by Janette Oke
“Oh no!” She stopped and put her hands to her face. “Oh no, please. I want my baby to have Clem’s name,” she whispered her horror.
But even as she fought it and the hot tears squeezed out between her fingers, she knew she’d be the loser here, as well. She was in fact married to this man, no matter how unwelcome the idea; and the baby who would be born after the marriage would be his in name, even though Clem was the true father. She felt a new reason to loathe him.
“Well, anyway, I can name my baby Claridge iffen I want to,” she declared hotly. “He can’t take thet from me.”
She brushed her tears on her sleeve, set her chin stubbornly, and moved into the kitchen.
The fire was already going in the big black cook stove. That must have been what he came in for, and Marty was glad she wouldn’t have to struggle with that on top of her almost insurmountable task of just carrying on. She opened the cupboard doors and searched through tightly sealed cans until she found the coffee. She knew where the coffeepot was, she thought thankfully. Hadn’t she washed it and put it away herself? There was fresh water in the bucket on a low table near the door, and she had the coffee on in very short order.
“Well, thet’s the first step,” she murmured to herself. “Now what?”
She rummaged around some more and came up with sufficient ingredients to make a batch of pancakes. At least that she could do. She and Clem had almost lived on pancakes, the reason being that there had been little else available for her to prepare. She wasn’t going to find it an easy task to get proper meals, she realized. Her cooking experience had been very limited. Well, she’d learn. She was capable of learning, wasn’t she? First she’d have to discover where things were kept in this dad-blame kitchen. Marty rarely used words that could be classed as profane, though she had heard plenty in her young lifetime. She sure felt like turning loose a torrent of them now, though. Instead she chose one of her father’s less offensive expressions—about the only one she’d ever been allowed to use.
“Dad-blame!” she exploded again. “What’s a body to do?”
Clark would expect more than just pancakes and coffee, she was sure, but what and from where was she to get it?
There seemed to be no end of tins and containers in the cupboards, but they were all filled with other basic ingredients, not anything that could work for breakfast.
Chickens! She’d seen chickens, and where there were chickens there should be eggs. She started out in search of some, through the kitchen door, through the shed that was the entry attached to the kitchen. Then her eye caught sight of a strange contraption at the side of the shed. It looked like some kind of pulley arrangement, and following the rope down to the floor, she noticed a square cut in the floorboards, and one end had a handle attached. Cautiously she approached, wondering if she might be trespassing where she did not belong. Slowly she lifted the trapdoor by the handle. At first she could see nothing; then, as her eyes became more accustomed to the darkness, she picked out what appeared to be the top of a large wooden box. That must be what the pulley and rope were for. She reached for it and began to pull on the ropes, noticing that the box appeared to be moving upward. It took more strength than she had guessed it would, yet she found she could handle it quite nicely.
Slowly the box came into view. She could feel the coolness that accompanied it. At last the box was fully exposed, and she slipped the loop of rope over a hook that seemed to be for that purpose. The front of the box was fitted with a door, mostly comprised of mesh, and inside she could see several items of food. She opened the door and gasped at the abundance of good things. There were eggs in a basket; crocks of fresh cream, milk, and butter; side bacon and ham. On the next shelf were some fresh vegetables and little jars containing preserves and, of all things, she decided after a quick sniff, fresh honey. Likely wild. What a find! She’d have no problem with breakfast now. She took out the side bacon and a few eggs. Then she chose some of the jam and was about to lower the box again when she remembered Missie. The child should have milk to drink as long as it was plentiful, and maybe Clark liked cream for his coffee. She didn’t know. In fact, she didn’t know much at all about the man.
Carefully she lowered the box again and replaced the trapdoor. Gathering up her finds, she returned to the kitchen feeling much better about the prospect of putting breakfast on the table.
The coffee was already boiling, and its fragrance reminded her how hungry she was. She took the dishes from the cupboard and set the table. She’d want the food hot when Clark came in from chores, and she didn’t know how long they took him in the mornings.
FOUR
Morning Encounter
Marty had just turned back to mixing her pancakes when she heard Missie stirring. Best get her up and dressed first, she decided, and she left her ingredients and bowl on the table. As she appeared at the bedroom door, Missie’s bright smile above the crib railing faded away, and she looked at Marty with surprise, if not alarm.
“Mornin’, Missie,” Marty said and lifted the child from the crib to place her on the bed.
“Now, I wonder where yer clothes be?” she asked the child, not really expecting an answer.
They were not in the large chest of drawers, for Marty had already opened each drawer when she unpacked her own things the night before. She looked around the room and spotted a small chest beneath the room’s one window. It was Missie’s, all right, and Marty selected garments she felt were suitable for that day. Missie did have some sweet little dresses. Her mama must have been a handy seamstress.
Marty returned to the tiny one who, wide-eyed, was watching every move. Marty laid the clothes on the bed and reached for Missie, but as the child realized this stranger was about to dress her, she made a wild grab for her shoes and began screaming.
Marty was sure her shrieks would pale a ghost.
“Now, Missie, stop thet,” she scolded, but by now the little girl was howling in either rage or fright, Marty knew not which.
“I wan’ Pa,” she sobbed.
Marty conceded defeat.
“Hush now, hush,” she said, picking up the child. Gathering the clothes against the squirming little body, she carried her to the kitchen, where she placed girl and belongings in a corner. Missie possessively pulled her clothes to her, still sobbing loudly. Marty turned back to the pancakes just as the coffee sputtered and boiled over. She made a frantic grab for the pot, pushing it farther to the back of the stove. She’d put in too much wood, she now realized. The stove was practically glowing with the heat. She looked around for something to clean up the mess, and finding nothing suitable, she went to the bedroom, where she pulled a well-worn garment from her drawer. The thing was not much more than a rag anyway, she decided, and back she went to the kitchen to mop up. Missie howled on. It was to this scene that Clark returned. He looked from the distraught Marty, who had by now added a burned finger to the rest of her frustrations, to the screaming Missie in the corner, still clinging furiously to her clothes.
Marty turned from the stove. She had done the best she could for now. She tossed the soggy, stained garment into the corner and gestured toward Missie.
“She wouldn’t let me dress her,” she told him, trying to keep her voice even. “She jest set up a howlin’ fer her pa.”
Marty wasn’t sure how she expected Clark to respond, but certainly not as he did.
“I’m a feared a child’s memory is pretty short,” he said, so calmly that Marty blinked. “She already be fergettin’ what it’s like to have a mama.”
He moved toward the cupboard, not even glancing Missie’s way, Marty noted, lest it encourage her to a fresh burst of tears.
“She’ll jest have to learn thet ya be her mama now an’ thet ya be in charge. Ya can take her on back to the bedroom an’ git her dressed an’ I’ll take over here.” He motioned around the somewhat messy kitchen and the partially prepared breakfast. Then he opened a window to let some of the heat from the roaring stove escape, and he di
d not look at either Marty or Missie again.
Marty took a deep breath and stooped to scoop up Missie, who reacted immediately with screams like a wounded thing, kicking and lashing out as she was carried away.
“Now, look you,” Marty said through clenched teeth, “remember our bargain? I said iffen ya be good, I’d be yer mama, an’ this ain’t bein’ good.” But Missie wasn’t listening.
Marty deposited her on the bed and was shocked to hear Missie clearly and firmly state between hiccuping sobs, “I... wan’... Mama.”
So she does remember. Marty’s cold anger began to slowly melt. Maybe Missie felt the way Marty did about Clark—angry and frustrated. She didn’t really blame the little one for crying and kicking. She would be tempted to try it herself had not life already taught her how senseless and futile it would be.
Oh, Missie, she thought, I knows how ya be feelin’. We’ll have to become friends slow like, but first—she winced—first, I somehow have ta git ya dressed.
She arranged the clothes in the order she would need them. There would be no hands to sort them out as she struggled with Missie, she knew. Then she sat down and took the fighting child on her knee. Missie was still throwing a fit. No, now it wasn’t fear. Marty could sense that it was sheer anger on the child’s part.
“Now, Missie, ya stop it.”
Marty’s voice was drowned out by the child’s, and then Marty’s hand smacked hard, twice, on the squirming bottom. Perhaps it was just the shock of it, or perhaps the child was aware enough to realize that she had been mastered. At any rate, her eyes looked wide with wonder and the screaming and squirming stopped. Missie still sobbed in noisy, gulping breaths, but she did not resist again as Marty dressed her.
When the battle was over, the child was dressed, and Marty felt exhausted and disheveled. The two eyed each other cautiously.
“Ya poor mite,” Marty whispered and pulled the child close. To her surprise, Missie did not resist but cuddled in Marty’s arms, allowing herself to be held and loved as they rocked gently back and forth. How long they sat thus Marty did not know, but gradually she realized the child was no longer sobbing. Detecting the smell of frying bacon coming from the kitchen, she roused herself and used her comb, first on her own unruly hair and then on the child’s brown curls. She picked up Missie and returned to the kitchen, dipping a cloth in cool water to wash away the child’s tears and also to cool her own face. Clark did not look up. There he is, doing again what I should be doing, Marty thought dejectedly as she sat Missie at the table. The pancakes were ready, the eggs fried, the bacon sizzling as he lifted it from the pan. The coffee steamed in their cups, and a small mug of milk sat in front of Missie. There was nothing left to do but to sit down herself. He brought the bacon and sat across from her.
She wouldn’t be caught this time. She remembered that he prayed before he ate, so she bowed her head and sat quietly waiting. Nothing happened. Then she heard faint stirrings—like the sound of pages being turned. She stole a quick glance and saw Clark, Bible in hand, turning the pages to find the place he wanted. She could feel the color rising slowly to her cheeks, but Clark did not look up.
“Today we’ll read Psalm 121,” he said and began the reading.
“‘I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help. ’”
Marty solemnly wished her help would come from the hills. In fact, she’d take it from any direction. She brought her mind back to catch up to Clark’s reading.
“‘The Lord is thy keeper: the Lord is thy shade upon thy right hand. The sun shall not smite thee by day, nor the moon by night. The Lord shall preserve thee from all evil: he shall preserve thy soul. The Lord shall preserve thy going out and thy coming in from this time forth, and even for evermore. ’”
Gently he laid the book aside on a small shelf close to the table, and then as he bowed his head and prayed, Marty was again caught off guard.
Dad-burn him, she fumed, but then her attention was taken by his words.
“Our God, fer this fine day an’ yer blessin’s, we thank ya.”
Blessin’s, thought Marty. Like a howlin’ kid, spilled coffee, an’ a burned finger? Blessin’s like that I can do without.
But Clark went on. “Thank ya, Lord, thet the first hard mile with Missie be traveled, an’ help this one who has come to be her new mama.”
He never calls me by my name when he’s talkin’ to his God, thought Marty, always “this one.” If his God is able to answer his prayers, I sure hope He knows who he’s talkin’ ’bout. I need all the help thet I can git.
Marty heard the rattle of spoon against a bowl and realized her mind had been wandering and she’d missed the rest of the prayer, including the “amen,” and still she sat, head bowed. She flushed again and lifted her head, but Clark was fixing Missie’s pancake, so her embarrassment went unobserved.
At first breakfast was a quiet meal. Little Missie was probably too spent from her morning struggles to be chatty, and Clark seemed preoccupied. Marty, too, sat with her own thoughts, and most were not very pleasant ones.
What after breakfast? she wondered testily.
First she’d have to do up the dishes, then properly clean the messy stove. Then what? She’d jump at a chance to wash up the few pitiful things that comprised her wardrobe. She’d also like to wash the quilts she had and pack them away in her trunk. She’d need them again when she joined the wagon train going east.
Her mind flitted about, making plans as to how she might repair the few dresses she possessed if she could just find a little bit of cloth someplace. Clark said he went to town on Saturdays. This was Wednesday. She’d have to take stock of the cupboards and have a list ready for him. She stole a glance at him and then quickly looked back at her plate. He certainly did not look like a happy man, she told herself. Brooding almost, one could call it. At any rate, deep thinking, as though trying to sort through something.
Then Missie cut in with a contented sigh and a hearty, “All done, Pa.” She pushed her plate forward. The face was transformed.
“Thet’s Pa’s big girl.” He smiled lovingly, and the two shared some chattering that Marty made no effort to follow. Clark rose presently and refilled his coffee cup, offering her more, too. Marty scolded herself for not noticing the empty cup first.
Clark pushed back his plate and took a sip of the hot coffee. Then he looked steadily across at her. She met his gaze, though she found it difficult to do so.
“S’pose ya be at a loss, not knowin’ where to find things an’ all. I see ya found the cold pit. Good! There be also a root cellar out back. Most of the garden vegetables are already there. Only a few things still be out in the garden. A shelf with cannin’s there, too, but ya need a light along to do yer choosin’, since it be dark in there. There’s also a smokehouse out by the root cellar. Not too much in it right now. We plan on doin’ our fall killin’ and curin’ next week. Two of the neighbors and me works together. There be chickens—fer eggs an’ fer eatin’. We try not to get the flock down too low, but there’s plenty to spare right now. There won’t be fresh meat until it turns colder, ’ceptin’ fer a bit of the pork. When the cold weather comes we try an’ get some wild game—it keeps then. Sometimes we kill us a steer if we think we be needin’ it. There be fish in the crik, too. When the work is caught up I sometimes try my hand at a bit of loafin’ an’ fishin’. We’re not bad off, really.”
It was not a boast, simply a statement.
“We have us real good land and the Lord be blessin’ it. We’ve had good crops fer the last four seasons. The herd has built up, too, and the hogs an’ chickens are plentiful enough. All the garden truck thet we can use can be growin’ right outside the house, an’ there’s lots of grain in the bins fer seedin’. We has some cash—not much, but enough, an’ iffen we do be needin’ more, we can always sell us a hog.
“We’re better off than a lot of folks, but the neighbors round about here are makin’ good, too. Seems as how our move to the Wes
t’s been a good one. Got me some cuttin’s a few years back from a man over acros’t the crik. An’ in a couple of years, if all goes well, we should have some fruit on ’em. The apples might even be a settin’ next year, he tells me. I’m a tellin’ ya this so’s ya be knowin’ the lay o’ the land, so to speak. Ya don’t need to apologize fer askin’ fer what ya be needin’, both fer yerself an’ fer Missie. We’ve never been fancy, but we try an’ be proper like.”
He pushed back from the table after his long speech and stood silently for a moment, as if sorting out in his thinking if there was anything else he should tell her.
“We’ve got a couple o’ good milk cows at present an’ another due with an off-season calf, so we have all the milk an’ butter we be needin’. There’s a good team of horses an’ a ridin’ horse, too, iffen ever ya want to pay a visit to a neighbor’s. Ma Graham be the closest, an’ she’s ’bout as good company as anybody be a wantin’. I think ya’ll find her to yer likin’, even if she be some older than you.
“Most of my field work is done fer the fall, but I do have me a little breakin’ I aim to do yet, iffen winter holds off awhile. First, though, I plan to spend a few days helpin’ one o’ the neighbors who ain’t through yet. He got ’im a slow start. Plan to go over there today—Jedd Larson—an’ give ’im a hand. I’ll be asked to stay to dinner with ’em so won’t be home ’til chore time. Ya can make yerself to home, an’ you an’ Missie git to know one another like, an’ maybe we won’t have any more of those early mornin’ fusses.”
He turned to Missie then and swung her up easily into his arms. “Ya wanna come with Pa to git ole Dan an’ Charlie?”
