by Trinity Ford
“Pa said a bunch of the men are going to fight some bandits,” Mary said, breaking the silence as she and Della sewed, their fingers moving quickly over each of their projects.
“That’s what I’ve heard,” Della said, not wanting to get into a discussion about it.
“Is Milton going?” Mary asked.
“Milton?” Della scoffed. “No. Milton would never go on a mission like this.” Part of Della was grateful that the man she was engaged to wasn’t part of the group, but the other part of her hated the fact that she was marrying a man who didn’t have the courage to set out and help law enforcement when the need arose.
“Is Mr. Hensley going?” Mary asked.
Della sat silent, sewing for a moment. “Yes, I suppose he is,” she said solemnly. A wave of worry washed over her once again, replacing the anger she felt at his desire to engage in risky behavior.
“You’re sad about that,” Mary stated.
Della stopped sewing and looked up at Mary. It made her uncomfortable, how much Mary could see into her soul, even when she couldn’t see the look on Della’s face or the tears brimming up in her eyes. “I’m sad for Mr. Hensley,” Della said. “That he’s putting himself in harm’s way—especially when there’s no need. Law enforcement could take care of the problem.”
Mary nodded as if she understood. The women sat quietly in the glow of the kerosene lamp for what felt like an eternity, fingers moving swiftly as if to hasten the time. “Are you sad that Mr. Hensley isn’t your beau?” Mary asked, catching Della off guard with such a blunt question.
“Well…I…I’m sad that Mr. Hensley isn’t the type of admirable man I could form a life with,” Della replied, flustered, knowing if she lied to Mary, the girl would instantly pick up on it.
“But if he was…” Mary prodded further, “if he did do something admirable, would you make him your beau and let Mr. Tidwell find someone…more suitable for him?”
“Mary, all these questions are highly inappropriate,” Della chided, feeling unnerved by being put on the spot.
“You don’t have to answer,” Mary said cheerfully. “It’s just that Pa and I…well, we think you and Mr. Hensley should be together.”
“Oh you do, do you?” Della said, raising her voice with a slightly shocked and appalled tone. “Well, it wasn’t Mr. Hensley who sent for me to be his bride. It’s not Mr. Hensley who refuses to frequent Hell’s Half Acre and behave in a respectable manner. My commitment is to Mr. Milton Tidwell, and that’s just how I intend to keep it.”
Mary shrugged and seemed to accept Della’s answer. Shortly after, Della gathered up the sewing mess and headed off to bed, still rattled by the thought that others were now discussing who she should be engaged to, and which man would be better suited to be her husband.
…
Two weeks after the men left for the rustler roundup, Millie Lockhart came around to the store—her face worn with anxiety from the dangerous situation her husband was in. “Afternoon, Della,” she said.
“Millie,” Della said, greeting her with a gentle hug. “How are you holding up?”
“Oh, not sleeping much,” Millie admitted. “I should be used to this by now. It’s not like John doesn’t face violence every night down in the Acre, but it’s different when locals see the sheriff coming. These bandits…well, they don’t have any regard for authority.”
“It must be so hard on you,” Della said, ashamed that her own beau hadn’t taken up arms and gone out to help protect the citizens. “Is there anything I can do? Anything at all?”
“Actually, there is,” Millie said. “The men are coming back tomorrow evening—got word that they delivered five prisoners to the governor early yesterday. But several of them have injuries, and Ethel Baker lost her husband, Enoch.”
“Oh no!” Della gasped. She’d seen the couple at church from time to time. “She has children, too.”
“Yes,” Millie said. “Very sad. The other wives and I would like to raise a donation for Ethel—help her get on her feet until she can decide what to do. I was wondering if you could spread the word for us, and maybe put out a donation jar at the store.”
“Of course I will!” Della said. “I’ll tell everyone who comes in. I’ll ask Milton to do the same.”
“That would be very generous of you,” Millie said. “And tomorrow night, when they return, if you aren’t too busy, we could sure use a hand in welcoming them back. Doc Springer and I will have a triage set up for the wounded over at the courthouse, and we’re asking anyone available to be on hand to tend to the wounded and help serve the meals.”
“Count me in,” Della said. She wondered if Hank was one of the injured, or if his reputation as a savvy shooter would have protected him from the wrath of the bandits. She didn’t ask about him for fear that Millie would see how anxious she was.
‘Wonderful,” Millie said as she left the store. “See you then.”
Della wrung her hands at the possibility of Hank being hurt. Tomorrow evening, she was supposed to have supper with Milton at a bankers’ banquet, but that would just have to wait. She decided to head over to the bank and let Milton know what had happened—so that he could make a donation to Ethel and inform others of the reason for her absence.
She tied her bonnet and headed outside. “Billy?” she called across the street. “Want to watch it for me while I run an errand?” Billy served as the town’s local errand boy. He hung around, waiting for a chance to earn a little money to help support his ma. He dashed across the street and ran past Della into the store to sit on the stool and wait for customers.
Della hurried down the street toward the bank. Her thoughts were racing as fast as her feet, lost in worry about whether or not Hank would be coming home badly injured. She rushed into the bank and walked quickly into Milton’s office. He looked up, obviously annoyed at the interruption. “Yes?” was all he said—no look of concern on his face or query about why she seemed so rattled.
“I’m afraid I won’t be able to attend tomorrow’s banquet,” she informed him.
“And why is that?” Milton asked.
“I’m needed in town at the triage for the return of the bounty hunter group that’s coming back from Austin,” she said proudly.
“You didn’t tell me you had nursing skills,” Milton sneered.
“I don’t,” Della said. “But I’ve been asked to help, and I will.”
“This is horribly short notice,” Milton complained. “Part of your duties as my wife are to attend social functions with me, and you’re already failing to live up to your commitment.”
Della seethed inside. She had done nothing but uphold her commitment to him. “Seeing as how I’m not your wife yet,” Della snarled, “I suppose my commitment isn’t up for debate. The town is also gathering donations for Ethel Meyer. Her husband was killed and if you’d be willing to donate a small sum and spread the word…” Della’s voice trailed off. She knew her attitude would get her nowhere, but she also knew what Milton was about to say, so she felt no apologies for the bite in her tone of voice.
“Donate to a dead man?” Milton mocked. “Why would I give my hard-earned money to a woman who’s just going to marry herself off again for another man to take care of? And really, Della…begging my customers to do the same? Why, it’s in such poor taste I can’t even begin to consider the idea.”
“No worries,” Della hissed. “I’ll simply convey your well wishes to his widow, unless that’s too much for you to contribute.” With that, she turned and bolted out the door, ashamed to be connected in any way to such a man when she knew that even a heathen like Hank Hensley would put everything on the line to help those less fortunate. He already had by risking his very life.
Chapter 12
It had been two weeks since the group set out on the Governor’s mission. The bounties weren’t important to Hank—he planned on donating his part to Ethel, now that she was widowed. The trip had been a way for him to get away and clear his head and f
ind out what it was he really wanted in life. Maybe it had been his ego or nothing more than a string of successes with his shooting skills, but Hank never thought he’d be the one catching a bullet in his shoulder.
Floyd had taught him how to be an expert marksman, and after he was left alone, Hank spent hours learning how to shoot at the same time with a gun in both hands—a skill few men had with the same accuracy as his.
He hated being carted back to town in this shape—covered with blankets in a makeshift cart while being pulled along by Sheriff Lockhart and his horse. The trip was so bumpy at times that Hank felt as if his shoulder was being torn apart. He kept falling in and out of consciousness. One minute he’d be staring up at a starry sky and the next daylight would be breaking. He was shivering and cold, despite the fact that others complained of the heat and blankets were piled on him.
“What’ve we got here?” Doc Springer said, walking down the steps of the courthouse to greet the men as they returned from the bounty hunt. “Millie? Get a stretcher. Sheriff? Help me get him down.”
Hank felt his body being lifted off the cart. They laid him out flat on the stretcher and carried him up the steps and into the building. He could barely hold his eyes open, but he fought it because he wanted to hear what was going on.
“Took a shot bringing in the James Russell gang,” Sheriff Lockhart explained to Doc. “Folks down in Austin doctored him up, but on the way back he started getting feverish. Infection took root.”
“Yes, yes,” Doc said, examining the wound. “We’ll get you fixed up right away, Mr. Hensley. Millie, let’s get him something for the pain. Can you follow my finger here, Hank?”
Hank’s eyes were being held open by the doctor as he tried to follow the image. When they went to the left, he saw the blurry image of a woman standing there. Hank swore he was delusional. The hair was the same color of blonde, the figure petite and well formed. But she was wearing a peach colored dress, not the brown ones Della favored on a regular basis. Hank was sure it was one of the colors he had chosen for her at Beatrice’s shop. Could it be that Della was here with him now?
“What happened?” Hank heard Della’s voice but in his drowsy state, he figured it must be wishful thinking. She had made her decision and would be with Milton.
“We moved into position to surround a camp of outlaws,” Sheriff Lockhart said. Hank listened, desperately wanting to join the conversation, but his mouth wouldn’t move and his eyes wouldn’t open. All he could do was listen as he slowly drifted off to sleep. “One of them surrendered and Hank was securing him when he got flanked on both sides. Even the best shot couldn’t have avoided the ambush, but I sure hate that it had to be Hank.”
“We’re going to get the fever under control, Hank,” Doc said loudly as he covered Hank up on the cot and moved on to his next patient. “Someone needs to sit with him—keep an eye on that fever.”
Hank woke up to the feeling of a cool, wet cloth being daubed on his forehead. He knew his fever had broken because he wasn’t shivering and he finally felt like a small part of himself was beginning to waken and heal. As he opened his eyes, Della came into focus. She sat on a small stool beside his cot, dipping the cloth into a pail of water, wringing it out, and cooling him off repeatedly.
“It’s peach,” Hank whispered, his voice strained and weak.
Della paused for a minute, smiling down at Hank. Her eyes welled with tears and Hank could see that her lips were trembling. “Yes,” she whispered back. “It’s the dress you had made for me.”
“It’s beautiful,” Hank said softly. “But you didn’t have to wear it here.”
“I wanted you to see it,” Della said, using the wet cloth to daub his dry lips and sunburnt face. There were tears in her eyes that told Hank she had worried and thought about him while he was away.
“I’m sorry I put you through this,” Hank said, bringing his hand up to touch hers as she continuing applying the cloth to his face.
“You need to eat,” Della said, changing the subject.
“Did you bring me your fried chicken and deviled eggs again?” Hank asked. He was starving, having eaten very little on the trail in his feverish state.
“Doc says you have to have bland food,” Della laughed. “So today it’s soft boiled eggs and chicken broth.”
Hank made a face. “Well that certainly can’t compare to your cooking,” he said. Della propped Hank up on his cot and spooned him small bites of the food at a time.
“You need to eat to get your strength back,” she said, whenever he would motion that he was finished with the meal. “You promised to help me plan my wedding, remember?”
“To me?” Hank asked, smiling at the joke between them.
Della was silent. A look of distress blanketed her face. He knew just as sure as he knew he loved her that Della wasn’t in love with Milton. It was her senseless plan for her life that she refused to relinquish and it was going to ruin both their lives.
“Oh, that’s right, you’re marrying Milton,” Hank said resolutely.
“That’s the plan,” Della said, her voice taking on a tone of resignation.
“Have you ever thought that maybe there’s a bigger plan, Della?” Hank said. “Maybe the plan all along was for you to come here and find out what it is you really want.”
“I know what I want, Hank,” Della said. “I want a home, a family…someone I can grow old with who understands what it means to set down roots.”
“I’m not as bad as you think, Della,” Hank said.
“I don’t think you’re bad,” Della said thoughtfully.
“I know what people say,” Hank said. “I hear the whispers and notice how they gossip when I walk away. I’m no fool…except when it comes to losing you.”
Della looked down at her lap as her hands nervously twisted the washcloth. “Hank…” she said, her eyes begging him not to continue.
“You see me for who I really am, Della,” he said. “I know you do. I see it in your eyes. Your beautiful, sky blue eyes…”
Hank began to feel dizzy and lightheaded. He struggled to sit up to hold her in his arms and convince her by the strength of his own love that they needed to be together. But his body fell backwards onto the cot. “Doc?” Della hollered. “We need you over here!” Hank lost the sound of their voices and when he woke up again, another day had passed and Della was no longer by his bedside.
Chapter 13
The previous night had drained Della of her ability to think clearly. She’d stayed by Hank’s side until the wee morning hours, when Doc Springer insisted she head home to get some rest before returning for another shift. She tiptoed into the bedroom, trying not to wake Mary as she crawled into bed. Lying there, exhausted to the bone, she couldn’t sleep. All she could do was think of how horrible the last two weeks had been without Hank…how distraught she was upon learning he’d been injured…and how deeply she wished she could be there to take care of him forever. Tears streamed down her eyes as she cried silently in the dark.
Lost in her own sorrow, Della didn’t notice when Mary got out of bed and came to sit on the edge of Della’s. Mary didn’t say a word. She just pulled Della up to her and embraced her in a warm, soothing hug.
“I’m lost,” Della whispered through her sobs as she tried to keep from waking Roy and Helen in the other room.
“I don’t think you’re lost at all,” Mary said. “In fact, I think you know exactly what you want—you’re just too stubborn to do it. At least that’s what Pa says.”
Della laughed quietly as she wiped the tears away from her cheeks. “He does, does he?” she said.
“Mhm,” Mary said. “He says you know you shouldn’t marry Milton—and that Hank’s the one you ought to be courtin’, but you’re trying to act more stubborn than a mule. Shoot, I’m blind and even I know that’s the truth.”
“Maybe I have been getting in my own way,” Della said. “I’m just torn, Mary—torn between wanting to do the right thing by those I co
mmitted to—and following my heart, which might be getting me into trouble.”
“Pa always tells me that honesty is the best policy,” Mary said. “I think if you’re truthful to everyone, including yourself, you’ll find your way. I believe in you.”
Della hugged Mary again and felt a sense of relief wash over her. Della agreed that the only way out of this mess was to go through with voicing her concerns, and that meant fessing up to Pastor Littlejohn about what she was considering.
She hurried out of bed before dawn broke and dressed quickly in the cornflower blue dress Hank had asked Beatrice to make for her. It wasn’t as fancy as the one he had first bought her off the rack, but it was fancier than anything Della had ever worn for work. Once again, Hank has chosen a color that brought out the cerulean blue of her eyes. It was a dress she was sure even Miss Annabelle would be proud to wear. She glanced at herself in the mirror and pinched her cheeks to add some color that was sorely missing this morning. She wanted to be at Pastor Littlejohn’s early so she could get this out of the way and move on with her life—whatever that meant.
“Mary, can you tell your Pa I’ll be in a little late today?” Della asked.
“Sure,” Mary said. “Should I say where you’re going?”
“Just tell him I’m shedding that mule image he has of me and changing my plans—hard as that might be for some people to believe—including me!”
…
Della took one of the wagons, attached a horse to pull it and headed over to Pastor Littlejohn’s just as the sun was peeking over the hillside. This is it, she thought, preparing herself for a life changing decision—one that she was in charge of, not just blind fate. She drew in a deep breath and rushed up the steps of the Littlejohn’s front porch. Della’s hands trembled as she stood at the top of the stoop, silently wondering if knocking on their door and making this choice was in her best interest. She closed her eyes tight and pounded on the door before she could talk herself out of it.
