by Joyce Wright
He could feel the cotton of her nightgown against his arm, a light, delicate reminder of her presence and the reason that two strangers were sharing a bed. It wasn’t intrusive. He sensed a stirring within him, those familiar physical reactions that had been dead and dormant since Lorna’s passing. He didn’t know if he wanted those feelings to be resurrected or not, but his body wasn’t asking what he wanted anymore and he reached for her in the darkness. He realized then that there was light in the room after all; her hair spread out on the pillow like golden sunshine, gleaming even in the dark night. When they touched each other, it was with tenderness and recognition for what the other had lost. Their joining was a coming together of two people who had given love passionately and completely, but not to each other. But it was more than either had expected or even guessed that they sought.
Chapter Six
Kenyon Larkin was eager to get home. The hands would take care of the cattle and the land, but he wasn’t one to wander. Salome was up early and dressed before he rose, with breakfast ready when he left the bedroom.
He sat down to a plate of bacon and eggs. “Aren’t you eating?”
“I’m going to get Feather up and dressed. I’ll pack food so that we can stop and I’ll have something then.”
“We can wait long enough for the two of you to eat. I reckon another thirty minutes won’t matter.”
Feather came to the table first, her doll in one hand, her other hand rubbing her eyes.
“Morning,” he greeted.
She nodded in silence. Salome appeared soon after, a small pile of folded clothes in her hand. She put a plate of bacon and eggs in front of her daughter, then sat down herself to eat.
Feather yawned. “It’s still dark,” she mumbled.
“We’ll be leaving soon,” Salome said. “Eat up. It’s a long way to Beulah Land.”
“’Beulah Land, I’m longing for you,’” Feather began to sing. “’And some day on thee I’ll stand. There my home shall be eternal. Beulah Land, sweet Beulah Land.’”
“Feather, hush, you’ll wake everyone else up!” Salome scolded. “I’m sorry, Mr. Larkin. That’s a favorite hymn of hers.”
“My wife was partial to it,” he said, and didn’t realize that he’d spoken aloud until Salome smiled.
“John, too. He had a great singing voice, that’s where Feather gets it from.”
“I can’t carry a tune in a bucket,” Kenyon confessed.
“Me either,” she said.
They smiled at each other, the closeness of their wedding night having built a bridge to the morning, one in which the husband and wife they’d lost were welcome at the breakfast table. It was, Kenyon thought, the damnedest thing, but it was as if he felt Lorna’s cheerful presence in the room with them.
Father Diego and Jeanne were at the wagon when Kenyon and Salome went outside. Kenyon was carrying the sleeping Feather in his arms.
“Here are a few things for the trip,” Jeanne said. “There’s some food, and then some house presents. There will be a bit of Santa Teresa at your table when you eat,” she said smiling.
Jeanne kissed Salome goodbye. “I think maybe you listened to what I said,” she told Salome in a knowing voice while Kenyon made up a bed in the wagon for Feather to sleep on. “I figured your best would be good enough.”
“Jeanne . . . thank you.” Salome hugged the older woman. “Please write. Father Diego will help you.”
Jeanne’s answering embrace enveloped Salome. “Let us know how you be,” she said. “I don’t know how much longer we’ll be here, but you’ll hear from us.”
Father Diego prayed over them before they left. Kenyon didn’t object; if it made Salome feel more peaceful about leaving the people and home she knew, it was good. If she still believed in God after He’d let her husband die, Kenyon wasn’t for taking that comfort away. He almost wished he had something like it.
They journeyed in silence for awhile, the morning quiet soothing. Gradually, the signature of the day began to come forth and the darkness slowly faded.
“Salome,” he said, speaking softly so that he wouldn’t awaken the child in the wagon, comfortably nestled on a heap of blankets between the purchases he’d bought at the general store before arriving in Santa Teresa and the baskets from the mission community. “That’s a Bible name.”
He remembered a sermon that the preacher in Beulah Land had delivered, thundering against the dance hall girls at the saloon, describing them as hellbound Salomes who would demand that the local cowboys fall into sin as surely as Salome had demanded the head of John the Baptist on the platter. It had been highly entertaining and he remembered telling Lorna after the service ended that with Preacher Wilkins, there was no need to go to a saloon; he felt as if he’d already been there, spent the night, and awakened with his head throbbing and his pockets empty. The name had stayed in his mind; it was funny to think that his wife was named Salome.
“My folks called me Sally. Salome was a family name. It’s in the Bible, but Mother was always quick to tell people that there were other Salomes, too. Mother didn’t approve of dancing.”
“A lot of people don’t approve. I don’t see any harm in it myself.”
“Neither do I.”
“I’m not much good at it.”
“John was a better dancer than I am. I didn’t learn when I was young and by the time I was old enough, I was the one stepping on his feet.”
They laughed, each one fondly recalling other dances with those lost partners.
“Is Kenyon a family name? I’ve never heard of it before.”
“It was my mother’s maiden name. She set a powerful store by being a Kenyon of Kenyon County. I remember my grandfather; he never smiled. I guess I come by my solemn looks honestly.”
She turned her head to face him. “I don’t think you’re solemn,” she said. “Serious maybe, but not solemn.”
That sounded like something Lorna would have said. She liked a man to be serious, she’d told him when they were courting. It meant he had moral weight to him and he wasn’t just a flutter of a man who would chase a girl and then leave her.
Before long, Feather awoke and Kenyon pulled the wagon to the roadside so that they could all attend to private needs of nature. Under the shade of the pine trees, they settled down to eat lunch; sandwiches of salted beef made with fresh bread; pickles; and peach pie from the wedding feast. Salome and Feather went to the creek to wash the dishes they’d used while Kenyon watered the horses. When they returned to the wagon, Feather climbed into the seat and sat between them.
Although the distance was the same as it had been riding there, Kenyon found that the return journey went quicker, and they pulled into the ranch at dusk. He suspected that maybe the first trip had taken long because he’d been so uneasy in his mind about the decision he’d made. Now that it was made and they were wedded, he was eager for Salome and Feather to see their new home.
He’d built the ranch house himself. He was no great carpenter, but he’d learned the trade from his father and the house was solidly built. It wasn’t a big house, but it could be added onto as needed. He hoped there might be a need; Feather would have a room to herself, but if there were other children, he’d need to be getting his hammer out again. The prospect gave him a sense of anticipation and he cautioned himself against it. There was no use hoping for children if they weren’t going to come.
Both Salome and Feather exclaimed over the shrubs and bushes in the yard which kept the front of the house cool. The rose verbena was in bloom and already attracting the butterflies and bees. The Rose of Sharon wouldn’t blossom until later, but when it did, its petals would hang fragrantly on the heavy summer air.
“Did Lorna plant all these?” Salome asked after Kenyon had helped her down from the wagon. Feather, as soon as he put her on the ground, had raced over to the flowers to touch them and smell them.
He nodded. “She liked to have flowers year round, or as close to it as possible. They need
some tending,” he admitted. “I haven’t done much with them.”
“Feather and I will see that they’re back to looking fine again. I’m fond of flowers. She chose well.”
He didn’t answer. He liked the thought that the flowers, Lorna’s flowers, would be taken care of by someone who appreciated them as she had done. He had expected that he’d resent seeing someone else in Lorna’s flower garden but his thoughts had changed on that score. Salome keeping up what Lorna had done was going to make this her home, he realized. But that was as it should be. He hadn’t known that a man could love one woman and learn to love another and find peace in his heart. But human beings were curious creatures. If he lived a dozen lifetimes, he’d never understand the way men and women thought, but somehow, they kept the world turning.
Salome made supper although it was late, because they were hungry. Feather eagerly accepted the task of gathering the eggs from the chicken coop and soon the kitchen told the tale of what Salome was frying up in the skillet. Kenyon had second helpings of the fried eggs and beef that she set on his plate. Feather was so tired that she nearly fell asleep as she ate. When she had finished, Kenyon carried her to her bedroom.
“Will she be frightened?” he asked as Salome unbraided the child’s long, black hair. “She can sleep with us if it’ll make her sleep sound.”
Salome shook her head. “She’ll do all right. She’s so tired I doubt if she’ll wake before sun-up.”
Kenyon unloaded the wagon while Salome washed the supper dishes. It was dark by the time they were finished with their work. Kenyon, carrying a candlestick, led the way to the bedroom.
“You’ll be able to see better in the morning,” he told her. “I expect you’ll find some dust.”
She smiled. “I expect I will.”
There was a breeze coming through the open window. He hated shutting it but he didn’t want the night insects coming in. When he turned from the window, Salome was standing there, facing him.
“Will you help with my buttons?” she asked him hesitantly, turning around so that that he could unfasten her dress.
He unbuttoned the first button and touched her skin. He stood that way for a few long, portentous seconds before he unbuttoned the second one, baring more of her back as he progressed. The texture of her back and her underclothes stirred him into desire and he knew, this time for sure, that the woman in front of him was not afraid or unwilling or unsure. He didn’t know much more than that, but he knew that the woman in his arms, and then in his bed, was Salome, his wife.
Chapter Seven
Days were busy and the weeks passed quickly with a comfortable routine that changed little from day to day and was all the more welcome as it became familiar. Breakfast was early as he, Salome and Feather sat down to the morning meal before he headed out to lead the men in felling trees for lumber. When he returned at noon, lunch was ready and supper was being prepared. Salome kept the house as spotlessly as Lorna had done and he noticed that, like Lorna, she had a quick eye for dirt and dust. When she asked him if it would be all right to sew a new cushion for the rocking chair, he vanished for a few moments and returned with Lorna’s sewing basket. Salome thanked him, understanding without explanation what the offering meant.
When he returned home at the end of the day and cleaned up for supper, Salome, wearing an apron, was bringing the food to the table, which Feather cleared of the slate and chalk that she had been using while Salome taught her the alphabet and her numbers. Then, every night, Salome covered the dining table with the cloth which the ladies of Santa Teresa had embroidered, bouquets of daisies stitched in the center, their names threaded along the border. Salome led them in the evening prayer; Feather piping up with a quick “Amen,” Kenyon slower to respond but content that prayers were said.
“I’ve been thinking,” Kenyon began as he cut pieces of roast for Feather and Salome and then himself, while Salome passed around the pickled beets. “It looks like cattle might be a smart move. I’m thinking of adding to the herd.”
Salome handed him the biscuits. “And give up the lumbering?”
“No, lumber is profitable; we’re doing well. But there’s no reason why I can’t do both. That fellow in Chicago that’s doing the meatpacking, name of Armour, he can use a lot of cattle. With the railroads in Texas now, cattle don’t need to travel on those long drives. I wouldn’t need to leave you and Feather for long.”
Salome smiled and spread blueberry preserves on her biscuit. Feather, bored by the talk of cattle, was having a conversation with Lorna, her doll.
“Feather and the baby and I will be glad if you don’t have to leave,” Salome said.
Kenyon said nothing. His blue eyes darkened with an emotion that she couldn’t interpret. He stared at her, his fork halfway to his mouth, frozen by her words.
“Baby?” he inquired. The word sounded foreign on his tongue.
Salome’s smile faltered. “Don’t you want it?”
Emotion rose in him, something so potent and beyond his control that he felt his words choke. “I want it more than anything,” he said finally. “I didn’t dare hope. I thought I couldn’t . . . “
Salome smile. “Well,” she said as she passed him the platter of meat. “You can and you did.”
He felt himself grinning like a boy. “Guess so,” he said, ducking his head in pride and embarrassment.
While Salome cleaned up after supper, Kenyon went out on the porch with Feather so that she could play with her doll and the carved animals that her father had made her. “Do you think your dolly would like a friend?” he asked, sipping from the glass of lemonade that Salome had poured him.
Feather glanced up at him. “Where’s her friend?”
“We can find one at the store in town.”
They hadn’t been to town yet. He knew that the news of his marriage had trickled out to the townspeople; his workers knew, and had met Salome and seemed to like her. They’d also met Feather and had been entertained by her curiosity and the intent way she had of asking them questions about their work, their horses and anything else that attracted her interest. Kenyon wasn’t much at carving, but one of the workers was and Kenyon had asked him to carve a Noah’s Ark for Feather for a Christmas present. Every night, Salome read the Bible to her before bedtime. Feather’s favorite story was Noah’s Ark; her inquisitive nature inspired dozens of questions about the story until one night, Salome told her to ask Kenyon what a cubit was.
“It’s very big,” Kenyon had said earnestly. “Big enough for all those two-by-twos going in.”
Feather had given him a long look. He was halfway to admitting that he had no idea how big a cubit was, or how much space it had taken to house all the animals on the Ark, when she asked, “Can I call you Pa instead of Kenyon?”
Kenyon hadn’t looked at Salome. Keeping his eyes on Feather and his voice under control, he’d told her to ask her mother.
Now, as he sat on the porch, sipping his lemonade, enjoying his rest, talking to the four-year-old girl who had brought a child’s charm into his life, he wondered if that night had been when they’d made that baby that Salome had just told him about. He still remembered the eagerness of her response and his own driving passion for her, the delight they’d taken in one other’s bodies and the satisfied, drained sleep that had claimed them both afterward. He’d teased her the next morning, asking her what she’d put in the blueberry preserves. It was a pleasing memory.
But this night was pleasant too. Salome joined them after tidying up from supper, her apron off, a plate of cinnamon cake in her hand.
“Mama, Pa is going to buy Lorna a friend!”
Salome looked at Kenyon as she handed him a napkin and a slice of cake. She’d never asked him why they didn’t go to town, or to church. She’d accepted the exile he imposed without question, and if she ever missed female company, she didn’t show it. When she received letters from Santa Teresa, she read them to him and told Feather what their friends were doing. He had pers
uaded himself that she was too busy to have time to dally in town.
Salome gave Feather a piece of cake. “If you’re going into town,” she said, choosing her words carefully, “I have a shopping list.”
Kenyon placed his hand on top of hers. “This is good cake,” he said, reaching for a second piece of cake. “I guess you need more supplies. It’s better if you come along. I might forget something.”
“Are we going into town?” Feather asked.
“Tomorrow,” Kenyon said. “We’ll go in tomorrow.”
That night, in bed, he tried to apologize. “I know I shouldn’t have kept you cooped up here these past few months. After Lorna died, I only went into town when I had to. I didn’t want to see people. I didn’t want to see that sorrow for me in their eyes.”
Her soft hand was soothing on his bare chest. “I wasn’t cooped up. You never forbade me.” She ran her fingers through his thick hair. “I think we’re going to have a yellow-haired baby.”
