by Rose, Amelia
"Mind the sweet pea," she called, then smiled at me. "May I help you?"
I blushed again, feeling foolish. "I'm Maggie Lucas, Margaret Lucas. I just arrived in Gold Hill and I don't know anyone yet and I wanted to meet some of my neighbors." And I chose you because you're expecting but please don't ask why I chose you, because it sounds so dreadful.
She didn't. Instead, she smiled widely and said, "You're a midwife! I heard! Everyone is talking. People come here every day, but far more menfolk than women and I'm so glad to make your acquaintance. Please, come in, I can't move easily just now." She laughed and moved back into the house and I could see her clearly then, and understood her inability to move. She was days from childbirth. "Would you like to leave the basket? The children won't bother it."
"It's for you," I said, and then, "Well, the peaches are, and the rest of the contents," and with her smile I felt at ease, stepped through the wooden door and followed Gloria Barnett into her kitchen.
By the time I left Gloria Barnett's home, I'd met her children, a handful of cats and chickens, and been promised baking and eggs in return for anything I could do when her time came. I'd also made a friend. Gloria Barnett was open, friendly, and happy, and despite wanting to take nothing away with me, I left with a loaf of fresh bread and a bunch of spinach I didn't think she could afford to give away.
In Boston, I might not have had many women to see through their time, but at least those I attended were strangers. Asking for money from friends would be difficult or impossible.
Sunshine woke me my third morning in Gold Hill. I'd gone to bed late the night before after starting pie dough and canning peaches after returning from Gloria Barnett's house. The tasks hadn't seemed so fearsome when I started but by the time Hutch had gone off to his bed, leaving Matthew, much improved but still on the davenport, the kitchen looked like someone had slaughtered a peach tree in it. Every surface including most of the surfaces attached to me, were covered in peach juice and sugar and though I tried to convince myself that Hutch was right and everything would still be there come morning, I'd been unable to leave the formerly pristine kitchen in that state and had stayed up even later, cleaning by lamplight. As the morning sun heated up the bedroom, I realized I was sore from walking to the Barnett's house and back and from riding to the mine. My arms were sore from cutting peaches and canning and cleaning for half the night.
My heart was sore with confusion, for an easy conversation had sprung up with Matthew as I canned before Hutch got home. Too easy, perhaps, more so because I couldn't see Matthew, but only call to him from the kitchen where I worked. I was attracted to him, and although I thought what I was already feeling for Hutch in light of all the letters (and maybe because he was to be my husband) was more emotional, what I felt for Matthew as more exciting, breathtaking, and definitely trouble.
Sitting up and stretching, I realized that Hutch would be long gone by now, off at the mine without breakfast and if I remembered the dying sounds of the grandfather clock that had woken me, he'd be back for midday meal before I could get anything hot fixed.
The thought was enough to send me reeling out of bed, which I made in a hurry. I splashed my face clean, promising myself a bath that evening because I was still sticky in places from peach juice. I brushed my hair and cleaned my teeth and stared into the tiny mirror on the wall, wishing it would show me all of my face at once. I'd have Virginia send me the mirror from my room at home. I needed to write to her, and I needed to send her the recipe Gloria Barnett had shared with me but first, I needed to get together a meal and make up for lost time.
I whirled out of the room and down the hallway, my boots creating a racket that couldn't have been missed, came fast around the staircase, using the newel post to spin myself through the door into the sitting room, where I fetched up hard against Matthew, leaving him rocking on his feet.
I caught him before he fell back, providing just enough support to stop him hitting the wall behind him or tripping on the piano no one here played. My hands caught his biceps, sending heat rushing through me. His hands came up around my forearms, keeping him upright, steadying himself – and me.
"Are you all right?"
We asked it at the same time, each looking closely at the other for signs of injury, and then we both laughed at about the same time, relieved and embarrassed.
"Where's the fire, Miss Maggie?" His good humor restored, and also, apparently, mobility.
"It needs to be in the kitchen," I said. "I'm late!"
I would have started for the kitchen but he still held my wrists, his hands warm and strong, easily circling my arms. I looked down at them, knowing I should protest, knowing he should have let go by now. Knowing he knew to let go. Knowing that he would realize I hadn't protested.
I met his eyes again, and tried to speak.
Outside on the road, a carriage passed and the spell broke. Matthew took two steps back, releasing my wrists. He didn't look directly at me but said, "My leg is much improved. Probably I should be home again tomorrow at the latest."
I nodded, biting one lip. "I'm glad you're recovered," I said. And then, "Will you join us for midday meal?"
I thought he'd decline. I thought it might be awkward. I was afraid he'd felt what I felt or, at the very least, that he knew what I'd experienced even if he didn't share it.
But this was Matthew Longren, whose exploits my mother had probably censored as she read his brother's letters aloud.
"I've smelled peaches since last night. There's pie crust in the cold storage. You'd have to send me away, Miss Maggie."
I'm not inclined to do that, a traitorous voice in my mind said. "I think we can stand your company another day or two," I said, smiling. "Excuse me, I need to get to the kitchen."
He moved from my path, but slowly. But, of course, he was injured.
That's what I told myself.
Hutch was quiet at lunch, eating cold chicken and hot biscuits, and the pie, golden and juicy, drew no comment from him. He ate, responded to anything said to him in single syllables, and excused himself directly after eating, although he didn't leave again for the mine right away.
Matthew joined us, apparently used to his brother's moods. He made enough conversation for all of us, praising the pie and the shining bottles of canned peaches I had yet to transfer to storage. During the meal, I asked him questions I'd like to have asked Hutch, like who had been taking care of the house and how that person or those people were paid (I would, after all, be the mistress of the house after the wedding and needed to have my own accounts in order and take care of the house myself). I asked about household expenses, what grocer our pantry stores came from, if they bought or baked bread (that one caused Matthew to look at me with vast patience and ask if either of them looked capable of baking). I asked about horses, and doctors, and childbirths, and received no answers there because none of those things were of interest to Matthew.
Several times during the meal, Hutch looked up, his gaze sharpening as if he meant to reveal what was preying on his mind but every time, he subsided, cocking his head, pretending to listen to the two of us, who, left to our own devices again, returned to our conversation.
Finally, as the meal ended with the pie I'd prepared, finding myself still wondering what to do with the number of ripening peaches I couldn't possibly keep up with, I asked about the garden and who cared for it.
"I do," Matthew said, surprised. "Though I haven't for a few days." He gestured at his leg as if I might have forgotten. "I have no room to garden. I just have a couple rooms in a boarding house – and I'm good at it. If you'd like to take it over, I understand."
That one I laughed at and explained I'd be more than happy to have him care for the garden as soon as his injury allowed for it.
"Because she has a wedding to plan," Hutch said, abruptly rejoining us from his blue study and then he stood, kissed me chastely on the cheek, nodded to his brother in a vague, already-returning-to-distant-thoughts manner, and
headed back to the mine.
"I'll be back there tomorrow," Matthew said, watching Hutch go. He sounded bored and anxious.
"You'll be back there next week," I said, standing to clear the table. "No, sit. Let the leg heal."
It must have pained him because he gave in easily, producing a sketch book and charcoal and working images of the garden as I cleared and cleaned. We didn't talk but sometimes when I glanced at him, I sensed he had been watching me.
No matter. I had a wedding to prepare for. Once my place was established and a routine existed in all our lives, surely this sparkling feeling would pass.
I finished the dishes, leaving them to drain, covered the pie, put away the chicken, and looked back toward the table.
Matthew had put down the sketch pad and was staring moodily into the yard to the west. I stood behind him, out of his sight, and from where I stood, I could see the page open in his sketch book.
The page was covered with studies of me.
I finished the kitchen quickly, keeping my eyes averted from Matthew and his sketches. Once the dishes were clean and the food put away, I left him drawing and went upstairs to finish unpacking. One of the novels I'd been reading before I left Boston tumbled onto the floor and picking it up to find my place, I sank down on the edge of the bed and lost half an hour to The Mystery of Marie Roget. When I surfaced, as if waking from a dream, it was to abandon the book and hurry back down the hall. I needed to go out into the garden and forage for supper, then probably cook again and do some washing while Hutch still had clean shirts. Eventually, my days would fall into a routine but in the meantime, there was catching up to do.
Taking care as I left the hall and rounded the staircase, I managed not to run into anyone and hurried to the kitchen for shears and a basket, decided to forgo a hat and spun out the kitchen door into the garden.
Only to run directly into Matthew Longren again.
This time, there was no piano to keep him from falling into and no wall to steady him if he kept going. He grabbed for my arms and I grabbed for him and we tumbled together down to the hard Nevada dirt.
My first concern was the healing wound on his leg. Falling could have jarred it open, causing him to lose blood again. My second was that he wasn't breathing. I'd landed on him, I thought, and knocked the breath out of him. Trying frantically to remember what to do, I started to force my arms under him, to raise up the small of his back and allow his lungs to relax.
But no sooner had I circled him than I realized he was laughing, so hard he couldn't even attempt to stand, and I pulled back, staring at the madman, a half smile on my own lips.
Which was quickly lost. Because when he met my eyes, his laughter died away. He looked longingly at me, as if memorizing my face before a journey, then he reached up with one hand, gentling the hair from my cheeks until his fingers wrapped behind my neck and pulled my face down to his.
His lips were sweet. He'd been eating a peach; it had rolled away when we went flying.
The kiss wasn't sweet. It was hard, frightening, and full of our need. It was a first and last kiss, there would never be another and I think we both knew it. Something had happened, some connection had been made when we met, some spark kindled, and we were driving it out, sending it away before it could do damage. We were making it possible to be friends, paving the way to my marriage to Hutch.
Just for that moment, we lingered. Matthew on his back between the rows of corn, me still stretched across his chest, my hands on his shoulders, strong and more lean than his brother's shoulders. His hands still cupped my face.
We had just pulled apart, staring at each other, each probably sure what the other was thinking – never again, I'm sorry, you'll be my friend, but he's the man I love/but he's my brother – when Hutch's shadow fell over us.
Chapter 7
There was no point in it but I scrambled backward into the corn, freeing myself of Matthew's embrace, as if I could change what had happened. Cursing my skirts, I swiveled to my knees, forced myself upright, even as Hutch leaned down and grabbed Matthew by his shirt front, dragging him to his feet.
I stifled the instinct to cry out. Matthew had been hurt; Hutch needed to –
be careful? Let go? Nothing I could say to that effect could possibly improve the situation. I tried to step forward, tripped over something in the garden, still reaching for Hutch's arm, when his fist flashed forward and caught Matthew on the jaw, knocking him back to the ground.
He turned then without looking at me, said in a hard voice, without turning back, "I want you out of here before sundown. When you are healed, return to the mines. Don't come back here."
"Hutch, wait," I said, and tried to run after him. His long stride took him through the front gate and out to his horse before I could cover half the distance. I called to him, tripped again, swore, and finally stopped, standing stupidly with one hand out, tears threatening behind my eyes, hair loose and blowing in an afternoon wind.
"Let him go, Maggie," Matthew said from behind me and I whirled on him, furious, only to find his expression as miserable as I felt. He stood, although awkwardly, keeping the weight off his injured right leg, and he didn't approach me or hold his arms out, only shook his head. "You can't make anything better right now. I'll go. He'll blame me."
"That's not fair," I said, and I meant all of it, everything, from meeting Matthew at the wrong time to falling in love with Hutch without telling him, to confusion and the newness of everything and being afraid and in a strange place. I meant Hutch leaving and having come back when he had and Matthew being shot.
"He's my brother," Matthew said, which didn't explain anything. "It will be all right." He moved through the corn and stopped beside me, a respectful distance away. "For what it's worth, there would have been nothing else. Ever again."
It wasn't worth anything. I didn't say anything, just watched him as he limped to the house to collect his few belongings, and find a way back to his boarding house.
Only when the kitchen door closed behind him did I allow myself to whisper, "I know," and let the tears begin to fall.
He didn't talk. Hutch went, as far as I knew, back to the mines that afternoon, leaving me standing in the dusty garden. The corn rustled in the hot afternoon breeze, reminding me of the sounds it had made when Matthew and I had fallen into the neat, orderly rows.
I didn't cry for long. So much had happened in the last six months, some sort of black cloud had hovered over me. As the year turned to 1880, my mother had died and my father gone silent. He'd taken to drinking more than working and an accountant whose numbers don't add up any better than his clients' do soon loses those clients. With no sons and only one of his five daughters married, he started looking for solutions. Long before my mother had died, there'd been talk of me marrying Hutch Longren. It seemed a good match. He was looking for someone to share his life, someone to help around his house and to keep his accounts. Maybe to start a family with. News from the West was slow. Though we knew the silver market was down as the War ended, we didn't know the silver itself was running out. My father, he wasn't cruel, he was simply mourning and unable to care for our family as he once had, didn't know he was sending me from frying pan to fire.
Six months later, I'd come to rest somewhere I could have been happy. Somewhere I could have built a life. Instead, I'd jumped directly into a fire.
I cried for shame. I cried because I was afraid of Hutch's anger. I cried for the rift between the brothers, and for having found Matthew beautiful to begin with. But mostly, I cried because I had hurt the man I was going to marry. He'd been nothing but kind to me since I arrived, a stranger opening his home and his heart. I had repaid him like this?
It would have been the only time. Because I hadn't been marrying for love. Because there had been a spark, something there.
Because I knew, from Hutch's letters, from what Annie had said, I knew that Matthew wasn't constant and wouldn't be mine.
Because I wanted to marry Hutch,
was falling in love with him, wanted to build a life with him
There was no way I could tell him that, and no reason for him to believe me. And he hadn't given me the chance.
I stayed out in the garden for the short course of tears. Then I weeded and picked corn for a dinner I couldn't imagine cooking, or Hutch eating. I picked more peaches from the trees that didn't seem inclined to stop producing them. I watered the kitchen garden, the fruit trees, and the ornamental border of bright flowers that blurred in my distracted gaze. More than anything, I wanted to talk to my mother, who had known Hutch Longren all his life, who had known, although not as well, Matthew and Annie. And if not my mother, then I wanted to talk to Virginia but even though there were telephones in Boston and a telephone in our house, there were no telephones in Virginia City or Gold Hill and a telegram wouldn't convey what I needed and would take too long besides.
I wasn't looking to be absolved of what I'd done. I was looking to see if there was a way to recover from what I'd done. Tension wound tighter and tighter inside me, swirling like the dust storms I'd seen as I crossed the West to come here. I thought, eventually, I'd fly apart like some of those storms did, rather than settling, all the detritus dropping out of the funnel. Through the garden I moved faster and faster, ripping up weeds as if I could rip out the shame, until I stopped, a handful of plundered carrots in my grasp, and thought of Annie.
Just that fast, I ran for the house, leaving corn and carrots on the bench, fetching a basket to carry more of the endless peaches and finding a hat. I could have taken one of the horses, if I'd know how to saddle or had the patience to learn, but my heart beat frantically and I took to my heels and ran the distance to Annie's house.
"Maggie! What's the matter?"
Annie stepped back and let me enter without hesitation. Somewhere during my flight along the mile separating our houses, I'd started and left off crying again and I could feel my face was streaked with dust and tears. Annie took the basket from my arm, put her other arm around me, and led me into the kitchen, where she put the tea kettle onto the stove and loaded the peaches into the deep sink, giving me time to catch my breath and my wits.
