The Widow's Ferry

by Dorothy A. Bell

  Hank heaved a weighty sigh. “I don’t know. I suppose, yes, I’m sad. I miss your mother. But I can’t quite see your mama up there in our cabin. I’ll always think of her in pretty dresses and velvet slippers. I worry you won’t like it either. I question whether or not I’m doing the right thing, taking you away from town, away from your uncle’s house.”

  “I think Mama would like the smell of the cedar and the pitch in our new house. And I really like the pole bed. The big fireplace is nice too; it’s bigger than Nora’s. She says she likes hers ‘cause it talks to her, you know, it snaps and sparks.”

  “Anora talks a lot to you, does she?”

  “Sometimes she’s quiet, but I know she’s watching Molly and me, and she smiles. She’s pretty when she smiles. Did I show you my cut?”

  Hank, occupied with turning the buckboard around to head back to town, nodded. “You did, and it’s an ugly cut if ever I saw one.”

  “Yep,” Isabell said, tugging up her skirt, turning her stocking-encased ankle back and forth. “Nora put spider’s web on it. Molly said she’d never seen nothin’ like it afore.”

  “Anything like it before,” he corrected.

  “Nope, nothing,” Isabel said.

  These were the times he missed Lydia. She’d know how to correct Isabell, explain to her proper English. Molly was a good girl, kind, but a bad influence in her way. Isabell was becoming more and more homespun every day. A school would be a good thing.

  Lydia, each time Hank thought of her, only a couple of dozen times a day, made him angry all over again. He missed the smell of her, the sound of her voice, the sound of her breathing in the dark, lying next to him in bed at night. He missed the Christmas Carol she liked to hum when she cooked. He missed the way she folded his shirts. Most of all, he missed doing things for her. As hard as he tried, he couldn’t convince himself she hadn’t willfully left him. She should’ve tried harder to stay. He knew he wasn’t being fair.

  As far as Anora was concerned, he had to work every day not to think of her at all. It helped that she wouldn’t speak to him, and she kept herself camouflaged in her big coat and big hat. All he had was an idea of her deep gray eyes and her voluptuous figure. He put those ideas of her, the feel of her body within his embrace, the warmth of her skin on his lips, the husky tone of her voice, into a dream, a fantasy.

  Chapter Thirty

  Within a week of Paxton’s leaving, Hank and Isabell moved into their new home. A rock foundation, three feet tall, supported the log walls and the puncheon log floor. Log beams spanned the ceiling above the open room and the mammoth-sized, stone hearth. On the other end of the dwelling, Hank had created a loft where Isabell would sleep, and below, a sleeping alcove for himself.

  The day they moved in, Hank slept solidly throughout the entire night—the first night of good sleep since Lydia’s death. He’d made the table, chairs, rocker, and the settee that sat before the fire. With the money from the sale of the wood, he’d bought pots, pans, food, lamps, and put in a well.

  This would be his and Isabell’s home, not the home of the good folks who’d taken him in, or his brother-in-law’s home, but his home, the home he’d built with his own two hands.

  Isabell put on a brave front, even smiling and laughing, excited to find she had to climb a ladder to get to her bed. He’d allowed her to bring her pink comforter and her feather pillow, assuring her that her uncle wouldn’t mind at all, he’d want her to have them. He promised he’d ask Paxton about the vanity; Isabell would need that as she grew older.

  »»•««

  Now the middle of May, the days had grown warmer, wildflowers filled every meadow and forest floor with camas, daisy, and wild iris. The rain came in quick and sudden showers, interrupted by dazzling bursts of sunshine against a crystal clear, blue sky. Anora walked Roscoe and Pete down from the barn to their crib and started to put their yokes in place. A movement across river caught her eye. The lack of contrast between the deep shadows beneath the oaks and the open spaces at the landing made it difficult to see a wagon or people. If she squinted, she could make out shapes of people in the dim light. An eerie silence clung to the small band—they stood as ghosts at the edge of the river. The women all looked alike, dressed in long, brown dresses. The children, the men, their faces dark, wore brown breeches and brown shirts. They had dogs—black and white—which weaved back and forth, investigating the shoreline.

  Unfamiliar with Indians, she’d heard stories, of course. The men roamed about in small bands of four or five, hunting parties out to trade and, yes, sometimes steal. Anora had no recollection of ever seeing an Indian up close, but then her memory of the past couple of years remained spotty at best.

  They stared at one another for a long moment, Anora keeping very still, and the group across the river lined up along the far shore. Coming to a decision, she picked up her shotgun and headed down to the ferry. She wished there were other people about. She expected the Willa Jane to arrive from upriver today. Glancing behind her, up the hill to Hank’s cabin and her empty yard, she didn’t think Hank would be able to see her customers, not in this light. As she took the ferry across, the sky became a little lighter, although still overcast, as it had been for the last two days; by noon the clouds would melt away, leaving a clear sky.

  Gliding across the water, she could see the faces of the men, stoic and inscrutable. Her eyes scanned the gathering of burnt faces. One face, a pale face, an elderly man, thin, long gray hair in a braid, with a beaded leather band around his forehead, stood out from the rest. The ferry crunched ashore, the old man’s face broke into a captivating grin, his dancing blue eyes lit up with mischief.

  “Grandpa Joe?” she asked, daring to speak her recognition aloud.

  “Under that old coat and that big old hat, I think I see little Anora Claire, and ain’t she a sight for these old eyes,” Joe said, stepping away from his people to take Anora’s hand.

  “Here we are thinking to find trouble, and instead we find a happy chance. Mary, Mary Two Hats,” Joe said, reaching out to draw a black-eyed, round-cheeked, diminutive Indian woman to his side. Joe’s hand began to flash about, his eyes gleaming merrily, speaking gibberish as far as Anora could tell.

  Anora wanted to ask so many questions, she didn’t know where to start, but Joe took her by the arm, hustling her toward the ferry. His band followed him, filing onto the ferry silently and without fuss.

  “Can we save the reunion until we get on the other side? We come down here early on purpose to avoid folks.”

  “All right, sure, but Joe, can you stay for a day or so? All of you?” she said, looking first to Mary, then to the others. No time to count heads, but she thought there were at least a dozen adults, fifteen small children, a few of them babies bound tightly to their mother’s backs, along with a half-dozen horses loaded down with packs that she hadn’t seen back under the trees.

  On the way over she warned Joe, “The Willa Jane is due back today. She’s only been gone a couple of weeks. There isn’t much traffic yet. She’ll be gone by tomorrow afternoon. You could camp with the cabin between you and the river, it’s out of the way and you can’t be seen…I mean…you could be more private there. I wouldn’t mind the company.”

  “Ah, tut, tut, girl, I know exactly what you mean, and much oblige. We’ll have to talk it over. You get on with your business, we won’t bother you none. I, at least, would like to stick around and find out if you’ve seen anything of that grandson of mine?”

  Anora brought the ferry into shore, and said, “Whit was here for a month. It was good to see him. He left almost a month ago for California. You go on up, I’ll try to come up as soon as I can. I have to take care of customers first,” she said, pointing to the rider coming down the hill above the barn.

  »»•««

  Hank, with Isabell in front of him, hanging on to the saddle horn, rode down into the yard before the cabin. “Are they Indians, Papa? Why are they going over there, Papa? Are they mad Indians, Pa
pa?”

  “I don’t think they’re mad,” Hank said, his uncertainty creeping into his voice in spite of himself. “I don’t know why they’re here. Maybe Anora could tell us. There she is at her shack by the oxen’s style.”

  “You’ve got company,” he said, dismounting and leading Isabell, still in the saddle, and his horse over to the shack.

  Surprising him, she answered, “I’ve asked them to stay a while,” and push the brim of her leather hat back off her forehead.

  He smiled at the sight of her open face, he hadn’t seen it for a while.

  “From what I can understand, they want to stay and gather roots before going up into the mountains. They get out of the valley during the summer. Joe Comstock, Whit’s grandfather, is with them. He said the Indians call it The Valley of The Sickness during the summer. I guess they’re prone to hay fever this time of year.”

  He couldn’t help but chuckle, it’d been too long since she’d offered him more than a grunt. She’d given him a gift and it made his day. He restrained his pleasure and replied in what he hoped was a conversational way. “There’s plenty of the purple stuff, camas, up where I planted the trees, they’re welcome to it. We came down a little early because I thought to share our venison with you.” That was partly true, but really, he simply brought the venison down hoping to use it as a peace offering. He nodded toward the Indian camp taking shape to the side of the cabin. “My timing is pretty good I’d say, now you’ve got guests.”

  Anora started to smile, tried to hide it by dipping her head. “You can make fun if you want, but I feel a whole lot safer with these people than I do with some of the rabble in town.”

  He nodded in agreement, then spoke to Isabell. “What do you say, squirt? I see some little ones about your age, maybe they’d let you go with them, to do whatever it is they’re going to do today?”

  . “We always need more hands,” Grandpa Jo said to Hank.

  Anora jumped, grabbing the old man by the arm, and pulled him forward. “Grandpa Joe, Joe Comstock, this is Hank Reason and his daughter, Isabell. They’ve brought us fresh venison.”

  The old man raised his hand to shake with Hank’s, and they took one another’s measure.

  Grandpa gave Anora a sharp-eyed look. Hank had turned away to help Isabell down from the saddle. “You know,” he said, “I think this is cause for celebration. Yes, sir, you come back this evening, Mr. Reason, and we’ll have this venison falling off the bone, ready to melt in your mouth. You come, sit by our fire, and we’ll celebrate.”

  Before Hank could accept the offer, the old man took Isabell by the hand. “So, Isabell, you ready to join us today?” Squatting to the child’s eye level, he said, “I think we need to see about getting you an Indian name. We’ll ask Mary, that’s my wife, Mary Two Hats, see her over there, the one wearing those two black top hats on her head. She’ll know exactly what to call you.”

  Hank handed off the venison to Joe, who tossed it over his thin shoulders. With Isabell’s hand in his, the two started to skip away, then Isabell stopped and twirled around to say, “Bye, Papa, I’m going to be an Innian today,” and spun around to rejoin her hand with Joe’s.

  “Oh dear, Hank, I don’t know if this is such a good idea.” Without thinking Anora laid her hand on his arm.

  ∙•∙

  “You trust Joe Comstock, right?”

  She nodded. “With my life.”

  “Then I trust him and I trust you. Besides, look at her, she’s happy. She misses her mother so much, sometimes I see the sorrow in her eyes and I can hardly stand it, it tears me up. Today, she’s having fun. Today, she will laugh and play.”He stood very still, his gaze on the hand on his arm. He felt the warmth of her fingers through his shirt sleeve, sending rivulets of fire throughout his entire body. With a jolt, he realized he was in love with Anora, and he always would be. He didn’t want to deny himself any longer, and cautiously placed his hand over hers, thinking wild thoughts. She was talking to him, even smiling. How to keep this going? How to go forward now he’d broken through the frozen layer of her silence.

  Anora blushed and tried to take her hand away. He allowed her to slip her fingers out from under his and stood there, holding his own arm. Watching his daughter meld into the group of Indians, he worked to slow his pounding pulse. “We missed something, I think, coming out here by ship, and not overland. We missed the indoctrination…the period of time where we could’ve become more accepting of what we found, rather than trying to fashion this wilderness into what we left behind.” He shook his head and gazed into her eyes—eyes the color of a stormy sky.

  “It seems to me I’ve been trying to keep Isabell…and I know I tried with Lydia, to keep them from the realities of this country. I wanted them to have everything like it always had been, but the truth is, this country is different, it’s new, it’s raw and uncut. Instead of changing it, I’ve decided to enjoy it like it is for a while.”

  Taking a deep breath of affirmation, he said, “I’m going to let Paxton change it. Those folks over there are like the trees and river. They’re part of the country. Isabell…and I, we need to get to know them better.”

  Straightening, smiling wistfully, he said, “Well, I better be getting to work.” He stopped, looked down to his toes and shoved his hands into his pockets. “You know I could use some help.”

  “Oh, Hank, yes, I’ll get you across.”

  “No, well yeah, I’ll let you take me across. But I was talking about cooking. I can’t cook, that’s why I brought the venison to you. I figured I’d burn it, ruin it somehow. Would you show me how to make biscuits, and pie crust?”

  She blinked, opened her mouth then shut it and giggled. “Yes, yes, I will show you how to make biscuits and pie crust.”

  They accomplished the chore of crossing the river in silence. Hank hoped she hadn’t reverted back to not speaking to him. It had been good to see her smile, and to see the sparkle in her eye, and to speak to him in whole sentences.

  He disembarked but stopped before mounting. “Well, I guess I’m invited for supper.”

  Standing on the deck of the ferry, Anora smiled and tipped her head in a saucy way to say, “Yes, which was your intent all along.”

  “I’m not ashamed to admit it. I had other reasons too.”

  She straightened and challenged him. “Oh?”

  “Yeah, I wanted someone to talk to. We’re neighbors. You’ve always been easy to talk to. I’ve missed you. Missed talking to you.”

  She blushed, and turned her head to the side, but he heard what she said. “I’ve missed talking to you too.

  He grinned back at her. “Isabell begged me to ask you to teach me how to make biscuits.”

  Grinning all the way, her laughter following, he headed up the road leading into town.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The Willa Jane, her side-wheel slapping the water, pulled into Takenah before noon. The ferry, from the other side of the river, waited for the side-wheeler to dock before departing with a full load—a covered wagon, a team of oxen, and two milk cows, accompanied by a large pioneer family.

  Hauling a heavy burden, the ferry sat low in the water. Hank arrived at the landing in time to greet Paxton and welcome his new bride.

  In the middle of the river, Anora maneuvered the ferry through the current, and her skill filled him with pride. She’d come a long way from the cowering, whimpering, beaten young woman of only a few months ago. Looking right at him, she brought the rickety raft, laughingly referred to as a ferry, alongside the side-wheeler.

  Paxton, standing beside him, said to no one in particular, “Well, it’s clear she doesn’t need us anymore, Hank.”

  Taking his bride by her gloved hand, supporting her as she minced her way down the ramp of the Willa Jane and onto shore, Paxton said, “Melinda, come, I want you to meet someone.”

  Uneasy, suspicious of Paxton’s motives, Hank trailed behind the newlyweds, sidestepping the passenger traffic. A large woman in a bl
ousy, red and green tartan plaid dress, a faded green poke bonnet on her head shielding her face, created a delay in the introduction.

  “Don’t you be telling me not to be scared, Levi,” the nervous pioneer mother said. “After the stories we heard about them poor Whitmans’, Christian folks ain’t safe. And none of them red devils is to be trusted. Sure, they’re over there, looking peaceful, with their fires and babies, but any moment they could turn on us and we’d be butchered or maybe taken captive to slave for them the rest of our days.”

  “Mother,” the man said, hitching up his black canvas trousers, then setting his sweat-soaked hat more squarely on his head, “they didn’t even look at us. They were picking flowers, for Christ’s sake. They was minding their own business. Now they’re over there and we’re over here. We’re all safe and sound. Them Indians ain’t the first or the last Indians we’re gonna see. You’re gettin’ the little ones all scared with your talk.”

  “Levi James Spinney, you’ll go to hell takin’ the blessed Lord’s name in vain that-a-way,” the wife said, which started a new quarrel between them as they set off up the track going toward Takenah.

  Shielding his bride, Paxton, with his arm protectively about Melinda’s waist, stood aside to let them pass. When he turned to confront Anora, who had followed the couple to the tongue of the ferry to set the moor line, she looked him square in the eye, a smile twitching the corners of her lips. Hank had all he could do not to bust out laughing.

  A scowl on his face, Paxton pressed forward, taking his bride with him.