Crying hysterically, her hands clawed at the gravel on shore. Grabbing fists full of the blessed earth, she crawled off the ferry on her hands and knees, her skirt hampering her escape, contributing to her panic. Away from the water’s edge, knowing and trusting the solid earth beneath her feet, she collapsed in a huddled-up ball.
Her panic ebbed, her senses began to return. There were people standing in a circle around her, laughing, jeering people…young men, savage men ready to tear at her flesh.
The boys chanted, “Nutty Norie, Nutty Norie, poison pies, gravel eatin’ Nuttie Norie.”
They had her flour sack duffel of possessions, playing keep-away, tossing it up into the air and between them.
Above the din, she heard Ruben’s sadistic prediction, “They’ll get yeah. They’ll split you apart ass to ears. Horny dogs every one of ’em.”
∙•∙
Hank charged in to help her, shouting down the boys to get back.
The cowboy stepped up to help, but Paxton threw out his arm, catching the cowboy on the chin. Hank heard Paxton shout before connecting with the cowboy’s face, “Stay away from her. You’ve done enough, you ignorant son of a bitch.”
Looking for an opening in the circling hooligans, Hank heard the cowboy’s reaction to the hit he’d taken. Rubbing his chin, he said, “She’s all right, I tell yeah. Next time she’ll do fine.”
Paxton apparently didn’t accept the man’s assessment of the situation. He took hold of Comstock’s coat front, fist raised, and aimed for the man’s jaw. The cowboy grabbed the fist and shoved Paxton back. Paxton stayed on his feet. Head down, he charged like a bull straight for the cowboy’s breadbasket.
With chaos all around him, Hank had all he could do keep himself out of the melee.
∙•∙
Anora, on her belly, scurried to get away from the feet of her tormentors. The jackals followed her no matter which direction she took. Out beyond where her head lay, her hand found a tree limb.
A primal scream rose in her throat, over her tongue, and out to the world. Nutty Norie came to her feet. Tree limb in hand, swinging, she meant to mow down anyone and everything in her path.
Primordial grunts and howls emitted from deep within her, sounds she didn’t know she could make. A rage coming from deep, deep down erupted up out of her soul, fiercer than hurricanes or cyclones. Anora flashed her mighty weapon, connecting, finding satisfaction each time it inflicted pain.
She laughed, exhilarated, tears of release streaming down her cheeks, mucus flowing from her nose. Shouting her battle cry, the jackals backed away, their laughter fading, replaced by their need to survive.
Her eyes found and focused on Hank Reason. She grinned, and he grinned back. She saw Mr. Hayes and Whit still doing battle, both battered and bloody. When the shouting stopped, they stopped. Raising her stick in the air, she cackled with delight to have stopped the world. All around them, she sensed a stillness, the world had finally taken notice—Anora Claire had, at last, come up on her hind legs to fight back.
The leaves on the trees hung still and limp, the water ceased to ripple. She could hear no other sound but the sound of her own laughter and whoops of victory.
One last circle of her club brought her around to face the river. A white vapor rose up off the calm water, the sun melting it away as fast as it could rise above the trees.
Her gaze landed on Mr. Hayes. She didn’t care that he had a bloody nose, that his clothes were covered in mud, or that he’d lost his hat and his baldhead was shining in the morning light—she was glad to see him. That is until her mind registered he didn’t look at all pleased, his eyes held censure, narrowed beneath a furrowed brow, his lips pulled in beneath his mustache in a disapproving pucker. With his gaze pointed directly at her, her victorious smile withered.
Whit stepped toward her. She met him halfway, her eyes searching his face, taking note of his black hair, damp with perspiration, noticing how it curled around his ears and across his forehead. One of his eyes had started to swell shut. He looked like a naughty little boy who’d come to his mother expecting a scold but hoping for mercy. He picked up her duffel bag and handed it to her.
“You know I’ll always hate you for what you made me do today,” she said, combing back a lock of his hair from his eyes with her fingers. Taking her duffel bag from him, she came up on her toes and pressed her cheek to his.
Asking her for permission, he said, “I’ll bring the milk up to you tomorrow night?”
She smiled and nodded. “I think that would be fine, but I don’t know where I’m going. We better get directions from Mr. Hayes.”
“Last house on the right as you go out of town,” Paxton said. She smiled at him, but Mr. Hayes didn’t acknowledge her boon, instead he ignored her and dipped to pick up his hat.
Mr. Reason stepped back, allowing Mr. Hayes to take her by the arm and rush her toward the wagon. At the buckboard, he none too gently helped her onto the seat. She turned and waved to Whit.
Deliberately, she kept her eyes turned away from the woman who sat on the farm wagon. She had no desire to see the dumbstruck expressions on the faces of the boys who’d mercilessly ridiculed her.
Going up the riverbank, and out onto the wide meadow, she heard a mourning dove call. It sounded so lonesome and sweet, yet peaceful and sure of itself. A lump of sorrow came to her throat; she’d changed back there, for good or bad, she’d turned a corner. She swallowed the lump of humiliation and loss of dignity down and squared her shoulders.
Chapter Twenty
A scowl entrenched on his face, silent and stiff, neither looking right nor left, Mr. Hayes drove the wagon through town. Chancing a sideways peek, taking note of the fresh blood at the corners of his mouth, Anora accepted responsibility for his hurts and pressed her lips together. Now and then he winced when the wagon pitched and rolled in and out of the mud holes.
His disgust, understandable, she’d made a spectacle of herself. And there she sat, a wild woman, hands, skirt, her cape, caked with red clay, filth on her face and in her hair.
They passed the closed doors of the mercantile. She ducked her head, her gaze colliding with the disapproving eyes of the man who had his nose pressed to the window. Across the street, in front of the saloon, a group of men, their hands stuffed down in their pockets, stood gaping, muttering to one another, pointing at them as they passed. On the boardwalk, frowning, two ladies stopped to gawk, their grocery baskets held tight to their waists, lips pursed and chins tucked.
“I’m sorry,” Anora said, picking at the caked mud on her cape. “I’ll clean up before I see Isabell.”
Mr. Hayes nodded, his jaw tight.
“You’re angry. I know. I understand. Everyone’s looking at me. I don’t blame them. I am a freak. You’re sorry you invited me to come into your home. I would understand if you wanted to take me back.”
He growled an oath, his jaw working. Turning his head away, he flicked the reins and the horses picked up their pace. Lips trembling, on the verge of breaking down into tears, she tucked them firmly between her teeth refusing to crumble.
Her dismay turned to overwhelming intimidation when the prospect of Mr. Hayes’s home came into view. The modern look of it—the whitewashed exterior, the windows, the wide, wraparound verandah, she’d never dreamed of such a place, not there, not in this wilderness. She had no business coming there. She should crawl back to her cabin.
»»•««
Isabell had gone to sleep after a long difficult night. Hank had checked on her before leaving to go down to the ferry. Her breathing had sounded a little easier this morning. Lydia, full of guilt, unable to give comfort or nurse her daughter back to health, assured him once Anora arrived to keep Isabell appeased, she’d be able to relax and have the baby. With that in mind, he sprinted up the stairs to his wife.
Mrs. Gregson met him outside the bedroom door. “Her water broke while you were away. But it’s taking too long. There are no contractions. I worry for the ba
be.”
Hank didn’t know what that meant, but whatever it meant, the second his gaze found her lying in their big bed he knew Lydia was in a lot of pain. Sitting on the bed next to her, he took her hand. Pale and weak, she offered him a brave little smile.
“Paxton’s bringing Anora. She’s here, Lydie.”
Through the walls, he heard Isabell coughing, barking. “You rest now, Lydie. Anora’s here. We’ll see to Isabell.” She closed her eyes and nodded. Mrs. Gregson entered the room. Grimacing, Lydia mewed, turning her head away from the window.
Mrs. Gregson moved in, cool towel in hand to sooth Lydia’s brow. “There now, your pains have started again. That’s a good thing, Mrs. Reason. You’ll have your baby soon. A couple more good contractions, that’s what we need.”
Hank brought her hand to his lips. “I’m going down to bring up a fresh kettle of water for Isabell. Anora’s here. She’ll take over. I’ll be right back, Lydie.”
Face contorted, damp with perspiration, Lydia cried out, “Hank? Don’t leave me. I’m frightened.” Her sharp fingernails dug into his palm. Another contraction brought forth a scream of agony. Huffing, weeping, she squeezed his hand so tight his fingers went numb.
Mrs. Gregson took her position at the bottom of the bed. “Bend your knees up for me, there’s a good girl.”
“I’m going to die. The baby, Hank? I’m afraid. I’m going to die,” Lydia said before another contraction stole her attention.
Jubilant, Tamara said, “I see his head! Not long now, my dear, some good pushes and you’ll have your baby.”
In fervent prayer, Hank, held tightly by Lydia’s hand, eyes squeezed tightly shut, he pleaded for mercy for his wife and the child that clung to the security of his wife’s womb.
»»•««
Mr. Hayes pulled up before the back porch. He reached up to help her down. She shook her head to refuse. He tipped his head, eyebrows raised silently, questioning her reasoning. She relented and put her hands on his shoulders. He hissed and held his breath with the effort, obviously in pain. Once her feet touched the ground, she gently pushed out of his embrace and self-consciously smoothed down her cape and righted her skirt to avoid looking into his eyes.
Arms at his side, a grimace on his lips, he said, “I don’t hold you responsible for that debacle at the ferry landing.” He handed her, her duffle bag.
Stepping back from the rage she thought she saw in his eyes and heard in his tone of voice, she braced herself for the certain scold she had coming for disgracing him and herself.
“I’m angry, yes. I put the full onus on that cocky cowboy. Coming here’s the best thing for you now,” he said, reaching out to take her elbow.
Confused, but grateful he hadn’t hit her, she withdrew her arm, mistrusting his support.
Looking wounded now, anger replaced, he said, “I’ll take care of the horses. There’s a basin for water inside the pantry, you can clean up in there. You’re here now, and safe under my roof.”
He turned away, stopped, and said over his shoulder, “I’ll wash up in the barn. When you’re done, if I’m not back, you go on up. You’ll see the stairs down the hall from the kitchen. Isabell’s door will probably be open; she’s in the room in the middle. You can’t miss it, it’s pink.”
Backing away from him, grateful to be dismissed, she rushed into the house. Taking a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dimness, she found the pitcher of water in the corner on a plank board counter. Hanging on the wall above, she saw the tin basin. Draped on a hook next to a small mirror, a thick, white washcloth, so white she cringed at the thought of using it.
Hearing voices, she rushed to change her dress and torn stockings, leaving her discards wadded up in a ball on the counter. Passing through the kitchen and down the hall to the stairwell, she heard footsteps in the rooms above. Trying not to gape at all the fine furnishings, the wallpaper, the pictures on the walls—she concentrated on finding Isabell’s room.
On the third step from the top of the stairs, a scream stopped her in mid stride. The door to the first bedroom on her right was closed. She arrived at the middle bedroom door in time to stop Isabell from climbing out of her beautiful, pink, canopied bed. From the bottom of the stairs, Anora heard Mr. Hayes shouting his sister’s name.
Whimpering, Isabell said, “Mommy. Mommy.”
Cries of tremendous pain and sorrow echoed throughout the house.
“Isabell, Isabell,” Anora said, gathering the child into her arms. Consumed with panic, Isabell paid her no mind, clawing her way over her shoulder. Unable to hold her back, Anora fell back onto the bed.
Isabell didn’t get far, Mr. Hayes scooped her up. Wincing, eyes shut, he cradled her in his arms. Isabell, coughing and wheezing, kicked and squealed.
On her feet, following Mr. Hayes, the thrashing child in his arms, Anora touched Isabell’s damp forehead and whispered into her ear, “Shhh, Isabell, shhh now. Look, look, I’ve come to see you,” she said, heartened Isabell followed the sound of her voice. Eyes blinking, wet with tears, Isabell met Anora’s gaze and wrapped her arms around her neck.
Nodding, Mr. Hayes transferred the little girl into her care and she set to soothing her saying, “Shhh, Isabell, shhh, you’re frightened, you don’t know what’s going on and you’re not well. Let me hold you. I’m here.” Weeping, the child hid her face in the crook of Anora’s neck.
The house grew pregnant with silence. Going to the door, Mr. Hayes stepped into the hall, staring at the closed porthole at the front of the house. Anora, beside him, rocking gently back and forth, Isabell in her arms, waited to hear the cries of a newborn, but they didn’t come.
Stepping back, turning toward the light coming from the window, Anora spoke softly to Isabell, stroking her hair. Looking out upon the sunny spring day, she hummed a song she thought she’d forgotten. “Down in the valley, the valley so low, hang your head over, hear the wind blow. Hear the wind blow dear, hear the wind blow, hang your head over, hear the wind blow.”
»»•««
Lydia, held fast to his chest, Hank watched Mrs. Gregson bathe the limp, lifeless, round little body of his son. Anora’s soft, pure voice filtered through the walls. “Roses love sunshine, violets love dew, angels in heaven, know I love you. Know I love you dear, know I love you, angels in heaven, know I love you.”
Paxton appeared in the doorway, hesitated, then nocked softly on the door. Mrs. Gregson stood aside to usher him into the room. She’d drawn the window shades. Lydia, her complexion white as her cotton nightdress, eyes drowning in tears, rested her head on Hank’s chest. “I want to hold him,” she said, her voice small.
“Lydia, no,” Hank said, his lips pressed to her hair, eyes shut tight against the awful pain.
“I have to hold him, Hank. I have to see his face. If I don’t, I’ll always wonder, and I would hate myself for a coward.”
“You…you’re no coward, Lydia, sweet Lydia,” Hank said, fighting for control, losing it to the huge salty tears streaming down his cheeks.
Paxton followed Mrs. Gregson to the narrow occasional table on the far side of the room where a pitcher and basin of discolored water stood. Lying next to the basin, a small bundle wrapped in a blue flannel blanket, lay a perfectly formed infant. “Meet Carter Boyd Reason,” Mrs. Gregson said. Sniffing back her tears, she carefully picked him up.
Paxton held out his arms. Lips tight, Mrs. Gregson hesitated to surrender the precious package. Weeping quietly, she gave in.
His eyes cast down to the baby’s face, Paxton crossed the room. Without a word, he laid the child in his sister’s outstretched arms.
Hank, finding it impossible to look away, stayed Lydia’s hand before she could pull the blanket away from the baby’s face. He wanted to do it. If she could stand it, he could.
The baby’s lips were a soft, faded pink, his skin white, soft as powder, his eyes closed to this world.
Lydia moved the blanket aside and found a lifeless little hand, then touched his fingers
and stroked his palm with her thumb. Hank, whose heart was being torn from his chest, endured as mother inspected the perfect little body of her son, from his downy head to his funny toes.
»»•««
Anora had calmed Isabell enough to leave her to fetch hot water from the kitchen. On her way back up the stairs, she overheard Mr. Hayes speaking to Mrs. Gregson, and stopped on the landing below, reluctant to interrupt.
“That’s the first infant I’ve had to deliver stillborn. Two other babe’s died of a fever a few days after birthing. This child, this little boy, he’s the most beautiful, the most perfect child I’ve ever seen. So healthy looking, big and robust. He shouldn’t have died. I don’t understand it. I’ll never accept it as God’s will.”
“Mrs. Gregson…Lydia…is Lydia all right?” Mr. Hayes asked.
“She’s very tired, she’s lost more blood than I would like. But all in all, I’ll have to say I think she’s going to be fine. She’ll need a lot of rest, of course. She’ll do with a dose of laudanum, and it wouldn’t hurt Mr. Reason to take some as well.”
“He’s worn out,” Mr. Hayes said.
Anora decided to let her presence be known and made sure her footsteps could be heard on the stairs. She didn’t know Mrs. Gregson, but she put a respectful, sympathetic smile on her face and thought to pass without making eye contact.
Mr. Hayes straightened his shoulders. “Anora, meet Mrs. Tamara Gregson. Mrs. Gregson, this is Anora Talbot. Anora, you should know, the baby, a boy, was stillborn.”
Anora, bereft of speech could think of nothing to say. She could find no words to express sorrow that deep. “Isabell? She’s asking for her mother. I hope I didn’t do wrong to tell her, her papa would be in soon?”
The Widow's Ferry Page 18
