by Lee Savino
Miles said something Carrie couldn’t hear over the roaring river, so she pushed herself forward. “Pardon?”
“That’s the Arkansas river,” he called back. She felt him guide the horse off the trail, then waited as he dismounted then reached up to help her down.
As her feet hit the ground, she almost stumbled. Miles’ large hands steadied her until she could stretch her cramped legs.
“Thank you,” she said.
He nodded then hesitated, staring at the ground as if trying to find something common between them. “I would’ve been to town sooner, but Monty threw a shoe. Had to fix him up before I could ride him.” He slapped the bay’s side. “The Reverend would’ve looked out for you, but he’s the only doctor we have in these parts, so he does his best.”
Carrie nodded. He was apologizing to her, as best he could. “I understand. Why do you live so far out of town?”
“Like to have my own land. I like being able to stand on my doorstep and look out and see nothing that I don’t own.” Carrie saw the pride in his profile before he turned to put the canteen up.
“So you have a large farm?”
“No. A lot of land, a small garden. I have cattle, a horse ready to drop a foal. A garden and chickens—that’ll be your responsibility.”
She nodded.
“We’ll be at the homestead in an hour, just at dusk.” Miles nodded towards the mountains, and the gathering gloom. “I’m going to check Monty; he may have a rock in his shoe.”
Miles moved around his horse, stroking the bay’s sides and soothing the beast with sure and gentle hands. Watching him coax the horse to lift its leg, Carrie relaxed a little. He didn’t seem rough or stern at all. Such a man wouldn’t be unkind to her.
As she waited, she paced, her steps bringing her closer and closer to the water. Further downstream, the rocks pounded the current into froth, but the flow at her feet seemed dark and gentle. She wished she could jump in and wash the grime from her skin. Her foot started to slip, and she scrambled for purchase on the wet grass, then yelped as Miles’ hand gripped her arm and hauled her back.
He held her close to his large body as she caught her breath. “Be careful around the river. It gets swollen with rain or melting snow from the mountains, and is sometimes stronger and colder than it looks.”
She nodded, and started to break away from him, but he held her fast.
“Carrie.” When he spoke her name, she couldn’t keep herself from looking up into his solemn face. “You received my letter.”
“Y-yes. I have it.”
This seemed to surprise him. “You can read?”
“My brother taught me.” She waited, in his grip, wondering what this was all about.
“He knows Reverend Shepherd?”
“Yes. They were in school together.”
“Then you read my way of thinking. As a man, I take the lead. My wife will follow.”
So here they were already, having this conversation about rules. Carrie knew it was coming but didn’t realize it would be so soon. Her husband-to-be was a careful taskmaster.
“Yes, I believe that should be the way of it.”
He let her go but didn’t move away. “So, if I ask something, you will obey. And if I needed to teach you a lesson, I could take you in hand.”
She heard the question behind the statements. “Yes, Mr. Donovan. And I would submit to correction, if it was fair.” With a deep breath, she added, “I want a strong man for a husband. I’d need one, to survive a place like this.”
The moment stretched on a little longer, then his hand touched her back, guiding her back to the horse. “Call me Miles,” he said in his deep voice.
He swung up, then reached down to help her settle behind him. Tiredness had seeped into her limbs, and she flailed a little before grabbing onto his clothes.
“Steady, Carrie,” he said, and she recognized the soothing tone of his voice, at the same time she felt grateful for it. “Hold on to me.”
He waited until she leaned forward and put her arms around him before prodding Monty forward onto the trail.
Dusk had fallen, but there was still plenty of light behind the mountains when Donovan steered the bay off the path again. Carrie had dozed on and off, the steady hoof beats lulling her to sleep, only for her to jerk awake when her cheek touched the rough cotton of Mile’s shirt.
Monty walked through the trees, then stepped out into a clearing, and Carrie finally saw her new home. Miles had cleared a hill and built the homestead on a crest overlooking the meadows where his horses and cow herd grazed. To the right, just off the hill, was a stable, and gardens beyond that, all enclosed by a rickety fence. Neat rows of corn wrapped around the hill behind the house, leading down to the great river.
Miles swung off and then helped her down, handing down her bag before taking Monty to the stables. The bay nickered and trotted through the gate to greet a painted mare. The two nuzzled before Monty went on to the water trough, leaving the painted mare to nudge Miles.
“Easy, Belle,” Miles said, skirting the mare’s awkward bulk. His hands smoothed her sides and she immediately quieted. Carrie recognized the signs of the mare’s large and pregnant belly; Belle would soon drop a foal.
As Miles forked hay into their manger, and then checked the water even as Monty kept drinking noisily, Carrie marveled at the farm, so neat and well-kept despite the vast amount of work for one man. That explained the hard, corded muscles in his arms, and the deep bronze of his skin.
Her body felt cold and stiff with the long journey, but Carrie didn’t fuss, watching Miles care for the beautiful animals.
“I’ve never seen such lovely horses,” she told him when he returned, hoping to capture some of the easy way he dealt with the animals, and transfer it to her.
“Belle will foal within a fortnight. I built the stable for her. The rest of them are pastured further down, near the cattle.”
“All morgans?”
“Aye,” a gleam in his eye as he talked about the beasts he loved, “a few bays like Monty, bred for hardiness and speed across the wilderness.”
“I’d love to see them.”
“Tomorrow.” He seemed to remember himself, and the confident manner he used to discuss horses slipped a little. He held out his hand for her bag and then touched her back to guide her up the hill. “This way.”
In the dim light, Carrie trudged up the path, forcing herself to fight exhaustion and notice the details of her new home. They stepped onto a small porch and into a dark homestead smelling of kerosene and wood smoke. She stopped in the doorway, reluctant to enter the inky shadows until Miles lit a lamp and handed it to her.
Turning to cast the light around, she drew in a harsh breath.
The place wasn’t much more than a cabin, with a fireplace on one wall. To the left of the hearth was a rude table with only two homemade stools, one big, one small, to serve it. In the far corner next to the fireplace, a sack of meal, a few jugs and a hanging hank of meat made up the mean larder. To her right, a big bed, finely carved and covered with a pile of grey blankets, stood proudly taking up most of its half of the homestead. A great wooden chest sat at its foot; there wasn’t room for much else except a rifle leaning against the wall, reaching distance from the bed.
She could walk from one end to the other in barely twenty steps.
Miles pointed out the small larder, including the water pail and tin. “In the morning I’ll show you the farm. I’ll need your help with the chickens and the garden. Harvest time, and anything we can store we’ll need to be ready for the winter.”
He set her bag on the bed and looked back at her slowly. She still hadn’t moved from the middle of the cabin.
Her husband-to-be reached down to the bed and took up a blanket. He moved closer and she blinked up at him, having an unpleasant thought. Would he want them to lie together?
He reached out a hand and she flinched, stepping away.
Surprise flashed across his face
, but he let his hand drop, and didn’t try to pursue her.
“I’m a Christian woman,” she blurted, trying to get her breathing under control.
Fire shot into his gaze, and she knew she’d used the wrong words. She backed up until the table stopped her, then stared back at the shadowed man, feeling despair rise up in her. The last time she faced a man like this, he’d taken what he wanted and left no room for her to say or do otherwise.
But then Miles tilted his head, so the light fell on his face. “I won’t force myself on you, Carrie.”
Starting at his soft use of her name, she clutched the lamp to her and tried to read the message written in his steady, stoic expression.
“I’m a good man, and honorable. You’ll get your wedding. It’s just been delayed a little.”
Gulping down air, she nodded and forced herself to relax. She didn’t know how to tell him what that meant to her, but he seemed to understand the relief on her face.
“I’ll sleep outside tonight. Careful of the lamp,” he reminded her. “Blow it out when you’re done with it. I need the oil to last another month yet.”
She waited but he stood in the doorway, rubbing the back of his neck like he couldn’t think of what else to say. The lamplight flickered and shadows crawled across his face.
Finally he dropped his hand.
“Goodnight, Carrie,” he told her, and left her in the shrinking circle of light.
She woke stiff and confused, and lay there until she got her bearings. The thick morning light added nothing to the bare cabin, but it did seem less forbidding. There was a certain charm in its homemade simplicity.
Her only complaint was the mattress. Flat and musty, it needed to be aired and stuffed with fresh ticking. That chore would go to the top of her list.
Of course, she felt guilty that Miles had to fare on the hard porch floor. His stern mien aside, he seemed to be a man of his word. Not fancy or flashy in any way, but she didn’t want a charming man with a silver tongue. She wanted a man she could trust. Miles Donovan seemed to be that sort of man.
The thought heartened her as she moved around the cabin, finding the water pail and drinking a dipperful, using a corner of the blanket to wipe down her face and neck. She’d give anything for a hot bath.
She dressed in a faded green calico, shook out her skirts and smoothed her wavy hair down her back. Squaring her shoulders, she stepped out onto the porch to greet the day, and the light blazing over the meadow. She was a frontier woman now.
Miles was gone, but he’d left his grey blanket lay folded by the door. The floorboards in the cabin and the porch looked new. She wondered what else he’d spent time fixing up in the few months he’d had to prepare for a wife.
Wandering down the hill, she approached the fenced stable and smiled as the horses trotted out to greet her. She petted both Monty and the pregnant mare on the nose. As she was stroking Monty’s black mane, marveling how it contrasted prettily with his rich brown coat, the bay suddenly jerked his head away from her and whinnied.
She turned and her mouth went dry as she saw Miles coming across the foot of hill, carrying two bales of hay he must keep near the corral for the other horses.
At some point in the morning, he’d removed his shirt, and the expanse of bare, tanned muscle sent her heart fluttering. There was not an extra ounce of flesh from the broad shoulders to the tapered torso, and his arms corded with the strain of carrying the two bales.
“Morning,” he called. “Going to be a hot day.”
She said not a word, watching the sweat drip down his sleek, brown muscles. He cleared his throat and she flushed when she realized she’d been staring.
“Do you mind getting the gate?”
“Sorry.” She dashed to undo the gate to the corral. He passed her without a word and disappeared behind the stables. Her horse greeters disappeared as well, stomping out their approval at the arrival of breakfast.
When Miles returned, wiping the sweat off his brow and torso, Carrie remembered that she’d left her hair hanging willynilly down her back. Reaching up, she pulled back her hair with self-conscious hands, weaving it into a swift braid. Then she grabbed up her skirts, though all morning they’d trailed in the dewy grass, and it was too late to save them.
Miles watched her frantic dance. Finally, he opened his shirt and dropped it over his head. He came towards her, close enough for her to smell his musk of hay and sweat.
“Did you sleep well?”
“Well enough.” She wet her lips but couldn’t bring herself to complain about the poor mattress, or ask if he’d enjoyed his night on the porch. He must have been awake and working for hours.
“Good,” he said. “Let me show you your chores.” He strode through the mud, and offered her his arm. After a moment, she took it, remembering her episode the night before. As they crossed over the thick grass from the corral to the gardens, she leaned on him and felt none of the panic she’d experienced in the dark cabin.
Her inspection found the gardens neat and well-planted, though ready for a good weeding. Everything but the corn was fenced in, and a few of the posts had sagged and needed mending. A small fence divided the vegetables from the chicken’s section, and Miles paused at the sturdy gate.
“Always keep the gate latched. I built the fence air tight, after coyotes carried off a few hens.” He stepped inside the coop and showed her the six hens and rooster. “I waited until I knew you were coming to get more. They’re your responsibility now.”
The hens ignored the visitors, pecking over the ground. They were squat birds too fat to fly out of the high fence, but one of them darted for the outside.
“Mind the gate, Carrie.”
She whirled and caught the door, her fast movement causing the chickens to squawk.
“Sorry,” she said to her unsmiling guide. “What sort of chicken is this one?” She stepped forward and heard a cracking sound. At her feet were broken shells and oozing yolk.
“The kind that lays eggs on the ground,” Miles said. “That was breakfast.”
Grimacing, Carrie shook the yolk off her shoe and apologized again.
“There’ll be more tomorrow.” He pointed out how they nested and laid, and where he would build a shelter for them. “My work will go faster now.”
Following him out of the coop, Carrie hoped that would be true.
“Latch the gate,” he reminded her, and she hurried to catch it before a chicken made its escape.
When she turned to head to the homestead, Miles was standing in her path, head bowed. Studying his solemn face, she felt uneasy. Was he having second thoughts about keeping her?
He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ll not be able to repeat myself on every lesson.”
“I shouldn’t want you to.” Carrie twisted her hands in her skirt. Was he going to send her back? “I’ll learn faster, I promise.”
“I find that swift punishment is a good reminder. I intend to give you correction when you need it.”
She almost felt relief. He wasn’t sending her home. “I understand, Mr. Donovan. As your wife, I’ll submit to it.”
“So we’re in agreement. Next time you leave the gate open, there will be consequences. Do you understand?”
“Yes. Let the punishment fit the offense,” she said, and started to move away.
“Not so fast.” He caught her arm, then dropped it when she stiffened. “When I do take you in hand, I’ll give you instructions, and talk with you to make sure you’re clear on why you’re being punished. If you argue or talk back, the discipline will be longer. I’ll hurt you, but I’ll never harm you. Understand?”
She jerked out a nod, and he returned it.
“Next time, mind the gate.”
The next trial came on the way up the hill.
Miles pointed out the pails sitting next to the corral. “Fetching water after tending the chickens will be your duty. I did it this morning. It’d be a great help if you could put them in the cabin.”
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br /> She took up the pails and started back to the homestead. Her dress dragged across the grass and threatened to trip her, heavy with dew and mud. Mentally she added laundry to her chore list.
When she was about halfway up the hill, a black stick at her feet uncoiled and slid away. She jumped back, sloshing water, and shrieked as the snake disappeared into the grass.
“What is it?” Miles was at her side in an instant, his hands gripped her waist to steady her. She hadn’t even seen him race up the hill.
“Nothing,” she gasped.
“Don’t lie to me.” He frowned. “Something startled you.”
“It was a snake. It’s gone now.”
He waited until she got her breath back. “Was it black?” And when she nodded, his grip loosened. “It’s harmless. You afraid of snakes?”
“No. I nearly trod on it, that’s all.” She stepped away from him and picked up the fallen pails with as much dignity as she could muster.
“Careful,” he said, and it took everything she had not to snap at him.
The rest of the morning didn’t go much better. After finding mouse droppings in the larder, she filled the cabin with smoke trying to build a fire, then singed a corner of her dress and cracked the pot that held breakfast. She was salvaging some porridge from the broken pot, when Miles came in and looked around the smoky room, then at her kneeling in front of the fire.
“I’m sorry,” she said, fighting tears all over again.
He squatted and took the pot from her, then set it aside and grabbed a skillet. Carrie watched silently as he heated some fat, then tossed in a mixture of flour and salt, along with two eggs that must have escaped her clumsy feet. In a minute, he served fry bread along with a few carrots and tomatoes harvested from the garden.
They ate with their hands. After years living out here, he seemed comfortable with silence. She gathered up the things in the pail for washing later, but as she went by the hearth, she tripped over the skillet, pushing it into the fire. Dropping the pail with a clatter, she hurried to grab the pan and keep the embers from spilling over onto the floor. Ashes flew.
