The Widow's Ferry

by Dorothy A. Bell

  She could almost smell the spicy scent of the tiger lilies. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she scolded herself for dreaming of what would never be and turned to study Lydia Reason’s pretty profile. She wondered what kind of flowers Mrs. Reason would plant beneath her porch.

  Shifting her gaze to the meadow and valley below, Anora puzzled over why she’d thought of tiger lilies. Did she remember them from her childhood? Yes, she thought there were lots of flowers where they’d lived in Iowa.

  Her tormentor wouldn’t let her have flowers. He said she could if she wanted to eat them. He wasn’t going to have anything growing or living that wasn’t useful. Her small garden yielded carrots, beans, potatoes, beets, cabbage, and spinach, but not one useless flower would Anora ever see.

  “Do you think a garden would do well here?” Lydia asked, bringing Anora out of her reverie.

  Anora looked around, her eyes drawn to Mr. Reason’s back, his strong arms hammering on a wooden stake. She pulled her gaze away. He moved on down the hill, measuring out where to place his trees.

  Considering Lydia’s question, Anora surveyed the area and said, “It’s nice, probably morning sun, and no problem with drainage. Where are you going to put the well? It would be nice to have it close to the garden.”

  “Hmm, I don’t know, I haven’t asked Hank. How soon do you think we could plant a garden? I’m not familiar with the growing season here in the Willamette Valley.”

  “Willamette Valley? That’s where we are?” Anora, until this moment, hadn’t realized her exact location. She remembered arriving in Oregon, but where he’d taken her after that, she wasn’t certain. She knew Takenah lay across the river. But where Takenah was, in what part of the country, what river—she had no idea.

  Lydia took both her wrists to steady her. “I’m sorry. Yes, this is the Willamette Valley, Anora. You didn’t know? Oh, my dear, you look ready to faint. Food, you need something to eat. Hank and Paxton are coming up the hill, and we can have lunch, and I’ll have Hank build a fire so we can heat water for tea. A strong cup of tea—that will brace you.”

  With Lydia’s arm around her waist, they started back to the wagon. Squealing, Isabell, wielding a large snowball, jumped out from under the deep cover of thick oak and fir. Anora spied the pile of snow that lay hidden in the shade under the fern and briars.

  Lydia shouted at her daughter, but too late; the snowball found Mr. Hayes’s head, knocking his hat off. He responded with a jump and a war-hoop, taking out after the assassin in hot, mean pursuit, volleying threats, closing the gap in no time.

  Mrs. Reason shook her head. “I should stop her, but Paxton will encourage her. It would be futile to put a halt to this battle. I think we’ll be safe, and well out of range, if we can make it to the safety of the wagon. But I don’t promise. Paxton loves to play, and he doesn’t allow spectators. Everyone is expected to participate and take sides.”

  Coming within shouting distance, Mr. Reason said, “I don’t know which one is more incorrigible. I think this time Miss Isabell may have bitten off more than she can chew.”

  Standing under the oaks, with a good view of the fun, Mr. Reason stood with his big arms folded across his broad chest, a smile on his strong face, watching the battle progress. Behind Anora, Mrs. Reason coaxed the fire she was tending to heat the water.

  Anora had taken up a position a couple of yards away, in the open, to observe. Listening to the squeals of laughter from the little girl being unmercifully chased, a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth as her uncle grunted and growled, the beast who pursued her around and around the thicket.

  An unexpected tear trickled down her check, warm and salty, finding the crease between her lips. Oh, to be a child again. To start over.

  Then, frapp, a slushy snowball caught her on the shoulder. She heard a woman’s laugh, her voice, her laughter. Without thinking, she dashed off to the nearest pile of snow. Mr. Hayes, who had poked his head around a fir to see where Isabell’s snow missile had landed, proved an easy target for Anora. She took aim, fired without considering the consequences.

  “This way, Anora, run. Run.” Isabell called to her from inside the thicket. “We can hold him off in here.”

  Anora had to clear several yards of open territory before she could reach the safety of the ticket. She doubted she could gain that much ground without taking some hits. On the run, she formed two loosely packed snowballs and, with one in each hand, she made a dash for it.

  A snowball hit her on the hip and another got her on her backside as she passed his hiding post. She turned a split second before disappearing behind a small stand of young firs and fired her ammunition. She didn’t wait to see where they fell, but darted behind the brush, winded, giddy, giggling to herself, hysterical, tears coming down her cheeks.

  “You got him. You got him good. One on the nose and the other one went in his ear.” Screaming and jumping up and down with triumph, Isabell’s dark curls bounced. Her cheeks bright pink, she danced with victory.

  Then it began to rain snowballs. Mr. Hayes had come out into the open, lobbing snowball after snowball into the brush.

  “Two against one, is it? Ha. I’ve got you sewed up now. Say uncle and come out with your hands up.”

  Anora, her hands up over her head, trying to protect herself from the snow, leaves, twigs, and pine needles, looked down to Isabell, who had huddled up against her skirts. “Shall we surrender to fight another day?”

  Isabell grumbled, then said, “Oh, I s’pose, I’m hungry anyway.” In defeat, Isabell crawled out of the thicket on her hands and knees. Anora followed, ducking and disentangling herself from the branches and briars. She stepped out into the open, her blue bonnet dangling by one ribbon down her back, hair loose about her face and neck, no doubt decorated with twigs and pine needles. Chips of snowball covered her coat. Shivering, her hands freezing, she blew on her fingers to bring them back to life. Her head down, stumbling out of the tangle of the thicket, she ran into Mr. Hayes.

  “Hey, you don’t have any gloves,” he said, the arrogant smile of triumph on his face giving way to concern. “Here, take mine for a while.”

  “No. No, I’ll be all right,” she assured him, while at the same time he took off his fur-lined gloves and then proceeded to put them on her hands.

  “I won’t take no for an answer.”

  The gloves felt heavenly. They were far too big, but they were warm and dry, and her fingers tingled as blood began to circulate more freely. He brushed the pine needles from the collar of her coat in a proprietary way that made her squirm with anxiety. When his fingers brushed her cheek, she flinched and backed away. Either he didn’t notice or he pretended not to notice; either way, Anora stiffened, turned to stone.

  “Come on, let’s see what Lydia has in the hamper. I’ve worked up an appetite. I bet you have too. You know you have a very good arm there and a fine aim. You hit me on the run. I’m impressed,” he said, a wide, condescending grin on his face, his eyes dancing with mischief.

  Looking away from that mischievous grin, Anora mumbled aloud to no one in particular, “I shouldn’t be here.”

  “I think this is exactly where you should be,” she heard him say, steadying her with his hand beneath her elbow, guiding her back to the wagon.

  Wooden and stiff, to disengage his gentle grasp, she made a pretense of brushing her hair from her face. He allowed her to go, but she could see by his tight jaw and pursed lips he wasn’t pleased. She rushed forward and to the side, putting him at arms-length, anticipating an explosion of outrage.

  ∙•∙

  The evening before, Hank had sat silent and tight-jawed, listening to Paxton expound on what he’d do with the Talbot property. According to Paxton, Anora Talbot was sitting on a pretty spot if Talbot didn’t return. With Talbot out of the way, Paxton believed, with his guidance, he could make her a powerful woman in her own right. He also hinted that if someday a young lady, wholesome and sweetly innocent, should come along, he’d h
ave to marry; but until that time, he and Anora could build and control their destinies together.

  The subject soured Hank’s stomach. Although Paxton’s daydream benefited the town as well as Anora, Paxton would be using her for his own gain. It would do nothing to elevate her standing in the good-books of the town’s people. Far from it, she’d be labeled not only a crazy whore, but a ruthless, crazy whore. Hank hated every aspect of the idea but didn’t see he had any room to object.

  He tried his best to explain Anora’s fragile existence, her bruised and fractured mind. But Paxton assured him he could bring her around. And maybe Paxton was right; after all, Hank had seen her laughing today. Paxton had brought about that laughter. The very idea of it set his back teeth to grinding. He knew once Paxton set his mind to a thing, it usually ended up a done deal. He’d have to trust Paxton wouldn’t hurt her. All Hank could do was hope Paxton held more than a smidgen of genuine regard for the girl. He had other worries at the moment. He had a pregnant wife to think of. He should be giving her his attention, not Anora and certainly not Paxton.

  ∙•∙

  Anora found her attention drawn to Hank and Lydia; they were having a spat. She blinked in surprise, fearful for Lydia. No one argued with a man, no one. Isabell wasn’t helping, tugging on her mother’s coat, nagging, whining for a cup of tea.

  “You should get off your feet,” Hank said, his voice sharp and commanding. “I saw you going up and down those stairs this morning. You promised me you’d find a place to sit down, not wander all around the woods wearing yourself out.

  He caught his daughter by the collar, pulled her back and gave her a little shake. “Isabell, leave your mama alone. We’ll eat soon.”

  Anora expected him to backhand her; instead, he picked the child up and tossed her over his shoulder like a bag of potatoes. The child kicked and squealed. He gave her a light swat on her behind and then set her down on her feet.

  “You look here, Hank Reason,” Lydia said while pushing a cup of steaming tea into her daughter’s outstretched hands, spilling some of the hot liquid on her own fingers, which did not improve Lydia’s disposition one iota. “I’ll sit down when I please, and besides, it’s cold here in the shade. I had to keep moving to stay warm.”

  He took the kettle from her. “Well, go sit out there in the sun. There’s a fallen tree out beyond the woods there. We don’t have to eat here by the wagon.”

  “All right. My back does hurt a little. I’m sorry, I know I’m snapping, but you pulled the wagon up here, not me. I don’t see a fire out there in the sun. I had to build one myself.

  “Isabell, stop that,” Lydia hissed, disengaging her daughter’s hand from her coattail. “What is it now? You have your tea.”

  Mr. Reason yammered on in his own defense. “I was busy, if you didn’t notice. All you had to say is you wanted a fire and I would’ve built it.”

  Mrs. Reason shrugged. “Well, it’s too late now.”

  Mr. Reason shut his eyes, took a deep breath. After opening his eyes, he set the kettle down to the side of her fire. Taking his wife by the shoulders, he put his forehead to hers and said, “Lydy, sweetheart, I’m sorry.”

  Anora couldn’t believe her ears. Ruben would’ve cuffed her upside the head several times by now. As a matter of fact, the conversation wouldn’t have gotten past the first two words. Anora hated to think what Isabell’s fate would’ve been.

  “Come on, Paxton, let’s move this fire closer to that old fallen tree. I’ll get the food. Isabell, you get the lap robe for your mama.”

  Volunteering, still puzzled by the progression of the argument and the end result, Anora said, “I’ll bring the pot of water.” She caught Mr. Hayes’s eye. She’d felt his gaze on her, watching her watch his sister and Hank.

  Anora sat next to Lydia on the fallen oak tree. Lydia offered to share the wool lap robe. She sat quietly, watching the two men form a fire pit and put the covered pot of water over the flames to heat.

  “Aren’t you afraid of Mr. Reason? “Anora asked, keeping her voice cautiously low, not wanting the men to overhear.

  Lydia leaned a little closer, her head down, looking at Anora through her long, dark lashes. “What? I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

  “You aren’t afraid of Mr. Reason, are you?” Anora said, in a loud whisper, just between the two of them.

  “Afraid of…of Hank? No. I’ve…” Lydia stopped, blinked, and shook her head. “I’ve never been given cause. He barks, and I snipe, lately more than I care to. When I get hungry, I get tired, and then I get cranky.”

  “Cranky, is it? Hank said, and laughed. “You, my dear, turn into a mad little hornet. But I know how to remove your stinger,” he said, coming up to her, bending down and planting a kiss on his wife’s cheek.

  “Papa was going to spank me once,” Isabell bluntly confessed, “but he changed his mind. Instead I had to scrub all the kitchen cupboards inside and out ‘cause I painted ’em all shiny with Mama’s lard. Next time, I’m gonna take the spanking.”

  Mr. Reason ruffled his daughter’s hair and gave her a peck on the nose.

  Anora wished she could remember more of her childhood. She didn’t think she’d ever been spanked, not by her gentle father. The memories of her father, the ones that had surfaced so far, were of a remote, but loving, husband and father.

  Then, in her head, she heard crying and shouting. Mr. Hayes squatted down in front of her. Her breath caught in her chest, she squeezed her eyes shut and hunched her shoulders. Another memory surfaced.

  A warm pair of strong hands folded over her own. The voices of her mother and father, her mother’s sobs and protests, her father’s shouts and arguments, filled her head.

  When Mr. Hayes gently shook her hands, she opened her eyes. “Anora, what is it? Anora, please…” he asked. She shook her head, unable to breathe, afraid she’d lose this small scrap of her past if she blinked.

  She heard Mr. Reason say, “I’ll get her some tea.”

  Her voice sounded far away and strange in her own ears; embarrassed, she attempted to explain, “Mama…Mama cried. She didn’t want to go to Oregon. Papa…wanted to go. They had a big fight over that. They never fought about anything. It frightened me. They both cried, and I cried. In the end, Mama said she’d go to hell and back if he asked her. He assured her she didn’t have to go that far, just to Oregon.”

  Mr. Hayes laughed. Lydia took her hand. Anora squeezed her eyes shut and held on tight.

  When she opened her eyes, she found herself looking directly into the warm, brown depths of Hank Reason’s eyes. She took a shuddering breath to steady herself and nodded, reassuring him she had herself in hand now. “Here you go, Anora, Lydia,” he said, handing off their mugs of tea.

  Quickly, he shifted his attention to his daughter. “Isabell, you be careful you don’t spill your tea all over your mama.” He passed Mr. Hayes a cup of tea. “Let’s dig into this hamper. I’ve worked up an appetite.”

  Chapter Ten

  By the end of the day there were twenty-four pear trees planted firmly in the ground. Paxton and Hank dug the holes and positioned the eight-to-ten-foot saplings, then Isabell and Anora tucked the rich black dirt and sod back around the roots.

  Hank stopped and leaned against the oak. Lydia, wrapped in the lap robe, had fallen asleep in the sun. Her eyes fluttered open, she yawned and came up on her elbows, tipping her head, her smile sending him an invitation to join her.

  He squatted beside her, and she looked away to where Anora and Paxton were helping Isabell pack the dirt around the last tree. “I’m worried about my brother,” she said under her breath.

  He grunted in agreement.

  Lydia looked up at him. “He’s attracted to her. She is pretty, and surprisingly intelligent, but she’s damaged, like a vase that’s been dropped and glued back together too many times. She will never be what she once was. I fear she’s beyond repair, unable to function properly.” Lydia shook her head. “She’s not the right woman
for my brother. He’s taking her on as his project. That’s not good. He’ll tire of her sooner or later, or she’ll tire of him; either way, it won’t work.”

  Hank came to his feet and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “I don’t see how we can stop him. Today’s been good for her.”

  Lydia nodded and reached for his hand to help her get to her feet. She swayed a little. Tightening his hold on her, he said, “You’re going home and right to bed.”

  “I’m a little dizzy, is all. You worry too much, Mr. Reason. I’m fine.”

  “I don’t think there is such a thing as worrying too much when your wife is with child.”

  »»•««

  A warm southwesterly wind pushed dark clouds inland, whipping the bare branches of the oak and maple. At the cabin, the sound of the rising river set Anora’s nerves on edge. She hated the water, the sound of it, the relentless rush of it, the color, dark and evil.

  Mr. Reason pulled the wagon to a stop.

  “We better get across,” Mr. Hayes said. “Looks like the thaw’s begun. The forks of the Willamette are carrying the runoff from the Cascades upriver.”

  Mrs. Reason leaned out to speak to her brother. “I don’t like the looks of the ferry, Paxton. Are you sure we can make it across?”

  The ferry had started to cross from Takenah. It looked small and flimsy, straining against the fast-moving, swirling current. The color of the water had changed from steel blue to a murky, greenish brown.

  Mr. Reason, holding the reins, came to his feet to study the river. “Looks like the water level’s risen well over a foot since morning.”

  The boy on the ferry put all his weight on the rudder. He lost his footing, slid on the slippery deck, then righted himself. Mr. Reason turned his attention to the oxen.

  Anora, unable to stand the sight of the water, turned her attention to the oxen in the style. With their heads bowed, they plodded slowly around and around, pulling the cable across the carriage, their hooves digging a trench into a slurry of mud.