to people…as a teacher might.

Teaching, that was familiar. He'd had to instruct young recruits in the Mexican War seven years previous. And he had inspired confidence in them despite many being close to his own age. Drawing from his vast knowledge gave others security; they liked knowing about plants they might eat, how to respond when mules balked, ways to repair firearms and analyze battle plans. He'd read the classics, too, on warfare, philosophy, and such. It was gratifying knowing that the books he read or the lessons learned from the times he'd lived in the timber could serve a useful purpose. He made a point of listening in such a way that the boys spoke of their needs too, when the occasion demanded it, for those facing battles come morning. A few of them even called him Reverend, though he was far from that. Telling others what he'd learned was a natural way to gain respect.

Perhaps that had been his error all along with Tipton, taking on the role as “teacher” with his young wife. Maybe her youngish attitudes and actions made him treat her as a child.

Oh, he wasn't blind to her flightiness, but he could see through it to a fragile soul that did not believe she had much worth. It was his hope to give her worth by sharing time and knowledge. He blinked at the night sky, breathing a prayer of confession for being too impatient, for the sin of taking advantage. Not that saying he was sorry meant he'd never do it again; though he'd try not to, he would. But the fessing up brought him closer to the relationship that could heal his hurtful act, fill his emptiness, maybe even help him understand why he presented what wasn't his to offer. After all, a person was created with worth. Tipton had to decide to believe that on her own.

Knowledge, not that he could give, but knowledge in the biblical sense, between a man and woman, was something else again. He was a student just as she was in that regard, and he found it impossible to talk of it. Yet didn't he know that talking of a thing made it less fearful? Didn't he say out loud to his troops that they might die come morning? It had opened the door to spiritual talk beneath stars that some saw for the last time.

Instead of talking of what he wanted most for her, for them as husband and wife, he'd lost his breath when he watched Tipton walk toward the lamplight that night, blue ribbons fluttering at her neck, her hair like twisted strands of gold cascading down her back.

“Leave the light on,” he'd said, the croak of his voice startling him as much as her.

“Never,” she said and blew it out.

“Tipton,” he'd said then, his voice a wail.

He'd feared she might not slip beneath the coverlet to share his bed. When she did, he felt so grateful he hadn't frightened her away that he'd lost control. Instead of merely holding her, stroking her hair as he had for weeks since their marriage, gentled her head into his chest until she
fell asleep, he found himself drowning in the fragrance of her, in the smoothness of the linen formed over her gentle curves. He'd become not Nehemiah Kossuth, former hotel owner, teacher of recruits and one young girl, packer of supplies and family provider, but Nehemiah Kossuth, husband.

She had never spoken ofthat night and he found he couldn't either.

A coyote howled as Nehemiah squatted at the flames. Sparks flew high into the Oregon sky. He told himself it was his right as husband, that he'd been patient, surely that was true. And yet he'd wanted it to be a mutual giving. Perhaps the fifteen years between their ages was too much for her. Perhaps she had married him not because she felt a single spark of love, some level of devotion that might grow, but out of duty, to tend her mother. Surely that spark would disappear into the dark night just as the ones he watched here on the trail. He should have thought of that before. He stood, restless, amazed at the depth of his denseness. Did she even realize what had happened? He rubbed the back of his neck, scratched at his muttonchops.
Poor child.
Listen to him. That was how he thought of her, just a child.

He heard a horse nicker and stomp. A night owl hooted and swooped.

“You up for a reason, Boss?”

“Just restless,” Nehemiah told the Mexican man.

“Sun comes up. We make an early start. Be back home soon. You greet your wife then. Tell her all you see along this trail. Teach her much.”

“Yes,” Nehemiah said. “That's exactly what I'll have to do.” Only it wasn't just her who needed to be taught.

“But surely we could remain here at the boardinghouse until you're certain this…arrangement will work,” Sister Esther told Suzanne.

“It is working, Esther. We just need to modify some. Accommodate, remember? Wasn't that you who recommended accommodation?”

“It's the cats, isn't it? They're troublesome, that's certain.”

Suzanne sighed. Every step of this move had been a trial. Not as difficult as coming across the prairies, but difficult nonetheless. She had tried to keep her vision forward, tried to stay focused. Practice surrender, she told herself. Try new and different paths. But she'd encountered little stones along the way, little pebbles unexpected that she'd stubbed her toes on. Esther's reactions, for one. It was as though she held a secret of some sort that she wouldn't share.

“I need a good yard for the boys, fenced in. I need rooms that I can keep the same way. So I can learn my way around. And private rooms for the boys' lessons. For you. And for Sterling Powder.”

“And his cats.”

“And his cats.” Suzanne continued, “He's done well with Clayton. The boy doesn't cry out or throw fits as he used to, which is pleasing. And he seems more gentle, not surprising me with his fists as he did.”

“The man has him working the soil.” Suzanne couldn't tell if Esther approved or found that worrisome. “He encourages the boy to dig in the dirt he warms by the fire, until his face is a mess. Then allows him to splash in the copper tub.”

“He told me as much,” said Suzanne. “Something about wanting the child to ‘feel' things, take them inside himself to really learn them, Mr. Powder says.”