The Widow's Ferry

by Dorothy A. Bell

  They were nearly across. Anora watched the last rays of sunshine flicker across the water. “It’s Isabell, isn’t it? That’s what’s really eating at you. You’re thinking Paxton might be right about her running wild, with no real structure.”

  He gave her a crooked smile. “I’m torn, Anora. I don’t know what to do. On the one hand I can’t allow her to grow up ignorant and wild, but on the other hand I don’t want her to grow up a straight-laced, tightly corseted, ‘pissy-pot.’”

  Hearing her description thrown back in her face, she tried to be incensed, instead she giggled. “You promised not to repeat my words. But now I’ve opened my mouth and I’ve started giving out my opinions, I think what you need to find is a middle ground, Mr. Reason.”

  “Yes, that would be wonderful, but where and how do I find it?”

  “Isabell is only five. You have a little time.”

  Isabell, jumping up and down, waving her arms, called to them from the shore, “Papa. Papa. We’ve been waiting for you. It smells ‘licious, Papa.” The ferry crunched into shore.

  Hank lowered the tongue and then leaped into the water to tie off the rope to the pylon and, all the while, Isabell chattered. “I helped Mary Two Hats make sweet cakes from the roasted camas and nuts. My Indian name is Little Magpie. A magpie is a clever bird, Papa. Mary Two Hats said they talk a lot.” Barely taking time to breathe, she went on. “Anora had some new peas and little carrots and potatoes. And Grandpa Joe and me and Flashing Wing made a deep dish-apple pie. I’m so hungry, Papa, I could eat my foot.”

  Holding out his hand to help Anora, Hank said, “We better get a move on. My girl is threatening to eat her own foot.”

  Taking Isabell by the hand, he said, “Come on, Magpie, I’ll race you, last one there is a rotten potato.”

  Isabell broke free of his grasp and took off like a shot. Meeting Hank’s challenging gaze, Anora hesitated, grinned at him and whipped her hat off and, clutching it in her hand, tore up the track after Isabell. In her dust, behind her, she heard Hank swear.

  Her rain slicker, flapping between her legs, slowed her down. Hiking it up to her hips, she put some distance between her and the man behind her. Almost to the Indian camp, she felt a tug on the back of her coat and tripped over her own feet. Arms cartwheeling, she managed to stay upright.

  “Run, Anora, Run. Papa, you cheated. You’re a rotten potato, Papa. Papa’s a rotten potato,” Isabell chanted.

  Sprinting up to the fire pit, laughing, hopelessly winded, feeling marvelously light-hearted and silly, Anora folded over to catch her breath.

  She felt Hank’s hand on her back and came upright. Taking a half-step to the side, hands going to her waist, she met the gleam in his eyes and knew it a mistake to allow him to touch her, even an innocent pat on the back. She had to deny the attraction—protect her heart. “I have to clean up. You two go ahead, eat, don’t wait for me.”

  Glancing over her shoulder, she caught the hurt look on his face and rushed to the security of her cabin. Tears, hot and salty, trickled down her cheeks. Behind her, she heard Isabell’s childish voice, “Come on, Papa. Come on. Mary Two Hats has a bowl for each of us, see,” and knew he hadn’t moved or taken his eyes off her.

  »»•««

  What the hell, he hadn’t done anything. One minute playful as a kid, and the next minute, cold as ice. No, not cold, the look she’d given him; she looked fearful. She’d closed up right in front of him, and for what? Why?

  Isabell dragged him away. Blinking, he looked around. Mary, along with four other women, standing over a make-shift table, portioned out the food to the children and men. All the women, from puberty on up, were busy stirring, bustling around, making themselves useful, getting the children settled.

  The camp consisted of a cluster of crude hovels, domes put together with bark and sticks, covered with hides of elk and deer. Everyone had gathered in around one central fire pit. He heard no fussing or crying among any of the children, not even the babies. The women worked silently, murmuring low instructions only when needed. The men sat relaxed, some with children on their knees or cradled in their arms.

  He smiled, recalling Paxton’s fears that Isabell, running wild among savages, would run the risk of becoming uncontrollable. In truth, she’d probably learned more today about responsibility, hard work, and patience, than she would learn in a month of Sundays. He decided she could spend her time with these people as long as they were camped there next to Anora. Then, well, he’d reserve judgment until after his dinner with the newlyweds.

  He and Isabell were given a bowl of venison stew, the meat and vegetables swimming in a thick, savory, reddish-brown sauce and a flat round of bread and some greens. It smelled delicious. Isabell dove into it with gusto, using her fingers.

  He knew the exact moment Anora returned. He watched her get her bowl. Prompting Isabell to wave to her, they both invited her to come sit with them on the blanket they’d been assigned.

  A tinge of pink on her cheeks, she appeared self-conscious, looking everywhere but directly at him. She’d combed her hair and changed into her faded rose dress. Adjusting herself on the blanket, she sat for a few moments, observing those around her. He recognized the perplexed expression on her face, her lips drawn up into a bow, brows knit together. He felt the same—they had no tools with which to eat. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched her daintily dip two fingers into her stew. Leaning over her bowel, she brought her fingers to her lips, sauce dribbling down her chin. When she started to giggle and lick the sauce from her fingers, he thought it a very good thing he was sitting down, no one would see his arousal.

  Isabell had her bowl up close to her chin, scooping the contents of her bowl into her mouth, which proved very efficient. Hank and Anora observed for a few moments, giving each other the raised eyebrow, then followed suit, each finding this method more productive.

  During the last course of the meal, the apple dish, Grandpa Joe brought out his fiddle and started tuning up. One of the men played on a long wooden flute. Joining in, a couple of the young women shook a leather thong strung with bells. The music that came out of that odd assortment had a particularly uplifting appeal. With the addition of the drums, the night took on a joyous heart and voice. All gathered were drawn into another time, another world—a world of mystical songs and haunting, healing rhythms.

  »»•««

  The following evening, Hank and Isabell broke bread with Paxton and his new bride. The tension at the dinner table made for an uneasy meal. Melinda had set the table in the dining room with Lydia’s fine blue willow china. Hank knew it belonged to Lydia’s mother, and by rights it should stay with Paxton, but the sight of it made Hank angry. The silver candle holders in the middle of table were Lydia’s too. They’d received them from an aunt as a wedding gift. Melinda couldn’t know that, of course. Hank could make allowances for her, but Paxton, he couldn’t forgive Paxton. Swallowing down his ire when Melinda apologized for the lack of proper crystal, “No finger bowls,” she said, and tsk, tsked. He gave himself indigestion.

  Isabell, put out she had to attend this meal and miss out on a meal with her new friends, didn’t bother to hide her feelings, plunking herself down at the table, a mutinous set to her lips. She didn’t eat a morsel of the roast duck, new peas, potatoes and gravy; instead, she licked the butter off her bread with her fingers.

  The bride lectured Hank on proper table manners, and the inadvisability of allowing children to waste food. Delicate in appearance, Melinda spoke with all the tact of a pile-driver. She had a heart and a bustle made of cast iron, cold and rigid, praising Isabell’s quiet reserve out of one side of her mouth and threatening her with no dessert for her rudeness out of the other side.

  Hank took note Melinda did most of the talking at the table. Paxton sat unusually reserved and distracted, almost sulking, Hank thought. Which made him wonder if Paxton now suffered from regrets; if so, they’d come too late. Melinda had definitely staked her claim to Paxton’s
kingdom.

  When the subject came up of Isabell receiving instruction on deportment and other school studies, Hank stalled, asking Isabell what she wanted to do. Of course, at first, she refused to give more than an “I don’t care,” answer.

  “I’d like to hear what you think, Isabell.”

  She squirmed in her chair and sat up a little straighter. “I don’t know why you ask me what I want when you’ll decide and I’ll have to do what you say,” she said, pouting, her arms folded across her chest.

  Pursing his lips together to keep from snickering and giving himself a second to remind himself his daughter was growing up, actually thinking and reasoning, he said, “Right, so you’re putting it back on me. I am the parent, after all. So, here’s the deal, you come here two days a week, take instruction from Aunt Melinda. The other three, four days of the week, you can stay with Anora if I have to go to work or you come with me if I’m in the orchard.”

  The little girl came to the edge of her seat, folded her hands in her lap, looking him directly in the eye, ready to bargain. Hank leaned his elbows on the table and met her gaze without flinching, having become accustomed to his daughter’s method of reaching detente. “If I got to, I’ll come here two days…but I want Molly to come with me. I want Molly to come too. She needs to learn deportment too. I’d learn better deportment if she learned it too. And I’d learn better, faster, if I had a puppy. Grandpa Joe showed me a litter of puppies in camp. He’d let me keep one if it’s okay with you.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Hank wasted no time taking Anora up on her offer to teach him how to cook. Even with Grandpa Joe and his tribe in residence, Hank and Isabell showed up every evening in time for a cooking lesson. And sometimes they shared a meal with Joe and the others, but many evenings it was just the three of them sitting around Anora’s table, eating whatever he and Anora had put together. Those times, he cherished. After Grandpa Joe and his tribe departed, Anora told him to his face, she was glad they were neighbors. In no time, she let him know she anticipated his arrival, thinking up menus and dishes he could tackle. She’d relaxed considerably, but he limited the touching to a minimum. She still tensed if he put a hand on her shoulder or over her hand, but she no longer moved away.

  At sunset, the evening of the Fourth of July, the sounds of gunfire and fireworks echoed up and down the river. Hank, with Isabell, had come down intending to act as Anora’s escort to the festivities.

  “No, I’m too tired,” she said, turning him down flat. “I haven’t eaten since dawn. Folks kept coming by wagon and foot, I haven’t had a minute to myself. It’s a lovely, warm evening; all I want to do is sit here on the porch and enjoy my solitude.”

  A loud boom rattled the cabin window behind her. Isabell tucked herself into his side, and the black and white pup that had followed them from home jumped around, barking in protest of the racket.

  “We’ll join you, then. Isabell’s not fond of loud noises and neither is her pup. I’m sure they’d rather stay here and play in your yard.”

  Leaning down, Hank ruffled the pup’s ears, one black and one white. “That sound okay with you, Mick?”

  Anora held out her arms, and Isabell climbed onto her lap. “The noise makes me nervous too,” she said, her lips touching the top of little girl’s head.

  Looking to Hank, she said, “If you want to go, Isabell and Mick can stay here with me. Take the ferry over. Roscoe and Pete are still yoked in the style. Just don’t let Paxton know you ran the ferry, and not me.”

  Making himself comfortable on the edge of the porch, he threw a stick for Mick to fetch. The pup raced off to get it but didn’t bring it back, instead, laid down and started shredding it to bits. Isabell bounced off Anora’s lap and ran out to find another stick for the dog not to bring back. Hank shook his head at the silly pair. He put his arm around Anora, resting his hand not on her person but on the porch floor.

  “Let me be your friend, Anora? My arm is around you to give you comfort. I expect nothing. I’m not asking for anything from you. You’re all folded in, but you need to talk and I’m here to listen. Now, why would you think Paxton would object to my running the ferry for myself, especially after the long day you’ve put in?” She sighed and slumped, even going so far as to rest her head on his shoulder. He felt like crowing, instead he took a shallow breath and kept very still.

  “I don’t want to give him, or the town council, an excuse to take the ferry away from me. I’m aware of the talk, Hank.” She straightened but didn’t pull away. Hands pleating the skirt of her dress, she continued. “They’re calling it the Widow’s Ferry now. I know how the city council feels about a woman doing a man’s work. Several times a day I’m told I have no business running it. With no proof that Ruben’s dead, I’m simply abandoned, not really a widow or a wife. The ferry and the land aren’t legally mine. The women find it freakish, the men think it a miracle I haven’t killed myself, or a passenger. And from time to time, I get the disgusting offer to work out a trade for services rendered, if you get my meaning. It’s only a matter of time before I have to accept—I’ve been warned.”

  She closed her eyes, a tear slipping down her cheek. He longed to kiss her. Kiss her and hold her and take away all her woes.

  “Sorry. I’m hungry and tired. I’m whining, sorry,” she said and sniffed back a tear.

  “C’mon, food, that’ll fix you up. Did you have anything in mind for your supper? How’s your larder? I could make us some flapjacks and eggs? You’ve taught me well. I’ve mastered biscuits, pie crust, and flapjacks.”

  Isabell, the dog at her heels, dashed forward, leaping up the steps. “I know how to ‘cramble eggs now. Papa lets me beat ’em up.”

  »»•««

  Now and then, Anora heard gunshots and shouting, but the loud booms had ceased. The sweet, lilting sounds of a fiddle sang softly on the breeze. Hank was right, she did feel better now she’d food in her stomach. She waved goodnight to him and Isabell, backed up, closed the door, dropped the wooden arm across it, and quickly folded the shutters across the window. With that done, she lowered herself into a chair at her table and put her aching head in her hands. “Happy birthday,” she said to the empty room. Hank and Isabell filled the void of her empty life and she was grateful. And yes, she adored them both. She more than adored Hank, she loved him, loved him so much it hurt. And he must never suspect, it would ruin their relationship, ruin their friendship.

  The walls closed in on her, the air saturated with heat. She’d like to leave the door open, let the night air sweep in, but she couldn’t take the chance; Ruben would get her if she let her guard down. Keeping the fact of her birthday to herself, she’d avoided turning their simple supper into a party. She didn’t want to think about her birthday, to do so reminded her of the months, the years, Ruben had stolen from her. Memories of the wagon train, of Ruben, and Aunt Carrie, brought to the fore her fears of what he’d do to her when he returned—and he would return.

  Occupation, she needed occupation to diminish her anxieties and to delay going to bed. Shoving out of her chair, she decided she would alter her wardrobe. The rain-slicker had become too heavy, but she still wanted something that would disguise her shape—something she could hide behind.

  Her denim dress, too tight across the shoulders and bust, her muscles having developed since taking over the ferry, with a few alterations would do very well. Using her paring knife, she ripped the threads that held the bodice of the dress to the waist. She had one needle, a guarded treasure she kept in the top drawer of her dresser pinned to a remnant from one of her papa’s white shirts. Between a yellowed and folded square of linen, she unearthed a quickly disappearing spool of white cotton thread. By candlelight, she arranged the skirt this way and that, at last ending up with more of a poncho than a smock.

  The July days melted one into the other. Anora kept her head down and her mouth shut, ever vigilant, mindful Ruben could pop up at any time now. Hank and Isabell’s increased presen
ce added to her apprehension, as opposed to giving her a sense of security. Rueben had never left her alone this long. She knew better than to think he’d forgotten about her. They had unfinished business—he’d be back with a vengeance, and Hank and Isabell must not be found at her table.

  She thought it just as well Isabell and Molly spent three days a week in Melinda’s care these days—piano and voice lessons added to their curriculum. Although she missed the girls, she didn’t want them around if and when Ruben returned. But with Melinda devoting the Sabbath to prayer and Bible reading, the two girls spent a good part of their Sundays with her, while Hank tended his trees.

  Late one Sunday afternoon, the girls came running down the lane, Mick barking, chasing them, announcing they wanted to have a tea party, they needed to practice. Melinda, the girls told her, put great store by the manner in which a lady conducted herself over tea.

  “She’s mean as cats,” Molly said, pulling up a stool in the shade beside the shack. “She hits with a spoon. And if you spill your soup, you don’t get any food.”

  “She pinches too,” Isabell said, holding out her arm for Anora to see the black and blue marks.

  “Hmm.” Anora sighed, wondering if Hank approved of Melinda’s disciplinary methods, or even knew about them. At fourteen, she’d gone to a girl’s finishing school in Des Moines. That year did not evoke happy memories. She recalled being pinched if she slouched at the table or skipped down the stairs. Yes, she could remember going to bed hungry. Lucky for her, her parents could afford only a year’s tuition, and she didn’t have to return.

  “It’s been a while since I’ve served tea,” Anora said. “I don’t know that I’m going to be of much help. But I’m willing to play. I think we should pretend we’re friends of Mrs. Hayes.” Lips puckered and a ramrod straight back, prim demeanor in place, Anora introduced herself. “You may address me as Miss Unella Smedly-Smithe, of the Connecticut Smedly-Smithes.”