"Sure 'nuff, ma'am," he smiled, tipping his hat.
Outside, Mary just missed being run over by her sister, who was surprisingly enough accompanied by a young man. He was rather vigorous in appearance, though probably older than he appeared; older than Henry, in any case. "Why, Sarah!" Mary exclaimed, smiling brightly. She slipped a hand through Henry's arm; he had gotten knocked slightly by the young man. He steadied, nodding to his sister-in-law briefly before straightening his collar. "What fortune," Mary continued. "We were only just looking for you. And…" she left the last word hang for a moment, until Sarah flushed slightly.
"I'm sorry. Mary—Henry—this is Donovan Lilly. Remember, Mary? Mama's cousin's boy, only he was just little when we saw him last."
Mary put down the groceries and lent a kind smile to the young man, who really was quite dashing, allowing him to take her hand. "Yes, I do remember you. You had freckles then, and pushed me into the mud."
He gave an apologetic grin. "I was simply awful then-- I am sorry." Mary's sympathetic smile told him it was in the past and she had never held it against him in the first place, and so as the women began to discuss dinner plans he turned to Henry and put out his hand. "You have a lovely wife, sir," he said.
Henry paled faintly. "Thank you," he said. He closed his eyes for a moment and coughed, turning his head. "And please—it—it's just Henry."
"Well all right, Henry."
Mary tugged at her husband's arm. "It's settled," she told him. "Donovan's already coming to dinner, and you know how Ma always cooks enough to feed all of England when folks come." She felt his hand. "We'll get started that way right now," she told Sarah and Donovan.
Sarah kissed her cheek. "I'll see you tonight then," she said, her face rosy.
Mary took up the bag of supplies again, and they bid final good-byes. “Well,” said Mary, and they went to find the wagon. She stored the goods in the back under a blanket while Henry got up on the seat. She came round the side and he pulled her up with one hand and they were off, the horses still bristling in the biting air.
Ma and Pa's house was not far from town, and the horses pulled up in record time. Pa came out of the barn when he heard the wagon and lifted his daughter down with a hearty laugh, spinning her around once before setting her on the ground. "Ma!" he boomed, "Young'ns!" He pulled Henry down just as Ma came out onto the porch, draping a shawl around her shoulders and throwing her hands up in dismay as she saw the added company. But she was not worried, and laughed even as she called to them, asking what she was supposed to put in their bellies.
Pa, in only a coarse cotton shirt and not a shiver, wrapped a great brawny arm around each of his guests and escorted them up the stairs and into the house. Inside, he motioned them to the parlor. "Go warm yourselves by the fire," he commanded. "I'll get the horses. And tell your Ma I'll be in the barn 'til supper. My blood's too thick for all this heat." With that, he strode easily from the room, and his strong, solid presence was gone.
There was a sofa by the fire and so they sat on it, close together at one end and holding hands until they both were warm. Henry sighed a little, mostly with contentment, and slipped an arm around Mary. She leaned into his embrace, and he brushed her hair gently with his fingers.
A high, barely repressed giggle came from behind, and her eyes snapped open. She sat up. "Brian," she said, warning, "you git out here." She grinned at Henry and winked. "You too, Joey."
After a momentary pause, two boys tumbled out of the hall, smiling sheepishly. Brian, sandy-haired and blue-eyed, plunked down on the couch next to his sister. Joey, a little smaller than his twin but with the same fair features, slid onto Mary's lap. "I ain't got no one t' play with no more," he pouted, "'cept Brian, an' he always hogs." Brian punched Joey in the arm. "Ow," said Joey, and Mary smacked Brian lightly on the back of the head.
"What about Henry's kid brothers?" Mary suggested. "They're right on down the lane."
Joey shrugged. "Yeah, I guess."
Brian socked him again. "Aw, he just wants someone to play with ever' second a the day. Says he's bored if ya leave him t' git a glass a water."
Joey fidgeted. "Well," said Mary, "what about all them card games I taught you?"
"The—the salty-air?"
"Solitaire, stupid," Brian interjected knowingly.
Joey fidgeted some more. "I forget how," he said.
Brian let out a sigh and marched out of the room, his attention wandering to more important things, like playing soldier.
"Well, I gotta go help Ma out in the kitchen, but I'm sure if you get some cards and ask real nice, Henry will show you." She cast a glance at her husband, and he smiled faintly.
"Okay," said Joey, and ran to get a deck. They weren't in the hall closet, so he went upstairs and looked through Brian's things and found some. When he came back down, Mary was gone and Henry was sitting by the fire, his back to the stairs. To tell the truth, Joey was a little scared of Henry, because of his seriousness. It made him feel like maybe he had done something bad (because sometimes he did without knowing) and maybe Henry was going to tell. But he didn't want to be a scaredy-cat, like Brian always said, so he went and stood in front of the couch. Henry looked at him a moment and then patted the cushion next to him. Joey sat down. "You know all them games?" he asked, his voice quiet.
"Sure," said Henry. He took the cards from Joey and leaned forward, putting them out on the tea table so Joey could see. "This one here's called tower of seven-- see how there's seven on the bottom turned up?" Joey nodded. "Now you've got to find pairs of cards that make thirteen, like nine and four, and see if you can get all the way to the top of the tower." He did a couple, turning two of the remaining cards over at a time, then handed Joey the stack so he could do it himself.
Brian marched back into the room, holding his head high and wearing one of his father's coats. It was only waist-length, but it fell below Brian's knees. He marched around the couch twice, showing off his fine military attire and mien. On the third pass, he seized Henry's cane and put it over his shoulder like a rifle, then knelt to aim. After that, he got tired of marching and came to sit up on the couch where Joey had been. Joey was sitting on the floor now, where he could reach the tea table easier because he was small.
"You got a gun?" Brian asked, snapping it out like an order.
"Yes," said Henry.
Brian sighted down the barrel of the cane. "Pa won't let me have a gun till I'm thirteen," he grumbled, handing the polished wood back to its original owner. Henry took it and leaned it against the end of the couch, where he had put it before. "He says I ain't got the responsibility," Brian added.
"I reckon your Pa knows what's best."
"When did your Pa let you have a gun?" challenged Brian.
"I guess I was about nine."
"I'm eight next month," declared Brian. "That means I got more'n five years t' wait! Will you tell Pa you got a gun when you turned nine? I gotta have one, Mr. Peterson."
"If he asks, I'll say," Henry said, hoping to compromise. "But those were more dangerous times. War was brewing. Now maybe you won't have to use a gun, not ever."
Brian wanted to ask Henry about the war real bad, but Ma had warned him with a threat of no dinner, which was almost as bad as a whipping from Pa. He'd probably get that, too, if he asked and Ma told Pa, and Ma always told. "Wisht I was born during war time," he huffed instead. He hoped maybe Henry would say something on his own account, but Henry was silent and looked away. Brian waited hopefully for a minute or two, then decided his time would be better served by going out to the barn and maybe convincing Pa to let him work to earn a rifle.
"Brian ain't talked of nothin' else for a week," sighed Joey when his brother was gone. "See why I'm so bored? Pa ain't never givin' in, I know that, an' it just makes him testy with everyone when Brian begs so much."
"Here," said Henry. "I'll show you suits and colors."
Sarah and Donovan arrived at just after five. Mary came into the parlor to join t
hem, sweaty and rosy-cheeked from staying so long with the oven. Joey picked up his cards and left, feeling slightly irritated by the interruption of the older folks. Sarah was no fun, in his opinion-- she was all girl, through and through. She had to have her hair done all up every day, even if no one was coming, and lately she even powdered her face, although lightly enough so Ma couldn't tell. Now that they had indoor water, he had to wait outside the bathroom forever in the morning, and sometimes had to run out to the old outhouse when he couldn't wait one second more. Donovan was all right, he guessed, but any fellow who liked Sarah as much as he seemed to couldn't really be all right in the head.
When Joey was gone, Mary took up the empty space next to Henry and let her hand find his again. In spite of the fire, his palm was cool, and so she put it against her cheek to take away some of the heat infused by the stove.
Sarah was bubbling with excitement. "Mary," she said, "you should’ve seen! Just after you left the grocer got a whole shipment of china for the store." She broke away from Donovan. "Come over to the desk," she urged. "I'll try to draw out some of the patterns." Mary smiled, perhaps half in amusement, but got up and followed.
Bereft of his companion, Donovan shrugged and sat down in a stuffed chair across from the couch. He grinned. "Can't see much in dinnerware, myself," he admitted.
Henry paused. "Beauty is a woman's element," he said.
Donovan chuckled in agreement. "How long have you been married?" he asked.
"Four years this spring."
"Ah. You wed after the war, then." This seemed to be a surprise to him, somehow.
"Yes."
Donovan was silent, awkwardly. He seemed to have run out of questions for conversation.
"Do you go to a university?" Henry offered.
The other man brightened a bit, and sat forward. "Yes—in New England. Right now I'm off for the winter, and Sarah's Ma and Pa invited me here, since I keep in touch some and my folks died in the epidemic out east three years ago. Do you—work, sir?"
"I calculate papers for ranchers in the county, keep accounts—those things."
"Tell me—" he looked intent. "Is there much profit to be made here in ranching?"
"A fair amount. Most around here just want enough to raise a family. Folks live simple."
"I see."
After dinner, it began to snow lightly; mostly it was just a small dusting, but it signaled the start of what might turn out to be a blizzard. "We'd better get on home," said Mary. "'Fore we get snowed in."
"Shoot," declared Brian, just to be contrary, "I bet it won't set in till tomorrow night, at least." Mary laughed and kicked his shin lightly beneath the table. "Ow!" protested Brian. "Pa—"
Pa only shrugged, his chest and shoulders shaking with slow, silent laughter. "Sorry, son—she's a married woman now, and I ain't got the authority to punish her no more." Pa got up and went to fetch the horses from the barn.
Mary hugged Sarah and the others bid them good-bye. Pa was waiting outside when they got to the door, and helped them up into the wagon. Henry and Mary waved one last time, and as they started off into the drifting snow, Brian's high voice came to them on the wind, calling out to his father. "Pa!" he said, "Pa, Mr. Peterson got a rifle when he was eight!"
"Nine," murmured Henry.
"I'm glad I saw Sarah," said Mary, curling around his arm and throwing a blanket over both of their laps. "I see now I don't have cause to worry-- she'll be all right, I know. I hope it wasn't awful for you," she said, smiling up at him. "Especially with Donovan 'sirring' you all night."
Henry glanced away from the road and saw she was teasing. "He's at least three years my senior," he commented.
Mary popped up and kissed his cheek. "Five, I think," she corrected. "Oo! You're cold." She wrapped his scarf around his mouth and nose. He slapped the reins a bit, still tense, and she poked him in the side. "It's only because you're mature," she added with a grin. "He was twelve when he pushed me into the mud puddle, which means he didn't start growing up until after then—which at the most could make him about—hm… fifteen, on the inside."
Henry grinned beneath the scarf and hugged Mary tight against his body.
"I'll tell you something," she said into his ear. "Sarah's taken with him. She thinks he'll ask her to marry. Soon, maybe."
"Hm," said Henry. "Yes-- tomorrow."
"Tomorrow!" Mary exclaimed. She sat back and slapped him lightly on the shoulder. "He told you?"
Henry shrugged. "He sent a telegram this morning to New England while Sarah was looking at the china. He's making certain he can still go back to school after three months' leave, if he takes it."
"Oh—oh—" sputtered Mary, trying to be angry with him for putting her through such a wait. A last, she laughed into the wind, loud and clear, and hugged him. "I'm so happy for them," she said quietly, after a time.
When they reached the house Henry got down to unhitch the horses, but Mary stopped him, seeing he was stiff with cold. "Let's go on into the house," she urged. "I'll come out after the horses when we've got a fire blazing."
Henry agreed without much protest; "I'm chilled to the bone," he admitted.
She brought him up the stairs and in to the hall and stripped off his coat. "I'll get some blankets," she said, and disappeared.
The hall was almost dark now, and lonely with her gone. There was a mirror in a frame and he looked into it a long while before going into the parlor. He felt cold and tired, and looked away.
When she came back she made him sit in a chair by the fire, piling warm blankets from the bed onto his body. The fire itself still smoldered from when they had left, and it was the work of minutes to stir it and put on a log. This action warmed her, and when it burst into flame she stood and went to care for the horses without pause. They were sweaty from the ride, and she didn't want to leave them too long in the snow for fear they would catch cold.
She led them into the barn, making a path herself through the powdery white on the ground. It was only about an inch thick yet, and only the bottom of her dress got a little wet. Inside, she unhitched them and tied them up without bits; even if they knawed through the ropes, the barn doors would be closed and they were not likely to get out. The barn was fairly warm yet, mostly from the other horses, and so she wiped them down with a towel but did not cover their backs with blankets. This chore done, she went back to the house, making certain the doors were latched as she left.
Inside, the fire was blazing, and she hurried to it with cold fingers to warm herself. "Maybe I should have blanketed those horses," she said. "It's mighty cold out."
"They'll do fine," assured Henry. "If they can't do with just skin, one more blanket won't help any." He pulled his own blankets a little tighter about himself.
"You gettin' warm?" she asked, a little worried.
"Some."
"Here," she said, kneeling. She slipped off his boots, carefully, so the fire might warm his stockinged feet. She stood. "I'll make us some cocoa."
He coughed dryly. "All right."
She brought a pan of water from the kitchen and set it just in the fire to heat, then went to get cups and cocoa powder. The water turned into a boil quickly and she poured him a cup, sifting in some of the brownish powder. He cupped his hands around the ceramic mug and she sat at his feet until the fire was so hot she thought she might catch on as well. She stood again and took his finished cup and the water pan into the kitchen and put them in the sink. When she came out, she was certain he was not well.
"I can't seem to get warmed," he told her, shivering.
She felt his forehead. "Let's get you to bed," she said.
Their bedroom was not far from the fire, and was warm enough that Mary undressed without a shiver after she had gotten Henry into bed. She left the door open so that the heat would continue to come in, and crawled into bed next to him, although the blankets suffocated something awful. She wrapped herself around his body, burning with fever now, and prayed that he would stop sh
ivering. "I—can't seem to get warmed," he said again.
She brushed his hair back with her fingers and kissed his forehead. "Don't be afraid," she said.
In the middle of the night, he tossed and turned, pushing away the blankets until he was only under a sheet. He seemed relieved for a moment, and Mary—he had wakened her—was glad, except that he began to shiver again, and so she covered him once more.
In the morning she dressed, then woke him. "You lay here," she told him firmly. "I'm going to town for the doctor. Don't you get up. All right?"
"I'm hot,” he murmured, pushing at the blankets weakly. “Awful hot…”
The fire had gone out in the night, and now the room was beginning to chill. Mary bit her lip, but left him under the blankets. "You just lay there till I get back," she told him again. Before she left, she rekindled the fire and left two great logs to burn on it.
She rode to town on her most trusted horse, Black Star. She used the saddle Pa had given her when they had moved into the house. It was a man's saddle and she didn't ride on the side, but as Pa always said, some things just couldn’t be helped. The wind was biting and there was near a foot of snow now, but Black Star was strong and fiery, and his body was like a furnace beneath her as they rode over the white plain.
Mary counted herself fortunate to find the doctor in his office; he was often out on call, and she had not thought what to do if he had been gone. Now she realized that she was one of those people taking the doctor away, but it crossed her mind for only a moment and she didn't feel badly for it because he really was needed, and that was what doctors were for.
"Why, Mary!" he said when she stood outside his door. "Little Mary who's gone and got married! Where did the child go? Come in, Mary dear." He was a short man, a little overweight, and dressed neatly. His silvery-black hair was fast disappearing, and looked now like a halo around his shiny head.
"No, Doc," she said, not taking a single step inside the door. "I ain't got time. Henry's bad off with fever. Maybe it's just the flu but he ain't been feelin' well of late and I ain't gonna take the chance."
When Henry Came Home Page 14
