The Widow's Ferry

by Dorothy A. Bell

  “I’m gonna go get my gear,” Whit said, passing the split-rail corral, heading for the barn.

  “Wait. Whit, you can’t leave now.”

  “Yup, I thought I would. Not much reason to stay. You can handle anything that river dishes out. You’ll get used to it. You got to do this on your own, I can’t do it for you.”

  They crossed the yard to the cabin, Anora skipping alongside to keep up. “Stay one more day.”

  “Anora Claire,” Whit said, coming to a sudden halt, a sparkle in his eye, a smirk on his lips. “The truth is if I stay, I want to be in your bed. No. No, I can see it in your eyes, you’re over me. I can live with that. I ain’t one of those fella’s that needs to be hit over the head with a fry pan. I best be gettin’ on. I think I can make camp along the Long Tom River tonight. The weather ain’t bad. There’s some passes to go over, might run into snow before I get into California.

  “Now, I left you Grandpa’s double barrel there, next to the bed. You don’t have to be a good shot to do damage with that thing. Just point it in the general direction, what it don’t shoot full of holes, it’ll scare to death.”

  He barked a big-chested laugh and grabbed her by the shoulders, holding her to his chest. “Don’t look so scared. I wouldn’t leave if I didn’t think you could handle this. You’re a natural born ferryman, Anora. All that stuff you learned watching your pa, it’s in you. Trust yourself.

  “Hey, look out there,” he said, turning her around to look out the door of the cabin, “you’ve got a customer. You can take me back over to the Takenah side. Anora Claire you are now a ferryman.”

  Furious, she could do nothing more than stand with her mouth open.

  The crust, the out and out audacity of the male, left her speechless. They came, they went as they pleased. They took what they wanted, what they had use for, and to hell with the leftovers; they could rot for all they cared.

  After detangling herself from her cape, she jammed her wide-brimmed leather hat down on her head, pulling the brim low over her eyes. Angry at the whole damn world, and especially angry with everyone she’d ever loved or cared for, for leaving her, she donned her father’s big rain slicker.

  Whit, her family, they’d left her, never mind they’d left against their will—the fact of the matter remained—she only had herself to rely on. And, by damn, that was how she preferred it from this day forward. Being alone was better than caring, feeling, craving comfort, and understanding…tenderness, from another human. Who more than likely, would be more concerned with the fulfilling of their own wants and desires.

  Stomping down off the porch, she retrieved a pair of leather gloves from her pocket. Tossing her voice over her shoulder, she said, “Best get your horse, Mr. Comstock, if you mean to cross that river with me. I don’t have time to waste.”

  Waving her hand to her customer, she said, “You there. Loaded wagon and team three bits. Get off the wagon and lead your team to the front of the ferry, please. If you haven’t got the price of the fare, we might make a trade, depending on what you’ve got.”

  Grinning, setting his hat more firmly on his head, Whit shouted across the yard, “Better do what the lady says, folks. Shake a leg, she means business.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  “How is she? Did she say anything?” Paxton asked.

  “Far as I could tell, she’s doing fine. And no,” Hank answered, for the third time since returning from a day working on the cabin. “No, she didn’t give me so much as a word. I said, ‘Good morning.’ Isabell and Molly said, ‘Hello Anora.’ And that’s that. With her hat pulled down so low, I couldn’t even see her face.

  “It’s the same every time I go over there. It’s been two weeks since she left. I must’ve crossed the ferry a half dozen times, and she won’t speak to me. She talks to Molly and Isabell. The girls asked me, not Anora, if it would be okay if they stayed to help her plant a garden.”

  “Those mean boys comed over there today,” Isabell said, skipping into the kitchen and scrambling onto her father’s lap. “Anora shot ’em.”

  “What? Anora shot somebody?” On his feet, Paxton reached for his hat and coat. “You didn’t tell me about this. Why didn’t you tell me about this?” he said, swooping down on Hank while donning his coat.

  Turning his back, shielding Isabell with his body, Hank said into her ear, “I asked you to let me tell your uncle.”

  Adjusting Isabell on his thigh, Hank said before Paxton could leave, “Sit down. Stop acting like an ass and I’ll tell you what happened.”

  With his hand on the doorknob of the back porch door, Paxton said, “Sit down? You want me to sit down? Anora shot someone and I’m supposed to sit down?”

  Hank huffed, removing his daughter from his lap, transplanting her in the chair next to him, he passed her a piece of Mrs. Pooly’s spice cake. “You don’t want to go off half-cocked, Paxton. You better sit down. I’ll give you the details.”

  Paxton, with his coat on, removed his hat and sat on the edge of his chair. “All right, I’m sitting.”

  Hank nodded. “I asked Bill to send up some strong backs to help me set logs. He sent me the two Hemphill boys, and Homer Bowdin. The boys went up with me but left before I did. When they got to the ferry, from what Molly told me, they started fooling around and wouldn’t pay the fare. By Molly’s account, they wanted a kiss from her and a bit more from Anora. Things got a little rough. Anora disappeared inside the cabin and returned brandishing this big old double-barrel shotgun.”

  Paxton opened his mouth to speak, Hank shook his head at him and said, “I don’t know where she got it. Anyway, from the porch, she aimed it between Homer’s legs. Gravel jumped up and hit him in the crotch.” Hank grinned. “Probably still burns. And the long and the short of it is, the boys paid their fare.

  “I heard the shotgun blast, but by the time I arrived, she’d ferried the boys across, and started back. Molly, who admired Anora’s pluck, declared herself disappointed because, until today, she’d had a crush on Lyle Hemphill.”

  Paxton leaned his elbows on the table and ran his hand over his smooth pate. Hank sat back and put his hands behind his head to say, “She’s not talking, Paxton, but she’s telling us a lot. She can handle it. When and if she needs our help, she’ll ask for it.”

  “The Willa Jane, will be here in the morning.” Paxton said, shaking his head. “She better be ready. There’s talk the Willa Jane isn’t the only flat bottom, side-wheeler that will be making runs up here. This talk of gold in California, and the settlers coming here, there’s bound to be more river traffic. She better be ready.

  “And that reminds me, what are you going to do with all the lumber you bought for the house?”

  “Well, I wanted to talk to you about that. I’ll be using some of it, but now I’m not going to build a big house, I can’t use all of it. I thought I’d put it up in a lot and sell it off as best I could. Might have to take some of it in trade.”

  “Sell it to me?” Paxton asked, an eager gleam in his eyes.

  “That depends on what you’re planning to do with it.”

  “I’m going to build a hotel at the ferry landing.”

  Hank picked up Isabell’s empty glass and marched across the room to pull down a clean coffee cup from a cupboard. He started to pick up the coffeepot, growled and slammed the pot down on the stove. The bang echoed throughout the room. “You want to use my lumber, the lumber I was going to use to build…your…sister a home, to grind Anora Claire Sennett into the ground.”

  Paxton shot back in his defense, saying, “She can keep the ferry and her land. I’ve got a right to develop the land on this side of the river any way I can, if it will help this town grow. I have permission from the town council. They’ve extended the township. She’s not going to have time to feed people, barely enough time to feed herself. I don’t think she understands what a commitment she’s made over there.”

  Under his breath Hank said, “Oh, I think she understands.” Turn
ing around, he faced his brother-in-law. “She understands all right. That’s why she’s not speaking to us, you idiot. She knows who and what she’s up against, and she knows she’s alone.” He waved his hand over his head. “Never mind, go ahead, build a…a hotel, whatever you want. But Anora will be there day in and day out, you’ll see, she’ll be there, reminding you every day of the one person…thing…you couldn’t buy or seduce.”

  Paxton shoved himself away from the table and started to leave the room. He looked to Isabell, her brown eyes wide and lips pressed together.

  Making eye contact with Hank, Paxton said, “Speaking of seducing, I got a reply from the Reverend Archer. If you recall, I’ve been corresponding with him since his arrival in Oregon City last fall. He and his daughter, Melinda, have taken my offer to start a Congregational Church here in Takenah. He sent me a lithograph of Melinda, a fine-looking young woman. I’ll be leaving when the Willa Jane heads back down to Oregon City. If all goes well, I’ll bring Melinda back as my bride. If the weather is with us, we could have a church up by mid-summer. The reverend’s willing to conduct a school.”

  Turning his back on him, Paxton left the room, leaving Hank to absorb the ramifications of his announcement. “I wish you luck,” Hank said, to no one, raising his empty cup in a silent toast to his brother-in-law. “You’ll need it.”

  »»•««

  The fourth pan of cornbread waited in the oven, and a big kettle of beans and bacon sat at the back of the stove, soaking. The hour had grown late. Strangely, she missed the chime of a clock to tell her the exact hour. She’d never had a clock, or a timepiece, funny she should miss it now.

  Tomorrow, the day would begin early. It was good to have something to do, the nights went on forever. They were frightening, full of ghosts and devils. She missed having Whit nearby. And Isabell, and Hank, the sounds of people in the house. The cabin, although small—she could see every corner—felt too big, too empty. So empty in fact, sometimes she felt it might as well have no walls, no roof; she felt exposed, alone and vulnerable.

  She removed the last pan of cornbread and turned it out on the table to cool with the others, then pushed the beans aside and covered them for the night. Reluctantly, she decided she had to go to bed.

  First, she checked the door; she’d fashioned a bar across it for security’s sake. The window had been a challenge, but she’d put together a shutter with leather hinges. She doubted the bar across the door, or the shutter, would keep out a serious predator, but at least the noise of the onslaught would rouse her and give her time to defend herself. Whit’s shotgun had already won her approval, and she kept it right beside her on the bed every night.

  In her chemise and petticoat, she climbed into bed, winching, turning onto her other side to avoid lying on the big maroon and blue bruise that had blossomed on her shoulder.

  Reliving the events of the afternoon brought a smile to her lips. Whit would’ve been proud. Feet braced, she’d prepared for the noise of the blast, but not the recoil, nor had she expected the shot to spray the gravel. But she’d made that oaf Homer jump and cry. The last she’d seen of him, he was howling, holding his crotch, hobbling up the lane to Takenah.

  The prospect of the Willa Jane’s arrival chipped away at her confidence like a woodpecker on a snag, sleep eluded her tonight. Outside, waiting in the yard, there were three wagons and five men camped, their milk cows bedded down in the stock cribs. She hadn’t spoken to the men or looked them in the eye, and if someone asked her, she couldn’t tell you what they looked like, and she didn’t care.

  Doling out her words like a miser, she tried hard not to see any of her customers or let them get a look at her. Cash for the fare, take the money or whatever they offered, get the ferry across, back and forth, back and forth, no need to make eye contact.

  During every crossing, she watched the river, expecting it to trick her; she never took her eyes away from it or expected it to be kind. And each time she and her cargo made it safely to the other shore, it amazed her.

  Come morning, it didn’t take long for Anora to realize she couldn’t feed customers and ferry them across at the same time. It soon turned into a serve-yourself kind of proposition and pay if you have a conscience. By the end of the first day of heavy traffic, it became very clear most of her customers had little to no conscience. There were only three dollars and thirty-five cents in coins in the cup she’d left hanging from the tripod over the fire pit, the kettle of beans and cornbread, all four pans, wiped clean.

  That night, Anora made the decision not to supply food when the Willa Jane came in; it proved to be too much work, and too costly. At the end of the second day, she’d overheard Captain Jameson talking to Paxton. Paxton came down to the river, she suspected he’d come down expressly to see if she was ready to surrender.

  Captain Jameson called out a “hello,” to him, his voice carrying up and down the river.

  Paxton answered back in an equally loud voice, “Need to talk with you, captain, you got a minute?”

  Anora kept her head down, ears open. The ferry lay in the water on the other side of the Willa Jane, waiting for a wagon full of children and supplies to be loaded. Every time the father of this noisy, restless brood thought he had everything, the wife called him back for another trunk, or a barrel, or a runaway child.

  “I got some time now, pretty much through for the day,” the captain said. “Had quite a load this time. Getting more and more every trip. This gold fever is catchy—people shifting around. There’s talk of the side-wheeler, the Molala making runs up here this summer. She’s got a shallow bottom, should do all right in the low water of summer. You folks gonna be ready?” the captain asked, and Anora had the distinct feeling he’d turned, looking her way.

  “We’ll be ready,” Paxton said, and she heard him laugh. “Getting ready to put up a hotel right up there. Probably widen this dock some.”

  Anora didn’t wait to hear more. If Paxton thought to hurt her by building a hotel, he was far off the mark. She didn’t mind that, but the thought of more people made her uneasy. She thought it one thing to be so busy she couldn’t find the time to go to the outhouse two or three days, every couple of weeks, but to be that busy all the time…no, she didn’t like that prospect one bit.

  The day the Willa Jane left to go up to Marysville, Paxton rode down to the ferry. He waited for her to bring it over, then dismounted and walked up to the lowered tongue.

  “Good day, Anora. Maybe you heard; I plan on putting up a hotel out there on the meadow. I’ve come to ask you again, to run it. We’d be partners. You could keep the ferry; hire someone to run it for you.”

  She started to shake her head.

  Leaning down, he tried to get a peek at her face. “Now…before you answer, you think it over. This doesn’t have anything to do with you and me. I wouldn’t expect anything like that, not to say I wouldn’t be honored if you did forgive me and…and let me give you my protection. I could make your life a lot easier. I’ve had some time to think on what I said, and I apologize for making such a mess of it, for making you feel threatened instead of desired and needed.”

  Raising her head, she looked off into the distance, across the line of oak and willows to the meadow beyond and the Coast Range Mountains.

  He put his arm around her. She picked up one of his fingers and bent it back. He winced and removed his hands from her person.

  “Sorry. Are you ever going to talk to me again? Hank says you won’t speak to him either.”

  Chin up, she said, “So, you’ve been talking about me? I bet you’re not the only ones in this town talking about Nutty Norie, that woman and her ferry. Let ’em talk. I’m crazy and I don’t have to say anything to anybody ever again, unless I have a mind to.”

  Pressing her lips together, she measured her words very carefully, her gaze steady, aimed at a point between his eyebrows. “I’ll do just fine right here. Thanks for the offer, but once again, I shall decline.” She turned to pull up the ton
gue. Paxton jumped back, to save his leg from an awkward twist.

  “Fine by me,” he said, tossing his words at her, and added, “Maybe my bride will be better suited to the job. The daughter of a reverend, you know. Comes from Boston.”

  Anora drowned out his voice by clanging the bell twice. Her back to him, she defiantly guided the rudder into the current.

  »»•««

  The Willa Jane, when it arrived back from upriver, stopped to pick up a handful of passengers, among them Paxton Hayes. Hank, with Isabell on the buckboard, watched the shallow-bottomed boat move off, its side wheel churning up the gray-blue water.

  He looked across river and saw Anora standing in the doorway of the little shack beside the oxen pen, and not for the first time thought his brother-in-law a big fool. Paxton had told him of his clumsy attempt to apologize, and his attempt to renew his offer of his protection and partnership. Angered by her response, he’d thrown in her face his intention to take a bride. Hank shook his head. He wouldn’t blame Anora if she never spoke to either of them again.

  “Well, squirt, are you ready to go live in our cabin? I think we should try to be all moved in before your Uncle Paxton gets home with his new bride.”

  “Can Charity come live with us?”

  “I don’t think she’d like being left behind,” he said.

  “Will I still see Molly?”

  “Yep, I talked to her mama and papa and they said it would be fine with them, but maybe not every day. Some days, I’ll be home, working the orchard, and we won’t need her then. It’s just you and me.”

  “Are you worried or sad, Papa, I can’t tell. Sometimes you look sad. I’ll be sad to leave my pink bed and my vanity. But I don’t care about that stuff, I’d rather be with you. I think Mama would like our new home, Papa. She didn’t really care about the frilly stuff, not really. That’s how comed she wanted to come out here, she wanted to be with you.”